The House of Silk

SIX Chorley Grange School for Boys

In 1890, the year of which I write, there were some five and a half million people in the six hundred square miles of the area known as the Metropolitan Police District of London and then, as always, those two constant neighbours, wealth and poverty were living uneasily side by side. It sometimes occurs to me now, having witnessed so many momentous changes across the years, that I should have described at greater length the sprawling chaos of the city in which I lived, perhaps in the manner of Gissing — or Dickens fifty years before. I can only say in my own defence that I was a biographer, not a historian or a journalist, and that my adventures invariably led me to more rarefied walks of life — fine houses, hotels, private clubs, schools and offices of government. It is true that Holmes’s clients came from all classes, but (and perhaps someone might one day have pause to consider the significance of this) the more interesting crimes, the ones I chose to relate, were nearly always committed by the well-to-do.

However, it is necessary now to reflect upon the lower depths of the great cauldron of London, what Gissing called ‘the nether world’, to understand the impossibility of the task that faced us. We had to find one child, one helpless tatterdemalion among so many others, and if Holmes was right, if there was danger abroad, we had no time to spare. Where to begin? Our enquiries would be made no easier by the restlessness of the city, the way its inhabitants moved from house to house and street to street in seemingly perpetual motion so that few knew so much as the names of those who lived next door. The slum clearances and the spread of the railways were largely culpable, although many Londoners seemed to have arrived with a restlessness of spirit that simply would not allow them to settle long. They moved like gypsies, following whatever work they could find; fruit-picking and bricklaying in the summer, bunkering down and scurrying for coal and scraps once the cold weather arrived. They might stay a while in one place, but then, once their money had run out, they would bolt the moon and be off again.

And then there was the greatest curse of our age, the carelessness that had put tens of thousands of children out on to the street; begging, pickpocketing, pilfering or, if they were not up to the mark, quietly dying unknown and unloved, their parents indifferent if indeed those parents were themselves alive. There were children who shared threepenny lodging houses, provided they could find their share of the night’s rent, crammed together in conditions barely fit for animals. Children slept on rooftops, in pens at Smithfield market, down in the sewers and even, I heard, in holes scooped out of the dust-heaps on Hackney Marshes. There were, as I shall soon describe, charities that set out to help them, to clothe and to educate them. But the charities were too few, the children too many and even as the century drew to a close, London has every reason to be ashamed.

Come, Watson, that’s quite enough of this. Get back to the story. Holmes would never have stood for it had he been alive!

Holmes had been a mood of constant disquiet from the moment we had left Mrs Oldmore’s Private Hotel. During the day, he had paced up and down the room like a bear. Although he had smoked incessantly, he had barely touched his lunch or dinner and I was concerned to see him glance once or twice at the smart morocco case that he kept on his mantelpiece. It housed, I knew, a hypodermic syringe, but it would have been unheard of for Holmes, in the middle of a case, to indulge in the seven-per-cent solution of cocaine that was, without doubt, his most egregious habit. I do not think he slept at all. Late into the night, before my own eyes closed, I heard him picking out a tune on his Stradivarius, but the music was ragged and full of discords and I could tell that his heart wasn’t in it. I understood all too well the nervous energy that afflicted my friend. He had spoken of a grave miscalculation. The disappearance of Ross suggested that he had been proved right and, if this were the case, he would never forgive himself.

I thought we might go back to Wimbledon. From what he had said at the hotel, Holmes had made it clear that the adventure of the man in the flat cap was over, the case solved and all that remained was for him to launch into one of those explanations that would leave me wondering how I could have been so obtuse as to have not see it for myself from the start. However, breakfast brought a letter from Catherine Carstairs, informing us that she and her husband had gone away for a few days, staying with friends in Suffolk. Edmund Carstairs, with his fragile nature, needed time to regain his composure and Holmes would never reveal what he knew without an audience. I would therefore have to wait.

In fact, it was another two days before Wiggins returned to 221B Baker Street, this time on his own. He had received Holmes’s wire (quite how, I do not know, I never learned where Wiggins lived or in what circumstances) and since then he had been searching for Ross, but without success.

‘’e came to London at the end of the summer,’ Wiggins explained.

‘Came to London from where?’

‘I’ve no idea. When I met ’im. ’e was sharing a kitchen in King’s Cross with a family — nine of them in two rooms — and I spoke to them but they ain’t seen ’im since that night at the ’otel. No one’s seen ’im. It sounds to me like ’e’s lying low.’

‘Wiggins, I want you to tell me what happened that night,’ Holmes said, sternly. ‘The two of you followed the American from the pawnbroker to the hotel. You left Ross watching the place while you came for me. He must have been alone there for a couple of hours.’

‘Ross was game. I didn’t make him.’

‘I’m not suggesting that for a moment. Finally, we returned, Mr Carstairs, Dr Watson, you and I. Ross was still there. I gave you both money and dismissed you. You left together.’

‘We didn’t stay together long,’ Wiggins replied. ‘’e went ’is way and I went mine.’

‘Did he say anything to you? Did the two of you speak?’

‘Ross was in a strange mood and no mistake. There was something ’e’d seen…’

‘At the hotel? Did he tell you what it was?’

‘There was a man. That was all. It put the wind up ’im. Ross is only thirteen but ’e normally knows what’s what. You know? Well, ’e was shook to the core.’

‘He saw the killer!’ I exclaimed.

‘I don’t know what ’e saw but I can tell you what ’e said. “I know ’im and I can make something from ’im. More than the guinea I got from bloody Mr ’olmes.” Forgive me, sir. But them were ’is words exactly. I reckon he was all set to put the squeeze on someone.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Only that ’e was in an ’urry to be off. ’e ran into the night. ’e didn’t go to King’s Cross. I don’t know where ’e went. The only thing is that nobody saw ’im no more.’

As Holmes listened to this, he was as grave as I had ever seen him. Now he moved closer to the boy and crouched down. Wiggins seemed very small beside him. Malnourished and sickly, with matted hair, rheumy eyes and skin befouled by London dirt, it would have been impossible to distinguish him in a crowd. It may be that this was why it was so easy to ignore the plight of these children. There were so many of them. They all looked the same. ‘Listen to me, Wiggins,’ Holmes said. ‘It seems to me that Ross could be in great danger—’

‘I looked for ’im! I searched everywhere!’

‘I’m sure of it. But you must tell me what you know of his past. Where did he come from before you met him. Who were his parents?’

‘’e never ’ad no parents. They were dead, long ago. ’e never said where ’e come from and I never asked. Where do you think any of us come from? What does it matter?’

‘Think, boy. If he found himself in trouble, is there anyone he would turn to, any place where he might seek refuge?’

Wiggins shook his head. But then he seemed to think again. ‘Is there another guinea in it for me?’ he asked.

Holmes’s eyes narrowed and I could see he was struggling to compose himself. ‘Is the life of your compatriot worth as little as that?’ he demanded.

‘I don’t understand “compatriot”. ’e was nothing to me, Mr ’olmes. Why would I care if ’e lived or died? If Ross were never seen again, there are twenty more that would take ’is place.’ Holmes was still glaring at him and Wiggins suddenly softened. ‘All right. He was looked after, for a while anyway. There was a charity what took ’im in. Chorley Grange, up ’amworth way. It’s a school for boys. ’e told me once that ’e’d been there but ’e ’ated it and ran away. That was when ’e set up in King’s Cross. But, I suppose, if ’e was scared, if someone was after ’im, maybe he could have gone back. Better the devil you know…’

Holmes straightened up. ‘Thank you, Wiggins,’ he said. ‘I want you to keep looking for him. I want you to ask anyone you meet.’ He took out a coin and handed it over. ‘If you find him, you must bring him here at once. Mrs Hudson will feed you both and look after you until I return. Do you understand me?’

‘Yes, Mr ’olmes.’

‘Good. Watson, I trust you will you accompany me? We can take the train from Baker Street.’

One hour later, a cab dropped us off in front of three handsome buildings that stood next to one another on the edge of a narrow lane which climbed steeply for at least half a mile from the village of Roxeth up to Hamworth Hill. The largest of these, the one at the centre, resembled an English gentleman’s country home of perhaps a hundred years ago, with a red-tiled roof and a veranda running its full length at the level of the first floor. The face of the house was covered in vines which might be luxuriant in the summer but which were bare and spindly now, and the entire habitation was surrounded by farmland, with a lawn slanting down to an orchard filled with ancient apple trees. It was hard to believe that we were so close to London, for the air was fresh and the surrounding countryside most attractive, or it would have been had the weather been more clement, for it was very cold again and had begun to drizzle. The buildings on each side were either barns or brewhouses but had presumably been adapted to the school’s needs. There was a fourth structure on the other side of the lane, this one surrounded by an ornate metal fence with an open gate. It gave the impression of being empty for there was no light or movement there. A wooden sign read: Chorley Grange Home for Boys. Looking across the fields, I noticed a small group of boys attacking a vegetable patch with spades and hoes.

We rang the front bell and were admitted by a man who was sombrely dressed in a dark grey suit and who listened in silence as Holmes explained who we were and on what mission we had come. ‘Very good, gentlemen. If you would like to wait here…’ He admitted us into the building and left us standing in an austere, wood-panelled hall with nothing on the walls apart from a few portraits, so faded as to be almost indecipherable, and a silver cross. A long corridor with several doors stretched into the distance. I could imagine classrooms on the other side, but not a sound came from within. It struck me that the place was more like a monastery than a school.

Then the servant, if that was what he was, returned, bringing with him a short, round-faced man who had to take three steps for every one of his companion’s and panted loudly in his efforts to keep up. Everything about this new arrival was circular. In shape, he reminded me of the snowmen that I might see any time now in Regent’s Park, for his head was one ball and his body another and there was a simplicity about his face that could have been suggested with a carrot and several lumps of coal. He was about forty years old, bald, with just a little dark hair around his ears. He was dressed in the manner of a clergyman, complete with dog collar, which formed another circle around his neck. As he walked towards us, he beamed and spread his arms in welcome.

‘Mr Holmes! You do us a great honour. I have of course read of your exploits, sir. The greatest consulting detective in the country, here at Chorley Grange! It is really quite remarkable. And you must be Dr Watson. We have read your stories in class. The boys are delighted by them. They will not believe that you are here. Might you have time to address them? But I am running ahead of myself. You must forgive me, gentlemen, but I cannot contain my excitement. I am the Reverend Charles Fitzsimmons. Vosper tells me that you are here on serious business. Mr Vosper helps to administer this establishment and also teaches maths and reading. Please, come with me to my study. You must meet my wife and perhaps we can offer you some tea?’

We followed the little man down a second corridor and through a door into a room which was too large and too cold to be comfortable even though some effort had been made with bookcases, a sofa and several chairs arranged around a fireplace. A large desk, piled high with documents, had been positioned so as to look out through a set of picture windows on to the lawn and the orchard beyond. It had been cold in the corridor, and it was colder here, despite the fire in the grate. The red glow and the smell of burning coal gave the illusion of warmth but little more. The rain was hammering now against the windows and running down the glass. It had drained the colour out of the fields. Although it was only the middle of the afternoon, it could just as well have been night.

‘My dear,’ exclaimed our host. ‘This is Mr Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson. They have come to ask us for our help. Gentlemen, may I present my wife, Joanna?’

I had not noticed the woman who had been sitting in an armchair in the darkest corner of the room, reading a volume of several hundred pages which was balanced on her lap. If this was Mrs Fitzsimmons, then the two of them made an odd couple, for she was quite remarkably tall and, I would have said, several years older than him. She was dressed entirely in black, an old-fashioned satin dress that fitted high around the neck and tight around the arms, with beaded passementerie across the shoulders. Her hair was tied in a knot behind her and her fingers were long and thin. Were I a boy, I might have thought her witch-like. Certainly, looking at the two of them, I had the perhaps unworthy thought that I could understand why Ross had chosen to run away. Had I been in his shoes, I might very well have done the same.

‘Will you have some tea?’ the lady asked. Her voice was as thin as the rest of her, her accent deliberately refined.

‘We will not inconvenience you,’ Holmes replied. ‘As you are aware, we are here on a matter of some urgency. We are looking for a boy, a street urchin whom we know only by the name of Ross.’

‘Ross? Ross?’ The reverend searched in his mind. ‘Ah yes! Poor, young Ross! We have not seen him for quite a while, Mr Holmes. He came to us from a very difficult background, but then so do many of the charges in our care. He did not stay with us long.’

‘He was a difficult and a disagreeable child,’ his wife cut in. ‘He would not obey the rules. He disrupted the other boys. He refused to conform.’

‘You are too hard, too hard, my dear. But it is true, Mr Holmes, that Ross was never grateful for the help that we tried to give him and did not settle into our ways. He had only been here for a few months before he ran away. That was last summer… July or August. I would have to consult my notes to be sure. May I ask why you are looking for him? I hope he has not done something amiss.’

‘Not at all. A few nights ago he was the witness to certain events in London. I merely wish to know what he saw.’

‘It sounds most mysterious, does it not, my dear? I will not ask you to elucidate further. We do not know where he came from. We do not know where he has gone.’

‘Then I will not take up any more of your time.’ Holmes turned to the door, then seemed to change his mind. ‘Though perhaps before we leave, you might like to tell us something about your work here. Chorley Grange is your property?’

‘Not at all, sir. My wife and I are employed by the Society for the Improvement of London’s Children.’ He pointed at a portrait of an aristocratic gentleman, leaning against a pillar. ‘That is the founder, Sir Crispin Ogilvy, now deceased. He purchased this farm fifty years ago, and it is thanks to his bequest that we are able to maintain it. We have thirty-five boys here, all taken from the streets of London and saved from a future picking oakum or wasting their hours on the treadmill. We give them food and shelter and, more important than either, a good, Christian education. In addition to reading, writing and basic mathematics, the boys are taught shoemaking, carpentering and tailoring. You will have noticed the fields. We have a hundred acres and grow almost all our own food. In addition, the boys learn how to breed pigs and poultry. When they leave here, many of them will go to Canada, Australia and America to begin a new life. We are in contact with a number of farmers who will be pleased to welcome them and give them a fresh start.’

‘How many teachers do you have?’

‘There are just the four of us, along with my wife, and we divide the responsibilities between us. You met Mr Vosper at the door. He is the porter and teaches maths and reading, as I think I said. You have arrived during afternoon lessons and my other two teachers are in class.’

‘How did Ross come to be here?’

‘Doubtless he would have been picked up in one of the casual wards or night shelters. The society has volunteers who work in the city and who bring the boys to us. I can make enquiries if you wish, although it has been so long since we had any news of him that I rather doubt we can be of any help.’

‘We cannot force the boys to stay,’ Mrs Fitzsimmons said. ‘The great majority of them will choose to do just that, and will grow up to be a credit to themselves and to the school. But there are the occasional troublemakers, boys with no gratitude whatsoever.’

‘We have to believe in every child, Joanna.’

‘You are too soft-hearted, Charles. They take advantage of you.’

‘Ross cannot be blamed for what he was. His father was a slaughterman who came into contact with a diseased sheep and died very slowly as a result. His mother turned to alcohol. She’s dead too. For a time Ross was looked after by an elder sister but we don’t know what became of her. Ah yes! I remember now. You asked how he came here. Ross was arrested for shoplifting. The magistrate took pity on him and handed him to us.’

‘A last chance.’ Mrs Fitzsimmons shook her head. ‘I shudder to think what will become of him now.’

‘So you have no idea at all where we might be able to find him.’

‘I am sorry you have wasted your time, Mr Holmes. We do not have the resources to search for boys who have chosen to leave us, and in truth, what would be the point of it? “Ye have forsaken me and therefore have I also left you.” Can you tell us what it is that he witnessed and why it is so important for you to find him?’

‘We believe him to be in danger.’

‘All these homeless boys are in danger.’ Fitzsimmons clapped his hands together as if struck by a sudden thought. ‘But might it help you to speak to some of his former classmates? It is always possible that he may have told one of them something that he would have preferred to keep from us. And if you would like to accompany me, it will give me an opportunity to show you the school and to explain a little more about our work.’

‘That would be most kind of you, Mr Fitzsimmons.’

‘The pleasure would be entirely mine.’

We left the study. Mrs Fitzsimmons did not join us but remained in her seat in the corner, her head buried in her weighty tome.

‘You must forgive my wife,’ the Reverend Fitzsimmons muttered. ‘You may think her a little severe but I can assure you that she lives for these boys. She teaches them divinity, helps with the laundry, nurses them when they are ill.’

‘You have no children of your own?’ I asked.

‘Perhaps I have not made myself clear, Dr Watson. We have thirty-five children of our own, for we treat them exactly as if they were our flesh and blood.’

He took us back down the corridor I had first noticed and into one of the rooms, which smelled strongly of leather and new hemp. Here were eight or nine boys, all clean and well groomed, dressed in aprons, silently concentrating on the shoes that were laid out in front of them while the man we had met at the door, Mr Vosper, watched over them. They all rose as we came in and stood in respectful silence but Fitzsimmons waved them down cheerfully. ‘Sit down, boys! Sit down! This is Mr Sherlock Holmes from London who has come to visit us. Let us show him how industrious we can be.’ The boys went on with their work. ‘All well, Mr Vosper?’

‘Indeed so, sir.’

‘Good! Good!’ Fitzsimmons positively beamed with approval. ‘They have two more hours work and then an hour of leisure before tea. Our day finishes at eight o’clock with prayers and then bed.’

He set off again, his short legs working hard to propel himself forward, this time leading us upstairs to show us a dormitory, a touch spartan but decidedly clean and airy, with beds lined up like soldiers, each one a few feet apart. We saw the kitchens, the dining room, a workshop and finally came to a classroom with a lesson in progress. It was a square room with a single, small stove in one corner, a chalk board on one wall and an embroidered text with the first line of a psalm on another. There were a few books neatly stacked on shelves, an abacus and a scattering of objects — pine cones, rocks and animal bones — which must have been collected from field trips. A young man sat marking a copybook while a twelve-yearold boy, acting as the class monitor, stood reading to his fellows from a well-worn Bible. The boy stopped the moment we walked in. Fifteen students had been sitting in three rows, listening intently, and once again they stood up respectfully, gazing at us with pale, serious faces.

‘Sit down, please!’ exclaimed the reverend. ‘Forgive the interruption, Mr Weeks. Was that the Book of Job I heard just now, Harry? “Naked I came out of my mother’s womb and naked shall I return…”’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Very good. A fine choice of text.’ He gestured at the teacher who alone had remained seated. He was in his late twenties, with a strange, twisted face and a tangle of brown hair that sprawled lopsidedly on one side of his head. ‘This is Robert Weeks, a graduate of Balliol College. Mr Weeks was building a successful career in the city but has chosen to join us for a year to help those less fortunate than himself. Do you remember the boy, Ross, Mr Weeks?’

‘Ross? He was the one who ran away.’

‘This gentleman here is none other than Mr Sherlock Holmes, the well-known detective.’ This caused a certain tremor of recognition among some of the boys. ‘He is afraid that Ross may have got himself into trouble.’

‘Not surprising,’ muttered Mr Weeks. ‘He was not an easy child.’

‘Were you a companion of his, Harry?’

‘No, sir,’ the monitor replied.

‘Well, surely there must have been someone in this room who befriended him and who perhaps spoke with him and can now help us find him? You will recall, boys, that we talked a great deal after Ross left here. I asked you all where he might have gone and you were unable to tell me anything. I beseech you all to consider the matter one last time.’

‘My desire is only to help your friend,’ Holmes added.

There was a brief silence. Then a boy in the back row put up his hand. He was fair-haired and very fragile and I guessed about eleven. ‘Are you the man in the stories?’ he asked.

‘That’s right. And this is the man who writes them.’ It was rare for me to hear Holmes introduce me in this manner and I have to say I was extremely pleased to hear it. ‘Do you read them?’

‘No, sir. There are too many long words. But sometimes Mr Weeks reads them to us.’

‘We must let you return to your studies,’ Fitzsimmons said and began to usher us towards the door.

But the boy at the back had not finished yet. ‘Ross has a sister, sir,’ he said.

Holmes turned. ‘In London?’

‘I think so. Yes. He spoke about her once. Her name is Sally. He said that she worked at a public house, The Bag of Nails.’

For the first time, the Reverend Fitzsimmons looked angry, a dull red patch spreading into the round of his cheeks. ‘This is very wrong of you, Daniel,’ he said. ‘Why did you not tell me before?’

‘I had forgotten, sir.’

‘Had you remembered, we might have been able to find him, to protect him from whatever trouble has come his way.’

‘I’m sorry, sir.’

‘We’ll say no more of it. Come, Mr Holmes.’

The three of us walked back towards the main door of the school. Holmes had paid the cab driver to wait for us and I was glad to see he was there, for it was still raining heavily.

‘The school does you credit,’ Holmes said. ‘I find it remarkable how quiet and well disciplined the boys seem to be.’

‘I am very grateful to you,’ returned Fitzsimmons, relaxing once again into his more congenial self. ‘My methods are very simple, Mr Holmes. The stick and the carrot — quite literally so. When the boys misbehave, I flog them. But if they work hard and abide by our rules, then they find that they are well fed. In the six years that my wife and I have been here, two boys have died, one with congenital heart disease, the other of tuberculosis. But Ross is the only one who has run away. When you find him, for I am sure that you will, I hope you will prevail upon him to return. Life here is not as austere as it may seem in this vile weather. When the sun shines and the boys can run wild in the open air, Chorley Grange can be a cheerful place too.’

‘I am sure of it. One last question, Mr Fitzsimmons. The building opposite. That is part of the school?’

‘Indeed so, Mr Holmes. When we first came here it was coach-builder’s factory but we have adapted it to our own needs and now use it for public performances. Did I mention to you that every boy in the school is a member of a band?’

‘You have had a performance recently.’

‘Only two nights ago. You have doubtless noticed the many wheel tracks. I would be honoured if you came to our next recital, Mr Holmes — and you too, Dr Watson. Indeed, might you consider becoming benefactors of the school? We do the best we can, but we also need all the help that is available.’

‘I will certainly consider it.’ We shook hands and left. ‘We must go straight to The Bag of Nails, Watson,’ Holmes said the moment we had climbed into the cab. ‘There is not a second to be lost.’

‘You really think…?’

‘The boy, Daniel, told us what he had refused to tell his masters but only because he knew who we were and thought we could save his friend. For once, Watson, I am being guided by my instinct and not by my intellect. What is it, I wonder, that gives me such cause for alarm? Whip the horses, driver, and take us to the station! And let us just pray that we’re not too late.’