by David Marcum
The next morning two odd things happened. First, I came down for breakfast to find that I had preceded Holmes. Our breakfasts lay upon the table under their covers, as usual, but the second unusual matter was the fact that Agnes, our temporary landlady, was still in the room puttering around with dusting, adjusting the furniture, and such. So far during our stay, we had seldom seen her and had been only aware of her presence by the temporary incursions into our quarters required by her serving our breakfast.
“Good morning, Agnes,” I greeted her, “nice to see you. I hope all is well with you this morning.”
“Oh yes, Dr. Watson, I am well, as I trust are you.”
“As we medical folk are accustomed to saying, ‘As well as can be expected.’”
I hesitated for a moment, resisting the temptation to launch into a description of my increasing infirmities of aging, but noticed that Agnes seemed somewhat distracted and unsettled. Finally, she asked, “Is Mr. Holmes not up yet?”
“I presume not. He almost always precedes me to the breakfast table. In fact, it is not unusual for him to have finished his morning repast by the time I join him. If you have not heard him go out, then I presume that he is still in his chambers.”
“Do you think it would be unseemly of me to ask his advice on a somewhat personal matter?” she queried.
“Oh, I think not, Agnes. I’m sure that he will be glad to help in any way he might be able.”
Since there was no way of knowing how long it would be before Holmes might present himself for breakfast, Agnes politely excused herself, saying, “I’ll come back for the dishes later,” and returned to her own quarters.
After a few moments, I heard behind me, “Sorry, Watson, I overslept,” he explained, “I can’t remember when I last stayed in bed longer than I intended. I am starved. I see that breakfast is ready.”
The breakfast was excellent, as usual, and we consumed it with pleasure. Actually, I would say that Holmes consumed his with gusto. I had rarely seen him with such a vigorous appetite. I had not yet finished my tea when Agnes knocked on our door. This was most unusual, for she almost never came to clear away the breakfast dishes until we both were long finished.
“May I come in now, sirs?” came the muffled voice from the other side of the door.
“By all means, Agnes, do come in,” Holmes replied brightly.
The door opened quietly, almost cautiously, and Agnes poked her head tentatively through the opening.
“Come in,” Holmes invited, almost cheerily, “do come in, Agnes.”
I could not help being taken by what a remarkably good humour Holmes was in that morning.
“I know that you are retired, Mr. Holmes,” she began, “and I hope that you won’t think me rude or out of my place asking you for the favor of your advice, but it is for my sister, Susan. She and her husband, Edward Stratton, have a flat not far from here, around the corner on Marylebone. She is concerned about her husband.”
Holmes and I exchanged a quick glance. I thought, and assumed that Holmes shared the same thought, that surely, this woman does not expect Sherlock Holmes to engage himself in some sort of problem involving an errant husband!
Holmes most politely said, “Yes, Agnes, please continue. What seems to be the problem?”
“Well, Mr. Holmes,” she went on to explain, “Susan’s husband, Edward, has been behaving strangely for the past few days. She has told me of several odd things he has been doing.”
Holmes and I exchanged quick glances again.
“But two evenings ago, he did something that she is at a complete loss to account for. Edward came home at about his usual time but rushed quickly by her with scarcely a greeting and went directly to his office, a small room which he keeps in the back of the flat and uses for business purposes. Susan heard him bumping about, opening and closing drawers, and just generally shuffling around for several minutes. Then he came out and greeted Susan more appropriately, but she said it was clear that there was something on his mind that was distracting him. They had dinner together and then he went, as he did about once a week, down to the local pub for a pint with some of his friends. While he was gone, Susan did something that I fear is weighing on her conscience. She went into his office, which she seldom did except to clean, and then she did something she had never done before. She searched through his desk! There, under a liner in the bottom of the topmost drawer she found,” Agnes hesitated and took a deep breath before continuing, “a one hundred pound Bank of England note! Susan, of course, said nothing to Edward about it, for she didn’t want him to know that she had been intruding in his private office.”
Holmes and I both continued to look at Agnes in silence, as though expecting her to continue. Then, we took a long glance at each other.
Finally, I broke the silence and asked, “Now Agnes, just where does this present a problem? I had always thought that possessing a one hundred pound bank note was something to be highly desired.”
“The problem does not lie in the bank note itself, but rather, I fancy, the question of how your brother-in-law came by it.” Holmes suggested. Then added the query, “What does he do for a living, Agnes?”
“He is an accountant. Well, actually a bookkeeper at the Liberty store.”
“Would you have any idea how much his salary might be?”
“Susan has never shared that knowledge with me, but whatever it is, it would never be enough for Edward to accumulate one hundred pounds all at once. It would have taken him quite some time to do that!”
Holmes peaked his fingers in his inimitable fashion, furrowed his brow, but before he could say anything, Agnes added, “But that’s not all of it, Mr. Holmes. Last evening he came home in the same hurried way, went to his office, shuffled about and then came out for dinner, after which he, again, hurried out to the pub, which he seldom did two nights in a row.
Susan again ventured into Edward’s office, peeked into his hiding place, and found that the hundred pound note was gone. Instead there were two fifty pound notes!”
“So, she told you that the two fifty pound notes were in Edward’s hiding place instead of the original one hundred pound note, not in addition to the one hundred pound note?” Holmes asked.
“Yes sir, she was quite definite about that. She said that she took the time to look around to make certain.” Agnes assured.
“What does your brother-in-law look like? Can you give us a description?” Holmes asked.
“He is a quite ordinary looking chap. Three, perhaps four inches taller than me. A bit of gray hair at the temples, otherwise dark brown hair, rather slim, I’d say not much over eleven stone. I’ve never seen him wear anything other than a gray suit to his work. He usually wears a bowler hat and never goes out without his umbrella.” Agnes described.
“I wonder if our following him would tell us anything? What time does he usually leave for work?” Holmes queried further.
“Well, this time of year he usually takes the Tube. He would need to leave home no later than a quarter past eight.”
“It is not quite 7:30 yet. Watson, shall we...?”
“Holmes!” I said in astonishment, “Surely you aren’t thinking...”
“Why not, old man, there has been no game afoot at all for us in quite a while and I thought that any game might be an interesting use of what time we still have left of our visit. Besides, we could use the exercise. Except for our stroll in the park, we’ve been captive to the rain. Don your warm winter wear, Watson, and we’ll be off! If he is going to take the Tube, we should be able to catch him at the Marylebone entrance. Come, Watson! Need I say more?”
We bade Agnes goodbye and went down the stairs, not nearly as quickly as we once had done, but we managed to get to the street level without incident. We crossed the street and took up positions outside the Tube entrance. I suppose we gave
the appearance of quite commonplace loiterers. Soon, we spotted a chap who fit the description given us by Agnes. Just as he passed, Holmes did an odd but remarkably clever thing. He turned to me and, in a voice much louder than the circumstances required said, “And then, John, you wouldn’t believe what Edward told me. He said...” and his voice trailed off. “I just wanted to see if that fellow would respond to hearing the name ‘Edward.’ He did turn his head when I said ‘Edward,’ so I think we have our man. Let us move along for, as you can see, he did not turn into the Tube station as we had expected.”
I recall hoping, very earnestly, that he wasn’t planning to walk to work. That could have been quite a march for a couple of no-longer-young chaps such as we. Edward Stratton crossed Baker Street and turned a short block to the corner bank. There he hesitated for a few seconds and then entered. Holmes and I were not far behind him. Without hesitation, Holmes entered the bank. I followed. We could not see Edward Stratton anywhere, so Holmes approached one of the tellers.
“Pardon me,” he apologized, “I just saw my friend Edward Stratton come in here, but I don’t see him anywhere. Would you know him?”
“Oh, certainly sir. He is a frequent customer here.”
“Would you know where he went, or, perhaps, I was mistaken, and it was not Edward that I saw at all.”
“You were not mistaken, sir, Mr. Stratton did come into the bank just a few minutes ago. He went over there to speak with our Mr. Carrington in his office.”
“All right, thank you very much. I’ll just wait until he comes out,” Holmes said and turned away as if to go. At the last moment, though, he turned back to the teller and asked, “Is Mr. Carrington an official of the bank?”
“Yes, sir, I guess you could say so. He is our chief loan officer.”
At this Holmes joined me where I waited, and we left the bank together.
“Curious,” he said. “Why would a fellow whom we know to have at least one hundred, perhaps even two hundred pounds, need to chat with a bank’s loan officer?”
“Perhaps he was going to use his pounds to pay a loan he already had,” I suggested.
Holmes only said, “Perhaps.”
Just then, Edward Stratton came out of the bank. He seemed to be in something of a hurry when he crossed Baker Street and approached the Underground entrance. This time he passed into it and descended to the platform below.
Since, in anticipation of Holmes’s visit, I had purchased two monthly passes for the Underground, we had no difficulty in moving along with him into the train. We took seats such that Mr. Stratton was unlikely to catch sight of us, but from which we could clearly observe him.
“I never cared for the Underground,” Holmes told me. “Since we will all, eventually, be spending eternity underground, it has always been my contention that we should spend as much of our times alive in the open air.”
“I understand,” I agreed. “You know, I’ve heard that when the Underground was first opened, it was commonly called ‘the suicide hole.’ Times change. People need to move more rapidly today, although I’m not sure why, and the Underground provides a rapid and inexpensive mode of transportation. People have taken to it and, I suppose, would be most inconvenienced without it now.”
Holmes just nodded casual agreement and sat silently for several minutes. He then said, “You know what I miss most, Watson?”
“Tell me.”
“The sound of the horses’ hooves on the pavement,” he said. “I suppose one can still catch a hansom once in a while.”
“Oh, yes, I’m sure that one can, but I haven’t actually seen an old hansom for some time. Today, people seem to go where they must either in the Tube or in one of those high top motor taxicabs.” I said.
“Times change and we must change with them, no matter how reluctantly,” Holmes sighed, and then added, “I suppose that it is for the better, eventually.”
As we approached Oxford Circus, we shifted our positions in our seats in preparation for standing up and exiting the car. We had anticipated that Mr. Stratton would exit the train at Oxford Circus, since that was the station nearest to his workplace. Much to our surprise, Edward Stratton made no move to arise, but continued to peruse his newspaper. Holmes and I looked at each other quizzically.
The train was slowing for its stop at Charing Cross Station before Edward Stratton showed any signs of removing himself from his seat. Again, Holmes and I exchanged quizzical glances and awaited for Stratton to rise and prepare to exit the train before we moved. It was still very easy to keep him in view as we continued our tracking of Mr. Stratton to the surface. His route continued along the Strand for a few hundred yards. We were able to keep up with him. I was a bit out of breath when Edward Stratton finally turned into a small street, the name of which I didn’t see. Just a few yards into this street, we saw a small cluster of men loitering around in front of what might have been an old residence, or a shop which now seemed abandoned. Stratton hailed someone in the cluster of men and he and perhaps six or so others gathered aside and engaged in some energetic conversation, while occasionally casting glances toward the building in front of which they were assembled. We kept a discrete distance, yet still close enough that we could easily continue to view the men.
Shortly, some of them started moving toward the building. We could see that they were, one at a time, approaching the door where each hesitated for a few seconds, after which the door opened briefly admitting one man. This procedure was repeated until only a dozen or so remained in the queue outside. Holmes abruptly got up from his seat on the bench beside me.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
Holmes answered with a single word, “Inside,” and before I could catch his arm and discourage him from this rash action, he was on his way to mix with the men in the queue.
It was but a very short time before Holmes returned. “Problem?” I asked.
“Well, a pair of eyes appeared through a slit in the door and a most unwelcoming and gruff voice demanded ‘password,’” he explained. “I had no password so I said ‘Madagascar,’ which was simply the first word that occurred to me.”
“What happened?”
“The door on the peephole slammed shut. Listen, Watson, there are still some chaps straggling in, do you think you could step over there, loiter about and see if you can overhear whatever these fellows might be using for a password?”
“If you wish. I can but try.”
I really had no faith in this sort of slipshod eavesdropping, but as a few stragglers hurried toward the problematic door, I strolled over and joined them, taking care to be last in the queue. As each man approached the door, the little trapdoor opened and someone inside snarled something after which I heard some muttered word. I listened to each and it was only on the fourth occurrence that I heard anything that sounded like a real word. I simply walked away, with the fellow inside the door probably being unaware that I was ever in the queue, and returned to Holmes with what information I had gleaned, such as it was.
“I really couldn’t hear very well, but from what I could piece together from listening to four different chaps gaining entry, it sounded to me to be something like, ‘hostina.’”
“Hostina?” Holmes asked. “What an odd password.”
“Do you know what it means?”
“No idea.”
“Do you think it is an English word?” I asked.
Holmes’s only response was, “Hmmmm!”
We continued to sit on our bench and, as far as I could tell, do nothing. Eventually, the occupants of the old building started streaming out onto the street. Holmes said, “Here come the fellows back. Let us watch and see what we can learn.”
I watched. I saw Edward Stratton come out with a group of five or six other men with whom he seemed to be talking in a most animated fashion. Other than that, I onl
y saw some men dissolving from a larger group and going their various ways.
“What did you see?” Holmes asked me.
“Well, I saw Edward Stratton chatting with some chaps, and some other chaps milling around and, eventually, going their separate ways.”
“We shall return here tomorrow and continue our observation,” Holmes advised.
“How do you know that they will be here tomorrow?” I asked.
“The energy and activity level today did not bespeak of men who had concluded business and received a closure to whatever enterprise they might have been pursuing, but rather, of men still engaged and impatient to get on with it,” Holmes explained.
“I see,” was the best response I could muster.
“Besides,” Holmes continued, “I overheard one fellow say to another, after bidding him farewell, ‘See you back here tomorrow, Gus.’”
“I see.”
What I really did see was another instance in which one of Sherlock Holmes’s deductions was not quite as mysterious as it might have appeared. As we rose from our bench, I saw Holmes’s brow furrow and he became pensive and silent.
We passed the journey back to Baker Street in almost total silence. Holmes sat with furrowed brow, staring at the floor of the car and only occasionally muttering something unintelligible. Once or twice I could make out a whispered, “You could be right.” From time to time Holmes shifted his weight in his seat in a nervous and agitated way. He kept looking out of the car’s window, leaning forward as though he were trying to push the car ahead with his own weight. When I asked him if there might be something wrong, he simply shook his head and returned to whatever deep thoughts he was thinking.
When we arrived at the station, Holmes virtually sprang from his seat and hurried out of the car without as much as a glance toward me. He almost dashed up to the surface. I wasn’t able to keep up with him, and he reached our flat well ahead of me. When I arrived, he was already engaged in a brisk telephone conversation. I heard him say, “...yes, that’s right. I think it should be on the shelf. Yes, it is one of the scrap-books. Good, thank you. Can you find the ‘L’ volume? Yes, I know, but not so large as the ‘M’s,’ as you can see. Sorry, I know it is a great imposition, but it is important. Thank you. Now, if you would, just browse through some pages from the beginning and read to me the first few lines of each page.”