by George Mann
Barring a period of three weeks in my youth, when I used such an item to track the progress of certain Clostridium spores I was cultivating, I have never felt the need to keep a diary. Public attention is anathema to me, and I can conceive of no reason for keeping a journal, other than the gratification of future publication.
That said, I am intrigued enough by a recent article on the subject of memory to attempt to jot down those tangential, apparently inconsequential, thoughts and experiences that – so the article insists – will in due course come together with similar thoughts and so form new connections that may prove of utility in the profession to which I have decided to dedicate myself. To that end, I shall record in these pages any interactions with my fellow man, however minor they may seem, and so in time build a permanent catalogue of my experiences, which may prove useful one day.
The next few pages had unfortunately been torn out, causing me to wryly ponder Holmes’s definition of “permanent”, but my friend’s spidery handwriting reappeared thereafter, on a fresh and undated page.
MORNING
The morning was cooler than it had been in recent weeks, and though the London air was never fresh, the earliness of the hour did at least provide a certain crispness that necessitated my wearing a heavy coat as I strode along the length of Great Cumberland Place, deep in thought.
Similarities in the reporting of two distinct, apparently unconnected crimes had niggled at the edge of my mind to a sufficient extent that I had been troubled in my sleep, and so found myself, at the ludicrously early hour of six am, deep in cogitation on the edge of Hyde Park.
In the first case, several flourishing businesses had been razed to the ground in seemingly motiveless arson attacks: a papermaker’s, a chandler’s, an ironmonger’s and an insurance office. The police had taken little interest, and indeed the first attack had been assumed to be an accident until the discovery in the debris of a badly scorched lantern that did not belong to the insurers. A spate of ever more destructive attacks had finally led to the matter being treated more seriously, until a body was discovered in the ashes of the final fire: the arsonist, according to Scotland Yard, and the case had been closed. The identity of the dead man had caught my attention, however. Nathaniel Ward was a notorious and successful cracksman, if one no longer in the first flush of youth, and not an obvious pyromaniac.
The second case involved the disappearance of a young engineer, Matthew Clute. This man, in the prime of his life and seemingly happily married, had allegedly absconded with a waitress he had met in a tearoom near his home. The evidence for this theory, according to the scant news reports, consisted of the fact that the girl had served him the day before he vanished, and she herself had not been seen since. The fact that the girl had only started in her position a few days previously was, the police believed, further evidence of a sudden mutual passion. I cannot say exactly why I believe a link exists, but the fact remains that I do, and this morning my thoughts were much absorbed in the matter.
I admit, therefore, that I was not paying as much attention to my surroundings as is my wont, but I was not so dead to the world that I failed to feel a slight tug at my jacket, nor so slow that I was not able quickly to grasp the dipper by the collar. I had only a moment to observe my captive, however, before he slipped from his own jacket and, leaving it still gripped in my hand, escaped down Edgware Road. A flash of dirty brown hair and an impression of youth were the sum of my observations at the time, but I resolved to examine the boy’s coat more thoroughly at home, as a useful test of my powers of deduction.
EVENING
Having spent the majority of the day making use of the university laboratories to conduct certain chemical experiments that I believe will prove interesting if run to their conclusion, I returned to my lodgings at about ten thirty, still carrying the jacket. My intention had been to examine it in close detail, teasing out, as it were, any indications of its owner’s idiosyncrasies and even identity, as was increasingly my habit with every new acquaintance. More than one sceptic has been surprised by the amount of information to be garnered simply from close observation of his shoes, cuffs and collar.
In the event, however, I was so tired that I simply threw the jacket over the back of my only chair and repaired to bed, exhausted. It would wait until morning, I believed.
* * *
In that, I was mistaken. Late that night, I was wakened by a noise coming from the sitting room. A quiet scraping, which I knew from experience indicated the main door opening, was followed by a stealthy footfall and, as I crossed to the bedroom door and pressed my ear against the wood, the sound of rapid breathing. With nothing more fearsome to hand, I took hold of a walking stick, which had been left by a previous occupant, and quickly threw open the door.
Fortunately, the light from the street lamps outside illumined the room enough for me to make out the young miscreant I had tangled with that morning. He stood near the fire, transfixed by shock, eyes wide and darting around like some cornered animal. Oddly, I had the fleeting impression that I had seen his face before, in a different context.
“Good evening,” I said with what I pride myself was an admirably even tone. “My name is Sherlock Holmes. Can I help you?”
Any hopes I might have had of engaging in conversation with the boy – for, seen close to, he was no more than sixteen, pale and thin, and obviously no physical threat – were quickly dashed. He darted towards the main door, pushing my chair into my path as he did so. For a second I fancied I saw his gaze alight upon his jacket, and certainly he made a slight movement towards it, but it fell to the floor by my feet. With a grunt of disappointment, he pulled open the door and was gone. I heard the heavy thud of his steps on the stairs and then silence. I crossed to the window in time to see him running away down the street, soon to be swallowed up by the darkness.
* * *
Of course, there could be no thought of further sleep. Not that I foresaw any great mystery in the night’s events. Clearly, even a garment as soiled as this was of value to a penniless street urchin. Furthermore, if he were so determined to retrieve his jacket that he would risk the penalty for burglary, then he must believe that its pockets contained some great treasure. Equally clearly, what a half-starved child considered a treasure might appear less impressive to a gentleman of even such paltry means as myself. I lit a lamp and a cigarette, and spread the jacket out on the table, expecting to uncover a wallet in one of its pockets or some such minor, illicit prize.
Even viewed in less than optimum light, much could be read from the jacket. For a start, if there was a wallet secreted within, it was a small one, for no bulge betrayed its presence. Instead, the jacket lay completely flat on the table, the material thin as tissue, with a sleek shine and greasy feel to it that spoke of poverty and filth. Bringing my nose close to a sleeve, I made out the scent of cigarette smoke, cheap food and the general stench of London’s streets.
The outer pockets, when emptied, offered up little of assistance. The snapped-off blade of a rusty knife, a short length of knotted string and a smooth stone were striking only in their anonymity. I placed the stone to one side for later testing, before examining the front of the garment.
The first thing I noticed was that the three front buttons of the jacket were missing. Closer scrutiny with a magnifying glass added the detail that while one button had been torn off, whether by accident or misadventure, the other two had been carefully snipped away with scissors or a sharp knife.
Of course I understand that dippers rarely fasten their jackets, for the simple reason that, in the extremis of a policeman’s grip, they can more easily shed an unbuttoned coat, but I was not aware that the complete removal of the buttons was considered necessary. Far more likely that one button had been lost and, with no money for a replacement, the owner had chosen to remove the other two rather than go about in a garment so obviously damaged. Adding a little flesh to the bones of this theory was the fact that a tiny tear in the material where the
original button had been ripped had been carefully sewn. That the ragged urchin who had just fled my rooms should be so precious about his appearance seemed improbable, but I have always felt that the improbable is too often confused with the impossible.
As it happened, my theory was confirmed as soon as I opened the jacket up. Generally speaking, the homeless children who populate London do not wear overcoats, the expense of such an item causing them to settle for a tattered shirt and a thick layer of ingrained dirt to keep them warm. There are, of course, some who affect a jacket, either for comfort or due to their several pockets, but in every case the garment is a cheap one, handed down from a now-absent father or stolen from a careless working man. This jacket, however – though it was battered almost beyond recognition – had begun life as a gentleman’s summer coat. A label had been partly torn away, leaving only a few letters – “Nor” – but those were sufficient to allow me to identify the tailor as Norton & Sons of Savile Row. That was interesting in itself, but of far greater import was the fact that the style of the jacket was one of only two years since. A jacket such as this might make its way naturally to the gutter – from master to servant, and from there in descending charitable stages to its present owner – but such a journey would be a long one, spread over many years. How it had contrived to make its way from a society home to a street Arab’s back so quickly was, I thought, a pretty puzzle indeed.
The puzzle proved less pretty than I had expected, however. Tucked into a rent in the lining was a small square of paper, folded several times and carefully secreted so as to remain safe from a casual glance as well as unlikely to fall and so be lost. Even before I spread open the paper and read its contents, it was clear that the boy I had so recently chased from my rooms was no ordinary urchin. By the time I had completed my reading, I had recalled who he was and – more interestingly – come across a minor and potentially diverting mystery.
All I have to do now is find him!
* * *
At that dramatic point, the first entry ended. I flipped the page over, fascinated to learn more from this younger version of my friend, but to my disappointment, the succeeding few pages were a mixture of the commonplace and the implausible, as Holmes used the book for everything from a reminder to buy new shirt collars to a note regarding various types of cigar ash. I almost skipped the following page, where a faded and smudged carbon copy of a letter had been pasted, but fortunately the word “runaway” caught my eye and drew my attention to its fascinating – if occasionally illegible – contents.
Dear Mr Hamilton,
I write to you as a stranger, but in hopes that I may be able to provide assistance to someone once known to you and, in doing so, provide you with certain information that may be of interest to you and your lady wife.
I will come straight to the point, if I may. My name is Sherlock Holmes and I work as a consulting detective. Yesterday, as I walked in Hyde Park, I encountered your son, Frederick, who, I believe, has been estranged from you for some time.
Forgive me for raking up memories that may be painful to you, but my understanding is that Frederick absconded from the family [word faded and illegible] some two years since, along with several valuable items, and that neither yourself nor your wife have heard from him since. That being so, I hope it will give you some consolation to hear that he is alive and in reasonably good health here in London. Fortunately I remembered reading a newspaper report of the theft that included a sketch of your son, and so was able to befriend him to an extent.
I understand from Frederick that he fears that any attempted reconciliation on his part might be rebuffed, but I hope most earnestly that this is not the case and some form of entente might be reached between you. As a token of his own contrition, he asked me to enclose [the words here were smudged beyond recognition] in the expectation that you will recognise it and comprehend its meaning.
I speak not as an especial confidante of your son, but simply as one whose path crossed his own recently and who would like to help a young boy gone astray, if he might. To that end, I wonder if Frederick had any particular friend in the capital to whom he might listen and whom I might convince to add his voice to my own in persuading Frederick to return home.
I am, your servant,
Sherlock Holmes
Pasted beneath the letter was a short snipping from a local newspaper, regarding the unpleasant case of one Frederick Hamilton, a fourteen-year-old boy who had run away from his parents’ comfortable middle-class home with a quantity of the family silver on his person. Police had apparently made enquiries, but had failed to find him. Holmes, however, had recognised him from his description – his prodigious memory for crime and criminals evidently already in place even so early in his career.
I laid the book to one side and considered this extraordinary missive. The Holmes I knew would not, I was sure (or, at least, hoped), have stooped to outright deception in order to progress a case, far less from mere curiosity, but there was no denying that he had done so in this instance. He had been a younger, more impetuous man, of course, but still, the thought was a troubling one.
I wondered what item Holmes had sent to establish his bona fides, then felt a familiar tightness in my throat as I remembered that I would never be able to ask him that question in person. In need of distraction and, I admit, eager to discover Holmes’s next move, I resumed my reading.
18th February 1879
Several days have passed without reply from the Hamiltons. I fear that my tone was too forward. No matter. I am certain that some fresh avenue of investigation will occur to me in due course, and in the meantime I have experiments in grave need of my time. I shall put this diary to one side for now.
19th February 1879
MORNING
A letter has arrived from Mr Hamilton! I admit to a certain relief at his response, which makes it plain that neither he, nor his wife, have any desire to be reunited with their errant son. Thus relieved of the painful task of admitting that I exaggerated Frederick’s desire to return to the bosom of his family, I can utilise the other significant revelation in the letter – the last address where, Hamilton tells me, the police were able to track the boy.
I say address, but perhaps location is a better word, for Hamilton states that it has neither name nor number, but lies within an area of the capital I do not recognise, a rundown section of Whitechapel named George Yard. Situated mere yards from the high street, according to my street map, the entire area is a den of thieves and army deserters, if one newspaper report I uncovered at the library is to be given credence. I am certain that no gentleman would last more than a moment or two in its grip before he was hounded back into the light of the main thoroughfare. How then might I gain uninterrupted access? I will smoke a pipe or two and give the matter some thought.
LATER
I have never considered myself a great thespian, though I did some backstage work at school, but I believe that I would be proficient at disguising my appearance sufficiently to pass as a vagabond and so gain entry to George Yard and the hovel beside it where Frederick was last spotted. At worst, I will be uncovered and forced to flee, but the information contained in the document I found in Frederick’s tattered jacket is of great enough import to render that risk one worth taking.
I have resolved to visit this evening.
20th February 1879
I doubt if I shall ever again be involved in such a perilous endeavour as that of last night, or enter so squalid a dwelling. I arrived in Whitechapel at a little after ten o’clock, having spent the majority of the evening preparing myself. Throwing an old suit on the ground and walking over it repeatedly had given it a suitably down-at-heel condition (and gained me no end of perplexed looks from passers-by), while the application of a little stage make-up and grime from the London streets took care of the visible portion of my face and neck. Finally, what could barely be recognised as a hat, purchased from a tinker’s cart, completed my tramp disguise. I would pass muster
amongst the poorer sort who lived in George Yard, I was sure.
The street itself is a dark, narrow lane off Whitechapel High Street. The walls ran with water and my breath turned to steam in front of me as I shuffled along its length, eyes alert, aware that even at night places such as this remained as busy as during the day. Not that such busyness is obvious to a stranger to the area, but, as I have pointed out frequently, almost nobody truly observes his surroundings – a capital mistake, in my opinion. To look but not see is a trap into which I am determined never to fall.
So it is that I can say that as I made my way along the cobbled ground, I saw a man planning a burglary that would fail and lead to his capture (the uncovered tip of a jemmy protruding from a bag and a pronounced limp did not argue for either great cunning or fleetness of foot); a confidence trickster and card sharp (that he was the only sober man amongst his drunken victims was plain to anyone versed in the physical signs of genuine inebriation); and a myriad of children who could and should be set to bettering themselves rather than being left to rot away in the Whitechapel dirt (the intelligence on each face was matched only by the degree of filth – cunning need not, after all, be an evil thing).
Beyond these incidental observations, however, I was most aware of the crushing poverty in which every man, woman and child lived, here in a street mere yards from the centre of human civilisation. I had more pressing matters to attend to, however, and so leaned back against a wall, every inch the loafing ruffian, and cast my eyes about for the rundown building described by Hamilton.
The lane had by this point opened out into a small square, and across the way, I made out a break in the darkness, a narrow opening formed in the gap between one derelict building and the next. Though it was a good ten feet away, I felt sure that the air inside would be cold and taste foul. For a moment I considered turning back and letting the matter drop. Was the information in Frederick’s letter truly worth this? But mine is a mind that requires stimulation, and I would get none back home, so I slipped my hand inside my coat pocket and wished I had a revolver to hand.