The Adventure of the Plated Spoon and Other Tales of Sherlock Holmes

by Loren D. Estleman

  “No, you don’t, little missy,” said he. “Old Snipe ’as a sweet treat for you h’inside.”

  She struggled desperately, but could not break the hold of his sinewy arms, nor escape his fetid breath; his face, all pocked and stubbled under a filthy tile, was inches from hers. So constricted was she that she could not summon the breath to cry for help.

  Suddenly the man’s expression shifted from triumph to astonishment, then disgust.

  “Cor! You h’ain’t nofing but a dried-up old ’ag of thirty! What was Glory finking? Nobody’d pay a farthing for the like of you!” Whereupon he freed one hand with the intention of smacking her across the face.

  “Great Scott!” I said, horrified, at this point in her narrative. I wanted to hunt down the swine and throttle him barehanded.

  But the blow never fell. With only one arm holding her, she managed to shove him away far enough to draw back a foot and kick him on the shin.

  No rugby player ever kicked the ball harder or with greater desperation. The man Snipe howled and let go of her to cradle his barked tibia in both hands. In a thrice, Mary spun round and raced off down the street, lifting the hem of her gown and clattering the heels of her pumps on the pavement.

  Snipe gave chase, but a glance back over her shoulder revealed a pursuer much hindered by his injury, limping along like a man with a peg leg.

  She dared not alter her pace, however, or risk another look back. She wove her way through the press of pedestrians, turned this corner and that, dashed down alleyways with no sense of where she was in London or whither she was headed, determined as she was to put as much distance as possible between herself and the fiend who sought to recapture her.

  Finally, thoroughly winded, her heart pounding and her throat raw from her panting breath, she slowed to a stop. No sooner had she done so than a hand touched her shoulder.

  She whirled and lashed out with all her might, striking a hard cheek with her small fist; seeing only in the next instant that it belonged to a constable in uniform.

  London’s Finest are not so easily vanquished, however, and although astonished, the officer kept his footing and caught her in both arms as she swooned. When, assured that she would not be arrested for assaulting a member of the Metropolitan division, she’d recovered herself sufficiently to relate her tale, he looked down and said, “Here, madam, what’s this in your hand?”

  She looked down, startled to find that in her struggle to break free from her captor she’d snatched something inexplicable from the villain’s waistcoat. As it was clenched in the same fist she’d swung at the officer, the fact that he had not been sent reeling spoke leagues about his constitution.

  “What was it?” I asked.

  “Mr. Holmes will show you,” she said. “He gave me a fair turn when the policeman accompanied me by van to the Anstruthers’ to identify the housemaid and we found a disreputable-looking stranger hastening down the front steps.”

  “Thank you for the review,” said Holmes, rejoining us from the next room. “I rather think Gristle was one of my least penetrable impostitures.”

  Although he still wore the loud suit of clothes, he’d removed all traces of the door-to-door barker from his face and was rummaging in another of his multiplicity of pockets. “Perhaps not as unusual a thing to find in a thief’s waistcoat as one might think.” He held up the object Mary had snatched from Snipe: a thing so common and homely as to elicit laughter under any other circumstances.

  “A spoon?” said I.

  “No, Watson,” said he. “A key. The one that unlocks the secret to this whole affair.”

  VI.

  A Plot Unfolds

  “Is it silver?” I asked.

  “Plated pewter, almost certainly. The time required to confirm the point with nitric acid and a jeweller’s scale would be far out of ratio to its value.”

  “Then this Snipe is an ass as well as a jackal, to steal something so worthless. Where is the bounder? I ask just five minutes with him alone before he’s turned over to the police.”

  “We must possess our souls in patience. Mrs. Watson was in no state to identify the terminus of her unwanted journey, and his accomplice fled out the back door as I was coming out the front. Her liberty was the price of the information she had to give. There was nothing else for it, and of the two fish she was the one small enough to throw back. I believed her when she said she didn’t know where Snipe and his captive were headed.”

  “Twaddle! She lied.”

  “She can manage a tall story, I’ll give you that, but not with me in the audience. She convinced her employers that Dr. and Mrs. Watson had left hasty word by way of an oral messenger that they were to meet them at the theatre rather than at their house. That way there would be two fewer witnesses to the abduction. Snipe must have been pleasantly surprised to learn that the lady was alone, and that the cudgel in his pocket would not be necessary to remove her escort as an obstacle.”

  “I shall never forgive myself,” I said.

  Holmes scowled. He alone was standing. I sat on the arm of Mary’s chair, holding both her hands in mine.

  “Your wife already has, and with good reason. Snipe isn’t your ordinary footpad, scampering away at the sound of an advancing tread. Given the nature of his extracurricular activities—I do not speak of mere burglary—he would not scruple to make her a widow in order to achieve his end. You are a courageous man, Watson, formidable in battle; but I daresay a scoundrel with neither mind nor conscience is as deadly as a wounded brute.”

  Any protest I might have made died when Mary squeezed my hand. “But what is his end?” I cried.

  He looked at Mary. “Pray do not be distressed by the fellow’s vile remarks upon your maturity. Gloriana misjudged your age when she described you as a likely candidate for his enterprise. You may consider that alone, coming from another of your sex, to be a compliment.”

  “I do not upset so easily,” said she coolly, “nor flatter so quickly.”

  “In any event, it isn’t so much fading youth as strength of will and wisdom of experience that he abhors in a victim. Post-adolescent girls are more susceptible to guile, and easier to intimidate once the veil is torn away.”

  I disengaged myself from Mary and shot to my feet, fists balled at my sides. “Confound it, Holmes! Patience is one thing and torture quite something apart. We are all adults, and as you can see, my wife isn’t so fragile she cannot face harsh reality. You’re saying that in addition to a cutpurse, this blackguard Snipe is a procurer.”

  He smiled without mirth.

  “A euphemism if ever there was one. He is a white slaver, and this, like the Freemason’s apron, is the symbol of his order.” He held up the silver-plated spoon.

  VII.

  The Tale of the Spoon

  “Crime, like science, is never static,” said Holmes. “If it were, any unlettered charwoman could recognise its patterns and I should be in early retirement. Today’s traffic in young girls is not your grandfather’s racket.”

  “Racket?” I raised my brows.

  “A term of relatively recent American coinage, but with a six-thousand-year-old pedigree. In Arabic, rack is the palm of one’s hand, the oldest of weapons. The derivation in Sanskrit means ‘to stretch,’ a definition which the Spanish Inquisitors took quite literally. Americans regard a racket as a raucous noise, and applied it to the rough-and-tumble of housebreaking overheard by neighbours. From there it spread to encompass any organised criminal endeavour. I’m compiling a dictionary of underworld vernacular as a companion volume to my magnum opus, The Whole Art of Deduction. It will be the Rosetta Stone the authorities require to de-riddle the secret language of crime.”

  I gave vent to an oath. Mary had left us temporarily, to freshen up and change; thus my freedom of language. Inwardly I was relieved that she would not be present for what promised to be shocking revelations about that most vicious of smuggling operations, flesh-peddling. “Holmes, this is not the time to discuss scholarsh
ip.”

  “Just so. However, I am not static either. As we speak, Scotland Yard is scouring the city in search of Snipe’s lair, armed with a sturdy constable’s dead-reckoning based upon where he encountered your wife and the information I gave, based upon her prize.” Once again he held up the spoon, as if he expected it to reveal as much as the trusty convex lens he employed to ferret out vital clues.

  “That is some comfort,” I concluded, “but I confess I’m as much in the dark about the significance of the utensil as ever. What has it to do with enforced prostitution?” My voice fell to a whisper when I used the word.

  “A great deal. In the days of the old Bow Street Runners, the traffickers were almost invariably swarthy foreigners, easy objects of suspicion, who worked out of dank cellars, filthy brothels, rat-infested warehouses, and opium dens—dives, to use the colourful term suggested by the divans where the addicted fed their habit chasing the dragon. Again, easy targets for the authorities to aim their investigation. When the newspapers turned their crusading efforts in that direction, awakening public indignation and popular pressure, the police stepped up their efforts, raiding those establishments, arresting the inhabitants, often for transgressions decades old, and padlocking their doors.

  “Needless to say, whilst the mice were captured, the rats got away; but just as a rat is intelligent enough to abandon a ship in peril and a house where no food is available, the men behind the men who worked the racket turned their attention in less hazardous directions, albeit no less criminal. Not quite as unsavoury, let us say. Outrage was satisfied; after all, a shipment of stolen rum is not the same as a woman snatched off the street in Westminster and sold in Cairo.

  “Skip ahead to the Industrial Age,” he continued, putting a match to his favourite pipe from a pouch of his odiferous shag (those pockets!). “Cotton is no longer refined by hand, and whilst the police still maintain a weather eye upon bleak dungeons where men of low character congregate, the market in naive young women has moved to rooms reserved for private parties in good hotels, the sculpted gardens of country estates, and the corner ice-cream parlour.”

  “Ice-cream parlour!” I stared at the spoon.

  “Good old Watson. Though the train runs late, it can be depended upon to arrive at the station eventually.”

  I had grown accustomed to these sly barbs—he was as much a slave to them as to his former drug of choice—and so failed to rise to the bait. To all appearances unvexed, he toyed with the utensil, spinning it between his fingers so that the bowl flashed in the light.

  “The libretto may vary, but the music is always the same: A starry-eyed girl from the country is accosted on a railway platform—not by a dark-complected outsider, but perhaps a dashing young Englishman resembling one of the well-dressed blades who are always seen accompanying the Prince of Wales in rotogravures. He tips his hat, remarks upon the young lady’s charms, and invites her to a clean, brightly lit public place for a strawberry sundae. The flavour is immaterial; I merely use it to establish the tableau. You have seen how these parlours proliferate, and how they sparkle, with all their white porcelain and gleaming chromium, the starched white aprons worn by the clean-cut men who scoop the sweet confection into cups and bowls. Where is the mother who would not prefer to see her marriageable daughter courted by a gentleman in such a place than by a sinister-looking stranger in a low public-house?”

  “But that isn’t—”

  “As I said, while the storyline sometimes changes, the score remains the same. What does it matter whether the victim is charmed with praise from a man of evident education and good breeding, or seized by a coachman on a respectable street? Who is more invisible than a man who drives a hansom, and what vehicle less notable? The one fixed thing is the destination itself, which is not so easily changed. Your wife could not have chosen a more revealing souvenir of her adventure had she succeeded in obtaining Snipe’s fingermarks. The spoon says it all.”

  “But why was she chosen? Naturally, I regard her as the most beautiful woman in London, if not the world; but a lucky man has his prejudices.”

  “She is fair of hair and complexion, and slender. The type is rare in certain countries, therefore sought after. Every Arab sheikh must have at least one in his harem, or lose face.”

  “Certainly not every Arab sheikh would stoop to abduction and slavery.”

  “I daresay most are above suspicion, even if their views on monogamy do not coincide with ours. However, the lower classes haven’t cornered the market on evil. I don’t judge a man by the colour of his skin, but by the darkness of his soul.”

  “What takes place in these parlours?”

  “Nothing wicked, to the unpractised eye, and assuredly not in most. The odd poseur depends upon the trade’s reputation for innocent diversion, just as a cracksman may don a clerical collar to gain admission to a stately home. Honeyed words over sweet concoctions, delivered in a low voice. In your wife’s case, a clandestine departure by way of a labourer’s door into the kitchen—made easier, I should think, with a handkerchief soaked in chloroform—and from there, who can say? A voyage in the hold of a tramp steamer, a turn in an auction lot in the Orient, or delivery directly into the hands of a customer who has placed his order. The scenario is sometimes unique to the testimony of those few who have been rescued. The one detail that remains inviolate is the fact that these shining establishments are the last place any of them are seen in society.”

  I sat back with my brandy, utterly drained. “We may thank the Lord—and you, of course—that my Mary is out of it.”

  “Your Mary may be,” interposed a fresh speaker, “but my Mary is not. I shan’t be, until all these horrid places are shut down and the creatures that operate them are behind bars.”

  We rose at Mary’s sudden appearance, in a grey frock more in keeping in bright sunshine than her evening dress. Her expression, however, was as troubled as before.

  I said, “The matter is in the hands of the police. They will find the place where you made your escape, and handle the rest. Your statement in court will convict Snipe. I would spare you it, but it’s necessary. After that you’ll be out of it and in a position to forget the whole sordid affair.”

  “I shan’t ever. What of the poor girls who weren’t so lucky? Do you think I can ever put them from my mind, knowing what I know? Mr. Holmes told me everything in the cab on the way home.”

  “I’m not sure I approve of that,” I said stiffly. “Some things—”

  “They were, yes,” broke in Holmes. “Now that she’s a veteran, she has every right not to be kept in the dark. To begin with, the police will, in all likelihood, once they find Snipe’s parlour, find it deserted. He may be dense enough to pinch a pewter spoon from his employers, thinking it sterling, but self-preservation is instinctive with vermin. A few gallons of cherry-vanilla swirl for the next Orphans’ Fund gala will be the sum total of Scotland Yard’s best efforts.”

  “Then we are all powerless,” I said.

  His smile was as cold as ice cream.

  “I never accept absolutes when they are applied to me. What Gregson and Lestrade will surely overlook once they identify the place, Sherlock Holmes certainly will not.”

  “And to think I disapproved of your association,” breathed Mary.

  VIII.

  A Woman’s Will

  Scarcely had Holmes made his declaration of war when someone rang at the door. Upon the step stood a stolid oak of a man in the helmet and caped uniform of the Metropolitan Police, sporting regimental whiskers magnificent enough for a general of the Raj—and, I noted, a purple bruise upon one stony cheek. Mary’s reaction, when she joined me, confirmed what I suspected, that here was the fellow who had rescued her from her headlong dash down the street, and had gotten a smiting for his trouble.

  “Good afternoon, Officer,” said she. “You should put a steak on that eye.”

  “Too late, missus. I’ve got a fair riding from my fellows for coming off second best in a bou
t with a lady.” He chortled. “I trust you’ve recovered?”

  Holmes, impatient as usual, interrupted this cordial exchange. “What have you for me, Holcomb?”

  The constable, who had removed his helmet for Mary, clapped it back on. “Three possibilities, Mr. Holmes, within the lady’s running distance in the time she estimated she was at it.” Producing a notebook from under his cape, he rattled off three addresses. “These places multiply like rats, I’m grieved to report.”

  “We shan’t paint them all the same shade of black. The worst you can expect from most is an unsettled stomach. Let us concentrate on the one that’s closed its doors.”

  “That’s just the thing, sir. They was all shut up tight as a lady’s”—he paused, blushing in Mary’s presence—“that is to say, as the Bank of England on Sunday.”

  “Hum. They must all have learnt their methods of communication by way of the Newgate telegraph. Well, there’s no law against closing early, and two of the parlours may even be legitimate, hoping to avoid notoriety. We must visit them all.” He thanked the man and shut the door in the middle of his farewell. “We’ll stop in Baker Street on the way and put Lysander P. Gristle back in mothballs.”

  “Wherever did you get that alias?” I asked then.

  “I spent a season in a music hall in Chelsea, carrying a spear under the name.”

  “Good Lord, Holmes. How many lives have you had?”

  He smiled. “I daresay I’m the envy of most cats.”

  I excused myself, to return from the bedroom moments later with my service revolver in one pocket and a handful of extra cartridges in another. To my astonishment, Mary stood in the entrance hall, dressed for the street in a becoming hat and woolen wrap over her grey dress, parasol in hand.

  “Wherever do you think you’re going?” I demanded.

  Her eyes were steely. “When has that tone ever worked with me, John?”

  “If I may interpose,” said Holmes, interposing. “It was my suggestion. In her haste, Mrs. Watson may have forgotten something she saw that would help us pinpoint the scene of the crime. What the seers are conceited to call the sixth sense is often just a matter of jostling the memory.”