Sherlock Holmes

by David Marcum

  She burst in abruptly, hardly having been announced. “Mr. Holmes! Mr. Holmes! You are my last hope. I must have your help!” she cried in a Cockney accent that I will not attempt to reproduce here. I rose and waited until my landlady had withdrawn, before indicating that my visitor should be seated.

  “Take the chair nearest to the fire, Mrs. Rander, for the winter chill has arrived early this year, has it not?”

  My remark remained unanswered, and the lady lowered her ample form into an armchair. Her eyes darted around the room warily before settling upon me. I had never seen her before, but her appearance held no surprises: The coarseness of expression, symptoms of excessive pipe smoking, and consumption of spirits were quite evident.

  “It’s my husband and son, Mr. Holmes, Thomas and Jared!” she blurted out quickly.

  “If they are again in the hands of the police, I can do nothing to help. Their reputation for stealing works of art is known throughout the capital. A lawyer would probably serve you better.”

  “They were on a job, I cannot deny that. Pargeter’s place, Number 79 in Slaughterer’s Lane, has paintings for which Thomas had a good buyer. But, Mr. Holmes, they never came home. I’ve not seen hide nor hair of them for two months.”

  I looked at her, critically. “And you have not reported their absence until now?”

  “I’ve been to Scotland Yard, but they don’t seem over-concerned about missing petty criminals. That’s what one copper said. It’s not unusual for them to steer well clear of home after a job, until the coppers have done their rounds and asked their questions. But never for as long as this, without any word at all.”

  “Have you, yourself, any notion as to what could have become of them? Perhaps there was something else that they might have been planning?”

  “No, there was nothing.” She squirmed in her chair, and her eyes became moist. “Unless they have sold some goods and left me.”

  “There is, as yet, no reason to think that. I will, on your behalf, go to Scotland Yard to see what can be learned. I have some slight acquaintance with Inspector Lestrade, who may be able to throw some light upon the matter. No, put your purse away. My fees are on a fixed scale, but would not be appropriate here. I must impress upon you that I can neither condone criminal acts, nor aid in their concealment, but if these men have simply met with misfortune, then I will assist if I can. Now, Madam, I will wish you good morning.”

  So dismissed, she rose and left without a word of thanks, with the air of one who feels slightly insulted, and I wondered whether she realised that I had refused payment because it was likely to be in stolen money.

  I decided to visit Slaughterer’s Lane before consulting Scotland Yard. It was a dismal street, currently deserted and devoid of traffic, on the edge of Whitechapel, one side being completely taken up with the high wall of the cemetery behind the church on the far corner. On the opposite side, the abattoir which gave the street its name had long since been replaced by a row of square houses that had seen better times. Outside one of these, a hooded and darkly-cloaked figure stood, apparently peering through a window. As I drew nearer, it hurried away in the direction of the church. A woman I thought, from its movements, and I stood for a moment in the weak early afternoon sun until I identified Number 79, which Mrs. Rander had given as the intended scene of the burglary.

  I saw at once that the official force had been here before me. The lock, a very poor quality affair, had been easily forced, and a police mechanism applied to reseal the door. A glance through the window revealed only a bare, square room with a dull wooden-tiled floor and paintings arranged around the walls in the manner of an exhibition. It seemed strange that such works which, according to Mrs. Rander, were quite valuable enough to attract the attentions of experienced art thieves such as her husband and son, should be housed in such a poor district and protected by a cheap lock.

  I found a corner coffee house in an adjacent street and pondered my meagre discoveries as I ate a beef pie, washed down with a cup of their strongest brew. Shortly after, I set out in the direction of Mile End Road, where I hailed a passing hansom. I reached Scotland Yard full of questions, which I hoped Lestrade would answer.

  The desk sergeant gave me an uncertain look, but obliged me by sending a constable for the inspector. He appeared from one of the dull and innumerable corridors a few minutes later, and we shook hands.

  “Mr. Sherlock Holmes!” he exclaimed. “I saw you last at the investigation of the Mortland Bonds scandal. As I recall, you identified the swindler just moments before I came to the same conclusion. I thought then that you have the makings of a fine officer, should you ever choose to join the force.”

  This was not the way I recalled the incident, but I thought it better, in the circumstances, not to say so.

  “Thank you, Inspector. I see from the newspapers that you have had many successes since then.”

  He looked out of the side of his eyes, to ensure that the desk sergeant was listening. “Oh yes, Mr. Holmes, I have my moments, as we all do, here. But come to my office, and tell me how I can help you today. Sergeant, kindly send in some tea!”

  The sergeant acknowledged Lestrade’s request, and I was led down a green-painted passage to a small room containing a file-laden desk, two chairs, and a hat-stand upon which he had draped his greatcoat.

  When we were settled with the desk between us and the tea brought in, I told him of Mrs. Rander’s visit.

  “I remember the business in Slaughterer’s Lane quite well,” he replied. “A curious affair, but it really began before this. I would say about six months ago.”

  “I do not recall a great deal of it. I was abroad at that time.”

  “Ah,” the little detective nodded, ‘then I will tell you from the beginning. You see, this was when 79 Slaughterer’s Lane was first broken into. Mr. and Mrs. Nathanial Pargeter were enjoying a quiet evening at home when the thieves forced the front door and entered. I imagine they thought the premises to be unoccupied, for they fled when they saw the couple. Unfortunately, the damage was already done, for Mrs. Pargeter had suffered for years from a weak heart, and the sudden sight of two masked men brought on a fatal attack.”

  “The men were masked? So it could not be said for certain that they were the Randers?”

  Lestrade’s bulldog-like face broke into a smile. “Not then, Mr. Holmes, but the younger Rander was heard recounting the incident a few days later, in a pub. We could prove nothing, of course, although how many more specialist art thieves do we have in London right now? Mr. Pargeter, naturally, was beside himself with grief. He swore revenge on the Randers, although he never carried out his threat.”

  “Does he still live in Slaughterer’s Lane?” I asked.

  “He stays there several times a year when he comes down from Causewell House, his home in Darlaston, in the Midlands, where he owns an ironworks. He was born in Slaughterer’s Lane and kept the place out of sentimentality, I suppose, although I wouldn’t have expected him to be sentimental, as he is thought of as a harsh taskmaster at his factory. For some reason best known to himself, he keeps his art collection there.”

  I finished my tea and replaced the cup. “From what I could see, it does not appear well protected.”

  “Now there’s another curious thing,” Lestrade said. “Not long afterwards, Mr. Pargeter began to have work carried out on the house. He had men come down from his factory, and they were there for a while. In fact, we had a complaint from the bakery next door about the noise. Yet when we were called in about the second attempted burglary, we could see no sign of any alterations.” The inspector shook his head. “He even placed an article in The Standard about new additions to the paintings.”

  “Curious indeed. But, the second time, nothing was stolen?”

  “That’s how it looked. As Mrs. Rander must have told you, Mr. Holmes, this was about two months ago. The strange thing is that, though we’ve wired Mr. Pargeter several times, he hasn’t replied or come down to London to
have another look at the place since. I really cannot understand it. If I owned valuable paintings, I would be very quick to ensure their safety.”

  “Quite. After this second incident, did you or your men search the house?”

  “There was no need,” Lestrade shrugged. “The door leading from that room into the house was bolted from the other side, and I remember Mr. Pargeter mentioning when I interviewed him that every door in the place would be kept that way. I did, of course, try the back door in Carmody Alley, but that is fitted with a stout lock.”

  “It appears then that the thieves simply broke in and left empty-handed?”

  “They must have, since they could get no further. There was no sign that the inside door was forced.”

  “Yet the valuable paintings were left untouched?”

  “Curious, as I said. We could make nothing more of it.”

  “Would you have any objections, Inspector, to my making a further search?”

  Lestrade looked slightly bemused, then nodded. “To see if you can go one better than the Yard, Mr. Holmes?” He opened a drawer, took out a key, and slid it towards me. “You”ll need this to get past the official lock we left to secure the front door. That’s another thing – the lock that Mr. Pargeter left could have been opened by any self-respecting burglar with a bent pin. Look if you must, but I cannot see that you will find anything.”

  I paid off the hansom at the end of the road, as I had at the same time the morning before. To my surprise, I saw at once that the same figure peered, anxiously it seemed, into Number 79. I stepped into the shadow of the cemetery wall and waited until she, with a last despairing glance, moved away. I followed the billowing cloak and concealing hood to the end of the road, where it disappeared into St Thaddeus’ Church. After a moment, I entered also, into an echoing cavernous expanse of semi-darkness.

  No service was in progress. Near the altar, the vicar consoled an elderly couple. Here and there, scattered among the rows of pews, worshippers prayed silently. The woman I had followed kneeled, clutching a Bible from the shelf before her. I heard her sobbing softly.

  After a while she rose, and I left the church. I waited on the path near a weather-worn stone angel, until she appeared.

  “Good morning,” I said as I accosted her. “Pray be kind enough to allow me a few minutes of your time.”

  Her eyes settled on me in a nervous stare, as I saw beneath the hood for the first time. Probably she was once a pretty girl, but now her face was clouded with worry and pinched from the cold. That she was underfed was obvious, and she trembled violently.

  “Who are you, sir?”

  “My name is Sherlock Holmes.” I gestured towards Slaughterer’s Lane with a sweep of my arm. “I am curious as to why you are interested in Number 79.”

  Fear came into her face. “You are mistaken, sir. I was looking into the bakery next door, to see if they would give me some scraps.”

  “Come, come, now. I saw you yesterday also. I am interested in that house myself, and in the two men who attempted a robbery there.”

  Her expression changed abruptly to one of surprise that I should know of this, and then settled into resignation. “Perhaps you may succeed where others have not, and I will know the truth.”

  “I promise to do my utmost. But what is your part in this?”

  “I am . . . .” Tears filled her eyes, and she fought to keep from crying. “I am engaged to Jared Rander. I am Miss Elizabeth Farrell.”

  “Well, Miss Farrell,” I said, taking out my pocket watch. “I see that it is almost time for an early lunch. Perhaps you would do me the honour of joining me, and we can talk further.”

  She gave me a long look, but in the end hunger and her need to know the fate of the man she had intended to marry triumphed over suspicion.

  “Thank you, sir,” she said simply.

  We walked to the coffee shop of the previous day. The restorative powers of a bowl of hot soup were soon evident as colour crept into her face. We had both consumed excellent chicken pies before she spoke.

  “You are not from Scotland Yard, Mr. Holmes?”

  “I have said as much.” I smiled at the thought. “I am a consulting detective, hired by the mother of the man you wish to marry. I confess to being surprised that she made no mention of you.”

  Miss Farrell wiped crumbs from her mouth. “That woman never did take to me, but her husband is different. I even worked with him and Jared.”

  She stopped, as if wary of saying too much. I saw her difficulty, and reassured her.

  “Have no fear. I am aware of their occupation. It is not my intention to do the work of the official force in arresting them. I wish no more than to find them.”

  After a moment of consideration, she frowned and looked down at her empty plate. “I helped in the job on that house, Number 79. I was their look-out.”

  “Did they tell you where they intended to go, afterwards?”

  “They were not able to. The lock was easy enough, for them, and they went into the front sitting-room. We couldn’t see, but they had dark lanterns and they knew from before where everything was placed. I kept watch up and down the street, but saw no one, and then I heard a door slam inside. There was a cry, I thought from Jared, and then silence. No other sound came for a few minutes and I got worried and looked in. I called his name, but there was no longer anyone there. I became frightened but I waited until I saw a constable approach. While he was still some distance away, I left in the opposite direction.”

  “Did you actually enter the room?”

  She shook her head. “I leaned into the doorway, nothing more.”

  “And, as far as you know, neither man has been seen since?”

  “Jared had arranged to meet me the next day. Said he’d take me out for a meal, like now, he did. I waited for an hour, but there was no sign of him. After that, I thought I’d hear from him as soon as he was able, but I never did. It’s been two months now, and all I can do is to go back to where I last saw him. That house has become a shrine to me.”

  We talked for perhaps fifteen minutes more, by which time I became convinced that she had nothing more to add of any significance. I rose to leave, ordering more coffee for her and advising her to remain in the warmth of the shop for a while. As we parted, I took the opportunity to slip a sovereign into a pocket of her cloak, unnoticed.

  I formed several theories and discarded them during the walk back to 79 Slaughterer’s Lane. My information was insufficient. Lestrade’s key released the clamp on the door, and I stepped into the sitting-room cautiously.

  It was as I had seen through the window, previously. There was no furniture here, but the paintings dominated every wall. One by one, I examined them. I have no great knowledge of art, but a few of these examples I had read about. Again I asked myself: What possessed Mr. Nathanial Pargeter to leave them in a house in a district such as this? Near to Whitechapel, the murky alleyways and dark streets were ridden with crime. Few places were safe in daytime, much less at night. The lack of protection too, was a mystery. Lestrade had said that a bent pin would suffice for any self-respecting burglar.

  Then I looked more closely, first at one painting and then the rest. There was something odd, and this puzzled me at first until I realised that both the frames and the canvas were new! Some attempt had been made to artificially age these works with chemicals, but I was now certain – they were substitutes.

  I then began to consider why the thieves would have replaced the originals, since they had made no effort to conceal their entry to the house. I thought it best not to reason on such an unqualified assumption and locked the premises once again, while I telegraphed Mr. Peter Gelder, of the Art Department of the British Museum, from a nearby Post Office.

  I returned to the house to await his arrival. I recalled that Miss Farrell had mentioned hearing a door slam during the robbery, and so I checked the internal door and found it to be bolted from the other side. Next I rapped upon the walls at intervals, see
king a hidden exit, but my only discovery was that this was a very solid house indeed. I was on my hands and knees in the centre of the room, thinking that a trapdoor might exist somewhere in the unpolished floor, when a hansom drew up outside. I went to welcome a stooped man with skin the colour of parchment, who took only moments to tell me that I had wasted his time, since a child could tell that these were recent and not very well executed reproductions. He declined payment for his services and immediately boarded the waiting hansom with the air of a man who has been insulted, saying that he had already been kept from his work for too long.

  I resumed my inspection of the floor. This proved fruitless until I discovered a join around the entire edge of the room, so skilfully hidden that it must surely have been the work of a master carpenter. I now knew why there was no trapdoor in the centre of the room or near the doors – the entire floor was one!

  I tried again to free the internal door, but it was immovable. I left the house, relocking the police clamp, and walked past the bakery to the end of the street. Running parallel was Carmody Alley, a grimy passage along which I progressed carefully until I reached the rear of Number 79. The lock here was of a much more intricate design, but I had brought my pick-lock tools with me and the door was soon opened.

  I closed the door behind me and listened, as the echo of my entrance passed through the house. I stood in a short corridor, with three rooms to my right and a single door to my left. The door to the sitting room was immediately ahead, secured, like the others, by a stout bolt.

  I stood still, in the silence and stale air of the place, and wondered how the thieves had discovered the hidden exit in the sitting-room floor and used it to escape. And where did they go, leaving Mrs. Rander and Miss Elizabeth Farrell in torment? Neither woman could furnish an explanation as to why.

  I drew back the bolt and opened the door to my left. It led, as I expected, down to a cellar, with steps descending into darkness. I took a lantern from a hook on the wall and lit it with a vesta, holding it high and taking the steps slowly as shadows danced around me. I left the last step to tread on a solid brick floor and was obliged to turn to my right, as this would take me directly beneath the sitting-room.