by June Thomson
Holmes paused and raised his eyebrows but Gaunt still failed to speak, although a slight inclination of his head indicated agreement with my old friend’s last suggestion.
‘Very well,’ Holmes continued in a brisk, business-like manner, ‘then this is what you must do. You must go immediately to Colonel Upwood and explain the situation to him. The two of you will then arrange to send to Mr Sinclair at the Nonpareil Club your resignations together with a full list of all the club members whom you have cheated and a precise record of the amounts. With that letter, you will send the money owed, so that Mr Sinclair can return it to your victims.
‘Furthermore, you and Colonel Upwood will send me a written guarantee, making sure it is signed with your real name, that neither of you will ever play cards again for money. If either of you break that undertaking, I shall make sure that every gentlemen’s club is told of your past misdemeanours, as well as every music-hall manager and Colonel Upwood’s commanding officer. As a result, your reputations will be ruined. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Yes, yes, indeed you do, Mr Holmes!’ cried Gaunt, beating his hands together in so frenzied a manner that I feared he might burst into tears. To my great relief, Holmes nodded in my direction and we left the room before the man succumbed to this final humiliation.
‘It was sheer good luck that I realised Gaunt was none other than Count Rakoczi, the self-styled telepathist,’ Holmes remarked as we left by the stage-door and stepped out into the narrow alley. ‘I saw a poster of him several weeks ago outside the Cambridge Music-Hall and recognised Gaunt as the same man the moment we entered the gaming-room at the Nonpareil. Of course, you realise how he and Upwood arranged the fraud?’
‘I think so, Holmes. They used a form of code, did they not, to communicate secretly between themselves?’
‘Exactly so, Watson. In the case of the music-hall act, it was certain words or phrases used by Rakoczi’s assistant which told him what she was holding – a watch, say, or a purse. Other words indicated colour, number, initials and so on. No telepathy was involved; only a good memory and a convincing stage presence. Of course, the assistant also had to make sure that she chose only those items for which their system already supplied a code word.
‘I am convinced that Colonel Upwood saw their performance and realised it could be adapted for cheating at whist, using not just words and phrases but also certain gestures to indicate which cards each of them held in his hand, thereby controlling the play. Gaunt already had several nervous mannerisms which he made a point of using habitually so that no one would think it suspicious when he fingered his collar, for example, or stroked his chin at the card table.
‘It was a deception which they could not use too often, otherwise Sinclair and the club members would have suspected them of cheating. So they took pains to choose their victims with care, not experienced card-players but rash young men with plenty of money who might be expected to plunge in too deeply.’
‘And always on a Friday,’ I pointed out. ‘Why was that, Holmes?’
My old friend shrugged.
‘Possibly because it was the only evening in the week when Gaunt could persuade the manager of the Cambridge to change his placing on the bill, allowing him to leave a little earlier than usual so that he had time to remove his stage costume and make-up and take a cab to the Nonpareil.’
As he was speaking, he drew me quickly into a doorway, from the shelter of which we could watch unobserved the main entrance as well as the stage-door of the theatre. A few seconds later, we saw Eustace Gaunt, alias Rakoczi, emerge from this side entrance, dressed in street clothes, and walk hurriedly along to the main thoroughfare, where he hailed a hansom.
As it drew away, Holmes remarked with a chuckle, ‘I think we may guess Gaunt’s destination, my dear fellow. If I were, like you, a gambling man, I would wager half a sovereign that he is on his way to Colonel Upwood’s to lay my ultimatum before him.’
Holmes was, of course, correct, as usual.
The following day, he received two letters, one from Colonel Upwood, the other from Eustace Gaunt who signed himself as Alfred Tonks, presumably his real name. Both men unreservedly accepted the terms which Holmes had laid down.
That same morning, Godfrey Sinclair arrived to thank Holmes for his successful handling of the case and for avoiding the scandal which would have ensued had the affair been made public.
The two men had resigned their membership of the Nonpareil, and Upwood, who presumably was in charge of their finances, had enclosed a list of names of all those they had cheated together with enough bank notes to repay the money their victims had lost.
‘A most satisfactory ending, my dear fellow,’ Holmes remarked, rubbing his hands together gleefully after Sinclair had left. ‘I suppose your faithful readers can expect a written account of the inquiry, suitably embellished in your own inimitable style. What will you call it? “The Adventure of the Colonel’s Cardsharping” or “Scandal at the Nonpareil Club”?’
In fact, I decided to call it neither, nor shall I publish an account of the case.
A few days after this exchange, I received an answer to a letter I had written to my old army friend, Colonel Hayter,12 asking if he knew anything about a Colonel Upwood, as he had maintained closer contact than I with our former regiments13 and was better acquainted with army gossip.
He wrote back to tell me that, although he had never met Upwood, he knew a little about his background and his service record, in particular one episode which my old friend thought would interest me, knowing of my own army experiences.
Colonel Upwood had taken part in the relief of Kandahar,14 the garrison town in Afghanistan to which the British forces, including myself, had retreated after our tragic defeat at the battle of Maiwand on 27th July 1880. The town was besieged by a vastly superior Afghan force led by Ayub Khan, and was relieved twenty-four days later by the heroic action of a British force of 10,000 men, led by Major General Frederick ‘Bobs’ Robert, which, after a forced march from Kabul to Kandahar of 320 miles across the mountains in the scorching summer heat, attacked Ayub Khan’s camp, killing thousands of his men and putting the rest to flight. Compared to these losses, our own, thank God, were mercifully light, amounting to only 58 men killed and 192 wounded.
Without the intervention of that gallant force, those of us at Kandahar might have been starved into surrender with consequences which do not bear contemplating.
Among that relieving force was Upwood, then a Major, who was wounded in the left arm during the attack and was consequently, like myself, invalided out of the army with a pension.15
One might therefore claim that my life was saved as much by the action of Upwood and his brave comrades as by that of Murray, my orderly, who, after I myself was wounded, threw me across the back of a pack horse and joined the general retreat to Kandahar.
In view of this, I feel it would be disloyal of me to publish this account of Colonel Upwood’s subsequent fall from grace at the Nonpareil Club and therefore it will be consigned to my old army despatch box along with other unpublished papers, a fitting resting place, I feel, for this particular manuscript.16
1 The date when Sherlock Holmes undertook the investigation entitled ‘The Hound of the Baskervilles’ is disputed, but internal evidence suggests the late 1880s. The great Sherlockian expert William S. Baring-Gould has opted for the autumn of 1888. The account of the inquiry was first published in serial form between August 1901 and April 1902. Dr John F. Watson.
2 The first reference to Billy, the pageboy or ‘the boy in buttons’, surname unknown, is in ‘The Adventure of the Yellow Face’, ascribed by some commentators to 1882. There are several references to him in the canon. His duties included running errands and showing clients upstairs to the sitting-room. His wages were presumably paid by Sherlock Holmes. He should not be confused with another pageboy, also named Billy, who features in the later adventures at the turn of the century, such as ‘The Adventure of the Mazarin Stone’ and
‘The Problem of Thor Bridge’. Dr John F. Watson.
3 Until the Betting Act of 1960 was passed, all betting in public places was illegal, but gaming clubs such as Crockford’s were well established, although they ran the risk of being raided by the police and shut down. Dr John F. Watson.
4 It was because of a game of baccarat that Edward, Prince of Wales, became involved in the Tranby Croft scandal. He and some fellow guests were staying at a country house called Tranby Croft, the home of a rich shipowner, Arthur Wilson, in 1890 when a fellow guest, Sir William Gordon-Cumming, was accused of cheating at the game. He was made to sign a paper promising never to play cards again, which the fellow guests, including the Prince of Wales, also signed. But the scandal leaked out and Gordon-Cummings brought a libel action. The Prince was subpoenaed as a witness. The case was lost but the publicity damaged Edward’s reputation. Dr John F. Watson.
5 Dr Watson enjoyed betting on horses and confessed that half his army pension was spent at the races. Vide: ‘The Adventure of Shoscombe Old Place’. There is no evidence that he bet at billiards. Dr John F. Watson.
6 After training at St Bartholomew’s Hospital in London and the Army Medical School at Netley, Hampshire, he was posted to India where he joined the 66th Berkshire Regiment on foot as an army surgeon in Afghanistan. He was wounded at the Battle of Maiwand in 1880 and was invalided out of the army with a pension of 11/6 a day, approximately 57 pence. Vide: A Study in Scarlet. Dr John F. Watson.
7 Sherlock Holmes once stated: ‘I hold a vast store of out-of-the-way knowledge, without scientific system, but very available for the needs of my work.’ Vide: ‘The Adventure of the Lion’s Mane’. Dr John F. Watson.
8 According to Greek mythology, Sisyphus, king of Corinth, captured and chained up Death, who had to be rescued by the god Ares. As a punishment, he was forced to push a large stone repeatedly up a hill, only to have it roll down again. Dr John F. Watson.
9 I have been unable to trace a Cambridge Music-Hall, except for a small establishment in the East End of London, and I suggest it is a pseudonym for the Oxford Music-Hall in Oxford Street in London, where many famous performers appeared. Dr John F. Watson.
10 The Chairman introduced the acts, usually in a comically extravagant manner, and presided generally over the performance. Dr John F. Watson.
11 This is probably a reference to Marie Lloyd, a very popular music-hall artiste who sang comic Cockney songs and performed sketches. Her real name was Matilda Alice Victoria Wood (1870–1922). She first appeared at the Eagle Music-Hall under the stage-name Belle Delmare. Dr John F. Watson.
12 Dr Watson first met Colonel Hayter in Afghanistan, where he gave him medical treatment. The two men kept in touch and, on Colonel Hayter’s retirement to Reigate, he invited Dr Watson and Sherlock Holmes to stay with him. Dr John F. Watson.
13 Dr Watson’s regiment was the 66th Berkshires. It is not known which regiment was Colonel Hayter’s but he may also have served in the Berkshires. Vide: ‘The Adventure of the Reigate Squire’. Dr John F. Watson.
14 Kandahar was a strategically important Afghan town situated 155 miles inside the frontier with India, which was captured and garrisoned by a force of 2,500 soldiers, both British and Indian. The siege was raised on 31st August after twenty-four days. Dr John F. Watson.
15 See footnote 6.
16 See footnote 2 to Foreword.
THE CASE OF THE ALUMINIUM CRUTCH
On several occasions in the past, Sherlock Holmes had referred briefly to a former inquiry which he had undertaken before my advent as his chronicler but he had found neither the opportunity nor the inclination to give me a full account of it, although I had pressed him to do so numerous times.
‘Oh, that old case!’ he would say dismissively. ‘A singular investigation indeed, my dear fellow. I must tell you about it one of these days. I think you will find it quite interesting.’
In the event, it was a casual remark made by Inspector Lestrade which at last prompted Holmes to make good his pledge.
Lestrade had called on him one evening in order to ask his advice on an urgent case with which he was having difficulties, that of the missing heir to the Blackstock estate.
As he rose to take his leave, he added, ‘By the way, Mr Holmes, do you remember Whitey Johnson, the jewel thief?’
‘Whitey Johnson!’ Holmes exclaimed. From the kindling expression in his eye, I could tell his interest was immediately aroused. ‘Indeed I do remember him! But I thought he was still in prison. He is surely not up to his old tricks in there?’
Lestrade chuckled, his sharp, foxy features crinkled up with amusement.
‘Not any longer. He died in Pentonville last week; lost his balance going down some stairs and broke his neck, or so the Governor informed me. That aluminium crutch of his was to blame. It slipped out from under him. So you might say it was his downfall in more ways than one.’
The remark was evidently intended to be humorous, for Lestrade rubbed his hands together with glee as Holmes escorted him to the door.
On resuming his seat by the fire, my old friend looked across at me with a rueful expression.
‘Whitey Johnson dead! I am sorry indeed to hear that. His was one of the first cases that Lestrade asked for my assistance in solving. For a villain, he was, I recall, a very mild-mannered little man.’
‘Was he?’ I asked with a touch of asperity. ‘Although you have referred to the case several times over the years and promised me a full account of it, I have not yet had that pleasure.’
‘Then you shall have it this very minute, my dear fellow,’ Holmes replied. Pausing only to fill his pipe with tobacco from the Turkish slipper,1 he lit it and leant back in his chair, his lean features taking on a pensive expression as the wreaths of smoke rose to encircle his head.
‘It must have been in the late 1870s when I was still living in Montague Street,’2 he began. ‘By that time, my reputation as a private consulting agent was becoming better known and my clientele was spreading beyond the immediate circle of my former Varsity acquaintances and their friends. News of it had even reached as far as Scotland Yard. So it was that one morning Inspector Lestrade3 called on me to ask for my help with a case which, up to that moment, had defeated the official police. As a force, they were shockingly lacking in imagination, a quality of mind which, allied to the power of deduction, is essential if any successful detective is to make a success of his career.
‘The particular investigation for which Lestrade needed my assistance involved a pair of jewel thieves, a man and a woman, both well spoken and respectably dressed, whose modus operandi never varied. Together they would go into a jeweller’s shop, one of the smaller, less fashionable premises in a busy shopping neighbourhood, where there was only one assistant serving behind the counter, usually the owner himself. They would also take care to choose a time when the shop was likely to be empty and made sure there was nothing about their manner or their appearance to draw attention to themselves. In fact, the woman always wore a hat with the veil drawn down over her face, while her male companion was variously described as having a moustache, a beard, eye-glasses, and hair that was fair, dark or red, so one could safely assume that he wore different disguises.
‘They gave the impression of being a married couple who were well-to-do and who were about to celebrate some special occasion, their wedding anniversary perhaps, or the lady’s birthday, in consequence of which the husband had decided to buy his wife a ring. The shopkeeper was delighted to serve them and laid out for their inspection a selection of his very finest rings for the lady to try on.
‘It was while the lady was making her choice that the theft took place. Without any warning, the man would suddenly snatch up a handful of the rings and run out into the street while at the same moment the lady would faint, collapsing across the counter in a swoon.
‘You may imagine the shopkeeper’s shock and bewilderment. In the confusion of the moment, he was not sure what to do. Should he go to the
assistance of the lady? Or should he pursue the thief who had made off with his property? In all four cases which Lestrade had investigated, the sense of ownership overrode any notions of chivalry and the victim set off in pursuit of the robber. But those few seconds’ hesitation were vital. By the time he had run out into the road, the thief had disappeared amongst the passersby. It was only then that it occurred to him that the woman was the man’s accomplice and that he had moreover left her alone in his shop surrounded by cabinets full of jewellery. It was small consolation that the cases were locked; the glass could easily be smashed. He could only comfort himself with the thought that the more valuable pieces were locked away in the safe. Immediately, he ran back to his shop but, of course, the lady had vanished.’
Holmes broke off at this point to look across at me quizzically.
‘I can tell by your expression, Watson, that some aspect of my account is troubling you. Which is it, my dear fellow?’
Although I had known Holmes for several years, he still had the capacity to astonish me by his perspicacity and the acuteness of his observation.
‘I do not understand the part Whitey Johnson played in the robberies, Holmes,’ I confessed. ‘You said nothing about the male thief being a cripple. Surely a man with a crutch would be easily identifiable, no matter how many forms of disguise he may have used to alter his appearance. Or was he perfectly able-bodied and the crutch was merely another ploy to throw his pursuers off the scent?’