“The cook is distracted, so let us commence,” my father said. “I shall do the talking, but feel free to enter the conversation at any time. And remember, be pleasant and be interested.”
The poulterer saw us approaching and, sizing up our fine attire, hurriedly swept the counter clean of goose feathers and other debris. Involuntarily he rubbed his hands over his soiled apron, then straightened his tie.
“May I be of service, gentlemen?” the poulterer offered.
“We are searching for a fine goose as a present to a friend,” my father replied.
“Then you have come to the right place.”
My father reached for a large goose at the end of the counter and mimicked the cook’s method of examination. With a careful eye, he studied the bird’s entire skin, beak to tail, then raised its wings for a close inspection of what lay beneath. Turning the bird, my father pointed to a small bruise on the lower belly.
“This will not do,” he said with the tone of authority.
“A minor blemish,” the poulterer attempted to excuse.
“But our friend is quite special, and so must our gift goose be,” my father insisted.
“Then I shall show you my very finest,” the poulterer said, and reached for a large bird whose neck hung over a side counter. “You will not find a blemish or bruise on this one, mark my words.”
As my father began another examination, I gazed about at the assortment of people passing by. They were laborers and merchants, along with the rich and penniless, and a scattering of individuals from foreign lands, with their distinctive features and attire. It was a splendid cross-section of modern-day London. In my peripheral vision, I saw the obese cook some ten yards away, now engaged in a lively conversation with the flower girl we had encountered earlier. They seemed to be having a cheerful, animated talk. The cook appeared oblivious to our presence.
“Country bird, was it?” my father inquired.
“Every day of its life,” the poulterer replied. “It fed only on sweet grass and never saw a speck of grain.”
“Which renders the meat tender and gives it a much richer taste.”
“Indeed it does, sir,” the poulterer said. “Which of course makes it a shilling or two dearer than those that are city bred.”
My father flicked his wrist dismissively at the added expense. “How much does this bird weigh?”
“Eight pounds and an ounce over.”
“Which assures its tenderness.”
The poulterer nodded in a most pleasing manner. “You know your way around geese, sir.”
“As does my friend Mr. Alistair Ainsworth, who referred us here.”
“Ah, Mr. Ainsworth!” The poulterer’s face lighted up. “Now there is a gentleman who is an expert on geese, by anyone’s measure. But I see in the newspapers that he has gone missing.”
“So it would appear.”
“Let us pray no harm has come to him.”
“We shall.”
“And now, sir, if I may, could I ask for your name? I should very much like to list you among my special customers.”
“Of course.” My father obliged and handed the poulterer his personal card.
We purchased the goose and set off for Baker Street, with the wrapped bird tucked securely under my arm. Along the way we stopped at a small café for tea, over which we discussed our adventure in the Covent Garden market. The café was crowded, with noisy conversations filling the air, but we still kept our voices low so as not to be overheard.
“That was a fine performance, Father,” I praised.
“I did a bit of acting at Cambridge,” he commented, with some pride.
“It certainly came in quite handy today.”
“As it did in the past with Sherlock,” my father reminisced, and took a deep sip of Earl Grey tea. “But I’m afraid my acting served no purpose, for nothing of value was uncovered at the poulterer’s stall. There was no evidence of an exchange of messages between the poulterer and the cook.”
“None whatsoever,” I agreed. “I kept my eyes on their hands throughout their meeting and saw nothing out of the ordinary.”
“And my mention of Alistair Ainsworth elicited a most pleased reaction,” my father noted. “I had the impression the poulterer genuinely missed seeing him alongside the cook.”
“As did I. Thus, it would appear we have not advanced our cause one iota.”
“Nor shall we, it would seem, as long as Joanna is confined to her bed.”
We enjoyed a second cup of tea, during which we recounted every detail of our visit to Covent Garden, but could discover nothing that would have been of interest to Joanna. Nevertheless we both had the uneasy feeling that we had overlooked something Joanna would have seen and docketed. She had often remarked that it was the trivial that at times led to the significant. Yet using the best of our minds, we could not come up with even a minor happening worthy of note.
A half hour later we arrived at 221b Baker Street and were met at the door by Miss Hudson. With her keen olfactory sense she sniffed at the wrapped package I held, and a look of displeasure crossed her face.
“I smell goose,” she pronounced.
“It is,” I said.
“Has something been amiss with the goose dishes I have prepared?”
“They have been outstanding, and that is why my father and I journeyed to Covent Garden to find the perfect goose as a present to you.”
“In gratitude for your most excellent food,” my father added. “Which we always look forward to.”
Miss Hudson blushed and brought a hand up to cover it. “Why, thank you! That is ever so thoughtful.”
“Not at all.”
“Would you like it for dinner tonight?”
“Under ordinary circumstances we would be delighted, but unfortunately Joanna has come down with a rather nasty cold and would have little appetite for a tasty goose.”
“Poor thing,” Miss Hudson remarked. “She sounded awful when I saw her by the stairs as she was seeing her son off. I offered her tea and honey, which I thought might soothe her throat.”
“Did she partake?” I asked.
Miss Hudson shook her head. “She only wished to climb back into bed and not be disturbed.”
We adjourned to our rooms and, after lighting a cheery fire, sat in front of it to enjoy our pipefuls. Outside, the sky was rapidly darkening, bringing with it the promise of yet more rain. With the wind beginning to gust, we felt great comfort being in the pleasant warmth of our drawing room. Our quiet peace, however, was soon interrupted by a rap on the door. It was Miss Hudson and we feared something was amiss with the goose.
“I am sorry to bother you, Dr. Watson, but there is a flower girl downstairs who insists on seeing you,” she announced. “The girl claims you dropped something at Covent Garden market and wishes to return it.”
My father and I rapidly checked our pockets and found nothing missing. Wallets, timepieces, keys, and coinage were accounted for. “Did she mention what item we had lost?”
“She did not,” Miss Hudson replied. “But she demanded to return it in person, for a reward I would guess.”
“Please show her up,” my father said, rechecking his pockets as the door closed.
“I wonder how the flower girl learned of our address,” I queried.
“Probably from the card I gave the poulterer,” my father said.
Moments later the flower girl entered our drawing room and did a brief curtsy. Her white blouse was now damp from the rain that was beginning to fall. She had both hands around her basket of flowers.
“I’ll wager a shilling you’ll buy me flowers now,” she said.
“What exactly have you found?” I asked.
“Information that could prove most useful,” Joanna said, removing her bonnet, blond wig, and broken spectacles.
To say that my father and I were stunned by the sudden transformation would be an understatement. Her disguise was so ingenious that there was not a single inkli
ng to indicate Joanna Blalock Watson was beneath it. Even the sharp-eyed Miss Hudson who viewed all visitors with suspicion had been fooled.
“I have many questions,” my father said finally. “But first off, how did you manage this clever charade with such a terrible cold?”
“Because there was no cold,” Joanna answered. “All that is required to imitate one is a sniff of black pepper. Inhale a healthy dose and you will repeatedly sneeze as your nose runs rampant. Another dose will irritate your throat and produce a raspy voice and cough.”
“But why?” I asked. “Why not include us in your carefully constructed masquerade?”
“For several very good reasons. First, I had to make certain my disguise and accent were spot on and not easily seen through. You and Watson would not have been the best of judges, for your opinions could be clouded by emotion and thus cause you to hesitate to point out any defects in my disguise. I needed an independent judge, so I returned to the poulterer whom I visited for an hour yesterday and begged for some scraps. He promptly escorted me out of his shop.” Joanna paused and chuckled to herself. “He also bluntly suggested I go back to East London and take my Cockney accent with me.
“The second reason for my secrecy was to keep you in the dark at the Covent Garden market,” she went on. “Despite your best efforts you would have no doubt continued to steal glances my way and the workers about the stalls would have noticed this behavior. In their minds, they would see two finely dressed gentlemen eyeing a poor flower girl and think the worst of it. They would have watched my every move and yours as well, so as to serve as my protectors. This would have in all likelihood disrupted my plans to arrange an encounter with Lady Jane’s cook. So, all in all, it was best I remained unknown to you. I trust you will forgive my deception.”
“You are forgiven,” my father said, with a warm smile. “And I must say that Sherlock Holmes would have been most delighted with your disguise.”
“From the stories I have read, my father was quite good at improvising disguises.”
“He was a master at it and took great pleasure in surprising me, just as you have,” my father reminisced. “And he took even greater pleasure in explaining why such a disguise was necessary. Perhaps you will now tell us the main reason you went to such extraordinary lengths to conjure up such a magnificent disguise. It had to be more than just to keep John and me in the dark.”
“It was indeed,” Joanna said. “I needed the disguise in order to go places that a lady of standing would never gain entrance to.”
“Such as?”
“The world of Lady Jane’s cook.”
“Exactly what in the cook’s world merited so much of your attention?”
“Why, Lady Jane’s secrets, of course.”
My father and I drew in closer to Joanna, so as not to miss a word.
“You see, everyone has their dark, deep secrets that they guard zealously. This holds true particularly for the aristocracy, who would not divulge their secrets, even if questioned a thousand times. After poverty, disgrace is the very worst affliction they could ever suffer. But such secrets are often known by the household who keep it to themselves and their peers for obvious reasons.”
“How could you hope to pry such information from the cook?” I asked. “After all, you were neither friend nor peer.”
“That took a bit of doing,” Joanna replied. “But my task was made easier once I learned the cook also spoke Cockney. With my rather pronounced Cockney accent, we immediately became sisters in arms who would delight in trading juicy gossip. I provided her the story of a royal couple who had a rather odd sexual fetish involving the great toe. Good manners prohibited me from mentioning the family name, to which the cook nodded her approval. This tale set the stage for her to return the favor by revealing romantic encounters—real or imagined—that circulated amongst Lady Jane’s household.”
“Really, Joanna!” my father protested mildly. “This all seems so beneath you.”
“When dealing with sordid matters, one has to be prepared to sink to a lower level,” Joanna said, with an indifferent shrug. “In any event, by all accounts Lady Jane goes shopping at Harrods several times a week on a regular schedule. She steps off her carriage at the front entrance, enters the store, and promptly exits via a side door. You see, although her carriage remains in front, a close friend of her driver parks his carriage on a side street, and it is he who witnesses Lady Jane’s rather hurried departure. She moves quickly in a direction away from Brompton Road and returns an hour or so later, again using the side entrance. Now, considering Lady Jane’s past, what do you make of this?”
“She has strayed again,” I answered at once. “She is meeting up with a secret lover.”
“Or with a German agent,” my father suggested.
“Or both,” I ventured, but then I had second thoughts. “On the other hand, we may be making too much of her adventure. It could be quite innocent.”
A mischievous smile came to Joanna’s face as she asked, “Suppose I told you these disappearances cease when her husband, Lord Oliver Hamilton, returns home from sea duty.”
“She is straying,” I said resolutely.
“But why and with whom?” Joanna pondered. “Those are the important questions that need to be answered.”
“How do you propose we go about this task?”
“By following her,” Joanna replied.
“I am afraid your flower girl outfit will not serve as well in that regard,” said I. “You would stand out like a sore thumb in the fashionable Knightsbridge area.”
“I would indeed,” Joanna agreed. “It is for that reason we must hire someone inconspicuous to do the following for us.”
My father nodded. “They would have to melt perfectly into the background.”
“And have an air of innocence about them,” Joanna said, and reached for a bell to summon Miss Hudson. “By the way, was there any exchange of notes between the poulterer and the cook?”
“Absolutely not,” my father replied.
“I too had my eyes on the pair the entire time and saw no such exchange,” I agreed.
“Did you notice the cook offered no payment for the goose?” Joanna asked, and waited for a reply that was not forthcoming. “The goose was certainly not free, which would indicate an invoice was placed within the wrapping. Such a sealed invoice would then be promptly handed to Lady Jane. Could there be a more innocent way for the Germans to send instructions?”
My father and I exchanged glances, both of us with the same thought. Joanna was so much like her father, Sherlock Holmes, for whom a single trivial clue could lead to a significant conclusion.
“One would never have guessed at Lady Jane’s involvement,” my father said, shaking his head dolefully.
“It is best not to guess,” Joanna cautioned. “It is a habit of the worst sort. One should wait for the clues that will remove all guessing.”
With a rap on the door, Miss Hudson called, “Yes?”
“I have a note to be delivered,” Joanna said. “Please send for a messenger straightaway.”
12
The Baker Street Irregulars
They sounded like a herd coming up the stairs, stomping on each step as if to make their presence known. Unlike our earlier encounter with the Baker Street Irregulars, there were three of them rather than two, and each was clad in their Sunday best, clean and smart, head to toe. Closing the door behind them, they stood silently and awaited Joanna’s inspection. One could not help but be impressed with their transformation to the middle class, for they all had started out and still dwelled in some of London’s poorest neighborhoods.
According to my father, there was an extraordinary history behind the Baker Street Irregulars. Holmes had somehow gathered up a gang of street urchins that he often employed to aid his causes. They consisted of a dozen or so members, all streetwise, who could go anywhere, see everything, and overhear everyone without being noticed. For their efforts each was paid a shi
lling a day, with a guinea to whoever found the most prized clue. Since Sherlock Holmes’s death, more than a few of the original guttersnipes had drifted away or become ill, but Wiggins, their leader, remained and took in new recruits to replace those who had departed.
Standing before us, Wiggins appeared even thinner than when last seen. There was a look of hardness about him, with his hollowed-out cheeks and dark eyes, which made him seem older than his twenty years. By contrast, the two members beside him had angelic faces. Little Alfie, whom I recalled from our last adventure, was small for his fifteen years, with tousled brown hair and an air of innocence that made him look even younger. Next to him was a thin, dark-complected girl of no more than ten whom I did not recognize.
“Here we are, ma’am,” Wiggins said. “Dressed to the nines and dapper as can be. The clothes for Little Alfie and Sarah the Gypsy come to a pound extra for each.”
“Well spent,” Joanna said, and peered down at the young girl. “And what role will Sarah the Gypsy play?”
“She and Little Alfie will be the team that follows your fine lady,” Wiggins replied. “In addition, Sarah has a sixth sense that tells her when she is being watched or if there is a copper nearby. More importantly, when people see her they feel sorry for her rather than threatened. This is doubly necessary when a snatch is about to occur or is in progress.”
“She puts people at ease, I would imagine,” my father said.
“That she does, guv’nor.”
Sarah remained quiet, but watched every move with her doelike eyes. She seemed to be assessing some characteristic we possessed. Beneath her innocence there was cunning, I suspected.
“Now, ma’am, please give us the particulars on this lady we are to follow,” Wiggins requested.
“She is an elegant lady who resides on Curzon Street in a quite splendid house, the address of which you will have shortly. You are to go there by yourself and keep your eye on the door in a most inconspicuous manner. An exceedingly attractive woman, tall with flowing brown hair, will depart from the house and stroll to her waiting carriage. You are to memorize her face, but do not follow her.”
The Disappearance of Alistair Ainsworth Page 13