by David Marcum
Miss Darrow finally forced a command past Holmes’s ebullient chatter. “Stop at once, Doctor Watson! Mr. Holmes!”
We had no choice but to obey. We stood on the stairs, adopting expressions of surprised enquiry.
“My niece is very ill,” Miss Darrow admonished us severely, “She cannot be disturbed.”
“I assure you, I mean only to do her good,” I said.
“You will do the most good to her if you leave at once,” she retorted gruffly.
Holmes and I left at once, of course. I was chagrined and hoped that Holmes had a reasonable explanation for our boorish conduct. As we collected our hats and coats at the door, he turned to Mrs. Rees. Her reproachful look failed to deter him.
“Is Miss Garner’s illness serious?”
“Serious enough,” said Mrs. Rees darkly, “She’s been in bed these five days and hardly stirred. Can’t keep much down, poor thing. She’s wasting away, and there wasn’t much of her to begin with.”
“If you find her in urgent need of a doctor, don’t hesitate to fetch Doctor Watson, day or night.”
Mrs. Rees’s manner softened. “You’re very kind, Mr. Holmes, Doctor Watson, and I’m sure you only mean well. If she needs a doctor and her own is too long coming, I’ll come for you myself.”
“Excellent woman,” said Holmes.
“You noticed the scent of nutmeg and vinegar in the upstairs hall,” he said to me as we departed.
“Kendal Black Drop,” I confirmed, having recognised the scent of the laudanum preparation. “Rather a strong concoction for a child.”
On the street, Holmes turned out not to be done with his outrageous manners. It was as well that the inhabitants of Baker Street were used to his seemingly erratic behaviour, because when he stepped onto the railing around the area and clambered part way up the vine above it, the only person who reacted was a cheering barrow boy. Young Roley, one of our Baker Street Irregulars, obviously thought it larkish. Holmes leapt nimbly back to earth and saluted him.
“What entertainments do the Irregulars seek this month, Roley? Anything with acrobats?”
Roley gave the question due consideration. “There’s a freak show at the Egyptian ’all wot costs a half-shillin’, Mr. ’Olmes. I ’eard there woz Chinese tumblers, but they gone to Brighton las’ week. It’s got mermaids, though, an’ a two headed cow, an’ a man-ape wot’s orange an’ talks Indian, they say, an’ tiny people like that P.T. Barnum’s General Tom Thumb, wot sing an’ dance, only Wiggins reckons they’s borin’. But they do a chariot race wiv camels an’ all, an’ I’d give my best toof to see it.” Roley’s eyes were huge with the imagined wonder of it.
Holmes dropped a fistful of shillings into the boy’s hand. “Keep your tooth, Roley, and gather up the boys. I need to know if there are any acrobats at the Egyptian Hall or elsewhere. Look, too, for trained monkeys, and see what you can find out about the orange ape as well.”
Roley grinned, pocketed the shillings, and ran off with his empty barrow to fetch Wiggins and the crew.
“You’ve seen signs of the intruders?” I asked.
“I’ve seen several peculiar things,” Holmes replied.
“Is the dog substitution part of a burglary ring, do you think? They replace the family dog so that they can gain entrance without raising the alarm?”
“A very exacting scheme, if so, Watson. They would be limiting themselves to burgling only houses that contain white Aberdeen Terriers.”
Holmes withdrew after that, and wouldn’t speak another word on the subject all evening. When I pressed him on the point he cried, “Facts, Watson, facts before theories!”
Mrs. Rees came by to gossip at our step the next morning. Holmes saw her and Charlie from our window and immediately went down with a leftover breakfast kipper. Charlie sniffed at the peace offering suspiciously before accepting it tamely from his fingers.
“How is the dog’s temperament this morning?” Holmes asked.
“He was in a right mood when we set out,” said Mrs. Rees, “But here we come back from the park and he’s a sweetheart again.” She looked approvingly down at the dog while he crunched at the kipper.
“And how is Miss Garner’s health today?”
“Still terribly ill,” said Mrs. Rees, “Poor little thing.”
“How old is the child?” I asked.
“Oh, she’s not a child,” Mrs. Hudson interjected, “She’s a grown woman.”
“Not much grown,” countered Mrs. Rees.
“Exceedingly petite,” Mrs. Hudson allowed, “But a woman. In a week she’ll be twenty-five and inheritor of her father’s estate, you told me.”
This information acted as an electric current on Holmes. He stood tall and tense, his whole body thrumming with energy like an English Pointer poised in the chase.
“Tell me quickly, Mrs. Rees: How did Miss Garner come to live with you?”
His urgency made an impression on her. “Her parents were killed in a carriage accident in Watford only four weeks ago. Miss Darrow is her mother’s sister and her only living relative, so Nancy Garner came to us. It was such a surprise. I’ve been with Miss Darrow eight years, and she never mentioned either sister or niece.”
“A significant family rift, then?”
“I gather that Miss Darrow didn’t approve of her sister’s match. When she got the news of Mr. and Mrs. Garner’s death, Miss Darrow only said that she was amazed they hadn’t met a worse end sooner. Then the girl arrived, and she was tiny. Four-and-a-half feet at most, and so delicate, like her aunt only smaller. But Mrs. Hudson’s right. Miss Nancy’s no child. She knew at once she wasn’t welcome, and said straight that soon as her birthday came along in a few more weeks, she’d come into her inheritance and be off to live independently, so Miss Darrow needn’t worry she’d be a burden for long.”
“What is the nature of her inheritance?”
“That I don’t know, but before she took ill, Miss Nancy promised her aunt that she’d be compensated for her pains, and needn’t think that because of her family’s trade she was poor. ‘My father was a good man and a good manager, and my poor mother had her portion from Grandmother Darrow’s estate too.’ Miss Darrow was very offended at that, saying that the grandmother’s settlement rightly belonged to her, Mrs. Darrow’s daughter, and not Miss Nancy. They had such a row.”
“And it was soon after that Miss Garner fell ill?”
“A few days later. I suppose the grief and then strife with her only aunt took their toll. She’s very petite, and it’s a lot for a small body to bear.”
“What was her family’s trade?”
“I couldn’t tell you,” said Mrs. Rees regretfully, “And now, Miss Nancy’s too ill to speak of it, and Miss Darrow thinks it too shameful to mention.”
“Well, never mind. I have other avenues of inquiry.”
“But Miss Darrow is taking good care of Miss Nancy now. I think she feels badly that they fought, because she’s been very attentive since. She made the soup herself, and takes up Miss Nancy’s medicine morning and night.”
“I’m sure she does,” muttered Holmes, but before he could remark further, Mrs. Rees exclaimed at the lateness of the hour and bustled home with the well-kippered Charlie.
“I am not easy, Watson,” he told me, “The ruse with the dog isn’t as clear as I’d surmised, and I fear Miss Darrow’s tender ministrations are far from kindly meant.”
His sense of foreboding infected me too, and I brooded over the meaning of it all. Holmes spent the day looking through the papers, flinging pages about him as he searched for some sign that would aid him. He found a small column on the accident in Watford that had claimed the lives of the Garners. ‘Mr. Garner, who managed a performing troupe and was known professionally as The Emperor of Lilliput, and his wife, are survived by their daug
hter, Miss Nancy Garner’.
“Which tells me almost nothing,” Holmes snarled, hurling the paper into the fireplace.
Mrs. Hudson knocked later in the day to inform us curtly that a barrow boy had a message for Mr. Holmes. With an impatient cry, Holmes dashed out the door. He returned a short while later almost as agitated as when he had left.
“Roley reports that the show at the Egyptian Hall isn’t as good as advertised. Half the troupe has left for Brighton, leaving only the singing little people, a few jugglers, a pack of dancing dogs that do tricks, and a poorly constructed dead mermaid made of a stuffed fish and a shaven, badly taxidermied cat. And who had been the manager, and one of the star turns, but the late Emperor of Lilliput, Mr. Garner? The Emperor of Lilliput, I learned from the paper, has a house in London as part of his estate, and several thriving investments. The troupe is doing its best to get by until the manager’s heir comes of age to inherit, pay their wages, and continue with the management of their affairs.”
“Miss Garner!”
“I should join the troupe as a travelling fool, Watson. I had supposed initially the changing of the dogs was designed to deprive Miss Darrow of wealth or important papers, but their quarry is Miss Garner herself.” He gestured that I should join him and we made rapidly for the door.
“They mean to kidnap the girl?”
“The correct word, Watson, is ‘rescue’.”
We burst out the door, but the street was already in uproar, filled with animal and human voices lifted in alarm and fury.
A white Aberdeen Terrier hurtled towards the open door of 189 Baker Street, snarling ferociously, echoed by a shrill shriek of outrage from within the house. Outside, horses whinnied their protest at the racket. Mingled with all of this noise, a piping voice cried out, “Run, Nancy!”
Two children ran from Miss Darrow’s home, dodging the bared teeth of the terrier. A moment later another white dog scooted from the house and entered the fray, bravely intervening between the first snapping animal and the children.
The boy drew the stumbling girl towards a private carriage that stood in the road, the vehicle jouncing awkwardly from the agitated motion of the anxious pair of greys in the harness. The driver called to the horses in Italian, and the large, muscular woman who stood in front of the house cast desperate looks from the jostling carriage to the running children.
“Maggie, help her!” cried the boy. The little girl reached towards the large woman, who caught her up at once and helped her into the carriage, then leapt into it after her.
Now I was near enough to see that the children were nothing of the kind. The man who looked like a boy had turned to whistle a three-note signal to the dogs, then scrambled up into the vehicle in the wake of the petite Nancy Garner and the large Maggie.
With a yelp, one of the white terriers broke free and tore after the departing carriage. Maggie the giantess leaned out of the window, reached down, and the terrier leapt into her big hands. She scooped him inside, the Italian shouted at the horses, and they were off. The remaining terrier barked after the escapees and then ran into the Darrow home, just as we arrived at the threshold.
Bedlam continued to emanate from 189 Baker Street as we ran through into the hall. We continued up the stairs, following the sound of growling, Miss Darrow shrieking, “Stop them, you stupid woman!” and Mrs. Rees shouting back, “You wicked, wicked creature!”
At the top of the stairs we came upon them all. Miss Darrow’s tiny form was huddled on the stairs. Her face was flushed with as much pain as rage and she clutched at her left ankle. Her white Aberdeen terrier Charlie stood, threatening bloodshed in her defence, between her and the housekeeper, while Mrs. Rees wrung her apron in her hands in a fusion of fear and anger.
Miss Darrow turned her sharp eyes to Holmes. “Don’t be so useless! Go and fetch her back!”
“No, Miss Darrow,” he said with calm courtesy, “And you had best hope she doesn’t return at all.”
Her ankle, I saw, was beginning to swell. “You’ve been hurt. Let me see to...” I stepped towards her, only to be confronted with Charlie’s savage teeth.
“That ungrateful little thief pushed me down the stairs!” asserted Miss Darrow.
“She did not!” protested Mrs. Rees indignantly, “You tried to hit that little man with a candlestick and Nancy quite rightly took it off you. It’s your own wickedness that sent you falling down the stairs.”
Charlie barked and snarled, and it seemed that it was only wondering which of us to bite first that stayed him for the moment. Miss Darrow tried to rise, but her ankle wouldn’t support even her dainty weight. She sank back down with a moan, sending Charlie into a worse frenzy.
Holmes whipped off his coat, threw it over the dog, bundled up the creature and shoved dog and coat both through the open door at the top of the landing, whereupon he slammed the door shut. The interview proceeded to Charlie’s muffled protests.
The removal of the dog left me free to inspect Miss Darrow’s injury. With haughty dignity, she allowed me to probe the joint and tissues. “Sprained and possibly fractured,” I told her, “I’ll need to bind it.”
It transpired that the room Charlie was currently occupying was Miss Darrow’s chamber, so it became necessary for me to lift and carry the lady down to the parlour. Holmes went up to the attic room, while Mrs. Rees fetched bandages. I placed Miss Darrow gently on a chaise longue and carefully removed her boot to complete my diagnosis and treatment.
“You might need a little laudanum for the pain,” I said, “And I know for a fact you have Kendal Black Drop in the house.”
Miss Darrow’s hard expression foretold an attempted denial, but Mrs. Rees interrupted to say, “I’ll fetch some, Doctor Watson.”
I busied myself with tying off the bandage. Holmes rejoined us just as Mrs. Rees returned.
“It is Nancy Garner’s twenty-fifth birthday soon,” said Holmes.
All the fight left Miss Darrow in a heavy sigh. “Yes. She’ll have all that money and my mother’s jewels, now, and I’ll have nothing.”
“What other outcome did you expect? You surely didn’t think to keep her prisoner all her life?”
“Prisoner? No. No, I only meant to... to...” She pressed a delicate hand over her eyes. “I only meant to keep her quiet until I could work out what to do.”
Mrs. Rees handed me a spoon and the bottle of Kendal Black Drop, which I had smelled so strongly on the stairs yesterday. I helped Miss Darrow take a little. “The doses you administered to Miss Garner were dangerously strong,” I told her sternly, recorking the bottle.
“She wouldn’t take any more after the second dose,” said Miss Darrow bitterly, “I had to sneak it into her food, and bar the door to keep her in.”
“You told me she had a fever and was sleepwalking,” said Mrs. Rees angrily. “It’s lucky for Miss Nancy that her young man was able to knock that bar away from inside the room.”
“Ah, no,” Holmes corrected her, “That’s what the dog was for.”
Three pairs of eyes looked to him, and he smiled. “You were correct, Mrs. Rees, in saying that Charlie returned from his walks a different dog several times in the last week. I take it you let the animal run off his lead in the park?”
“He tugs and bullies about, otherwise,” she said, ignoring her mistress’s sour look. “He comes back when he’s called, though.”
“Well, on these occasions, one of Nancy Garner’s friends from the Lilliput Players was taking Charlie and sending back the much friendlier terrier for you to bring home. The substitute dog was one of the troupe of dogs that performs tricks with the Players. On a whistled command, the second dog would leap up and knock the bar from the door. I found several white hairs on the woodwork and scratches on the floor to support the theory.”
“I thought he wasn’t well,” said Miss Da
rrow, “Poor darling Charlie.” She glanced upwards, towards the upstairs room where her loyal if unpleasant dog was still howling.
“But how did the little man get into the house to help Miss Nancy?” asked Mrs. Rees, “I’d swear he didn’t come in by the door.”
“He didn’t,” Holmes said, “He came in through the skylight. That’s why he needed the dog as an accomplice.”
No matter our different interests in the case, we all sat attentive while Holmes explained the week’s events.
“The young man’s name is William Blackheath, known on the stage as The Prince of Lilliput. A review of the Lilliput Players in the Watford newspapers notes that one of little people performed some acrobatics with the Chinese tumblers, as well as singing and dancing in their own act. As soon the troupe learned Miss Garner was being denied her freedom, that valiant young man came to determine the situation for himself. I have no doubt, Miss Darrow, that you refused to allow him to speak to the lady.”
“Impertinent boy,” she said, “Son of a grocer. Worse than that fellow who married my sister.”
“Quite,” said Holmes coolly. “In any case, Mr. Blackheath, not to be dissuaded, discovered where Miss Garner was being held - I expect she simply waved to him from the attic window. Small but nimble, he climbed up the ivy - I could see where someone very light had climbed it before me, Watson. The attic window was sealed shut, however, as Miss Darrow already told us. It was a simple matter for Mr. Blackheath to climb onto the roof and speak to Miss Garner through the skylight.”
“Why didn’t he take Miss Nancy away with him right then?” asked Mrs. Rees.
“On that first visit, Mr. Blackheath learned that Miss Darrow had drugged her niece. Despite her condition, Miss Garner was able to warn her friend that her door was barred from the outside, though not locked.”
“We lost the key some years ago,” Mrs. Rees said, nodding, “Miss Darrow put the bar on it herself last week, when she said Miss Nancy was sleepwalking.” She shot another acid glare at Miss Darrow.