by David Marcum
We left our cab at a busy crossroads on the outskirts of the City, and headed eastwards. Our road did not take us into very fashionable surroundings, and I observed as much to Holmes.
“Indeed,” said he, “a military man, with an important occupation, and - what did our client say? Ah, yes, ‘a real gent,’ I believe. Such a man might be expected to have a more elegant establishment. Ah, but here we are. Hum! The house seems as faded as the street.”
In this, Holmes was quite correct. I looked somewhat askance at the slightly dusty windows, the faded green paint on the door, the general air of neglect. Holmes rang the bell, and the door was opened at one by Mrs. Bradley, who had evidently been expecting us, and was in a state of some excitement.
“Oh, Mr. ‘Olmes,” she began, “am I pleased that you’ve come! As I said, Naylor - the little rat - ‘e’s just gone out, says he’ll be an hour or two. Now, if you’ll step this way, sir, and I’ll show you the cellar.”
She was as good as her word, taking us to a plain wooden door which gave onto a flight of stone steps. “I won’t go down there, sir, if you don’t mind,” said Mrs. Bradley, “I’d be that frightened of what we might find.”
“That is very well,” said Holmes, “Watson and I will manage well enough. Do you have a candle, or - ah!” as Mrs. Bradley produced a lantern and matches. “Excellent! You are an ideal client! Now, Watson, let us proceed.”
I followed Holmes into the cellar. It was, as Mrs. Bradley had told us, a perfectly ordinary cellar, with brick walls. A few bits of old furniture and the like stood about, or lay, rather, for the detritus was scattered all over the floor: and old chair, the remains of a kitchen table, much battered, a hammer, and the like, were among the useless items which I noticed.
Holmes had gone over to one wall, one which I knew was the innermost wall of the house. He held up the lantern. “Ah!”
I looked where he pointed, and saw that several of the bricks had been removed, as if someone were trying to break through the wall into the adjoining premises. The bricks themselves were stacked neatly on the floor.
“Not the common or garden attempt at robbery, surely, Holmes?” I protested, the disappointment in my voice plain enough even to my own ears. But then I was disappointed, I admit it frankly. The case which had seemed to be possessed of some interesting points was nothing more than a trite robbery, or attempt at a robbery! And I could see that Holmes, too, felt let down. Let down, and perhaps even puzzled.
Now that the thought occurred, there was something not quite right about all this. Oh, I do not mean the attempt at theft, or anything of that kind. No, it was something else that nagged at me, though I could not have put into words just what it was.
“There is nothing more to be seen here, Doctor,” said Holmes abruptly. “Let us regain the outer air and see what may be on the other side of this wall.”
We left Mrs. Bradley mumbling something about what a relief it was to have us looking into the matter, and went out into the street. The corner was at no great distance, and Holmes paced it out carefully before turning into the road, somewhat broader than the one we had just left, which backed onto the colonel’s house. I could see Holmes count out the steps as he walked briskly along, before coming to a halt in front of a fairly ordinary looking shop. I glanced up, to see a sign reading: “T. Dudley - Curios and Objects d’Art.”
“I had half expected a bank, at the very least!” said I, somewhat ruefully.
Holmes laughed. “As did I. although Mr. Dudley does have some interesting, and indeed quite valuable, objects. I myself am amongst his clients.”
I glanced into the dusty window, which was crowded with every imaginable object. Old coins, medals from long-forgotten campaigns, something which looked like the dried paw of some monkey, and at the back, in the shadows, what looked like one of the hideous shrunken heads of South America. I shuddered, and wondered in a vague sort of way what it was Holmes had last bought here!
“Not,” I ventured, “the sort of swag dreamed of by your average burglar?”
“Sadly, no. but then-”
“But then why the tunnel, or beginnings of one?” I prompted him.
“Just so. And more particularly since Mr. Dudley does not keep anything of value in his cellar, but stores it at his bank.” Holmes shrugged his shoulders. “It requires thought, Doctor. Thought, and tobacco.” And off he went, leading me back to Baker Street.
Back in our old familiar surroundings, Holmes proceeded to curl up in his chair, and pack his old clay pipe. I myself found a decent cigar, and was just about to light it when a thought occurred to me. “You know, Holmes,” I ventured, “to say that Mrs. Bradley contacted you some time ago, the tunnel does not seem very far advanced. Indeed, although I was at the outset inclined to call this ‘The Case of the Slipshod Charlady,’ it might equally well be called ‘The Case of the Slipshod Villains’!”
Holmes stared at me for a long moment, then laughed in his peculiar silent fashion. “Or yet again, ‘The Case of the Slipshod Detective,’ for I have been most remiss. The so-called ‘tunnel’ is nothing of the sort. It is a good old-fashioned red herring.”
“We watch - or the official police do - the shop, and all the time the real crime takes place elsewhere?”
“Just so, Watson. But where? And equally important, when? More, what is the nature of the proposed crime?” Holmes shook his head. He rose to his feet. “I fear my consideration of the matter must wait. I need to consult - someone who may know just what is to take place in the near future which may interest a criminal.”
“Lestrade, perhaps?”
“Ah - indeed, Lestrade may also be of use.” And without saying more he took his coat and hat, and left me alone.
You may be sure that I pondered the matter over my cigar, and a touch of brandy and water. It did not seem to me that we had got very far. After all, we had learned merely that a robbery, or some villainy at any rate, was planned in London, at some indefinite time in the future! The rawest recruit to the police force could have told us as much. If we knew where, or if we knew when, then we might progress.
Perhaps, though, the matter was not entirely incapable of some logical analysis? After all, I had studied Holmes’s methods pretty closely in that awful business of Drebber and Jefferson Hope, and should be able to apply them here. First, then, if the villains were not tunnelling into the old curiosity shop, then were they tunnelling elsewhere? It seemed unlikely, for here appeared to be only two men concerned, the colonel, if such he was, and Naylor - oh, and perhaps the obliging young man who had directed Mrs. Bradley to Holmes in the first place. Now, if Naylor were down in the cellar pretending to dig, that left but one, possibly two, to dig elsewhere. Add to that the fact that they must find convenient premises, and that theory seemed unlikely.
Then was it robbery face-to-face, so to speak? A gang holding up an individual, or perhaps breaking into a private house, an hotel room? That seemed more to meet the facts as I saw them. But again, when, and where? Or, who? Who was the potential victim?
My reverie was interrupted by a tap on the door, and our landlady looked in. “Mr. Holmes is out, is he not? Well, Doctor, would you see to this - lady?” and there was a slight but perceptible pause. “In a right taking, she is, sir.”
“Show her in,” said I. Mrs. Hudson did so, and to my astonishment the visitor was none other than Mrs. Bradley, and all too clearly in that ‘right taking’ of which Mrs. Hudson had spoken.
“Come in, Mrs. Bradley,” I said, endeavouring to emulate Holmes’s suave manner. “Pray take a seat and tell me your troubles. Perhaps, Mrs. Hudson, a pot of your delicious strong tea?”
“Thank you, sir,” said Mrs. Bradley, “but there’s no time for that. The fact is, sir, I’ve ‘ad something of a shock, as you might say.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, indeed. You may r
ecall as ‘ow I said I’d thought of giving in my notice? Yes, well, now I won’t need to, for the colonel, ‘e’s ‘ad me into ‘is study this very afternoon, and given me my notice! Says as how he ‘as to go away, and the place is to be shut up, or let out, or some such.”
It took a while for me to realise the importance of this. Then, “You mean to say that the colonel is leaving the house? When is this to happen?”
“Next Tuesday, sir.”
“Indeed? That seems a trifle abrupt, does it not?
“Came right out of the blue, sir. Mind you,” said Mrs. Bradley, “the colonel has paid me - handsomely, too - for the short notice. But you see, sir, with things being as they are, I thought Mr. Holmes should know at once.”
I thanked her, and, after some lengthy reiteration of her statement, Mrs. Bradley allowed herself to be escorted out by our landlady, and I settled down to a reconsideration of the problem with a lighter heart.
If the house were to be closed on Tuesday of next week, then it was obvious that the pretended robbery of the curio shop would be that day, or possibly on the Monday. We, that is the official forces and Holmes, would be watching the curio shop, whilst the gang were - what?
It was that last question which brought me to a halt. But then, I had already determined that the actual crime was not to be directed against a bank or shop, whether humble or grand, but against an individual. Now, there is little point robbing a poor man! The crime, then, would be against someone worth the robbing. I picked up the illustrated papers, which Holmes always took, though seldom read, and began to peruse the “society” columns.
After an hour or so, Holmes returned, the disappointment evident in his face. In answer to my unspoken question he shook his head. “The matter is as dark as ever,” he said, throwing himself into a chair.
“Perhaps not,” I answered, with perhaps just a touch of pardonable pride. I went on to tell him of Mrs. Bradley’s surprising news, and of my own thoughts on the matter.
Holmes listened intently, and when I had almost done, he clapped his hands. “Upon my soul, Watson, you have analysed the matter remarkably!”
“Is there anything amiss with my reading of it?”
“None that I can see. Sadly, all your reasoning does not narrow it down sufficiently.”
“I am in hopes that it may, Holmes,” I answered, and threw the latest of my society papers across to him. “There are notes in there of three foreign visitors due to arrive in London on Tuesday. It is my guess - my opinion, that is to say - that one of them is the intended victim.”
“H’mm.” Holmes did not look entirely convinced. “It is an interesting line, Doctor, but still it may be that none of these-”
“But what is there to lose? You yourself have said that the field is too wide for your own brand of analysis. Even if none of the three is correct, we have lost nothing by watching them, or asking Lestrade to watch them.”
“You are right,” said Holmes. He opened the paper at the page whose corner I had turned down. “Well, then, what are your selections?”
“A Russian prince-”
Holmes held up a hand. “His name is known to me. His family is a good one, but financially negligible.”
“There is an American heiress, coming to England to marry an earl-”
The hand went up again. “Her father disapproves of the match, and will assuredly disinherit her should she follow her heart.”
“Indeed? I had not heard as much, nor have the writers of that paper.”
Holmes laughed. “It is not widely advertised. Next?”
“Next, and last, I fear. The South African diamond magnate, Barney Granato, is coming to London on business.”
Holmes nodded. “He is a more likely candidate, I agree. But he has the reputation of carrying a couple of pearl-handled revolvers with him, and of travelling in company with his bodyguards, a half-dozen former prize-fighters.”
“H’mm,” I said ruefully. “A formidable army for any crook to face!” I reflected a moment. “And besides, I was reading just the other day that diamonds are transported not by Mr. Granato, but by very ordinary, perhaps rather drab, individuals, so as not to draw unwelcome attention to them. I-” And here I broke off, for Holmes was staring into space with that curiously abstracted expressing which he sometimes wore. “Holmes?”
“I beg your pardon, Watson. You know,” he said, rising to his feet, “I think you may have hit the nail on the head. But I must make further enquiries.” And before I could ask him anyone of the half-dozen questions which rose to my mind, off he went, and I did not see him again that night.
Nor did I see him at all the next day, which was Saturday. You may be sure that I pestered Mrs. Hudson for any word of him, but she knew as little as did I. I racked my brains, but could not see what it was that Holmes must have seen. The day passed in some frustration.
By Sunday, I was irritable, and when I saw Holmes, which was late in the day, he refused to say anything, beyond asking if I might be free to join him on Tuesday!
I shall not write of my state of mind on the Monday. Fortunately Holmes was absent most of the day, or Lestrade might have been obliged to arrest me for assault and battery.
By Tuesday, all my impatience was gone. I was merely eager to follow wherever Holmes led. And he led me first to Scotland Yard, where we collected Lestrade and a silent lady dressed in some sort of black uniform, after which we all four went to Victoria train station.
At the first opportunity I steered Lestrade to one side and indicated the black-clad lady. “Oh,” said the official detective, “that’s one of our police matrons. Useful in these cases, Doctor.”
Before I could ask what “these cases” might be, Lestrade grabbed my arm and pulled me into the shadows. “This is our train,” he hissed in my ear. “Or it is if Mr. Holmes has the matter right.”
The train from France pulled in, and the usual throng disembarked. Lestrade indicated one man, a tall gentleman in heavy furs. The man stopped on the platform, looked round. A couple of men moved towards him, evidently expecting him. Behind them walked a middle-aged lady, well-dressed, handsome enough, but with something about her which seemed familiar to me. There were greetings and handshakes all round.
I was about to question Lestrade, when the little group on the platform moved towards the exit, and the cab rank. They made no attempt to join the queue waiting for a cab, though, but moved a little to one side, as if waiting for something. Then a carriage pulled up, and they all made to get into it.
It was then that Lestrade blew his police whistle. And then events moved so fast that I could scarcely follow them. A whole crowd of men seemed to appear from thin air, and seized the two men who had met the tall passenger from the train. The tall man himself seemed to be helping with the seizing business, while the police matron did a similar service for the middle-aged lady. And for good measure, the driver of the carriage had whipped up his horse and was trying to get away, while Lestrade, showing considerable courage, grabbed the reins and bridle and tried to stop him!
In less time than it takes to write, the whole thing was over. A couple of closed police vans appeared from the shadows, and the two men plus the lady and the driver of the carriage, were all driven away.
Lestrade, looking somewhat dishevelled but very proud of himself, accompanied Holmes and me back to Baker Street, where my first task was to address the brandy and soda. “I assume that was the Russian prince?” I asked, as nonchalantly as I could.
Holmes nodded. “Or, rather, one of Lestrade’s men impersonating him, the real prince being detained for his own safety at Dover.”
“But I thought you said he had nothing worth stealing?”
“Nothing of his own. But you gave me the clue, Watson, when you mentioned that diamond couriers are so often colourless individuals, not wishing to attract a
ttention. The prince was acting on behalf of a Russian lady who wishes - discreetly - to dispose of some jewellery, without her husband being troubled in the matter. The prince was to have been met at the Savoy Hotel, but the gang turned up here, and said there was a change of plan.”
“Ah!” Then I frowned. “You know, Holmes, that lady on the platform looked a bit like a younger Mrs. Bradley.”
Holmes and Lestrade laughed out loud. Lestrade said, “She was, Doctor! That is, she was a lady known variously as Miss Skeffington, Miss Wells, Mrs. Lamont-”
“And Mrs. Bradley,” Holmes finished.
“She started off as a lady’s maid,” said Lestrade reminiscently, “more years ago than I care to think. Joins the household, gets to know the house, and the family, then - you name it, robbery, blackmail, anything. Oh, yes, a long record, your Mrs. Bradley.”
“The scheme was not without merit,” said Holmes. “And it does illustrate the advantages of being an accomplished artist in make-up and disguise, something I have already noted, and indeed used.”
“So the whole story of noises in the cellar was a sham?” I asked. “And the story of the young man who suggested your involvement?”
Holmes nodded. “Designed merely to arouse our - my - interest, and set me on a false scent, as they feared I might somehow discover their scheme independently. Still, I think, Lestrade, you will not be too unhappy with the result?”
“Indeed not, Mr. Holmes! Thanks for the brandy, Doctor, but I must be on my way.” And he rose to his feet. “It’s all worked out very nice, and nothing too complicated about it, not like some of your theories, Mr. Holmes.”
“True. Unless, Watson, there are any small points you would wish cleared up?”
“No, all very straightforward, Holmes. Although I do just wonder how the American heiress will get on with her English lord.”
“Ah, for that you will have to consult next week’s illustrated papers!” said Holmes. “No doubt it will be a case of omnia vincit amor. Though for me,” and he waved a hand at the morning’s post, which contained the usual appeals from puzzled clients, “for me it must, I fear, be always a matter of labor omnia vincit.”