“He was not the only person who seemed to take an interest in the affairs of this household,” Mary said.
I was pleased that my wife had been so vigilant. Aside from possessing a natural curiosity Mary had an uncommon talent when it came to the observation of details, a skill she had cultivated since first becoming associated with Sherlock Holmes and to a lesser extant myself.
“There was someone else watching our house? Was it another policeman?” I asked her.
“Not unless the Metropolitan Police have neglected to pay their constables for some time. This was quite an unkempt looking individual, dressed all in tatters and pushing an orange costers barrow.”
“What makes you think that this man was watching our house?”
“Anytime that I looked out of the window I noticed the same man pushing his barrow up and down the sidewalk opposite our front door.”
“There is nothing remarkable in that. London is full of street vendors, plying their trade.”
“I know that John,” Mary said with some asperity, “but when I sent Mary Jane out to buy some oranges he had none to sell. Later that day when I met my friend Violet Davenport at the Cafe Royal in Regent Street I noticed the very same man standing outside the boot shop next to the restaurant and with the help of my little mirror I caught brief glimpses of the scoundrel on my trip home following my luncheon. When I got home I sent Mary Jane out for the constable and after what looked to be a heated argument the policeman made him move on. The next day however he had returned without his barrow. I ventured again to inform the police but they told me that there was nothing they could do.
“The same ‘street vendor’ was there again yesterday even though there was now a policeman posted outside of our door. I was about to go and shoo him away myself when Mary Jane tripped as she was coming down the stairs. By the time I helped her up and tended to her injury the man had gone.”
I silently thanked whatever gods watched over headstrong young housewives or perhaps pernicious orange sellers, for Mary was not in the least bit timid and I knew she would have no qualms in confronting this man.
“I noticed nothing unusual when I arrived,” I said.
Drawing aside the curtains Mary looked out of the window. “No, I see no-one. However he was there earlier this morning.”
“Perhaps I have frightened him away,” I ventured.
“I hope to God you have John, perhaps I was being foolish, but with you away and Mr. Holmes’ warning to be on my guard ringing in my ears my nerves were not the best.”
“I am here now and no-one shall bother you again. I will inform Holmes of this matter,” I said.
I spent the remainder of the day relaxing, and re-adjusting to the routines of my household. Mary and I went to bed early.
The next day was a dreary one and for a moment the poisonous yellow fog caused me to long for the sunnier climes of France.
I went across to my neighbour’s and thanked him for caring for my patients. He had done such a fine job that the caseload for the day was light. One elderly gentleman suffering from gout and a spinster lady with a wart on her finger were my only two patients for the day.
That evening I treated Mary to an evening at Simpson’s. My roast beef at 2s 6d, and Mary’s fish at 2s 9d were a bit of an extravagance but I was in a joyous mood. I was back in England and with my beautiful wife. What more could a man ask for?
Waiting for our meals we discussed plans for our upcoming holiday in Scotland. Unfortunately I had managed to save little of the six hundred pounds I had earned last year and we decided not to pursue that course. Setting up a new practice and supporting a wife were both expensive propositions.
As we sat over our dessert and coffee, contented with each other’s company a concerned look passed over Mary’s face.
“Whatever is the matter my dear? Is there something wrong with the apricot pie?”
“John. I am positive that the man standing across the street under the lamp post is watching us.”
I furtively glanced at the man in question. He appeared to be more interested in cleaning his fingernails with a large jackknife than in observing us. “Are you certain? Other than his choice of manicuring implements he looks harmless enough.”
She yawned in a most unladylike manner.
“It has indeed been a long day,” I said, embarrassed.
She yawned again.
“We shall make an early night of it,” I said puzzled by her behavior.
She looked at me, exasperated. “John, you know that it is almost impossible for one not to yawn when observing somebody else do it. You, yourself just did it and the man across the street just did it twice.”
Understanding slowly dawned on me and my wife giggled. “That is wonderful, Mary,” I said.
“It is a little trick that Mr. Holmes once taught me.”
“I also think that it is the same man who has been watching our house. He is dressed differently and has been to the barber but there is no mistake. See his left hand; the one which is holding the knife, you will notice he is missing the middle finger of that hand. Also notice how he limps slightly with his left leg as he paces up and down the pavement. I happened to observe that the man who was watching our house also was missing the middle finger of his left hand and he had a limp. I remember thinking that it must be a terrible hardship to push such a large cart while suffering from such an affliction.”
“Do you not think that you could be mistaken, Mary? There might be a thousand such men in London. During my time in the Army Medical Department I had to amputate many fingers, not to mention whole arms and legs. And spending countless hours pushing a barrow has caused many a man to develop a limp.”
“I am the daughter of an army officer,” she said in a more irritable tone than I thought the situation called for. “I know that men in war suffer terribly but there is no mistake John, this is the same man.”
“He is certainly a most disreputable and dangerous looking person. I think perhaps I shall go out and give him a good thrashing,” I said finally convinced.
“For what reason, John? He hasn’t actually done anything.”
“Nothing, except to frighten my wife to within an inch of her life,” I added.
“Let us eat our dessert and perhaps he will be gone by the time we leave,” she replied.
In silence we finished the excellent pastry, and paid the bill. The fog had lifted and as the night was a warm one we decided to walk some of the way. There was no sign of the stranger but I could feel his presence. My years spent with Holmes had sharpened my own senses.
It was well after dark when we arrived home and Mary decided to retire to her bed. As one of our upstairs windows faced the street I sat for a time in the darkened room hoping to catch a glimpse of the man who had watched us from the pavement opposite Simpson’s. I remained there for some time staring out at the empty street until weariness overcame me, and I joined Mary in our bedroom.
Regardless of whether or not the man was again in front of our house tomorrow morning, I resolved to speak to Holmes on the matter. Mary would surely be safe in our own home during the daylight hours.
It was not until noon the next day before I was free to visit Baker Street. To my surprise Mrs. Hudson told me that Holmes was in and was expecting me. I could smell his pipe as I climbed the seventeen steps to his first floor chambers.
“Watson my good fellow, pray help yourself to a whisky and soda and take your old chair by the fire.
“I trust the roast beef at Simpson’s was up to the usual excellent standards?” he asked with a mischievous twinkle in his eye.
I had become accustomed to my friend’s astonishing displays of deduction but as always I was at a loss to follow his reasoning. Over the years we had turned this little ritual into a game.
“How can you know we dined at Simpson’s?” I asked him. “I have bathed and shaved and have put on a freshly brushed suit this morning. There are none of the customary clues which you deli
ght in. However I am sure that once you explain it to me it will be simplicity itself.”
He laughed. “It is for that very reason I have never accepted your invitation to witness Maskelyne’s feats of magic at the Egyptian Theatre with you and your lovely wife. Like Maskelyne’s wizardry, my little deductions always seem simple once they are explained. “However there is no magic involved this time, Watson,” he said. “Last night while you were out I visited your home. It was your maidservant who told me of your dining arrangements. She also informed me that your wife has become concerned recently about a certain individual who appears to be watching your house.”
I quietly reminded myself to rebuke Mary Jane for spreading gossip about her employers to strangers, even if that stranger was Holmes. A few years earlier my wife had threatened to let her go but she had undergone a change of heart. I was thinking now that we must re-evaluate the situation.
“And what do you make of it, Holmes?”
“I make nothing of it, Watson. I have made a few preliminary inquiries this morning but as of yet nothing has come of them.”
“What sort of inquiries?”
“I am slightly acquainted with the constable who was charged with the responsibility of keeping watch over your family. He could add nothing to what your servant had already told me. Our London “bobbies” are unequaled when it comes to bravery and dogged determination but they are not particularly skilled or trained observers.
“I also spent the better part of last evening watching your house myself. I could........”
“Wait a moment, Holmes,” I interjected “Upon our return from Simpson’s last night I too spent some time watching the street from our upstairs window. I did not see you.”
“I should hope not; as I was directly below your window, nestled behind your shrubbery you would not have seen me had I been an Indian elephant,” he said, invoking his rare streak of impish humor.
“As I was going to say, I could see nothing out of the ordinary in the time I was there save for your maid meeting a gentleman caller by your back garden gate.”
“So what do you advise, Holmes?”
“My advice to you Watson is to keep her. Good maids are hard to find these days.”
“I was not speaking of the maid and you know it,” I said with a hint of exasperation. “You seem to be deliberately obtuse today.”
“I am quite serious, Watson. Of course it is not her place to gossip however if she had not informed me of the recent events I would be no better off than you. As for her nocturnal tryst perhaps it was responsible for frightening off your mysterious sentry.”
“Perhaps you are right there Holmes, but she does sometimes get above her station.”
“Ha! A fine example of Social Darwinism, Doctor. If there is one thing that I hope you have taken away from this partnership of ours Watson, is the fact that all people are much the same whether that person is high born or commoner. As for your more pressing problem my advice to you is to be vigilant and make sure Mrs. Watson does not venture out alone. It would be prudent but probably impractical for her to remain inside until this matter is cleared up.”
Here we let the matter drop. I spent another hour or so catching up on any new cases my friend might be involved with, before I took my leave of Baker Street.
That evening as we sat down to supper I told Mary of my conversation with Holmes.
“I am forever indebted to Mr. Holmes for his previous kindness’ and I appreciate his concern but I will not remain a prisoner in my own home in the middle of the most civilized country on earth. I have already made plans to visit Kate Whitney tomorrow.”
“My God, Mary she lives all the way over in Woolwich, can you not postpone your visit until another day?”
“No, John. Ever since Isa died in that opium den last Christmas she has steadily gone downhill and this week she has taken a turn for the worse.”
Isa Whitney had been a friend of mine and for two years it had been a constant struggle to break him of his habit. Last Christmas we had lost the fight.
“How long will you be gone?”
“Not more than two days, I am sure.”
“Well I know that once you have made up your mind no power on earth can change it. I insist on at least accompanying you and seeing that you arrive safely.”
“I would have it no other way, John. It is a long drive and I would welcome the company.”
Fate though would decree otherwise.
The next morning as we were set to depart there came a persistent ring at the door. The caller proved to be the footman of one of my oldest patients. Charles Grimshaw was an art collector and a valetudinarian who was given to bouts of illness both real and imagined, and ever since his favorite painter, the Frenchman Georges Seurat, had died of an apparent angina attack at an art exhibition in Paris in March, the old man continually suffered from symptoms of a similar affliction.
“I will have to go I am afraid my dear,” I said. “Mr. Grimshaw needs immediate care; I will not be able to accompany you to Woolwich.”
“You are a physician John you must attend to your patient. I will be fine.”
I sent the maid out to whistle for a hansom cab and within minutes one arrived in front of our door. I helped Mary in and wished her a safe journey.
“Goodbye,” she said “I will see you in a couple of days.”
Flouting convention I gave her a kiss goodbye. I watched the cab as it disappeared into the traffic on Young Street.
I managed to keep myself busy the next two days. My patient’s heart was, as always, strong as that of a horse and I could find no sign of weakness. My reassurances together with plenty of bed rest and a couple of nourishing meals was all that he needed to restore his vitality. Aside from this I had a relatively light case load, winter was always much busier, and I was able to fill in my journal for the last few days. I also took it upon myself to visit Holmes on the Friday afternoon as I wished to inquire of him as to any progress he had made in finding out anything about the person who had been watching my house and upsetting my wife.
My friend looked up from his test tubes. “In reply to your question, Doctor, I am afraid I have been rather busy in the matter of the telephone murderer. It was a simple affair but it enjoyed the feature of being rather novel.”
I spent the better part of the day listening to Holmes fascinating description of the case, the details of which I may some day set into print. Before I knew it the afternoon had passed and after having supper at the Holborn with Holmes I made my way home.
Awaking late the next day I ate a hearty breakfast and consumed the entire contents a large pot of coffee while lazily reading the Times. As my surgery was not normally open on Saturdays it was the one day I could indulge in this luxury.
Mary was expected home by one o’clock and I had the cook delay serving lunch until her arrival but anxiety led to concern however as first two o’clock and then three o’clock came and passed. As the hour of four approached I decided to take matters into my own hands.
From my front steps I was able to hail a passing hansom and I leapt in before it came to a stop. I rapped on the roof with my stick, “To Woolwich driver,” I cried and we were off, as fast as the heavy afternoon traffic would allow. The drive was a long one, the monotony broken only by the view of the Royal Arsenal the sight of which always left me in awe. I arrived at the Whitney house around 5 P.M. and rang the bell.
A sullen looking maid, whom I seem to recall answered to the name of Charlotte, opened the door.
“Good evening. Is your mistress in?”
“Good evening sir. Yes, Mrs. Whitney is in, but she is on her sick bed.”
“I do not wish to inconvenience her but I must speak with her,” I said.
“I have just taken her up a cup of broth as she did not feel strong enough to come down to dinner but I will see if she will receive you, Doctor Watson,” she replied, glancing at the card which I had handed to her.
Favouring me with a
small curtsey the maid left me in the drawing room and in a few minutes the lady of the house appeared, looking pale.
“Good evening Kate.”
“John. How good to see you.”
“How are you feeling?”
“I have my good days and bad days but I am getting stronger.”
“I am glad to hear it.”
“What brings you here John, did Mary forget something this morning?”
For a brief moment I stood in silence. Regaining my powers of speech I managed to blurt out a reply. “Forget something! She has left then?”
“Why yes. She left this morning after breakfast. Has she not returned yet?”
“No Kate I haven’t seen her since Thursday. She said nothing about stopping anywhere else?”
“She did mention something about stopping at the shops in Regent Street.”
I sighed with relief. As the anniversary of our marriage was fast approaching Mary must have taken this opportunity to purchase a gift to celebrate the occasion. My wife liked to do her own shopping especially when the circumstances were special.
“Well she has probably returned home by now. I won’t keep you any longer Kate; you must get your rest.”
I bade her good night and climbed back into the waiting cab. Both the driver and his charge seemed disinclined to hurry on the return trip and I had to threaten the man with bodily harm before, amid much grumbling, he urged his nag to a greater speed.
As most of the better shops were closed by this hour, Mary should now be home waiting for me.
“Mary! Mary!” I called out gaily as I entered. There was no response. The maid came out of the scullery where she had probably been cleaning the silverware and helping herself to the cooking sherry.
“Where is your mistress, Mary Jane?”
“Didn’t she come home with you, sir?”
“I think I would have noticed if she had been in the cab,” I replied dryly. “You have been here alone all evening?”
“Yes sir.”
I poured myself a whisky and soda and sat by the fireplace reading my well worn copy of Departmental Ditties. Kipling’s satirical look at civil and military life in British colonial India was a favorite of mine and I hoped it would be the tonic I needed to occupy my mind. For hours I remained there, my hopes being raised and dashed with every passing vehicle.
The Adventure of the Tired Captain A Sherlock Holmes Case Page 3