by David Bagchi
Chapter Five
The problem of male clothing—The proper nourishment of the inner man—Harris revealed as a snail—The impudence of Wiggins’s boys—The London cab not bound by laws of physics—On the importance of parents’ being truthful with their children
We retired that night, filled with delicious anticipation of the adventure to come. Our plans for the morrow were complete. After breakfast, George would go to St John’s Wood, there to find the house of our beautiful client, and to establish himself as the last line of defence against the enemy. He would be, as it were, the goalkeeper. But to Harris and me fell the more responsible task of centre-backs. We it would be who would seek out and run down our enemy. By our watchfulness in defence, by our fleet-footedness in interception, by our ruthlessness in the tackle, and by our creative flair once the initiative was ours, we would turn defence into attack with a speed and panache that would leave our opponents reeling.
But first there was the problem of what to wear.
For fashionable Maidenhead, I should need my best boating costume. I could be sure that no-one would so much as speak to me, let alone consent to be interrogated as to the movement of suspicious boaters, unless I were dressed like a river swell—the sort that goes nowhere near the water except to be photographed. So I got out my boating set and laid it out carefully on the bed. I knew from experience that careful preparation in the laying-out of one’s things in the correct order is the surest guarantee of swift and efficient packing.
But Maidenhead was not my initial destination. Pangbourne was. And to insinuate myself among the honest riparian workers there my boating costume would be more hindrance than help. It would mark me out as a fancy-dress man, not to be taken seriously; as one to whom work—real manly work like fishing, chandlering, lock-keeping, weir-maintenance, and driving notices into the riverbed which say ‘Keep Out’ and ‘Private’—is alien. No—for that phase of my investigation I should need my fishing clothes and my fishing gear. These too I laid out carefully on the bed.
Neither of these costumes, it occurred to me, would do for travelling on the fast train to Reading, or even for going round the hotels and guest houses. One set was too theatrical, the other too workmanlike. And so I got out my travelling clothes and laid them carefully out on the bed with the others.
Then came the question of how long we would be away and how many shirts and sets of undergarments I should need. We did not know when we could return to our lodgings, so it was best to err on the side of over-provision. All these I set out on the bed with my now customary care. Also, it being July, the weather on the river was bound to be changeable. Both winter warms and waterproofs would be needed, and these too were now laid out on the bed.
I could no longer see the bed.
In retrospect, perhaps I had been too unselective, and perhaps some reconsideration of my travelling wardrobe was indicated. But, in spite of my growing weariness—it had been a long and eventful day—I felt a more urgent need now pressing upon my consciousness. For what Thames-man worth his salt would venture forth without reserves of sustenance? Not, of course, for the base purpose of satisfying the mere appetite of our stomachs. Far from it! Our greatest weapon in the coming battle would be our brains. Our enemy had already shown himself to be both resourceful and cunning, and to overcome him our grey matter would have to be in pretty much tip-top condition. The mind cannot work long at that level of intensity without food. I therefore resolved to go down to the pantry and select a few morsels—the barest minimum that would not add greatly to my burden but which would provide the exact nourishment my brain would need. But as I have often been told that my cranium is significantly larger than other men’s, a sign surely of a larger than average brain, it would be foolish to stint on this aspect of my preparations. And so, when the house fell quiet, I left my rooms and descended stealthily to the kitchen.
Luckily, the pantry was equipped with just the resources I needed. My eye was first caught by a large pork pie, which I bagged immediately. Alongside this was a meat pie, which surely no-one would miss. Ha! And there was one of Mrs Hudson’s large fruit pies—my brain never felt more refreshed and ready to take on the world than when I had just eaten a slice or two of a Mrs Hudson special. For a moment it did occur to me to take a knife to these items and remove just what I needed and no more. But I quickly decided, and surely rightly, that they would be far easier to transport in their entire state: they would be less messy (especially the fruit pie), and keep their freshness longer. Adding a few other necessaries on my way out—a smaller pork pie in case the first were insufficient, a second fruit pie, a few bottles of beer, some fresh fruit, and a tin of pineapple, to which I am especially partial—I returned to my rooms with the stealth with which I left. Harris could bring his own food, I thought uncharitably.
It had been a very long day, and it was now well into the night. We would need to rise before dawn to get to Pangbourne and Goring as early as possible, and sleep was of the highest priority. On reaching my bedroom, weighed down by tiredness, I dragged myself to the bed, swept the clutter of clothes straight on to the floor, fell onto the pillow and was instantly asleep.
* * *
Thursday 13 June
The following dawn found us shivering on the pavement outside Mrs Hudson’s. Harris went off to get a cab, leaving me with the baggage. There seemed to be somehow far too much of it, considering that it was just two of us going away overnight. Unlike me, Harris does not know the meaning of travelling light. He is of the snail mentality, which is to say that he is truly happy only if he can bring his entire household, contents and all, with him. I, on the other hand, am of the avian persuasion: all I need is myself, and I am ready to fly. What care I for clothing or for food? Such trifles can be ignored. Virtue is the proper clothing of man, and honesty his meat and drink. This is something that Harris will never learn.
Harris’s baggage taking up almost the full width of the pavement, and a good deal of the frontage of the house, it was not long before it had attracted a small crowd. Chief among them was a group of street arabs whom I had seen many times in Mrs Hudson’s house, running up and down the stairs to the First Floor Front, which we now knew to be Holmes’s rooms. It seemed that he employed them on detective errands from time to time, and they would often pay speculative visits to Baker Street on the off-chance of employment. Today, unfortunately, was one such day. Their leader was a boy called Wiggins, who was never to be seen but mounted upon some bicycle he had managed to obtain. Today it was a velocipede.
‘What is it, mate? You openin’ up an old clothes’ stall on the pavement? You’ll ’ave the rozzers on to ya if you do!’ called out one of Wiggins’s boys.
‘Looks more like a food shop,’ another shouted. ‘Have you seen the size of that pork pie? It would feed our lot for a month.’
‘Nah, can’t you see ’e’s off on an hexpedition? Going to find the source of the Hamazon I should think, and then visit the Niagara Falls on ’is way ’ome—why else would he want waterproofs in July?’ Wiggins himself added, to general amusement.
I stood in martyred silence, wishing that Harris would hurry back with the cab. When he did, the cabman offered to take only half of the baggage, as he feared for the integrity of his axle if he took more. It turned out, however, that the axle’s load-bearing capacity was, by some quirk of mechanical engineering unique to the London hansom cab, directly proportional to the size of the tip offered. And so I, Harris, and all Harris’s luggage, set off for Paddington Station.
* * *
Having found three porters willing to carry our cases to the concourse and having bought our tickets, Harris and I took a vacant bench from where we could see the departure notices and the poor members of the public who were taken in by them.
‘Oh, look, Harry,’ said one woman. ‘Here’s the train for Bristol. Platform Three. It’s leaving in ten minutes. Let’s get on.’
Harris and I exchanged glances. Th
e words, ‘What a sad, deluded pair they are’ did not need to be uttered.
A few seconds later a family group came along. ‘Now listen carefully, children. Your Papa has just gone to buy the tickets, and we’ll be leaving for Paignton in half-an-hour. So be sure you all stay together and no-one is to wander off. Do you hear me?’
The poor tribe, we thought to ourselves: how very irresponsible for a mother to bring up her children to believe in such stories.
In the meantime our attention had been drawn to a likely-looking engine on Platform Six. There was no destination displayed, but the engine looked healthy and willing, and we thought it might be persuaded to take us to Reading, if treated gently and with respect. We told the porters to stand by with our cases and await our instructions, but on no account to come near the train until we signalled. Then we sauntered down the platform towards the pulling engine with no more apparent purpose than if we were taking the air on Margate promenade.
‘That is a fine-looking engine,’ I called up to the driver. ‘Do you suppose it might want to go for a run today?’
‘Well, that I don’t rightly know, sir,’ replied the driver, intending like me to be overheard. ‘He had a run only yesterday, as far as Oxford and back, so I don’t suppose he’ll be interested in going out again this week. Look at the pressure-gauge: there’s hardly enough steam there to blow the whistle, let alone pull all these carriages. Perhaps if you and the other gentleman were to come back this time next week, he might be more in the mood.’
‘That is a shame,’ said Harris. ‘Such a fine-looking engine too. I felt sure that a handsome specimen like this one would be able to go as far as, say, Reading, at high speed. But then you can’t always tell by appearances, can you? Perhaps he was the runt of the litter and doesn’t have the stamina of his brothers and sisters. He is obviously more suited to local work only, and shunting empty wagons.’
All the time Harris was speaking, the engine’s boiler was stirring into life.
‘That’s often the case,’ I shouted over the increasing din. ‘Now I can see him more closely, though, it is obvious that he lacks the structural strength and boiler capacity of a real engine. He could never pull that many carriages.’ At this point the engine’s whistle blew hard. The driver winked at us and signalled the fireman to start loading the furnace. ‘And certainly not as far as Reading—let’s face it, he’s no Express, is he?’ We both laughed and shook our heads at the very notion.
The whistle blew again and the fireman continued shovelling. The driver checked the pressure-gauge and whispered conspiratorially to us. ‘I’d get on board quickly, gentlemen. I reckon he’s about ready to leave now.’
We beckoned the porters to come at once, and the last parcel was thrust through a window just as the train was moving off. In the distance, we could see the couple for Bristol and the family for Paignton walk away from the departure boards, dejected looking.
And that is how Harris and I persuaded the stopping service to Gerrard’s Cross to become the Plymouth Express.
Chapter Six
George rises early—converses at length with a total stranger—earns seven years’ bad luck—encounters a vision of loveliness and has an unworthy thought—commits arson—ponders much upon tricky questions
Almost immediately after our departure from Paddington—or within a couple of hours, at most—George began to stir from his bed. Soon—or within a couple more hours, at most—he was on his way to St John’s Wood.
It appears that Serpentine Avenue was named, not after the lake, but on account of its meandering course. One end of the street cannot be seen from the other, and the middle stretch is quite invisible to both ends. George turned into it and almost immediately spotted someone coming the other way.
‘Briony Lodge?’ asked George.
‘Round the bend on your left, mate.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Don’t mention it. Mind you, looks like a bit of a ruck kicking off round there.’
‘Oh… righto.’
There really is no stopping George on a subject, once he has got started.
Soon he was at the place indicated by the stranger, where a singular sight greeted him. For in this quiet suburban street, which would normally be deserted at this—or any other—time of day, a veritable crowd had gathered: several young swells, a group of roughs, two guardsmen and a nurse, an itinerant knife-sharpener, and a non-conformist clergyman. A fracas had indeed broken out—something to do with a lady’s carriage that had just arrived at the house—and the clergyman was remonstrating with the roughs. George saw the danger and, fearless of any harm to himself, waded in. That is George in a nutshell (though the notion of squeezing George, who weighs about twelve stone, into a nutshell is difficult to grasp). Going up to the rough who had the clergyman by his lapels, George wound himself up to strike the hardest blow he had ever landed upon another man. Sadly, his aim was not equal to his vast strength: he laid the clergyman out cold on the pavement. The lady—not Miss Lodge—who had just arrived stood on the steps of her villa and called out, ‘Oi there—how’s the old cove?’ (Or something to that effect: bear in mind that I was told of these events in George’s words).
Some people in the crowd cried out that the poor man was dead. George took this hard. He had heard somewhere that killing a clergyman, even accidentally, brought seven years’ bad luck. But then George saw the poor man’s eyes flicker open, so he cried out, ‘No—he’s alive. Reckon he’s none too chipper, though.’
‘Bring him in here, and someone send for a doctor,’ called out the lady.
George picked up the cleric and started for the villa’s front door. But as he passed the gatepost he saw something that made his blood run cold. Inscribed into the stone, in clear roman letters, were two words: ‘Briony Lodge’. He realized instantly that this was the name of the villa, not of its inhabitant. He was confused; but fate had handed him a passport, in the unlikely form of an insensate clergyman, into the villa where his myriad of questions might perhaps be answered.
The butler showed George and his burden into the sitting room, where the lady was waiting, and for the first time George could take in the vision of loveliness that stood, wringing her hands in anxious care, before him. Where Miss Lodge was pretty in a provincial way, the mistress of this house was stunning in every way. Hers was a face that a man might die for, said George, who is not usually given to poetic expression of any sort. Apart from singing comic songs, of course.
‘Put him here on the sofa,’ she said. ‘It is very comfortable.’
George did so, and observed the exquisite kindliness with which she attended to the elderly gentleman. The ignoble thought stirred in his breast, that it would be worth a man’s getting knocked down outside this lady’s house a few times, if it meant being cared for by such an angelic creature. At length she stood and drew herself up to her full, majestic height. She addressed George directly.
‘You have been very kind, sir, in helping this poor man. I wonder—may I presume upon your kindness for a few moments longer? I need to give instructions to my servants and get a few things to help this minister to be more comfortable. More importantly, I want to check for myself that a proper medical man has been sent for. If not, I shall summon my own physician. Would you kindly wait here until I return to relieve you? Stay with our guest and reassure him, if he asks, that he is safe and among friends. Would you do that for me? My name, by the way, is Irene Adler—or rather Mrs Godfrey Norton, as I am now.’
Her voice had the deep, seductive quality of a contralto. Her modulation was finer than that of any trained actress. By her word alone, she had the power to send any man to face certain death, if that were her command. But, coming as it did from those lips, that face—George had no say in the matter. He could but mutter his own name in return and nod his assent.
Left alone, George first checked that the recumbent incumbent was still in the land of the living. He was, and what is more a bea
tific smile seemed to play upon his lips, as if he were thinking pleasant thoughts. George calculated that he would probably suffer no more than two or three years’ bad luck for this, or there was no justice in the world. Less, if the clergyman made a full recovery.
More settled in his mind, he decided to see what entertainment the rest of the sitting room could offer him. Decanters there were none. But he noticed a gas lighter, and decided to smoke one of his obnoxious cheroots while waiting for the lady of the house to return, and while he put his mind—what there was of it—to the mystery of Briony Lodge. First, is she a woman or a house? She claimed to be a woman, but he had only her word for that. On the other hand, the gatepost of this villa provided solid proof that Briony Lodge, Serpentine Avenue, was a house, and a substantial one at that. The girl was lying! Secondly, for what purpose had she lied? He could not tell, but he knew only too well the result: her lie had sent his friends J. and Harris to the banks of the Thames, to face who knew what danger. Thirdly, what did the mysterious policemen signify? Perhaps nothing but to lend credence, and a vague sense of peril and urgency, to her story.
To dispel, as far as possible, the foul stench of the cheroot (it must be remembered that he was smoking in another’s house without permission, and that guilt can stir, from time to time, even in the breast of an insensitive oaf like George), he opened the long windows that gave out onto the front lawn. While doing so, he inadvertently caught the curtain with the lit end of his diabolical cigar, and soon the smoke was rising cheerfully into the sitting-room. George, already feeling guilty, was worried that he might be blamed for burning down the well-set suburban villa, and decided to make his move, and escape while he could. He felt bad about leaving the semi-conscious clergyman to burn to death—which just shows that even George has his good points—and so, before leaving via the same window, he called out in a voice loud enough to wake the dead, ‘Fire! Fire!’. As he left, he heard the assembled crowd outside return the shout. Safe in the knowledge that the alarm had been raised, he made his way surreptitiously round the back of the house, and left the scene via Serpentine Mews. His one thought was to return to Baker Street and alert his comrades to the new and surprising turn that events had taken.