“Two days ago I’m walking by a blind alley just past the Monument on my way home when I sees a lady struggling with a bruiser just inside. He’s pulling at a handbag she carries and she’s holding on to it for dear life. I steps into the alley and she sees me. “Help me, boy!” she says. “Don’t let him get my bag! Stop him and I’ll give you a reward! I promise!”
“He’s a lot bigger than me, but I takes up my bootblack brush and throws it at his head. He lets her go and turns toward me with an ugly look on his face. I’m getting ready to run when two of my regular customers comes up behind me on their way home. The bruiser doesn’t fancy the odds, I guess, and he suddenly bolts past us without a word. The lady falls to the ground and my customers helps her up. She’s upset, but she still has her bag. They helps her to a cab and she calls out the address, 333 Castle Square, but she never pays any attention to me in the bustle. I writes down what she says so I won’t forget it. Here.”
He handed Sherlock Holmes a dirty scrap of paper. Holmes accepted it solemnly.
“I’m due home then, but yesterday I looks up the lady’s address on a telegraph office map, before the manager chases me away. After work I takes a ‘bus to her home and a fine, handsome building it is. All white, with shiny windows and iron bars protecting flower pots running along the first story and a front porch with columns. There’s a set of scrubbed white steps up to the big front door and a doorknocker there fit for Buck House itself.
“I manages to lift it up and it sounds like a tree falling when it hit the door. A big, fat bloke dressed like a toff opens the door and looks down at me.
“What do you want?” says His Nibs.
“I wants to see the lady,” says me.
“What about?” he says with a sneer.
“Well, I don’t like his tone, so I says “None of your concern; it’s between me and the lady.” And he says “Go away,” and starts to close the door. Just then there’s a stir in the hall behind him and I hears the lady’s voice. She says “Has our carriage come, Shields?” The fat bloke turns his head and says “No, Madame, it’s just a dirty little beggar. I’ve sent him away.” I figures this is my only chance to see her, so I pipes up and say “Lady, lady, it’s me, the boy from the alley!” I see her look over the fat bloke’s shoulder and I know she recognizes me, but just then another toff steps up beside her and says “What is going on, Virginia?” Her face changes and she says “It’s just a boy who’s knocked on the door, Randolph.” He pushes forward and frowns at me and says “Go away, boy, don’t hang about here. Shields, get rid of him.” With that, the fat bloke steps out and closes the door behind himself. He grabs my arm, marches me down to the pavement and pushes me about six feet into the street.
“Don’t come back here, boy, and don’t let me see your face again. There’s always a copper around when one is needed, and if you come back I’ll introduce you to a couple.” With that he marches up the steps again and goes inside. I stands outside for a minute or so, but there’s no chance to get in that way, so I slips around the corner into the mews and counts out the back areas until I comes to the right house’s gate.
“I peeks over the brick wall but all I see is a couple of tall guys smoking outside the back door. I see the fat bloke talking to them and holding his hand out to about my height so I figures he’s warning them to be on the lookout for me. A big stable door behind me opens and a fancy carriage pulled by a pair of greys comes out and it trots down the alley and turns into the street. I remembers what she says about waiting for a carriage so I figures that’s hers and now she’s gone. I can’t think of anything else I can do so I gives it up after a while and go back to St. Paul’s. I finds Wiggins and tells him my story. We agrees to meet today and he brings me here. He says you can help me get my reward. She did promise to give me something. I sure hopes you can help, Mister Holmes. The lady did promise and me mum could use anything I could get.”
Holmes had listened to young Hopwell’s story with interest. Now he smiled. “I agree with you, Jerry. A promise is a promise and not something to be ignored. This case does deserve investigation. I will send word by Wiggins as to when I need you. Meanwhile, here is the price of two shoe-shines, one for me and one for Dr. Watson, to be done at a later date. Take him back, Wiggins, and watch out for my message. Farewell, Jerry. Thank you for bringing such an unusual problem to my attention.”
A minute later the two boys burst out of the front door onto Baker Street and ran down the street. Sherlock Holmes sat at his desk and reached out for a map of London and his well-worn copy of Debrett’s. He spread out the scrap of paper Jerry gave him and opened the book. He consulted the materials and in a few minutes gathered everything up and piled it on his desk. He leaned back.
“I wasn’t joking when I said this was an unusual problem, Watson. It appears to touch the upper levels of both society and government. There are hidden depths that must be explored in order to shed light on the behaviour of Sir Randolph Wells’ wife. Tracing her through the address she gave the cab driver was simplicity itself.”
“Is that the American Virginia Crown, society beauty and wife of the Sir Randolph Wells who is the Member of Parliament spoken of as the future Secretary of the Home Office?”
“Indeed, Watson, and a man who has based his political career on his integrity and honesty. In nearly every public speech Randolph Wells has made during the past three years, he has included the phrase “my word is my bond”. He neither smokes or drinks or has any other known vices, and is rumoured to be nick-named “Old Rectitude” by his House colleagues. He is the second son of Lord William Wells, the City financier who died just before the Robbins-Sparrow bank scandal broke. Nothing was proven against him, of course, but Randolph’s brother Joseph, who inherited the title, lives on the meagre rents of what’s left of his father’s estate and is said to have become a broken, grey-haired old man, though he is barely forty. Sir Randolph works hard to uphold his sterling reputation, possibly as a reaction to his father’s own life story. He does have one flaw, however, which proves he is human after all. He is visibly jealous about his wife.
“Virginia Crown met Randolph Wells at a ball three years ago, before his father’s death, and they were married a scant five months later. Her father is Donald Crown, the Pennsylvania coal-king. There have been no children from the marriage, but Lady Wells has made a name for herself as a great beauty in high social circles. She is said to be beautiful and kind, but to have no close friends. Apparently she proves my adage that women are secretive. So what is Lady Wells, wife of the notable MP, doing in an alley alone at the edge between the City and Whitechapel struggling with a brute over a handbag?”
“What are you going to do, Holmes?”
“I am going to investigate her behaviour, Watson. Secretive women are usually secretive for a reason.” Holmes picked up a newspaper from the stack delivered that morning. I was surprised to see him consult the society pages. He smiled and threw down the paper as he rose to his feet
“You need some fresh air, Doctor,” he said. “I propose a walk to the Lothard Arcade. If we start now we will get there just in time.”
“Just in time for what?” I inquired.
Holmes said nothing more, but led the way out into the sunny street.
The Lothard Arcade was a newly-built row of shops on one of Mayfair’s most exclusive boulevards. In front of its fine façade we were treated to the sight of a carriage pulled by a fine pair of greys pull up to the kerb. The coat of arms of the Wells family was painted on the door. A tall lady with brunette hair, clad in a blue walking dress and a fashionable bonnet, and with a carved ruby brooch pinned to her high collar, opened the door. Holmes stepped up and extended a hand to help her step out to the pavement.
She gave him a careless glance as she accepted his offered help. I was impressed by her beauty. She had a fresh American air about her. Large brown eyes looked ou
t from under rounded brows. Her nose was perfectly formed and her lips and chin complemented her high cheek bones. Her figure was slim and graceful. But I noted a caution in her look as she surveyed the pavement while she dismounted from the carriage, as if she expected trouble in some form. A moment later she murmured her thanks to Holmes and turned to the entrance. But Sherlock Holmes didn’t let go of her hand. Instead he whispered something into her ear which made her stop and stare at him. Her face became alarmed. She shook her head and tried to walk on. But Holmes spoke more insistently, leaning in close to her ear. Finally she whispered back, nodded and he released her hand. Lady Wells strode into the Arcade without a backwards glance.
“Lady Wells is attending a meeting to plan a charity event here, Watson,” said Holmes. “I have just made an appointment to see her at her home this afternoon. With an American the direct approach is usually the best. We have some time to walk the Arcade before we pick up young Hopwell at St. Paul’s.”
By two o’clock Holmes and I had collected young Jeremiah Hopwell and arrived at 333 Castle Square, near Hyde Park. We climbed out of the hired four-wheeler and climbed the scrubbed steps to the front door with its impressive doorknocker. The portal was opened at our knock by young Hopwell’s “fat bloke”, who silently ushered us into a fine hall and through it to a sitting room on the left.
It was decorated as a lady’s sitting room, all overstuffed furniture and pink-and-white chintz. A magnificent Jacobean mantelpiece rose over a brightly-polished fender and the room had multiple Persian carpets on the hardwood floor. The walls were lined with silken cloth. Little tables filled with books and delicate knick-knacks were arranged tastefully next to a spinet and bench. Lady Wells rose from an armchair by the window as we entered. Holmes introduced us. We were not offered seats.
She spoke in a cold manner to my friend. “You name is well-known to me, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Believe me, it is only your brother’s name, which my husband has mentioned to me, that has allowed you to enter my home at your request. What is your business with me?”
Sherlock Holmes was respectful but firm. “I have come to you in an effort to right a wrong done to a child. Have you ever seen this boy?” Holmes urged young Hopwell forward. “Cast you mind back a few days to an encounter in an alley near the Monument, with a brute who tried to steal you handbag. Now do you recognize this boy? You pleaded with him for help and promised him a reward.”
She cast her wide brown eyes down to Jerry Hopwell’s face and I saw her expression soften. But when she raised her eyes to Sherlock Holmes, her visage changed. I saw wonder first, then fear. Just as she opened her lips to reply, another voice was heard from the doorway. She shifted her gaze in that direction and her face went white.
“Virginia, who are these gentlemen? Why are they in my house?”
We all turned. An impeccably dressed Sir Randolph Wells stood on the threshold. He was thin, above medium height, and his aristocratic features, in particular his long, sharp nose and hooded black eyes, were in great contrast to his prematurely balding head. He was dressed in a dark suit, suitable for the House of Commons, with a wingtip collar and a subdued ascot. He shot a keen, questioning glance at his wife. Her eyes dropped. He addressed Holmes.
“What is your name and what business do you have in my house, sir?”
“My name is Sherlock Holmes. My business is personal, Sir Randolph.”
“Personal? Personal! My dear, do you know any of these people?”
Lady Wells looked away. Now her eyes betrayed nothing and her face was expressionless. “No, Randolph,” she answered quietly.
“Then you cannot have personal business with my wife, sir. You carry no letters of introduction with you, I see, and I have no overdue bills. I have never met you, so you cannot have any personal business with me. Therefore you have no business in this house. Shields!”
The butler appeared.
“Shields, these strangers have no business in this house. Please escort them out and make certain they never enter again. Good morning, gentlemen.”
With that we were herded from the room and out into the sunshine. I may have fancied it but I think Shields gave little Hopwell an extra hard push out the door as we left. We climbed back into the four-wheeler which had brought us there and headed back to the City.
Sherlock Holmes sat stoically. He stared straight ahead and rested his hands on his knees. I was embarrassed for him. To be treated in such a rude fashion by Sir Randolph Wells and in front of such an audience! My cheeks burned. I wished there was something I could say that would help him, but I could think of nothing. Jerry Hopwell was also silent. He looked from Holmes to me and I shook my head.
When we reached St. Paul’s I left the boy on the pavement by the statue of Queen Anne that stood before the great cathedral. I directed the cabby to take us back to Baker Street. It wasn’t until we stopped in front of 221b that Holmes stirred.
“Did you notice her brooch, Watson?” he asked as I paid off the driver.
“It was a ruby,” I replied.
“It was a carved ruby, Watson. I got a clear look at it when I spoke to her at the Arcade. I think the entire key to this case is centred on that brooch.”
Upstairs Holmes went directly to his bedroom and shut the door. I mounted the stairs to my own bedroom and it was several minutes later before I came down and entered the sitting room.
To my surprise it was occupied by a female stranger. A lanky, shabbily-dressed flower seller was seated on the sofa. An old-fashioned poke bonnet covered straight grey hair, which was arranged in a low bun on her thin neck, and a worn fringed shawl was draped over her faded brown-figured dress. Voluminous skirts swirled around a battered pair of old high-topped cloth shoes and nearly covered the tattered woven basket on the floor that still contained a few faded flower petals and stems. A black veil hung down over her face from the edge of the bonnet and her gnarled fingers were covered in black knit gloves.
“I am sorry,” I said upon seeing the old woman. “I didn’t know anyone was here. Are you waiting for Mr. Holmes?”
“Yes, sir,” she replied. Her voice was raspy, a smoker’s voice. Her fingers picked at her skirt and smoothed down a bit of ribbon on her bodice.
“He is sure to be out presently,” said I. I picked up a newspaper and sat in my chair. Several minutes passed as I rattled the pages and she remained on the sofa, fidgeting with her handkerchief. Finally she gave out a harsh cough, which would not stop, and I rose to my feet.
“That is a bad cough, madam. Would you like some water?”
“Yes, please,” she choked. I poured out a glass from the pitcher on the sideboard and placed it in her hand.
“Thank you, Watson,” said Sherlock Holmes, as he raised his veil and took a sip.
I was staggered. “Holmes! Really, you are a wizard! What a getup! I suppose this has to do with young Hopwell’s case.”
“Indeed, my friend. I am pleased to find that my simple efforts at disguise have proven to be so effective. Now that I have passed the Watson test, I can proceed.”
He stood and shook out the skirts of his dress. “A pause to collect the marguerites from the vase on the downstairs’ hall table and I am off. The flowers will add veracity to my disguise. No, Watson, you are not to follow me. The surveillance of that private home is better done by only one person. I will return quite late. Do not wait up.” With that remarkable statement Holmes tripped down the stairs and stepped out the front door into the London sunshine.
It was after supper and dark when I returned from my club to our flat. There had been no sign of Sherlock Holmes or the old flower woman, said Mrs. Hudson, and so I retired to my room. In the morning I came down to the sitting room to find Holmes standing by the window again, wrapped in his old grey dressing gown, holding something small in his hand and examining it closely with his magnifying glass. When he
saw me, he folded the item into his handkerchief and thrust it into his pocket.
“It is Saturday, Watson, and Mrs. Hudson has just brought up the breakfast tray. Please help yourself to the eggs and bacon or this excellent curried chicken. I expect visitors within the hour that will bring a resolution, one way or another, to the pretty problem brought us by young Jeremiah Hopwell.”
Not another word would he speak, but left the remains of his own breakfast to smoke his pipe while I made a hearty meal. The dishes had been removed well before the doorbell rang and our young client appeared.
“I see you brought your shoe-shine kit with you, Jerry,” said Holmes.
“I carrys it everywhere, Mr. Holmes.”
“Look at Dr. Watson’s boots. In your professional opinion, do they need a shine?”
“Oh, yes, sir.”
“I have paid for two shines and I think it is time to collect. There is plenty of time before our next guest arrives. Stick out your foot, Watson. When Jerry is finished with yours, he can polish mine.”
Young Hopwell fell to work, and soon I was the possessor of a pair of fine shiny boots. Holmes was next and the child was putting on the finishing touches when the bell to the front door rang.
“Now, Jerry, pack up your gear and run downstairs. Mrs. Hudson will give you something to eat in the kitchen. Wait quietly until I call you back. No questions, now, but go.” The boy trotted down the steps while the doorbell rang again. There was a pause while the bell rang a third time, then we heard the street door open and close and footsteps climbed up to our sitting room.
I was not surprised to see Lady Wells on our threshold. She was wearing a dark blue travelling cloak over a grey walking dress and a black hat with a concealing veil. Holmes motioned her to take the sofa. In her gloved hand she clutched one of his business cards which she held out to him.
Sherlock Holmes and the Folk Tale Mysteries - Volume 2 Page 13