by John Hall
Sir James took a sheet of paper from his memorandum book, and passed it to Holmes, who read it thoughtfully before asking, ‘And you say that Sir George Lewis has an identical clue to this?’
Sir James nodded. ‘So says the family solicitor, an old friend of mine.’
Holmes passed the paper to me. ‘Watson?’
I read aloud, ‘ “Where to begin? Why, from whence!” Extraordinary, Holmes!’
‘Elementary, rather. Though not entirely devoid of interest. You say that Lord Hammerford has, or had, rather, a house here in London?’ he asked Sir James.
‘Yes, in Mayfair. It was there that he spent his last days.’
‘I thought as much. The clue is the word, “whence”, of course. If we consider only the pronunciation and not the spelling, we may easily derive the word “wen”, long a favourite among would-be humorists and punsters to mean London. Not a riddle that would tax even Mycroft’s ingenuity, so I do not doubt that he solved it at a glance.’ This thought seemed to mollify Holmes somewhat. He added caustically, ‘I thought you said the late Lord Hammerford was something of an expert in riddles? I see little evidence of that here, to be plain.’
‘I said that he was keen on them,’ said Sir James defensively. ‘I did not say that he was any good at making them up.’
‘I should have thought that the fact that the riddles are simple to solve would make our task that much easier,’ I put in.
Holmes shook his head. ‘On the contrary, it makes our task that much harder, for it means that the man who moves fastest, and not the cleverest man, has the advantage.’ He waved the piece of paper at Sir James. ‘When did you acquire this, pray?’
‘Last night. I visited Mycroft, but when I left him it was too late to decently call upon you.’
‘And this Sir George Lewis had his clue at the same time? So he has almost a day’s start upon us? You have been very remiss, Sir James, in not consulting me sooner.’
‘I still don’t see that it gets us very far, Holmes,’ said I. ‘London is a pretty big place, after all.’
He sighed. ‘We can, I think, narrow it down slightly, Watson. I fancy we shall find the next clue — such as it is — at Lord Hammerford’s town house.’ And he made as if to get up.
‘Hardly that, Holmes!’ I told him.
He resumed his seat, and gazed cynically at me. ‘You have an alternative solution to the riddle, Watson?’
‘Oh, no. I would never have thought of the answer. But, now that you have explained it means we are to look right here in London, I see clearly that it cannot be the house which is meant.’
‘Indeed?’
‘Indeed. Sir James, did you not say the entire real property was entailed, and thus passes at once to the young Lord Hammerford?’
‘I did, Doctor.’
‘There you are, then. If the house is Lord Hammerford’s, then this Sir George could not guarantee that he would be admitted. If the test is to be a fair one, the two of them must have an equal chance of access to the next clue.’
To give him credit, Holmes leaned back in his chair and clapped his hands. ‘First blood to you, Watson. Well done! You are right, of course, it must be a public place. And yet,’ he went on, half to himself, ‘it must not be too public, or else anyone might stumble on the treasure, or the next clue, purely by chance. Somewhere that shares both public and private qualities, then. But where?’
‘A library, perhaps?’ I cried. ‘Oh, no. Too public, any casual browser might find the clue if it were tucked away inside a book. I know, Holmes — a club!’
He nodded. ‘Well done again. You are right, of course. Was the late Lord Hammerford a member of any London clubs?’ he asked Sir James.
‘He was. And there can be no ambiguity, for he was only a member of the one club. I can take you there, if you wish, for I’m a member myself.’
In a very few minutes we were rattling along in a cab. As we moved off, both Holmes and I began to speak to Sir James. We laughed, apologized to one another, and I waved to Holmes to continue.
‘Thank you, Watson. Now, Sir James, you said, I think, that this Sir George Lewis would use “fair means or foul” to succeed. Did you mean that quite literally, I wonder? Is he likely to be a danger to us?’
‘Well, my first thought was that it was he who induced that fellow to try to snatch young Lord Hammerford. You seemed to think not, though?’
Holmes shook his head. ‘I have my reasons for thinking otherwise. But what of Sir George Lewis? Is he a rogue?’
Sir James reflected for a moment before replying. ‘I’ll not say he’s a rogue, for I know nothing definite against the man. In fact, now I think about it, this dirty kidnapping business is not his way at all. I have no doubt that you’re right there, Mr Holmes, though I’m damned if I know how you knew. But for all that there are some questions which one might wish answered about Sir George.’
‘Such as?’
‘The first is the matter of his wife’s death, his first wife, that is, the niece of the late Lord Hammerford.’
‘I thought she died of the cholera, in Venice?’ Holmes said.
‘That is so. He had her buried there, though.’
‘Understandable, with the cholera,’ I told him. ‘He would not want her brought home by sea, even if the authorities permitted it.’
‘Oh, I grant you that,’ said Sir James. ‘Still it’s out of the ordinary, for none of the family attended the funeral, apart from Sir George himself, that is.’
‘But you said there was no family?’ Holmes put in.
‘The late Lord Hammerford was alive at the time, and would have gone, I am certain. Although, in fairness to the man, time was against him with its being the cholera, just as Doctor Watson says. Communications from the Continent are by no means as speedy as one might wish at the best of times. We’ll give him that, then. But then he remarried with almost indecent haste on his return to England.’
‘When you say “indecent haste”, what time-scale do you imply?’ asked Holmes.
‘Oh, a year. Two.’
‘Hardly indecent haste, Sir James,’ I could not help saying. ‘I have known many loving husbands who were utterly devastated by the death of their wives, but yet felt such loneliness, such despair, that they remarried almost at once, on the rebound, so to speak.’
‘Well, I said I knew nothing specific against him, and I’ll repeat that. But it’s a curious little incident, to my way of looking at it. The man’s chronically short of cash, that much is a fact. He plays the horses, and the markets, but with little success. Half a million, nay, a couple of thousand, would help him out quite considerably.’
‘That’s hardly conclusive proof of villainy,’ I said. ‘Why, I’d settle for a couple of hundred myself at the moment.’ The other two looked curiously at me. ‘Sir George isn’t the only one to have a losing streak on the Turf,’ I explained.
‘Ah!’ said Sir James. ‘Nevertheless, Sir George needs cash badly just at the moment. That means that he may not play fair.’
‘H’mm. It is a powerful motive to bend the rules, I agree,’ said Holmes. He looked at me. ‘I interrupted you earlier, Watson?’
‘Oh, my question was just about young Lord Hammerford. What’s to become of him now, with no family to look after him?’
Sir James’s brow clouded. ‘I’ve been troubled over that myself, Doctor. But, if it comes to the push, my wife and I will look after him. He’s staying with us for the time being, of course. We’re getting a bit long in the tooth, and have no children of our own, but still I’ll not see him given to some stranger to look after. Delightful little chap, you’ll agree?’
‘Oh, absolutely! If my own wife were still alive, then of course —’ and I stared out of the carriage window, while the others kept a discreet silence for the rest of the journey.
We turned into a quiet street in St James’s, and stopped before a mighty oak door which bore no nameplate. Holmes got out of the carriage, and rubbed his hands togethe
r eagerly, the thrill of the chase writ large upon his features. ‘One last question,’ he asked Sir James, as we stood upon the pavement, ‘is Sir George Lewis a small man, with a weaselly look about him?’
‘Good God, no! Whatever makes you think that? No, Sir George is a gentleman, and looks the part, whatever else you may say of him. He’s a good six foot, an athlete — he’s an amateur rider and boxer, you know. Handsome, or so the ladies tell me, though I’m not a judge of that myself, of course.’ He frowned. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Because we have been followed by a man of the description I gave you,’ said Holmes calmly.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Positive. He was lurking in Baker Street when we left the rooms, and he has followed us here in a cab — no! Don’t look round, man. Now, if it is not Sir George, then there are two possibilities left.’
‘Which are?’ asked Sir James.
‘Well, we shall leave that for the moment.’ Holmes took a step towards the great oak door.
‘Holmes,’ said I, ‘I hesitate to throw cold water on these proceedings, but a gentlemen’s club is a pretty big place. Are we to search all the rooms, or what?’
‘I hardly think that will be necessary,’ said Holmes. ‘Unless Sir George himself is a member, he would not be able to enter to carry out such a search, and you yourself pointed out that fairness was of the essence. Is there a doorman, or commissionaire, or anyone of that sort, Sir James?’
‘A doorman,’ said Sir James, ushering us inside, and indicating a little counter affair in the lobby. ‘Gentlemen, this is Mortimer, who keeps the club members in good order.’
We nodded at the doorman, an ancient fellow who looked as if he had been sitting behind his counter since the club was founded a century ago. He was dressed in a rusty-coloured uniform, but his eye was alert, even merry, and he regarded us with some amusement. ‘Sir James, nice to see you again, sir,’ said he, struggling to lever himself out of the wicker chair in which he sat.
‘Don’t trouble yourself to get up, Mortimer,’ said Sir James. ‘Mortimer, this is Mr Sherlock Holmes, and Doctor Watson.’
‘Indeed, Sir James?’ The old fellow clambered to his feet at that, and held out a hand. ‘I’ve read of your adventures, of course, gentlemen. Pleased to meet you both, I’m sure. Might I venture to ask if you are putting them up for membership, then, Sir James? I know the secretary would regard it as an honour for the club.’
‘Not at the moment. Unless, that is, you’d want it, gentlemen? No? No, Mortimer, we’re here on a rather odd errand, in connection with the unfortunate death of the late Lord Hammerford, whom you knew.’
‘Indeed I did, sir. And may I make so bold as to express the deep regret which I, and the rest of the staff, felt at the sad news? Anything I can do, of course, Sir James, you have but to name it, sir.’
Sir James nodded, but looked at something of a loss. ‘Mr Holmes, perhaps you had best outline our problem?’
Holmes leaned over the little counter, and addressed the doorman in a low tone. ‘Mr Mortimer, did the late Lord Hammerford leave anything with you, to be called for?’
The old fellow rubbed his hands with glee. ‘Yes, indeed, Mr Holmes.’ He reached under the counter, and took out a large white envelope, marked ‘HAMMERFORD’, and nothing more, on the outside. ‘I must say, gents, that’s a load off my mind, with both having been called for now.’
‘Both?’ asked Holmes sharply. ‘The second — or perhaps I should say, the first — envelope has been called for, then?’
‘Damnation!’ said Sir James.
Mortimer regarded the aristocratic figure like the stern father of fiction studying a headstrong but much-loved son, then addressed himself to Holmes. ‘This very morning, sir.’ He glanced at the old grandfather clock which stood in a corner. ‘Not above an hour since, either.’
‘And by whom, pray?’
‘Gent didn’t give no name, sir. A tall gentleman, well set up, the sort as would turn the head of any lady’s maid, or the lady herself, for the matter of that.’
Sir James made as if to speak, then subsided, but I knew well enough what was in his mind, for a similar thought had occurred to me.
Holmes went on, ‘I see. And what did this gentleman do? Just ask for the envelope and go?’
‘More or less, sir. He ripped it open, stood more or less where you might be standing now, he was, and read the letter that was in it. Then his face changed, so to speak, an odd look come over him.’
‘How, “odd”?’ asked Holmes.
‘If you was to ask me to put a name to it, sir, that name would be “bafflement”,’ said Mortimer. ‘Baffled, he looked. Then he swore, using much the same unfortunate terms as Sir James used just now, shoved the envelope and letter in his pocket, and walked out.’
‘Walked, rather than ran?’
‘Strolled, Mr Holmes, for all the world like a man with a lot on his mind, if you’ll forgive the familiar phrase.’
‘Ah, that must be a good sign,’ said Holmes. ‘Well, then, let us see if we are as baffled as Sir — as the other gentleman.’ But he did not rush to open the envelope, instead studying it closely first. When he had done this to his satisfaction, he took out his penknife, slit the envelope carefully, and took out the sheet of paper it contained, a single, ordinary sheet of notepaper, folded twice. Holmes unfolded this slowly, and looked at it for a moment, without speaking.
Now, Holmes possesses self-restraint to a far greater extent than any other man I know, and a casual observer would have seen no change in his face. But I, who knew him of old, could tell that he too was puzzled, ‘baffled’, even. After a long moment, he laughed aloud.
‘Well?’ I demanded.
‘Well, I expected some mystery, perhaps even some difficulty, and I am not so egotistical as to exclude entirely the possibility that even our combined best efforts might meet with failure at the last. But I confess that I had not expected the trail to go cold quite so quickly,’ said Holmes. And he held out before the astonished Sir James and me — a blank sheet of paper!
Three
‘Damnation!’ said Sir James a second time.
‘The clues appear to be getting harder,’ said I.
Holmes shot me a venomous glance.
‘Sympathetic ink, perhaps?’ I suggested, trying to make some amends for my levity.
Holmes frowned. He held the sheet up and sniffed at it, then went over to the door, held it up to the light and looked at it closely. ‘A logical enough surmise, Watson, but I think not,’ said he after all this. ‘Most of the common preparations have a faint but distinctive odour, and there is none here that I can detect. Moreover, however close to “invisible” an ink may be, it must needs be applied with a pen nib, and the trained observer may detect the damage to the surface fibres of the paper quite easily. This sheet shows no trace of any impression, not even the faint marks which would show that it had been placed underneath another sheet upon which a message had been written in pencil, another possibility which had, I am certain, suggested itself to you. No, it must be the actual paper which is the clue, although it seems quite ordinary to the casual observer.’
‘Or the envelope?’ I suggested.
‘H’mm. Again, an ordinary enough envelope. Sir James, the name “Hammerford” is written in rather straggling capitals, as you see. Is that the late Lord Hammerford’s writing?’
Sir James studied the envelope closely. ‘I cannot say that it is not,’ he said at length. ‘It is true that it is very different from his usual hand, which was a neat, if somewhat old-fashioned, copperplate. I have never known him use capitals like that, but I cannot swear that it is not his doing.’
‘H’mm,’ said Holmes again. To me, who knew him well, the signs were obvious; he was irked by his lack of progress. ‘Mortimer, can you swear that this was the very same envelope which Lord Hammerford left with you?’
‘That I can, Mr Holmes.’
‘There can be no possibility that someone
has taken the original and left a substitute?’
‘None at all, sir. I have my eye on them constantly. Had, I should say.’
‘You cannot be here at your desk twenty-four hours a day, though?’
‘No, sir, but when I goes off duty, I takes, or took, I ought to say, those two envelopes with me, that being Lord Hammerford’s wish. “If they can’t come here during the day like gentlemen, Mortimer”, says he, “then they don’t deserve any success anyway”, no offence gentlemen, but those was his own words, and he goes on to tell me to keep them letters under my eye at all times. Which, as I say, I did.’
‘I see.’
‘Holmes,’ I ventured, ‘is there any significance in the fact that capital letters are used, think you? Capitals, the capital, London — damn! We’d worked that one out already. Still,’ I added doubtfully, ‘it might serve as confirmation. Though it takes us no further.’
‘No, I hardly think the superscription is intended as an elaborate red herring, Watson.’
‘Well, then, how about “block”, as in “block capitals”?’ I persisted. ‘In the American usage, that would surely direct us to the corner of the street?’
‘I don’t think that is the answer either,’ said Sir James with a laugh. ‘The late Lord Hammerford was not quite so familiar with American usage as you, Doctor.’
‘And, begging your pardon, Doctor,’ added Mortimer, ‘there isn’t anything on the corner, in either direction. Just blank walls.’
‘Blank walls? And a blank sheet of paper. Nothing in that at all, Holmes?’
I got a very impatient shake of the head by way of reply.
‘Very well,’ I persisted, ‘the sheet of paper was folded twice, when it need only have been folded once, if at all, to go into the envelope. Perhaps the second street corner?’
A shadow of a smile appeared on Mortimer’s face as he watched us flounder. He shook his aged head. ‘Nothing to the right, sir, except the square. To the left, let me see, well, there’s a little tobacconist’s shop.’
‘Ah, that might be more like it,’ said I.