by June Thomson
‘I am coming in,’ I told him. ‘Although you say you are no longer ill, as a doctor my professional obligations will not allow me to walk away and leave you in this condition.’
He acquiesced reluctantly, preceding me down the hall to the little sitting-room where in the brighter light of the gas lamps, I was able to observe him more closely.
He looked ghastly as he sat huddled in a chair by the remains of a coal fire, gaunt and famished with grey skin and trembling hands.
I made up the fire and, having fetched a tumbler from the sideboard, poured him a stiff whisky from my hip flask.
It was only when the glass was in his hand and I had inquired, ‘Now, my dear fellow, what is the matter with you?’, that he found the strength or the courage to speak.
The story he had to tell was, I suppose, not altogether unexpected under the circumstances, especially in the light of what I had learned from Stamford.
Young Venables had been dismissed from Barts. And that was not all. For several months past, his conduct had caused his father far more concern than he had confided in me. The young man had been coming home later and later at night, sometimes the worse for drink. On occasions, he had not returned until the following day, dishevelled in appearance and refusing to give his father an account of where he had been and what he had been doing.
‘Dolly’ Venables had done his best to control his son’s excesses, remonstrating with him, threatening to stop his allowance, pleading with him for his dead mother’s sake to mend his ways. It was all to no avail. Young Venables had continued with his ill-disciplined behaviour.
One of the Major’s chief concerns was Teddy’s apparent access to money for, even after he had made good his threat and had cut off his son’s allowance, the young man still managed to acquire funds from somewhere, continuing to stay out late at night and to indulge himself in drink and expensive new clothes such as silk cravats, dress shirts, even a pair of hand-made boots from Bellamy’s of Piccadilly.
‘Although God knows where he found the money,’ the Major whispered, his hands clasped so tightly round his whisky glass that his knuckles showed white beneath the skin.
A final confrontation had taken place a week earlier. The young man had again returned home in an inebriated state in the early hours of the morning and, when his father had faced him on the stairs, a terrible quarrel had broken out in which Teddy had admitted he had been dismissed from Barts. On receiving a stern dressing-down from his father, the young man had lost his temper, shouted that he would not stay a moment longer to be treated like a child and, rushing into his room, had flung all his possessions into two valises before storming out of the house.
The Major had not seen or heard anything of him since and had no knowledge of his present whereabouts.
At this point in his account, Venables broke down.
It is a dreadful thing to see a grown man weep, especially someone of the Major’s proud and reticent disposition. As a friend, I was deeply moved by his distress; as a doctor, I was concerned about both his mental and his physical condition.
‘Now look here, Venables,’ I said, drawing one of the rattan chairs close to his. ‘There must be some action you can take to find out where your son is. Has he gone to stay with friends?’
It seemed that the Major had contacted all Teddy’s known acquaintances but none of them had seen him. In fact, the young man appeared to have cut himself off from all his former school friends and fellow students at Barts.
‘Then did he leave anything behind – a letter, say, or a diary – from which you might obtain a clue to his present address?’
‘Only this,’ Venables replied. ‘I found it under the paper lining in his bureau drawer.’
Reaching up to the mantelpiece, he took down a small pasteboard oblong which he handed to me. It was a visiting card on which were engraved the following words:
COLONEL F. T. FORTESCUE-LAMB
Secretary
The Association for Maimed Soldiers
A. M. S. Head Office,
Buckmaster Buildings,
10–19 Titchbourne Street,
London, E. 1.
I said, ‘Does your son know this Colonel?’
‘Not to my knowledge although I myself was acquainted with Fortescue-Lamb several years ago in India. He was serving then in the Seventh Inverskillen Bombardiers. But you see, Watson, the baffling part of it is that Fortescue-Lamb retired from the army before I did and I happen to know that he emigrated to Australia to run a sheep farm. I remember joking with him about the suitability of his name for his new career. As I received a greetings card from him, postmarked Bollawanga, only this very Christmas, I assume he must still be there. You follow my point? If old Baa-Lamb, as we used to call him, is sheep-farming in Australia, what is he doing acting as secretary to this charity and why should my son have his card?’
‘Could you not write or call at this address in Titchbourne Street and make inquiries?’
‘I could indeed, Watson. I have hesitated to do so in case I caused any further bad feeling between Teddy and myself. He already resents my meddling in his affairs, as he calls it.’
‘Yes; I can understand your reluctance. Then would you have any objections if I explained the situation to Sherlock Holmes and showed him this card? The circumstances are certainly very strange and could well interest him. As he is quite used to making this type of inquiry, you may rely on his discretion.’
In the course of our meetings, I had told Venables a little about my own history and background since I had retired from the army, including the fact that I had once shared lodgings in Baker Street with the famous consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes, with whose reputation Venables was already acquainted.
On my mentioning Holmes’ name, Venables sat up, his haggard features alight with new hope.
‘Would you ask him to take the case, Watson? I should be enormously relieved if Mr Holmes would agree. I feel Teddy is in some kind of trouble but I should much prefer to know the worst than remain in ignorance. What are Mr Holmes’ fees? I am afraid the state of my present finances …’
He broke off, once more plunged into a state of despair.
To console him, I said airily, although I had no idea what Holmes might charge in this particular case, ‘Oh, they are very small, Venables; a mere token sum,’ intending, should they not be so, to make up the difference out of my own pocket rather than see my old army companion suffer any further distress. ‘So that is decided,’ I concluded, anxious to bring Venables to a decision. ‘I shall place the facts before Sherlock Holmes tonight.’
In the event, I did not have the opportunity to discuss the case with Holmes that evening. Although I waited up for him until after midnight, he failed to return home until the early hours and it was not until the following morning over breakfast that I was able to give him the full story of Teddy Venables’ disappearance and to show him the visiting-card.
Holmes listened attentively to my account, inquiring when I had finished, ‘And you say that this Colonel Fortescue-Lamb is at present in Australia?’
‘Yes; according to Venables. So you see, Holmes …’
‘I do indeed, Watson. But the mystery can be quite easily solved. As soon as we have finished breakfast, we shall take a cab to the –,’ he consulted the card, ‘– A. M. S. Head Office in Titchbourne Street and ask whoever is in charge there how Fortescue-Lamb manages to run two such widely separated ventures.’
‘You will be discreet, will you not?’ I asked. ‘Venables would not wish his son to know that he has requested the inquiries.’
Holmes, who was in high spirits that morning, threw up his hands in mock horror.
‘When am I ever not the soul of discretion, my dear fellow? But pray continue. I can tell from your expression that you have not completed all you wished to say.’
‘About your fees –?’
Putting down his cup, Holmes regarded me with an expression of quizzical kindliness before replyin
g, ‘For friends or friends of friends there are no charges. Besides, last night I completed a case on behalf of a wealthy client, an American peanut millionaire whose younger brother had formed an unfortunate attachment with a female midget. No, not another word, my good Watson. And now, if you have quite finished your kipper, we shall take a hansom to Titchbourne Street without any further delay.’
Titchbourne Street was a drab turning off Wapping Lane, not far from the river for, as we alighted from the cab, we could smell its muddy odour and could glimpse down the alley-ways which ran between the buildings the masts and rigging of the ships tied up at the wharves.
The street itself was lined with wholesalers’ and importers’ warehouses, their grimy brick edifices dwarfing a row of low, mean houses and a solitary public house, the Britannia, which stood on the corner.
To my surprise, number 10 to 19 was one of these warehouses, a four-storeyed premises with tiers of barred windows. A large board fastened across the façade announced in bold lettering the words: ‘Geo. Buckmaster, Furniture Importers and Wholesalers’.
‘This is very puzzling, Holmes,’ I remarked. ‘It is hardly the place where one would expect to find the headquarters of a charitable institition.’
‘But we have evidently found the correct address,’ Holmes replied. He had approached a black-painted door, the only entrance along the whole length of the frontage, to which was affixed a small plaque which read: ‘A. M. S. Head Office. Postal Inquiries Only’.
The door proved to be firmly locked for Holmes tried the handle in vain and, when persistent loud knocking failed to rouse anyone inside the building, he turned back towards the Britannia public house, remarking, ‘If I am not mistaken, there should be a way through to a rear entrance where goods are unloaded. Ah, I thought so, Watson! Here is an alley-way which leads along the side of the tavern and which should take us to it.’
Holmes was right. The alley opened into a broad cobblestoned lane, which ran parallel to Titchbourne Street and was entirely enclosed on both sides by the tall rear walls of the various wholesale establishments, all of which were supplied with ramps and double doors where goods could be despatched or delivered.
Indeed, as we approached the back of Buckmaster’s premises, we could see that a large covered van was standing outside such a pair of doors which were flung wide open, a boy holding the horses’ heads, while three men in sacking aprons unloaded furniture from the interior of the vehicle.
A short, stout man, wearing a billycock hat and with a large silver watch-chain looped across the front of his waistcoat, appeared to be in charge.
He listened to Holmes’ inquiry, his head cocked on one side so that he could still keep an eye on the men’s activities.
‘The A. M. S.?’ said he. ‘I can’t tell you much about it; or even what it is, come to that, except it’s some institution or other as uses the premises for an accommodation address. A young man calls round every other day to collect any letters that have been delivered. You’ll have to ask the manager, Mr Littlejohn.’
He broke off to shout at the men who were lifting a large mahogany wardrobe off the van. ‘Careful with that! You’ll smash them mirrors in the doors!’ before, turning back to Holmes, he continued, ‘If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I’ve got work to do. Go and see Mr Littlejohn at the main office in Grace Street, that’s my advice.’
‘Would you have any objection if I looked briefly inside the building?’ Holmes inquired and, when the man appeared to hesitate, there was a chink as coins exchanged hands; at which the foreman winked, touched one finger to the brim of his hat and, having cocked his head this time in the direction of the interior of the warehouse, sauntered off in a deliberately nonchalant manner.
Taking this elaborate pantomime as permission, Holmes and I also strolled off as casually towards the double wooden doors, which were fitted with an extra entrance by way of a small wicket opening and which led into a broad stone passage.
As we entered, I noticed Holmes lift his head to sniff the air as if he had detected some peculiar aroma in the atmosphere. For my part, I could smell nothing more than the musty scent of old plaster and a damp cellar odour which seemed to come seeping up the stone steps from some basement or lower vault below the building.
The stairs in question led off to our right, one flight ascending to the upper floors, another leading downwards, this set of steps being closed off from the passage by means of a tall iron grille, secured by a padlock and chain.
Alongside the staircases ran a shaft fitted with ropes, its purpose being, I supposed, to serve as a hoist for raising or lowering heavier items of furniture to and from the upper storeys. Another gate, this time only knee-high, barricaded off the opening to this shaft in order to prevent anyone falling accidentally down it.
At the far end of the passage was a second door, fitted with glass panels, which was locked, as Holmes discovered when he tried the handle.
It led into a small vestibule which must have given access to the front entrance in Titchbourne Street for, when I joined Holmes to peer through the dusty glass, I could see the street door with its letter-box facing us and several envelopes lying below it on a strip of matting which partly covered the bare floor-boards.
The vestibule looked unused, the paintwork grimy, the ceiling festooned with old cobwebs.
The men had begun to carry the furniture from the van into the warehouse and, taking it as a sign that it was time to depart, we left, Holmes nodding to the foreman as we passed him.
Once out of earshot, he remarked, ‘Strange, Watson!’
‘What was, Holmes?’
‘The odour of cigar smoke.’
When I confessed I had not noticed it, Holmes, whose senses were keener than those of any other man I knew, raised his eyebrows.
‘Did you not? It was stale but still strong and unmistakably from a good havana. As you know, I have made a study of the various tobaccos and the different types of ash they leave behind.* Their aromas are also quite distinctive. I cannot imagine even the foreman smoking such an expensive brand. And look at this!’
He extended the long index finger of his right hand, on the tip of which was a small dark stain.
‘Oil,’ he explained briefly before wiping it away with fastidious care on his pocket handkerchief. ‘It was from the padlock on the grille which barred off the basement stairs. I am becoming more and more interested in the case you have laid before me, my dear fellow. A missing medical student and a secretary to a charitable institution who contrives simultaneously to run an Australian sheep-farm! And now cigar smoke and a freshly oiled padlock! The investigation has begun to develop most satisfactorily.’
Although I was gratified by Holmes’ remark, I was becoming curious about our destination for he was walking ahead of me so rapidly and purposefully that I was forced to lengthen my own stride in order to keep up with him.
When I inquired, ‘Where are we going now?’, he replied over his shoulder, ‘To Grace Street, of course, to interview the manager, Mr Littlejohn.’
‘Should we not ask directions, Holmes? The district is quite unfamiliar to me.’
‘But not to me,’ he replied carelessly. ‘I know this area particularly well. An old acquaintance of mine lives only a few streets away – Ikey Morrison, a former pickpocket and a good one, too, who turned respectable when he married a widow, the proprietress of a second-hand clothes shop. Ikey now runs the business. He is a most useful fellow to me in a variety of ways.’
By that time, I had known Holmes for long enough not to be entirely surprised at anything he might tell me about himself.
At the end of the lane by the Britannia public house, Holmes turned off, plunging confidently into a series of narrow byways and alleys, thus demonstrating his familiarity with the neighbourhood, until we eventually emerged into a busy thoroughfare, full of shops and businesses, which he announced was Grace Street.
Buckmaster’s premises were half-way down on the left, a small, rathe
r shabby establishment, consisting of an almost bare front office, minimally furnished with one chair and a deal counter behind which a solitary clerk was on duty.
On Holmes’ request to see the manager, we were shown into a back room where a plump, moist-faced young man was seated at a desk.
Littlejohn, for so the man proved to be, had an outward air of smiling affability, an open, hail-fellow-well-met manner which was belied by the wary expression in his eyes and by a looseness about his lower lip suggesting greed and self-indulgence.
On the way there, Holmes had warned me how he proposed conducting the interview and I was therefore prepared when he introduced me as Mr Sullivan, himself as Mr Chadwick, partners in a firm importing Benares brassware, and announced that we were looking for a warehouse in the district in which to store our goods.
‘I have been advised,’ Holmes continued, ‘that Buckmaster’s owns large premises and that, as manager, you might be willing to lease out some of the floor space.’
Mr Littlejohn smiled apologetically.
‘Unfortunately, I cannot accommodate you, Mr Chadwick. All our available space is needed for the storage of our own goods.’
‘Are there not even a few square feet to spare?’ Holmes persisted. ‘Or even a basement which is available for rent?’
‘There is a lower vault,’ Mr Littlejohn conceded. ‘However, it is too damp to be used.’
‘Benares brassware does not easily deteriorate. I might add that I am willing to pay above any fixed asking rent if you could oblige me.’
I saw Littlejohn pause at this offer of money in his own pocket, running his tongue over his lower lip so that it glistened greedily before his expression turned to one of regret.
‘I am sorry, Mr Chadwick, but I really cannot help you.’
Holmes continued to press the point.
‘Would it be worth my while to apply to Mr Buckmaster himself?’
At this, Mr Littlejohn dropped all pretence of joviality, his eyes growing hard and watchful, his voice coldly dismissive as he replied, ‘Mr Buckmaster is an elderly gentleman who leaves the management of the business entirely in my hands. You will oblige me by refraining from contacting him, Mr Chadwick. It will be of no use. Good morning to you, sir!’
