The Investigations of Sherlock Holmes

by John Heywood

  “I should very much like to. I wonder what it is that brings her here? ‘The impossible’ - what on earth can that mean?”

  “We have already speculated enough on Miss Rose Davies and her visit, I think; there seems little point in further speculation, since the lady herself will be here in an hour’s time. I propose to spend that hour profitably, if tediously, in updating my card-index.” So saying, he pulled out one of the boxes in which the index was housed, and fell to work. Sherlock Holmes was possessed of extraordinary powers of concentration that enabled him to focus his attention fully on any task in hand, ignoring all distractions, and he was, accordingly, still engrossed in his indexing when at ten o’clock precisely the street-bell sounded, followed immediately by a tap on our door.

  “Come!” cried Holmes.

  A lady of some twenty-five summers entered. She looked about her with quick grey eyes. “Mr Sherlock Holmes?” she asked.

  “I am Sherlock Holmes, Miss Davies,” he answered with a bow, adding, in response to her glance at me, “and this is my friend Dr Watson. Be seated, I beg you.”

  “Thank you, Mr Holmes. It is very good of you to see me. I know you are a busy man. Our concerns may seem trivial to you, and indeed I do not wish to waste your time, but I did not know to whom I could turn.”

  “I shall be pleased to help if I can, Miss Davies. Now, pray tell me about the impossible events that have led you to my door.”

  “I shall be as brief as I may be, Mr Holmes,” the young lady began, but Holmes interrupted her immediately. “Miss Davies, you are right to say that I am a busy man. You are busy too, I see; you know that time is valuable, and I am confident that you will not waste my time or your own. Please do not trouble yourself on that account. You have arranged to be absent from your work this morning, I take it?”

  “I have.”

  “Then we have two hours or more at our disposal. I beg you therefore to tell me your story fully. Omit no detail that may be of importance.”

  “Thank you.” Miss Davies paused for a few seconds, arranging her thoughts, and then began her narrative. “I am a teacher’s assistant in St Mark’s School in Kentish Town. On taking up the post two terms ago I took lodgings in Belford Crescent nearby. My rooms are small, but pleasant, and convenient for the school. I have been content enough there. It is a quiet, respectable little street, not a place where anything much out of the way ever happens - not until recently, that is.

  “Three weeks ago - two Wednesdays before yesterday - it was a holiday, and I was not needed at school. Late in the morning, at about eleven o’clock, I went out to buy my groceries, and as I left the house I passed two men standing on the pavement. One was a taller man, of your height, perhaps, and the other was a short, dark-skinned man, a little older than myself. I noticed, though I thought little of it at the time, that the short man wore a red flannel waistcoat with brass buttons to it. As they stood there talking to each other I passed them and walked to the end of the street, which is only a short way, and round the corner to the greengrocer’s. There outside the greengrocer’s stood the short, dark man, in his red waistcoat. He could not have passed me, Mr Holmes, without my seeing him, for the street was empty, and there is no shorter way to the greengrocer’s than the way I went. No cabs or carriages had passed in the road. I bought my vegetables in a daze, wondering how the man could have been transported instantly and invisibly past me. I wondered if perhaps I had imagined him, and if I was overstrained at work and becoming ill. You hear of people who end their days in an insane asylum.

  “The week after, something else unaccountable took place in our street. They have a maid next door who sometimes comes round to share a pot of tea with me. Poor dear, she is not long up from the country, and she misses her folk terribly. She feels herself friendless in London. A fortnight ago she told me of a very strange thing that had happened in her house that had frightened her. A business friend of her master’s had called to see him. She knew her master was at home, in the parlour, because she heard him playing the piano as she went to the front door to answer the doorbell. But when she knocked on the parlour door there was no answer. She opened the door and there was no-one in the room. He could not have left the parlour without her noticing, as its door is just by the front door. She had had the strange idea, she told me, that perhaps her master had not wanted to see his visitor and was hiding behind the sofa. She returned to the front door to tell the caller that Mr Harfield was not at home. The caller left, but moments later, looking out of the parlour window, she saw her master and his visitor talking together on the pavement. It made her feel dazed, she said, and troubled. I told her of my own experience with the dark little man, which had left me feeling just as she had felt, and she told me that she had seen the short dark man too, at the other end of the street. She had wondered if he was an organ-grinder.

  The next time I went to the greengrocer’s I asked about the organ-grinder, as I called him. The greengrocer told me that the man had been in his shop several times. On most days he was not to be seen, but occasionally he would be there a number of times in one day, in and out of the shop, buying a pound of this or that, or loafing about in the street.”

  “Was he an old customer?” asked Holmes.

  “No, the greengrocer told me that this had only been going on for a few weeks. When I went to the dairy I was told the same thing - the organ-grinder had suddenly appeared one day, loafing around to no purpose, apparently. Then he had disappeared for a week or so, only to reappear again. All the shopkeepers had noticed it.”

  “This is most interesting, Miss Davies. When was this mysterious stranger last seen in Belford Crescent?”

  “Last Monday, so far as I know. But as I am at work during the day, I am less likely to see him than some.”

  “And what does he do, apart from lounge about?”

  “Nothing, as far as anyone has seen. None of us has been able to guess at the reason for his erratic visits.”

  “I see.” Sherlock Holmes sank back into his chair, closed his eyes, and putting his hands palms together, raised them to his lips like one in prayer. He maintained this priestly attitude for some time, and his eyes were still closed when finally he lowered his hands and spoke: “Your friend of next door, the maid; has she had any other strange experiences? Experiences like the music she heard from the empty room two weeks ago, I mean?”

  Miss Davies shook her head. “Who knows? I’m not sure that she would tell me if she had. But I do know that she is unhappy and frightened. I can see it so clearly in her sad, anxious face, even if she does not speak about it. Yesterday she asked the doctor if he could give her something for her nerves, but he declined.”

  “Her anxieties were acute enough to make her visit her doctor,” I interjected.

  “Oh no, Dr Watson, she did not visit her doctor. This was the doctor of her mistress Miss Harfield, on a house visit. He attends Miss Harfield regularly at her home. She suffers badly from her nerves.”

  “Does she, indeed?” said Holmes. “There seems quite an epidemic of nervous disorder in Belford Crescent. Perhaps the condition is contagious. The household next door to you seems a rather strange and unhappy one. What can you tell me about your neighbours of yours?”

  “Miss Harfield has lived in the house for about four years, they say, and her brother moved in not long before I took my rooms next door to them at number fifty-nine.”

  “He joined his sister a little less than a year ago, then?”

  “That is right, Mr Holmes. Mr Rupert Harfield is a man of several business interests, about which I can tell you nothing beyond the fact that they bring a number of callers to his door, men of various types. He is about forty years old, affable enough, even familiar in manner - a brisk and busy man. I believe that is quite usual among men of affairs. Miss Harfield, his sister, is a shy person, pale in complexion. I have seen her less and less
as her health has deteriorated; she is not confined to bed or physically infirm, but her neurasthenia has made it very difficult for her to leave her home. She ventures out about twice a week now, the maid tells me, to sit in the park, or make some small purchases. The Harfields have a cook and housekeeper to look after the running of the household. I have not been inside the house, but I can tell you what Aggie, the Harfields’ maid, has told me. It is not an easy or friendly place, by her account. She is uncomfortable with some of Mr Harfield’s acquaintances, and her mistress’s ill health causes her unease. When she started to work there, before Mr Harfield joined his sister, her mistress, though frail and a little nervous, was friendly, and would sometimes chat to Aggie. Now Miss Harfield, if she so much as passes Aggie on the stairs, starts like a hare or slinks past with her head down. It is like working for a ghost, is how Aggie put it to me. As for Mr Harfield, although Aggie has made it clear that she has no real grounds for complaint against him, she dislikes his arbitrary rules, and she has found to her cost that an infringement of them can make him unreasonably angry.”

  “Did she give you any examples of what she meant by that?”

  “Yes, she did. Let me tell you. Mr Harfield is an amateur pianist, and when playing did not like to be interrupted by the maid or his sister or anyone else.”

  Holmes raised an eyebrow. “I have some sympathy for the man.”

  “As do I, Mr Holmes,” replied Miss Davies with a smile, “and at first Aggie too was entirely happy with the arrangement. If possible, she would wait until her master had finished playing before she entered the room, and if she needed to enter the room she would not interrupt him. If she carried a message from his sister, for instance, or there was a caller at the door, she would wait silently until he was ready to hear her. That arrangement changed, however. A month ago her employer told her that if he was in the parlour playing the piano she should on no account enter. Well, it was only about a week later that a caller came to the door asking for her master, insisting that it was a matter of great urgency. She could hear Mr Harfield playing in the parlour, and tapped lightly at the door. There being no response, she turned the handle, when she heard a roar of “Get out!” accompanied by an oath. The music stopped suddenly and her master flung open the door. Black in the face with rage, he ordered her to her room and told her that if she disobeyed his orders again she would be dismissed instantly. The poor girl fled upstairs in tears, and although he subsequently resumed his casually agreeable manner with her, the episode left her unhappy, wondering when his foul temper would flare up again without warning.”

  “Thank you,” said Holmes. “You have painted us a very clear picture of your neighbours’ household in Belford Crescent. I fear it would be too much to hope that you have any clear recollection of the dates of these events.”

  “Not entirely,” came her answer. “I have done my best to remember the dates.” She opened her handbag and took out a folded sheet of paper. “I have written them out as well as I could.”

  “Miss Davies, you are a model client. May I keep the paper?”

  “Of course.”

  “I have one last question for you. Do you feel that you are in danger?”

  “I am not quite sure how to answer you,” she said as she closed her bag. She pondered for a few seconds. “I shall say this: I don’t think that I myself am threatened, but I sense the presence of danger.”

  Holmes nodded. He rose from his chair and started to pace the room. “I am very grateful to you for bringing this curious problem to my attention, Miss Davies. I shall certainly look into it. Would it be convenient for me to come to you in Belford Crescent in a day or two?”

  “I should be very grateful, Mr Holmes. The school day finishes at noon on Saturday; I shall be free at any time after noon.”

  “I shall call on you at one o’clock. In the meantime, perhaps you will be able to help me. I should like to know of any other strange events that may have occurred in Belford Crescent similar to those you have described; talk to your neighbours’ maid, if you would, and to any other of your acquaintances in the crescent, and we shall see if any further details emerge.”

  Miss Davies rose and put on her hat and gloves. “Thank you. It is a great relief to me know that you will be looking into this affair.” She extended her hand. “Goodbye, Dr Watson, and Mr Holmes.”

  It so happened that some private business of my own required my presence elsewhere on the next day, when my friend was to visit Belford Crescent, so I was unable to accompany him. I much regretted the circumstance, for it always gave me keen pleasure to help Sherlock Holmes in an enquiry, but there was nothing to be done. It was not until the following Tuesday, almost a week after Miss Davies’ visit, that I saw Holmes again. We had just enjoyed an excellent luncheon provided for us by Mrs Hudson, and were taking our ease in the well-worn comfortable chairs of our Baker Street rooms, legs stretched before us. We lit our pipes and for some minutes smoked in contented silence. “What a strange set of circumstances that young woman Rose Davies was telling us about,” I said. “Do you think you’ll get to the bottom of it?”

  Holmes took his pipe from his mouth: “It is too early to say. Certainly I am not there yet. It’s a strange case indeed, and a sinister one. The bottom lies a long way down, I fear.”

  “You visited Miss Davies?”

  “Yes. Most illuminating it was. I had asked her, if you remember, to sound out her neighbours for more facts, and they obliged with two new pieces of information. The first was, to be more precise, the confirmation of an old piece of information, that very peculiar business of the miraculously reappearing organ-grinder. The postman told her of a similar experience. It happened on a late morning delivery, at about eleven o’clock. He had started at one end of Belford Crescent, and when he reached the other end, having finished his deliveries for the street, he saw the organ-grinder, complete with his brass-buttoned waistcoat. The postman thought nothing of it, naturally, but he gave the fellow good-day, and his greeting was returned. At that moment he found in his bag a misplaced letter intended for the other end of the Belford Crescent, where he had started his delivery. He was obliged to retrace his steps quickly; and when he reached the other end, there to his astonishment was the organ-grinder again. When he nodded good-day to him again, the man feigned not to know him. The postman swore it was the same man in the same waistcoat, and was in no doubt that the man could not possibly have overtaken him without his knowledge. The postman had not mentioned the matter to anyone, as he did not want to gain a reputation for weakness of mind or drunkenness.

  “The second piece of information Miss Davies gleaned from her friend the maid. The maid had been sitting in her attic room when she thought she heard a male voice, distinct and unpleasant, repeating accusations and suggestions in a sneering tone of voice. The voice sounded close, and clear, but with something of an echo, like a voice in an empty church. There was nobody on the same floor as the maid, and no man in the house. The only other person in the house at the time was her mistress, and she was on the ground floor. Naturally enough, this episode, coming as it did after the piano being played in the empty room, greatly disconcerted the poor girl. She feared that either the house was haunted or that she was going mad.

  “As Miss Davies spoke with the maid another odd episode from the recent past emerged. Aggie had overheard a conversation between Miss Harfied and a friend--”

  “I thought she had no friends who visited her?” I interrupted.

  “Not now, no,” replied Holmes. “But the maid was talking of a year or so ago, when the lady was less isolated. She had overheard the two ladies talking. ‘I can’t have them here,’ Miss Harfield had said. ‘I don’t know where they have come from.’

  Aggie did not know what to make of this remark, but she was to remember it later, because the night after she had heard the conversation she was woken by sounds of movement in the
house. It was in the early hours of the morning, long after everyone had retired to bed. She crept out of her room, and without a candle came out onto the landing of her attic room. It was too dark to see, but she could hear people moving on the stairs below her. Occasionally there was a muffled whisper. From the voices and the weight of footsteps on the stairs she was sure the figures were men, perhaps three of them. Fearful of confronting the burglars, if burglars they were, she went back into her room and looked out of her dormer window, which overlooks the street. It was a black, moonless night, but she could just make out a cab outside the house. Its lights were not burning. Some figures emerged slowly from the house and climbed into the cab, which drove away. Nothing about the episode was said in the house the following day, and when the maid hinted to her mistress that something amiss might have occurred during the night, her suggestion was met with a firm denial.

  “This new information was most suggestive, but I was mindful that the purpose of my visit had been to make sense of the weird events Miss Davies had told us about, not to collect further instances of them. Very well; how was I to explain them? Everything seemed to centre on the Harfield home, and I decided that my first step should be to pay it a visit and see for myself this mysterious menage. Miss Davies, however, was sure that the maid, in her extremely nervous state, would not wish to admit me, and Miss Harfield herself was by now almost a recluse and even more unlikely to allow me entry. Foreseeing these difficulties, I had brought with me the outfit of a delivery man, and thus disguised I knocked at the tradesmen’s door bearing a brown-paper parcel. The maid, Aggie, admitted me and took me into the scullery to leave the parcel. I insisted, however, that the item must be fitted by me to the piano, and she accordingly took me into the parlour. At this moment Miss Davies, by prior arrangement, knocked at the door for Aggie, begging her to come with her on some pretext. She was splendidly insistent, and the poor maid could not resist being drawn away from her duties. Once they had gone I examined the room. I first opened the piano, and found something most interesting inside. Perhaps you have already guessed, Watson?”