He lowered his gaze and looked off into space for a moment. “In all likelihood,” he added quietly.
The train rumbled into Paddington Station not long after. To their mutual surprise and Watson’s relief, they had no difficulties in finding a porter after all, and their wait at the cab stand was happily a brief one. They were back in their rooms in Baker Street within the hour, seated before a cheerful fire in their accustomed places, sharing a hot pot of Mrs. Hudson’s tea, which Watson insisted upon lacing liberally with rum.
“Of all of the countless nostrums that have proven to be totally worthless in preventing or curing a cold,” he proclaimed, “I find strong spirits to be utterly essential.”
Alerted by wire of their coming, Mrs. Hudson had prepared an early supper that did her proud, and to which they in turn rendered swift, unmerciful justice — not to mention what penalties they imposed upon a perfectly respectable bottle of Médoc. They retired to their beds early that cold, wet night, their stomachs too full for prudence or comfort, but their feelings of well-being complete.
When Watson awoke the next morning, he found that Holmes was already gone — “Gone with barely a gulp of coffee,” Mrs. Hudson reported disapprovingly. “‘E took ‘is egg, slipped it between two slices of toast, ‘nd popped it into the pocket of his ulster. ‘E was off before I could say ‘boo,’” she said. “Now, really!”
Watson, having his own long-neglected affairs to attend to, gave little thought to Holmes’s whereabouts for the remainder of the day. He spent the morning going through his mail and settling overdue accounts, while a good part of the afternoon was, as planned, devoted to compiling his notes of the Baskerville affair. He knew his memory could be faulty at times, so he was eager to jot down the particulars of the case while they were still fresh in his mind. Holmes was always after him for being cavalier with petty details, particularly in regard to dates and times, chiding him for playing fast and loose with reality and making him, Holmes, appear to be, as he put it, the most ingenious lawbreaker of all time: “If some of your accounts of my little problems are to be believed, Watson, I am not only capable of working minor miracles in the field of criminal detection, but have the capability of being in two places at one time, surely a violation of one of the most basic laws of nature. Is it possible I am more resourceful than even I imagined?”
Of course Holmes did not take into account the fact that he, Watson, was often required by his editor to purposely change not only names and places, but even dates and times and circumstances to avoid the possibility of irksome libel suits. A writer could get away with almost anything as long as he used discretion in resorting to the truth.66
His notes completed by midafternoon, Watson had more than enough time to make himself presentable for the evening, which was to be devoted to Miss Morstan. That, of course, had been uppermost on Watson’s mind throughout the day. It had been several weeks since he had seen her last, and he was as excited as a schoolboy at the prospect. A visit to his barber was required, and his best cutaway coat and striped trousers, suffering from the effects of being stuffed into a suitcase, were sorely in need of a sponging and pressing. Mrs. Hudson’s little slavey, who was clever with a flatiron if with little else, would see to that.
It was after midnight when Watson returned to 221B, the delights of the evening with dearest Mary fairly radiating from his eyes. Dinner at the Monico in Piccadilly was a decided success, and the show at the nearby Pavilion Music Hall most enjoyable, though Watson would be hard pressed to recall what he ate or saw if requested to do so. There was a spring to his step that had not been there for some time, and a rakish tilt to his topper that was decidedly out of character. Holmes still had not returned, which was probably just as well for Watson’s sake. It saved him from a caustic comment or two regarding the deleterious effects of love on an otherwise sensible middle-aged English gentleman. He went to bed without giving Holmes’s continued absence a second thought. After all, it was not an unusual occurrence: Holmes was often gone for days at a time when he was hot on the scent. He would no doubt appear at breakfast.
But he did not.
Watson was beginning to get anxious. A good deal of mail had arrived for Holmes during his absence, and several heavy stacks of newspapers, delivered by the newsagent the day before, stood by the door near the coat rack awaiting his perusal. Apparently he had arranged with the newsagent to collect them for him on a daily basis, so that he could get caught up on the criminal news and agony columns upon his return from Devon. Their unaccustomed presence and bulk stood as a constant reminder to Watson that Holmes had still not appeared, and as the morning wore on and turned to afternoon, his anxiety increased. He had just about made up his mind to go around to Scotland Yard to seek out Abberline in the hope that he would have some knowledge of Holmes’s whereabouts, when the jangle of the front door’s bellpull brought him up short. The heavy tread upon the stairs some moments later told him that it was not Holmes, who would have used his latchkey, in any case. Still, in his anxiety he rushed to the door. A large man in macintosh and derby appeared on the landing, a small parcel tucked beneath his arm. He was a policeman unmistakably.
“You must be Dr. Watson. M’ name is Halse, City Police. I got here as soon as I could.”
Watson, now totally alarmed and fearing the worst, turned pale. “Good Lord, man, what’s amiss? Is it Holmes?”
The policeman looked at him in surprise. “Why, I don’t know what you mean, sir. We received a telegram this morning from Mr. Holmes, if that’s what you mean. I was directed to meet him at this address. Is he not here, then?”
Before Watson could reply, the downstairs bell sounded again. Watson flung back the door and peered down the steep staircase as Mrs. Hudson, muttering to herself, emerged from her front room to answer it. It was Sergeant Thicke whose stocky figure appeared framed in the doorway this time. Watson did not wait for him to make his way up the stairs, but called down to him: “What’s the news, Sergeant? Have you heard anything of Holmes?”
Thicke, too, reacted in some surprise. “Wot? ‘E’s not ‘ere, then? Inspector H’Abberline received a telegram from ‘im not an ‘our ago, h’askin’ one of us ta meet ‘im ‘ere.”
“He’s been gone for days!” replied Watson excitedly. “I was on the verge of coming round to you people in the hope you would know of his whereabouts.”
“Waal, that’s a funny one, I should say,” said Thicke, arriving at the top of the stairs. “Hullo, Halse, you ‘ere too?”
The two police officers greeted each other with gruff cordiality, obviously having known each other for some time despite their belonging to different departments. They then turned back to Watson. “Gone for days, ye say?” said Thicke. “The wire we received was posted just this morning.”
“Ours too,” Halse joined in. “I expect he’ll turn up shortly. He wouldn’t of asked us to be here otherwise.”
The slamming of the downstairs door caused their heads to turn in unison. “There. What did I tell you. I expect that’s him now.”
Once again Watson rushed to the door leading to the stair landing, but before he even reached it he knew from the familiar sound of the footfall upon the stairs that it was indeed Holmes. He wrenched the door open.
“Holmes! Where the devil have you been?”
Tired and disheveled, his gaunt, pale cheeks sorely in need of a razor, Sherlock Holmes reached the landing and shot Watson an amused glance. “Do straighten your cravat, Watson,” he said, cocking an eyebrow. “Whatever would Miss Morstan think?”
Watson, angry at being made anxious but relieved that his friend was safe and well, had no choice but to stand there silently fuming as Holmes greeted their visitors.
“I trust I haven’t taken either one of you away from pressing duties,” said Holmes to the two police detectives as he removed his hat and ulster, “but unless I miss my guess, it will be well worth your while.” Then he spied Halse’s parcel sitting on the table, and his eyes lit up. W
ithout further explanation he made directly for it.
“These are her possessions, then? All of them?”
“All of ‘em,” replied Halse. “They was stored in the central property room and I checked the contents against the inventory we made the morning she was done in.”
Holmes tore open the parcel and began sorting through the objects that spilled out, spreading them on the table as he did so. Watson, curious, walked over and peered around his shoulder.
“Whatever is all this rubbish?” he asked.
It did indeed look like rubbish, an odd assortment of miscellany that could have been the dregs of any street corner dustbin: A few soiled handkerchiefs, a matchbox, an old table knife, some slivers of grimy soap, a comb, a mitten, a pair of broken spectacles...
Halse was the one who replied: “The worldly possessions of the late Catherine Eddowes, Doctor — the woman what was murdered in Mitre Square early on the morning of September thirtieth. Though why you would want to rummage through this lot again, Mr. Holmes, is beyond me. There’s nothing here of no interest, and that’s a fact.”
Holmes ignored him, continuing his inspection of the parcel’s contents with an intensity that was riveting to those who watched. He found what he was looking for after a few seconds and, his eyes shining with brightness, picked it out from among the other things and held it up to the light.
It was a man’s sleeve link, a common, ordinary cufflink. And it appeared to be a cheap one at that, made of some base metal that was coated with rust.
There was silence in the room for a moment. The two policemen exchanged glances. Thicke was the first to speak. “I’m not quite sure I understand, Mr. Holmes.”
Holmes smiled enigmatically, continuing to examine the object in his hand. He took it over to the window and submitted it to close scrutiny with his pocket lens.
“You will recall our conversation on the train a few days ago, Watson, when I made reference to something that was nagging at my brain? I knew there was a detail I had overlooked. Well, this was it.”
The others joined him by the window.
Halse was the first to comprehend. “You think it was the murderer’s?”
Holmes shot him a glance. “It would be a mistake to jump to conclusions, but one must ask what a man’s sleeve link was doing in the possession of a woman. I confess it is a question that should have occurred to me when I first examined the woman’s property shortly after her murder, and can ascribe my lapse only to either fatigue or gross stupidity. I was guilty of that which I habitually am fond of accusing you, Watson: Seeing without observing. Should I be so arrogant as to ever do so again, please remind me of this occasion.”
Watson smiled knowingly but said nothing.
Halse, frowning, shook his head. “I think you’re on a wrong track, Mr. Holmes. Let me remind you that it is not uncommon to find all manner of odd things on these women. They’re like magpies. They pick things up in their wanderings and stash them away, guarding them like the crown jewels. You’ll find them with the most useless, worthless items. Why, I even found one with a set of someone else’s false teeth in her pocket, would you believe?
Thicke, who had left their company and had seated himself comfortably in Holmes’s chair by the fireplace, laughed disparagingly. “Wrong track? He’s on the wrong railroad! Looky, Mr. Holmes, not only is Halse ryght in what ‘e sez ‘bout these lydies collecting anythin’ and everythin,’ but ‘e forgot to mention this particalar lydy woz even wearin’ a pair o’ man’s boots, if I recall correct.”
Halse nodded. “That’s quite right. I did forget.”
“I didn’t,” Holmes said quietly, unfazed by the arguments marshaled by the two policemen. He calmly continued examining the object in his fingers as if he hadn’t heard a word they spoke. “Do you happen to recall where on her person this was found, Halse?”
“No, I don’t. In one of the pockets of her apron as may be, or in her purse.”
“But you don’t know precisely.”
“No,” he admitted.
“Could it have been in the folds of her dress, or on the ground beside her?”
Halse spread his hands and shrugged. “I honestly don’t know, Mr. Holmes. I suppose it could have been.”
Holmes persisted. “Who would know? Who was it who gathered up these things and searched the body?”
Halse pulled at an earlobe and tried to think. “I don’t know that either, really. It might have been Hunt. Inspector McWilliam would remember. I’ll have to check with him.”
“Do so, if you please. It could be most significant.”
Halse shrugged again. “I will do so if you like, but I must tell you, Mr. Holmes, that I believe we’re wasting our time.” He pointed with his chin at the sleeve link in Holmes’s fingers. “Just look at how rusty and dirty that thing is. It probably hasn’t been worn in ages. No man would stick that in a shirt cuff.”
Holmes looked at him, his gray eyes devoid of expression. “It is indeed dirty, Mr. Halse, but that is not rust. That is dried blood.”
Thicke started up from his chair. They all gathered in around Holmes to peer more closely at the object in his fingers.
“Come,” Holmes said, leading them over to the deal table in the corner, where he reached for a bottle of alcohol and a piece of cloth. After a few moments of rubbing, he placed the object down on the table. It was no longer something made of a base metal that had turned brown with corrosion. It was an object of gold and bright blue enamel.
“Good Lord,” breathed Halse. “I never would have believed it.”
Watson and Thicke merely stood there in wonder.
Holmes picked it up and turned it over in his fingers. The design in the center was a familiar one.
Thicke peered over his shoulder. “Why, it looks like one of those symbols of the old French regime, a watchamacallit?”
“A fleur-de-lis.”
“Ryght!”
“I think you will have to agree, gentlemen,” said Holmes, “that it is highly unlikely one such as Catherine Eddowes would have carried around a bauble such as this very long. She would have quickly paid a visit to the pawnbroker. The proceeds from its sale would have kept her in gin for a very long time indeed.”
The lack of response made it quite clear that neither Thicke nor Halse could disagree with his logic.
Holmes took up his lens once again and bent low over the table.
“Ahhh,” he said delightedly after a few seconds. “The goldsmith’s hallmark is plainly visible on the back.”
He focused the magnifying glass in and out. “It is not a British stamp, that is for certain,” he murmured half to himself.
He waved his free hand at Watson and waggled a finger in the general direction of the shelf where he kept his source books. Watson caught his meaning and went to fetch the appropriate volume, handing it to him wordlessly.
Holmes bent over the book and began riffling through its pages until he found what he was looking for and compared it with the hallmark under his lens. He straightened and looked at the others with a grin of triumph.
“It’s Kock,” he said. “I knew it!”
“I beg your pardon?” said Halse.
“R. & L. Kock, jewelers, Frankfurt am Main. I think you will find them in the Kaiserstrasse within walking distance of the Eschenheimer Turm, if my memory serves me well.”
“German?”
“Very.”
“Ye know this shop well, do ye then?” asked Thicke.
“Mostly by reputation,” replied Holmes, “though I have had occasion to stroll by it once or twice during my travels. It is an exclusive, highly reputable firm, well known on the Continent for dealing in the very best quality of gems and jewelry, the equivalent of our own Lambert’s or J. W. Benson or Marx & Company. It does a brisk trade in military decorations and chivalric orders as well. That’s where you may pick up your Iron Cross, Thicke, when the Kaiser finally gets around to awarding it to you. Or would you prefer the Order of T
eutonic Knights? In any event, as you might imagine, its clientele includes the very crème of European society, including” — Holmes paused for effect — “including members of several royal families.” He paused again. “Among them our own.”
This statement was greeted with a silence that hung heavy in the air. Watson and the two policemen simply stood there looking at one another wordlessly until the spell was broken finally by Thicke, who emitted a long burst of air from his lungs and said simply: “Jee-ee-sus!”
Watson’s disbelief was more articulately expressed, though only barely: “Are you suggesting, Holmes, that — well, what exactly is it that you are suggesting?”
Holmes lighted a cigarette. His reply and manner were maddeningly tranquil. “I suggest nothing, nothing whatsoever. I merely state a fact.”
He studied their expressions for a moment. “See here now, it would be wrong, even dangerous, to make any inferences from this. The worst thing we could do is jump to conclusions that are based on only partial data. We must proceed orderly and cautiously, one step at a time. As I am fond of saying, gentlemen, it is a capital mistake to fall into the tempting trap of theorizing without having all the facts at hand. The object is not to make the foot fit the shoe, but the other way around.”
Thicke apparently heard nothing of what Holmes had said. “We are on slippery footin’ ‘ere, gents — dangerous, slippery footin.’ And I don’t like h’it one single bit, and that’s no lie!”
Halse, at least, had the good sense to take Holmes’s caution at face value. “You are right, of course, Mr. Holmes. I think the first thing we should do is establish where the object was found, if possible. I shall attend to that at once. The second thing —”
“The second thing, Mr. Halse, I shall attend to,” Holmes said, interrupting. “A quick cablegram to Frankfurt is in order, I believe, and I should think an inquiry from me is more likely to result in a quicker response than one from the official police. Your department would have to go through Scotland Yard, the Yard through the Home Office, the Home Office through the Foreign Office and so on, ad nauseum.”
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Whitechapel Horrors Page 21