by June Thomson
From the degree of rigor mortis, I estimated that she had been dead for about twenty-four hours.
Holmes, meanwhile, was making his own examination, lifting each flaccid hand in turn and then moving the head a little to the left to expose the neck, revealing as he did so a small black mole just below the right ear.
‘Good Lord, Holmes!’ I exclaimed. ‘Mrs Hare said her daughter had a mole in just that position!’
‘Exactly,’ Holmes said grimly. ‘I fear, Watson, that we have found Rosie Hare but too late to save her. As Mrs Hare will have to be sent for to identify her, I shall have to tell Lestrade a little about our inquiries. But leave that to me. I shall say nothing at this stage about the Duckhams nor the Honourable Mrs Clyde-Bannister. Nor about my suspicions regarding the case.’
‘What suspicions, Holmes?’
‘Look at her hands, my dear fellow. Her mother last received a letter from her six months ago when she was engaged as a parlourmaid in the Duckhams’ house in Streatham. The question is, what has she been doing since that time? Not housework, that is certain. The hands are soft and white, the nails unblemished. Even if she had undertaken only the lightest of household duties, she could not have kept them in so perfect a condition. They are a lady’s hands; not a servant’s.’
‘Then what do you think she has been doing?’
‘I have my own theory which I shall explain to you when there is more time. At this moment, we must find Lestrade. But leave the explaining to me, there’s a good fellow.’
We ran Lestrade to earth in the duty-room, warming the backs of his legs before a huge coal fire.
He listened sombrely to Holmes’ explanation, which was a brief summary of the interview with Mrs Hare, and then, having dispatched a constable in a cab to fetch Mrs Hare from her address in Bow, he turned back to remark, ‘If I may say so, Mr Holmes, Mrs Hare doesn’t seem a likely client for someone with your reputation. I thought it was only the well-to-do and the famous who came looking for your services.’
He clearly suspected Holmes of holding back information although my old friend merely replied with a shrug, ‘I accept any client, Lestrade, rich or poor, as the mood takes me. I just happened to have time on my hands when Mrs Hare called at Baker Street. Unfortunately, my inquiries about her daughter had reached an impasse until this evening when you arrived to inform us of the suicide. I shall, of course, be willing to assist you in your own investigation, should you so wish, but at the moment I know no more about the facts of the case than you do.’
Strictly speaking, this was true. As Holmes had pointed out, he had only suspicions which it seemed he was unprepared to confide even to me.
I prefer not to dwell on the arrival of Mrs Hare and the distressing scene which followed her identification of the body as that of her daughter. It is painful to recall and all of us, Lestrade included, were in a subdued mood when she departed, accompanied by a police constable who had orders to see that she was placed in the care of a woman neighbour.
To my surprise, when Holmes and I left, I assumed to return to his lodgings, Holmes instructed the cab-driver to take us to the Burlington Hotel, Piccadilly, not to Baker Street, although he refused to explain the purpose behind this unexpected visit.
When the cab halted outside the hotel, Holmes alighted, telling me to wait as he would be only a few minutes.
From inside the hansom, I watched him go up the steps but, instead of entering, he remained on the portico, deep in conversation with the uniformed doorman. Then, having given the man a coin, Holmes climbed back into the cab.
‘What was all that about, Holmes?’ I asked, as the cab started off again, this time for Baker Street.
‘I was merely confirming my suspicions,’ said he, ‘and opening up a new avenue of inquiry which we shall explore together, my dear Watson. Be good enough to call at Baker Street at nine p.m. tomorrow, wearing evening dress.’
‘Evening dress?’ I exclaimed, quite taken aback by this request.
‘Yes; evening dress, Watson; white tie, tails, silk hat. I assume you have the necessary attire?’
‘Of course I do. I was merely questioning the need for it. Where are we going? To the theatre? Or to dine somewhere in the West End?’
But all Holmes would say in reply was, ‘Wait and see, Watson,’ before adroitly changing the subject by remarking, ‘By the way, speaking of the theatre, I hear there is a very good play on at the moment at the Adelphi.’
Nor would he discuss his plans when we arrived back at Baker Street and, when I left that evening to return home, I was no wiser than I had been before.
It was in a state of considerable curiosity that I returned to Holmes’ lodgings the following evening at nine o’clock, dressed, as he had stipulated, in evening wear, to find him similarly attired, his silk hat and silver-knobbed cane lying ready on the table.
‘Excellent apart from the final touch,’ he said, placing a gardenia in my buttonhole. ‘You now look the perfect man-about-town, ready for a little diversion in what I believe the French call a maison de tolérance. Or in good, plain English, Watson, a brothel.’
‘Now look here, Holmes!’ I protested. ‘I am a respectable widower* and doctor. I cannot possibly accompany you to one of those places. Supposing I were recognised?’
‘I thought you might object so this morning I took the precaution of purchasing two simple but effective pieces of disguise – a pair of side-whiskers for you, my dear old friend, and a rather splendid waxed moustache for myself. The gum arabic is on the table. The looking glass is above the mantelshelf. As we glue our facial adornments into place, I shall explain why our inquiries will take us to a certain West End bordello. You remember I remarked on Rosie Hare’s hands and posed the question of what she had been doing in the six months since she last wrote to her mother? There seemed to me to be only one profession open to a girl of Rosie’s background which enabled her to lead a life of leisure. Her clothes, which were fashionable and expensive, also bore out that impression.’
He broke off at this point to help me fix my side-whiskers into place and to examine both our reflections in the glass with a critical eye before continuing, ‘You will also recall that I spoke to the doorman at the Burlington Hotel?’
‘Of course I do. As a matter of fact, I was rather surprised at your doing so. What could he possibly know that could be of use in our inquiries?’
‘A great deal, Watson. If you want to discover anything about West End night life, ask a hotel doorkeeper. He is acquainted with the names of all the bordellos and quite used to directing male guests to the best establishments. On the basis of what I have already told you, I asked him to recommend a good-class brothel in the area where the girls are young and pretty. He named ten.’
‘Ten? Good Lord!’
‘Quite, Watson. And that does not take into account the hotels and accommodation houses which let rooms by the hour for the use of the many scores of prostitutes one can see walking about the streets of the West End. Among those he named was one in Montrose Street, just off the Haymarket, run by a couple called the Wilsons. It is called the “Canary Club”.’ He paused for a moment and then said, ‘I can see by your expression that you have not made the connection.’
‘No, Holmes; I am afraid I haven’t.’
‘Remember Palfrey, the house agent? He informed us that Mr Duckham asked for permission to put up a shelf in the house in Streatham to support a large cage of canaries.’
‘Oh, yes, of course! I see the significance of it now. But you are surely not suggesting …!’
I broke off, horrified by the implications.
‘Indeed I am, my dear fellow. Allow me to refresh your memory on the advertisement which Mrs Hare showed us. I have it here. It reads: “Girls and young women between the ages of fourteen and eighteen” – mark that, Watson! – are asked to present themselves for selection as parlourmaids et cetera in the “best households” with “no experience needed”. And this was intended to be read, rememb
er, by young women from the East End, apprentice dressmakers and milliners’ assistants in the backstreet sweatshops. No wonder they flocked to the Temperance Rooms in Bow to be interviewed by the Honourable Mrs Clyde-Bannister, especially when they saw the wages which were offered. Fifty pounds a year! Even an experienced butler would count himself lucky to earn that amount. Consider also the fact that not only the Honourable Mrs Clyde-Bannister but also the Duckhams are no longer to be found at their former addresses and that all of them moved away in the summer or early autumn of last year, which was the time that Mrs Hare last heard from her daughter. All of this convinces me that the whole affair from start to finish, from the interview at the Temperance Rooms in Bow to Rosie Hare’s employment with the Duckhams, was a conspiracy to lure gullible young women and girls like her into what I believe is termed the “flesh trade”.’
‘But that is absolutely appalling, Holmes! Something must be done about it!’
‘My sentiments entirely. That is why you and I, Watson, are going to visit the “Canary Club” tonight in the guise of two gentlemen out in the West End, looking for a little “fun”. So, please, my dear fellow, when we arrive there, do look as if you are enjoying yourself.’
Having never set foot in such an establishment in my life, I was not at all sure what to expect when the hansom deposited us outside number 45 Montrose Street.
From the outside, it seemed innocuous enough. It was one of those tall, elegant town houses with several steps leading up to a pillared porch. Only a discreet brass plate engraved with the words ‘The Canary Club. Members Only’ and a man in livery on duty at the front door marked it out as anything other than a select private residence.
Once inside the entrance hall, however, I soon realised that the place lived up to its name and reputation.
The first object to meet the visitor’s gaze as he entered was a large gilded cage, shaped like a Chinese pagoda, which contained about two dozen small, bright yellow canaries which hopped from perch to perch or fluttered against the wires, their sweet, chirruping song filling the air.
The foyer itself was lavishly and elaborately furnished but with that flamboyant and over-decorated taste of the nouveaux riches. Huge chandeliers hung from the ceiling, their lights glittering on the crystal prisms and reflected back from the gilt-framed mirrors which lined the walls.
At the far end, a pair of double doors had been flung open to reveal a drawing-room or salon, decorated in red and gold, with elegant chairs and tables, at which couples were sitting, placed against the walls while in the centre of the room men strolled about or stood talking to young women who were dressed in evening gowns of quite alarming décolletage.
Holmes had already instructed me in the cab on what I was to expect and how I was to behave. I was to leave most of the talking to him and I was to show no surprise or shock at anything I might see or hear. I was also to remember that Holmes would address me as ‘Bunny’, a sobriquet which, he explained with a smile, suited me on account of the side-whiskers.
As the cab had turned out of the Haymarket, he had added, ‘Once we are there, I shall ask specifically for a red-haired girl.’
‘Why is that, Holmes?’
‘If you had read Rosie Hare’s letters, Watson, you would not need to ask. You may recall that a girl called Mary Sullivan was the only other successful candidate at the interview and accompanied Rosie Hare to the Honourable Mrs Clyde-Bannister’s house in Cadogan Crescent for training as a parlourmaid. In her letters, Rosie described Mary Sullivan, with whom she appeared to have struck up a friendship, as very pretty with beautiful red hair. She is, I gathered, of Irish extraction. If my theory is correct, then I believe we shall find that she is one of the young ladies on offer at the “Canary Club”.’
At this point, the cab had drawn up outside the establishment and, once we had entered, my attention was taken up by other matters. These included not only the appearance of the place but the presence of two more male attendants who came forward as soon as we stepped inside the door, one in livery who took our coats and silk hats, the other a tall, broad-shouldered man, whose impeccable evening clothes contrasted oddly with his brutal, prize-fighter’s face and who relieved us of five guineas each as membership fees.
I tried to appear as cool as Holmes as I parted with this outrageous sum, for Holmes seemed perfectly at ease as he stood with his hands in his pockets and a cigar in his mouth, surveying his surroundings with a swaggering air.
We had hardly turned away from paying this bruiser when a large, heavy-bosomed woman of middle age, dressed in extravagantly ruffled black silk, came towards us, holding out her hand; her smile, however, barely disguising the hard glitter in her eyes.
‘I am Mrs Wilson,’ she announced. ‘I believe you gentlemen are new members. Who recommended you?’
‘The doorman at the Burlington,’ Holmes drawled nonchalantly. ‘He said the girls here were very choice.’
‘The best in London. Have you gentlemen any preferences?’
Holmes turned to me.
‘What d’you fancy, Bunny, old chap? I think I am in the mood for a little red-head.’
‘Céline is free at the moment,’ Mrs Wilson remarked, waving a hand towards the drawing-room.
Holmes nodded to her and strolled off towards the double doors, the cigar still in his mouth, although, once we were out of earshot of Mrs Wilson, he removed it for long enough to murmur to me, ‘We have just met the madam of the place, alias, I believe, the Honourable Mrs Clyde-Bannister.’
There was no time for me to reply. Holmes had entered the room and was approaching one of the tables at which was sitting a very pretty red-haired young woman, wearing a green silk evening gown which left all of her arms and most of her bosom bare.
‘Céline?’ Holmes inquired, drawing out a chair. ‘May we join you?’
In the moments before she was aware of our presence, I had been able to observe her. She had been staring straight in front of her, her face quite empty of any emotion as if there were nothing behind the pretty mask of her features except a void.
That expression still haunts my memory. The girl could not have been much more than sixteen.
A second later, the vacant look had vanished and she was smiling up at us coquettishly and rearranging the folds of her skirt to reveal a shapely ankle.
‘Of course you can join me, darlin’,’ she said, addressing Holmes. ‘Would your gentleman friend like another young lady to sit with us? There’s Mimi or Georgette, depending on whether he prefers a blonde or a brunette.’ Her voice had a carefully refined overtone but beneath this it was still possible to discern a less cultivated Cockney-Irish accent.
‘Later, perhaps,’ Holmes told her. ‘At the moment, my friend, Bunny, and I are more interested in the arrangements of the establishment.’
‘You’re new here, aren’t you, darlin’? I thought you were. Well, the arrangements, as you call them, are these. Usually the gentlemen walk about for a while, seeing which young ladies they fancy. Then, when they think they’ve made their choice, they take the young lady in question to sit down at a table and settle the details. That’s always done over a bottle of bubbly. It’s one of the house-rules. If you sit down, you have to buy champagne. Once you’ve made up your mind, you go over there to settle up with Mr Wilson.’
She nodded across the room to where a man was sitting, like a king on a throne, on a large gilt and red velvet chair which was placed on a silk-draped dais. He was a huge man in evening dress, monstrously fat, his starched shirt-front glittering with diamond studs. Lolling back in his chair, he was surveying the promenade of men and women and those couples seated at the tables with a proprietorial air, his round, white face, like a full moon, glistening with sweat, and quite motionless apart from his eyes which were constantly roving to and fro.
‘When you’ve paid Mr Wilson your dues,’ Céline continued, ‘he’ll give you the number of a room that’s vacant and then you’re free to take the young lady upstair
s.’ She raised her fan and fluttered it in front of her face with mock modesty. ‘I think I can leave the rest to your imagination, gentlemen.’
As she was speaking, a waiter had crossed the room to our table carrying a silver salver on which were placed three glasses and a champagne bottle in an ice-bucket.
‘How much?’ Holmes inquired.
‘A guinea, sir.’
A guinea!
It said much for Holmes’ perfect self-control that not even his smile wavered as he paid over the money together with a florin tip.
When the man had gone, Holmes filled the glasses and then, passing one to the young woman, remarked in a casual manner, ‘Céline. That’s a pretty name but I rather doubt it is your real one.’
She looked across at him, the glass half-way to her lips, not sure how to respond.
‘Perhaps you’re right,’ she began.
‘Not perhaps. I am quite positive. In fact, I know who you are and how you came to be here,’ Holmes continued, leaning forward and speaking now with great earnestness. ‘You are Mary Sullivan, a former apprentice dressmaker, and you attended an interview at the Temperance Rooms in Bow last May with the Honourable Mrs Clyde-Bannister – Mrs Wilson, to give her her real name. With you at the interview was another young woman, Rosie Hare. You and Rosie were the only two successful candidates. After a period of training at Mrs Clyde-Bannister’s house in Cadogan Crescent, Rosie was sent to a household in Streatham to serve as a parlourmaid while you were dispatched to a family in Hampstead. I believe I can guess what happened while you were there but I should like my suspicions confirmed. You were compromised in some manner. Am I not correct? And the price you had to pay was your agreement to work at the “Canary Club”.’
‘Compromised!’ Mary Sullivan said bitterly, the Cockney-Irish accent becoming more pronounced. ‘That’s one way of putting it! I don’t know who you are or what your game is but you look like the sort a girl could trust. Yes, we went to Cadogan Crescent where we was supposed to have been trained as parlourmaids but it was mostly about how to speak proper and make ourselves look nice. There was a bit about waiting at table and serving wine but not much. Then we was sent off to these different addresses as parlourmaids. I never knew where Rosie went so I couldn’t write to her.
