by June Thomson
‘Then what about The Times?’ I asked eagerly. ‘I thought, when Mrs Bennet mentioned it, it seemed an odd choice of paper for a head-waiter to read.’
‘Ah, The Times! One should certainly never dismiss The Times. A most worthy publication,’ Holmes remarked with an abstracted air. He had wandered across the room to examine a pair of french windows which led into the back garden before turning his attention to the two drawers of a large and ugly sideboard which occupied the adjoining wall. ‘Ah! What have we here? Take a look at these, Watson.’
He handed me a small bundle of printed sheets.
‘They’re music-hall programmes,’ I replied, glancing through them briefly. ‘The Tivoli. Collins’s. Oh, I say, Holmes! Look at this one. Lottie Lynne was playing at the Alhambra in February. I wish I had known. I might have gone to hear her. Such a delightful voice!’
‘I have noticed before, Watson, that you have a predilection for small, blonde young ladies,’ Holmes commented with an amused air, putting the programmes back into the drawer and shutting it. ‘I myself prefer the acrobats. Well, I think I have seen all I need down here. I suggest we examine the rest of the house and then the garden.’
The house was so small that the search took a mere ten minutes, Holmes only pausing to open Phillimore’s wardrobe, still containing his abandoned clothes, but apart from the brief remark ‘Roomy, I see!’, he made no other observation.
The garden was smaller even than the house, a mere few square yards of lawn bordered by narrow flower-beds, all neatly kept, and surrounded on all sides by an eight-foot-high fence which had additional two-foot lengths of trellis nailed to the top of it, making escape by that route impossible, as Mr Nelson had pointed out.
There was not even a potting-shed nor a decent-sized bush where a man might conceal himself. Nevertheless, Holmes stalked all round its perimeter before examining the passage which ran along the side of the house.
It was a narrow path, squeezed in between the building on one side and a continuation of the fence on the other. At the far end, it ran at an oblique angle to join the tiled path which led from the gate to the front door. At the near end, it opened out on to a small paved area outside the kitchen door where presumably tradesmen would make their deliveries.
We left number seventeen Laburnum Grove shortly afterwards, Holmes striding off so briskly down the road towards Lavender Hill that I was hard put to keep up with him. At the bottom of the hill, we turned into the main thoroughfare, where Holmes hailed a cab.
When Holmes had given instructions to the driver and the hansom had started off, he turned to me to ask unexpectedly, ‘Tell me, Watson, what would you say would be the lifetime’s ambition of a hotel or restaurant employee?’
‘To retire, I should imagine, and never have to fold another napkin again.’
‘But suppose, like Phillimore, he was the type who wished to rise in the world?’
‘Well then, to own the establishment in which he’d worked and watch other people fold the napkins.’
‘Exactly, Watson!’ Holmes said with an air of satisfaction and, settling himself back against the upholstery, folded his arms and closed his eyes, his lean, aquiline features taking on an expression of such intense concentration that I knew better than to interrupt his train of thought.
The silence continued until, as we were rattling across Batter-sea Bridge, he roused himself to remark, ‘You know, Watson, there are several unusual elements in this case but the one which strikes me as most extraordinary of all is the timing of Mr Phillimore’s disappearance. Why Tuesday? Why not Monday or Friday? If one wished to vanish, it would seem more logical to choose either the beginning or the end of the week. As far as I can ascertain, nothing remarkable happened on Tuesday morning to make Phillimore decide it was time to disappear.’
‘Perhaps he couldn’t on Monday. Something may have happened to detain him.’
I saw Holmes’ keen features suddenly light up.
‘My dear old fellow!’ he exclaimed. ‘I believe you may have put your finger on the key to the whole mystery!’
‘Have I, Holmes?’ I asked, highly pleased, and was further gratified when Holmes continued, ‘I should value your opinion on the case. Tell me, what aspect of it most intrigues you?’
‘I must admit that I find Phillimore’s motivation the most puzzling feature. A man of regular habits suddenly takes it into his head to vanish without a word of warning, abandoning not only his house, his job and his life’s savings but his clothes …’
‘Together with his fiancée,’ Holmes reminded me with a smile. ‘Perhaps Miss Cora Page was the reason for his disappearance. Phillimore would not be the first man who, faced with the imminent prospect of marriage, showed a clean pair of heels just before his wedding day. Should I ever find myself in such an unlikely and unfortunate situation, I should be strongly tempted to do the same. And, by the way, Watson, if we succeed in running Phillimore to earth, I want you to say nothing to him about the possibility of Miss Page’s transferring her affections to Charlie Nelson.’
‘Why?’
‘My dear fellow, is it not obvious?’
‘You mean he would be jealous?’
‘I mean Phillimore, who appears a decent enough individual, might come out of hiding in order to save his friend from the same dreadful fate which nearly overtook him. “Greater love hath no man …” and all that. I have your word?’
‘Of course, Holmes. So you think we shall find Phillimore?’
‘I believe there is a very good chance of our doing so. You remarked a little earlier on Phillimore’s regularity of habits and I think that it is in this aspect of his personality that we shall find the answer to his secret. But first I want to return to Laburnum Grove at the same hour of the morning in which Phillimore disappeared. Although Charlie Nelson and Mrs Bennet both swore they saw nothing unusual, I am convinced something must have occurred but so ordinary that neither of them noticed it. Whenever there is an apparent mystery, one should always look to the commonplace in order to solve it. But few people do. They prefer the mystery to its solution. It is this tendency on the part of human nature on which depends the success of the stage magician or illusionist.’ He gave me an oblique glance as if inviting my comment but, as I did not then understand the significance of his remark, I said nothing and, after a brief silence, he continued, ‘Will you be free early tomorrow, Watson? I propose taking a cab to Clapham and observing for myself exactly what occurs in Laburnum Grove at half past seven in the morning.’
‘I shall be delighted to accompany you, provided it won’t take too long. I have an appointment at ten o’clock with a patient.’
‘A patient!’ Holmes exclaimed, throwing up his hands in mock surprise. ‘This is such a rare occurrence, Watson, that I shall make myself personally responsible for seeing that you are returned to your consulting room in good time.’
The following morning, I again presented myself at 221B Baker Street where I joined Holmes for an early breakfast. A hansom had been ordered for seven o’clock and we set off once more in the direction of Clapham, through half-empty streets, looking clean and dazzling-bright in the morning sunshine after an overnight shower which had laid the dust and left the leaves on the trees glistening as if newly washed.
As we turned into Laburnum Grove, Holmes instructed the driver to draw up on the opposite side of the road to number seventeen and a little distance from it, from which position we had an excellent view not only of Phillimore’s garden gate but a good stretch of the street as well.
Several people passed down the road in the direction of Lavender Hill, by their appearance and attire mostly clerks and shop-assistants on their way to their respective places of employment and, after a few minutes’ wait, we were rewarded by the sight of Charlie Nelson turning the corner from Magnolia Terrace, at precisely half past seven.
I saw him hesitate at the gate of number seventeen and glance across at the house, as if reminding himself of his erstwhile compa
nion’s extraordinary disappearance and then, on drawing level with our hansom, cast another glance in its direction, surprised no doubt at the presence of a cab in the area at that hour of the morning. But I comforted myself with the thought that Holmes and I were sitting too far back inside the vehicle for him to see us.
It was as this idea struck me that I heard Holmes give an involuntary exclamation but not, as I first thought, at Nelson’s interest in our cab. His gaze was fixed on another vehicle which had come slowly plodding into view on the opposite side of the road.
It was a baker’s van, drawn by a tired-looking pony, not the type of conveyance to attract anyone’s attention and yet Holmes was watching with keen interest as the bread delivery man, a tall youth of about eighteen or so, dressed in a cap and a long white apron, climbed down off his seat and, taking his basket from the rear of the vehicle, opened the gate to Phillimore’s house, walked down the path and disappeared from sight into the passage which ran along the side of the building.
Meanwhile, the pony, well used, it seemed, to this morning routine, ambled slowly along the street to a gate a few doors along where it waited for its driver.
Within a few moments, the delivery man had reappeared but, before I could comment on Holmes’ evident interest in the man’s activities, Holmes had leapt out of the cab and, ordering the driver to take me to my address in Paddington,* called out as the cab drove off, ‘You must not be late for your appointment, Watson. I shall expect you at Baker Street for luncheon. Twelve o’clock sharp!’
Rather than arriving late, I was a good hour and a half too early and I spent the intervening time until my patient arrived musing over the strange case of Mr Phillimore’s disappearance although I could make little of it.
A locked wardrobe? A bread delivery man? A head-waiter who read The Times and had a liking for an occasional visit to a music-hall?
None of it seemed to point to Mr Phillimore’s present whereabouts and I looked forward impatiently to the time when I could return to Baker Street and question Holmes over luncheon.
On this occasion, luncheon was a simple meal of cold meat, bread and pickles which Holmes urged me to eat quickly as time was short.
‘Now look here, Holmes,’ I protested as I seated myself at the table. ‘You and I have shared many adventures and you have always taken me into your confidence. Do you or do you not know where Mr Phillimore is hiding and, if you do, how have you arrived at your conclusion?’
‘My dear old fellow,’ Holmes replied, carving away energetically at the cold beef. ‘I had no intention of keeping you in the dark. I myself was not sure of all the facts until this morning. But I am now fairly confident that I can find our vanishing head-waiter.’
‘How?’
‘From my observations of human nature; a most worthwhile subject, Watson, which every aspiring detective should make his lifetime’s study. I have frequently noticed that even the most hardened and experienced criminal has a particular routine or pattern of behaviour which, if only one can discover it, will lead to his arrest. Remember Harry Beecham, the notorious forger? He was constantly moving his equipment from one back street workshop to another so that the police had the deuce of a job keeping up with him. I eventually ran him to earth because he always went to the same barber in Shadwell to have his hair cut; had done for years and could not, it seemed, shake off the habit. Now, how much more likely is that precept to apply to Mr James Phillimore, par excellence a man of regular routines to whom familiarity of surroundings would be essential? He may have disappeared in Clapham but he has most certainly reappeared in some environment where he will feel almost as much at home.’
‘Oh, I see, Holmes!’ I exclaimed. ‘The boarding-house in Margate where he spent his week’s convalescence!’
‘Exactly!’
‘But how do you propose finding him? Margate is a popular seaside resort. It must contain hundreds of boarding-houses. Do you intend inquiring at each and every one of them? It could take days.’
‘Not days, Watson; merely a matter of a few hours. Mrs Bennet mentioned that the establishment had a foreign-sounding name. I suggest “Mon Repos” is a distinct possibility. I have noticed before that it is a favourite with seaside landladies although why they choose that particular nomenclature, when to run such businesses must be anything but restful, is beyond my comprehension. I cannot believe it is meant ironically. Landladies are not usually renowned for their sense of humour. We shall also look for a boarding-house which has a neat garden and a freshly-whitened front doorstep. I believe Mr Phillimore’s inclinations may very well run in those directions. Now do eat up, Watson. I have ordered a cab to take us to Victoria Station to catch the 1.15 to Margate.’
We caught the train, Holmes passing the journey by chatting amiably about many different subjects – French literature, the quality of the acoustics in St James’s Hall, the best fish-restaurant in London; anything but the case in hand – until the train arrived at Margate.
We took a four-wheeler from the rank outside the station, Holmes instructing the cabby to drive us to any boarding-house in the resort with the name of ‘Mon Repos’.
There were nine, the man informed us.
At the first two, Holmes got out and rang the bell, returning after a few minutes with a shake of the head, indicating that they were not the one he was seeking.
At the third, a dingy house with dirty lace curtains and a ‘Vacancy’ sign hanging in the window, he did not even trouble to alight. After giving it a cursory glance, he ordered the cabby to drive on.
The fourth ‘Mon Repos’ was a red-brick villa, not unlike Phillimore’s house in Clapham only larger and standing detached in a decent-sized front garden in which brightly-coloured flowers were growing in neat beds.
‘I believe we have found it, Watson!’ Holmes exclaimed and, telling the cabby to wait, he leapt out and strode up the path to the front door.
His knock was answered by a short, pleasant-looking woman in her thirties with soft fair hair and a ready smile.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ she began, ‘but I have no vacancies. Every room has been taken.’
‘It is not rooms my friend and I are inquiring about,’ Holmes told her. ‘My query concerns one of your lodgers, a Mr James Phillimore.’
As she put one hand to her mouth in sudden consternation, a door leading off the hall opened and a tall man with greying hair emerged. His long chin must have been inherited from his mother but not his general demeanour, which was agreeable and good-natured. He was comfortably dressed in shirt-sleeves and slippers but, despite the casual nature of his attire, he still retained the attentive and respectful manner of an upper servant or the more superior type of waiter.
‘Mr Holmes, isn’t it?’ he inquired, advancing towards us. ‘Mr Sherlock Holmes? I saw you through the window as you came up the path and I recognised your face from the pictures in the Illustrated London News. And your companion is Doctor Watson, I presume? I imagine my old friend Charlie Nelson put you on to finding me. It’s the kind of action I might have expected of him. A good pal is Charlie Nelson, not the sort to leave any stone unturned, if you’ll forgive the expression.’ Turning to address the landlady who in a state of some distress had retreated into the hall, he added reassuringly, ‘It’s all right, Ellen. There’s nothing to worry about. I propose that these gentlemen and me adjourn to the sitting-room to talk matters over. A pot of tea wouldn’t go amiss, would it, sir?’
This time he addressed Holmes directly.
‘Indeed it would not, Mr Phillimore,’ Holmes assured him.
Together the three of us retired to the sitting-room, through the door of which Phillimore had just emerged. There, in comfortable and well-furnished surroundings, Phillimore installed Holmes and myself in a pair of armchairs, he himself choosing a seat facing us on the other side of the fireplace.
‘Well, sir,’ he said, looking across at us with a grave yet frank expression. ‘So you have found me out.’
‘Not e
ntirely,’ Holmes admitted, ‘for, although I know the method by which you contrived your disappearance, I am still a little puzzled about your reasons. I spoke this morning to Sammy Webb, the young man who delivers the bread. This was after you left me, Watson, to attend your patient,’ he broke off to explain for my benefit before turning back to Phillimore. ‘He was reluctant to give you away but, on receiving my assurance that I was acting entirely for your benefit, Mr Phillimore, he explained how, on Tuesday morning, he walked round to your back door – part of his normal routine, incidentally – where he left on the doorstep a penny bag of bread-rolls, the usual order. You meanwhile, having returned to the house ostensibly to collect your umbrella, had gone quickly and quietly upstairs to your bedroom to retrieve a cap, a long white apron and a large basket of the type in which bread is carried, part of a simple but effective disguise, the props for which are easily obtained and which you kept concealed in your locked wardrobe. Thus attired and carrying the basket, you left the house through the sitting-room windows and walked round to the front of the house by means of the side passage, appearing to all the world as Sammy Webb, the bread delivery man. No one took any notice of you, not even Mrs Bennet who was washing-up at the sink by the kitchen window. I asked her this very morning if she had seen a delivery man but she had registered neither Webb’s arrival nor his apparent departure, so accustomed is she to his routine. Even your friend, Charlie Nelson, waiting for you at the gate, failed to give you a second glance. He, too, is so used to seeing Webb make his deliveries that he swore he saw nothing unusual happen on Tuesday at the time of your disappearance. It wasn’t until Dr Watson and I waited outside your house this morning in a cab that we realised the truth.’
It was generous of him to include me in this explanation when I had contributed nothing to the revelation but I really could not allow him to omit one very important factor.
‘Wait a moment, Holmes!’ I broke in. ‘What happened to Sammy Webb, the real delivery man?’
