‘Abandoning the child?’ I asked in horrified disbelief. ‘Oh, Holmes, what a dreadful thing to do!’
‘That is exactly what I thought at the time. How utterly disgraceful! But I need not have wasted my sentiment. As soon as the Widow disappeared, the child also vanished, wriggling her way through the crowds and out of the door. By the time I reached the exit, the Widow had disappeared but the child, whose legs were much shorter, was still visible, running for dear life, her charming little black bonnet bobbing up and down as she went.’
‘So what did you do?’ I asked, aghast at the situation.
‘Followed her, of course,’ Holmes said crisply. ‘There was no other choice. Over the years, I have in my professional career trailed various criminals and, on occasions, dogs as well.7 But never have I acted like a bloodhound in pursuit of a child. Oh, she was very nimble, Watson! A veritable little terrier! In and out of the crowds she went, down alleyways and through passages with me hot on her heels. She was unaware I was following her, for she did not once glance over her shoulder. But one thing was clear to me: young though she was, she was fully familiar with the backstreets of that area of London, which convinced me that she had been taken there on other thieving excursions in the past.
‘Down Oxford Street we went before turning left in the direction of Warren Street, where we entered one of those indeterminate areas of London composed of shabby little side streets that are neither disreputable enough to be called a slum, nor respectable enough to be considered genteel. Here our journey ended in front of a small terraced house, in design not unlike the type where Colonel Carruthers lived, only much neater and better kept. In the complex strata of the English class system, I would have placed it three rungs up from the bottom of the social ladder. It had clean lace curtains at the windows and a brightly polished door-knocker in the shape of a mermaid. There were even pots of geraniums standing on the sill.
‘I paused outside for a moment or two, earnestly studying my notebook that I had taken from my pocket as if verifying the address, before lifting the mermaid by the tail and rapping smartly on the door.
‘It was opened by a plump, motherly-looking woman in a clean pinafore carrying a baby on one arm, wrapped in a shawl. Just beyond her, I caught a glimpse of a door partly set open, which afforded me a view of the room beyond: a parlour, by the look of it, with a cheerful fire burning on the hearth, the shelves of the overmantel crowded with little ornaments in glass and china and fretted wood.
‘And there, before the fire, sitting on a velvet-covered pouffe, her bonnet off and her plump little legs extended comfortably towards the flames, was the pretty child who had clung so loyally to the Widow’s third hand.
‘There was no sign of the Widow nor, come to that, of the Beau but there were three or four other children of various ages seated about the room, playing quietly together; nicely dressed children with neatly combed hair, their little faces shining with health and cleanliness.
‘It took a moment or two for the significance of the scene to dawn on me and, when it did, I was deeply shocked. The little girl and the other children, including the baby, were the means whereby the woman made her living. She rented them out by the day to people like the Widow and the Beau who, in turn, made their own livings by begging or stealing or any other fraudulent activities in which the presence of a child would help to enhance their professional takings.
‘My train of thought was interrupted by the woman who had answered the door, the owner of those children.
‘“Yes, sir; can I ’elp you?” she inquired in that soft, wheedling tone of voice that door-to-door sellers of trinkets or lucky white heather tend to use and that I always find particularly nauseating for its obvious insincerity. But, not wishing to rouse her suspicions, I asked in as normal and pleasant manner I could muster if I could speak to Mrs Harrison.
‘“I think you’ve come to the wrong address, sir,” she replied. “There’s no Mrs ’Arrison livin’ ’ere.”
‘So I thanked her and moved on.
‘I was also anxious to find out from Constable Pound, whom I had already arranged to meet once the arrests had been carried out, if the Beau had been taken into custody and to pass on to him the information regarding the Widow and, in particular, the child.
‘We met in a discreet little coffee shop not far from Scotland Yard, a rendezvous which he had apparently used before, because the waitress, a middle-aged lady, greeted him as an old friend, addressing him as “Bert” and showing us into a small back room, empty apart from the two of us.
‘Yes, the Beau, alias Johnny Wilkins, had been arrested, Pound informed me, and, as the old lady’s reticule had been found in his pocket, he was charged with theft for which, considering his criminal record, he would probably serve two or three years in Pentonville.
‘As for the Widow, Wilkins had given him an address in the Clerkenwell area, but when he called there, she had either flown the roost or Wilkins had deliberately misinformed him.
‘“But there’s no need to fret,” Pound assured me cheerfully. “They’ll pick her up some other time for sure.”
‘When I mentioned the false arm, Pound burst out laughing.
‘“Oh, that old trick!” he declared. “Sometimes they don’t even bother with the extra arm. They’ll use a sling or keep their arm inside their coat and pin up the empty sleeve to look as if the arm’s been amputated. It works wonders, that one does, ’specially if the ‘dipper’ plays the ‘old soldier’s lay’ and wears a row of medals across his chest!”
‘When I came to the subject of the child, his smile disappeared.
‘“Yes, you’re right,” he replied. “They hire the little kiddies out at so much a day.”
‘“And later, when the children are older?” I asked.
‘“Well, not to put too fine a point on it, they’re rented out for other purposes, ’specially the girls.”’
‘Oh, Holmes!’ I interjected, horrified by the information. ‘What can we do about it?’
‘For that particular child, nothing at all. You have forgotten the case took place years ago. But, in fact, something was done at the time and by a most unlikely person. Can you guess who?’
‘Someone who took part in the inquiry?’ I asked, intrigued by the riddle.
‘Yes, indeed.’
‘And someone unlikely?’
‘Extremely unlikely.’
I was silent for a few moments while I tried to guess to whom he was referring. And then the answer came to me in a flash.
‘Obviously not the young curate, Thorogood. He is too likely a candidate. Now, if I were a betting man—’8 I continued, breaking off as Holmes burst out laughing.
Seeing my expression, he straightened his face before adding, ‘You are getting warmer, my dear fellow!’
‘Then,’ I continued, ‘my money would be on a rank outsider, the Rev. Samuel Whittlemore.’
‘Oh, well done, Watson!’ Holmes exclaimed, clapping me on the shoulder. ‘To change to another sporting metaphor, you have hit the bullseye! It was indeed Whittlemore, and to extend the image even further, he came up trumps! When I returned to the rectory to inform him about the arrest of Wilkins, who was involved in the theft of his parishioner’s reticule – “Lady Dee” as I named her – I happened to mention the little girl and the circumstances in which I found her and the other children. Whittlemore in turn must have passed on the information to Lady Dee who, being an extremely wealthy lady, founded the charity called “The Little Flowers of St Matthias the Less”, not a name I would have chosen myself but, as she was paying the piper, so to speak, she called the tune.
‘And her goodwill did not end there. Knowing your predilection for happy endings, Watson, it gives me great pleasure to announce that the child, who is now rechristened Ruth, alias Pity, was adopted by Lady Dee, who still must remain anonymous, and is now a charming heiress, happily married to a member of the House of Lords, and is the patroness of her late adoptive mother’s chari
ty. So, you see, my dear fellow, to use another well-thumbed metaphor, or in this case, an aphorism, “every cloud has a silver lining”.’
1 Sherlock Holmes assisted the official police in several investigations, for example in the adventure of ‘The Man with the Twisted Lip’, in which he uncovers the true identity of the beggar for the benefit of Inspector Bradstreet. Dr John F. Watson.
2 These words are examples of ‘cant’, a language used by the criminal underworld. A ‘magsman’ is a cheat, a ‘neddy’ is a cosh and a ‘shofulman’ is a person who passes on fake or forged money. Dr John F. Watson.
3 The Artful Dodger is a character from Charles Dickens’ novel Oliver Twist, who is a member of the gang of young boys trained by Fagin to be pickpockets. Dr John F. Watson.
4 Sherlock Holmes was himself an adept in the use of disguise. Dr John F. Watson.
5 In A Study in Scarlet, Dr John H. Watson lists ‘the many acquaintances’ who called on Sherlock Holmes soon after they had moved into their new lodgings at 221B Baker Street. Among them was a ‘little sallow, rat-faced, dark-eyed fellow’ who Sherlock Holmes later explains was a ‘well-known detective’ whom he had helped over a forgery case. The reference is to Inspector Lestrade. Dr John F. Watson.
6 In The Sign of Four, Sherlock Holmes remarks that ‘the most winning woman’ he had ever known was hanged for poisoning three little children for their insurance money. Dr John F. Watson.
7 In ‘The Adventure of the Creeping Man’, Sherlock Holmes states that he had ‘serious thoughts’ of writing a small monologue upon the use of dogs in the work of a detective. Dogs feature in several inquiries including ‘The Adventure of the Missing Three-Quarter’ in which he uses a dog called Pompey to trace the whereabouts of Godfrey Staunton, a missing rugby player. The dog follows the tracks to a cottage where the missing man is found at the bedside of his dead wife. Dr John F. Watson.
8 Sherlock Holmes is amused because Dr Watson was a betting man and spent almost half his army pension on betting on horses. At one point, Holmes locked his cheque book in his desk to prevent him spending any more money at the races. Dr John F. Watson.
THE CASE OF THE PENTRE MAWR MURDER
‘What do you know about Wales?’ Holmes inquired one morning, looking up from the letter he had been reading.
‘Whales?’ I inquired, misunderstanding his question. ‘Not a great deal, Holmes, except they are large sea mammals which are hunted for their blubber and are—’
I broke off as he burst out laughing.
‘No, not whales, my dear fellow! I am referring to the principality to the west of England. W-A-L-E-S.’
I joined in the laughter for, although I was a little piqued at his amusement at my quite understandable mistake, I was also secretly relieved that Holmes had shown so positive a reaction. For the past few days, he had been in a very low state of mind brought on by the lack of any interesting investigations to stimulate his intellectual powers. I knew from experience that this could be a dangerous situation. Despite my best efforts to wean him off the habit, I was aware that he still occasionally indulged in the use of cocaine when, as he himself expressed it, he was feeling the ‘insufferable fatigues of idleness’.1 The only antidote to this state of affairs, apart from an injection of the drug, was some new and challenging inquiry on which he could hone his unique skills.
‘I am afraid I know very little either about Wales,’ I replied, ‘except it is well known for coal mining and male voice choirs. But what on earth prompted the question?’
‘This letter,’ he replied, flapping a sheet of paper in my direction. ‘Rather than read it to you, I will summarise its contents as it is rather garrulous in places. It is from a certain Dr Gwyn Parry, the general practitioner in a village called Pentre Mawr – at least, I assume that is how it is pronounced – who requests my assistance in what he refers to as “a deeply tragic situation”. It appears a patient of his, a local farmer called …’ and here Holmes glanced briefly at the missive, ‘Dai Morgan was stabbed to death two days ago at his farm. His son, Hywel, has been arrested for his murder and is at present languishing in Abergavenny gaol awaiting trial.
‘Dr Parry was evidently called to the scene of the crime by Hywel Morgan, who found the body of his father and it was Parry who made an initial examination of the victim. According to him, and here I quote his very words, “Hywel is a hard-working, God-fearing young man, who is incapable of such a dreadful act of patricide.” Dr Parry, it seems, delivered Hywel as a baby, and therefore claims he knows him very well, although I am not sure that the logic of such an assertion would stand up to close cross-questioning in a murder trial. So what do you think, Watson? Shall I accept the good doctor’s invitation and investigate the case?’
I was considerably flattered by Holmes’ request for my advice; it was not often he asked for help over any matter that touched on his professional life, although I knew in this particular instance that he had no cases on hand and was consequently at a loose end, a state of affairs which left him bored and restless. A trip to Wales might well alleviate that tedium and raise his spirits.
I was therefore quick to agree. Apart from the matter of Holmes’ needs, the idea also appealed to me from an entirely selfish point of view, for the prospect of sharing lodgings with a morose and unsociable companion for an uncertain period of time was far from alluring.
‘Why not, Holmes?’ I replied. ‘I have never been to Wales. It would make a change from London, would it not?’
‘I suppose so,’ Holmes replied, but only half-heartedly. ‘Oh, very well, then, Wales it shall be, although I have serious doubts about the location of the inquiry. A farm in the Welsh countryside hardly seems to hold out much promise of excitement. One can only hope there are not too many cows. They are the most boring of animals in my opinion – worse even than sheep. And I should warn you, Watson, the journey is going to be tedious in the extreme. According to the itinerary Dr Parry has given us, there are two changes of train, one at Hereford of all places.’
Nevertheless, he sent the telegram to Dr Parry confirming our arrival and the following day we set off from Paddington for Abergavenny, a journey that was indeed long but not as tedious as Holmes had predicted. He was, however, still in a dispirited frame of mind and refused to be diverted by the passing scenery, sinking instead into a heavy silence, the flaps of his deerstalker cap pulled down about his ears. I greatly missed his sprightly conversation on a variety of topics that had entertained me on similar train journeys in the past.
It was only after we had changed at Hereford, a charming town as far as I could judge from the carriage window and not in the least deserving of Holmes’ rather dismissive comment on it, that he began to sit up and take notice of the names of the stations we were passing through.
‘An interesting language, Welsh,’ he commented. ‘It is, of course, Celtic in origin and is said by some scholars to have its roots in the ancient British tongue spoken by the inhabitants of this island before it was overrun by the Anglo-Saxons.’
And with that, to my infinite relief, he plunged into a fascinating discourse on the influence of Indo-European, the protolanguage from which, it seemed, a great number of other languages, including Celtic, had sprung. This explanation continued until our arrival at Abergavenny where we were met by Dr Gwyn Parry, an eager-looking little man, short of stature but brimming over with energy that seemed to set the air about him crackling with an electric charge. Even the weather seemed affected by him, for the low clouds which had persisted for most of the day began to scatter, torn to tatters by a sharp little breeze. By the time we had left the outskirts of Abergavenny and were proceeding at a brisk trot in the doctor’s smart little pony and trap into the countryside beyond, the landscape itself began to lift, much like Holmes’ spirits, into a series of mountain slopes, rising one behind the other, across which the sun chased the cloud shadows in a game of hide-and-seek.
At first, all three of us were silent, Holmes and I in contemplatio
n of the view, while Dr Parry, I surmised, was turning over in his mind the circumstances that had brought the two of us to this location and how he was to broach so tragic and personal a subject to a pair of strangers.
It was Holmes who broke the silence.
‘Tell me, Dr Parry, about the murder of Dai Morgan,’ he said in a down-to-earth but kindly tone of voice. ‘I gather from your letter that he was a local farmer, well respected in the community, and that his son—’
The remark seemed to act as a stimulus to the little doctor. The words gushed out of him in a torrent made more excitable by the rise and fall of his Welsh accent.
‘Hywel had nothing to do with his death, Mr Holmes! He’s a good lad who wouldn’t harm a fly, let alone his own dada. Inspector Rees has got it all wrong! He’s a townee, see, from Abergavenny. He doesn’t understand us hill people. We’re like foreigners to him!’
‘So Inspector Rees is in charge of the investigation,’ Holmes remarked evenly. ‘What is his opinion? Does he think it is a case of murder rather than suicide or a terrible accident?’
My old friend’s down-to-earth attitude had its desired effect on Dr Parry for, with an apologetic sideways glance at Holmes, he replied in a more temperate manner.
‘Oh no, Mr Holmes, it was murder without a doubt. No man can stab himself twice in the heart either on purpose or by accident. And you must forgive me for taking on so. I’ve known Dai and Hywel Morgan for most of my adult life. They are like family to me. I’m certain Hywel is not guilty.’
Secret Archives of Sherlock Holmes, The, The Page 10
