The Case of the Baker Street Irregular (Andrew Tillet, Sara Wiggins & Inspector Wyatt Book 1)

by Robert Newman

  She clasped her hands, looking at Holmes imploringly.

  “It’s an interesting case,” he said. “I don’t recall another exactly like it.” He thought a moment. “You say you arrived in London last night?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “At a boarding house in St. John’s Wood—Twelve Henry Street. It was recommended to me by a friend in New York.”

  “But you’ve been to London before.”

  “No, never.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure!”

  “There’s no need to get shirty about it,” he said pacifically.

  “But I’m not getting … I beg your pardon?”

  “I’m sorry. I meant upset. As I said, it’s an interesting case. Unfortunately, however, I am presently involved in two others that are quite important. I shall have to let you know whether I can undertake this one for you.”

  “But you must!” she said desperately, pathetically. “I’m sure Rachel is almost as frightened and miserable as I am. Is there nothing I can do to persuade you to help me?”

  “I’m afraid not, Mrs. Harker. I’m aware of your deep feelings in the matter, but I must see what I can do about my other commitments. I will let you know my answer as soon as I can.”

  “Then I suppose I must wait,” she said. “Wait and pray.” She rose, trying to conceal her distress and disappointment. “Thank you for your patience, Mr. Holmes.”

  “Not at all.”

  He opened the door for her and, bowing to him and Watson, she left.

  “Well, Watson?” said Holmes, returning to the couch and picking up his violin again.

  “A very moving and truly tragic story. I did not realize that you were involved in two other cases.”

  “I’m not.”

  “But you said …”

  “I said so because I wanted some time to think about it.”

  “But what is there to think about? I’m aware that what she wants you to do would be very difficult …”

  “You think that is why I did not agree to take the case?”

  “I can’t think of any other reason.”

  “In other words, you believe that I should help her.”

  “Yes, I do. I would certainly do so if she had asked me for help. I have never seen a woman as deeply and sincerely moved as she was when she talked about her child.”

  “Nor have I. She did seem quite affected. And I found that very interesting—almost as interesting as the flaws in her story.”

  “Flaws?”

  “She claimed to be an American. She has certainly lived in America, but I will wager anything you like that she was born in London—probably in Lambeth.”

  “What? That’s ridiculous, Holmes! How can you say that?”

  “Because I have an ear, Watson—a very good and well trained ear—and I detected the remnants of Cockney vowels in her cultivated and quite excellent speech.”

  “Well, I may not have your musical ear, but I have known Americans too, and I heard nothing of the sort!”

  “There’s little point in debating it. I have studied speech as I have studied many other things and I can locate anyone’s origin in England within a few miles. Besides, if she is not a Londoner, has never been here before, how do you account for her reaction to the word ‘shirty’?”

  “As I recall it—and I recall it clearly because I was surprised to hear you use such common slang—she did not know what you meant.”

  “So she said—after she had reacted to it. But you have made your position quite clear. You were impressed by her, believe her implicitly and feel that I should help her.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Well, you’ve always been rather susceptible to female charm,” said Holmes and, picking up his violin again, he began playing an intricate pizzicato cadenza. As Watson stared, trying to decide exactly what Holmes meant by that, there was another, perfunctory knock, the door opened and a large, leonine man came in.

  “Ah, Gregory,” said Holmes. “We’ve been expecting you.”

  Gregory paused in midstride.

  “But that’s impossible. I just left the Yard, did not expect to come here myself until a few minutes ago.”

  “Doing easily what others find difficult is talent. Doing what is impossible is genius.”

  “I see,” said Gregory, smiling. “You’re joking with me. Well, I don’t mind. I just saw a rather attractive lady leaving. One of your clients?”

  “That’s something Watson and I were just discussing. You know Watson, of course?”

  “Of course. Good morning, doctor.”

  “Inspector …” said Watson, bowing.

  “Now tell us what brings you here with such mixed feelings,” said Holmes.

  “How do you know that is how I feel?”

  Holmes smiled. “It’s fortunate that the career you chose was enforcing the law rather than the opposite. Your face is as easy to read as a newspaper.”

  “Is it? Then perhaps you can tell me why my feelings are mixed.”

  “I think I can. I’ve helped Scotland Yard, and you personally, on several cases. I know that you think very highly of my abilities. So I suspect that if you resent having had to come and ask for my help today—as I think you have—it is because you think you can handle the matter yourself. But since you did come, I would guess that someone else, someone with considerable authority, insisted that you do so.”

  Gregory’s blue eyes widened.

  “You know, Mr. Holmes, you could make a fortune on the stage reading minds. Would you like to go a step further and tell me what I’ve come to see you about?”

  “I suspect it’s yesterday’s bombing in the Baker Street Underground station.”

  Gregory continued to stare at him for a moment, then slapped his thigh.

  “Mr. Holmes, no matter how high my regard for you is, it’s clear I don’t regard you highly enough.”

  “That goes without saying,” said Holmes with only the slightest touch of irony. “Then I’m right? It is about the bombing?”

  “It is. What do you know about it?”

  “Just that there was an explosion at about eight o’clock last night and the ticket taker was injured—not seriously, I gather.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Was anyone else hurt?” asked Watson.

  “No, doctor. Luckily the bombing took place at an off hour.”

  “I suppose there’s no question but that it was a bomb and not a gas explosion or anything of that sort,” said Holmes.

  “None,” said Gregory. “We found the remnants of the clockwork that set it off. But that’s not all. Shortly before that we found two other bombs—packages of dynamite with timing mechanisms—one at the British Museum and the other at the Tate Gallery.”

  “What?” said Watson. “There was nothing about that in the paper.”

  “No. It was impossible to do anything about the explosion in the Underground. But since we found the others before they could go off, we were able to hush up any mention of them. Nevertheless, as you can see, the matter does look serious.”

  “What you’re afraid of,” said Holmes, “is that the Dynamiters may be at it again.”

  “Exactly. And that is why I was instructed to come and see you and give you this.” And he took an envelope from his pocket and gave it to Holmes.

  He glanced at it and raised an eyebrow.

  “From Ten Downing Street,” he said. He opened the envelope, read the note that was in it, then handed it to Watson who read it also.

  “This is quite extraordinary, Holmes,” said Watson. “I know you have had communications from the Home Secretary, but have you ever been appealed to before by the Prime Minister himself?”

  “No,” said Holmes.

  “Of course you’ll do it,” said Gregory. “You will help us find out who is responsible for these bombings so that they can be stopped before they get completely out of hand.”


  “I don’t know,” said Holmes. “I shall have to think about it.”

  “You’re not serious!” said Gregory. “What’s there to think about?”

  “Several things. As it happens, I’m engaged in another case. I’ll have to let you know if I can become involved in this one also.”

  “But what can possibly be as important as this one?” asked Gregory. “You know what happened in the early eighties. We had so many men trying to combat the Dynamiters that it became a holiday for other criminals.”

  “I remember it well,” said Holmes.

  “And there’s nothing I can do to persuade you?”

  “I’m afraid not. As I said, I will let you know if I can take on the case.”

  “I see,” said Gregory. “I will tell that to the Commissioner and let him communicate it to the Prime Minister.” And nodding rather coldly to Holmes, he left.

  “I must say I find this hard to understand, Holmes,” said Watson. “Was the other case you were referring to that of Mrs. Harker?”

  “Yes.”

  “But how can you possibly compare them? This one is important enough for the Prime Minister himself to ask you to look into it, while the other is of no importance at all!”

  “Except to Mrs. Harker. And just a few minutes ago you were urging me to help her.”

  “But that was before you were asked to help put a stop to the bombings. I confess that your reasoning baffles me.”

  “Not for the first time, Watson. And probably not for the last. I will point out to you that even if I do not become involved in the matter of the bombings, they will not be ignored. All of Scotland Yard will be mobilized to find out who was responsible for them. But if I do not help Mrs. Harker, no one else will.”

  “But I thought you had some serious doubts about her story.”

  “I do have. And that is one of the reasons I am inclined to take on her case.” He rose. “I’m going out. Would you care to come with me?”

  “If you’d like me to,” said Watson, a bit stiffly.

  “You know I always enjoy your company,” said Holmes with a smile.

  Only partly mollified, Watson got his hat and stick and they went out. Holmes looked right and left—at the passersby, the window shoppers, and the grey-haired beggar who stood near the corner—then crossed the street and entered Jonathan Walker’s shop.

  Walker was in his office, but when he saw Holmes he came out.

  “I’m delighted to see you again, Mr. Holmes,” he said. “And you, Dr. Watson.”

  “We were passing by, and I thought I’d stop in and find out if you have had any more difficulties since your fire.”

  “No, I have not. I went to see Inspector Gregory as you suggested. He said that several other, similar cases had been reported and that he would look into it. Since then I have not been troubled.”

  “Whoever is responsible undoubtedly knows that you went to the police, and your resolute stand must have made him think twice about harassing you further. It would be interesting to know who was behind the conspiracy—and the police may find out eventually—but in the meantime I doubt if you will be troubled again.”

  “I agree with you. And I thank you for your advice.”

  “It was nothing. There is, however, something you can do for me. Do you remember my asking you about the Second Bruch Concerto?”

  “I do indeed. I told you I knew a dealer in Paris who might have it and said that I would inquire the next time I went there. Unfortunately I have not been there since.”

  “I suspected that. But, as it happens, I’m going there myself tomorrow on a case, and I wondered if you could give me his name so that I could ask him about it.”

  “I’ll be delighted to,” said Walker. And taking a notebook from his pocket, he wrote something in it, tore out the page, and gave it to Holmes.

  “Hassler, Twelve Rue de Rivoli,” said Holmes, reading it. “I thank you.”

  “Not at all. Will you be gone for long?”

  “It’s hard to say. It will be for at least a week, perhaps longer.”

  “Well, I wish you success, both on your case and on your search for the concerto.”

  “I thank you for that too,” said Holmes. “I’ll undoubtedly see you when I return.”

  “I shall look forward to it,” said Walker.

  “Well,” said Watson when they were outside, “it appears that you have made up your mind and are going to take Mrs. Harker’s case.”

  “Yes, I am. I’ll leave for Paris the first thing in the morning.”

  “I still don’t understand why, but I suppose you must do as you think best.”

  “I usually do.”

  “Yes, I know. I gather you do not wish me to come with you.”

  “I think, in this case, I will do better alone. I have several things to do now. I must make my travel arrangements, see Mrs. Harker, and get descriptions of her husband and daughter. But after that I will be free. Shall we meet and have dinner at the Café Royal?”

  “You know I do not care particularly for French food,” said Watson. “But I suppose you have a reason for that too, such as practising your French. Very well. I’ll meet you there at eight.”

  8

  Blind Ben

  Screamer was peeling potatoes at the kitchen table when Andrew came in. She looked up and smiled, then looked at him again and said, “What’s up?”

  “I’m through at Dingell’s.”

  “You got the sack?”

  He nodded.

  “Why?”

  “His old boy, Harry, is coming back and he won’t be needing me.”

  “Well, he said it would just be for a while—until Harry did come back.”

  “I know.”

  “Don’t let your chin hang down. You’ll get something else.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “We’ll manage.”

  He shook his head. He knew now how important every penny was in the Wiggins household.

  “I won’t stay if I’m not bringing anything in.”

  “What’ll you do?”

  “I don’t know. Probably go back to Cornwall.”

  Her small, white face became even paler.

  “But you can’t do that. You’ve got no one there—no family or friends.”

  “There’s Jack Trefethen.”

  “You said you didn’t know if he’d let you stay with him. Besides, what about Mr. Dennison?”

  “There’s been no word from the police. That means they haven’t found him.”

  “The sergeant said it’d take time, and it’s only been a little over a week. But let’s not talk about it now. Let’s see what Mum and Sam have to say about it.”

  “All right. Can I help with the potatoes?”

  “No. Tell me about Cornwall.”

  He should have expected it. Whenever they were alone—whenever he wasn’t reading to her or making her read—she wanted him to tell her about Cornwall.

  “Why do you like hearing about it so much?”

  “I dunno. I just do.”

  “What would you like me to tell you about it?”

  “I don’t care. The sea.”

  For some reason, perhaps because she had never seen it, that was what she liked best. And so he told her about it again: how clear and clean and blue it was in the early morning; how the pebbles on the shingle beach gleamed when the tide was ebbing and what the fishing boats looked like as they went out. He was telling her about the birds—the gulls and terns and the shags that roosted on the rocks offshore—when Mrs. Wiggins came home. She looked grave when they told her what had happened.

  “Ah, well,” she said. “We knew it was only temporary. And it wasn’t ’cause you didn’t give satisfaction. Mr. Dingell said you was very good with the horses.”

  “He was,” said Screamer. “He was better than Harry. But what’ll we do now? Andrew says he won’t stay if he’s not bringing anything in.”

  “Well, I’m not saying the ext
ra money wasn’t a help. It was. Maybe Sam’s heard of something else for you, Andrew. He sometimes does.”

  Sam was late that night. They could tell from the way he dropped his shoebox when he came in that he hadn’t had a good day, but still he didn’t seem as concerned as they had expected when they told him the news.

  “As it happens, there is something,” he said slowly. “I heard about it this morning. It’s not easy work and I don’t know how long it’ll last, but the money’s good, better than Dingell was paying.”

  “Doing what, Sam?” asked Mrs. Wiggins.

  “Leading a blind man.”

  “If the pay’s so good,” said Screamer, “why don’t you do it yourself?”

  “Because I’m going to be busy doing something else—something for Mr. Holmes.”

  “Working with him?” asked Andrew.

  “Even the Irregulars don’t work with Mr. Holmes. We work for him. Besides, he’s not even here now. He left for Paris this morning. But that’s got nothing to do with you. Now do you want the job or don’t you?”

  “Of course I want it,” said Andrew. “When do I start?”

  “Tomorrow morning. You won’t be able to live here with us. You’ll have to stay with this blind man, Ben—look after him, cook for him and all that.”

  “Oh,” said Screamer, disappointed. “Well, it’ll only be for a while, won’t it?”

  “Yes,” said Sam.

  “Where will I find him?” asked Andrew.

  “I’ll take you to him,” said Sam. “But there’s another thing.” He studied Andrew. “Your clothes is all right, but your hair’s not. We’ll have to cut it.”

  “Oh, no!” said Screamer. “Why?”

  “Because he looks too much like a toff. Go borrow Mrs. Wagner’s scissors, Screamer.”

  “I won’t!” said Screamer. “He has beautiful hair!”

  “It gets cut, or he don’t get the job,” said Sam flatly.

  “Please get the scissors, Screamer,” said Andrew.

  Screamer went out reluctantly and came back a few minutes later with a pair of shears. She closed her eyes while Sam cut Andrew’s hair. The Wiggins had no mirror, so Andrew couldn’t see how he looked but, when he ran his hand over his head afterwards, he could tell that it had been cropped as closely as Sam’s.