The House of Silk: The New Sherlock Holmes Novel

FOUR The Unofficial Police Force

Holmes slept in late the next morning and I was sitting on my own, reading The Martyrdom of Man, by Winwood Reade, a book that he had recommended to me on more than one occasion but which, I confess, I had found heavy going. I could see, however, why the author had appealed to my friend with his hatred of ‘idleness and stupidity’, his reverence for ‘the divine intellect’, his suggestion that ‘It is the nature of man to reason from himself outwards.’ Holmes could have written much of it himself, and although I was glad to turn the last page and set it aside, I felt it had at least provided me with some insight into the detective’s mind. The morning post had brought a letter from Mary. All was well in Camberwell; Richard Forrester was not so ill that he could not take delight in seeing his old governess again, and she was evidently enjoying the companionship of the boy’s mother who was treating her, quite correctly, as an equal rather than a former employee.

I had picked up my pen to reply to her when there was a loud ring at the front door, followed by the patter of many feet on the stairs. It was a sound that I remembered well, so I was fully prepared when about half a dozen street Arabs burst into the room and formed themselves into something resembling an orderly line, with the tallest and oldest of them shouting them into shape.

‘Wiggins!’ I exclaimed, for I remembered his name. ‘I had not expected to see you again.’

‘Mr ’olmes sent us a message, sir, summoning us on a matter of the greatest hurgency,’ Wiggins replied. ‘And when Mr ’olmes calls, we come, so ’ere we are!’

Sherlock had once named them the Baker Street division of the detective police force. At other times he referred to them as the Irregulars. A scruffier, more ragged bunch would be hard to imagine, boys between the ages of eight and fifteen, held together by dirt and grime, their clothes so cut about and stitched back together that it would be impossible to say to how many other children they must have at some time belonged. Wiggins himself was wearing an adult jacket that had been cut in half, a strip removed from the middle and the top, and the bottom put together again. Several of the boys were barefooted. Only one, I noted, was a little smarter and better fed than the others, his clothes slightly less threadbare, and I wondered what wickedness — pickpocketing, perhaps, or burglary — had furnished him with the means not just to survive but, in his own way, to prosper. He could not have been more than thirteen years old and yet, like all of them, he was already quite grown up. Childhood, after all, is the first precious coin that poverty steals from a child.

A moment later, Sherlock Holmes appeared and with him, Mrs Hudson. I could see that our landlady was flustered and out of sorts and she did not attempt to hide her thoughts. ‘I won’t have it, Mr Holmes. I’ve told you before. This is a respectable house in which to invite a gang of ragamuffins. Heaven knows what diseases they’ll have brought in with them — nor what items of silver or linen will be gone when they depart.’

‘Please calm yourself, my good Mrs Hudson,’ Holmes laughed. ‘Wiggins! I’ve told you before. I will not have the house invaded in this way. In future, you alone will report to me. But since you are here and have brought with you the entire gang, listen carefully to my instructions. Our quarry is an American, a man in his mid-thirties who occasionally wears a flat cap. He has a recent scar on his right cheek and, I think we can assume, is a stranger to London. Yesterday, he was at London Bridge Station and has in his possession a gold necklace set with three clusters of sapphires which, needless to say, he came by illicitly. Now, where do you think he would go to dispose of it?’

‘Fullwood’s Rents!’ one boy shouted out.

‘The Jews on Petticoat Lane,’ cried another.

‘No! He’ll get a better price at the hell houses,’ suggested a third. ‘I’d go to Flower Street or Field Lane.’

‘The pawnbrokers!’ interjected the better-dressed boy who had first caught my attention.

‘The pawnbrokers!’ Holmes agreed. ‘What’s your name, boy?’

‘It is Ross, sir.’

‘Well, Ross, you have the makings of a detective. The man that we seek is new to the city and will not know Flower Street, Fullwood’s Rents or any of the more esoteric corners where you boys find trouble for yourselves. He will go to the most obvious place and the symbol of the three golden balls is known throughout the world. So that’s where I want you to begin. He arrived at London Bridge, and let us assume that he chose to reside in a hotel or a lodging house close to there. You must visit every pawnbroker in the district, describing the man and the jewellery which he may have attempted to sell.’ Holmes reached into his pocket. ‘My rates are the same as always. A shilling each and a guinea for whoever finds what I’m looking for.’

Wiggins snapped a command and, with a great deal of noise and bustle, our unofficial police force marched out, watched by a hawk-eyed Mrs Hudson who would spend the rest of the morning counting the cutlery. As soon as they had gone, Holmes clapped his hands and sank into a chair. ‘Well, Watson,’ he proclaimed. ‘What do you make of that?’

‘You seem to have every confidence that we will find O’Donaghue,’ I said.

‘I am fairly certain that we will locate the man who broke into Ridgeway Hall,’ he replied.

‘Do you not think that Lestrade will also be enquiring at the pawnbrokers?’

‘I somehow doubt it. It is so obvious that it will not have crossed his mind. However, we have the whole day ahead of us and nothing to fill it so, since I have missed breakfast, let’s take lunch together at Le Cafe´ de l’Europe beside the Haymarket Theatre. Despite the name, the food is English and first rate. After that, I have it in mind to visit the gallery of Carstairs and Finch in Albemarle Street. It might be interesting to acquaint ourselves with Mr Tobias Finch. Mrs Hudson, should Wiggins return, you might direct him there. But now, Watson, you must tell me what you thought of The Martyrdom of Man. I see that you have finally finished it.’

I glanced at the book which was lying innocuously on its side. ‘Holmes …?’

‘You have been using a cigarette card as a bookmark. I have watched its tortuous progress from the first page to the last and I see it is now lying on the table, finally released from its labours. I will be interested to hear your conclusions. Some tea, perhaps, Mrs Hudson, if you will be so kind?’

We left the house and strolled down to the Haymarket. The fog had lifted and, although still very cold, it was another brilliant day with crowds of people pouring in and out of the department stores and street sellers wheeling their barrows and calling out their wares. At Wimpole Street a great throng had gathered round an organ grinder, an old Italian playing some mournful Neapolitan tune which had also drawn in an assortment of shammers who moved among the spectators, relating their pitiful stories to anyone who would listen. There was barely a corner that did not have a street performer and, for once, nobody was inclined to move them on. We ate at Le Cafe´ de l’Europe where we were served an excellent raised game pie and Holmes was in an effusive mood. He did not speak of the case, at least, not directly, but I remember him musing on the nature of pictorial art and its possible use in the solving of crime.

‘You remember Carstairs telling us of the four lost Constables,’ he said. ‘They were views of the Lake District painted at the start of the century when, apparently, the artist was sombre and depressed. The oils on the canvas, therefore, become a clue to his psychology and it follows that if a man chooses to hang such a work on the wall of his drawing room, we may also learn a great deal about his own state of mind. Did you remark, for example, on the art on display at Ridgeway Hall?’

‘A great deal of it was French. There was a view of Brittany, another of a bridge crossing the River Seine. I thought the works very fine.’

‘You admired them but you learned nothing from them.’

‘You mean in respect of the character of Edmund Carstairs? He prefers the countryside to the city. He is drawn to the innocence of childhood. He is a man who likes to be surrounded by colour. I suppose that something of his personality could have been surmised from the pictures we saw on his walls. But then again, we cannot be sure that every piece had been chosen by Carstairs himself. His wife or his late mother could have been responsible.’

‘That is very true.’

‘And even a man who kills his wife may have a gentler side to his nature which finds expression in his choice of art. You will recall that business with the Abernetty family. Horace Abernetty had hung his walls with many fine studies of local flora, as I recall. And yet he himself was an individual of the most loathsome and thuggish sort.’

‘My own memory is that much of the fauna depicted was of the poisonous variety, since you mention it.’

‘And what of Baker Street, Holmes? Are you telling me that a visitor to your sitting room will find clues to your psychology through a contemplation of the works that hang around you?’

‘No. But they might tell you a great deal about my predecessor, for I can assure you, Watson, that there is hardly a single picture in my own lodgings which was not there when I arrived. Do you seriously imagine that I went out and purchased that portrait of Henry Ward Beecher which used to stand over your books? An admirable man by all accounts and his views on slavery and bigotry are to be recommended, but it was left behind by whomever had the room before me and I simply chose to leave it in its place.’

‘Did you not purchase the picture of General Gordon?’

‘No. But I had it mended and reframed after I accidentally fired a bullet into it. That was at the insistence of Mrs Hudson. You know, I may very well write a monograph on this subject; the use of art in matters of detection.’

‘Holmes, you insist upon seeing yourself as a machine,’ I laughed. ‘Even a masterpiece of impressionism is to you nothing more than a piece of evidence to be used in the pursuit of a crime. Perhaps an appreciation of art is what you need to humanise you. I shall insist that you accompany me on a visit to the Royal Academy.’

‘We already have the gallery of Carstairs and Finch on our agenda, Watson, and I think that will be enough. The cheeseboard, waiter. And a glass of Moselle, I think, for my friend. Port is too heavy for the afternoon.’

It was but a short distance to the gallery, and once again we strolled together. I have to say that I took immense satisfaction in these moments of quiet sociability and felt myself to be one of the luckiest men in London to have shared in the conversation which I have just described and to be walking in such a leisurely manner at the side of so great a personage as Sherlock Holmes. It was about four o’clock and the light was already fading when we arrived at the gallery which was not, in fact, in Albermarle Street itself, but in an old coaching yard just off it. Apart from a discreet sign, written in gold letters, there was little to indicate that this was a commercial enterprise. A low door led into a rather gloomy interior with two sofas, a table and a single canvas — two cows in a field painted by the Dutch artist, Paulus Potter — mounted on an easel. As we entered, we heard two men arguing in the adjoining room. One voice I recognised. It belonged to Edmund Carstairs.

‘It’s an excellent price,’ he was saying. ‘And I am certain of it, Tobias. These works are like good wine. Their value can only rise.’

‘No, no, no!’ replied the other voice in a high-pitched whine. ‘He calls them seascapes. Well, I can see the sea … but precious little else. His last show was a fiasco and now he has taken refuge in Paris where, I hear, his reputation is in rapid decline. It’s a waste of money, Edmund.’

‘Six works by Whistler—’

‘Six works we shall never be rid of!’

I was standing at the door and closed it more heavily than was strictly necessary, wishing to signal our presence to the two men inside. It had the desired effect. The conversation broke off and a moment later a thin, white-haired individual, immaculately dressed in a dark suit with a wing collar and black tie, appeared from behind a curtain. A gold chain hung across his waistcoat and a pair of pince-nez, also gold, rested at the very tip of his nose. He must have been at least sixty years old, but there was still a spring in his step and a certain nervous energy that manifested itself in his every move.

‘I take it you are Mr Finch,’ Holmes began.

‘Yes, sir. That is indeed my name. And you are …?’

‘I am Sherlock Holmes.’

‘Holmes? I don’t believe we are acquainted and yet the name is familiar—’

‘Mr Holmes!’ Carstairs had also come into the room. The contrast between the two men was striking; the one old and wizened, belonging almost to another age, the other younger and more dandified, his features still displaying the anger and frustration that were doubtless the result of the conversation we had overheard. ‘This is Mr Holmes, the detective I was telling you about,’ he explained to his partner.

‘Yes, yes. Of course I know. He has just introduced himself.’

‘I did not expect to see you here,’ Carstairs said.

‘I came because it interested me to see your professional place of work,’ Holmes explained. ‘But I also have a number of questions for you, relating to the Pinkerton’s men whom you employed in Boston.’

‘A dreadful affair!’ Finch interjected. ‘I won’t recover from the loss of those paintings, not until the end of my days. It was the single greatest calamity of my career. If only we had sold him a few of your Whistlers, Edmund. They could have been blown to pieces and no one would give a jot!’ Once the old man had started, there seemed to be no stopping him. ‘Picture-dealing is a respectable business, Mr Holmes. We deal with a great many aristocratic clients. I would not wish it to be known that we have been involved with gunmen and murder!’ The old man’s face fell as he saw that he was involved with more besides, for the door had just opened and a boy had rushed in. I at once recognised Wiggins, who had been in our room only that morning but to Finch it was as if the worst assault were being committed. ‘Go away! Get out of here!’ he exclaimed. ‘We have nothing for you.’

‘You need not concern yourself, Mr Finch,’ Holmes said. ‘I know the boy. What is it, Wiggins?’

‘We’ve found ’im, Mr ’olmes!’ Wiggins cried, excitedly. ‘The cove you was looking for. We saw him with our own eyes, me and Ross. We was about to go in the jerryshop on Bridge Lane — Ross knows the place for ’e’s in and out of there often enough ’imself — when the door opens and there ’e is, clear as daylight, wiv ’is face cut livid by a scar.’ The boy drew a line down his own cheek. ‘It was me what saw him. Not Ross.’

‘Where is he now?’ Holmes asked.

‘We followed ’im to ’is ’otel, sir. Will it be a guinea each if we take you there?’

‘It will be the end of you if you don’t,’ replied Holmes. ‘But I have always played you fair, Wiggins. You know that. Tell me, where is this hotel?’

‘In Bermondsey, sir. Mrs Oldmore’s Private Hotel. Ross will be there now. I left ’im there to act as crow while I hiked all the way to your rooms and then ’ere to find you. If your man steps out again, ’e’ll watch where ’e goes. Ross is new to the game but ’e’s as canny as they come. Are you going to come back with me, Mr ’olmes? Will you take a four-wheeler? Can I ride with you?’

‘You can sit up with the driver.’ Holmes turned to me and I saw at once the contracted eyebrows and the intensity of expression that told me that all his energies were focused on what lay ahead. ‘We must leave at once,’ he said. ‘By a lucky chance, we have the object of our investigation in our grasp. We must not let him slip between our fingers.’

‘I will come with you,’ Carstairs announced.

‘Mr Carstairs, for your own safety—’

‘I have seen this man. It was I who described him to you, and if anyone can be sure that these boys of yours have correctly identified him, it is I. And I have a personal desire to see this out, Mr Holmes. If this man is whom I believe he is, then I am the cause of his presence here and it is only right I see it to the end.’

‘We have no time for argument,’ Holmes said. ‘Very well. The three of us will leave together. Let us not waste another minute.’

And so we hurried out of the gallery, Holmes, Wiggins, Carstairs and myself, leaving Mr Finch gaping after us. A four-wheeler was located and we climbed in, Wiggins scrambling up beside the driver who glanced at him disdainfully but then relented and allowed him one fold of his blanket. With a crack of the whip we were away, as if something of our urgency had communicated itself to the horses. It was almost dark and with the coming of the night the sense of ease that I had felt had quite dissipated, and the city had once again turned cold and hostile. The shoppers and the entertainers had all gone home and their places had been taken by a different species altogether, shabby men and gaudy women who needed shadows in which to conduct their business and whose business, in truth, carried shadows of its own.

The carriage took us over Blackfriars Bridge where the wind was at its iciest and cut into us like a knife. Holmes had not spoken since we had left, and I felt that in some way he’d had a presentiment of what was to come. This was not something he had ever admitted and had I ever suggested it I know he would been annoyed. No soothsayer he! For him it was all intellect, all systematised common sense, as he once put it. And yet still I was aware of something that defied explanation and which might even be considered supernatural. Like it or not, Holmes knew that the evening’s events were going to provide a fulcrum, a turning point after which his life — both our lives — would never be quite the same.

Mrs Oldmore’s Private Hotel advertised a bed and sitting room at thirty shillings a week, and was exactly the sort of establishment you would expect at that price; a mean, dilapidated building with a slop house on one side and a brick kiln on the other. It was close to the river and the air was damp and grimy. Lamps burned behind the windows, but the glass was so dirt-encrusted that barely any light seeped through. Ross, the companion of Wiggins, was waiting for us, shivering with cold despite the thick padding of newspaper with which his jacket was lined. As Holmes and Carstairs climbed out of the carriage, he stepped back and I saw that something had greatly frightened him. His eyes were filled with alarm and his face, in the glow of the street lamp, was ashen white. But then Wiggins leapt down and grabbed hold of him and it was as if the spell was broken.

‘It’s all right, my boy!’ Wiggins cried. ‘We are both of us to have a guinea. Mr ’olmes ’as promised it.’

‘Tell me what has happened in the time that you have been alone,’ Holmes said. ‘Has the man you recognised left the hotel?’

‘Who are these gentlemen?’ Ross pointed first at Carstairs, then at me. ‘Are they jacks? Are they coppers? Why are they here?’

‘It’s all right, Ross,’ I said. ‘You have no need to be concerned. I am John Watson, a doctor. You saw me this morning when you came to Baker Street. And this is Mr Carstairs who has a gallery in Albemarle Street. We mean you no harm.’

‘Albemarle Street — in Mayfair?’ The boy was so cold that his teeth were chattering. Of course all the street Arabs in London were accustomed to the winter, but he had been standing out here for at least two hours on his own.

‘What have you seen?’ Holmes asked.

‘I ain’t seen nothing,’ Ross replied. His voice had changed. There was something about his manner now that might almost have suggested that he had something to hide. Not for the first time it occurred to me that all these children had reached a sort of adulthood long before their tender age should have allowed. ‘I been here, waiting for you. He ain’t come out. No one has gone in. And the cold, it’s gone right through my bones.’

‘Here is the money that I promised you — and you, too, Wiggins.’ Holmes paid both the boys. ‘Now take yourselves home. You have done enough tonight.’ The boys took the coins and ran off together, Ross casting one last look in our direction. ‘I suggest we enter the hotel and confront this man,’ Holmes went on. ‘God knows, I have no wish to linger here any longer than I have to. That boy, Watson. Did it occur to you that he was dissembling?’

‘There was certainly something he was not telling us,’ I concurred.

‘Let us hope that he has not acted in some way so as to betray us. Mr Carstairs, please stand well back. It is unlikely that our target will attempt violence, but we have come here without preparation. Dr Watson’s trusty revolver is doubtless lying wrapped up in cloth in some drawer in Kensington and I, too, am unarmed. We must live on our wits. Come on!’

The three of us entered the hotel. A few steps led up to the front door which opened into a public hallway with no carpets, little light, and a small office to one side. An elderly man was sitting there, propped up in a wooden chair, half-asleep, but he started when he saw us. ‘God bless you, gentlemen,’ he quavered. ‘We can offer you good, single beds at five shillings a night—’

‘We are not here for accommodation,’ Holmes replied. ‘We are in pursuit of a man who has recently arrived from America. He has a livid scar on one cheek. It is a matter of the greatest urgency, and if you do not wish to land yourself in trouble with the law, you will tell us where he can be found.’

The Boots had no desire to be in trouble with anyone. ‘There is but one American here,’ he said. ‘You must be referring to Mr Harrison from New York. He has the room at the end of the corridor on this floor. He came in a while ago and I think he must be asleep as I haven’t heard a sound.’

‘The number of the room?’ Holmes demanded.

‘It’s number six.’

We set off at once, down a bare corridor with doors so close together that the rooms behind them must be little more than cupboards and gas-jets turned so low that we had almost to feel our way through the darkness. Number six was indeed at the end. Holmes raised his fist, meaning to knock, then stepped back, a single gasp escaping from his lips. I looked down and saw a streak of liquid, almost black in the half-light, curling out from beneath the door and forming a small pool against the skirting. I heard Carstairs give a cry and saw him recoiling, his hands covering his eyes. The Boots was watching us from the end of the corridor. It was as if he was expecting the horror that was about to unveil itself.

Holmes tried the door. It wouldn’t open. Without saying a word, he brought his shoulder up against it and the flimsy lock shattered. Leaving Carstairs in the corridor, the two of us went in and saw at once that the crime, which I had once considered trivial, had taken a turn for the worse. The window was open. The room was ransacked. And the man we had been pursuing was curled up with a knife in the side of his neck.