He was not at all what I had been expecting from Holmes’ account of him. He was a small, slightly built man and, seen from a distance, looked very boyish, with a youthful flush to his cheeks, his billycock14 hat tilted at a jaunty angle and his checked suit a little too loud to be considered in good taste. A flower in his buttonhole and a yellow waistcoat marked him out to be a ‘sporting’ gentleman, typical of the sort you can see at any racecourse during the season.15 It was only when he drew closer that I realised that he was, in fact, quite elderly, for his face was a network of tiny wrinkles, like the craquelure one sees in the varnished surface of an old master, while the boyish flush to his cheeks was caused by the dozens of broken veins under the skin.
He seemed pleased to see Holmes, for he shook his hand warmly, and greeted me with a gentlemanly courtesy which I found quite disarming.
‘’Ow are things with you, Mr ’Aitch?’ he inquired of my old friend. ‘And you, too, sir?’ he added with a little bow in my direction.
But Holmes clearly wanted these preliminaries over and done with so that he and Sammy Knox could get down to business as soon as possible and he plunged straight in.
‘Now, Sammy, the reason I wanted to meet you here is very important. You know a great deal about the underworld. Have you ever met a certain gentleman who calls himself Carruthers and claims to be an army officer – a colonel, no less?’
‘I might,’ Sammy conceded cautiously. ‘What does ’e look like?’
Holmes glanced across at me, clearly expecting I would supply the answer and I strained my memory to recall as vivid an image of Carruthers as I could, as well as the words to describe it.
‘Tall; very upright, military bearing; well spoken; sandy-haired; claims to have served in Afghanistan.’
I kept my eyes on Sammy Knox’s face, looking for the slightest sign that he had recognised my description, but his features remained impassive until I finished my account when he said in a voice of quiet authority, ‘Barty Cheeseman,’ and then fell silent.
What happened next occurred so quickly that I was unaware of it until it was all over. Holmes held out his right hand, the fingers tightly closed, and at the same time extended his index finger and drummed it gently on the table.
‘Tell me,’ he said softly, ‘and tell it straight, if you please, Sammy. My friend is not very familiar with “cant”.’16
Sammy glanced across at me with an amused expression and then decided to accept whatever terms Holmes was offering.
‘Right!’ he said. ‘Straight it shall be, Mr ’Aitch. First of all, about Barty Cheeseman. ’E used to be in the army – batman to a major, by all accounts, which is ’ow he learned ’is manners and ’ow to speak proper. ’Is favourite “lay” is smashing – passing false money, to you and me. ’E prefers to work alone and in the best cribs;17 no backstreet publics for ’im. It’s the fancy ’otels and clubs and he offers, say, a finny – sorry, Mr ’Aitch – a five-pound note to pay for drinks and a meal; so ’e gets them free and the change into the bargain. Or ’e’ll go into a baccy shop and buy the best cigars. Or if it’s bigger swag ’e’s got ’is eyes on, like a gold watch or a swanky ring for ’is dolly bird, then ’e’ll pay by cheque, ’aving discovered ’e ’asn’t got ’is wallet on ’im – left it at the ’otel, is ’is usual blab. Rather than lose the sale, the shopkeeper will accept the fakement. S’matter of fact, that’s one of Cheesey’s specialities, passing a stiff – a cheque or bill of exchange, either a dud or a stolen one.’
‘Is it indeed?’ Holmes asked and I could tell by the way his shoulders stiffened that the information had caught his attention. He gave a quick sideways glance in my direction, the significance of which I failed to grasp at the time, although I was a little puzzled at first by my old friend’s apparent carelessness as he posed the following questions. His manner was a little too offhand to be entirely genuine. However, I had known him long enough to realise that he was at his most engaged when he seemed the most indifferent. Unaware of this quality in Holmes, Sammy Knox replied to his queries with the pleased self-satisfaction of a man who thinks he knows all the answers.
‘How would Cheeseman have set about acquiring someone’s cheque book?’ Holmes inquired. ‘I assume he would simply pick the man’s pocket?’
Sammy grinned broadly at Holmes’ innocence.
‘Nah, guv’nor! Cheesey’s not a dip. He ain’t got the skill. ’E might pick a pocket if a coat was ’anging up somewhere ’andy or lying across the back of a chair. That’s more ’is line of business.’
‘Oh, I see!’ Holmes declared, as if light had suddenly burst upon him. ‘So then he would fill in the cheque and present it at the man’s bank?’
Again that knowing smile spread over Sammy’s face.
‘’E might do, but ’e wouldn’t last very long as a knapper18 if ’e did.’
‘So what would he do?’
‘’E’d take a few of the stiffs from the back of the book so the man ’oo owned it wouldn’t fink anyfin’ was wrong until later, and then pass ’em on at some other bank, not the one named on the cheques. Or ’e might sell ’em on. There’s plenty of coves’oo deal in stolen stiffs. Is that the lot, Mr ’Aitch, or is there somefin’ else you’d like to know?’ Sammy concluded. ‘Only I’ve got a pretty little dolly waitin’ for me at my crib. Lovely, she is!’
On Holmes replying that there was nothing more, Sammy Knox rose to his feet, shook hands all round and, with a sleight of hand that would not have shamed a professional magician, he scooped up the piece of crumpled paper lying on the table and transferred it to his pocket. Then, raising his billycock hat not without a certain grace, he left the bar.
‘What was in the paper?’ I asked as the door closed behind him.
Holmes laughed.
‘A couple of what Sammy would call “thickers”,’ he replied. ‘Pound notes to you and me, Watson. But worth every penny. Thanks to Sammy, I now know how we can “nab” Colonel Carruthers, alias Cheeseman, and see him safely in “stir”. And that is the last time today I shall make use of “cant”, fascinating though it is as an alternative language.’
‘How will you set about arresting him?’ I asked, agog with curiosity.
‘Guests are allowed at the Kandahar, are they not?’ he asked with an offhand air.
‘Yes, they are,’ I replied.
‘And there is a back door to the club?’
‘I have no idea,’ I said, quite bewildered by this time.
‘Then that must be ascertained before we proceed any further. I must also speak to the manager and alert Lestrade, for I shall need their assistance, along with a couple of constables. I shall call on Lestrade this morning and make a start on my little strategy.’
Holmes and I parted company on the return journey, I to make my way back to Baker Street, Holmes presumably to Scotland Yard to call on Lestrade and to lay before him whatever plan he had in mind for the arrest of Carruthers, alias Cheeseman, an event I was looking forward to with eager anticipation, for I felt the man had not only taken advantage of Thurston and the Kandahar Club but had also, in some manner which I could not quite rationalise, besmirched the reputation of the British army in India and the gallant colleagues in my regiment who, from the most senior officers down to the humblest private, had fought, and in many cases had died, for the reputation of our country and the Berkshires in particular.
The interview with Lestrade must have gone well, for not long before luncheon Holmes returned, looking pleased.
‘Lestrade is very keen to lay Carruthers by the heels,’ he announced, settling himself in his armchair and lighting his pipe. ‘The colonel has been a thorn in his flesh ever since the Fitzgibbon case last summer.’
‘The Fitzgibbon scandal!’ I exclaimed. ‘Was Carruthers involved in that?’
‘Apparently so; or so Lestrade believes, although there was not enough evidence to take the case to court.’
‘Good heavens!’ I murmured, too shocked to make any further comm
ent.
‘Indeed!’ Holmes agreed wryly.
At the time, it had been the main topic in the more sensational newspapers. Although he was not mentioned by name, to avoid the risk of the editor being sued for libel, it was clear to anyone who had even the most rudimentary knowledge of the comings and goings of the aristocracy that the ‘beautiful daughter of a distinguished member of the House of Lords’ was none other than Lady Vanessa Fitzgibbon, daughter of Lord Wellesley Fitzgibbon, whose secret engagement to a dashing Guards officer, Montagu Orme-Wiston, hinted at in the society pages of the Daily Echo and the Morning Star for the past three months, had been broken off and that Lady Vanessa and her mother had departed for a prolonged visit to the Seychelles.
‘So,’ Holmes continued, ‘Lestrade believes that the arrest of the colonel would be a considerable feather in his inspector’s hat.’ In an apparent non sequitur he added, ‘You have a cheque book, Watson?’
‘Not at the moment. If you remember, Holmes, you confiscated it three days ago and locked it up in your desk.’
‘Of course! I had completely forgotten about that little incident. But if you agree to my plan, I shall release it back into your possession immediately.’
‘What is your plan?’ I asked, wondering what part my cheque book would play in it.
‘We shall present ourselves at the Kandahar …’
‘We?’ I interposed. ‘You mean I shall be there as well?’
‘Lestrade and I will be your guests for lunch followed by a game of billiards.’
‘When exactly?’
‘On Friday.’
‘But Carruthers will be there! If you remember, he changed his day for lunching at the club from Wednesday to Friday – on purpose, I believe, to avoid having to meet me.’
‘Then it will be a happy reunion for both of you,’ Holmes remarked with a chuckle of amusement which I did not share.
‘I do not think—’ I began in protest.
‘Just as well, my dear fellow. Better to leave any mental effort to me. I am more practised in that field than you are. And now,’ he continued, striding to the door, ‘I must call briefly on Lestrade again to put the finishing touches to my plan. If I were a cricketing man, which I am not, I would enlarge on the metaphor by saying that in the game I am proposing, Lestrade shall act as longstop, you shall be the wicketkeeper and I shall be the bowler who delivers what I believe is known as a “googly”.’
‘And Carruthers?’ I asked.
‘Oh, he will be the batsman who is bowled out for a duck!’ Holmes declared and, laughing loudly, he went running down the stairs.
Holmes and I started off together for the Kandahar on the following Friday to set in motion Holmes’ ‘little game of cricket’, as he insisted on calling it. He was in one of his excitable moods and was clearly relishing the thought of the coming adventure and its consequences which, if all went well, would result in the downfall of Colonel Carruthers.
Before we went inside the club, he insisted that we made a quick reconnoitre of the back of the building to check that Lestrade had made sure the rear exit was covered; not that he thought the inspector was unreliable but, like a general before a battle, he needed to confirm for himself that everything was arranged according to plan, a meticulous attention to detail which extended to his own appearance, for he insisted on wearing a small black moustache in case Carruthers might have seen likenesses of him in the illustrated papers and would recognise him.
We discovered that Lestrade who, though lacking imagination, according to Holmes, is nevertheless an efficient officer in other matters, had indeed secured the rear exit by positioning a costermonger selling apples from a barrow by the back door while two other policemen in plain clothes were strolling up and down the street, chatting to one another and trying to look inconspicuous.
At the sight of them, Holmes nodded approvingly and we set off round the corner to the front of the building where Lestrade, also in civilian clothes, was waiting for us on the doorstep of the Kandahar.
After I had signed in my two ‘guests’, we moved into the dining-room where we were shown to a table facing the door on the far side of the room which, on Holmes’ instructions, the manager had reserved for us and, having been served, we began our meal. As arranged, I was sitting with my back to the door so that Carruthers would not see me when he entered and be frightened off. He came when we were finishing the first course and were about to order the pudding. As a signal of his arrival, Holmes gently nudged my foot with his under the table.
I must admit I was tempted to turn my head to look at him, not out of curiosity so much as to satisfy myself that the description of him I had given to Holmes was correct. But I resisted and concentrated instead on the food that was in front of me and on the conversation that was struck up among the three of us, trying as hard as I could to behave naturally, a difficult task when I was tingling with anticipation and desire to see the infamous fraudster arrested and marched out of the club in handcuffs.
I did, however, allow my feelings to overcome my prudence and, on the way out of the dining-room, I risked a quick sideways glance in his direction. I need not have felt so anxious. Carruthers was tucking into a portion of steak and kidney pie and, between mouthfuls, was absorbed in reading a copy of the Morning Herald which was propped up in front of him against the salt and pepper pots.
There he was, as handsome as ever, his hair and moustache carefully brushed, and his black eyepatch neatly in place.
He appeared not to have seen us and continued eating and reading as we made our way through the door and across the lobby to the billiard-room.
Holmes had instructed us meticulously as to how we were to play out the last part of our little drama. So, following his directions, I took off my jacket and hung it over the back of a chair that was within reach of the door and that itself had been deliberately left half open. Lestrade placed himself near the billiard table, as if he intended watching the game. Meanwhile, Holmes and I chose our cues and went through the pretence of setting out the balls and tossing a coin to decide who should go first. Holmes won the toss. After that, all we had to do was to push the balls about, Holmes taking the initiative, while I was careful to stand with my back to the door so that Carruthers, when he came, would not see my face.
The trap was set. From then on, it was simply a matter of waiting for Carruthers to arrive.
He came.
With my face averted, I did not actually witness his arrival. All I heard was Lestrade’s voice calling out, ‘Hey, you! Wait a moment!’, followed by the clatter as Holmes’ cue fell to the floor and then the sound of footsteps running across the parquet floor.
I whirled round and was just in time to see Holmes and Lestrade struggling in the doorway with Carruthers, who was fighting in a most ungentlemanly manner that obeyed no rules that I was aware of, certainly not Queensberry’s.19
It was Holmes who brought him down with a rapid uppercut to the jaw20 and he fell as if he had been poleaxed, the skill and swiftness of the blow giving rise to an outburst of spontaneous applause from the small group of bystanders comprising waiters and club members who had been attracted to the scene by the noise.
Lestrade immediately despatched one of the waiters to collect the plain-clothes men who had been guarding the back door before sending another to call up a four-wheeler. While waiting for its arrival, he snapped a pair of handcuffs on Carruthers’ wrists and began swiftly searching his pockets.
As he had suspected, several cheques, torn from my cheque book, were found on him and these Lestrade promptly confiscated along with the book itself, as evidence of the man’s larceny. So for the second time in as many months, I was deprived of my cheque book.
But it was a small price to pay for having the satisfaction of Cheeseman alias Carruthers alias half a dozen other assumed names sent for trial and sentenced to several years’ hard labour by the judge who, in his summing up, referred to his long career of theft, fraud and forgery, not to ment
ion his general moral turpitude.
‘I have not felt so much pleasure over the outcome of an inquiry since the arrest of the three-handed widow,’ Holmes remarked, laying down the Morning Chronicle, which contained a detailed report of the trial.
‘The three-handed widow?’ I exclaimed in surprise, for it was the second time my old friend had referred to this particular individual.
‘Indeed, Watson. And a more demure and prim little woman you could not wish to meet in a month of Sundays. Remind me to tell you about the case one of these days. You can add it to your collection of highly coloured narratives concerning my career. In the meantime, I would appreciate a little silence while I finish reading this account of Lady Petersham and the gypsy fortune-teller.’
And with that, he shook out the pages of the newspaper and disappeared behind them.
1 After Dr Watson was wounded at the Battle of Maiwand in July 1880, he was repatriated to the Royal Victoria Hospital in England and was later invalided out of the army with a pension of 11s 6d a day, equivalent to 57 pence. Dr John F. Watson.
2 Before joining the army and being sent to India, Dr Watson had studied medicine at St Bartholomew’s Hospital in London. Dr John F. Watson.
3 Dr Watson was never a member of the Indian army but was an officer in the English regiment, the Royal Berkshire, which served in India. Dr John F. Watson.
4 Dr Watson played billiards with Thurston at their club. Nothing else is known about Thurston, not even his Christian name. Vide: ‘The Adventure of the Dancing Men’. Dr John F. Watson.
5 ‘Wallah’ is a Hindi word for ‘servant’. A desk-wallah would have been a clerk or an office worker. Dr John F. Watson.
6 While a medical student at St Bartholomew’s Hospital, Dr Watson had played rugby for the Blackheath Rugby Club. Dr John F. Watson.
7There is some confusion as to where Dr Watson was wounded. In A Study in Scarlet, he states that he was wounded in the left shoulder by a bullet from a jezail rifle which shattered the bone and grazed the subclavian artery. He was also injured in the leg, a wound that had longer-lasting effects. Dr John F. Watson.
Secret Archives of Sherlock Holmes, The, The Page 7
