by David Marcum
“It was fortunate you found that apple stalk,” I remarked. “I wonder if they would have confessed so quickly without it.”
“This, you mean?” Holmes took the white shard from his pocket and put it in his mouth. “A mint, my dear fellow. I purchased several from the confectioner and carved one into an approximate representation of the stalk from memory of Mr. Pettigrew’s illustration whilst I was waiting for you. Would you care for one?”
He took the bag from his pocket and offered it to me.
“I thought you were remarkably lenient with him,” I said, helping myself to a mint, “considering he was prepared to see Mr. Lennox go to prison and Mr. Pettigrew lose his position.”
“There is the question of proof. Despite what I told Sir Charles, I see difficulties in convincing a jury. The sculptor is liable to prove elusive, despite my assurances to the contrary. After all, who would willingly admit to their part in the crime when the evidence is destroyed? Therefore, it is to you we must look to see that justice is done,” said he, clapping me on the shoulder. “This town seems doomed to fail in the shadow of its famous neighbour, despite the attractions of its pier and bandstand. Keep an account on record, Watson. One day, when the tourists have deserted these beaches and the town fallen into obscurity, then shall your adoring public know the truth of the vanishing Venus.”
The Adventure of the Vanishing Apprentice
by Jennifer Copping
The January following the Grimbledyke insurance fraud had been a particularly cold and wet month, and the weather, combined with a disappointing lack of cases, had kept Sherlock Holmes and myself confined largely to our quarters in Baker Street. For my own part, I did not find this a great inconvenience, but the lack of activity had dragged Holmes into one of his blackest moods, and for his sake I hoped that something would come up before he resorted to other, less favourable methods to counteract his depression.
It was along these lines that I was thinking one morning when I heard the familiar ring of our front doorbell.
“There is someone at the door, Holmes,” I ventured to remark, looking over my newspaper at the recumbent form of my friend draped across the settee.
“Quite so,” he answered, without opening his eyes. “You will see that I am correct in saying that boredom has a negative effect upon the mental faculties, Watson. It has led you to develop an unedifying talent for stating the obvious.”
“I was merely suggesting that you may have a client.”
“I think not. That pull upon the bell-rope was too feeble to suggest someone with a desperate problem in need of solution, and I think you would agree that only a desperate man would venture out in this weather.” Holmes opened his eyes, sat up, and gestured to the window, which had thick sleet running down it. He paused, however, as a weary tread sounded upon the staircase. “A caller for you, perhaps, Watson?”
“I am not expecting anyone,” I replied, as our unknown visitor knocked upon the door.
“Come in!” called Holmes. His eyes widened slightly as the door opened. “Inspector Lestrade! What can we do for you upon this dull and dreary morning?”
“I was hoping you might be able to help me with a bit of a problem, Mr. Holmes,” admitted Lestrade, standing awkwardly in the doorway, and dripping water steadily on to our floor from his hat and overcoat.
Holmes half-smiled. “Then come in and sit down,” said he, jumping to his feet with something of his old enthusiasm, and gesturing to the settee he had just vacated. “Watson...” Hurrying to my own feet, I took Lestrade’s coat and hat for him. One glance at the little professional suggested that Holmes’s first supposition had not been far wrong, for his face was white save two feverish spots of colour in his cheeks, and he peeled off his wet overcoat as if every movement was a painful effort.
“You should not be out in this!” I exclaimed.
Lestrade gave a wan smile. “I haven’t much choice,” he said hoarsely, sinking into the seat which Holmes had indicated with undisguised relief. “Not until...” A fit of coughing interrupted what he had been about to say; I moved to the spirit-case, and poured a glass of brandy, which I pressed into his hands.
“I won’t, if you don’t mind, Dr. Watson,” he said, once he had got his breath back. “Thank you all the same.”
“You ought to take something,” I told him, returning to my usual chair. “A hot drink, at the very least...”
“It’s good of you, Doctor, but I’ll manage without. It’s the Evans murder I’m here about.”
“Ah, yes,” said Holmes, settling himself in his own chair and lighting a cigarette. “The shopkeeper done to death by his own apprentice. But there is no mystery about the case, is there? I understood he had been seen in the act, and the police had lost no time in arresting the young fellow.” He looked questioningly at Lestrade. “Surely you have him under lock and key at this very moment?”
“That’s just it, Mr. Holmes. We don’t. Certainly we found the place where the apprentice - Barnaby Miller, his name is - was lodging, and all we had to do was go to the house and arrest him. It was simple enough. He was there in his room; he didn’t seem surprised to see us, and I got the derbies on him all right...” Lestrade stopped as another coughing fit seized him.
“Surely you should be at home in bed,” I remonstrated with him. “I do not like the sound of that.”
“I’m none too keen on it myself,” retorted Lestrade weakly. “But the fact remains, gentlemen, that Barnaby Miller is still at large, and unless I can find him, he is liable to get clean away with murder.”
“He got away from you?” inquired Holmes.
Lestrade flushed. “He did,” he admitted reluctantly.
“May I ask how?”
“He knocked me down and ran. He wouldn’t have managed it had it not been for this wretched cold, but the fact remains that he took the advantage, and by the time I had got my breath back to shout for help, he had stolen a bicycle and was away.”
“You were alone with him?”
“No, but the imbecile constable with me was too busy checking to see if I was hurt to chase after him immediately. We managed to track the bicycle, but Miller has disappeared as if into thin air.” Lestrade shrugged helplessly. “If I cannot find him, my name will be mud at Scotland Yard, Mr. Holmes.”
“And so you hope that I will be able to aid you in unravelling the question of his disappearance,” stated Holmes. “It is no doubt simple enough. The villain has a friend who is willing to hide him for a time, and you have not yet found the friend. The case hardly appears worthy of my methods. It seems, after all, that you are more in need of Dr. Watson’s excellent professional advice than my own.” He paused as if to consider. “However, that being so, I may stretch a point. It is possible that it will enliven a few hours of my existence.”
Lestrade, who had been looking singularly downcast, raised his head at this pronouncement.
“On one condition,” continued Holmes.
“Which is?”
“That you do as Watson has suggested. Go home and leave me to find Miller by my own devices.”
Lestrade blinked. “But...” he began.
“Those are my terms,” Holmes stated. “Would you not agree that it is sound advice, Watson?”
“Undoubtedly,” I replied. “You most certainly should not be chasing about London in your present state, Lestrade.”
“That’s as may be, Dr. Watson, but I have a job to do.”
“And you will not do it any better should you give yourself pneumonia,” pronounced Holmes dismissively. “No, it will not do. You have come here to ask my help in this matter, and I have promised to give it. Very well, then. You must trust me to bring the matter to a successful conclusion.” He got to his feet and walked across to the window. “I see the weather has cleared slightly. I suggest you use the opport
unity to take yourself home without a further soaking. No doubt you can give me the address of the constable who was present at Miller’s arrest before you go? Thank you.” Holmes waited while Lestrade scribbled down the constable’s name and address. “Capital. Good day, Lestrade. Do try not to dawdle on the way home. It is a cold day, and I am sure you would be a considerable loss to Scotland Yard should you fail to recover from your present affliction.”
Lestrade rubbed his eyes at this pronouncement, his expression indicating that he was unsure of whether the bestowing of a compliment by Sherlock Holmes was merely a delusion caused by high fever; but he ceased to argue upon the point.
“Thank you, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson. I hope I shall hear from you soon, then,” he said dazedly, allowing Holmes to help him into his still damp coat and taking his hat from the peg.
“Undoubtedly you shall,” agreed Holmes. Closing the door upon our departing companion, he threw himself back into his chair and reached for his pipe. “What do you make of it, Watson?” he asked me.
“I do not like sending him off like that. He is in for a bad case of influenza, if nothing worse, and that is a serious matter.”
“Then let us hope he has not made us a present of his germs, for we may yet need all our faculties about us. I trust you will accompany me today?”
“Of course, if you wish me to.”
“Excellent! Then when I have finished this pipe, let us proceed to the home of the unfortunate Constable Meadows, who has so incurred Lestrade’s wrath, and see what he has to tell us.”
The neighbourhood in which the constable’s address was to be found proved to be a relatively poor one, but well-kept. As we approached Meadows’ house, I observed the scrupulously clean doorstep and polished windows.
“I see Mrs. Meadows takes some pains with the housekeeping,” remarked Holmes, knocking upon the door. “Let us hope the constable is as meticulous in his work, for the more information we can gain from him the better.” He touched his hat as a young man in blue serge trousers and shirt-sleeves opened the door to us. “Good morning. May I presume I am speaking to Constable Meadows?”
The officer nodded in bewildered surprise, seemingly uncertain how to proceed. He gathered his wits together soon enough, however, and answered,
“Yes, sir. But - forgive me - are you not Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”
“I am indeed,” answered Holmes, obviously gratified by Meadows’ glance of awe. “And this is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson.”
“Doctor,” Meadows smiled a greeting at me, “Mr. Holmes. Won’t you come in?” We followed him into a small kitchen which, though sparsely furnished, was as thoroughly scrubbed as the outside of the building had been. A young woman stood working at the stove, while a curly-headed child of two or thereabouts clutched at her skirts as we entered. “Annie, this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson come to visit us,” explained Meadows, not without a degree of pride. “Gentlemen, my wife. And my daughter,” he added, lifting the child into his arms. She nestled against his shoulder, surveying us gravely. “But, please, won’t you sit down?”
“Thank you,” said Holmes, as we seated ourselves at the kitchen table.
“Would you like some tea, gentlemen?” inquired Mrs. Meadows.
“That’s very kind of you,” I began.
“But not necessary, thank you, Mrs. Meadows,” interrupted Holmes. “I am afraid it is a matter of business with your husband which has brought us here, and I should like to get it cleared up without delay.”
“Of course, Mr. Holmes. I will leave you alone. Come along, Lizzie. You can see Dad afterwards.” Mrs. Meadows held out her hand to the small girl, who slid out of her father’s arms obediently enough, and followed her mother from the room.
“What is it you wished to see me about, Mr. Holmes?” inquired Meadows, seating himself at the table opposite us.
“The Evans murder case,” said my friend. The colour rose immediately to the young constable’s face, but Holmes affected to take no notice. “You may speak to us quite freely. It was Inspector Lestrade who recommended I come to you.”
The embarrassment written on Meadows’ face was plain, but he answered readily enough,
“I will tell you all I can, sir.”
“Capital! Then begin with the arrest of Miller, if you will.”
“Well, it seemed a simple enough matter to begin with, sir. Patterson and Macdonald and myself went along with Inspector Lestrade to the man’s lodging house, and when we got there, he sent the other two to keep watch at the back while we went in the front way. Miller was still in his room, packing his things. It struck me as a stupid thing to be doing, sir, for he must have known we would be on to him sharp enough.”
“Indeed,” said Holmes. “There was no other reason for him to return to his lodgings that you know of?”
“No, sir. I suppose he might have had something there he couldn’t do without, but what, I can’t imagine.”
“You did not look?”
“No, sir.”
“A pity. Never mind. Go on.”
“Well, Mr. Lestrade told Miller he was under arrest for the murder of Mr. Evans, and Miller just stood there, staring sort of wild-eyed, like, but quiet enough. He even took the handcuffs without any fuss. I went to the window - it was an upstairs room, sir, at the back of the house - to call out to the others that they needn’t stay there and to come in and give us a hand getting him back to the station, and it was as I was leaning out I heard an almighty thud behind me. I turned round quick, and there was Miller disappearing out of the door and the Inspector lying flat on the floor.”
“And it did not occur to you to chase after Miller?” queried Holmes.
“I didn’t know what to do, sir. I suppose I ought to have done, but perhaps I thought he would meet Patterson and Macdonald coming the other way, if I thought about it at all. I was frightened Mr. Lestrade was hurt, him not getting up straight away, and... well, it was different, somehow, with it being one of us, sir,” explained Meadows, fixing my friend with an earnest, worried gaze.
“I am sure your concern does you credit,” I hastened to reassure him. Meadows relaxed slightly, but looked faintly rueful.
“I don’t know that Mr. Lestrade thought so, sir,” he said. “He threatened to have me posted to the worst beat he could think of the moment he had time to do the paperwork.”
Holmes gave a bark of laughter. “You may find he has calmed down by the time that happens,” he suggested. “But go on. I take it your colleagues failed to catch Miller in his flight from the house.”
“He ran out the front while they were coming in the back, sir. By then I’d got my whistle out, so they came running up the stairs to see what had happened.”
“In short, the entire affair was a shambles,” snorted Holmes. “I presume at least one of you then took it upon yourselves to chase after Miller?”
“We all did, sir. Mr. Lestrade was back on his feet by then, so he led the way, but of course there was no sign of Miller anywhere. Macdonald had just been sent back in to the house to check that he wasn’t still hiding inside when we were joined by Constable Hughes, who has the beat just along from that street. He told us our man had just stolen a bicycle from outside a tobacconist’s shop and ridden off.” Meadows chewed absent-mindedly at the edge of his moustache, frowning in thought. “What I can’t understand is how he did it.”
“It was surely easy enough to take the cycle if no one was watching,” I interjected.
“Oh, yes, Dr. Watson. But Miller had his hands cuffed behind his back. How could he ever have put the thing upright and ridden off?”
“How indeed?” echoed Holmes, his eyes alight with curiosity. “Did Hughes see the bicycle being taken?”
“No. It was reported to him by the owner, who had caught a glimpse of Miller riding away, but had bee
n too slow to catch him. Then when he heard my whistle he came to help, and realised, once he’d heard the job we were on, that the thief and Miller were one and the same. We trailed the bicycle. From the point where the owner had lost sight of it, Miller had ridden it through some muck in the street, and we were able to follow the tyre prints as a result. The bicycle we found abandoned outside a warehouse near the river, but of Miller there was no sign.”
“He would have had a good start on your party, if he was riding a bicycle and you were on foot,” I pointed out.
“That is true; he had plenty of time to hide. He could not have carried on much further without being noticed, not with the derbies on. He could hardly have been more obvious.”
“Perhaps so,” agreed Holmes, although there was something in his manner which suggested to me that he was not entirely convinced by Meadows’ statement.
“But we carried out a most thorough search,” Meadows insisted.
“I am sure you did,” said Holmes. “Which suggests to me that you either missed something or, more likely, that there was nothing there for you to find.”
“We found the bicycle.”
“I have no doubt you were meant to. Thank you, Constable Meadows. Your information has been most illuminating. We will take up no more of your valuable time.” Saying this, Holmes rose from the table and prepared to leave. The discomfited constable showed us to the door.
“I hope you have better luck than we did, Mr. Holmes,” said he, as he wished us good-bye.
“I am sure we will,” replied Holmes. “In the meantime, Meadows, I will give you some advice. Next time you are called to the scene of a crime, do not confine yourself to looking for what you expect to see.”
With that, we left the young constable staring after us open-mouthed as we made our way back to the main thoroughfares of the city.
“It seems this case has its peculiar points after all, Holmes,” I suggested, when we had safely hailed a cab and climbed aboard.