“But there is a simple enough way to test my theory. Take yourself to Harper’s cabin and search thoroughly. I am confident that, should you do so, you will find a quantity of money far beyond that which an engineer – even one in the engine room of a vessel as prestigious as the Oceanic – could possibly have saved from his own pay.”
Eager to be of assistance, I suggested that Agnew also check Harper’s knuckles. The kind of beating that had been evident on Bellamy’s face must have left its mark on the perpetrator’s hands.
“An excellent suggestion, Doctor,” Holmes agreed and held the door open for Agnew. “You would, I think, be best served by going to make your checks at once, Mr Agnew, before word gets round that Peters here has not been thrown in the brig. Dr Watson and I shall take ourselves to the library in the meantime. Perhaps you could arrange for some helpful porter to bring us refreshments? I confess, I am suddenly filled with an unexpected energy and fear I will not sleep tonight.” With a nod to the ashen-faced Peters, he followed the young officer out and I trailed behind him, the belated and babbled thanks of the reprieved man ringing in our ears.
* * *
As might have been expected, Holmes’s conjecture proved to be correct in every detail. Agnew, surprising Harper carousing with some cronies, discovered a cache of money hidden in a locker for which the thuggish engineer was unable to account. Taken individually to speak to the captain, it was not long before one man after another crumbled and informed on Harper as quickly as they could. Harper himself remained silent until Agnew hinted that a full confession was his only hope of avoiding the noose, given the weight of evidence against him. At that, we were told later, he broke like an oak tree in a storm and admitted everything, begging for mercy and sobbing in a less than manly fashion. I was gratified to discover that the knuckles on his right hand were cut and scraped, just as I had suggested.
The remainder of the voyage was uneventful. Holmes and I spent the next forty-eight hours reading and taking the sea air, with regular stops for food and drink. In consequence, we reached New York harbour – marvelling all the while at the magnificent Lady of Liberty statue which rose from the bay as both a welcome and a warning – fully rested and eager to proceed with our mission.
Chapter Three
It was not yet eight in the morning when we took our first steps on American soil. In some ways, the dockside reminded me of London as we were pushed and buffeted by crowds of industrious dock workers, lounging roughnecks and disembarking passengers laden with bulky cases. The combined smells of freshly landed fish and spilled machine oil were as overpowering here as at any similar spot in London.
Small things stood out, however, which marked this to be almost as foreign a location as an Afghani marketplace or Arab souk. Street cleaners in white trousers and jackets, topped with white helmets, moved here and there along the streets, and the accents of the youngsters selling newspapers on each corner were thick and at times difficult to comprehend. I stopped to purchase a ’paper and took the opportunity to ask the seller for directions to Spring Street and the offices of Holmes’s doppelganger, which we had obtained from Gregson prior to our departure. To Holmes’s delight, the address was within walking distance, and so, having arranged for our luggage to be taken to our hotel, my friend and I set off into New York.
During our sea voyage I had taken the opportunity to familiarise myself, at least a little, with the geography of the city, and had admired the manner in which much of it was made up of long, straight streets, intersecting and crossing one another in a grid-like pattern. Even so, I must admit my surprise at the general air of cleanliness and prosperity as Holmes and I made our way out of the port area and into the city itself. Glancing from one side to the other in the bright sunlight as we walked, I could easily have believed myself to be in one of the newer parts of London, and said as much to Holmes.
“Do you say so, Watson?” he replied, with a smile. “Well, perhaps you are right. Certainly, there is something about the air that invigorates the senses. After my recent travails on behalf of Mycroft, this trip, regardless of its unfortunate cause, may be exactly what I need.”
He smiled again as though to demonstrate his sincerity. This was the first time Holmes had mentioned his secret work since we had left England and I hoped he might unburden himself further, but he said nothing more and so we continued in companionable silence along the street.
Half an hour’s brisk walking brought us to the celebrated Cancer Hospital. From there it was but five minutes further to the prosaically named 106th Street, along which our quarry had his offices. I noticed that Holmes’s pace quickened as we neared the stairs leading to the door of the building occupied by his supposed namesake. Built of a brown stone, it rose three floors, with wide steps leading up to a slightly inset main door and large bay windows on either side.
“Wait a moment, Holmes,” I said. “I know that I have mentioned this several times on our voyage over, but I will say it again. Would it not be prudent to speak to the American authorities before we beard this imposter in his den?”
“Perhaps,” replied my friend. “But it is probable that the man is on friendly terms with the police force, and I would prefer not to risk a warning being sent to him.”
“Have you any reason to suppose that to be likely?”
“I would like to think, were our respective positions reversed and this was London not New York, that the occasional assistance I have been able to provide to Scotland Yard would be enough to warrant such a warning. Why should this colonial facsimile be any less favoured?”
The point was a reasonable one. I nodded my agreement and held out an arm before me, indicating the half dozen steps that led to the door of the rooms of Sherlock Holmes, imposter. “After you.”
He brushed past me and, taking the steps two at a time, was soon knocking on the door. There was no reply. He knocked again, then a third time, but the office remained silent.
“Clearly there is no one at home,” I remarked, aware even as I spoke that Holmes would not thank me for stating the obvious.
Holmes nodded distractedly. His attention was focused on the large window to the left of the door. Slatted wooden blinds obscured the interior, but a faint glow indicated that a light burned somewhere within. Holmes leaned across the metal rail that lined the stairs and tugged, without effect, at the window frame, attempting to open the lower half. When that failed, he knelt down in front of the door and pushed open the letterbox. I began to protest, but had no time to do so before the door flew open to reveal the imposing figure of a frowning New York matron, who glared down at the top of Holmes’s head.
I took a step backwards and prepared to make such excuses as I could quickly bring to mind, but before I could say a word, Holmes rose to his feet in a single, fluid movement and bade the lady a hearty good morning.
“And may I say that it is gratifying to see a Russell & Erwin kept in such pristine condition,” he continued, as though recommencing an interrupted conversation. He turned and invited me to examine the doorknob, of all things. “You will agree, John, that this is a particularly delightful example of the ironworkers’ craft. Circa 1860, if I’m not mistaken, from their Connecticut factory.”
He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and used it to polish the knob, which, to me, looked entirely commonplace and unworthy of such attention. It would not have done to say so, of course, so I contented myself with a short – and, I hoped, non-committal – nod and a barely audible grunt of agreement. I had no idea who or what Russell & Erwin might be, and clearly neither did the lady, who continued to bar the doorway suspiciously. A few more moments of praise for the splendour of her door ornamentation, however, and she began to visibly thaw in the face of Holmes’s English charms (of which he had more than enough, when the mood took him) and enquired, in a voice that, if it did not simper, did at least seem friendly, how she might be of service.
While Holmes explained that we were English colleagues of Mr Sherlock
Holmes, come to visit, I took the opportunity to examine the lady in more detail, continuing to exercise my observational powers. Of medium height, and stocky in build, she appeared to be in the later middle years of her life, and – given that she was dressed entirely in black – in all likelihood a widow. A wisp of brown hair had escaped from her tight bun, somewhat softening her otherwise rather harsh features, as did the slight smile she allowed to cross her lips as Holmes continued to work his charms. I knew the type – a landlady to the bone, I had no doubt, of similar stripe to our own treasured Mrs Hudson. No sooner had the comparison occurred to me than she invited us inside, with the promise of refreshment while we waited for our friend who, it seemed, was not at home.
“Follow me, gentlemen,” our hostess said as she led the way into the interior of the house, past several closed doors, arrayed evenly along each side of a broad hallway. I glanced at each door as I passed, and was surprised to see that every one had its own letterbox, and above that a small brass plaque with the name of a business engraved upon it. The first to the left as we entered read, in ornate calligraphic script,
Mr Sherlock Holmes – Consulting Detective.
Before I could draw Holmes’s attention to this, however, we passed through a curtained archway and into the section of the house evidently reserved as the lady’s private quarters.
“Make yourselves comfortable, gentlemen,” she said, taking her own seat in the rather stuffy and overcrowded room in which we found ourselves. “And do tell me all about your strange fascination with my doorknob!”
She smiled as she spoke, in order, I thought, to take any potential sting from her words. The impression grew on me that she was a lonely soul, quick both to take offence and to forgive, for whom our appearance was a welcome break in an otherwise solitary existence. That impression was all but confirmed as she proceeded to listen, with every sign of interest, while Holmes expatiated for several uninterrupted and tedious minutes on the subject of decorative ironmongery in the United States and our own alleged mania for the topic. The breadth of his knowledge on all manner of subjects had long since ceased to surprise me, but even so I made a mental note to ask him about this particularly arcane example later, for all that my interest in his current lecture was minimal.
My attention must indeed have wandered for I can recall nothing of the specifics of Holmes’s descriptions of door knockers and boot scrapers, only rays of morning sunlight catching motes of dust suspended in the air and the heavy, sweet fragrance of the lady’s scent, and then the sharp, insistent sound of a bell ringing.
I quickly refocused my attention on Holmes and our hostess who, I now saw, was ringing a small hand bell in order, I assumed, to summon a servant. A moment later a young maid entered and took instruction from her mistress, before bustling away to prepare refreshments.
Conversation had evidently moved on during my spell of inattention. “Yes, I’ve lived here my entire adult life,” the lady continued in answer to a question I had missed, as Holmes made indistinct sounds of encouragement and interest. “I did consider packing up and heading back to Pennsylvania – that’s where I hail from – when my husband, Mr van Raalte, passed away. But I have roots here now, and it seemed more sensible to rent out rooms to select gentlemen and ladies of good character rather than leave my friends. And between you and me,” she confided, “it was not a good time, then, at which to sell such a large property. New York is like that, you will discover: changeable and not always to be relied on. Like a woman, Mr van Raalte used to say!”
Her laugh was fond and quickly smothered, and her eyes welled up as she recalled her late husband. Holmes smiled thinly, uncomfortable with such a show of emotion, but also took the opportunity of this break in her narrative to introduce me to the lady.
“Mrs van Raalte, I have been terribly remiss in failing properly to introduce my dear friend, John Murray. Please do forgive me. My only excuse is that, in my delight in your company, the matter completely slipped my mind.” He twisted in his chair until he was side-on to us both. “Mrs van Raalte, may I introduce Mr John Murray? Like myself, Mr Murray is an aficionado of domestic ironmongery and, also like myself, I am sure he would agree that it is a most happy accident that a visit to our colleague Holmes should expose us, not only to your excellent mid-period doorknob, but also to your gracious self.”
I feared that he was laying it on too thickly, but the lady seemed pleased with the attention.
“You are a long way from home, Mr Lestrade,” she observed, and I must admit that it was fortunate that we had not yet been served tea, as I fear I would have struggled to drink it while stifling a chuckle at Holmes’s choice of alias.
“Indeed we are, madam,” Holmes replied smoothly. “Mr Murray and I have travelled across the ocean in search of opportunity, leaving the fog-shrouded streets of London behind us.” He gestured towards the nearest window, through which sunlight warmed the room. “Far behind us, in fact,” he concluded, as a knock at the door was followed by the little maid carrying a tea tray into the room.
As she busied herself pouring tea, Mrs van Raalte resumed her train of thought. To my alarm, however, she addressed her next remarks to me. “Mr Lestrade said that you are colleagues of Mr Holmes, come from England to pay him a visit?”
I flatter myself that I have learned a few things during my time with Holmes, though it is true that I have had some facility with play-acting since my university days. Whatever the cause, I was not long wrong-footed by the question.
“Yes indeed, Mrs van Raalte. We were able to assist Mr Holmes with a case in London some years ago, in a minor manner. Knowing that we would be in New York for a few days, we thought to surprise our old friend with a visit.” I smiled, ruefully. “Given his absence, it might after all have been wiser to send word of our arrival.”
While I spoke, Mrs van Raalte looked from myself to Holmes and back again, a question, which she held back for only as long as I was speaking, obviously on the tip of her tongue. As expected, as soon as I stopped, she enquired of me, “Are you also famous detectives then?” then clapped her hands together with pleasure as she continued, “Should I have heard of you both? Are you as famous as Mr Holmes?”
“Good Lord, no, not at all,” Holmes broke in before I could reply. “We were simply fortunate enough to provide very minor assistance to that great and talented man. There is nobody,” he concluded with a smile, “to compare to Mr Holmes. He is one of a kind.”
“There’s no denying his unique nature, certainly,” I could not help but add, with a slightly malicious smile of my own.
Fortunately, our hostess showed no sign of recognising either Holmes’s barely disguised braggadocio or my own jest. Instead, she fiercely nodded her agreement with Holmes’s assessment of his own character. It was clear she was proud to have a famous detective under her roof, and I briefly wondered if Mrs Hudson felt the same. The thought prompted another, which I quickly put to Mrs van Raalte.
“Does Sherlock have rooms here, or does he rent only office space from you?” I asked.
“Mr Holmes rents only a single unfurnished room, which he uses as an office, Mr Murray. I do not rent accommodation to single men, even those with the reputation of Mr Holmes.” She sniffed, and I was aware that I had committed a social faux pas, but before I could apologise, she continued, “Though Mr Holmes has been with me for a year at least, and in the time has never been anything other than gentleman-like, and would make a fine husband for any woman, should he so choose!” At this, she positively giggled and rolled her eyes, and I was uncomfortably reminded of love-struck youngsters half her age.
The conversation was, I feared, about to take an awkward turn. It came as a great relief, therefore, when Holmes took pity on me and chose that moment to interrupt.
“Sadly, we are short of time this morning, having only recently arrived in your fair city. We should really make our way to our hotel to refresh ourselves and return later to meet up with Holmes.”
H
e rose to leave, then stopped suddenly as if a thought had freshly occurred to him. “I wonder, would it be possible to leave a note for Sherlock?” he asked. “I could put it on his desk, even, so that he would be sure to see it.”
I could not be certain, but it seemed to me that Mrs van Raalte’s voice was colder as she replied. “I would be happy to oblige you, Mr Lestrade, but there is only one key to each room, and Mr Holmes keeps his on his person at all times. He is a very private man, you see.”
“Perhaps I could drop a note through the letterbox I saw on Holmes’s office door on my way inside?”
Mrs van Raalte smiled, though there was little warmth in it. “I’m afraid that that letterbox is too stiff for my old fingers,” she admitted. “There’s not been a letter through it in a decade or more.”
“How, then, does Sherlock receive his mail?”
Mrs van Raalte shook her head at the question. “Oh, I send any mail on to a friend to keep for him if he’s not present in person when it arrives. He does travel a great deal, you know.”
“And does that happen often? That he is not available when the mail arrives?”
Our hostess hesitated before replying, and even then her words were tentative and uncertain. “Sometimes. Quite often. I can’t say exactly. He is a busy man, you know,” she rallied, evidently considering Holmes’s question to be an attack of sorts on her tenant.
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--The Counterfeit Detective Page 4