by June Thomson
The daughter, whose name was Rosie – and in speaking of her Mrs Hare’s eyes lit up and her haggard features took on an animation which suggested that she herself when young must have possessed a beauty of her own – was a pretty, intelligent girl who, in her mother’s words, had been ‘good at her schoolwork’ and whose ambition it was to rise above her situation and to find employment either as a shop-assistant in a West End store or as a maidservant to a good family, aspirations which the mother had encouraged.
At this point in Mrs Hare’s narrative, I saw Holmes’ aquiline features soften with an expression of keen compassion, a response I shared. For what chance had a young woman from such a background and with, no doubt, a limited education of fulfilling such a dream?
Indeed, as Mrs Hare’s account continued, it became apparent that both the young woman’s and her mother’s hopes had received an early setback. On leaving school at the age of thirteen, Rosie had been able to obtain no better employment for herself that that of a trimmer in a wholesale milliner’s in Wapping where she worked long hours in a basement room for the princely sum of five shillings and sixpence a week.
And then, the year before, when Rosie was fifteen, her fortune had suddenly changed.
An advertisement had appeared in the local newspaper, the Bow and Wapping Gazette, appealing for young women to apply for well-paid domestic posts in good-class households.
‘Do you have the advertisement with you, Mrs Hare?’ Holmes inquired.
She had and, taking a worn purse from her skirt pocket, handed a piece of paper to Holmes who, having read it and raised a quizzical eyebrow at its contents, passed it to me.
It had been carefully cut from the newspaper and read as follows:
The Hon. Mrs Augustus Clyde-Bannister, Proprietress of the Exclusive Bellevue Domestic Agency, hereby invites Girls and Young Women between the ages of fourteen and eighteen to present themselves for a Private and Personal Interview at the Temperance Rooms, Patten Street, Bow on Friday afternoon next, May 4th, between the hours of two and six, for a few Select Vacancies for Parlourmaids, Nursery-maids and Ladies’ Companions in the very best households.
* No Experience Needed
* Training Given Free
* Wages of £50 a year Guaranteed
* Positively no Deductions
* Applicants must be of a Personable Appearance and of a Sober and Willing Disposition.
‘May I keep this?’ Holmes asked when I had returned the cutting to him, and, on receiving Mrs Hare’s consent, he continued, ‘I take it your daughter attended the interview?’
‘She did, sir,’ Mrs Hare replied. ‘She asked for the afternoon off work, even though it meant losin’ part of ’er wages, and went along to the address given in the paper. And Lor’, sir! She said there was dozens of girls waitin’. It were gone four o’clock afore she was seen.’
‘By the Honourable Mrs Clyde-Bannister, I assume. Did your daughter describe her to you?’
‘She said she was a large lady, very well-spoken and dressed like a duchess in black silk. And diamond rings! Rosie said she’d never seen the like of them.’
As Mrs Hare continued, I noticed that Holmes’ features, while not losing their expression of compassion, had grown sharper and more attentive as if the story itself, rather than the pitiable circumstances which surrounded it, had caught his interest.
To sum up the rest of Mrs Hare’s account, it seemed that Rosie was only one of two successful applicants, the other being a young apprentice dressmaker named Mary Sullivan. The week following the interview, both young women were taken to live at the Hon. Mrs Clyde-Bannister’s West End house, number 14 Cadogan Crescent, where for the next month they were to be trained in the duties of parlourmaids.
The training having been successfully completed, the two young women were then placed in households, Rosie Hare with the Duckham family in Streatham, Mary Sullivan somewhere in Hampstead although Mrs Hare did not know the exact address.
At first, Mrs Hare had received regular weekly letters from her daughter while she was living at Cadogan Crescent and with the Duckhams in Streatham, saying how happy she was and expressing her gratitude both to the Hon. Mrs Clyde-Bannister and to the Duckhams for their kindness.
When Holmes asked her if she had brought the letters with her, Mrs Hare produced a small packet from under her shawl, carefully wrapped up in brown paper, which Holmes said he would examine at his leisure and return to her at a later date.
And then the letters from her daughter had stopped coming.
‘When was this?’ Holmes asked.
‘Five months ago, sir, in September last year,’ Mrs Hare replied.
She went on to explain that she had waited for several weeks and then, thinking that her daughter might have been taken ill, had asked a neighbour to write on her behalf to Rosie at the Duckhams’ address.
‘You see, Mr ’Olmes,’ she said, twisting one corner of her shawl nervously between her fingers, ‘I never was much of a scholar, not like Rosie. I can’t read nor write. This neighbour of mine, Mrs ’Arris, always read Rosie’s letters to me. That’s one of the reasons why I never went to the ’ouse when the letter I’d sent to Rosie was returned, marked “Gone Away” or somethin’ like that on the envelope. I can’t read the street names to find my way there and I couldn’t ask Mrs ’Arris to come with me. She’s got the five little ones to look after.’
‘But you found your way here,’ Holmes pointed out.
‘Oh, that was different, Mr ‘Olmes. Afore I married my Albert, I used to work as a charlady at an ’ouse in the next street, so I knows my way ’ere on foot. And anyway, I didn’t like to turn up at the Duckhams’ in case I got Rosie into trouble. She said that at the interview Mrs Clyde-Bannister asked perticular if she ’ad any family, ’cos she’d ’ad bother in the past with girls gettin’ ’ome-sick. So Rosie said, no, she ’adn’t. She was a n’orphan. That’s why I’ve come to you, sir. I’ve ’eard you’re a famous detective; but you’re not like the regular police. I couldn’t go to them. Even if they was interested in finding my Rosie, which I doubt, I wouldn’t want them causin’ trouble in case they lost Rosie ’er place. But you’re different, sir. I wondered if you’d ask around, quiet-like, and find out what’s ’appened and where the Duckhams ’ave moved to. I couldn’t come afore this ’cos I ’ad to save up the money. I’ve got it now, though,’ she added timidly. Fumbling again in her shabby purse, she took out some coins which she laid on the table. ‘I don’t know what your charges is but there’s fifteen shillin’s there.’
‘Keep the money,’ Holmes said, pressing it back into her hand.
‘You mean you won’t look for my Rosie?’ Mrs Hare asked on the brink of tears.
‘I mean, Mrs Hare, that I charge only by results and, in the case of an interesting investigation such as yours, there are no fees whatsoever. I shall certainly make inquiries about your daughter. I gather all the addresses I shall need, including yours, will be found in the letters? Then all I shall require from you at the moment is a description of your daughter.’
‘Well, sir, she’s a bit taller than me and she’s got dark ’air and eyes. And, like I said, she’s as pretty as a picture.’
‘Any distinguishing features?’ When Mrs Hare appeared not to understand, Holmes rephrased the question. ‘Any scars or marks by which I might recognise her?’
‘Oh, I see, sir. Yes; she ’as a mole on ’er neck just below ’er right ear; only a small one; more like a beauty spot.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Hare,’ Holmes said. ‘That is all I shall need for the time being. I shall call on you in Bow when I have any news. And now, madam, I am going to order a cab for you. No, no!’ He held up a hand as she began to protest. ‘You cannot possibly walk all the way home in this weather. As for the fare, I shall see that the driver is paid. You can settle with me at some other time.’
‘Oh, Mr ‘Olmes, I don’t know ’ow to thank you!’ Mrs Hare cried.
Holmes looked deeply
embarrassed.
‘Please, no thanks,’ he murmured, rising to his feet.
‘And no comment from you either, Watson,’ he added when, having escorted Mrs Hare downstairs and seen her into a hansom, he returned to the room.
‘I was only going to remark,’ I said mildly, knowing Holmes’ dislike of having attention drawn to his generosity, ‘that if Mrs Hare had been taught to read and write she could have pursued her own inquiries.’
‘We can only hope that, with the introduction of the Board schools,* education will become so widespread that in fifty years’ time, illiteracy will be a thing of the past. But I doubt whether, even if Mrs Hare had been sent to the most exclusive academy for young ladies, she could have undertaken an inquiry of this nature. The case has too many complexities.’
‘Has it, Holmes? It sounded straightforward enough to me. A young woman betters herself and then chooses to have nothing more to do with her mother. We shall no doubt find her living happily with the Duckhams wherever it is they have moved to.’
‘I trust you are correct, Watson. For my part, I fear the case is not so simple. But we shall see. For the moment, I shall content myself with reading Rosie Hare’s letters to her mother and seeing if I can find any useful information in them.’
He settled himself at his desk, occasionally passing a letter to me. But I have to confess I soon grew bored with reading them. Despite Mrs Hare’s insistence that her daughter had been ‘good at her schoolwork’, they were ill-written, misspelt accounts of the trivial events in Rosie’s life and I soon transferred my attention to the evening newspaper.
After a quarter of an hour’s silence, Holmes put the letters away and asked, ‘Can you be free tomorrow, Watson, or will your professional duties keep you busy?’
‘No. My practice has been remarkably quiet for the past week or so. I have no urgent cases.’
‘Then be good enough to return here* at ten o’clock when we shall take a cab and visit Cadogan Crescent where the Honourable Mrs Clyde-Bannister has her establishment as well as the house in Streatham where the Duckhams used to reside.’
‘Are you also proposing to call in at the Temperance Rooms in Bow?’
‘I see no point in going there at this stage in the inquiry. It is nearly nine months since the Honourable Mrs Clyde-Bannister rented them and I fear the trail may well have gone cold.’
On my return to Baker Street the following morning, Holmes ordered a hansom and we set off first of all for number 14 Cadogan Crescent, an imposing residence just off the Square, where Holmes alighted and rang the bell. After a short conversation with the parlourmaid who opened the door, Holmes returned to the cab to announce that the house was no longer occupied by the Honourable Mrs Clyde-Bannister. The present residents had taken over the lease in June of the previous year and knew nothing about any earlier tenants.
From there, we drove to Maplehurst Avenue, Streatham, where we hoped to have better luck.
Maplehurst Avenue was a pleasant, tree-lined road of modern detached houses, standing in quite large grounds, number 26 being situated about half-way down. But from the neglected state of the garden and the absence of smoke from the chimneys, the place appeared to be empty, an impression confirmed by the ‘To Let’ board nailed to the front gate post.
The house-agents were Palfrey and Dickinson, with an address in Streatham High Road to which, on Holmes’ instructions, the cab-driver took us.
On this occasion I accompanied him into the office, where Holmes spoke to Mr Palfrey, explaining the reason for his visit. Mr Palfrey, however, could tell us very little about his erstwhile tenants, the Duckhams. They had rented the house furnished the previous summer for three months, the rent being paid in advance by Mr Duckham, whom Mr Palfrey described as being ‘tall and well-dressed but not really what he would call a gentleman’.
‘A little too flash, if you know what I mean,’ Mr Palfrey added.
As for Mrs Duckham, Mr Palfrey had seen neither her nor any domestic staff who might have been employed in the house.
The Duckhams had moved out at the beginning of September, their three-month lease having expired. They had left no forwarding address. Only one letter had arrived after their departure, which Mr Palfrey had opened and had returned to an address in Bow, marking the envelope ‘No Longer in Residence’.
And that was all he could tell us about the Duckhams, apart from the canary cage.
‘Canary cage?’ Holmes inquired.
‘Mr Duckham asked if he could have a shelf put up in the conservatory. Evidently he had a large cage of canaries which he wanted to raise off the floor because of the draughts. I agreed and recommended a jobbing carpenter. As far as I am aware, the shelf is still there. And that is really all I know about them,’ Mr Palfrey concluded.
Holmes was in a pensive mood on the return journey and I knew better than to break the silence although I could not understand why the case should require such deep contemplation on his part.
It seemed ordinary enough to me.
At Baker Street, I kept the cab to go on to my consulting rooms, realising that Holmes would probably prefer to be alone with his thoughts.
As we parted, he remarked, ‘I shall be in touch with you, Watson, as soon as there are any developments in the case.’
But I heard nothing from him and I did not, in fact, see Holmes again for another three weeks. There was a sudden outbreak of bronchial infections due to the cold weather and my time was taken up with visiting patients.
It was a Friday evening in February before I had the leisure to call in again at Baker Street to find Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard already there, seated by the sitting-room fire, while Holmes was pacing up and down in a state of considerable excitement.
‘My dear fellow!’ he exclaimed as I entered. ‘How fortunate you have come! The Inspector has just been telling me of an extraordinary case. Pray repeat the details of it, Lestrade, for Watson’s benefit.’
‘I don’t know about it being extraordinary,’ Lestrade said, turning his lean, sallow face in my direction. ‘God knows we get enough suicide victims fished out of the Thames, especially at this time of the year. They’re usually poor, homeless devils, beggars and such-like, who can’t face another winter’s night sleeping on the streets. But this one is different. She was found floating in the river near Wapping about two hours ago by a bargeman; a young woman, well-dressed and nourished; pretty, too, if you disallow for the effects of drowning. The fact is, Dr Watson, and it’s the reason I’ve called on Mr Holmes, it’s the second case like it in the past six months …’
‘Holmes, you don’t think –?’ I began eagerly, interrupting Lestrade’s account.
I had been about to ask if he thought either of the young women could be Rosie Hare. But Holmes frowned and gave a little shake of his head to indicate that I was to say nothing on the subject.
Lestrade was watching us, his sharp, little eyes bright with curiosity.
‘Yes, Dr Watson?’ he asked. ‘You were saying?’
‘My old friend was merely going to remark,’ Holmes put in easily, his expression perfectly bland, ‘that I might find the case useful for the statistical tables I am compiling on suicide victims – their ages, social backgrounds and so on. But pray continue, Lestrade. You were speaking of the similarity of this case to another six months ago.’
‘So I was. Well, Dr Watson, both victims were young women who, judging by their appearances, didn’t seem the type to chuck themselves into the river. And both had been struck on the temple before they drowned. Now, I’m not saying it’s murder. They could have injured themselves as they fell. But it’s too much of a coincidence for my liking. There’s another odd thing as well about that first suicide. No one reported a young woman of her description as missing and no one came forward to claim the body. That’s why I have called on Mr Holmes this evening. As they say, two heads are better than one.’
‘Or three in this instance,’ Holmes remarked. ‘What do you say, Wat
son? Lestrade tells me the body has been taken to Wharf Street police station. I was about to accompany him there. Would you care to join us? As a medical man, you may very well be able to help the inquiry by examining the corpse and giving us your professional opinion.’
‘Of course, Holmes,’ I said. ‘Although the police surgeon has no doubt made his own examination, there may be some further details I can add to his report.’
We left the house shortly afterwards and, as Lestrade hurried ahead to hail a passing cab, Holmes took the opportunity to say to me in a low voice, ‘Say nothing to Lestrade about Rosie Hare.’
I could not understand his reticence over the case but I complied with his request and kept silent on the journey to Wharf Street, merely listening as Lestrade described a series of burglaries at large country houses in which valuable art treasures had been stolen.
‘I am surprised,’ Lestrade remarked at one point, ‘that none of the victims has asked for your help, Mr Holmes, for I don’t mind admitting that neither the local constabularies nor us at the Yard have been able to discover who is behind these felonies.’
On our arrival at Wharf Street police station, we were conducted by the duty sergeant into a small back-room which had been turned into a temporary mortuary and where the body, covered with a rough blanket, was lying on a trestle table.
Lestrade declined to come with us, having made his own examination earlier, and Holmes and I entered the room alone.
As I removed the blanket, I immediately saw the bruise to which Lestrade had referred. It was a large contusion and, in my opinion, would have caused unconsciousness but whether the injury was the result of a deliberate blow or an accident there was no way of telling.
Apart from this bruise, the face was unmarked, except for the obvious signs of drowning, never a pleasant sight. But, as Lestrade had pointed out, beneath the discoloration and the bloating of the features, it was still possible to discern that, when alive, the young woman, who could have been no more than fifteen or sixteen, had been remarkably attractive. The hair was long and dark, the form slim and shapely while the clothes she was wearing, a red silk dress and a fur-trimmed cloak, were fashionable and of a good quality.
