The House of Silk: The New Sherlock Holmes Novel

EIGHT A Raven and Two Keys

Sally had not returned to her place of work that night nor the following morning. This was hardly surprising, given that she had attacked me and would surely be in fear of the consequences. In addition, the death of her brother had now been reported in the newspapers and although his name had not been mentioned, it was quite possible that she would know it was he who had been found beneath Southwark Bridge, for that was how it was in those days, particularly in the poorer parts of the city. Bad news had a way of spreading like smoke from a fire, trickling its way through every crowded room, every squalid basement, soft and insistent, smearing everything it touched. The landlord of The Bag of Nails knew that Ross was dead — he had already been visited by Lestrade and he was even less pleased to see us than he had been the day before.

‘Have you not caused enough trouble already?’ he demanded. ‘That girl may not have amounted to much but she was still a good pair of hands and I’m sorry to have lost her. And it’s not good for business, having the law about the place! I wish the two of you had never shown up.’

‘It was not we who brought the trouble, Mr Hardcastle,’ Holmes replied, for he had read the landlord’s name — Ephraim Hardcastle — above the door. ‘It was here already and we merely followed. It seems likely that you were the last person to see the boy alive. Did he tell you nothing before he left?’

‘Why would he speak to me or I to him?’

‘But you said that he had some business on his mind.’

‘I knew nothing of that.’

‘He was tortured to death, Mr Hardcastle, his bones broken one at a time. I have sworn to find his killer and bring him to justice. I cannot do so if you refuse to help.’

The landlord nodded slowly and when he spoke again it was in more measured tones. ‘Very well. The boy turned up three nights ago with some story about having fallen out with his neighbours and needing a crib until he could sort himself out. Sally asked my permission and I gave my assent. Why not? You’ve seen the yard. There’s a whole load of rubbish to be cleared out and I thought he could help. He did a little work too, on that first day, but in the afternoon he went out, and when he came back, I saw he was very pleased with himself.’

‘Did his sister know what he was doing?’

‘She might have, but she said nothing to me.’

‘Pray continue.’

‘I have little more to add, Mr Holmes. I saw him only one more time and that was in the minutes before you arrived. He came into the public bar while I was carrying up the casks and asked me the time, which only showed how ill-educated he was, because you can read it as clear as day on the church across the road.’

‘Then he was on his way to a fixed appointment.’

‘I suppose it’s possible.’

‘It’s certain. What use would a child such as Ross have with the time unless he had been asked to present himself in a certain place at a certain time? You said that he spent three nights here with his sister.’

‘He shared her room.’

‘I would like to see it.’

‘The police have already been there. They searched it and found nothing.’

‘I am not the police.’ Holmes placed a few shillings on the bar. ‘This is for your inconvenience.’

‘Very well. But I will not take your money this time. You are on the trail of a monster and it will be enough if you do as you say and make sure he can’t hurt anyone else.’

He showed us round the back and along a narrow corridor between the taproom and the kitchen. A flight of stairs led down to the cellars and, lighting a candle, the landlord led us to a dismal little room that was tucked away beneath them, small and windowless, with a bare wooden floor. This was where Sally, exhausted after her long day’s labours, would have taken herself, sleeping on a mattress on the floor, covered by a single blanket. Two objects lay in the middle of this makeshift bed. One was a knife, the other a doll which she must have rescued from some rubbish tip. Looking at its broken limbs and stark white face, I could not help but think of her brother who had been discarded just as casually. A chair and a small table with a candle stood in one corner. It would not have taken the police long to search the place for, the doll and the knife aside, Sally had no possessions, nothing she could call her own beyond her name.

Holmes swept his eyes across the room. ‘Why the knife?’ he murmured.

‘To protect herself,’ I suggested.

‘The weapon that she used to protect herself she carried with her, as you know better than anyone. She will have taken that with her. This second knife is almost blunt.’

‘And stolen from the kitchen!’ Hardcastle murmured.

‘The candle, I think, is of interest.’ It was the unlit candle on the table to which Holmes referred. He picked it up, then crouched down and began to shuffle along the floor. It took me a moment to realise that he was following a trail of melted wax droplets which were almost invisible to the human eye. He, of course, had seen them at once. They led him to the corner furthest away from the bed ‘She carried it to this far corner … again to what purpose? Unless … The knife please, Watson.’ I handed it to him and he pressed the blade into one of the cracks between the wooden floorboards. One of the boards was loose and he used the knife to prise it up, then reached inside and withdrew a bunched-up handkerchief. ‘If you could be so kind, Mr Hardcastle …’

The landlord brought over his own, lit candle. Holmes unfolded the handkerchief, and by the light of the flickering flame, we saw that there were several coins inside — three farthings, two florins, a crown, a gold sovereign and five shillings. For two destitute children, it was a veritable treasure trove, but to which of them had the money belonged?

‘This is Ross’s,’ Holmes said, as if reading my thoughts. ‘The sovereign, I gave him.’

‘My dear Holmes! How can you be sure it’s the same sovereign?’

Holmes held it to the light. ‘The date is the same. But look also at the design. Saint George rides his horse but has a gash across his leg. I noticed it as I handed it over. This is part of the guinea that Ross earned for his work with the Irregulars. But what of the rest of it?’

‘He got it from his uncle,’ Hardcastle muttered. Holmes turned to him. ‘When he came here and asked to stay the night, he said he could pay for the room. I laughed at him and he said that he had been given money by his uncle but I didn’t believe him and said he could work in the yard instead. If I’d known the boy had as much as this, I’d have offered him decent lodgings upstairs.’

‘The thing takes shape. It becomes coherent. The boy decides to use the information that he has gleaned from his presence at Mrs Oldmore’s Hotel. He goes out once, presents himself and makes his demands. He is invited to a meeting … a certain place at a certain time. It is at this meeting that he will be killed. But he has at least taken some precautions, leaving all his wealth behind with his sister. She hides it beneath the floorboards. How wretched she must now be, knowing that she was unable to retrieve it when you and I chased her away, Watson. One last question for you, Mr Hardcastle, and then we will be on our way. Did Sally ever mention the House of Silk to you?’

‘The House of Silk? No, Mr Holmes. I have never heard of it. What am I to do with these coins?’

‘Keep them. The girl has lost her brother. She has lost everything. Perhaps one day she will come back to you, needing help, and at the very least you will be able to give them back.’

From The Bag of Nails we followed the sweep of the Thames, heading back towards Bermondsey. I wondered aloud if Holmes intended to revisit the hotel. ‘Not the hotel, Watson,’ he said. ‘But nearby. We must find the source of the boy’s wealth. It may prove central to the reason he was killed.’

‘He got it from his uncle,’ I said. ‘But if his parents are dead, how are we to find any other of his relatives?’

Holmes laughed. ‘You surprise me, Watson. Are you really so unfamiliar with the language of at least half the population in London? Every week thousands of labourers and itinerant workers visit their uncles, by which they mean the pawnbrokers. That is where Ross received his ill-gotten gains. The only question is — what did he sell to receive his florins and shillings?’

‘And where did he sell it?’ I added. ‘There must be hundreds of pawnbrokers in this part of London alone.’

‘That is certainly the case. On the other hand, you will recall that Wiggins followed our mysterious assailant from a pawnbroker in Bridge Lane to the hotel and mentioned that Ross was frequently in and out of it himself. Perhaps that is where his “uncle” is to be found.’

What a place of broken promises and lost hopes the pawnbroker proved to be! Every class, every profession, every walk of life was represented in its grubby windows, the detritus of so many lives pinned like butterflies behind the glass. Overhead, a wooden sign with three red balls on a blue background hung on rusty chains, refusing to swing in the breeze as if to assert that nothing here would ever move, that once the owners had lost their possessions, they would never see them again. ‘Money advanced on plate, jewels, wearing apparel and every description of property’ read the notice below and so it was, for even Aladdin in his cave would have been unlikely to stumble upon such a treasure trove. Garnet brooches and silver watches, china cups and vases, pen holders, teaspoons and books, fought for space on the shelves with such disparate objects as a clockwork soldier and a stuffed jay. Linen squares from tiny handkerchiefs to tableclothes and brightly embroidered bedcovers dangled at the sides. A whole army of chessmen stood guard over a battlefield of rings and bracelets laid out on green baize. What workman had sacrificed his chisels and saws for beer and sausages at the weekend? What little girl managed without her Sunday dress while her parents struggled to find food for the table? The window was not just a display of human degradation. It was a celebration. And it was here, perhaps, that Ross had come.

I had seen pawnbrokers in the West End and knew that it was customary for them to provide a side door through which it was possible to enter without being seen, but that was not the case here, for the people who lived around Bridge Lane had no such scruples. There was one main door and it was open. I followed Holmes into a darkened interior where a single man perched on a stool, reading a book with one hand, while the other rested on the counter, the fingers rolling slowly inwards as if turning some invisible object over in his palm. He was a slim, delicate-looking man of about fifty, thin of face, wearing a shirt buttoned to the neck, a waistcoat and a scarf. There was something neat and meticulous in his manner that put me in mind of a watchmaker.

‘And how may I help you, gentlemen?’ he enquired, his eyes barely leaving the page. But he must have scrutinised us as we came in for he continued: ‘It looks to me as if you are here on official business. Are you from the police? If so, I cannot help you. I know nothing about my customers. It is my practice never to ask questions. If you have something you wish to leave with me, I will offer you a fair price. Otherwise I must wish you a good day.’

‘My name is Sherlock Holmes.’

‘The detective? I am honoured. And what brings you here, Mr Holmes? Perhaps it has something to do with a gold necklace, set with sapphires, a nice little piece? I paid five pounds for it and the police took it back again, so I gained nothing at all. Five pounds and it might have brought me twice that if it were not redeemed. But there you are. We’re all on the road to ruin but some are further ahead than others.’

I knew that in at least one respect he was lying. Whatever Mrs Carstairs’s necklace was worth, he would have given Ross only a few pence for it. Perhaps the farthings that we had found had come from here.

‘We have no interest in the necklace,’ said Holmes. ‘Nor in the man who brought it here.’

‘Which is just as well, for the man who brought it here, an American, is dead, or so the police tell me.’

‘We are interested in another of your customers. A child by the name of Ross.’

‘I hear that Ross has also left this vale of tears. Poor odds, would you not say, to lose two pigeons in so short a space of time?’

‘You paid Ross money, recently.’

‘Who told you so?’

‘Do you deny it?’

‘I do not deny it nor do I affirm it. I merely say that I am busy and would be most grateful if you would leave.’

‘What is your name?’

‘Russell Johnson.’

‘Very well, Mr Johnson. I will make you a proposition. Whatever Ross brought to you, I will purchase and I will pay you a good price, but only on the condition that you play fair with me. I know a great deal about you, Mr Johnson, and if you attempt to lie to me, I will see it and I will return with the police and take what I want and you will find you have made no profit at all.’

Johnson smiled but it seemed to me that his face was filled with melancholy. ‘You know nothing about me at all, Mr Holmes.’

‘No? I would say you were brought up in a wealthy family and were well educated. You might have been a successful pianist for such was your ambition. Your downfall was due to an addiction, probably gambling, quite possibly dice. You were in prison earlier this year for receiving stolen goods and were considered troublesome by the warders. You served a sentence of at least three months but were released in October and since then you have done brisk business.’

For the first time, Johnson gave Holmes his full attention. ‘Who told you all this?’

‘I did not need to be told, Mr Johnson. It is all painfully apparent. And now, if you please, I must ask you again. What did Ross bring you?’

Johnson considered, then nodded slowly. ‘I met this boy, Ross, two months ago,’ he said. ‘He was newly arrived in London, living up in King’s Cross, and was brought here by a couple of other street boys. I remember very little about him, except that he seemed well fed and better dressed than the others and that he carried with him a gentleman’s pocket watch, stolen I have no doubt. He came in a few more times after that, but he never brought in anything as good again.’ He went over to a cabinet, rummaged about and produced a watch on a chain, set in a gold casing. ‘This is the watch, and I gave the boy just five shillings for it although it’s worth at least ten pounds. You can have it for what I paid.’

‘And in return?’

‘You must tell me how you know so much about me. You are a detective, I know, but I will not believe you can have plucked so much out of the air on the basis of this one brief meeting.’

‘It is a matter of such simplicity that if I explain it to you, you will see you have made a bad bargain.’

‘But if you don’t, I’ll never sleep.’

‘Very well, Mr Johnson. The fact of your education is obvious from the manner of your speech. I also note the copy of Flaubert’s letters to George Sand, untranslated, which you were reading as we came in. It is a wealthy family that gives a child a solid grounding in French. You also practised long hours at the piano. The fingers of a pianist are easily recognised. That you should find yourself working in this place suggests some catastrophe in your life and the rapid loss of your wealth and position. There are not so many ways that could have happened; alcohol, drugs, a poor business speculation perhaps. But you speak of odds and refer to your customers as pigeons, a name often given to novice gamblers, so that is the world that springs to mind. You have a nervous habit, I notice. The way you roll your hand — it suggests the dice table.’

‘And the prison sentence?’

‘You have been given what I believe is called a terrier crop, a prison haircut, although you are displaying a further growth of about eight weeks, suggesting that you were released in September. This is confirmed by the colour of your skin. Last month was unusually warm and sunny and it is evident that you were at liberty at that time. There are marks on both your wrists that tell me you wore shackles while you were in jail and that you struggled against them. The receipt of stolen goods is the most obvious crime for a pawnbroker. As to this shop, the fact that you have been absent for a lengthy period is immediately apparent from the books in the window which have faded in the sunlight, and from the layer of dust on the shelves. At the same time, I notice many objects — this watch among them — which are dust-free and so have been added recently, indicating a brisk trade.’

Johnson handed over the prize. ‘Thank you, Mr Holmes,’ he said. ‘You are quite correct in every respect. I come from a good family in Sussex and did hope once to be a pianist. When that failed, I went into the law and might well have prospered except that I found it so damnably dull. Then, one evening, a friend introduced me to the Franco-German Club in Charlotte Street. I don’t suppose you know it. There’s nothing French or German about it; the place is actually run by a Jew. Well, the moment I saw it — the unmarked door with its little grating, the windows painted out, the dark staircase leading to the brightly lit rooms above — I was doomed. Here was the excitement that was so missing from my life. I paid my two and sixpence subscription and was introduced to baccarat, to roulette, to hazard and, yes, to dice. I found myself slogging through the day simply to arrive at the enticements of the night. Suddenly I was surrounded by brilliant new friends, all of them delighted to see me and all of them, of course, bonnets, which is to say they were paid by the proprietor to entice me to play. Sometimes I won. More often I lost. Five pounds one night. Ten pounds the next. Need I tell you more? My work became careless. I was sacked from my job. With the last of my savings I set myself up in these premises, thinking that a new profession, no matter how low and wretched, would occupy my mind. Not a bit of it! I still go back, night after night. I cannot prevent myself and who knows what the future holds for me? I am ashamed to think what my parents would say if they could see me. Fortunately, they are both dead. I have no wife or children. If I have one consolation, it is that nobody in this world cares about me. I therefore have no reason to be ashamed.’

Holmes paid him the money and together we returned to Baker Street. However, if I had thought we had come to the end of our day’s labours, I was very much mistaken. Holmes had examined the watch in the cab. It was a handsome piece, a minute repeater with a white enamel face in a gold case manufactured by Touchon & Co of Geneva. There was no other name or inscription, but on the reverse he found an engraved image: a bird perching on a pair of crossed keys.

‘A family crest?’ I suggested.

‘Watson, you are scintillating,’ replied he. ‘That is exactly what I believe it to be. And hopefully my encyclopaedia will enlighten us further.’

Sure enough, the pages revealed a raven and two keys to be the crest of the Ravenshaws, one of the oldest families in the kingdom with a manor house just outside the village of Coln St Aldwyn in Gloucestershire. Lord Ravenshaw, who had been a distinguished Foreign Minister in the current Administration, had recently died at the age of eighty-two. His son, the Honourable Alec Ravenshaw, was his only heir and had now inherited both the title and the family estate. Somewhat to my dismay, Holmes insisted on leaving London at once, but I knew him only too well, and, in particular, the restlessness that was so much part of his character. I did not attempt to argue. Nor, for that matter, would I have considered staying behind. Now that I come to think of it, I was as assiduous in my duties as his biographer as he was in the pursuit of his various investigations. Perhaps that was why the two of us got on so well.

I just had time to pack a few things for an overnight stay, and by the time the sun set we found ourselves in a pleasant inn, dining on a leg of lamb with mint sauce and a pint of quite decent claret. I forget now what we talked about over the meal. Holmes asked after my practice and I think I described to him some of Metchinkoff’s interesting work on cellular theory. Holmes always took a keen interest in matters to do with medicine or science, although, as I have related elsewhere, he was careful not to clutter his mind with information which, in his opinion, had no material value. Heaven protect the man who tried to have a conversation with him about politics or philosophy. A ten-year-old child would know more. One thing I can say about that evening: at no time did we discuss the business at hand and, though the time passed in the easy conviviality that the two of us had so often enjoyed, I could tell that this was quite purposeful. Inwardly, he was still uneasy. The death of Ross preyed on him and would not let him rest.

Before he had even taken breakfast, Holmes had sent his card up to Ravenshaw Hall, asking for an audience, and the reply came soon enough. The new Lord Ravenshaw had some business to take care of, but would be pleased to see us at ten o’clock. We were there as the local church struck the hour, walking up the driveway to a handsome Elizabethan manor house built of Cotswold stone and surrounded by lawns that sparkled with the morning frost. Our friend, the raven with two keys, appeared in the stonework beside the main gate and again in the lintel above the front door. We had come on foot, a short and pleasant walk from our inn, but as we approached we noticed that there was a carriage parked outside, and suddenly a man came hurrying out of the house, climbed into it and swung the door shut behind him. The coachman whipped on the horses and a moment later he was gone, rattling past us on the drive. But I had already recognised him. ‘Holmes,’ I said. ‘I know that man!’

‘Indeed so, Watson. It was Mr Tobias Finch, was it not? The senior partner in the picture gallery Carstairs and Finch of Albemarle Street. A very singular coincidence, do you not think?’

‘It certainly seems very strange.’

‘We should perhaps broach the subject with a certain delicacy. If Lord Ravenshaw is finding it necessary to sell off some of his family’s heirlooms—’

‘He could be buying.’

‘That is also a possibility.’

We rang the doorbell and were admitted by a footman who led us through the hall and into a drawing room of truly baronial proportions. The walls were partly wood-panelled with family portraits hanging above, and a ceiling so high that no visitor would dare raise his voice for fear of the echo. The windows were mullioned and looked out onto a rose garden with a deer park beyond. Some chairs and sofas had been arranged around a massive stone fireplace — there was the raven once again, carved into the lintel — with green logs crackling in the flames. Lord Ravenshaw was standing there, warming his hands. My first impression was not entirely favourable. He had silver hair, combed back, and a ruddy, unattractive face. His eyes protruded quite conspicuously and it struck me that this might be due to some abnormality of the thyroid gland. He was wearing a riding coat and leather boots and carried a crop tucked under his arm. Even before we had introduced ourselves, he seemed impatient and keen to be on his way.

‘Mr Sherlock Holmes,’ he said. ‘Yes, yes. I think I have heard of you. A detective? I cannot imagine any circumstances in which your business would connect with mine.’

‘I have something that I believe may belong to you, Lord Ravenshaw.’ We had not been invited to sit down. Holmes took out the watch and carried it over to the master of the estate.

Ravenshaw took it. For a moment he weighed it in his hand, as if uncertain it was even his. Slowly, it dawned on him that he recognised it it. He wondered how Holmes had found it. Nonetheless, he was pleased to have it back. He spoke not a word but all these emotions passed across his face and even I found them easy to read. ‘Well, I am very much obliged to you,’ he said, at length. ‘I am very fond of this watch. It was given to me by my sister. I never thought I would see it again.’

‘I would be interested to know how you lost it, Lord Ravenshaw.’

‘I can tell you exactly, Mr Holmes. It happened in London during the summer; I was there for the opera.’

‘Can you remember the month?’

‘It was June. As I climbed out of my carriage, a young street urchin ran into me. He couldn’t have been more than twelve or thirteen. I thought nothing of it at the time, but during the interval I looked to see the time and of course discovered that I had been pickpocketed.’

‘The watch is a handsome one, and you obviously value it. Did you report the incident to the police?’

‘I do not quite understand the purpose of these questions, Mr Holmes. For that matter, I’m rather surprised that a man of your reputation should have troubled to have come all this way from London to return it. I take it you are hoping for a reward?’

‘Not at all. The watch is part of a wider investigation and I hoped you might be able to help.’

‘Well, I’m afraid I must disappoint you. I know nothing more. And I didn’t report the theft, knowing that there are thieves and scoundrels on every street corner and doubting that there was anything the police would be able to do, and so why waste their time? I am very grateful to you for returning the watch to me, Mr Holmes, and I am perfectly happy to pay you for your travel expenses and time. But other than that, I think I must wish you a good day.’

‘I have just one last question, Lord Ravenshaw,’ Holmes said, with equanimity. ‘There was a man leaving here as we arrived. Unfortunately, we just missed him. I wonder if I was right in recognising an old friend of mine, Mr Tobias Finch?’

‘A friend?’ As Holmes had suspected, Lord Ravenshaw was not pleased to have been discovered in the company of the art dealer.

‘An acquaintance.’

‘Well, since you ask, yes, it was he. I do not enjoy discussing family business, Mr Holmes, but you might as well know that my father had execrable taste in art and it is my intention to rid myself of at least part of his collection. I have been speaking to several galleries in London. Carstairs and Finch is the most discreet.’

‘And has Mr Finch ever mentioned to you the House of Silk?’

Holmes asked the question and the silence that ensued happened to coincide with the snapping of a log in the fire so that the sound came almost as a punctuation mark.

‘You said you had one question, Mr Holmes. That is a second and I have had enough, I think, of your impertinence. Am I to call for my servant or will you now leave?’

‘I am delighted to have met you, Lord Ravenshaw.’

‘I am grateful to you for returning my watch, Mr Holmes.’

I was glad to be out of that room, for I had felt almost trapped in the midst of so much wealth and privilege. As we stepped onto the path and began to walk back down to the gate, Holmes chuckled. ‘Well there’s another mystery for you, Watson.’

‘He seemed unusually hostile, Holmes.’

‘I refer to the theft of the watch. If it was taken in June, Ross could not have been responsible for, as far as we know, he was at the Chorley Grange School for Boys at that time. According to Jones, it was pawned a few weeks ago, in October. So what had happened to it in the four months in-between? If it was Ross who stole it, why did he hold on to it for so long?’

We had almost reached the gate when a black bird flew overhead, not a raven but a crow. I followed it with my eye and as I did so, something made me turn and glance back at the hall. And there was Lord Ravenshaw, standing at the window, watching us leave. His hands were on his hips and his round, bulging eyes were fixed on us. And although I could have been mistaken for we were some distance away, his face, it seemed to me, was filled with hate.