A Study in Sherlock

by Laurie R. King

  The aunt had returned from a walk to the shops, ready for the mother’s complaint. “This might feed his appetite for murder, Florence.” She placed a brown-paper-wrapped book on the table.

  “The Boys’ Sherlock Holmes?” said the mother, her eyebrows raised just a little. “I’m not sure the masters at school would approve, and he has a mountain of prep to finish—he mustn’t slip behind, you know.”

  “He’s a good pupil, so a little something light might be just what the doctor ordered—and I think the nurse trumps the teachers in the management of convalescence.”

  “Hmmm,” said the boy’s mother. “I’ll take it up with his tea.”

  Turning the pages proved to be a problem, given the white cotton gloves his mother insisted adorn his hands so that if he attempted to scratch the spots, which were becoming even more itchy and crusty as they dried out, he would not break the skin. The calamine lotion helped to a degree—already his mother had sent out the maid for two more bottles—and he’d been encouraged to take a hot bath with a copious amount of Epsom salts added to the water, but still he’d taken off the gloves in a moment of frustration and scratched his forehead so much it bled. He licked a gloved finger and fumbled the page until it turned.

  Without doubt, the adventures of Sherlock Holmes offered some respite from the Elizabethan authors he’d been studying, though he enjoyed the rhythm of the more ancient English employed by Shakespeare, Sir Philip Sidney, and Christopher Marlowe. He liked Sidney above all, having considered himself something of a poet; indeed the boy had made a vow to have his work published by the time he came of age. He could readily imagine himself lingering in an oak-lined study at Penshurst Place in Kent, where Sidney penned sweet rhyming letters to his love. It was said there was no more noble character than Sidney, in his day, and the boy thought that in itself was something to aspire to, for he wanted to be considered a noble Englishman. The endearing thing about Sidney was that he wrote about love, and the boy rather liked the idea of writing romantic verse; it appealed to him. He brought his attention back to Sherlock Holmes, though as thoughts danced and wove in his mind, he began thinking, again, about what he had seen and heard as he’d walked home from school with a raging fever. Was it his imagination? Had he really heard the altercation between the man and the woman—the lovers, as he now considered them to be? He suspected that, had Holmes been on the street, he would have uttered the words, “The game’s afoot!”

  There’s a point, as sickness leaves but before a return to good health can be claimed, that a young male, in particular, will become bored and may resort to mischief to entertain himself in the long hours of convalescence. The discomfort of healing skin did not help matters for the boy, but the itch was now one of attention, of a desire for something more exciting in the day than his mother’s footfall on the stairs as she brought a tray with breakfast, luncheon, tea, or supper. She assumed he read, wrote, or slept when alone, and to a point this was true. But now he wanted to move his limbs. And he wanted to indulge his curiosity.

  A thought occurred to the boy when he had come to the end of A Study in Scarlet, so he took up his notebook and pencil, and began to turn the pages. He reread a snippet here, a sentence there. He copied whole paragraphs, and then tried to index them into some sort of order. According to the book, which included a serviceable biography of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, together with a few pages on the man who had inspired the character of Sherlock Holmes, the detective could solve a crime in three days. Three days. Today was Tuesday, so if he dedicated Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday to the case—he now considered his experience a “case”—he would have all the answers he needed by the week’s end. It was crucial that the fledgling idea must work in the allotted time, for the doctor decreed that he could get up from his bed and remain downstairs on Saturday and Sunday, ready to return to school on Monday next. Three days.

  He consulted the book again. Holmes had instructed Watson—the boy rather liked Watson; he seemed warmer, more affable than the cold, calculating Holmes—that it was important to engage in reasoning backward and analytically. He wasn’t sure how he could put such a process into practice with regard to his case, but he began to write down everything he remembered, backward from the time he arrived home from school. This was somewhat tricky, as he had been brought part of the way in the back of a coster’s cart, among an array of wilting vegetables. The cabbage had been particularly pungent. Of essence, he realized, as he read on, was Holmes’s dictate that the detective must examine on foot the property where the crime was committed. The boy began to scheme.

  His mother and aunt walked after lunch each day, a perambulation that would extend for several hours, so having left the house at, say, one o’clock, they would return no later than four, when it was time for tea. During that time his grandmother would nod off in her chair, and be, to all intents and purposes, dead to the world. Since he had taken to his sickbed, his mother had called up the stairs as she left, then brought him a cup of tea and two plain oatmeal biscuits upon her return. Sometimes his aunt would come to his room, too, and together they would discuss his schoolwork, or an item in the newspaper of national import, and as they left, his aunt would be heard to say, “He’s such a sensitive boy, isn’t he?” or something of that order.

  He decided to leave the house as soon as they had departed following luncheon on Wednesday, but he must be certain to return by teatime. Three days, three hours each day. Holmes would indubitably be able to find a solution in such a period of time—why couldn’t he?

  Tools were gathered with some stealth. Sherlock Holmes always had at least a tape measure and a magnifying glass, and these items were procured with ease—the former taken from his mother’s sewing basket, and the latter from his grandmother’s bedside table. And it was clear that he needed a disguise—not least to conceal the livid spots dotting his face. Cosmetic powder on his aunt’s dressing table worked admirably, and soon it seemed as if he had been afflicted by no more than the odd pimple considered normal on a boy of his age. Having gathered everything he needed according to the practices of Sherlock Holmes, the boy sat on his bed and caught his breath. In truth he felt just a little dizzy, and droplets of perspiration had formed on the pale fluff above his lip. He reached for a glass of water, quenched his thirst, and slipped into bed again.

  “See you later, dear. We’ll be back by teatime.” His mother’s voice echoed up into the stairwell.

  “Bye,” replied the boy.

  He waited until the door closed and he’d given the women enough time to walk to the end of the road, then pulled back the covers, leapt out of bed, and as an afterthought, shoved a pillow between the sheets so that it seemed as if he were there, but asleep. “The game’s definitely afoot,” he whispered, as he crept past the drawing room, where the sleeping grandmother snored and smacked her lips.

  It took a good twenty minutes at not a very good pace to reach Margaret Street. Think backward, thought the boy. He referred to his notes—that morning he had recorded everything he could remember from the time he left school to the time he arrived home on the fateful day. Closing his eyes, he recalled the motorcar approaching, and the horse taking umbrage. Yes! It clipped the fence as it shied. The boy took out the magnifying glass and began to walk very slowly along the fence that ran the entire length of the terrace. There it was—though in truth, he could see the broken wood with his naked eye; there was no real need for magnification. Several slats were missing, and it was evident that the occupant of the house had pulled away the broken pieces and laid them to one side in the garden.

  “What’re you looking at?” The voice came from an open door. A woman, wearing a floral pinafore over a gray woollen dress, stood before him. As a rule he would not have noticed much about her, but now he could see that she had bunions on both feet—why else would she cut into her slippers at the joint of the big toe? She had been reading the newspaper, likely by the window—which had enabled her to see him inspecting her broken fence—b
ecause her fingertips were black. She might also be a widow, for a house of this size would not warrant a housekeeper or cook, so if she were married, she should be peeling potatoes or some such thing, not reading the newspapers. It was clear to see that this woman pleased herself. The fact that the wood had been left in a pile and the fence not mended also suggested a woman alone, for surely any man worth his salt would have done something about the gaping hole by now.

  “I was just wondering about your fence. I assume that’s where the motorcar caused the coster’s horse to shy.”

  “You saw that, did you, lad?”

  “Not really, madam. I was taken ill in the street, but I heard the noise, and I heard the coster, who kindly took me home, telling my mother about the disturbance.”

  “Disturbance? I’d like to find the blighter what did that to my fence; too right I would. I’d give him a disturbance if I knew where to find him. And if you come across him, you come and tell me about it.”

  “Yes, Mrs.…”

  “Tingley. Mrs. Tingley. Mr. Tingley passed away last year, otherwise that there hole would have been put right by now.”

  “Were you not at home when the event took place, Mrs. Tingley?”

  The woman shook her head. “The one day a week I go to the church hall for a game of whist. All the ladies on the street go, so it’s quiet around here—otherwise the blighter wouldn’t’ve got away with it.”

  “Ahhh, I see,” said the boy. “Well, good day to you, Mrs. Tingley.”

  He walked on, stopping after a few paces to make a note in his book. He could have walked and penned at the same time, but if he did so, he might miss a detail. A good consulting detective would not miss a detail.

  Holmes was a stickler for the measuring and counting of strides to ascertain the height of a man. Though at this stage the boy had no reason to do so, the idea of taking account of his pace, and then logging the details in his notebook appealed to him in case something could be deduced that might be of use as the plot thickened. Trusting he wouldn’t be seen, he went back to Mrs. Tingley’s house and, using the broken fence as a starting point, he stepped out, hopefully toward the house from which he had heard the argument and the gunshot. Frankly, he really didn’t know what he might discover in the pacing, but he was sure it would come in handy. He stopped to glance back every three strides. Yes, it was just about … here. He looked up at the terraced house. Was this the one? He tried to remember the day, to recall his feelings, then he began to feel a bit sick. He swallowed and wished he’d brought a flask of water with him, for his mouth had gone from moist to dry. But the sensation gave him an idea. He walked along the path, keeping his eyes peeled in case he saw a footprint in the soil, or something hidden in the hydrangeas. Nothing. He knocked at the door and waited.

  Two locks were drawn back, and the door opened only to the extent that five inches of chain would allow.

  “What d’yer want?”

  “I am sorry to disturb you, madam, but I wonder—I have just recovered from a sickness and feel quite unwell. Might you have a cup of water?”

  The boy thought the woman had recently enjoyed some sort of hairdressing experiment that caused small curls to form all over the scalp, so clearly she wasn’t short of a shilling or two. Her eyes, though, revealed a person who might be a good deal more accommodating than one might believe at first blush. She was older, he thought, than the woman he’d seen silhouetted at the window—much older, for this woman before him was of an age somewhere between his mother and grandmother. And it occurred to the boy that she might be scared.

  “You do look a bit peaky. Wait here, I’ll get you the water.” The woman closed the door, opening it again after three minutes had passed. Leaving the door on the chain, she handed a cup of water out to him.

  “Thank you, madam.” He drank the entire contents without taking a breath.

  “You was thirsty, that you were.” Now the woman was smiling.

  The boy handed back the cup.

  “Madam, do forgive me, but as a gentleman, I must ask—do you have cause to fear? You appear very cautious, as if you are expecting an unwanted visitor.”

  She shook her head. “No, not at all. Not at all.” She pressed her face toward the open door, as if to see along the street, though the chain prevented a good look.

  “Are you waiting for someone?”

  The woman sighed. “You look like a good boy.”

  “My mother says as much, though she may have some bias.”

  “You at the College?”

  He nodded and hoped she would not ask why he was not in uniform.

  “It’s that lodger of mine. Well, lodger as was. Not any more. No rent equals no board or lodging in this establishment. I lay down my rules when they come, and if the rent’s not paid, then they get chucked out. Bloke hadn’t been here long, but I had to give him his marching orders because I hardly saw the color of his money. He left sharpish enough, and without paying me a farthing of his arrears. You can’t be too careful though; you never know if they’re going to come back and give you a fourpenny-one and leave you with a black eye.”

  “Was he not a good man?”

  “Oh, he was all right, I suppose. But he kept late hours, on top of the arrears, and he brought back women.”

  The boy blushed. “Did he?”

  The woman looked up the street again without answering, then announced that this would never do, and she couldn’t stand there talking all day. The boy consulted his watch and realized that he couldn’t stand there either—for his mother and aunt would return to the house before him if he didn’t cut along.

  Florence and Ethel checked his homework after tea, and then read together—passing Sherlock Holmes from one to the other as they made their way through The Sign of the Four. The boy was fast coming to the conclusion that Holmes was not as interesting as he considered himself to be; then he remembered that the man was a fiction and probably didn’t think of himself at all. But the detective’s adventures inspired him, and he planned another excursion on the morrow, when he would go to the house on Margaret Street again. It occurred to him that, in the meantime, he must discover the name of the nearest detective inspector. He may not have a Lestrade waiting in the wings, but he was beginning to believe he was on to something—a murder, perhaps—and he would need a trusted policeman to apprehend the perpetrator of the crime. Alone in his room, the boy recalled details of the overheard argument and gunshot, and feared that the lodger at the house in Margaret Street was a criminal to be reckoned with.

  “Back at four, dear!”

  The front door closed behind the two women, and the grandmother could be heard padding along to her chair in the drawing room, the one by the window where a warming shaft of sunlight soothed her bones as if she were an old dog. The boy rose from his bed fully clothed, shoved the pillow under the covers, and set off on his quest for truth. It was day two of his investigation, and he had much to accomplish. He stopped at the bakery and bought four jam tarts, then went on his way again.

  “Madam!” He smiled as the woman opened the door and peered at him over the chain. “You were so very kind yesterday, I thought I should repay you with a small treat. Do you like jam tarts?”

  Her eyes lit up. “I most certainly do.”

  He held out the bag, and she wavered as she reached to take it from the boy. “I thought you looked like a nice sort of boy yesterday. Would you like to come in for a cup of tea?”

  Indeed he would.

  Mrs. Richmond—she had revealed her name as he followed her along the passageway—busied herself in the kitchen. It was a kitchen not unlike the one at the house in Auckland Road where he lived with his mother, aunt, and grandmother, though the kitchen at home was more spacious and better appointed. In Mrs. Richmond’s kitchen a kettle boiled on a black cast-iron range, above which various towels and cloths were hung over a wooden clothes airer. A vase of paper flowers, now faded and brown, had been set in the center of a wooden table that was b
owed in the middle from, he thought, many decades of use. Mrs. Richmond laid out two chipped cups and a plate with the jam tarts, and poured tea from a brown pot. She put milk and sugar in his cup without first asking.

  “Do you live alone, apart from lodgers, Mrs. Richmond?”

  The woman nodded. “Since I lost my Jim in the first Transvaal war. He was out there at the beginning. Regular army.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “What’re you sorry for?” She reached for a jam tart. “Weren’t your fault. And I get a bit of a pension, just a few pennies, but it helps. We never had any children, and Jim was a good one for putting something away, so I’m not for the workhouse yet.”

  They sat in silence for a moment, then the boy spoke again. “I was wondering, after we spoke yesterday, if the room was still available. A friend of my mother is at this very moment looking for accommodation, and I thought it might be serendipitous that I was so taken with thirst yesterday, and in knocking at your door discovered you had a room to let.”

  “What with all the trouble that last lodger caused me, I only take gentlewomen of good standing now—no men.” She looked at him as if weighing up his social station.

  “I would imagine your mother’s a fine woman, and any friend of hers would be cut from the same cloth.”

  “Might I see the room, so that I can best describe it to my mother’s friend?”

  The woman sighed. “I suppose it wouldn’t do any harm.”

  She took a key from a hook on the wall above the sink, and motioned toward the passageway along which he had walked to the kitchen from the front door. As they reached the staircase, the woman leaned on the banister and sighed.

  “Young man, I’m not as nippy on those stairs as I was, and I don’t feel like running up and down more than once or twice a day. Here’s the key. It’s the room at the front; the door’s directly behind you when you get to the landing. Don’t be more than five minutes, or I’ll think you’re a thief.”