The Secret Files of Sherlock Holmes

by June Thomson

  Outside in the street, Holmes began to chuckle but he gave no reason for his amusement, merely remarking, as he hailed a passing hansom, ‘Highly satisfactory, Watson! A few more threads are in our hands.’

  ‘What threads, Holmes?’

  But the only reply I received was the enigmatic comment, ‘To the cord which, like Ariadne’s clew, will lead us to the heart of the labyrinth where no doubt we shall find young Teddy Venables.’

  To my secret disappointment, on our return to Baker Street Holmes made no further reference to the case, instead devoting the rest of the morning to reading the newspapers, leaving me to speculate on what exactly he had meant by his reference to threads.

  It was only after luncheon had been served and cleared away that he turned his attention again to the inquiry.

  Going into his bedroom, he emerged carrying a large cardboard box, the contents of which he spread out on the table. They comprised a collection of locks of different types and a bunch of what I took to be small metal rods, pointed at one end and of varying thicknesses.

  Drawing up a chair, he proceeded to set aside one of the locks and to select a metal rod from among the others with great care and deliberation.

  Overcome with curiosity, I put down the Morning Chronicle and looked over his shoulder.

  ‘What on earth are you doing, Holmes?’

  ‘Is it not obvious, Watson? I am making sure that my lock-picking skills* have not quite deserted me. One has to keep in practice, you know, and I shall need all my expertise tonight.’

  ‘Tonight? For what reason?’

  ‘When I break into Buckmaster’s premises,’ he replied coolly.

  ‘But isn’t that against the law?’

  ‘Of course it is, my dear fellow. If you can suggest a more legitimate method of entering the building, I shall be delighted to hear it. However, I fear I am left with no choice except to make an unauthorized entry. You wish to discover young Venables’ whereabouts, do you not?’

  ‘Of course I do, Holmes. But breaking and entering …!’

  ‘If I am to solve the mystery, then I have to acquire those letters we saw lying in the front vestibule in Buckmaster’s warehouse. I am convinced that they are crucial evidence to whatever lies behind young Venables’ recent activities and his sudden departure from home. I can, of course, proceed no further with the case, if that is what you prefer. Indeed, I ought to warn you that there is every chance that the Major’s son is involved in some unlawful affair. The data you laid before me suggest that this is so. The fact that he had money to spend, that he returned home late on many occasions in an inebriated condition and has since disappeared would indicate some illicit connection.’

  A little apprehensive for Venables’ sake, I asked, ‘What do you think it can be, Holmes?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘It is impossible to tell at this stage of the inquiry. But whatever the nature of the activity, it is certainly centred at Buckmaster’s premises. The letters, the cigar smoke and the newly-oiled padlock all point in that direction. Doubtless the manager, Littlejohn, has some knowledge of it. It was he who permitted the place to be used as an accommodation address and no doubt handed over keys to the premises so that the post could be collected. Moreover, you must have noticed how anxious he was not to lease out the vault to me even though I offered him a bribe and how concerned he became when I suggested I should speak to Buckmaster about it. Well, Watson? What is your decision? Shall I put away my picklocks or shall I continue with the case?’

  I was silent for several moments, thinking of Venables weeping in that small rented house.

  It was a difficult decision to make and I am not certain even now that I chose the right one. However, recalling Venables’ remark that he would rather know the worst than remain in ignorance of his son’s whereabouts, I finally made up my mind.

  ‘I think we should proceed, Holmes.’

  ‘You say “we”, Watson, although if you prefer not to be involved that is again a matter for your choosing. No, my dear fellow, do not answer me now. Wait until you have heard my plans for this evening before deciding. Firstly, I propose to take a cab to Ikey Morrison’s second-hand clothes shop in Cutlers’ Row, where I shall disguise myself as a street-loafer. Morrison’s is one of several such premises I use on these occasions.* Suitably disguised, I shall then proceed to Buckmaster’s warehouse where I shall gain entry through the wicket opening in the large double doors at the back of the building. It has a spring catch similar to this one,’ he added, indicating one of the locks which were laid out on the table. ‘Once inside, I shall open the inner door which leads into the vestibule by the same method, purloin two or three of the letters we saw lying on the mat, and return to Ikey Morrison’s with them where I shall steam them open. Having read them and made notes of any names, addresses and details of their contents worth recording, I shall then reseal them, return to Buckmaster’s to post them back through the letter-box and, having removed my disguise, I shall take a cab home. I do not anticipate being inside Buckmaster’s warehouse for longer than ten minutes at most. So, Watson, shall you accompany me? Or would you prefer to remain here by the fire and await my return?’

  On this occasion, I had no hesitation in coming to a decision although, as events were to prove, Holmes’ arrangements for the evening were to be seriously disrupted and we were, owing to circumstances quite unforeseen at the time, to be detained at Buckmaster’s premises a great deal longer than my old friend had planned.

  ‘Of course I shall come with you,’ I said warmly. ‘As the case involves the son of a friend, I have no intention of letting you undertake it on your own.’

  There was a mischievous light in Holmes’ eyes as he inquired, ‘You are not concerned that, as a respectable married man and a doctor, you will be breaking the law?’

  ‘Not if it is in a good cause.’

  ‘Very well then, Watson!’ said he. ‘We shall commit the felony together.’

  Later that evening, we set off by cab for Cutlers’ Row, a narrow street, only a little wider than an alley-way, which evidently served as the locality for other such businesses as Ikey Morrison’s for, as the hansom drove down it, I noticed a variety of signs advertising used goods for sale from furniture to boots and from books to kitchen utensils, while the three golden balls hanging above the pawnbrokers’ were so numerous that they twinkled in the flaring light of the gas-jets like whole galaxies of planets.

  Despite the lateness of the hour, for it was by then nearly eleven o’clock, most of the shops were open for business, including Ikey Morrison’s which we entered through a narrow doorway into an ill-lit and malodorous interior, crammed full of second-hand clothes which lined the walls and even dangled from the ceiling, suspended on ropes.

  As I hesitated at the door, reluctant to proceed any further, Holmes, who seemed perfectly at home in this unlikely setting, strode ahead towards the back of the shop, thrusting aside the hanging skirts and dresses, the dingy shirts and shabby coats, calling out Ikey’s name.

  A crack of yellow light showed at the back and the small figure of a man emerged, blinking at us suspiciously. Then, recognizing my companion, he came forward eagerly, hands outstretched, to meet him.

  ‘Mr ’Olmes! This is a pleasure! Forgive me not welcomin’ you straight off but I thought you was the rozzers come nosin’ round. Gawd knows what’s a-goin’ on but they’ve been buzzin’ about round ’ere like flies on a plate of cat’s-meat for the past couple of nights. There’s two of ’em posted right this very minute at the top of the Row, dressed up as beggars, only they don’t fool no one.’

  ‘Is there now?’ Holmes asked with evident interest. ‘I wonder why?’

  We had followed our host into a small back room where in the brighter light of a gas-lamp I was able to observe him more closely.

  He was a tiny, sharp-eyed man with the features of an intelligent gnome and swift, darting movements. Almost before we had finished shaking hands, he had whirled about
and, whisking some piles of old clothes from two chairs, had waved us towards them. I could imagine him darting through a crowd of people with similar speed and dexterity, helping himself to purses and pocketbooks before their owners were even aware of it. His hands, I noticed with interest, were small and long-fingered like the paws of an agile monkey.

  There was no sign of Mrs Morrison and, when Holmes inquired after her, Morrison replied that she was down at the Castle having a wet, which I understood to mean she had gone to some local hostelry in search of alcoholic refreshment.

  ‘And now, Mr ’Olmes,’ Ikey Morrison continued, ‘I take it you’re ’ere on business?’

  ‘Indeed we are, Ikey. My friend, Dr Watson, and I need two outfits which will give us the appearance of a pair of street-loafers. I should also be much obliged if, on our return in about quarter of an hour, a kettle of water could be boiling in readiness.’

  ‘Nuffin’ easier,’ Ikey Morrison assured him, showing no surprise at Holmes’ request although, in the event, the kettle was not to be needed.

  Darting across to a battered steamer-trunk which stood against the far wall, Ikey Morrison lifted the lid and, having rummaged about inside, produced two sets of very old clothes, including tattered waistcoats, torn shirts and a pair of overcoats, of such a dirty and disreputable appearance that I shrank from putting them on.

  Seeing my hesitation, Morrison said, ‘They’re all clean, doctor. There ain’t no lice in ’em, if that’s what’s botherin’ you. I’ve ’ad ’em all steamed and frumigated.’

  Despite this assurance, I declined to accept one of the caps, preferring to go bare-headed, and it was only on Holmes’ insistence that I agreed to the boots which Ikey Morrison offered me.

  We changed behind a hanging curtain, Holmes streaking our faces as well as our hands with grease from a candle stump and grime from the floor, of which there was a plentiful supply.

  Thus transformed into a pair of low ruffians and with our mufflers close about our faces, the dark lanterns which we had brought with us concealed under our coats, we emerged from Ikey Morrison’s shop and set off up Cutlers’ Row in the direction of Buckmaster’s warehouse, I taking care to slouch along, my hands in my pockets, as Holmes had instructed me.

  Titchbourne Street was only a few turnings away and, as we passed the Britannia public house and entered the lane which ran behind it, Holmes touched my arm to draw my attention to a man who lay slumped in its doorway.

  ‘One of Lestrade’s men,’ he murmured in my ear.

  ‘Is he?’ I asked. I had taken him to be a tramp sleeping off an excess of alcohol.

  ‘You can tell by the boots. They are much too new. You see now, Watson, why I insisted on your changing yours?’

  ‘But what are Lestrade’s men doing in the area?’

  Holmes raised his thin shoulders.

  ‘It could be any number of reasons. The neighbourhood is notorious as a meeting-place for criminals. I could name three premises in Cutlers’ Row alone which deal in stolen goods and that is not to take into account the numerous low “dives” and lodging-houses in the side-streets. But I rather think Lestrade’s men will not interfere with our own activities.’

  As he had been speaking, we had passed along the lane and had reached the rear entrance to Buckmaster’s premises where Holmes halted and, having cast a glance up and down the turning to make sure that we were unobserved, drew me into the doorway.

  It was a matter of a mere few seconds for him to take the bunch of picklocks from his pocket, select the right one and, inserting it into the lock in the small wicket opening, give it a dexterous turn at which the spring catch yielded and we were able to enter the building.

  Once inside, we closed the door and lit our dark lanterns by the light of which we could see to cross the passage towards the door which led into the vestibule.

  My heart was already beating high at the adventure and at the thought of the illegality of our actions when, just as we reached the door and Holmes was preparing to open it, we had cause to stop short.

  In the distance we could hear the sound of wheels rapidly approaching.

  ‘I rather suspect,’ Holmes remarked, ‘that we are about to receive a visit from a certain gentleman who enjoys a good Havana cigar.’

  There was no time for further explanation. Hardly had he finished speaking than the vehicle drew to a halt outside the building.

  Motioning to me to do the same, Holmes extinguished his lantern, thrust it into his pocket and turned back towards the shaft, our nearest means of escape.

  In the dim light filtering in through the glass panels in the door, I saw him seize the rope which dangled from the hoist and start to climb down it. A gesture of his head before it disappeared below floor level invited me to follow.

  It was many years, not since my school-days, in fact, that I had climbed a rope and the wound I had received from the Jezail bullet on the Afghan frontier* made any vigorous exercise quite painful on occasions. Nevertheless, I copied his example, clambering over the low grille and lowering myself after him into the blackness of the shaft.

  I found it a dizzying sensation, not knowing how deep it was or where it might end, and it was with considerable relief that at last I felt my feet touch solid ground and Holmes’ hand stretched out to steady me.

  I had emerged into a stone passage, similar to the one upstairs but smelling more strongly of damp and disuse. Facing me was a heavy door, lined with green baize, to which Holmes, who had relit his lantern, drew my attention, shining the light across its surface.

  ‘Soundproofed,’ he said in a whisper. ‘Interesting, do you not agree, Watson? Why should anyone wish to soundproof a basement door in a furniture warehouse? Let us see where it leads.’

  It was unlocked and yielded silently as Holmes put his hand against it.

  Beyond lay a large room of such an extraordinary and unexpected appearance that I stood quite motionless for several moments, looking about me in utter astonishment. It was a large, vaulted chamber, well below street level and with no windows or even a grating through which natural light could penetrate, a feature which, together with the low arched ceiling, gave the place the claustrophobic atmosphere of a dungeon.

  But here any comparison with a prison or an underground cell ended, for the room was furnished like an expensive West End club or the smoking-room of a gentleman’s private residence. The stone floor was covered with sumptuous rugs and carpets, the walls with hangings, while upholstered sofas and leather armchairs were grouped round low tables, lavishly supplied with boxes of cigars and cigarettes.

  Holmes’ lantern picked out other details of the room, its light passing briefly over a carved sideboard loaded with glasses and bottles of wine and spirits, brass lamps with globes of engraved glass, waiting to be lit, and photographs of a salacious nature in which young women in a state of undress postured and smiled.

  Among these luxurious furnishings, an ordinary roll-top desk which stood against the near wall seemed a prosaic item but nevertheless attracted Holmes’ attention. Darting across to it, he pushed up its lid and began hurriedly to examine the contents of the pigeonholes with which it was equipped, extracting several items.

  I heard him give a chuckle of satisfaction.

  ‘I think, Watson,’ said he, ‘that we have reached the heart of the labyrinth.’

  But before he could explain what he meant or show me the papers he was holding in his hand, he glanced up towards the vaulted ceiling, his aquiline features alert with an expression of keen attention.

  ‘Listen!’ he exclaimed.

  I strained my ears but could hear nothing.

  ‘What is it, Holmes?’ I asked.

  ‘Footsteps,’ he replied. ‘Our caller is on his way downstairs. Come, Watson! It is time we found ourselves a hiding-place.’

  This proved no difficulty. The hangings which covered the walls provided plenty of opportunity for concealment and we chose a corner near the door where the curtains, draped
across the angle, afforded enough space for both of us, from which vantage point we could also keep the whole chamber under observation.

  Here we waited in total darkness for several long minutes before a sudden draught of cold air as the baize-covered door was opened and the sound of voices alerted me to the arrival of not one but several unknown visitors.

  A young man, his voice educated but slightly slurred as if its owner were the worse for drink, was exclaiming excitedly, ‘I say, stop pushing, you chaps! Give a fellow time to light the lamps!’

  The next moment, a match flared in the darkness, the lamps were lit and, through a gap in the curtains, I was able to see the newcomers. They were six young men, all in evening clothes and all in a state of mild inebriation, among whom, to my dismay, I recognised Teddy Venables, a silk scarf loose about his neck and his fair hair dishevelled. They were accompanied by four young women who, by their tawdry finery and heavily rouged faces, I took to be street-walkers of the commoner type.

  Between them, the group was making so much noise, talking and laughing loudly as they poured drinks from the bottles on the sideboard or threw themselves down on the sofas to light cigars, that I thought it safe to whisper to Holmes that I had seen young Venables.

  From the glance which Holmes gave me, I realised that this piece of information was not unexpected.

  I was wondering how we should be able to make our eventual escape from the vault without being detected, when the nature of the activity in the room began to take on a considerably more immodest form. Not content with merely smoking and drinking, several of the young men had pulled their female companions down on to the sofas with them and had started to indulge in the type of behaviour which is normally conducted only in private behind closed doors. Heels were kicked up, revealing petticoats and ankles. Even a thigh was exposed.