The Secret Documents of Sherlock Holmes

by June Thomson

  ‘I have only two routine visits to make on patients, neither of whom is seriously ill. I am sure my neighbour, Jackson,* will make them for me. It is a reciprocal arrangement and I obliged him only a fortnight ago.’

  ‘And Mrs Watson will not object?’

  ‘Not at all, Holmes. She often urges me to take more time away from the practice.’

  ‘An inestimable woman!’ Holmes murmured. ‘You are indeed fortunate, my dear fellow. However, to return to the case in hand, I shall meet you, shall I not, at Paddington station to catch the train as planned? It will be much pleasanter to travel by ourselves without having to suffer the fatigues of Sir Hector Ainsworth’s overpowering presence.’

  ‘I shall indeed be there,’ I assured him.

  It was only after I had taken my leave and was on my way home by hansom that it struck me how cleverly Holmes had so arranged matters that he had not only secured my companionship but at the same time had managed to dispense with Sir Hector’s. But any small doubt I might have felt at his skilful manipulation of the situation was more than compensated by the thought that I would once more accompany him on an investigation and I felt an immediate quickening of my pulse at this prospect.

  II

  Those arrangements which I needed to make to cover my absence were soon completed. Jackson agreed to act as my locum and my dear wife welcomed the news that I was to enjoy a few hours of leisure in the countryside in the company of Holmes. It was therefore with a light heart that I set out to walk the short distance to Paddington station* where I met my old friend.

  I found him in excellent spirits. In the intervening hours since we had last met, he had looked up Sir Hector Ainsworth in his encyclopaedia of reference† and regaled me on the journey with this information as well as other tidbits of gossip he had picked up from an acquaintance who moved in aristocratic circles and on whom he had called briefly on the way to the terminus.*

  ‘Sir Hector is evidently extremely wealthy, Watson, having married Henrietta Bagworth, the heiress to Sir Montague Bagworth, the shipping millionaire, who was known to his intimates as Monty Moneybags. Gossip has it that the daughter was an amiable woman but so exceedingly plain that her father paid Sir Hector a huge sum to take her off his hands. However, the unfortunate Millicent seems destined to remain a spinster, Sir Hector having failed to offer a large enough dowry to tempt a prospective bridegroom. I understand the impoverished Duke of Chester once persuaded his eldest son to pay court to her but, having met her, he promptly took to his heels and fled the country for Bechuanaland where I understand he still remains.’

  ‘Poor woman!’ I interjected, thinking of my own domestic happiness.

  ‘I quite agree, my dear fellow. We are fortunate not to belong to the aristocracy where marriage, specially for women, is more a question of money, looks and breeding than the softer emotions. Although Lady Millicent may own one of the necessary attributes, breeding, and is likely to inherit another, money, at her father’s death, I fear she fails so miserably on the third that no man will look at her with the exception, it appears, of Albert Weaver, the groom, and I suspect even in his case it may be the prospect of her fortune which has attracted him rather than the lady herself.’

  ‘But abduction, Holmes! That is a serious matter!’

  ‘Of course it is, my dear fellow, if, as I remarked before, Lady Millicent has indeed been abducted. But that remains to be seen.’

  We passed the rest of the journey discussing a report in the morning papers of a burglary which had taken place at Lord Packburton’s and in which his entire collection of Far Eastern exotica had been stolen until we alighted at Elmsfield, a small market town, where we found Sir Hector’s carriage awaiting us. After a journey of about three miles through pleasantly wooded countryside, we arrived at Elmsfield Hall.

  The house was an imposing Queen Anne mansion, its magnificent stone façade, with its many-tiered windows, surmounted by a large triangular pediment. Yet despite its grandeur, there were signs of neglect, caused no doubt by Sir Hector’s miserliness. Grass was sprouting between the flagstones of the terrace, and the lawns and flowerbeds, which extended in front of the building, looked ill tended.

  We were greeted at the door by an elderly butler whose mournful expression put me in mind of an undertaker’s mute.

  His lordship, he informed us, as he showed us into the drawing room, had been called away to attend to some business with a tenant farmer, but had left instructions that we were to be given any assistance we might require.

  ‘I should like to speak to Lady Millicent’s personal maid,’ Holmes said.

  ‘Very good, sir,’ the butler replied.

  When he had left the room, Holmes remarked in a jocular manner, ‘I am much relieved we are spared Sir Hector’s presence, Watson. Without it, I am sure we shall make better progress. Let us hope his tenant keeps him fully occupied for the rest of the afternoon.’

  He broke off as there came a knock at the door which, on his calling out ‘Come!,’ opened and a young, fresh-faced country girl entered the room.

  ‘You are Lady Millicent’s maid?’ Holmes inquired and, having received her assent, he added. ‘And what is your name?’

  ‘Polly Noakes, sir,’ said she, dropping a little curtsy.

  ‘Then come and sit down, Miss Noakes,’ Holmes said, conducting her to one of the armchairs where she perched herself on its edge, clearly ill at ease at finding herself seated in the drawing room, usually the exclusive prerogative of the gentry.

  ‘And now, Miss Noakes,’ he continued, assuming his most amiable manner as he sat down opposite her in a comfortable tête-à-tête designed to make her feel at home, ‘there is nothing to be afraid of. Dr Watson and I are merely inquiring into Lady Millicent’s disappearance. I am sure you want to help us all you can.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Polly Noakes replied faintly.

  ‘Excellent! Now I understand it was you who found your mistress was missing when you went to wake her this morning.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ came the same faint answer.

  ‘And she had taken none of her clothing with her?’

  This time she answered with a little nod of her head.

  ‘Then what was she wearing when she left?’

  It took Polly Noakes a few seconds to grasp the significance of the question and then her brow cleared and she piped up, ‘Her riding habit, sir.’

  ‘Indeed? I am most grateful to you, Miss Noakes, for you have solved one of the minor mysteries of the case,’ Holmes said with grave courtesy. ‘Now tell me what you know about your mistress and Albert Weaver, the assistant groom.’

  ‘Not much, sir,’ the girl said, blushing bright pink at Holmes’ compliment and appearing to gain a little more confidence from it. ‘They used to go out riding most mornings for an hour or so, her ladyship on Jemima and Weaver on Sir Hector’s big black horse, Samuel. Then, in the afternoons, they usually practised jumping in the paddock.’

  ‘“Usually”?’ Holmes inquired.

  ‘Well, sir, for the past week, the arrangements have been turned around, so to speak. The training lessons were held in the mornings and they went riding in the afternoons.’ She hesitated for a moment and then added more boldly, ‘The last five afternoons they were gone for more than an hour. It was more like three. It was a terrible rush, sir, to get Lady Millicent out of her riding clothes and into a gown in time for tea in the drawing-room at five o’clock.’

  ‘Did your mistress give you any explanation for this change in her routine?’

  ‘No, sir; and it wasn’t my place to ask.’

  ‘Quite so. Then tell me, Miss Noakes,’ Holmes said, leaning forward in his chair and regarding her with great interest, ‘as you are clearly a young lady of remarkable powers of observation, have you noticed anything else out of the ordinary over the past five days, however trivial?’

  Colouring up again prettily, she replied after a moment’s hesitation, ‘Only the tickets, sir.’

  ‘What
tickets?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir. I found them in the pocket of Lady Millicent’s riding habit when I was brushing it down ready to put away. One lot was pink, the other yellow.’

  ‘Do you still have them?’ Holmes inquired, his voice carefully casual.

  ‘Only the last ones, sir, those I found yesterday afternoon. The others, the pink ones, I left out on the dressing-table but Lady Millicent must have thrown them away. I can’t remember when I found those. It could have been Tuesday or Wednesday.’

  ‘Never mind about that. You still have those you found yesterday, the yellow ones?’

  ‘Yes, sir. They’re where I left them. Would you like me to fetch them?’

  ‘If you would be so good.’

  As soon as she had left the room, Holmes turned to me.

  ‘I believe, Watson, we may be close to finding an answer to our dilemma – is this affair an abduction or an elopement? I always find it most significant when someone alters their normal routine, as Lady Millicent has evidently done recently. Perhaps these tickets will explain not only why such a change was made but also what Lady Millicent and Weaver were doing every afternoon for the past five days which took up several hours of their time.’

  He broke off as Polly Noakes re-entered and handed to him two little oblong slips of yellow paper.

  ‘Thank you, Miss Noakes,’ Holmes said gravely. ‘You have been most helpful.’

  Bobbing a little curtsy, she began to leave the room but turned back at the doorway, her face flushed and her eyes bright with unshed tears.

  ‘She is all right, isn’t she, sir? Lady Millicent, I mean,’ she asked in an anxious tone. ‘She’s been a good mistress to me and I wouldn’t want her to come to any harm.’

  ‘I am certain we shall find her safe and well,’ Holmes assured her.

  As soon as the door closed again behind her, Holmes, with me at his shoulder, began eagerly to examine the two tickets she had given him. They were small, little more than two inches long and one and a half inches wide, and both had torn perforations along the left-hand side. The paper of which they were made was of a thick, coarse quality and on each was printed in heavy black ink a letter and a number, B24 on one and B25 on the other, while a single letter A had been handwritten on each in the top right-hand comer.

  ‘What do they remind you of, Watson?’ Holmes inquired.

  ‘Halves of theatre tickets?’ I suggested. ‘The other halves were torn off at the door.’

  ‘No, not a theatre,’ Holmes said musingly. ‘At least, not a usual one. Theatre tickets are invariably printed with the name of the theatre and the title of the play as well as the place where the seats are to be found in the auditorium, the dress circle, for example, or the stalls. Besides, the paper is too coarse. But they certainly appear to be tickets to somewhere or for something. The question is: what? And why the two different colours, yellow for one set and pink for another?’

  ‘Could they be raffle tickets then? I remember my wife buying some at a Christmas charity fair in aid of the Association for Bible Studies in Poplar. They were very similar in size and each book of tickets sold was a different colour.’

  ‘A possibility,’ Holmes conceded. ‘But why the handwritten letter A in the top right-hand corner? And why should Lady Millicent have bought tickets for at least two raffles on separate days? Such a theory hardly explains either why she and the groom were absent for nearly three hours unless …’

  Before he had time to complete the sentence, the door burst open and Sir Hector came striding into the room, dressed on this occasion in tweeds, his boots and gaiters liberally spattered with mud. Something had clearly annoyed him for, barely acknowledging our presence, he plunged immediately into an angry tirade.

  ‘I apologise for not being here to greet you. I was called away by one of my tenant farmers. It was urgent, he said. Do you know what the fellow wanted? To complain about a leaking roof! Expected me to pay for the repairs as if I am made of money! Fix it yourself, I told him. There’s plenty of spare tarpaulins in the stockyard. The man’s a fool, sir! An utter buffoon!’

  To my astonishment and also Sir Hector’s, Holmes greeted this last remark with a little outburst of his own.

  ‘Of course!’ he exclaimed, striking his hands together. ‘What a fool I have been not to see it before!’

  ‘See what?’ Sir Hector expostulated. ‘Are you referring to my tenant? But you haven’t met the man!’

  ‘No, not him, Sir Hector. I was speaking of Weaver.’

  ‘The assistant groom? But why …?’

  ‘There is no time now to explain! Dr Watson and I must return immediately to London.’ Hurriedly shaking his client by the hand, Holmes added, ‘Do not trouble to send for the butler, sir. We will ourselves call at the stables and order the carriage. I shall write to you as soon as I have news of your daughter’s whereabouts.’

  ‘And when do you suppose …?’ Sir Hector began.

  We failed to hear the rest of the sentence. Holmes had bundled me out of the room. Having let ourselves out at the front door, we dashed round to the stables where we found the carriage already prepared for our return journey, the coachman idling away the time by smoking a small cigar and chatting to one of the maids.

  At our precipitate arrival, he flung aside the cheroot and leapt upon the box while the young woman fled inside the house. Within minutes, we were seated inside the carriage and bowling along the road to Elmsfield station.

  I was naturally curious to discover the reason behind our sudden departure for I could see nothing in the situation to warrant Holmes’ decision to return immediately to London. However, although I questioned him directly on this very point, he refused to give me an answer, merely remarking with an infuriating smile, ‘All in good time, Watson. At the moment, I have nothing more than an hypothesis which needs some facts to support it. As soon as I have those, you will be told everything.’

  My exasperation was increased when, on arriving at Elmsfield station, he insisted I went ahead of him through the ticket barrier while he, for some equally inexplicable reason, turned back towards the entrance.

  ‘But there is a London train due at any moment!’ I protested. Indeed, as I spoke, I could hear the engine approaching and could see its plume of smoke rising above the rooftops.

  ‘Then hold it for me, Watson,’ said he coolly as he walked away.

  He caught the train with seconds to spare. As I stood at the open door of a first-class carriage, fuming with impatience, I saw him come running like a stag on to the platform, waving an arm at the guard who had his flag raised and his whistle at his lips.

  ‘I suppose,’ said I sarcastically as the whistle blew and he bounded into the compartment beside me, ‘that you will also refuse to explain what business was so urgent it nearly made you miss the train.’

  ‘Not at all, my dear fellow,’ said he with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. ‘I was anxious to verify one of the facts I referred to earlier. My hypothesis is now taking shape very nicely. In fact, Watson, I think I may say with every confidence that this little affair is almost over.’

  III

  I heard nothing from Holmes over the next two days and had begun to think that, despite his confident assertion that the case was as good as solved, he had come to some unforeseen impasse when the door bell rang.

  It was about one o’clock and, my wife being away visiting an old school friend of hers, Mrs Isa Whitney,* I had, after eating lunch alone, retired to my consulting room for a quiet half-hour spent reading the Morning Post before setting out on my afternoon calls.

  Thinking the visitor might be a patient, I was in the act of folding up the newspaper and tucking it away out of sight when Holmes came bursting into the room.

  ‘Watson!’ cried he. ‘I am delighted to find you at home. Fetch your hat and stick, my dear fellow. We are going out.’

  ‘Where to, Holmes?’ I asked, a little taken aback at his unexpected appearance.

  ‘To Clapham
.’

  ‘Why to Clapham?’

  ‘To solve the riddle of the Ainsworth case,’ he replied impatiently as if I should have been aware of his intentions.

  ‘But I have patients to call on,’ I protested.

  ‘None of whom are of any great importance,’ he retorted. Seeing my surprised expression, he burst out laughing. ‘You were not quite quick enough in hiding the Morning Post under that pile of medical journals. A portion of its front page is still visible. The conclusion is therefore obvious. A doctor who has time to read the newspaper can have no urgent cases on hand. So do hurry up, there’s a good fellow, and send for that accommodating neighbour of yours. I have a hansom waiting at the door.’

  Knowing it was useless to protest that I had been merely enjoying a few moments of leisure before setting off on my professional rounds, I hastily scribbled a note for my neighbour, Jackson, and also for my wife who might return home before me, then I seized my hat and stick and followed him outside to the cab, hoping he might enlighten me on the journey.

  But he was as secretive as before and refused to confide in me what evidence he had acquired in the past two days which had led him to make inquiries on the south side of the river.

  ‘Wait and see, Watson,’ was all he would reply, adding with barely suppressed amusement, ‘We are catching a train which later this afternoon will take us to a destination where all your questions shall be answered.’

  I could make nothing of this enigmatic remark apart from supposing that Clapham Junction was in some way connected to the case although I could not see its significance. Lady Millicent had left Elmsfield Hall by gig. As far as I knew, there was no suggestion that a train journey had played any part in her abduction or elopement unless Holmes’ investigation had proved otherwise.

  He was in a particularly effervescent mood that afternoon and spoke so entertainingly on a variety of subjects that I gave up puzzling over the conundrum and became so absorbed in his sprightly conversation that I paid little heed to the route we were taking.