The Mammoth Book of the New Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes

The Adventure of the Old School Friend

It has been justly observed of medicine that it can never be wholly a science, but must also be at least partly an art. For unlike the other scientific subjects, its field of study is not that of inanimate substances and forces, but living and breathing human beings, who are not always amenable to being treated in a purely scientific manner, and who are, generally speaking, less interested in hearing one’s opinion of what is wrong with them than in achieving full health once more. This fact serves not only to distinguish medicine from the other sciences, but also to mark a division in the ranks of medical practitioners themselves. All medical men serve the same deity, but an individual’s temperament will determine the character of his service.

There are medicos of my acquaintance, for instance, to whom the presence of other human beings seems nothing but an irksome distraction, except when it is a downright nuisance, especially if the human beings in question should actually have the effrontery to be ill. Such men find their most useful employment in medical research. For others, the study of one particular aspect of the complex that is a man becomes so absorbing that it is only as specialists that they can achieve professional satisfaction. But for many – and among these I would number myself – the chief interest lies not in any one illness or condition to which a person may fall victim, but in that person as a whole, whatever may ail him. For such medical men, who derive their satisfaction from diagnosing and treating the quite unpredictable variety of complaints with which their patients present them, there is nothing so good as general practice.

The choice of general practice – the specialisation in generality, as it has been termed – has the added advantage, also, that in following it, one comes into contact to a quite singular degree with the multifarious panorama of life; for one’s patients have a habit of adulterating their descriptions of what ails them with large measures of personal history and local anecdote. The years I had shared chambers with Sherlock Holmes had sharpened my taste for all that was outré and out of the common, and I enjoyed hearing the unusual experiences of my patients. Only when it was apparent that some unusually garrulous patient regarded his physician as a captive audience for as long as he chose to hold forth have I been tempted on occasion to regret my choice of medical career.

When I took over the Paddington practice of old Dr Farquhar, shortly after my marriage, I was at once involved in a more strenuous round of work than I had known since my days in the Army Medical Department. No longer in his prime, Farquhar had had neither the energy nor the inclination to put any great amount of effort into the practice, with the inevitable result that a decline had set in, and many of his patients had transferred to the rival practice of the young and vigorous Dr Jackson. The temptation to effect such a change must indeed have been a great one, for the temptation most difficult to resist is that which calls for the least expenditure of effort; and in this respect the circumstances could scarcely have been more agreeable, the premises of the two doctors standing side by side in the same street. Still, the physical proximity of our consulting-rooms could just as well work to my advantage as to that of my rival, I reasoned, and I was confident that by dint of hard work I could more than recoup the losses that my predecessor had suffered.

Thus it was that I found myself busily making acquaintance with all manner of folk, and if I had hoped to learn something of the eccentricities of the human race as I learnt something of their bodily infirmities, I was not disappointed. For although it was not a large practice that I had inherited from Dr Farquhar, it was certainly a varied one. Scarcely a day passed but I encountered some surprising novelty of human behaviour or experience.

One frail old lady, whose delicate and refined appearance had led me to suppose that she had never in her life travelled beyond the bounds of London, surprised me greatly one day, when she began to speak of the twenty-five years she had spent in the jungles of Borneo. Another of my patients, an unexceptional-looking, middle-aged man, a railway employee at Paddington station, turned out to have the most profound and erudite knowledge of Anglo-Saxon coins and medallions, upon which subject he had written numerous monographs. There was also, I regret to recall, Mr Septimus Witherington. He was a softly spoken, learned-looking man and I had mentally marked him down as something of a scholar. Unfortunately, scholar though he may have been, he was also a monomaniac.

Upon my expressing enthusiasm for English literature, in response to some casual remark of his, he at once launched into the most rambling and long-winded disquisition that it has ever been my misfortune to hear, the chief theme of which was that the works generally ascribed to William Shakespeare were in fact written by someone else altogether. I had no especial objection to this thesis; indeed, the detective-work which was involved in it appealed to my inquisitive nature; but his mode of argument was quite intolerable; for, like all true fanatics, he was unable to present his views except in the most violently abusive of terms.

In vain I attempted to interrupt him; in vain I shuffled the papers upon my desk and rearranged my medical instruments; in vain I consulted my watch ostentatiously, stood up from my desk and wound the clock upon the mantelpiece. Nothing, it seemed, could stem his flow. At length I was obliged to be a little brusque with him, whereupon he at once took great offence, informed me that I was as big a fool as I looked, and stamped out of the room in high dudgeon. Of Mr Witherington and his theories I have since heard no more, but I cannot say in all honesty that this state of affairs has ever caused me any great regret.

Not all my patients turned out so eccentric as this, however – perhaps fortunately, from the point of view of their physician’s good humour – and I was privileged to be the recipient of many interesting – and some most surprising – anecdotes. Perhaps most memorable of all is the story I now propose to relate, which concerns the curious adventure of Mr Alfred Herbert and the oriental idol. This was remarkable not only for its surprising turns of events and unforeseen outcome, but also because chance decreed that I was myself to play an active part in the matter – and because, also, it provided an opportunity for me to observe once more the singular talents of my remarkable friend, Mr Sherlock Holmes.

It was a bright, sunny period in August, the very type of the perfect English summer, with blue skies from dawn to dusk and a gentle breeze to moderate the heat. The weather being so good, there were few calls upon my professional services and I was taking the opportunity to catch up on my reading of the medical journals when Mr Herbert was shown into my consulting-room, early one evening. He was a short and stockily-built man of about my own age, with a large, round, clean-shaven face and slightly protruding eyes. His ailment was mild but chronic bronchitis, which, surprisingly, had not improved at all during the fine weather. I applied my stethoscope to his chest and listened for a moment to the tell-tale rattle from within.

‘Well, well; it is not too bad,’ said I. ‘A little squill in syrup should help.’

‘I dare say you have seen more interesting cases, Doctor,’ he remarked with a smile, as he pulled on his jacket. ‘My illness must be a fairly dull one from your point of view, I imagine.’

‘Not at all,’ said I, amused by his tone. ‘Of course, it is true that yours is hardly the first instance of bronchitis to come my way, but it is none the less interesting for that. It is rare to find two cases exactly the same, even during an epidemic. That is what makes the study of medicine so interesting. The general symptoms of every common complaint are, of course, well known to the newly qualified man, fresh from medical school, but it is only from personal experience that he can gain an appreciation of the amazing variety of forms that each complaint can take. To the man with an enquiring mind, these oddities of variety are endlessly fascinating.’

‘Ah!’ said Mr Herbert, nodding his head. ‘A fellow spirit, I see! I, too, have a taste for oddities, Doctor, although not generally of the medical variety. If you are interested, I can give you a real oddity for your collection! You will never imagine what happened to me the other day!’

‘Oh?’ said I after a moment, for he stared at me in silence, his eyebrows raised in encouragement, and showed no inclination to proceed until I had responded in some way. It was clear from the look in his eye that he was keen to tell me something, and I confess that I was filled with apprehension as the memory of my interview with Mr Septimus Witherington came back to me.

‘I met an old school friend,’ he continued at length.

‘Really?’ said I, as he fell into silence once more, his protruding eyes beckoning me to respond. My experience with Mr Witherington had served as a salutary lesson to me and I was wary of appearing too enthusiastic in my interest.

‘I’ll wager you don’t think that a very odd incident, Doctor!’

‘It does not sound especially remarkable,’ I conceded.

‘But wait until you hear the rest of it! Then I’m sure you’ll agree that it is quite the oddity of the year!’

‘Excuse me one moment, Mr Herbert, but were there any other patients in the waiting-room?’

‘No, sir; I am your last nuisance for today! That gives me an idea, Doctor: what would you say to a bench in a sunny garden, with a glass of the most excellent beer in your hand? I know a splendid place where we can sit and discuss my odd experience.’

I hesitated. In my position it was not desirable for me to be seen frequenting the local public-houses, especially as several of them enjoyed somewhat dubious reputations.

‘It is a very quiet and respectable house,’ added Herbert, evidently reading the expression upon my face; ‘I know the landlord, a smart man by the name of Henderson.’

‘What, Tobias Henderson of the Star and Garter?’

‘The very same. You know him, then?’

‘Only professionally. He got his toe crushed under a hogshead of beer a few weeks ago. He seemed a pleasant enough fellow, considering the somewhat trying circumstances of our meeting.’

‘You will come, then?’ urged my companion. ‘It is a matter upon which I should very much value your opinion, Doctor.’

At that moment I heard the sound of my wife’s footsteps as she bustled about upstairs, and this gave me an idea.

‘Very well, then,’ I agreed with a smile. ‘But I cannot stay long. My supper will be on the table shortly.’

In a few moments I had explained matters to my wife and was strolling along the sunny street with Mr Herbert. At least I now had a ready-made excuse to take my leave of him should he reveal himself to be some sort of fanatical bore in the mould of Septimus Witherington. He could scarcely follow me home from the pub, after all, I reasoned. Had we pursued the conversation in my consulting-room, on the other hand, it might have proved difficult to dislodge him had he chosen to ignore my hints.

A walk of ten minutes brought us to the Star and Garter. A garden at the rear was set out with tables and chairs, and dotted about with pots of geraniums and petunias. It was indeed a pleasant spot. The mellow evening sun cast its warm light upon us and I was glad to be out of doors on such a lovely evening. As for my misgivings, they proved quite unfounded, for my companion soon showed himself an engaging narrator and his story was indeed one of the very oddest to come my way.

‘Before I tell you of my recent experience,’ he began, ‘I must first tell you something of my early life, for it has a decided bearing on the matter.’ He opened his eyes wide and raised his eyebrows quizzically, I murmured some encouragement and he continued.

‘I am not a Londoner by birth, although I dare say you would not guess it to hear me speak now. I was born and raised in Preston, in Lancashire, the county of the red rose. However, this is not especially important. What is important is that I received my preparatory education at Whalley Abbey School, not far from my birthplace. Have you ever heard of the Bowland Forest, Dr Watson, or of Pendle Hill? They are high, wild and exposed regions, such as one can hardly imagine when seated here in the soft lowlands of the Thames.’

‘That is where your school was situated, then?’

‘Indeed it was, and a more remote and inhospitable situation you could not conceive! I was never very happy at the school – I cannot think that anyone was – and was not sorry when I left, at the age of thirteen. That was twenty-two years ago. I went on to a school at Clitheroe, the only one of my form to do so. My classmates proceeded to various other schools, in different parts of the country, and I did not keep up with any of them, although one or two had been my friends.

‘The intervening years of my life, up until the recent events, are not especially relevant: I grew up, received an education which consisted largely of learning how to conjugate Latin verbs and decline Latin nouns, and came to work in London. I had always had something of a talent for figures and this enabled me to find myself a suitable berth in the City, with the stockbroking firm of Persquith and Moran, where a talent for adding and subtracting is of somewhat greater value than an ability to entertain those around you with hilarious remarks in Latin. The few friends I have in London are fellow members of my club, where I generally dine in the evenings, the Lancashire and Yorkshire in St James’s Square. It has nothing to do with the railway of the same name,’ added my companion quickly with a broad smile, as if he were used to correcting the misapprehension, or were glad, at least, of the opportunity to unburden himself of a long-cherished witticism for which he had not previously been able to find an audience. ‘It is, rather, a haven for those from the north of England, where we can meet and discuss the things which are of interest to us. London can be a very lonely place for those who are strangers here, Doctor.’

‘I am well aware of it, from personal experience,’ I responded. ‘I am no more from these parts than you are.’

‘Indeed? Then that is something else we have in common. Now, to come to the crux of the matter: about a week ago I was obliged to travel down to Kent to see old Mr Persquith, the head of our firm. He has practically retired, and no longer takes an active part in the business, but wishes still to be advised of any important developments which might affect our standing. With this trouble over the Argentine Southern Railway about to reach a crisis – as I’m sure you’ve read – I was sent down to inform him of the firm’s present position in the matter. As is his wont, he kept me talking for hours, and then, just as his servant sounded the dinner-gong, declared that he was satisfied with my information and that I could go. I thus found myself, after a fair walk down a dark road, tired and hungry, in an ill-lit waiting-room upon the platform of Little Wickling Halt, which is on the line between Maidstone and Ashford.

‘It is a lonely spot, for the station is remote from any houses and is little frequented. It lies down in a cutting, so that there is nothing to be seen from the waiting-room window but the railway track, the empty platforms and the bare embankments which rise up on either side of the line. There was no one else about and I had fallen into a brown study, the essential subject of which was my own sad plight and empty stomach, when out of the corner of my eye I saw a pale blur appear at the window. I looked up sharply and there behind the dirt-smeared pane was a man’s face, staring in at me, with a look as rigid as a basilisk. My scalp prickled, and for several seconds this apparition and I stared at each other without moving. So still was it that I began to think I was suffering an hallucination. I therefore shut my eyes for a moment, to see if this would drive away the vision. When I opened them again, the face had indeed gone and the window framed nothing but blackness.

‘“Well, I never did!” I cried aloud. “Whoever would have thought it!” I began to speculate as to what could have caused the hallucination and had just concluded that the responsibility lay with the toasted cheese I had had for lunch, when the door abruptly opened and a man walked briskly into the room.

‘“Hallo!” said I in surprise, rising quickly to my feet.

‘“Good evening,” returned the newcomer, sitting himself down without further ceremony. He was a gentleman of about my own age, tall, slim and well-groomed, with dark hair and moustache

‘We sat in silence for some time. To speak frankly, I felt rather foolish at having spoken aloud to myself and deemed it best to preserve silent dignity. Abruptly, however, my companion broke the silence in the most startling manner.

‘“Whalley boys forever!” cried he suddenly in a loud voice, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. “I thought as much,” he continued, eyeing me with a smile. “Unless I am very much mistaken, you are Herbert, the boy with the broken desk. You were in Dr Jessop’s class when I was in old Newsome’s. Do you remember Dr Jessop? –‘Stop squirming in your seat, boy! Or I’ll give you something to squirm about!’ ” ’

‘“My goodness!” I cried in surprise, laughing at his imitation of the old schoolmaster. “You have an excellent memory! My own, I am afraid, is not so good. Your face, now I look at it, is vaguely familiar, but I fear I cannot recall a name to go with it.”

‘He regarded me with an inscrutable expression for a moment, and then smiled.

‘“I very much regret,” said he, “that I made less of an impression upon your memory than you did upon mine. You do not recall Stephen Hollingworth?”

‘“Why, bless my soul!” said I. “Stephen Hollingworth! I recall the name, of course, now that you mention it. Well, well, well! Who would have thought it!”

‘We shook hands warmly, and entered at once into a deep conversation. As might be expected, this largely consisted of reminiscences of our days at Whalley Abbey School, which would be of no interest whatever to anyone else, but at that moment constituted the most interesting subject on earth to us. He asked me how I came to be in the middle of Kent at such an hour and I described the business which had taken me down there.

‘“What rotten luck!” cried he, when I told him of the lack of sustenance from which I was suffering. “There I have the advantage of you, Herbert! My family live at Wickling Place, which you probably passed if you walked down the road, and I dined before I left.” He rummaged in his pocket for a moment. “I am afraid I can offer you nothing better than a mint humbug,” said he at last.

‘“I usually dine at the Lancashire and Yorkshire Club,” I remarked, taking the proffered sweetmeat. “You are not a member, by any chance?”

‘He shook his head. “My sojourn at Whalley Abbey was the only time I spent in the north of England,” he returned with a smile. “Other than that, my life has been passed here in the south. But perhaps I could look you up at your club some day. I have heard that it is a splendid place!”

‘“Indeed it is,” said I with enthusiasm. I invited him to dine with me there the following evening, but he declined, pleading a prior engagement. We promised each other, however, that we should certainly dine together in the near future.

‘“After all,” said he; “it is not every day that two old school friends meet and in such an oddly out-of-the-way spot, too!”

‘We travelled back to town together, chatting animatedly the whole way, and shared a cab from Victoria station. When we reached his house, which lies just north of Oxford Street, he invited me in for a little cold beef and wine, an offer I readily accepted. His house appeared in a state of some disorder, I must say, but he explained to me that he had recently been obliged to dismiss his servants for dishonesty, and had not yet succeeded in finding suitable replacements. I enjoyed his comestibles and his conversation, and returned home with my spirits considerably raised from the depths into which they had sunk earlier in the evening.

‘Three days later, I was reading the Standard at breakfast-time when the name ‘‘Wickling Place’’ – my old school friend’s family home – caught my eye.’

Mr Herbert paused and took out his pocket-book. ‘I have the paragraph here, Doctor,’ said he, extracting a small oblong cut from a newspaper. He passed it to me, and I read the following account:

‘Why!’ I cried in astonishment. ‘It says here that the man you met is dead!’

‘One moment,’ returned Herbert. ‘I will tell you what happened next. All that day I turned the matter over and over in my head, such that I could hardly concentrate upon my work, but I could make nothing of it.

‘That evening, I arrived at my club as usual, at about six o’clock, and had my foot upon the doorstep, when the door in front of me was flung open and out stepped Hollingworth. In his hand he carried a small black valise.

‘“Thank goodness I have found you!” he cried, his voice throbbing with emotion. “I have been waiting some time, in the hope that you would come.” He glanced quickly up and down the street, with an air of great caution, then stepped back inside the doorway. I followed him, and we sat on a settle in the entrance hall. He seemed terrifically agitated.

‘“What is the matter?” I asked. “I read this morning of the burglary at your father’s house.”

‘“It is in connection with that business that I wish to speak to you,” he responded, nodding his head.

‘“It said in the report I read that you had died some time ago.”

‘Again he nodded, the trace of a grim smile upon his face.

‘“That,” said he, “was the usual culpable carelessness of the press. They have confused the names: it was my younger brother, Philip – sadly – who drowned. But their carelessness has certainly cost me some trouble – I spent half the morning sending telegrams here, there and everywhere to assure everyone that I am still very much alive. However—” He broke off, and his eyes assumed a faraway look, as if some novel train of thought had occurred to him. “Do you know,” cried he at last; “we may yet be able to use the press’s blundering to our advantage! Yes, by God, we’ll win through yet!”

‘“I do not understand,” said I, alarmed at the wild tone of his voice.

‘“No, no, of course not. I’m sorry, Herbert. It’s a rather complicated matter. We had to give the newspapermen something to print; but there’s more to this so-called burglary than meets the eye!”

‘“Oh?”

‘“Yes. The burglars were looking for something, but they didn’t find it – the pieces they got away with are of no consequence in comparison – and they never will, so long as I have anything to do with it!”

‘“It all sounds very mysterious, Hollingworth!”

‘“I suppose it must, to you, Herbert. Look, old man, I’d love to explain it all to you; indeed, I most certainly will do; but I cannot do so at the moment; the matter is too pressing. It touches upon the honour of the family – nay, upon the very existence of the family! – and concerns particularly my mother, God bless her! Our backs may be against the wall at the present moment, but, by Heavens, they won’t be for long!”

‘I knew not what to make of all this and was about to express my bewilderment to him, when he abruptly turned and gripped my arm.

‘“Herbert,” said he in a grave tone; “I have come to you because I can think of no one else who can aid me in this dark hour. I regard it as an uncanny piece of good fortune that we should have run across each other in the way we did the other day. It is as if fate had stepped in, to throw a lifeline into my sea of troubles! I have two favours to beg of you, Herbert, both as a man and as an old school friend. Will you help me?”

‘“Certainly, if it is in my power,” I returned. “What is it that you wish me to do?”

‘For answer he held out his black leather bag, and I took it from his hand.

‘“Guard that with your life,” said he in a low tone. “There is no one else in London I can trust, and I believe I am being followed.”

‘“What is it?” I enquired, feeling the weight of the bag in my hand. It was heavier than I had expected and clearly contained more than just documents.

‘He shook his head.

‘“You will see that it is locked,” said he. “It is not that I wish to keep the matter a secret from you, Herbert. Indeed, one day you will know the whole story. But it is better for the present – for your own safety – that you do not know any more than is absolutely necessary.”

‘“Very well, Hollingworth. What do you wish me to do with it?”

‘He glanced cautiously about him, but there was no one there save the hall-porter behind his desk. “I shall send you a message in a few days’ time,” said he at length, “giving you specific directions. Do you understand?”

‘“Perfectly.” said I. “You can trust me. What is the other favour you wished to ask of me?”

‘His voice sank to a whisper. “Can you lend me a little money, Herbert, just for a few days? They are keeping a watch on my bank. This afternoon, as I arrived there, I recognised one of their men in the street outside, so I told the cabbie not to stop but to drive on. I don’t think I was seen, but it meant, of course, that I was unable to withdraw any money.”

‘“I should be pleased to help you, Hollingworth,” I responded. “How much do you require?”

‘“Good man!” he cried, squeezing my arm. “I knew I could rely on you! I think that fifty pounds should suffice for the moment.”

‘I was a little taken aback at this. I had not expected him to ask for so large a sum.

‘“I do not carry such an amount on me,” I said, “and my bank will be closed now. I could get it for you tomorrow. Come to that, if you write me out a cheque, I could get money from your own bank for you tomorrow.”

‘His face clouded over and he gripped his chin with his hand. “I must have it tonight,” said he in a tone of desperation. “Tomorrow may be too late. I don’t know what I shall do.” He stood up and began to pace to and fro across the hallway, his chin sunk on his breast.

‘“I have it!” said I. “I can probably obtain that amount from the club secretary. I am well known here, and there should be no difficulty.”

‘“Are you sure?” said he, ceasing his pacing. “I should not want to cause you any inconvenience, Herbert. Lord knows! You’re doing enough for me as it is!”

‘“It will be no trouble,” I assured him. “If you will wait here a moment, I will see the secretary now.”

‘In a few minutes I was back with the money, in a mixture of gold and notes. He took it from me and clutched my hand as he did so. “You are a true friend,” said he with great feeling. “I will write you out an IOU at once.” I told him that that would not be necessary, that his word was a good enough bond for me, but he insisted on the correct form, as he put it. “Is there a back door to this building?” he enquired as he finished writing the note; “I may have been seen as I entered.”

‘I took him down to the basement and along the passage by the kitchens, to a door which gives on to a small courtyard at the rear of the building.

‘“I have been a member here for many years,” I remarked, “and know the place like the back of my hand.”

‘“A lucky thing for me that you do!” returned my friend with a smile. “I don’t know what I ever should have done without you, Herbert!”

‘We shook hands warmly in the yard, then he slipped out through the back gate and was gone, his footsteps hurrying away on the cobbles. That night I took his valise home with me when I left the club and hid it in a box beneath my bed. That was exactly a week ago. For the first few days I could scarcely sleep, such was my state of excitement. Every hour I have expected to hear something fresh on the matter. Each time I have left the house I have looked carefully this way and that, to see if any stranger were loitering about and I have taken particular care to see that I was not followed. So far, however, nothing untoward has happened.’

‘It is a curious tale,’ I remarked as my companion paused. ‘You asked for my opinion, Mr Herbert, but I am afraid I have no sensible observation to offer on the matter! I can certainly understand why you described it as an oddity!’

‘Ah! But the oddest part is still to be told!’

‘I understood you to say that nothing further had occurred since this day last week.’

‘That is true. Nothing has occurred, exactly; but, still, something has changed.’

‘I do not follow you.’

‘Two nights ago, I woke suddenly from a deep sleep. What I had been dreaming of, I do not know, but it may have been my early school-days, for that is what I found myself thinking of, as I lay there in the darkness. I let the train of thought lead me where it would, and scenes from my days at Whalley Abbey School sprang vividly to my mind. I seemed to see them re-enacted before me, as it were. There were the companions of my youth, acting and speaking as they had acted and spoken a quarter of a century ago, boys whose names and faces had scarcely crossed my mind in all the intervening years. There was that fat boy from Manchester, Albert Ormadone; there was that thin, feeble lad, Wellington Worsley, the class sneak, as I recall; then a dark-haired Scottish boy was speaking, with an accent as thick as your arm, and I recognised Hector Greig. He came from a village by the name of Tillytoghills, I recall, and was teased unmercifully in consequence, although it was scarcely his fault that it sounded such a silly name to our schoolboy ears. And then, into the classroom came Stephen Hollingworth. I recognised at once his wavy, light-brown hair. In a trice I was fully awake, as if a bolt of electricity had shot right through me. For it was at once obvious to me that the schoolboy I remembered and the man I had met at Little Wickling station were not one and the same person. The latter’s hair is of a darker brown and not so wavy.’

‘Perhaps he uses hair-oil, which might give his hair a darker appearance,’ I suggested, but Mr Herbert shook his head emphatically.

‘No, no; he is quite different, in all those thousand little ways which one can see easily enough, but cannot quite put one’s finger on. Whoever my recent acquaintance is, he is certainly not Stephen Hollingworth.’

‘Are you certain?’ I cried in amazement.

‘As certain as I am that I am sitting here with you in the Star and Garter.’

‘Then who is he and why on earth should he pretend to be someone else?’

‘That is what I should like to know. It is something of a puzzle, isn’t it!’

‘All that rigmarole about his family’s honour, and all the rest of it, must be just so much humbug, then,’ I remarked after a moment, ‘if it is not even really his family at all!’

‘So it would appear. Of course, as he recognised me, and recalled the boys I was at school with, he himself must have been at Whalley Abbey School; but who he is, I have no idea. I await with interest his message, for I have heard nothing from him since I saw him at the Lancashire and Yorkshire last week, and I cannot imagine what it all means. Yesterday I walked past his house, but I decided against ringing his bell. I thought I would not force the matter, but would give him a few more days’ grace, before I insist on knowing what is afoot. I am somewhat uneasy about my fifty pounds.’

‘That is very understandable. So should I be, in your position. I wonder what is in the leather bag?’

Herbert shook his head. ‘I have not the faintest notion,’ said he. ‘It is securely locked.’

Still discussing the matter, we left the Star and Garter then, and began to make our way back towards Paddington. The sun was lower now and cast long shadows across the street, but the air was still warm. In and out of the trees in front of the houses flew little sparrows and finches, chirruping their lively songs, while high above us swallows and martins swooped and soared. It was indeed a lovely evening to be abroad and strolling in the street. But the very commonplace and pleasant appearance of our surroundings made Mr Herbert’s puzzling experiences seem all the more incredible. In truth, I should probably have been inclined to dismiss the whole story as fantasy, had he not impressed me as completely honest and trustworthy.

‘I could, of course, force the lock on his bag,’ said he as we walked along. ‘But I have given my word of honour that I shall guard it securely; and this I shall do until it is proved to me beyond doubt that my trust has been misplaced.’

‘Your story has certainly intrigued me,’ I remarked as we parted. ‘Do let me know if there are any fresh developments in the matter. It is a fascinating little mystery, Mr Herbert, and I look forward to hearing the outcome!’

Over dinner that evening I retailed Mr Herbert’s story to my wife, and she was as fascinated by it as I was.

‘It is very curious,’ she observed, ‘that the man Mr Herbert met at Little Wickling should have taken the name – if it is, indeed, not his own – of Stephen Hollingworth, for the Hollingworths do, of course, live near there, according to that newspaper report, at Wickling Place.’

‘That is true. I suppose the likeliest explanation is that he had just come from visiting the Hollingworths when Herbert first met him. I wonder what his connection with them might be, if he is not a member of the family?’

Thus we chatted for some time, turning the matter over and over, and looking at it from this way and that, without arriving at any notion of what might lie behind it.

‘It almost sounds like one of the cases of your friend, Mr Holmes!’ said Mary at length, laughing.

‘Indeed,’ I concurred. ‘I am sure he would enjoy it. He is a connoisseur of such outré passages of life!’

The dinner-table had long been cleared, and I was sitting smoking my pipe and reading, when there came a ring at the bell. Moments later, the maid informed me that she had shown a bleeding patient into the consulting-room. I dropped my book at once and hurried downstairs.

The door of the consulting-room stood open and I had my foot upon the threshold, when I stopped in amazement. For there, his face cut and bruised, was my companion from earlier in the evening. Upon his forehead, just above the eyebrow, was a raised, discoloured lump, and upon his cheek was a gash from which blood had flowed down his face and neck. In his hand he held a black leather bag.

‘My dear fellow!’ I cried. ‘What on earth has happened to you!’

‘You asked me to keep you informed of developments, Doctor,’ said he, attempting a grim smile, which clearly caused him great pain, ‘so here I am!’

He put down the bag and held out the palms of his hands to me, and I saw that they were grazed and filthy.

‘Sit yourself down,’ said I, ‘and I will set you to rights, while you tell me what has happened.’

‘I have been viciously assaulted,’ said he.

‘Assaulted! Where?’

‘Fleet Street.’

‘Fleet Street! What on earth were you doing down there?’

‘My story has advanced a little,’ said he, wincing as I dabbed the cut on his cheek.

‘And have the latest developments shed any light on the mystery?’

‘On the contrary. It seems yet darker than it did before.’

I glanced at the clock.

‘I recommend,’ said I, ‘that when I have patched you up, you accompany me at once to the chambers of my friend, Sherlock Holmes. He has a vast understanding of these sorts of matters, and it may be that what is dark to us will not be so to him.’

So it was, that, ten minutes later, my companion clutching his black bag tightly, we were in a cab and rattling through the darkness to my friend’s rooms. We found Holmes sitting cross-legged upon the floor, sorting through mounds of documents, but he sprang up as we entered.

‘Watson!’ cried he in a gay tone. ‘What a very pleasant surprise! But who is your friend? He appears a little the worse for wear!’

‘This is Mr Alfred Herbert, a patient of mine. He has had need of my services this evening, and I fancy he may have need of yours, too.’

The two of them shook hands, and as they did so Herbert broke into a paroxysm of coughing.

‘That sounds suspiciously like bronchitis,’ remarked Holmes.

‘Indeed. That is what first led me to consult Dr Watson.’

‘Your work is partly to blame, of course.’

‘My work?’ echoed Herbert in surprise. ‘My work is largely clerical, Mr Holmes. It is neither heavy nor dusty and can have no bearing on the matter.’

‘Not the nature of your work, Mr Herbert, but the fact that it obliges you to travel twice a day on the subterranean section of the Metropolitan Railway. You have a season ticket, no doubt, from Paddington or Bayswater to the City. Some people, you know, with more delicate constitutions than their fellows, find that the smoke and fumes on the underground railways are more than their lungs can tolerate, and it may be that you are one of them.’

‘How can you speak so confidently of my daily habits when we have only just met?’ cried Herbert in surprise.

‘It is perfectly obvious. You might as well ask me how I know that you are a stockbroker, that you are right-handed, come from near Preston in Lancashire, but have lived in London for somewhat over a dozen years, and that you take snuff.’

Mr Herbert took a step backwards, and his features assumed a look of the utmost astonishment.

‘How on earth—?’ he began, but Holmes interrupted him, a trace of impatience on his face.

‘You evidently live in Paddington or Bayswater,’ said he briskly; ‘otherwise you would not have elected to seek the services of my friend here.’

‘Twenty-three, Leinster Gardens.’

‘Quite so. I observed as we shook hands that there are a large number of figures upon the left cuff of your shirt. You are therefore right-handed, and undoubtedly a dealer in stocks and shares, for the figures can only be stock-prices. You must therefore travel each day from the Paddington area to the City in order to undertake your duties and it seems overwhelmingly likely that you would do so on the Metropolitan Railway, which connects the two areas directly. A man of your common sense would hardly undertake this journey every day of the week without taking advantage of the savings to be had from the purchase of a season ticket.

‘As to your birthplace, my dear sir: your accent, although much modified, yet retains traces of central Lancashire. I cannot pretend to an intimate knowledge of every accent in England, but I have a tolerable acquaintance with some four or five dozen and have given special attention to the accents of Lancashire, which perhaps exhibit more variety and extreme development than those of any other area of comparable size. The profession you follow is not one into which a stranger can slip at a moment’s notice, in the middle of his life, and nor can one gain much experience of it outside of London. It seems likely, therefore, that you have been in the stock-exchange line for most of your adult life, and as you appear to be about five-and-thirty, that indicates that your employment – and hence your period of residence in London – has been for over a dozen years. The snuff-taking is a trivial matter: a small snuff-box is distending your waistcoat pocket at this moment.’

‘Amazing!’ cried Herbert.

‘Elementary,’ said Holmes. ‘Let us leave your bronchitis behind and come to the more essential matter. Your appearance suggests that it may be urgent, unless Dr Watson has simply been using you for bandaging practice. Pray, take a seat.’

Mr Herbert thereupon told his story, exactly as he had told it to me. He described his first meeting with his old school-fellow and the subsequent meeting at the Lancashire and Yorkshire Club, and also the sudden realisation that his new acquaintance could not possibly be the man he claimed to be.

‘When I returned home this evening after telling my tale to Dr Watson,’ he continued, ‘I found a letter awaiting me. It may have been there all day, for all I know, for I had not returned to Leinster Gardens since leaving Persquith and Moran’s this afternoon. It was from my recent acquaintance – of course, he still signed himself “Stephen Hollingworth” – asking me to bring the bag which he had entrusted to me down to Carstone Court, near Fleet Street. He said it was vital that I was there by eight o’clock and was confident I would not let him down. I paid the cabbie extra to whip his horse up a bit and was in Fleet Street by three minutes past the hour.

‘It took me a few minutes to discover Carstone Court and I had to ask directions in a pub, but eventually I found it, on the north side of Fleet Street. It lies at the end of a long, ill-lit passage, a by-way off a by-way, so to speak, and it was not without some apprehension that I entered it. The courtyard was narrow and dark, with tall, unlit buildings on either hand, and was as silent as the grave. It was certainly an odd place to choose to meet anyone, but I supposed that “Hollingworth” had selected it in order to keep the business private. I stood there a moment, but there seemed to be no one about. Once or twice, the sound of distant footsteps came to my ears up the long, narrow alley from Fleet Street, but they were remote and muffled, and, when they had passed, the courtyard returned to utter silence once more.

‘“Hallo?” I said tentatively, after a moment. “Is there anyone here?”

‘The response made my hair stand on end, for there was a movement in the blackness to the side of me, and a dark figure stepped forward from a shadowed doorway. He opened the shutter of a lantern and held it up to my face.

‘“You are A. Herbert, I take it?” said he in a rough, coarse voice. It was certainly not my old school-fellow, but, as he knew my name, I assumed it must be some agent of his.

‘“I am,” said I.

‘Two more figures materialised out of the blackness behind the first and approached. There was menace in the way they loomed up about me, and I began to fear for my safety. I took a step backward, but found myself with my back to a brick wall.

‘“Have you the bag?” said the first man.

‘“It is here,” I replied, holding it out to him.

‘He took it from me and cursed when he found that it was locked. He asked me if I had the key, I told him I had not and he cursed again. The thought passed through my mind that the honour of the Hollingworth family would have stood on shaky ground indeed had it depended in any way on such a man as this.

‘“Give us your knife, Harrison,” said he sharply to one of the other men, who passed him a long-bladed, evil-looking knife, and took the lantern. Then, with more oaths and curses, he bent down and began forcing the clasp of the bag. Presently he grunted with satisfaction, pulled the bag open and lifted from it a large, heavy-looking bundle, wrapped in what appeared to be a length of striped curtain material. The other men held the lantern closer as he unfolded the bundle on the ground, and I must confess that, for the moment, my feelings of fear were forgotten, so consumed was I with curiosity as to what might be contained within the cloth.

‘Carefully, he pulled back the last fold of material. There, lying upon the old curtain, was a strange, shining black statue, about nine or ten inches in height. It was clearly from the Orient and quite grotesque, having four arms, and with a ferocious and horrible expression upon its face.

‘“What is the meaning of this?” said the first man sharply, looking up at me.

‘“I do not know,” I returned. “I had no idea what was inside the bag.”

‘“You liar!” he cried, and sprang at me like a wild beast. I turned away, but he grabbed me by the shoulder and my head struck the wall, with the result which you see. Then he flung me to the ground, which was rough and dirty, and, seizing me by the neck, held the long blade of the knife up to my face.

‘“Unless you act cooperative,” said he in an evil tone, “I’m going to slit your throat from ear to ear.”

‘“I don’t know anything,” I cried, although I could hardly get the words out, so tight was his grip upon my windpipe.

‘“Leave him, Strong,” said one of the others. For a moment, my assailant was perfectly still and I thought my end had come; but then he relaxed his grip and took the knife away, although he deliberately cut my cheek as he did so.’

Mr Herbert put his hand up to his face and gingerly touched his wound, before continuing: ‘The three men spoke quietly together for a minute, then turned to me.

‘“Tell your master,” said the one called Strong, “that he has had his chance to settle matters his way; now we will settle matters our way.” With that they turned and disappeared into the darkness once more. For several minutes, I lay on the ground, not daring to move, until the sound of their footsteps had passed beyond my hearing, then I quickly stood up, gathered together the bag and its contents, and hurried back down the alley to Fleet Street. From there I took the first cab I could find to Dr Watson’s house.’

‘What a terrible experience!’ I cried.

‘You have been wading in deeper waters than you realised, Mr Herbert!’ observed Holmes after a moment’s reflection. ‘May I see the bag, and its contents?’

He took the oriental figure from the bag and held it up for a moment, examining it closely. It was jet black and highly polished, and gleamed in the light of the lamp. About its neck was depicted a necklace of human skulls and upon its features was an expression of the most intense evil.

‘It is Kali,’ said Holmes; ‘the fearsome, destructive aspect of an otherwise thoroughly good-natured Hindu deity. What devilry has been done in her name over the centuries! You may regard yourself as fortunate, Mr Herbert, that your assailants did not take their inspiration from this particular goddess, or you might not have emerged from Carstone Court alive! However,’ he continued, ‘they were evidently uninterested in her history and regarded the figure as of little value.’ He turned the heavy statue over and over, and examined it from every angle. ‘From a purely practical point of view, their judgement was correct. By its weight, it is solid brass; a heavy piece, but of no great worth, except to a collector of such exotic curios. It was made in Calcutta, where they manufacture these things by the thousand.’ He put it down on the floor beside his chair and took up the bag which had contained it, from which he pulled out a piece of striped cloth. ‘There is something else here,’ said he, reaching into the bag again and withdrawing a small, crumpled slip of paper, which he flattened out and studied for a moment, a frown upon his face. ‘What a very singular epistle!’ he remarked at length in a thoughtful tone, as he passed the paper to Mr Herbert.

‘Good Lord!’ cried the latter, looking up from reading the note. ‘What on earth can it mean? What shocking business is afoot!’

Herbert passed the note to me and I read the following enigmatic message:

‘I rather fancy,’ said Holmes, ‘that Dr Watson may be able to enlighten us!’

‘Why, whatever do you mean?’ I cried in amazement.

‘Was there not a race meeting at Windsor a week or two ago?’

‘Oh, of course!’ I cried, clapping my hand upon my knee, as I realised the meaning of the note’s terse phrases. ‘The Monarch and Dynamite are both horses that ran there. Dynamite is from Lord Thuxton’s stables. He was heavily backed for the big race of the day, but came second, by a length, to Trayles. The Monarch finished last in his race, as far as I remember.’

‘So,’ said Holmes, ‘the owner of this bag moves in the world of the Turf and gambling, the most rapid mode of financial transfer from one man to another that mankind has yet devised. You still cannot recall what his name might be, Mr Herbert? For it is certain, of course, that he is one of your old school-fellows.’

Herbert shook his head. ‘Hard as I have tried to remember them all, I cannot place this man’s face. If, as he says, he was in Mr Newsome’s form when I was in that of Dr Jessop, he must be a year younger than me, but more than that I cannot say.’

‘No matter,’ said Holmes. ‘We may be able to reach our destination by another route. You say you have his present address?’

‘Yes, Quebec Street, not far from here.’

‘Then I suggest that, if you feel up to it, you confront your old school-mate at once,’ said Homes, rising to his feet. ‘We shall, of course, accompany you.’

‘Then I am more than ready.’

A short walk down Baker Street and around Portman Square brought us to Quebec Street. It was a fine starlit night and the air was mild. Mr Herbert directed us to a narrow-fronted house near the corner with Seymour Street, but before we reached it, we could see that something was amiss. The front door stood wide open to the street, casting a yellow oblong of light across the pavement outside.

Holmes’s ring at the bell was answered after a few moments by a stout, red-faced and irascible-looking gentleman in a frock-coat.

‘Yes?’ said he irritably.

‘We are looking for Mr Stephen Hollingworth,’ said Holmes.

‘Hollingworth? Never heard of him! Good night!’

‘One moment,’ said Holmes, as the stout man turned away. ‘Might I enquire the name of the occupant of this house?’

‘You can enquire all you want,’ returned the other in a rude tone. ‘The house hasn’t got an occupant. The occupant has taken himself off, bag and baggage, owing me a quarter’s rent.’

‘And that gentleman was?’

‘George Robinson. What is it to you?’

‘A slimly built man, with dark brown hair and moustache?’

‘Yes, as it happens. What of it?’

‘Ah!’ said Holmes, turning to us. ‘You are not familiar with the name “George Robinson”, Mr Herbert? No? Nevertheless. It must be he.’ He turned back to the man in the doorway, who stood with his hands on his hips. ‘You are the landlord, sir?’ he enquired.

‘Yes I am. He told me to come round this evening and everything would be squared up, but when I got here there wasn’t a sign of him and most of the rooms look as if someone has thrown a grenade into them.’

‘The house was let furnished?’

‘Yes; for six months: one quarter in advance and not a farthing seen since.’

‘As it happens, my colleague here is also owed a considerable sum of money by this man who calls himself Robinson,’ said Holmes, ‘and he, too, was sent a message concerning this evening.’

‘To come here?’

‘No, somewhere else; but Robinson wasn’t there either. May we come in?’

With a sigh, the stout man, who introduced himself as Elijah Hassocks, led us through into a room at the back of the house, which appeared to have been used as a study. There were signs everywhere of a hurried departure: cupboard doors standing wide open, and drawers pulled out and hanging at odd, drunken angles. Scattered about, on every available surface, were newspapers and magazines, among which I observed many copies of the Sporting Times, Sporting Life and other racing papers.

‘You see?’ said Hassocks angrily. ‘He presented himself as a first-rate tenant, but it seems he was a first-rate mountebank! Look!’ he continued, pointing his finger at the window, where one of the striped curtains had been cut off halfway down: ‘not content with defrauding me out of my rent, the blackguard has been amusing himself by destroying the furnishings! If you can shed any light on his whereabouts I’ll be very obliged to you.’

‘I fear that something has happened to him,’ said Mr Herbert.

‘Something will happen to him if I catch hold of him,’ retorted Hassocks.

‘I mean, he may have been abducted,’ persisted Herbert.

‘Well if so, his abductors have very considerately taken all his clothes and personal belongings, too.’

‘A large number of documents have been burnt earlier today,’ remarked Holmes, indicating a mound of blackened ashes in the fireplace, as he bent down and began to sift through papers which were strewn in disordered heaps upon the floor. Presently, he held up a large, battered old album, which had the initials ‘G.R.’ embossed upon the cover. ‘Other than this,’ said he, ‘which is perfectly empty, there is nothing remaining which bears a name or any indication of ownership. He appears to have gone to considerable lengths to hide his trail. Let us have a look in here,’ he continued, squatting down and examining the contents of a waste-paper basket, which had been hidden from view beneath a little side-table. ‘The humble waste-paper basket can occasionally be a singularly helpful source of information! Ah! This may be something!’

He had extracted a crumpled slip of paper from the basket, which he smoothed out upon his knee and studied for a moment. I leaned over his shoulder and read the following: ‘O. L. Friday morning,’ which had been underlined three times, and, below that, ‘£42–10s– 6d’.

‘What a very precise amount,’ I remarked.

‘Have you the IOU he gave you, Mr Herbert?’ said Holmes, looking up.

Herbert produced his pocket-book and pulled from it a small piece of paper which he handed to Holmes.

‘It is in the same hand,’ said the latter, in a thoughtful tone.

‘He has made a note of some debt and the day it was to be paid,’ I suggested.

‘Possibly,’ said Holmes, ‘although I fancy it has some other meaning. I think we have seen all we need to see here. Our next port of call must be Scotland Yard.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I spoke to Inspector Lanner two nights ago and he informed me that he is on evening duty all this week, which is fortunate, for he is the very man we need to see. My card, Sir,’ he continued, turning to Mr Hassocks. ‘If I can be of any service to you, pray let me know!’

We walked briskly down to Oxford Street where we hailed a four-wheeler and were at Scotland Yard within five minutes. Herbert and I waited downstairs while Holmes went up to see Lanner. The officer at the desk, no doubt moved to sympathy by my companion’s sorry appearance, brought us a cup of tea, and Mr Herbert’s spirits, which had begun to flag, picked up again.

‘Do you have any idea what is afoot, Doctor?’ he asked me.

‘None whatever. If I were to guess, I should say that your old school-fellow, so far from being subject to any menace himself, has perhaps subjected everyone else to what one might term financial menace.’

Herbert nodded his head.

‘That is how it strikes me, too,’ he concurred. ‘He owes money to his landlord, he owes money to me, he probably owes money to the men who assaulted me in Carstone Court.’

‘Gambling debts, no doubt.’

‘No doubt. And I cannot think that there is much hope of ever finding him. If he has left his house of his own accord, as appears likely, he might be anywhere. He might have taken a train to Land’s End or John O’Groats, for all we know!’

‘My thoughts precisely.’

Our discussion was interrupted by the reappearance of Holmes, accompanied by a smart-looking police inspector, with a neatly trimmed beard and sharp, intelligent eyes, whom I recognised as Inspector Lanner. They appeared to be in a hurry. Lanner nodded to us, then disappeared through a doorway.

‘The man you met at Little Wickling station,’ said Holmes, addressing Mr Herbert: ‘Might his name by any chance have been Gabriel Tooth?’

Herbert shook his head, but appeared in a state of surprise and confusion. ‘I did once know someone of that name,’ said he at length, ‘a boy in the form below mine at Whalley Abbey School. I had forgotten all about him until you mentioned his name. It could not have been he I met at Little Wickling, however, for I recall now that Tooth had ginger hair and a wide, freckled face. How did you hear of him, Mr Holmes?’

‘Inspector Lanner informs me that Tooth is the name your mysterious friend called himself when he visited the Hollingworths at Wickling Place; but I doubted that it would be his true name. I rather fancy,’ he continued after a moment, ‘that the man we are after is one Gilbert Rowsley.’

There was a tension in my friend’s voice as he spoke those words, and he regarded Herbert keenly. It was evident that he hoped to see a spark of recognition upon his client’s features at the mention of this name. If so, he was not disappointed. Herbert’s mouth fell open, he gasped audibly and his eyebrows shot up; then he clapped his hand to his head and remained immobile for several minutes.

‘Of course!’ he cried at length, rising to his feet in his excitement. ‘Gilbert Rowsley! Of course! It is he!’

‘Gilbert Rowsley is another of your old school-fellows, then?’ asked Holmes, barely able to contain the excitement in his own voice.

‘Indeed he is!’ cried Herbert. ‘He was in the year below mine. But I believe he was only at Whalley Abbey for two or three terms. Though I occasionally saw him about the place, I scarcely knew him at all, which is why I did not remember him before.’

‘And now?’

‘Now that you have recalled him to my mind,’ said Herbert slowly, his eyes closed in concentration, ‘I remember that he was one of those boys who seemed always to be loitering round corners – a dark, sly-looking youth, as I remember, with calculating eyes. Wait a moment! I remember now that there had been a spate of petty pilfering one autumn term, and the next term, when nothing of the sort occurred, someone – Greig, I think – remarked in jest that Rowsley must have been responsible, as he had left at the end of the previous term. I remember laughing, without really thinking it to be true; but now that I consider it afresh, from twenty-odd years’ distance, I wonder if it wasn’t in fact the very truth of the matter! But how on earth have you managed to discover Rowsley’s name, Mr Holmes?’

‘We shall have to postpone the explanations for a little while,’ returned Holmes in a brisk tone. He glanced at his watch. ‘We must be off now. It is ten-forty, and there is no time to lose.’

‘To where?’ I enquired in surprise.

‘The Albert Dock.’

‘Am I to accompany you?’ asked Herbert.

‘Most certainly, Mr Herbert. You are one of the very few men in London who can identify this scoundrel. We should, I think, be able to catch the eleven twenty-five from Fenchurch Street.’

‘We can do better than that, Mr Holmes,’ said Lanner, who had re-emerged as Holmes had been speaking, followed closely by two uniformed officers, hastily fastening up their tunics. ‘I have made inquiries. There is a launch available at Hungerford Pier. I’ve sent a message to tell them to get steam up for an immediate departure.’

‘Capital!’ cried Holmes, clapping the policeman on the shoulder. ‘Nothing could be better! And these men will accompany us?’ he queried, indicating the uniformed officers.

Lanner nodded. ‘Constables Jefferson and Cook. I think between us we should be able to manage the matter.’

In a minute we were in the street and hurrying to the pier, in five we were in the police-launch, Ariel, and on our way down the great heaving river.

It was a perfect night, a night to delight astronomers, cloudless and crystal clear. Above us the great arc of the Heavens was bright with stars, among which the moon floated in milky white splendour, casting its silvery light across the sleeping city.

Our vessel was a swift one, and soon we were flashing past lines of moored boats and lighters, setting them bobbing in our wake. Beneath the bridges we flew, past lines of dark warehouses on our right hand and the spires of the City on our left, above all of which rose the great dome of St Paul’s, eerily magnificent in the moonlight.

‘This is the adventure of my life,’ whispered Herbert to me as we sat side by side in the stern of the boat. For myself, I could not but recall the previous occasion I had made such an expedition in a police-launch, when we had pursued the Aurora down the Thames, at the conclusion of the case I have chronicled elsewhere as ‘The Sign of Four’.

‘The last time you were here, Watson,’ remarked Holmes with a smile, sitting himself down beside us and apparently reading my thoughts as he did so, ‘we were after the great Agra Treasure. Mr Herbert’s fifty pounds may not appear to have quite the same recherché quality, but it is a good cause nonetheless, and there is an added piquancy to the enterprise in that we cannot be certain until we arrive at our destination whether the scoundrel who took it is there or not.’

We had passed the Tower as he had been speaking, gaunt and forbidding in the moonlight, and had come to the vast region of the docks. The cranes and hoists and pulleys, so busy and noisy in the day-time, now stood still and silent, as our little vessel shot swiftly past, the smooth, rhythmic beat of its engine almost the only sound to be heard on the river.

At Wapping, we slowed and drew up alongside the jetty. Lanner sprang ashore and raced up the stairs to the police station which overhung the bank above us, but was back again in a matter of minutes.

‘It is all arranged,’ he called out as we cast off, and, with a roar from the engine and a plume of smoke from the funnel, we resumed our surge down the river once more.

‘You are probably wondering what is afoot,’ said Holmes, as we flew along, ‘and why Inspector Lanner has taken up the matter with such commendable dispatch. The fact is, that, important though Mr Herbert’s fifty pounds is, there are yet bigger stakes upon the table tonight.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘The enterprise is finely balanced,’ he continued with a shake of the head, ‘and it will be a close-run race. However, to explain to you how matters stand: you may have read in your newspaper of the recent burglaries which have occurred, at some of the finest houses in town. In each case the value of the goods stolen ran into many thousands of pounds. Geographically speaking, the burglaries were fairly widely separated – the first was in Mayfair, the second in Belgravia, the third in Chelsea, and so on – but in other respects they were remarkably similar, so that it is almost a certainty that they are the work of the same gang. In every case, access to the house was gained by what proved on subsequent examination to be the weakest point in the house’s defences, but which would not normally have been known to an outsider: in one instance, for example, a landing window which was warped and would not fasten properly, in another, a loose-fitting French window which a child of six could have opened from the outside. In each case, too, the items stolen were very coolly selected from what was available: only the very best things were taken, the less valuable remaining almost completely untouched.

‘Inspector Lanner had charge of the first case – in Charles Street, in the West End – and soon formed the hypothesis that the burglars had had assistance from within the household, at least to the extent of helpful information. His suspicions naturally fell upon the domestic staff, and in particular on the butler and the lady’s maid, for it was clear that whoever had supplied the information had had more knowledge of the worth of the household contents than is customary among domestic staff. He therefore arranged for these two to be watched closely and followed by disguised police agents whenever they went out. A setback for his theory arrived fairly quickly, however. For as his suspects were being followed about the place, a second, very similar burglary occurred in Cadogan Place, Belgravia, and shortly afterwards there was a third. Clearly the butler and lady’s maid from Charles Street could not have had anything to do with these, and Lanner was therefore obliged to modify his theory somewhat. He wondered then if there were a gang undertaking wholesale corruption of trusted domestic staff, although such a proposition seemed distinctly unlikely. Many of the senior domestic staff at the houses in question had been in their employment for upwards of twenty years and had unimpeachable records. It was almost unthinkable that such loyal and valued servants could have been persuaded by a cash bribe, however large, to have betrayed their trust.

‘But what, then, was the alternative? Lanner remained convinced that in each case the thieves had acted upon information received from within the household; but if the information had not come from the servants, then it must have come from guests who had visited the houses, of whom there had been a great number in the course of the London season. This suggestion seemed, on the face of it, even more fantastic, but it did have the merit of perhaps explaining more convincingly how the stolen goods had been disposed of. For many of the items stolen were of very great value, and their disposal would have required a greater knowledge and better connections than are possessed by the average London burglar. With considerable difficulty, Lanner eventually managed to compile a list of all those who had recently visited the burgled houses and found that it included two bishops, several of the most senior judges in the country, including the Lord Chief Justice himself, together with half the membership of the House of Lords, and a fair sprinkling of scions of some of the oldest and most distinguished families in the kingdom. Somewhere in the list, there might have been a villain, the criminal brain responsible for the planning of these robberies, but, if so, it was not apparent. The matter was thus a complete enigma. Unable to see how he might make progress, Lanner decided to place his researches in abeyance for the moment and hope that any further activity by the same gang might yield a fresh clue.

‘Now, at last, that clue has appeared. He had a wire the other day from one Inspector Clarke of the Kent force, concerning the burglary last week at the Hollingworths’ house, Wickling Place. It had struck Clarke – evidently an officer who has his finger on the pulse of things – that the Wickling Place burglary appeared remarkably similar to those in London, of which he had read. The thieves had slipped in quietly, when everyone was asleep and, from all that they might have taken, had selected only the most valuable items. Lanner went down to Kent and the two men went over the case together. Clarke and his officers had of course made extensive inquiries in the district, in case any strangers had been seen at the time of the robbery. In the course of these inquiries they had learnt from the Hollingworths themselves that they had recently been paid a visit by an old school-companion of their late son, Stephen, who had come, he said, to offer his sympathies upon their sad loss.’

‘Gilbert Rowsley!’ said Herbert.

‘So I now believe, although he introduced himself to the Hollingworths as Gabriel Tooth. Now, although this name was not upon Lanner’s list of recent visitors to the burgled houses in London, he was convinced that there must be a connection between this man’s visit to Wickling Place and the burglary which took place there the following night. He has therefore spent the past week endeavouring to discover the whereabouts of this man, Tooth, but without success. Now, if the identification of him as Gilbert Rowsley is correct, as I am sure it is, Lanner may at last be able to lay his hands on the guiding brain behind these perplexing burglaries.’

‘Was Rowsley’s name on Lanner’s London list?’ I asked.

Holmes nodded. ‘Gilbert Rowsley had been a recent guest, at some function or other, at every one of the burgled houses. But his name was but one among a great number and until this evening there was no reason to suspect him any more than anyone else.’

‘What drew you to that name, then, rather than to any of the others on the list?’

‘The old album he had left behind in the house in Quebec Street. The initials upon the front were “G.R.”, and although they were correct for ‘‘George Robinson’’, the name he was going under there, it appeared to me that the album was several years old and that “G.R.” might thus perhaps be his real initials, too. You can imagine how keen I was to cast my eye over Lanner’s list, at Scotland Yard. When I did so, I quickly discovered that one of the names on it matched the initials “G.R.”. Still, I could not be certain and I must admit I was very relieved when Mr Herbert was able to confirm my speculation, by recalling that Gilbert Rowsley had indeed been one of his old school companions.’

‘It seems to me,’ I observed after a moment, ‘that Rowsley took a great risk in exposing himself at Wickling Place, even if he was using an assumed name. At the functions he attended in London he was but one guest among many; down in Kent he arrived alone, and his visit was bound to be recalled and speculated upon.’

Holmes nodded. ‘That is so; but the season in London was ending, and his opportunities diminishing. No doubt when the possibility of robbing the Hollingworths occurred to him, he thought it too good a chance to pass up and worth the risk. No doubt, also, he considered, as do most criminals who have enjoyed a run of success, that he was much too clever to be caught.’

‘What a vile, unspeakable snake he must be, to take advantage of a family’s grief and use them so meanly!’ cried Herbert with feeling.

‘If the little we have heard of him is a fair sample,’ I remarked, ‘I imagine his debts are many and his creditors pressing. No doubt he was desperate to pay off some of those who were threatening him.’

‘I rather fancy he intended to end their persecution in an altogether more decisive manner,’ Holmes responded with a shake of the head, ‘by showing them a clean pair of heels. I think it likely that he has had his escape planned for some time. It seems evident that he used Mr Herbert as a decoy this evening, to give himself a clear run as he left his lodgings. The men that Mr Herbert encountered near Fleet Street are almost certainly the other members of Rowsley’s gang – the three men who were seen near Wickling Place at the time of the burglary there. Thanks to Mr Herbert, we have two of their names, and Lanner tells me that they are well known at Scotland Yard, so it should not be too difficult to lay hands on them first thing in the morning. No doubt Rowsley had promised to pay them their share of the proceeds of the robbery, once he had disposed of the stolen goods. Indeed, judging by the degree of their anger on being presented with a worthless brass figure, it may well be that Rowsley had not yet settled with them for the earlier robberies. But his great confidence in being able to escape his pursuers has led him into an error, for the use of the Indian figure incriminates him unequivocally in the burglaries. It was one of the items taken from General Appleton’s house in Chelsea a few weeks ago, no doubt in error and against Rowsley’s instructions, for it is of very little value and he evidently thought it not worth his while to dispose of it.’

Herbert let out a long groan and clutched his head. ‘I see it all now!’ cried he in a mournful voice. ‘I have been played for a fool!’

‘Do not judge yourself too harshly, Mr Herbert,’ returned Holmes in a sympathetic tone. ‘From the very first, he has calculated and sought to deceive you, in case you might ever prove useful to him. Among the very first words he spoke to you, he gave you the false name of “Stephen Hollingworth”, which he evidently judged might be more advantageous to him than revealing to you his true identity. I am afraid he is a man who uses people as other men use tools, to procure that which he wants.’

‘And now?’ I enquired.

‘Now,’ returned Holmes in a grave voice, ‘we approach what should be the last act of this little drama. Despite all his efforts to cover his tracks, Mr Rowsley has made a little slip. You recall the scrap of paper we found in his study?’

‘The one with the very precise amount of money recorded upon it?’

‘Exactly, Watson. It was in his own hand. I could see no reason why he should record his debt to another, especially as, from what we know of him, he would be unlikely to repay it. Perhaps, then, I conjectured, it was the cost of something. But what?’

‘We have no way of knowing.’

‘Well, it is a moderately large sum, marked specifically for Friday morning; we may surmise from his actions that Rowsley intends to vanish completely on Friday and leave all his creditors with nothing; and the note is endorsed “O.L.”.’

‘I cannot see that there is any clue there,’ Mr Herbert remarked with a shake of the head.

‘No? But what if “O.L.” stands for “Orient Line”? They carry the mails to Australia, their boats leaving from the Albert Dock every second Friday and the price of a second-class passage from London to Australia is somewhere in the region of the sum noted on the paper.’

‘Of course!’ I cried. ‘That must be it!’

‘They are leaving early in the morning,’ Holmes continued, ‘so all the passengers will already be on board.’

‘Do you know if Rowsley is among them?’

‘There has been no time to verify the matter; but we shall soon find out, for we are almost there.’

We had passed Greenwich and were racing down the long broad expanse of Blackwall Reach. Now, as we reached Blackwall Point, a wide, dark opening came into view on the north bank of the river.

‘Bow Creek,’ said the helmsman, following our gaze. ‘And there,’ he added, ‘is the Victoria Dock Pier.’

He swung the boat round in a broad arc towards the Essex shore, the change of direction pressing our backs against the gunwale and flinging a fountain of white spray into the dark sky. Ahead of us now, I could see a small group of men upon the pier, clearly awaiting our arrival, and two police vans. In a matter of moments we were at the pier and the launch was secured. Holmes sprang on to the steps at the side of the pier and we followed him up.

‘It is as we thought,’ said he, as we reached the top of the steps. ‘Inspector Poynter of the Docks Division has been able to confirm all our suspicions. The Orient Line’s Cuzco waits to leave on the morning tide and the passenger list contains the name of one Gilbert Rowsley.’

In a moment we were in a carriage and rattling through the deserted dockyards, past dark, shadowed warehouses, and beneath silent cranes and gantries, until we drew up on the dock-side, where a large and handsome ship was moored, its funnels smoking gently, its rigging silhouetted against the night sky.

The matter was soon explained to the officer of the watch, who conducted us without delay in the direction of the passenger accommodation. Although the ship was quiet, essential work still continued, I observed, for several sailors were busy on the lighted deck, absorbed in various tasks, and a bearded crewman passed us, his back bent under a heavy-looking sack, just before we turned into the passengers’ quarters. The ship’s officer led us quickly to Rowsley’s cabin, where he knocked sharply on the door, then pushed it open. The room within was in darkness, and when Lanner took a lantern from one of his officers and held it up, we saw that there was no one there. The little cabin was in perfect order and the cover upon the bed had been turned down, but the bed had not been slept in.

‘He is not here!’ cried Lanner. ‘He has tricked us and escaped again!’

‘No,’ said Sherlock Holmes, shaking his head, ‘Rowsley is here somewhere.’ He pointed to the little shelf beside the bed, upon which lay a slim volume entitled A History of the Melbourne Racetrack. ‘One moment!’ he cried abruptly, clapping his hand to his head. ‘The last man that passed us on the deck, the bearded man with the heavy sack – blind fool that I am not to heed my own eyes! – he was wearing patent shoes!’

‘What!’ cried the ship’s officer.

‘It must be Rowsley! He has managed to acquire a sailor’s uniform from somewhere, but could not get shoes to fit him. He has evidently been on his guard, lest his escape be thwarted at the last, and has observed our approach!’

We quickly retraced our steps. Upon the deck, some distance ahead of us, we could see the sailor with the sack, walking briskly towards the gang-plank.

‘It is he!’ cried Herbert. ‘I recognise his figure, even in that disguise!’

In a moment, he had reached the gang-plank. His hand was upon the rail at the top of it when he abruptly stopped.

‘He has seen the police vans on the dock-side,’ said Holmes.

Our quarry glanced quickly round, as if in a state of indecision. Then his eyes met ours as we approached and he let out a strangled cry, dropped his sack and sprinted across to the rail on the far side of the deck. We raced after him as fast as we were able, but before we could reach him he had climbed the rail. For a long moment, he stood precariously balanced upon the top, as if nerving himself to plunge into the waters of the dock far below. Then, with a gesture of resignation, he sprang down instead on to the deck of the ship and, leaning his back on the rail in a leisurely manner, awaited our arrival.

‘It is perhaps a little too dark and cold down there for a man of my sensitive breeding,’ he remarked in a casual tone as we reached the rail. ‘I see I do not require this tasteless encumbrance any longer, anyway,’ he continued, pulling at his bushy beard, which came away in his hand and which he tossed casually over the ship’s side.

It was strange at last to be face to face with this man who had been so long sought in vain, and who had proved so elusive that it seemed possible that he would never be apprehended. He was a tall, slim man and his face was a handsome one, if a little thin and fleshless; but there was something weak and deceitful about his mouth which his dark moustache could not entirely conceal.

‘Gilbert Rowsley—’ Inspector Lanner began, as the two constables seized hold of the fugitive, but Holmes interrupted him.

‘One moment, Lanner,’ said he, drawing the police inspector aside. ‘If you arrest him now,’ he continued in a low tone, out of earshot of the prisoner, ‘the full weight of the law falls at once upon the matter with unstoppable momentum and Mr Herbert stands little chance, if any, of recovering his fifty pounds. He certainly will not do so until all due processes have been observed, which may take several months. On the other hand, as I see it, there is nothing to prevent his recovering now what he is owed, provided the transaction takes place before the arrest is formally made.’

Inspector Lanner nodded his head. ‘I quite agree, Mr Holmes. Considering the service which Mr Herbert has rendered us today, it seems the very least we can do for him.’

Holmes then stepped forward once again and requested that his client’s loan be returned.

‘Oh, certainly, certainly,’ returned Rowsley, in a careless tone. ‘I assume a cheque would be acceptable, Herbert?’

‘Under the circumstances, my client would prefer to take it in cash,’ Holmes interjected.

‘Oh, very well,’ said the other, a trace of annoyance in his voice, as if he were being put to a very great inconvenience. He took from his pocket a thick leather purse, which he opened to reveal the largest wad of bank-notes which I think I have ever seen in my life. From these he extracted notes to the value of fifty pounds, which he exchanged with Herbert for his IOU.

‘Thank you,’ said Herbert.

‘Pray, don’t mention it,’ said the other, screwing up the paper and tossing it over the ship’s rail.

Lanner made his arrest then, to which Rowsley offered no resistance, other than to remark that the whole business was ‘deuced inconvenient’, and he and his possessions were removed from the Cuzco.

The Friday evening papers were full of news of the arrest, although they gave all the credit to the official police force and made no mention of either Sherlock Holmes or his client. After a brief hearing at the Stepney Police Court the case was referred to the autumn sessions of the Central Criminal Court. Before the case came to trial, however, in an attempt to secure a reduction in his own sentence, Rowsley had implicated the rest of the gang, an action which no doubt rendered him as popular among his criminal associates as he was among the honest citizens of London. His efforts in this regard were not entirely successful, however, and the last I heard of him was that he had been committed for a term of penal servitude at Portland Prison, where, as the judge in the case remarked, he might spend such leisure moments as he had in contemplation of his past misdeeds and perhaps come to see the error of his ways.

Mr Herbert dined at our house in Paddington later that summer and attempted – with indifferent success, I must admit – to educate me in the finer subtleties of the game of chess. Later in the year, acting on Holmes’s diagnosis as to the cause of his bronchitis, he moved to Greenwich, where my wife and I visited him the following Easter, and he was pleased to show us the view from his upstairs windows, which commanded a splendid panorama of the river, with its ever-changing kaleidoscope of shipping. This, he said, would always remind him of what he described as the greatest adventure of his life.

As to Sherlock Holmes, when next I saw him he was absorbed in a fresh problem, the consequences of which, he confided to me, might well bring down every government on the Continent. The details of Mr Herbert’s strange adventures had quite passed from his mind and he appeared genuinely surprised when I suggested to him that the citizens of London owed him a debt of gratitude.

‘They may all sleep a little easier in their beds, as a result of your achievements in the Rowsley case,’ I remarked.

‘Perhaps you are right,’ he responded with little interest. ‘I really have no time to consider matters from such a perspective. My work itself is the sole focus of my attention and must be its own reward. Do you know that line of Chaucer’s, Watson: “The life so short, the craft so long to learn”? It is an observation that applies with peculiar accuracy to my own line of work. That being so, you will perhaps appreciate that it is the pursuit of professional mastery rather than ephemeral praise to which my energies must always be directed.’