“The interpretation of the name as referring to one of Her Majesty’s daughters was the simple part, then it forced you into considering quite unlikely things, including ciphers.”
“All right, I got the point the first time.”
“No, the name ‘Princess Louise’ must surely refer to the celebrated public house of that name which opened a few years ago in Holborn. It is not an ordinary pub, in the sense that it caters to a somewhat higher class of people than most London public houses, and as such it is rather lavishly furnished. Mr Winstanton I take to be the proprietor of the establishment, and although his message is vague on the details, the writing does betray some of the pub-owner’s habitual taste for banter, what with referring to my ‘thirst for the unusual’.”
“You don’t think it is a trap of some sort?”
“You are right to be suspicious, Watson. It does seem like an attempt to lure me into a trap, but who would trap me in such a public place as that? The purpose of the note is probably just to arouse my curiosity, and in this endeavour, it has succeeded. So, how about it, Watson?”
I was not one to go against Holmes’ wishes when he was on the scent, and I was just as intrigued by the prospect of adventure as he was, so I threw away the newspaper I had been reading, and within a quarter of an hour a hansom deposited us at the patriotically named establishment of the message. It was only six o’clock, but already the place was filling up with a colourful collection of assorted clerks from the surrounding office buildings, as well as academics and intellectuals streaming down from nearby Bloomsbury. But this collection did not automatically mean a mixture, for as Holmes had mentioned, this was a more sophisticated pub than the average one, and as we entered through one of its two entrances, a corridor led into four separate rooms, all of them abutting onto the same counter, but divided by high walls decorated with panes of frosted glass. The first room that we looked into was the noisiest, and the men assembled there could be described as skilled workers, or what some have termed the “labour aristocracy”. Here, however, they were at the bottom of the pyramid, for the next room contained a more modest group of well-dressed men who looked to me like lowly clerks and the odd office boy, and the ascension continued in the next rooms, until the back room, which was very much like stepping into the lounge of the Athenaeum.
It was here that a man approached us. He seemed a bit out of place among the distinguished gentlemen scattered around the room, as his appearance rather called to mind a dubious businessman or vulgar music-hall proprietor, with flamboyant ginger side-whiskers and a gold-embroidered waistcoat.
“Ah, Mr Holmes,” he said in a strong voice which reverberated throughout the room. “My name is Arnold Winstanton, the proprietor of this humble establishment. I’m glad my note managed to lure you here.”
“It lured me this far,” said Holmes, “but I proceed no further without more information. The note was sparse in the extreme. Why this secrecy?”
“Well, if you will at least proceed up the stairs with me, all will be explained.”
Mr Winstanton showed us to a flight of stairs at the back of the lounge, and we climbed up to a private bar which, it seemed for our benefit, had been emptied of people. Winstanton invited us to sit in a couple of comfortable leather armchairs by a roaring fire before taking a seat himself, inspecting us with a pleased, almost jeering, smile. “So, gentlemen, you were wondering why I asked you here.”
“Is it anything to do with the thieving barman?” asked Holmes.
“No.” His smile vanished in less than a second. “Certainly not. What barman would that be?”
“The one downstairs, big fellow, short black hair and handlebar moustache. He has been stealing from your register for at least a few weeks now.”
“Burleigh? What nonsense! What makes you think that?”
“He hides the money in a secret pocket inside his waistcoat which bulges conspicuously. The fabric on the front of the waistcoat has become stretched as a result of it.”
Winstanton impatiently sidestepped the matter. “No, it is not about that.”
“I see,” said Holmes. “Then is it perhaps the matter of your deceitful wife?”
“What?” Winstanton’s eyes looked as if they were going to fall out of their sockets.
“Very well. Proceed.”
Winstanton now looked utterly confused. “Why do you think my wife is deceiving me?”
“It is of no consequence. Please state your case.”
The man took a few deep breaths to compose himself. “It is simply because I have the highest respect for your powers of observation that I have asked you to come here, Mr Holmes, and I hope that you may assist me.”
“I shall certainly do my best.”
“All right, then. Mr Holmes, I believe the Princess Louise is haunted. On four consecutive nights now, customers have complained of being robbed of their possessions, but despite exhaustive efforts to obtain the missing items and to apprehend the pickpockets, there has been no solution to the mystery. After the first two incidents, an Inspector Gregson came to investigate, and he suspected that a gang of pickpockets is operating in the premises. He had four of his men in civilian clothes infiltrating the visitors an entire evening, but nothing came out of it. Not even when a gentleman complained of having lost his pocketbook and Gregson ordered all the customers not to leave. Mr Holmes, each and every one of the customers that night were thoroughly searched, but nothing was found! Despite this, Gregson arrested three men on suspicions grounded upon the fact that the infiltrating policemen had not been able to survey them sufficiently. But all three men had to be released, since all of them proved to be entirely respectable City clerks with not a flaw in their character. And yet it goes on. Last night, three customers had their pockets picked, one of his purse and two of their watches.”
“And what of the staff?” inquired Holmes.
“I trust them all, including Burleigh. He has a seedy past, and maybe he takes a few notes from the till now and then, but he nor any of the others could have picked the customers’ pockets since they are all behind the counter, and the counter, as you know, is circular and never opens up into the rooms. I employ a young girl who goes around and picks up the empty tankards from the tables, but naturally I have searched her belongings as well as the kitchen and the kitchen staff without success. I can but think that whoever snatches things from our visitors has the ability to become invisible. A ghost!”
Winstanton broke off and produced a handkerchief to wipe his brow. Holmes was silent and did not move a muscle in his face.
“But surely,” I said, “it must be very difficult to keep track of everybody who comes and goes. I’m sure the explanation must be that the culprit is extremely skilled at sneaking away inconspicuously and was even able to do so when the police was present.”
“Impossible!” cried Winstanton. “The moment that gentleman noticed his pocketbook was gone, the inspector blew his whistle and his men stopped everybody from passing through the doors.”
“I see.”
Winstanton looked at Holmes. “You are a man of few words,” he said.
Holmes looked up from his thoughts. “The problem is interesting, but the solution can only be a simple one. The stolen goods must be hidden somewhere in the premises since they have not been taken from here, at least not when the police was present. The thief is, as you said, Watson, most professional, and the secret to his success must be a very special trick of the trade. Tell me, Mr Winstanton, how would you describe the men that fell victim to the thefts?”
The publican shrugged.
“Quite ordinary, I suppose, like most of our customers. Some I would say belonged to the lower office working class, respectable but hardly men of means. But most of the afflicted men were very distinguished gentlemen indeed. One of them was a Lord, if I’m not mistaken.”
<
br /> “And have the thefts occurred in any special compartment of the pub or in different rooms?”
“There have been incidents in both the front and back rooms.”
“And how did the victims call attention to their thefts?”
“By calling out, of course, as is the custom. ‘Stop thief.’ ‘I’ve been robbed.’ Something like that.”
“All of them?”
“Yes.”
“Yes. It is of course the time lapse between the actual pocket picking and the discovery of the theft that is critical. Most street pickpockets operate in gangs and the party who actually does the stealing immediately hands over the stolen goods to an accomplice who passes by and then walks off in a completely different direction than the first party. This second man also generally hands the goods over to a third person as a precaution. Thus the man that is most easily apprehended - namely the actual thief - is almost never the man who has the loot, and so there is seldom any evidence against him. But why would a gang of pickpockets choose the interior of a public house instead of the street where it is so much easier to get away? Admittedly it is a public house with a wealthier clientele than most others, but the public street also has a wealthy clientele. No, I think we can exclude the possibility that we are dealing with a gang of pickpockets. The thief works alone.”
“I find that quite unlikely,” said Winstanton.
“There are other ways of disappearing after the act has been committed.” Holmes lowered his gaze. His next words were directed to himself. “Yes. Yes. That must be it.” And then he looked up again. “Well, I thank you, Mr Winstanton, for providing us with a most intriguing case. If you don’t mind, Dr Watson and I will now go down into the saloon bar and have a couple of beers.”
“At my expense of course, Mr Holmes!” said Winstanton. “I trust I will hear from you?”
“Sooner than you might think.”
And so we were escorted back downstairs, and Winstanton left us to take care of other business. Holmes, having been slightly pensive while listening to the publican’s story, now seemed more cheerful, and he knocked his pot of beer against mine with the fervour of a drunken sailor. “Your very good health, Watson!”
“You sound very optimistic all of a sudden.”
“Well, yes and no. I am optimistic concerning this case and its potential of becoming an interesting one, but at the same time, all vital clues point to a very tangled skein indeed, and one that may have dark dimensions.”
“How so? You suspect the involvement of some sort of criminal organisation?”
“That is a question of definition. I think we are dealing with a very cunning adversary here, and I suspect that he may not be quite what we expect. But I’m afraid I have no working hypothesis as yet. What about you, Watson? You were pretty silent up there. What theories do you have?”
“Well, if this man really is working alone, as you think, then I would guess that he makes use of disguises rather than accomplices.”
“Brilliant, Watson. Why do you think so?”
“A lot of pickpockets do it. Why, almost every week the papers report on the latest deeds of the ‘swell mob’. In this case, however, it is a question of one man and several disguises. At least, that would be my guess. One man snatches a pocket watch, sneaks into the next compartment before the theft has been discovered, and while doing so, changes some small but vital detail in his garb so as to transform him from, say, a Chelsea ‘toff’ into a low-ranking office assistant.”
“What change would that be?”
“Oh, perhaps removing a fancy cravat to reveal the simple tie behind it, putting on or removing a false moustache, wrapping a worn muffler around the neck - things like that.”
“I see. This theory really does you credit, dear friend.”
“Thank you, Holmes.”
“It really is most creative.”
I put down my beer. “You tend to talk like this just before you’re about to criticise me.”
“Do I? Well, it is not empty flattery simply to ease the blow. I really mean it. It is a creative theory.”
“But…?”
“But…perhaps you fail to consider a few vital points.”
“Let’s have it.”
“I am not suggesting that this notion of a chameleon-like pickpocket is unlikely. It would certainly be a worthy adversary for us, for he would have to be a most ingenious and skilled artisan. But why develop such an advanced technique and such accomplished skills and then only use them in one public house? Undoubtedly it is a more lucrative public house to operate in than most, but all the same. If it is as Winstanton says and the same man is present every night, then he can hardly operate anywhere else, considering the extensive preparations he has to make for his transformation acts. And although I do believe a small change in appearance would impede identification by those who have only seen him in the corner of their eye, I hardly think that he would have been able to escape the watchful eyes of Gregson and his men. For that he would need an entire wardrobe, and where would he hide that? No, there are too many fallacies in this theory, thought-provoking though it is.”
“Very well. I appreciate your honesty. I assume that you prefer not to speak yet?”
“I have my suspicions. But at the moment, let us satisfy ourselves by scrutinising Mr Winstanton’s story. It is all very neat and tidy, is it not? It looks like a classic case of pick pocketing. The crowded public place, the mixing of social classes, the proverbial cry of ‘Stop thief’ and the dexterity bordering on invisibility. There is something about it that does not feel quite right.”
Just at that moment, a fellow next to me pushed against me and accidentally spilled some wine on my coat sleeve. My patience was running out.
“Holmes, I don’t like places like this. Let’s go home.”
“Just a moment, Watson. Let us find out as much as we can while we are here. Who knows, we might just witness the thief in action. Ah, here comes one of the barmen. Mr Burleigh, unless I am mistaken?”
The broad-shouldered man, who had been serving the customers with tireless energy while we had been talking, started to wipe the counter in front of us with a wet rag.
“Can I help you gentlemen?” His voice boomed like a mountain troll’s.
“What are your thoughts on these recent thefts?” asked Holmes.
Burleigh smiled with one half of his mouth. “Well, it’s a nuisance, isn’t it? Especially when they steal from them toffs, cause they make such a row, and they suspect us barmen.”
“But I understand that this pickpocket doesn’t just steal from the rich.”
“Oh no. In fact, it was just that one time that a Lord was robbed. All the other times it was ordinary gentlemen, like you and me.”
This curious comparison made me laugh. Holmes sniffed. “But you have quite a distinguished clientele, don’t you?”
“Oh yeah. Have a look over there, in the inner parlour. The man with the buttonhole. He’s a member of parliament, he is. Of course, the upper rooms are closed tonight. When they are open you can see one honourable member after another climbing those stairs.”
“But our mysterious pickpocket has not seen fit to infiltrate that gathering?”
“Apparently not. Which is very lucky indeed for Mr Winstanton. If that occurred, he would be in trouble.”
“How so?” I asked.
“They say he has a lot of fancy friends and many respected people have invested money in this venture.”
“Really?” I said. “Who?”
“I’m afraid I couldn’t tell you, sir. It may be just a rumour, but Mr Winstanton is up there, every night, sucking up to the well-to-do.”
“I understand,” said Holmes. “Well, thank you, Mr Burleigh. It was nice talking to you.”
And just as I was startin
g to enjoy my beer, Holmes dashed off, out into the corridor, leaving me no option but to follow him.
“Are we finished here at last?” I queried.
“Not yet. Let us get an idea of the layout of the place before we leave.”
Holmes started to walk down the corridor through which we had entered. Then he dashed here and there, in and out of the various compartments, quicker than I had time to react. I followed him into the front rooms, where the noise was unbearable and the crowds impenetrable, and then into the other corridor, leading into an identical series of rooms on the other side of the counter. The place was an absolute maze, and after a few minutes, I was almost completely disoriented, and satisfied myself by following in Holmes’ footsteps without trying to get my bearings. When Holmes had scurried around long enough, however, he claimed to be content, and we could leave. I had the feeling that the Princess Louise was the type of public house that is very popular for a while, and during that time infernally crowded and noisy, until it falls out of favour and then is forgotten. My taste is more towards the quieter and more perpetual taverns that do not try so hard to attract business, like the Alpha Inn, for instance, which Holmes and I once had the opportunity to visit, and which lay not far from the Princess Louise.
On the cab ride home, Holmes was silent and I allowed him to remain so. Our night out had left me rather tired. He only said one thing to me, as we approached Baker Street.
“Did you notice, Watson, that the curtains at the Princess Louise were made of Provencal velvet?”
“No, I did not.”
“It is a very expensive type of velvet. I have only seen it once before.”
“Where?”
“At Buckingham Palace.”
And then the cab stopped, and Holmes climbed out.
When I came down to breakfast the next morning, Holmes had already gone out. It gave me time to ponder about the previous evening over my morning coffee, and to try and tie together some of the loose ends in my head. I gathered from what Holmes had said that it was a bit strange for a pickpocket to focus his attention on just one public house, and yet, since it was such a distinguished one, this did not seem to me so very odd. Furthermore, I was still not convinced that this was not the work of a gang, and I struggled to recall the faces that we had seen in the bar during our visit, and speculated whether there was anything suspicious about them. I could, however, only call to mind one gentleman who had been standing at the bar just opposite to us, and thus framed by my field of vision throughout my conversation with Holmes. There was nothing very peculiar about his appearance, but for some reason, I concluded that he was out of place in that particular compartment. The men around him looked a bit better dressed and more well-kempt. It was just an impression, and I could not put my finger on just what it was that made me think this, but it was often like that when you noticed people in public. One could with exactitude pinpoint their social and geographical position almost in an instinct, but when asked to describe one’s reasoning, it was impossible. I suppose it was what Holmes used to call “seeing without observing.”
The Sensible Necktie and Other Stories of Sherlock Holmes Page 7