The Secret Documents of Sherlock Holmes

by June Thomson

  † Mr Sherlock Holmes asked Dr Watson to take over the Baskerville investigation when he apparently returned to London. Dr John F. Watson.

  * Dr Watson refers to the case in ‘The Hound of the Baskervilles’. Dr John F. Watson.

  THE CASE OF THE CAMBERWELL DECEPTION

  ‘I see you have received bad news, Watson,’ my old friend Sherlock Holmes remarked over breakfast one winter’s morning as we examined our respective mail. ‘A death, I believe.’

  As I looked up from the letter, startled by the accuracy of his statement, he continued with a smile, ‘It was hardly a three-pipe problem, my dear fellow.* Your expression and the black-edged writing paper were all the facts needed to make the deduction. I trust it is not someone close to you?’

  ‘It is Mrs Cecil Forrester,’ I replied. ‘Her son, Henry, with whom she was living in Canterbury, has written to tell me she passed away on Tuesday.’

  ‘A sad loss,’ Holmes commented.

  ‘It is a break with the past,’ I acknowledged. ‘Although she was no great age, she had been ailing for some months. We had kept up a correspondence over the years but not regularly.’

  Holmes, of course, knew of my connection with Mrs Cecil Forrester. My late wife Mary had been employed as governess to her children when the family was living in Lower Camberwell. Indeed, it was through Holmes that I first became acquainted with Mary Morstan, as she then was, during the Sholto inquiry.† For this reason, I was considerably saddened by the news of Mrs Forrester’s death which brought back memories of that other and much greater personal loss. Mrs Forrester had been my last living link with my dear wife and those happy but all too few years we had spent together.*

  My mood was not lightened by the weather. It was a bitterly cold morning in January 1901, about a year before I bought the Queen Anne Street practice and moved out of my old lodgings at 221B Baker Street.† Although a bright fire was burning in the sitting-room hearth, the view from the windows was dreary in the extreme. The snow, which had fallen overnight, still lay upon the ground, rutted and dirtied by the feet of pedestrians and the wheels of passing vehicles.

  Holmes rose from the table.

  ‘I am loath to leave you on your own this morning, Watson,’ said he, ‘but I have a pressing engagement with an informant, one of the notorious Stevenson gang, who insists I come alone, and I cannot therefore ask you to accompany me. Will you be all right here by yourself for an hour?’

  ‘Of course, Holmes,’ I assured him, touched by his concern. ‘I shall reply to Henry Forrester’s letter and then I may read the morning’s newspapers.’

  ‘Very well then; if you are quite certain,’ Holmes replied as he retired to his bedroom to dress.

  Shortly afterwards, he emerged, carrying in his hand a small packet wrapped in brown paper which he placed on my desk with the remark, ‘I should be most grateful, my dear fellow, if you could spare the time to glance over the contents and give your opinion of them on my return. I should be back within the hour.’

  After he left, I settled down to the melancholy task of writing to Henry Forrester. Having done so and sent Billy the pageboy to post the letter, my eye fell on the package Holmes had left for me. My curiosity aroused, as no doubt Holmes had intended, I picked it up and, unwrapping it, discovered it contained two photographs, both studio portraits mounted on stiff pasteboard.

  The first was of a young lady of about two and twenty who was standing alone against a painted backcloth of rocks and trees. Although not conventionally beautiful, the features were refined and regular and the general expression was one of a quiet intelligence. But most of all, I was struck by a tragic air about her which was difficult to define. It was particularly noticeable in her large, dark eyes which gazed at me steadily out of the photograph with a grave, unsmiling regard as if searching for some expression of consolation in my own face for whatever sorrow she was suffering. This impression was emphasised by the severity of the dress she was wearing. It was dark, long-sleeved and cut very high in the neck, so that the throat was completely covered, and its plainness was unrelieved by any ornament. It reminded me of mourning apparel and I wondered if she had recently suffered a bereavement.

  The other photograph was of a family group, again posed in a studio setting, consisting of a woman seated on a chair, holding a small child aged about three years on her lap. Behind her was standing a pleasant-faced, fair-haired young man in a formal dark suit, smiling a little self-consciously into the camera.

  The two women appeared to be related. There was a similarity in their features which suggested they might be sisters, the seated woman being the older of the two.

  Puzzled as to why Holmes had requested my opinion of them I turned the photographs over and found written on the back of them in my old friend’s handwriting nothing more than the subjects’ names: Miss Emma Holland for the lady standing alone and Mr and Mrs George Chapell for the couple with the child.

  Holmes returned soon afterwards to find me seated by the fire, still studying the two photographs, in particular that of Miss Emma Holland.

  ‘Have you come to any conclusions about them?’ Holmes asked, drawing his own chair closer to the hearth. Taking the Persian slipper which served him as a tobacco pouch,* he filled and lit his pipe.

  ‘I believe the two women may be sisters,’ I remarked.

  ‘Excellent, Watson! You are quite correct, What else can you tell me?’

  Knowing Holmes’ insistence on factual evidence rather than mere conjecture, I hesitated a little before replying.

  ‘Miss Emma Holland seems a very sad figure, Holmes. I wondered if she had suffered some tragedy in her life, perhaps a bereavement.’

  ‘That was perspicacious of you, my dear fellow. About a year before that photograph was taken, she had indeed undergone a most harrowing experience, including the death of someone close to her. Did you notice anything else about her?’

  ‘Only that she looks highly intelligent.’

  ‘True again. Watson! You are indeed on capital form this morning! But what of Miss Holland’s hands? Is there anything about those which struck you as remarkable?’

  I looked closely again at the photograph, paying particular attention to this detail, but, apart from the fact that they were clasped in front of her and looked very white against the dark fabric of her dress, I could see nothing which was in any way out of the ordinary.

  I glanced at Holmes and saw he was regarding me quizzically, a faint smile on his lips.

  ‘Well, Watson?’ he inquired, raising his eyebrows.

  ‘Nothing, Holmes,’ I confessed. ‘What am I supposed to see?’

  Without replying, he rose from his chair and, crossing the room to his desk, picked up his magnifying glass which he silently handed to me. Taking it, I looked again at the hands, which were crossed left over right, and with the aid of the powerful lens was able for the first time to discern the narrow band of a ring on the third finger of her left hand.

  ‘She is wearing a wedding ring!’ I exclaimed in surprise, more at my ability to see it at last rather than from any real awareness of its significance. Holmes must have realised this lack of discernment on my part for he asked in the tone of a schoolmaster trying to coax a pupil towards the perfect answer, ‘And what, my dear fellow, is the name on the back of the photograph?’

  ‘Miss Emma Holland,’ I began and then the truth suddenly struck me. ‘Of course, Miss!’ I exclaimed. ‘Then why the wedding ring?’

  ‘Exactly so, Watson. Why indeed?’

  ‘Who are these people, Holmes?’ I asked curiously. It was evident that he had had some definite purpose in mind when he had asked me to examine and comment on the photographs. ‘Are they former clients of yours?’

  ‘Not directly although they were connected with someone who came to see me over twenty years ago, asking for my help, and whose name is very familiar to you.’

  ‘Really? I cannot think who it could be,’ I replied, much puzzled.

  ‘I
f I add that her reason for consulting me concerned a little domestic complication, will that not help you?’

  ‘Mrs Forrester!’ I exclaimed. ‘I remember my late wife using that very phrase when she first consulted you.* You had assisted her employer, she said, over some domestic problem although you always declined to explain its exact nature.’

  ‘I was not in a position to do so, my dear fellow. I had promised Mrs Cecil Forrester that I would say nothing either to you or to your late wife, Mary. However, I feel Mrs Forrester’s death has removed that injunction and therefore I am now free to tell you the whole tragic story.

  ‘Mrs Forrester consulted me in 1879, when I was first in practice in Montague Street.† She was concerned about her children’s governess, a Miss Emma Holland, whom she had taken into her household about a year earlier. Miss Holland had come to her with excellent references from her previous employer, the Honourable Mrs Frederick Gore Hamilton of Kensington. Mrs Forrester had no complaints about either Miss Holland’s character or competence. She was a quiet, efficient young woman, well liked by Mrs Forrester’s children. However, a minor mystery regarding Miss Holland had arisen and, being a widow and having no close male relatives in whom to confide, Mrs Forrester had come to seek my advice.

  ‘Her unease arose from the fact that, whatever the season or occasion, Miss Holland invariably wore a high-necked dress of the style you have seen in her photograph. Being curious by nature and on good terms with her governess, Mrs Forrester asked her one particularly hot day about this preference of hers. Miss Holland replied that, as a child, she had suffered from a goitre which had been surgically removed. The high-necked dresses were intended to hide the scar. She seemed, Mrs Forrester added, embarrassed by the conversation and, embarrassed herself at having raised the subject, Mrs Forrester let the matter drop and thought no more about it.

  ‘However, a few months later, Mrs Forrester attended a charity bazaar in London on behalf of the Distressed Gentlewomen’s Support Society, a good cause to which she regularly subscribed. While at the bazaar, she happened by sheer chance to be introduced to the Honourable Mrs Frederick Gore Hamilton, a fellow subscriber and Miss Holland’s previous employer, with whom she had, of course, corresponded when she took up Miss Holland’s references. Naturally, they got into conversation in the course of which Mrs Forrester mentioned Miss Holland’s goitre. Heaven knows how the topic came up but, given women’s extraordinary predilection for discussing matters of health, their own as well as other people’s, perhaps the choice of subject matter was not all that unusual.

  ‘The Honourable Mrs Gore Hamilton was astonished. Miss Holland, she insisted, had never to her knowledge suffered from a goitre, bore no scar on her neck and furthermore, in the three years she had been in her own employ, had rarely worn a high-necked dress of the type described by Mrs Forrester.

  ‘In an attempt to solve the apparent mystery surrounding the young governess, the two ladies exchanged further descriptions of their respective employees, the Honourable Mrs Gore Hamilton finally settling the matter by declaring that her Miss Holland had light brown hair and brown eyes.

  ‘There was a moment of bewildered incredulity before Mrs Forrester cried out, “But mine has blue!”

  ‘As you may imagine, Watson, this final revelation placed Mrs Forrester in an extraordinary dilemma.

  ‘Who was this young woman, masquerading as Miss Emma Holland, who was clearly an impostor and was, moreover, in charge of her children’s education? If she was not Miss Holland, then who was she? And why was she carrying out this deception?

  ‘It was an intriguing little mystery and one which I readily agreed to look into on Mrs Forrester’s behalf. I therefore suggested that I be introduced into the household as Clement Stanley, an old school friend of her late husband who had recently returned from America and was anxious to renew the family acquaintance. Mrs Forrester agreed with the plan and the following afternoon I presented myself at her house in Lower Camberwell.

  ‘You will not, my dear Watson, need reminding of Mrs Forrester’s drawing room.’

  ‘Indeed not, Holmes,’ I replied, recalling that pleasant, comfortable room, overlooking the lawn and the leafy back garden where Mary and I had so often sat together in the weeks leading up to our marriage. Indeed, so strong was the recollection that, for a few seconds, it seemed to flash across that inward eye with such clarity that, had I been asked, I could have described in detail the pattern on the chintz curtains or the collection of porcelain figurines in the display cabinet which stood in one of the chimney alcoves.

  ‘The memory does not pain you too much, my dear fellow?’ Holmes inquired a little anxiously. ‘If you prefer, I could postpone my account to another day.’

  ‘No, pray go on,’ I insisted. ‘The story is intriguing and I should like to know its ending. Besides, it is better, is it not, to learn to come to terms with the past?’

  ‘My sentiments entirely!’ Holmes agreed heartily. ‘Well then, to continue. It was in that very same drawing room over tea that Mrs Forrester introduced me to the children and Miss Holland. I found her a charming young woman, pleasant and agreeable, and yet, as you so rightly perceived, bearing about her an indefinable air of some past tragedy. Her curious choice of apparel was, of course, immediately evident. Although it was a hot July afternoon, she was wearing a black dress, cut very high in the neck which covered her whole throat almost up to her chin.

  ‘During my consultation with Mrs Forrester the previous day, I had already established that Miss Holland’s free day was always a Sunday and that she left the house at about twelve o’clock, immediately after she and the family returned from Matins, taking with her a small covered basket containing a cold luncheon of sandwiches and a flask of lemon cordial. She was out for the whole of the day, not returning to Camberwell until nine o’clock in the evening. Where she went and whom she met during these Sunday excursions was another mystery. Although Mrs Forrester had asked her in a friendly manner what she did in her free time, Miss Holland had told her little, apart from the meagre fact that she visited an elderly relative who lived in the country.

  ‘Thinking that his relative might be a vital clue to Miss Holland’s real identity, I had also arranged, with Mrs Forrester’s permission, to follow Miss Holland the next Sunday in order to discover precisely where she went.

  ‘Disguised as an elderly Anglican cleric,* I therefore took a hansom to Camberwell, asking the driver to wait a little distance up the road from Mrs Forrester’s house.

  ‘Shortly after twelve, Miss Holland emerged and set off up the road on foot, carrying the basket. Paying off the cabby, I followed a little distance behind her. Her destination was Camberwell railway station where she caught a train to Ludgate Hill. I do not propose giving you a detailed account of her journey after that, Watson. It would be tedious in the extreme. Suffice it to say that from Ludgate Hill she made her way, partly on foot, partly by omnibus, to St Pancras station. Fortunately, she was so intent on her own itinerary that she failed to notice that the same elderly, white-haired cleric was following her every move. Indeed, when she bought a second-class return ticket to Banham Cross, the small market town in Hertfordshire, I was standing immediately behind her at the booking office and occupied the carriage next to hers on the train.

  ‘At Banham Cross, she alighted and, having bought a bunch of white roses from a flower seller outside the station, she set off to walk the short distance to St Margaret’s church. Once there, she made her way to a grave where she placed the roses in a small marble urn and where she remained kneeling in silent prayer for several minutes, her veil lowered.’

  ‘Whose grave, Holmes?’ I asked eagerly.

  Holmes looked pained.

  ‘All in good time, Watson. I am well aware that, as an author, you lay great emphasis on the story, particularly on the complexities of the plot. But do pray allow me to proceed with the account in my own manner by following the logical sequence of events.’

  ‘Of cour
se, Holmes,’ I agreed, somewhat abashed.

  ‘To continue, then. While Miss Holland was thus engaged, I remained out of sight inside the porch, apparently intent on studying the times of services posted up on the noticeboard.

  ‘After about ten minutes, Miss Holland rose from her knees and, returning to the railway station, caught a train back to St Pancras from where she travelled by omnibus to Battersea.

  ‘I must confess that I was by now not only perplexed by Miss Holland’s peregrinations but a little fatigued by them as well. It was now half past three in the afternoon and I had had nothing to eat all day apart from a very scanty breakfast at eight o’clock which had been cut short by the arrival of an unexpected client who insisted on seeing me at once. In fact, I was only able to persuade him to leave in time for me to take a cab to Camberwell, whereas Miss Holland had presumably refreshed herself with the sandwiches and lemon cordial which I imagined she had consumed in the privacy of the Ladies Only carriage of the train on her way to Hertfordshire.

  ‘I also assumed that the sole purpose of the journey was to visit the grave at St Margaret’s church, not an elderly relative, as she had told her employer. But why had she troubled to deceive Mrs Forrester? And where was she proposing to go in Battersea?

  ‘That last question was soon answered. Her destination was a house, number 19 in Clifford Street, one of those modest, two-storey villas built for clerks or minor tradesmen and their families.

  ‘Having no means of knowing how long Miss Holland might remain inside the house and determined not to give up the chase quite yet, I decided to make a few small changes to my appearance. I could hardly loiter indefinitely in Clifford Street dressed as an Anglican clergyman. My presence would have been too conspicuous. Fortunately there was a public house on the corner which had a gate in its rear wall giving access to a small back yard. Taking advantage of the cover it afforded, I rapidly discarded my wig together with my clerical hat and collar, replacing the latter with a soft collar and a cravat which I was carrying in my pocket in case of need. I then sauntered round to the front of the public house and installed myself in the saloon bar, the window of which overlooked Clifford Street. There I kept watch, fortified by a cheese sandwich and half a pint of the landlord’s best ale.