We had hardly set foot in our Baker Street lodgings than Holmes dashed out again to send a telegram to the Regal Hotel requesting two rooms for the following night. Within the hour, having received confirmation of the booking, he set off once more, this time to call on Inspector Lestrade at Scotland Yard, and after that to buy any extra necessities we would need for our disguises when we returned to Brighton.
‘Nothing too elaborate,’ he decided. ‘We do not want to draw unnecessary attention to ourselves. Something in the holiday mood, I think, but not excessively ebullient. Modesty shall be our maxim.’
It was hardly a suitable precept for Holmes, I thought with some amusement as I followed him up the attic stairs to the lumber rooms where he stored the appurtenances of his many disguises,7 although I had to admit that it was because of his tendency towards the theatrical that he was able to assume the appearance and identity of another person with astonishing ease.
In this case, it was that of a City gentleman with a weakness for fashionable attire setting out for a few days’ relaxation away from the tedium of a London office. He wore flannels and a blazer, a little too extravagantly striped for my taste, and a boater which, tipped at a jaunty angle, gave him a festive, holidaymaking air. A silver-topped cane, a brown wig en brosse, a small clipped moustache and a pair of gold-rimmed eyeglasses completed his transformation.
As I lack Holmes’ skill at carrying off a disguise with confidence, mine was similar to his but far less conspicuous, consisting of a light-brown moustache with a matching wig, worn with a plain navy blazer and a pair of grey flannels. Thus disguised I felt, as we sauntered along the esplanade towards the hotel, that we blended in perfectly with the other visitors enjoying the sea air.
On Holmes’ advice, I had packed my army service revolver into my portmanteau, for, as he reminded me, Holy Peters was a dangerous villain who would stop at nothing to avoid arrest. His own preferred weapon was a weighted riding crop.8
We saw nothing of Miss Pilkington or her employer Mrs Huxtable until we strolled down to the dining-room for dinner later that evening and saw them sitting at a table overlooking the sun veranda and the more distant view of the passing crowds against the glittering backdrop of the sea. Seated with them were the unforgettable figures of Holy Peters and his loathsome companion, now masquerading under the false identities of Dr and Miss Wilberforce.
They had changed very little since the last time we had confronted them in their shabby lodgings in Poultney Square. They were older, of course, but still easily recognisable despite the fact that Holy Peters had put on weight over the intervening years so that his jowls were now quite pendulous, while in contrast his so-called sister was thinner than I remembered, her cheekbones more protuberant and her lips more tightly compressed. They were both well dressed and gave the impression of a successful, professional couple, at ease in the marble and plush surroundings of the Regal Hotel.
Unfortunately, we were seated too far away from their table to see details of any individual feature, such as signs of damage to Dr Wilberforce’s ear.
Miss Pilkington was aware of our arrival but, intelligent woman that she was, showed no sign of having recognised us, her glance merely passing casually over us as we took our places at a vacant table while she continued listening to the lady seated at her left, whom I took to be her employer, Mrs Huxtable.
She was a plump lady in her late sixties, fashionably attired and with an air of self-satisfaction about her which only wealth and the certainty of always getting her own way could have given her. There was a stubborn set to her lips and an imperious tilt to her head. Here was a woman, I thought, who demanded attention and was easily persuaded by flattery. The raised colour in her cheeks suggested high blood pressure, exacerbated, I suspected, by an overindulgent lifestyle. Her weight may also have contributed to breathing difficulties. Had I been her physician, I would have put her on a strict diet which excluded all cakes, cream and sugar as well as any form of alcohol. I noticed that she frequently sipped from a glass of Madeira wine which stood by her plate and which an obsequious wine waiter kept replenishing.
‘A perfect example of a stray chicken ready for plucking, wouldn’t you say, Watson?’ Holmes murmured, not raising his eyes from studying the menu. I had no opportunity to agree to this remark, for a waiter arrived to take our order and the subject was dropped until later that evening when, dinner over, we set off at Holmes’ suggestion for a brief walk along the Palace Pier where, according to Miss Pilkington, Dr Wilberforce, or Holy Peters as I preferred to think of him, was accustomed to take a pre-luncheon stroll.
Now that the sun had set, the air was cooler and the crowds of holidaymakers had dispersed a little, although a festival atmosphere still lingered in the flags and bunting which decorated the stalls and kiosks lining the pier. Here and there were gaps in the railings opening on to steps leading down to landing stages where passengers from the pleasure steamers could disembark and from which swimmers and fishermen could have easy access to the sea at different levels. As we passed them, some of the anglers were already putting away their rods and keepnets in readiness for going home and Holmes and I decided to follow their example and return to the hotel.
There was no sign of Holy Peters, his sister nor Miss Pilkington, although, when Holmes invited me to join him upstairs after dinner to confirm the plans for the following day, he discovered, on letting himself into his bedroom, a folded slip of paper lying on the carpet just inside the room which someone had evidently slid underneath the door – Miss Pilkington, as he ascertained, when he had unfolded it and scanned its contents before passing it on to me.
There was no superscription to the message which was short and to the point.
‘I believe Dr Wilberforce intends to act soon over the matter of my employer. This evening after dinner she announced that she had arranged to move to his clinic as a patient in two days’ time, that is on Friday.
‘She has agreed to pay me a month’s salary in lieu of notice. I thought I should notify you of this fact as soon as possible as I have very serious concerns over her future welfare. Edith D. Pilkington.’
‘Concerns which I myself share,’ Holmes said gravely as he refolded the note and placed it in his pocket book. ‘Well, Watson, the stakes have been raised and we must accordingly elevate our own game. Early tomorrow morning I shall telegraph Lestrade, explaining the situation to him and requesting his presence here in Brighton with arrest warrants for both the Wilberforces. There is a fast train from Victoria at 8.07 which arrives at 9.49. I shall arrange to meet him at the entrance to the Palace Pier at a quarter past the hour. All we can do in the meantime is trust that we have chosen the right villains.’
Lestrade was only a few minutes late for our rendezvous the following morning, and as Holmes and I lingered outside the ticket office wearing the disguises we had worn the day before, we surveyed the crowds of people who were already making their way on to the pier, including a number of anglers equipped with rods and some with folding stools who were taking up vantage points along the railings and the steps of the landing stages.
Holmes and I were also suitably equipped, although in our case for a quite different catch, he with his loaded riding crop, I with my Webley No. 2 revolver which fitted snugly into the pocket of my blazer.
Within ten minutes we were joined by Lestrade, dressed like us in flannels, blazer and boater and looking so unfamiliar in this holiday attire that I failed to recognise him. It was only when he approached Holmes and shook his hand that I realised with a start who he was.
‘Everything is arranged as you suggested, Mr Holmes,’ he remarked sotto voce as we bought our tickets and strolled on to the pier. ‘The local constabulary have agreed to put a dozen men on duty, some mingling with the crowds, some stationed as anglers along the length of the pier.’ He nodded towards the fishermen gathered by the railings. ‘If needed, I can summon them with a double blast on my whistle.’
‘Excellent, Lestrade!’ H
olmes replied. ‘And what of Holy Peters’ sister?’
‘She, too, is taken care of,’ Lestrade assured him. ‘Two matrons from the Brighton police force will be despatched to the hotel and will arrest her on the stroke of eleven o’clock.’
‘So all we have to do is to await the arrival of our own big fish,’ said Holmes, with a satisfied air. ‘No doubt he will come in with the tide.’
The tide was indeed rising and, despite the potential danger of an imminent confrontation with Holy Peters, Holmes seemed to be enjoying himself immensely, walking briskly with his head flung back as he breathed in the crisp, salt-laden air, his eyes darting eagerly this way and that as he absorbed every detail of the scene, from the colourful dresses of the ladies as they promenaded up and down the pier to the more distant view of the beach, with its canvas changing tents and bathing machines for the convenience of the swimmers, the goat carts and donkeys for the children, the horse-drawn wagonettes along the seafront ready to convey the holidaymakers to such places of interest as the Devil’s Dyke.9 Although it was by then essentially a pleasure centre, Brighton’s origins as a fishing port were still evident in the nets spread out to dry on the shingle and the stalls set out along the beach selling the proceeds of the latest trawl.
Further off still, and almost lost in the dazzle of the sun on the waves, were boats of all shapes and sizes – rowing boats and skiffs, yachts and dinghies – and beyond these the looming shape of the paddle steamer, the Brighton Queen, nosing up to the pier to unload its passengers at one of the landing stages.
I was so absorbed myself with all this colour and activity that I almost missed the sudden appearance of Holy Peters from among the crowds, and it was only when Holmes tugged at my sleeve that I noticed him.
Holmes set off after him, Lestrade and I following suit, falling in behind our quarry who, unaware of our presence, was striding out purposefully on this morning stroll of his, ignoring everyone about him until a few minutes later when his real motive for being there became apparent. Suddenly the crowds parted to allow an invalid chair free passage. It was coming towards us as if making for the exit and we therefore had a clear view of its occupant, an elderly lady who, despite the sun, was well wrapped up in shawls, a plaid blanket spread over her knees. A middle-aged woman was in charge of the chair, a qualified nurse-companion, I assumed, judging by her dark-blue cloak and bonnet which gave her a professional air.
Holmes, Lestrade and I lingered at the railings among the anglers, watching with fascinated interest as Holy Peters set about his work.
To give the man his due, he was very good at it. The surprised delight with which he greeted the old lady as if the meeting was entirely fortuitous, the solicitous manner in which he bowed his head over her hand as he raised it to his lips, could not have been bettered.
‘Another stray chicken almost ready for the pot,’ Holmes murmured in my ear as Holy Peters, having concluded conversation with the old lady, which involved more sycophantic attention, took his leave with apparent reluctance, once more kissing her hand and standing almost to attention as she was wheeled away and her chair disappeared among the crowds, her daily intake of ozone evidently over for the day. It was only then that he turned away and set off briskly for the far end of the pier.
‘Well, gentlemen, shall we strike now?’ Holmes inquired.
Lestrade and I nodded our agreement and the three of us fell in behind Holy Peters, gradually converging in on him until we were so close on his heels that he could not fail to be aware not only of our presence but also that of several of the anglers, who, realising that events were beginning to reach a climax, had abandoned their rods and keepnets and had joined our posse.
Whether Lestrade had tutored his men in the more subtle arts of arrest or whether, like hunting dogs, they knew by instinct the skills of the chase, I do not know. I was only aware that, little by little, Holy Peters was being edged towards the railings at the point where a set of wooden steps led down to a small landing stage.
It was only then that he realised he was being forced into a trap. The expression on his face as he glanced back over his shoulder made this obvious. The remnants of the unctuous smile which still lingered on his lips from his parting with the elderly lady, no doubt already chosen as his next victim, had vanished completely to be replaced by a look of fearful apprehension. In that moment, the very flesh of his face seemed to shrink and his full, well-fed jowls shrivelled to loose bags of trembling skin.
He could have jumped or attempted to escape down the steps but the tide was now lapping over them and inching its way up to the top.
Perhaps it was this insidious creeping of the water, silent and inexorable, that made Holy Peters hesitate.
It was at that moment that Lestrade, with impeccable timing for a man of whom Holmes had once remarked dismissively that he lacked imagination, acted.10 A double blast on his whistle, shrill and urgent, brought the scene to even more vivid life. Several of the erstwhile anglers moved forward as if galvanised by the sound and one of their number, a tall young man with the build of an athlete, threw himself at Holy Peters and brought him to the ground with a flying tackle, the skill of which I had not seen so superbly executed since my old student days at Blackheath Rugby Club.11 The next instant the young plain-clothes policeman had, with the help of two of his colleagues, turned Holy Peters briskly over on to his face, his arms doubled up behind his back, and a pair of handcuffs was snapped into place. To the spontaneous applause of a small crowd of spectators, who were uncertain as to who were the heroes and who the villains in this unexpected drama until this final moment, Holy Peters was hoisted to his feet and hustled away to the exit.
Head high and chest out, Lestrade strode proudly at the front of this procession and even Holmes was impressed enough to declare, ‘Well done, Inspector!’ – a rare accolade on his part.
We fell in behind them, Holmes pausing for a moment to gather up some small object from the decking of the pier which he slipped into his pocket and which he only revealed when we had arrived at the police station, where we learned that not only had Holy Peters been charged, but his erstwhile sister had also been arrested at the Regal Hotel and that the pair of them were in custody in the cells downstairs, accused of the abduction and attempted murder of Lady Frances Carfax.
Once these formalities were over, Lestrade drew us to one side to thank us, Holmes in particular for the part he had played in bringing these two criminals to justice.
‘The most infernal pair of villains I’ve ever clapped eyes on, Mr ’Olmes,’ the inspector declared. ‘It’s a pity in a way that we can’t ’ang the two of them and be done with them for good. But at least we can be sure they’ll serve long sentences in gaol, thanks to the efforts of both you gentlemen. You’ll be returning to London, I assume?’
‘I have one more small task to perform,’ Holmes replied, ‘and one small gift to give to you, Inspector.’
‘A gift?’ Lestrade’s sallow features lit up with pleasurable anticipation.
‘Only a trifle, my dear Inspector, but I thought it might amuse you,’ Holmes replied with a smile, plunging his hand in his pocket and displaying on his open palm the object which he had picked up from the decking of the pier.
Lestrade bent to examine it and then drew sharply back, his expression turning to one of mixed bewilderment and distaste.
‘What on earth is it, Mr Holmes? It looks like an ear!’
‘That is exactly what it is. An ear,’ Holmes assured him. ‘To be more precise, the ear which Holy Peters wore over his own to hide the injuries his real ear suffered when it was bitten in that bar-room brawl in Australia in ’89. The damage to it was too conspicuous a means of identification, so Holy Peters contrived to conceal it by attaching this wax ear over it.’
Lestrade gave a little nervous laugh as if still not entirely comfortable with the sight of the object lying in Holmes’ palm.
‘It’s a very good likeness,’ he ventured at last, clearly at a lo
ss as to what to say.
‘Made by an expert, I should imagine,’ Holmes replied. ‘Possibly by Monsieur Oscar Meunier of Grenoble who, if you recall, made a wax bust of myself to display in the window of our sitting-room in Baker Street to fool Colonel Moran into thinking I was at home and to draw his fire.12 Now if you will excuse me, Inspector. As I said, I have a small task to perform before Dr Watson and I return to London.’
‘What task, Holmes?’ I asked as we emerged from the police station.
‘To inquire after Miss Pilkington and Mrs Huxtable,’ Holmes replied, breaking off briefly to hail a cab. ‘I should like them to know what has happened and to reassure myself that both the ladies are well.’
I know that on occasions in the past I have criticised Holmes for his lack of warmth and sympathy for others but at times like these, when he reveals the more caring side to his nature, there cannot be a more considerate person in the whole world.
As soon as we had returned to the hotel and collected our luggage, we went in search of Miss Pilkington, whom we found seated alone in the ladies’ drawing-room, Mrs Huxtable, it seemed, on Holmes’ inquiry, having retired to her bedroom to recover from the shock of witnessing the arrest of Miss Wilberforce and of learning the truth about the criminal career of the lady and her so-called brother.
Secret Archives of Sherlock Holmes, The, The Page 4
