by Dick Gillman
I reflected on this for a moment. “Do you think that this Captain Mapleton is a spy in the pay of the Germans?”
Holmes frowned. “Unlikely, Watson. From what I have read, Captain Mapleton served with some distinction in the Far East at our China Station. I think we may have to look for a rather more domestic solution.”
Holmes sat down and opened the slip of paper with the attached newspaper clipping. He read them both and with a slight chuckle said, “Ha! I think this may be more in your field of expertise than mine, Watson. Listen to this, '...at the aforementioned establishment in Old Burlington Street, W1, under the able and caring direction of Mrs Henrietta Withers, Electric and Lemon baths known for their curative properties are given in such perfection, both as to their luxurious and prestigious surroundings and the attention of the skilled attendants. These baths rival those of any other establishment either in England or on the Continent. The staff of enthusiastic assistants is as cosmopolitan as the patronage with almost all European languages being spoken'. ”
I leapt from my chair, crying, “What? This is...this is just the thing that our Home Secretary, Mr Asquith, has been seeking to root out! Here, let me read you something I have read but recently.” I rummaged amongst items in our latest scrapbook and found the newspaper cutting. Clearing my throat I began, “The Home Secretary, Mr H. H. Asquith, has ordered an enquiry into 'massage parlours' regarding their immoral practices. Rumours of numerous flagrant instances of immorality have been discovered and brought to his attention. If these terrible accusations are borne out by the enquiry, then the Home Secretary will act swiftly and decisively to suppress any and all establishments implicated.’ You surely cannot be saying that the Bishop has been a client of such an establishment?”
Holmes was tight-lipped, replying, "Seemingly so, Watson. The slip of paper with the address that his Lordship gave me is the very same one as in the newspaper clipping.” A sly look now came over Holmes’ face as he asked, “How is the old war wound in that shoulder of yours, Watson?”
Like a fool, I replied, “Well, it does pain me sometimes, especially in the winter...” Holmes leaned towards me, one eyebrow raised, a mischievous look in his eyes.
“No! No! Absolutely not Holmes. I cannot be seen to enter such an establishment!”
Holmes smiled. “You are an old soldier, a man of the world and a doctor! Who better to gather the vital intelligence we need for our country, Watson?”
Chapter 3 - Old Burlington Street
After a long and heated argument, one I knew I could never win, I eventually acceded to his request. Holmes knew how to play on my patriotism and the following morning found me travelling to Old Burlington Street, in Mayfair. In an attempt at modesty, I asked the cab driver to stop in Saville Row and I walked the few yards round the corner.
Located between Saville Row and Bond Street, the Georgian buildings were of high quality red-brick with fine, Portland stone lintels. Finding the address and mounting the few steps, I inspected the brass plaques to the side of the doorway. As I worked my way down, I discovered that on the first floor were the premises of a Mrs H. Withers.
I have to say that it was with a good deal of trepidation that I climbed the stairs, fearing what I might find. A door with a discreet name plaque was to my left as I reached the landing. On closer inspection, it read, ‘Mrs H. Withers, Qualified Masseuse’. Reading this I felt somewhat relieved. Perhaps this was not to be what I had feared.
I knocked at the door and waited but a few moments before a maid opened it and ushered me inside. The waiting room was, I have to say, furnished in a very grand style. It was, perhaps, even bordering on the pretentious. I was asked to wait a few moments as 'Madame' was currently indisposed. This gave me a little time to examine the room more fully. I wandered over to a framed diploma on the wall. The diploma itself was lavishly gilded and purported to certify that Mrs Henrietta Withers of Mayfair was qualified in the technique of Swedish massage. I noticed that it was signed by a physician whom I knew made a comfortable living from providing such diplomas and certificates.
A grandly dressed lady of approximately thirty five years entered the waiting room from a side office to my left. She introduced herself, saying, “Good morning, sir. I am Henrietta Withers. How may I be of service?”
I fumbled with my hat and began to describe my ailments. “Err… Good morning. I have a slight problem with my shoulder, a little stiffness from an old war wound and I wondered if a little massage might be of some benefit.”
Mrs Withers smiled and listened sympathetically. “I think, sir, that you will find our techniques most beneficial and relaxing. If you will wait just a few minutes, I am sure we will be able to afford you some relief. What I think would benefit you would be our pine scented 'Bain de Luxe'.”
I pretended to consider that for a moment or two before replying, “I was rather hoping for a massage.”
Mrs Withers patted my hand, saying, “Have no fear, sir, we will no doubt be able to accommodate you in every way.”
I have to say that, to my mind, this did not sound as though it was a prescribed treatment. Mrs Withers then led me into a well-furnished room and closed the door. The room had but a single large gilt chair, upholstered in red velvet which matched the drawn curtains. In the centre of the room was a bed covered by a large, Egyptian cotton towel. To the side, a small table held what appeared to be variously scented massage oils.
“Now sir, I will run your bath and the nurse will be with you presently.” Mrs Withers disappeared into an adjoining bathroom and I could clearly hear the sound of the bath filling. Clouds of steam rolled across the ceiling into the room and I could detect the scent of pine oil. “I will leave you for a few moments and, if you would kindly undress, your bath is at your disposal.” With that, Mrs Withers left.
I undressed and found that the bathroom was well appointed having tiled walls and a roll-top bath, set on claw feet. There were several different bath oils and salts arranged by the bath and I carefully lowered myself into the water. I have to say that sitting there in the hot water, to which had been added the pine oil and, I imagine, a good measure of bath salts, was not an unpleasant experience.
I was, however, a little surprised when Mrs Withers entered the bathroom, sat down beside the bath and proceeded to engage me in conversation. I could not, of course, reveal myself as a medical man and spoke only of my time in the military. After some ten minutes or so, she gathered up a large bath sheet and held it out in front of her, saying, "There you are, sir. I'm sure your nurse will now be ready to see to your needs."
There was little I could do but to rise from the bath and, casting modesty to one side, I allowed her to wrap me in the towel. She did allow me to dry myself, which was a blessing. Once dry, she bade me lie on the bed before once again leaving.
Almost immediately, a young lady appeared. She too was well dressed and appeared to be twenty years of age. She seemed quite pleasant and spoke in a business-like way with an accent which had a hint of the East End. "Good morning, sir, I'm Nurse Susan."
I stammered a 'Good morning' and she proceeded to completely remove my towel and to give me a full body massage. Whilst this was in progress, I thought it an ideal opportunity to gather some information so I engaged Nurse Susan in conversation. "Tell me, my dear, what hours do you work?"
Nurse Susan had applied some pleasantly scented oil to my shoulder as I had indicated that this was the area where I needed the relief! "Well sir, I usually work from ten in the morning until six or seven in the evening, depending on what the boss wants of me. Usually it's seven as we are so busy with gentlemen." She smiled and winked. "A girl has to make a living somehow."
I thought to probe further. "Did you find your nurse's training taxing?"
Nurse Susan thought for a moment. "No, not really sir. It only took a couple of days to pick up the massage. It was easy for me really as I'm used to rubbing my dad's back. He suffers something terrible with it.” Finishing with my sho
ulder, she asked, “There you are sir. Is there anywhere else that needs my attentions?"
Even though I am an old soldier, I almost blushed at the thought. "No, no thank you, Nurse Susan...but tell me, are you well paid for this massage?" I enquired.
"I regret not sir. There are four of us girls here and we do all the work and ‘Madame’ just takes the money."
I dressed and gave her a florin for which, I could see, she was genuinely grateful. Susan was busy gathering the towels as I asked, "I expect you meet all kinds of people here."
"Oh yes, sir. City gents, lawyers and gentlemen from their clubs. Sometimes we get foreign gentlemen and even gentlemen of the cloth...although they don't wear their dog collars, but you can always tell!"
I smiled, said thank you and, on excusing myself, I returned to the waiting room where Mrs Withers was standing, smiling expectantly.
"Was everything to your satisfaction, sir?" she asked, seemingly genuinely interested in the reply.
I nodded. "Yes, thank you. Nurse Susan is very skilled and most obliging.”
Mrs Withers positively beamed. "That will just be a guinea then sir, I hope we will have the pleasure of seeing you again."
I smiled rather weakly, reached into my pocket and passed her the guinea. With that, I touched my hat and bade her a Good morning.
Chapter 4 - The Bishop of Sandbury
Flagging down a passing cab in Saville Row, I was indeed grateful to return to the safety of Baker Street. Once there, I recounted my experiences to Holmes who listened politely whilst stifling moments of great mirth. At the end of my tale Holmes congratulated me on my devotion to the Crown. Despite his obvious enjoyment of my discomfort, Holmes did appreciate the intelligence that I had brought. After luncheon we relaxed with an afternoon pipe of tobacco. Holmes lit his pipe and sat back with his eyes closed, drawing steadily upon it. For my part, I picked up my copy of The British Medical Journal, dated 10th November. I thumbed through it and almost dropped my pipe when I happened upon an article entitled, 'The Scandals of Massage' – Report of the Special Commissioners of the British Medical Journal.
I read but a little before shouting out, “Good grief, Holmes! I cannot believe it!”
Holmes was immediately wide awake. “What is it, Watson?” I thrust the journal towards him and watched a thin smile appear on his face as he read the three columns. “Well, old man, you appear to have had an almost identical experience. You do realise that you may be called as a witness before the committee?”
Holmes saw the look of horror that passed across my face before he laughed loudly. “Oh, Watson. I should not tease you so.” He tapped my knee saying, “Now that we have established the nature of Mrs Withers’ establishment, I think we need to meet with the Bishop of Sandbury and place our cards on the table.”
The following day found us travelling towards Sandbury. We had taken a train from Liverpool Street Station and were heading west, into Suffolk. I was interested to hear of any theories Holmes might have regarding the Bishop of Sandbury.
“You know, Holmes, the Bishop's visits to Mrs Withers may be perfectly innocent. He may indeed have some genuine medical condition that requires massage.”
I thought I heard a chuckle from Holmes which he managed to hide discreetly with a cough. “Yes, perhaps so. However, I am concerned about his continued visits there and also the international clientele of Mrs Withers. What better way to legitimately come into contact with someone from, say, the German embassy?”
I was shocked. “What! Do you think that this may be the link?”
Holmes’ face was impassive. “Possibly, Watson... but if so, how is the Bishop obtaining secret papers and what is his motive for treason?” We travelled on, both deep in our own thoughts.
Arriving at the large market town of Sandbury, we hired a trap at the station which took us to the home of the Bishop. The Bishop's residence was a grand Georgian house, set back in its own manicured gardens. We walked up the graveled drive to the pillared portico and rang the bell. We had not telegrammed ahead to warn him of our visit, but we had enquired of the Bishop of Westfield when he thought it would be best to call. After a few moments, a maid came to the door.
Holmes smiled saying, “Good morning. We wish to speak with the Bishop. I would be grateful if you could give him my card.” Holmes drew a card from his card case but before he passed it to the maid, he took a slim silver pencil from his pocket and wrote two words upon the reverse of the card. I could see that he had written 'Mrs Withers'.
The maid took the card saying, “Thank you sir, I will see if the Bishop is available.”
With a smile and a knowing look, Holmes replied, “I think you will find that he is.”
The door closed and we stood for barely half a minute before a tall man in clerical attire came to the door. The door opened and I could see that although ghostly pale, the man was clearly agitated. This was undoubtedly the Bishop and in some confusion, asking, “What is this? I don't understand?”
Holmes touched his hat saying, “I'm sure you do, my Lord Bishop. May we come inside? I think it would be more discreet to talk of Mrs Withers indoors.”
I did not think that the Bishop could have looked any paler but now he appeared positively wraith-like. Saying nothing, the Bishop opened the front door fully and ushered us inside. We walked in silence, following him to what must have been his study. The room was very grand, the walls covered with fine carved paneling in a rich, red Mahogany. A large desk was in one corner and there was a long wall devoted entirely to bookshelves. Still unspeaking, we sat in two upright chairs before the desk.
Eventually, the Bishop broke the silence, asking, “What exactly do you wish to discuss?”
Holmes sat forward a little in his chair. “Let us be frank, my Lord. You are known to visit the lady’s establishment quite frequently, despite it having a questionable reputation.”
The colour had somewhat returned to the face of the Bishop. “Yes, I do not deny it, although what business this might be of yours, I cannot imagine...unless you intend to try and blackmail me. If so, you are unfortunate for I have very little money.” His voice was starting to take on a combative tone.
Holmes’ eyes glinted. “No my Lord... although it is strange, but perhaps pertinent, that you should mention blackmail.”
I looked towards the Bishop. It was as if all the air had suddenly spilled from a sail. He visibly collapsed in his chair and looked unwell. Clearly, Holmes’ thrust had gone to the heart. The Bishop's hands went to either side of his head and he started to rock in his chair and sob quietly.
I saw on a side table a decanter and I poured a good measure of brandy into a glass, placing it in the Bishop’s hand. He took a sip and I heard him say "Oh Lord, what have I done...what have I done?"
Holmes’ tone softened. "We are here to help you, my Lord, not to accuse...but, in order to help, we must know every detail. You cannot conceal anything from us or all will be lost."
The Bishop looked at Holmes and saw that he was sincere in what he said. Holmes continued, "You have a good friend in the Bishop of Westfield and it is he who has asked us to help you."
The Bishop's head shot up. "Oh Lord! He knows?"
Holmes slowly nodded. "Come Bishop, tell all."
The Bishop took another sip of the brandy and began his story. "It was in October when I first visited Mrs Withers. I had had a fall and fearfully damaged my knee. I had visited my doctor but had an idea that some medical rubbing might relieve the inflammation. I was not aware, at the time, of the reputation the establishment. In faith, the baths and manipulation were beneficial. I was somewhat concerned when on one occasion I misplaced my wallet, it appeared to have happened as I was undressing. Mrs Withers searched diligently and returned it to me at the end of my treatment, I am happy to say that nothing was missing–”
Holmes interrupted at this point, asking, “Was there anything of value in your wallet?”
The bishop thought for a moment. “No, I
think not. Perhaps a letter or two; a receipted bill from my tailor; nothing of importance.” The Bishop paused and took a large sip of brandy. “However, perhaps two weeks later, I seemingly misplaced a very distinctive tie pin and... and that led to my undoing."
Holmes sat back a little. “I believe, my Lord, that the first time you 'lost' your wallet it was plainly a ruse to discover your identity. I would imagine many clients lost their wallets and then had them returned to them after any useful information had been extracted. Once your identity was established, I would imagine Mrs Withers passed this information directly to her masters.”
The Bishop gave Holmes a quizzical look, saying, “Her masters?”
Holmes nodded. “Yes my, Lord. I am of the opinion that there is a direct link from Mrs Withers to the German embassy.”
There was a crash as the brandy balloon fell from the Bishop’s limp grasp, smashing to a myriad of pieces on the oak flooring. The Bishop hid his face in his hands and sobbed, “Oh dear God! I...I am not only a weak man, but also a traitor! Mrs Withers told me George's papers contained only commercial information. She said she could sell it to rival companies who were submitting tenders for building ships. She had my tie pin you see... and... she would not return it. On one occasion, whilst naked and with a nurse, she secretly took my photograph. She threatened to expose me to the Archbishop and tell the newspapers about my visits. What was I to do? I would have been ruined.”
I could see that Holmes had a little sympathy for the Bishop who was clearly a man of weak character. “My Lord, I fear all is not lost if you co-operate with us fully. I need to know how you obtained the documents from your brother.”
The Bishop looked up and sighed. “It was easily done. George often travels down here at the weekends. There is a fine golf club a few miles away of which he is a member. He often makes a day of playing a round or two of golf and then spending the evening at the club before returning quite late at night. This was a regular pattern as my brother is a creature of habit. After he left in the early morning for the golf club, I took his bag with me up to town and to Mrs Withers. I believe she must have photographed the contents as she returned the bag to me within half an hour. I then immediately caught the train back to Sandbury and was back by tea time.”