“Your double certainly seemed to think so,” I exclaimed. “He would do anything to win her hand, apparently.”
Holmes scowled. “Not quite, Watson. As is so often the case, the exact wording is of vital import. Holmes would do anything to make her his wife. Is that an accurate recollection? If so, we might profitably consider whether those were the words she herself used to Mr Hinton. To a woman reconciled to a life alone, the experience of being pursued by an eligible young man such as Holmes would be flattering, even intoxicating. And if he then sought her hand in marriage, why should she not enjoy the attention while, for form’s sake at least, playing hard to get and refusing a proposal or two?”
Holmes’s point eluded me. “What if it did, Holmes? I fail to see how, even if all of what you have said is the truth, the exact words used are of any importance.”
“Because, my dear fellow, those may have been the words Holmes himself used. I would do anything to make you my wife. And although a love-struck widow might put the best possible interpretation on such a phrase, my more cynical mind wonders, and reflects that a wife may not give evidence against her husband.”
“But why?”
“I am no mind reader, Watson, and cannot answer that question as yet. But given time, I may.”
“Something related to his imposture, presumably.” I cursed the misfortune that had led us to leave Mrs van Raalte’s without obtaining all the information we could from her, then felt a chill of shock as I realised that the fake Holmes had probably killed the poor woman to prevent that very information – whatever it was – from falling into our hands. I would never have thought that a mere case of impersonation could have led to such violence.
Holmes had obviously been thinking along similar lines. “I do not believe so. It is, naturally, entirely possible for a man to kill with far less cause, but it is my experience that fraudsters are rarely men of violence. Indeed, with the exception of our investigation into the so-called Real Pretender in Inverness last year, I cannot recall a single dedicated fraudster who has ever killed in cold blood. And what, really, had the imposter to fear from exposure? His investigations have been successful, after all. He no longer has any need of the name Sherlock Holmes, when all’s said and done. Besides, did the lady strike you as capable of the level of dissembling to such a degree? Her reactions appeared genuine to me; she showed no sign of believing that my counterpart was anything other than the consulting detective he claimed to be. Why then should he kill her?”
Laid out thus, I could see no flaw in Holmes’s argument. There was one obvious suspect other than the imposter, however. “What about Algernon Hinton? He clearly loved Mrs van Raalte, and drunken men are capable of acts of great cruelty and violence.”
“No, Watson, he is not our man.” Holmes’s tone was certain. “Even if the short, overweight man you described were capable of overpowering and strangling Mrs van Raalte, how on earth could he contrive to transport her body to the Five Points, seek out a hovel in which he might safely leave her body, then make his escape unnoticed, only to engage you in conversation about the lady the following day, as though nothing had occurred?”
“What about the other Watson, then? Hinton described him as an ape.”
“There I cannot be so certain,” Holmes admitted. “In the absence of concrete evidence it is possible that your namesake is the killer. As plausibly, he is simply hired muscle, present only to intimidate. There is a great deal in all this to consider…” His voice trailed off as he reached for his pipe and, pulling his tobacco pouch from his pocket, began to fill it. “I think this will require more than a single bowl,” he said distractedly to me, and I, knowing I would get no conversation out of him for some time, left him alone, deep in thought.
Chapter Eight
For the next hour I amused myself in conversation with an émigré from Birmingham by the name of Smith, then ate a solitary dinner while Holmes smoked and considered recent events, befouling the air around him to such an extent that he was eventually asked if he would mind retiring to his room.
I discovered these facts later, when I followed in his footsteps, having been unable to locate him downstairs. Not that he exhibited any sign of irritation at the inconvenience, or embarrassment at the request. Far from it – in fact, as soon as I saw him, I knew that he had had some form of breakthrough. His eyes gleamed with triumph and the very way he held himself had subtly changed, as though his physical form had been transformed by intellectual success. The first words from his mouth confirmed my suspicions, even if they did not immediately aid my understanding.
“Nobody spoke English, Watson! Thus he would have been too visible if he had!”
“You will need to be less obscure than that if you wish me to understand, Holmes,” I complained half-heartedly, knowing that this was simply how he preferred to unveil his revelations. “Who would have been too visible, and where?”
“At the moment, I am unable to answer your first question, but as to the second, why the Five Points, of course. English is not a common tongue there, if this morning is any gauge.”
“Agreed, but even so, I fail to see why that is so important?”
“Because immigrant communities are tight-knit and closed to outsiders. Think of the Chinese in London, Watson, only in far greater numbers and with the addition of large conglomerations of other nationalities not often seen in England. Remember what I suggested earlier regarding your acquaintance, Mr Hinton,” he continued insistently. “He would never have been able to move a body to that slop house. And nor would anyone not already known there. A man who speaks the language and knows the customs both of the streets of New York and the foreign society left behind.”
I began to see what Holmes had in mind. “So, if we identify the language that predominates around the stale beer shop we visited, we will have an idea of the nationality of the killer?”
“Not quite, Watson. There is no reason to believe that the killer is necessarily a native of one country or another, only that he speaks the language. English is spoken in Canada, Australia, India and Gibraltar, as well as England. Why, even the Scots manage to speak a form of it. Would you describe inhabitants of each of these countries as English? No, of course you would not. But an English-speaking Canadian would find it a good deal easier to settle in London than another man of the same age and experience, but with no English at all.”
“True,” I conceded, “but I fail to see the great benefit we would accrue from such knowledge. We can hardly go around the Five Points asking after a man who may be known there, based entirely on one language he might possibly speak.”
“I think your heavy dinner has dulled your wits, Watson,” Holmes replied impatiently. “But let the details lie for the moment. Let us first discover the predominant immigrant tongue used in the area in which the body was found. If you will excuse me for a few minutes…”
With that he hurried from his room, leaving me alone. It was growing dark outside, with rain thudding off the window and running in streaks down the panes. I lit a cigarette and was still smoking it when Holmes returned.
“A Bohemian area, according to the boy at the desk. German speakers in the main, with a smattering of Dutch, Flemish and Hungarian, of all things.”
“Very well,” I replied, without enthusiasm. I could not keep a note of annoyance out of my voice and, in truth, made little attempt to do so. Holmes was behaving unusually high-handedly, even by his standards, and I was losing patience with his guessing games. I believe he sensed my mood, for all at once he began to explain exactly what he had heretofore merely been hinting at.
“To return to your earlier question, Watson, I think it plausible that not only is the murderer of Mrs van Raalte known in the neighbourhood of the stale beer shop, but that he lives there too, or certainly close by.”
“Why is your assumption that the killer lives somewhere close by? Surely he could as easily have dropped Mrs van Raalte there because it was convenient, or because he knew n
obody in those warrens would quickly report anything to the police?”
“It is hardly convenient, Watson. The shop in question is some distance from Mrs van Raalte’s home, and she was not a slender woman to be gaily thrown over a shoulder and carried some miles across town. And while you are of course correct that the police have few friends in such places, I suspect that Inspector Bullock will confirm that the police take a keen interest in the area and are often in the vicinity. No, the reason that the unfortunate Mrs van Raalte ended her days there is a simple one. This is the one place in New York in which our killer feels secure that he will not be challenged. The contention that strangers are unwelcome in these tenements is undeniable, as we have recently seen ourselves. Conversely, known faces are allowed a degree of scope that they would receive nowhere else. And did Inspector Bullock not say that there are several murders a week amongst these people?”
“He did,” I confirmed. “Life is worth little, hereabouts, he said.”
“Where better, then, to dump a body? In the darkened, reeking corner of some squalid slum a corpse might not be noticed for days, and even then might well go unreported. Fortunate it was that one of the inspector’s officers happened across the poor lady in the course of his pursuit, or we might never have found her.”
“Even so, Holmes, how can we hope to find one man in such a warren?”
“We have no need to seek him out. You recall Mrs van Raalte telling us that she forwarded on all of the imposter’s post? All we need do is ascertain the post office that she used, then make enquiries as to the address in the Five Points to which she most commonly sent correspondence.”
Holmes checked his watch and tutted in annoyance. “Far too late to hope to find any post office still open. We will have to leave further investigation until the morning. Though that may work in our favour too, as we can take Bullock with us, in case the postmaster should prove obstructive.”
* * *
The next morning brought a break in the weather, with the incessant rain replaced by the warm sunshine we had experienced on our arrival. Holmes had telegraphed Bullock, asking him to meet us at the hotel at nine a.m., and sure enough, he pulled up in a police wagon a few minutes before the hour and joined us in the dining room, where we were finishing our breakfast coffee, there being nothing available that I would dignify with the name “tea”.
He wasted no time in idle chatter. “So, Mr Holmes, what is this great breakthrough you spoke of, and what can I do to help you with it?”
Holmes was equally businesslike as he quickly explained his thoughts of the previous evening. “…and we intend, therefore, to visit the nearest post office and enquire within as to forwarded mail from Mrs van Raalte to the Five Points or its close environs,” he concluded as the waiter arrived to clear away our coffee cups.
“And you would like me to provide official weight, if needs be?”
“Exactly so, Inspector. While I have some facility for disguise, and Watson is the very archetype of probity and trust, two foreigners asking after a local man in a rough area is likely to prove a fruitless exercise. But invite a representative of officialdom along and, if the American working man is anything like the English, tongues will undoubtedly be loosened.”
“Very well, then. Now this is a murder investigation I’ve far more leeway to lend a hand to you and Dr Watson, and you do seem to be making more progress than I, though it’s early days yet. I’ll just let my office know where I am, then we can be off.”
With that, he stood and headed towards the front desk, leaving Holmes to comment that Bullock was a surprisingly sound investigator, for a policeman. I smiled inwardly at this, recalling the times when my friend had lambasted Lestrade, Gregson, Jones and the other Scotland Yard detectives. Bullock had evidently made a positive impression on Holmes. We collected our coats, hats and gloves and, with Bullock leading the way, took seats in the wagon as it turned in the direction of 106th Street.
* * *
The journey was not a long one, for the roads were quieter in the morning, and we were soon standing outside a small, neat shop, with a sign alongside its door reading “General Store and Post Office”. A bell tinkled above our heads as we pushed the heavy door open and made our way into the musty, overcrowded interior. Immediately inside, the shop broadened enough for the owner to have fitted a pair of glass counters, facing one another but separated by a narrow corridor that ran between them and then opened up to create a square storage area to the rear. A soft-faced young woman stood, partially obscured behind the left-hand counter, surrounded by the type of offerings one might find in a greengrocer’s in England. She stepped forward into the light, which illuminated her face and allowed me to make out her large brown eyes. Though it was difficult to be sure, I estimated her age at around twenty-five.
I raised my hat in greeting. “Good day, I wonder if my colleagues and I might ask you a few questions?” I said with a tiny bow. I felt, rather than saw, Holmes arch an amused eyebrow at my side, but Bullock had already pulled identification from his jacket pocket and slid it across the counter. The woman, ignoring my query – and myself – entirely, picked it up and held it close to her face, squinting attractively to bring the details into focus.
“This says youse is police, do it?” she said eventually, in an accent so thick that I struggled to make sense of it. “What about they two? Is they police too?”
“These gentlemen are assisting the police,” Bullock said, allowing his lack of clarity to reassure the girl. “And, hopefully, so will you in a moment. Now, what’s your name?”
The girl looked uncertain, her eyes flicking nervously over the three of us before she answered. “Jessie Harries,” she said in the end. “This is my da’s store. He’s out a message, but he’ll be back, soon as anything.”
She crossed her arms in front of her and glared at Bullock. Now that I could see her better, I could tell that she was younger than I’d first believed, closer to twenty than twenty-five. Her nervousness was plain, for all that she had put up a barrier of defiance, and Bullock was experienced enough to spot that and attempt to take advantage of it.
“I’m sure he will, Jessie,” he said slowly. “But there’s no need to trouble him, now is there? All we’re after is one address, and we’ll be on our way.”
“What address? Who lives there?” Jessie’s voice remained strident and defensive, but I had the sense that curiosity warred with suspicion. I doubted that working in this little shop was an exciting life for a young woman, and our presence was perhaps the most unexpected and thrilling event to take place there for many a month.
“Thing is, Jessie, we don’t know who lives there yet.” Bullock was no fool, and appealed to her vanity. “We need your help to find that out. There’s nobody else can help us but you.”
Still I felt she hesitated. “Why should I help youse?”
Bullock, feeling he was not getting through to the girl, tried a different tack. “Think of it as your public duty, Jessie,” he said firmly and, when Jessie remained unconvinced, added a stick to the carrot. “What would your da say if I told him you’d been causing trouble for the police?”
I could tell at once that he had said the wrong thing. Jessie’s face hardened immediately, as she pressed her thin lips together in anger. I doubted if she would talk willingly now.
“Do you remember Edith van Raalte?” Holmes suddenly interjected. Until now his attention had been focused on a box of spare buttons on the counter, but now he turned the full force of his gaze on Jessie Harries. “Mrs van Raalte, who owned the boarding house round the corner? A kind woman, was she not? Friendly and always happy to talk. You know that she is dead? Murdered and her body discarded as though she were worthless, of no value. You know how that feels, don’t you, Jessie? You know what it feels like to be ignored, to be worked half to death and receive no thanks, to be handed only neglect in return for all your labour. For some people, life is a place of little hope and no escape, except in suffering and dea
th, isn’t that so, Jessie?”
He reached forward with a soft “May I?” and gently raised the arm of her blouse a few inches. The bruise this exposed was ugly, shaded blue, brown and purple.
“You know I’m not lying, don’t you, Jessie?” he said quietly.
I thought at first the girl would flee, for she had stiffened with shock as Holmes lifted her sleeve, then took a step backwards as he released it, as if preparing to run. Instead, she looked up at Holmes with an unexpected shyness and whispered something too quietly for me to hear.
Holmes, however, evidently had sharper ears than I, for he replied, “I thought so. Do not worry. We have only a few questions and no harm will come to you. Not now, or in the future,” he concluded, casting a glance at Bullock, who nodded his understanding. Someone from the police would be having a quiet word with Jessie’s father before the day was out.
Holmes explained our mission to the girl. “We have reason to believe that Mrs van Raalte often used to forward on post that had arrived for one of her tenants. We do not know the name or address of the recipient, but we have a rough idea of the area and are in desperate need of any information you can supply. Can you help us, Jessie?”
In response, the girl crossed to the other counter, and pulled a ledger from a drawer concealed somewhere out of our line of sight. She laid the heavy volume flat on the counter and began slowly to flick through its pages. She had not gone far when she came to the page she sought and, with a nervous smile aimed at Holmes, turned the book around so that we could see it. As I expected, the page was one of many identical lined sheets, with information arranged in three columns, headed FROM, TO and COST. Halfway down the FROM column was the notation “Mrs v R” and in the TO column, a selection of addresses.
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--The Counterfeit Detective Page 10