Sherlock Holmes in Something the Cat Dragged In (2 page)

I kept my voice down. “A glove. Is it a pair with the other?”

He removed it from his other pocket and displayed the two gloves side by side. To all appearances they matched!

Taking Miss Emily by the sleeve and indicating that we should follow him, he led us some way down the narrow lane behind the back yards. Once we were at some distance and unlikely to be overheard by anyone save the cat, he spoke softly.

“I tried the gate to that property; it is locked, barred, and the wall too is topped with glass. It would be impossible to enter unobtrusively, and it is always possible that it is the property of an innocent householder. What we require now is the help of the police. Watson, I want you to fetch Lestrade at once.”

I groaned. “Holmes, it's too far and would take several hours for me to reach him, tell him of this, and return with him.”

Holmes nodded, glancing at his watch. “Normally, Watson, yes. But most usefully, today I know he is at the local station and will be there for a further hour. Go at once, tell him I believe one of his men to be injured and held prisoner, show him the watch and chain, and say where I am to be found. Those at the station will know this lane. Tell them to be silent in their approach.”

That information put a different complexion on my task, for if I could be back in an hour with reinforcements all might yet be well. I hurried off while Holmes, as I later heard, instructed Miss Emily to gather up Mandalay and take him home, shutting the window so he could not return. If she wished, she could come out again to watch along the lane out of harm's way, but should stand ready to slam and bolt the gate if she should see anything that alarmed her. (In this he made a virtue of necessity, since even the most stolid of women yet possesses curiosity and will not obey any command that neglects that.)

I found Lestrade, together with his protégé Harrison, still at the station but on the point of departure. Having put my narrative in order while on my way, I disclosed events in the tersest form possible and stood back. That was as well, since Harrison tentatively recognized the watch, and Lestrade, apparently knowing the owner and his mission, bolted upright and issued a positive stream of orders, so that in almost no time at all we were on our way to the lane where Holmes waited. We left the police vehicles a block away and trotted around a corner, down a side street, and attained the lane's other entrance, where my friend met us.

“Nothing seems to have changed as yet,” he told Lestrade in a low voice. “If you climb onto these bins I have moved to the wall, you may see into the yard.” Lestrade mounted the pyramid of bins and gazed between the glass shards embedded in the wall's top. After several minutes and moving just as quietly, he returned to the lane and moved his force further away.

Speaking softly he said, “It is a large yard. That gate fits within the wall, so we can't climb over it, but it's held by a bolt and could be opened by one inside the yard. To the left there is a privy, and to the right of the gate there is a shed that has a new padlock on it. One pane of the shed's side window is missing.”

“With a pane of glass missing, a cat could come and go.”

Lestrade smiled grimly. “Yes, and if we find the man we think to be here I'll stand the animal a spoonful of salmon myself. If we find the other missing man, he'll likely stand the creature an entire fish.”

So, I thought, whoever owned the expensive handkerchief was indeed of the nobility, or at the least a wealthy man.

Lestrade gave further orders before addressing us. “Are you willing to act under my instructions for this?” I nodded. “Very well, then. Follow Harrison.”

Lestrade walked silently down the lane, four men at his heels, while Harrison, a very tall constable named Berrenson, together with Holmes and I, waited.

Harrison consulted his watch, until of a sudden he moved to the wall again. “I'd rather wait inside than out here. Berrenson, up and over, get that gate open.”

The lanky constable obeyed, climbing the pyramid of bins and covering the glass with his tunic. He scrambled over cautiously, yet not without a rending of cloth and a smothered yelp. We heard the bolt being pulled back, but the gate did not open.

“Berrenson?” Harrison whispered.

“Sorry, sir, seems to be locked, too.”

Harrison drew back as if to charge the gate, but Holmes caught him by the arm. “You won't break it down, they'll have thought of that. I have another solution.” He produced a toothed blade from his pocket, pointed to the gate's hinges, and Harrison grinned and took it from him.

“Where'd you get that, Mr. Holmes?”

“Mrs. Knox, Miss Emily Jackson's landlady.”

Harrison sawed back and forth against the hinges—spitting on it as lubrication now and again—until the top hinge gave way. Luckily it took only minutes before the gate sagged, and Harrison took hold of it on our side while Berrenson seized it from the other. In seconds we were able to twist it to one side and enter the yard. There the constable took the blade and addressed the padlock. That too had just yielded when a confused murmur arose in the house. This noise became louder until we could hear individual voices, ending in a shout.

Harrison heaved the shed door open and dived in. “Come on, in here.” We tumbled in and shut the door again, the constable still holding the severed padlock in one hand.

Then with a crash, the back door of the house opened, and a confused crowd spilled out. Peering through the filthy window I could see Lestrade and his men battling what looked to be four drunken sailors. As the fight raged I saw a slender whip of a man slip past, heading for the gate. Holmes had seen the same, and in what appeared to be a single movement he seized the padlock from Berrenson, flung open the door, and threw the heavy lock at the back of the fugitive's head. It hit home, and the man fell and lay motionless while the battle raged around and over him.

Either for love of a good fight, or perhaps feeling they should stand by their superior, both Harrison and the constable bolted forth and joined Lestrade. Finally, still cursing and swinging, the sailors were subdued and handcuffed. Harrison returned to us with his jacket torn and shirt-collar wrenched off.

Holmes spoke urgently. “Find a light, a candle, a lantern, anything. Quickly!”

Harrison fled into the house and returned with a packet of candles. Holmes lit one and held it up. A man lay in the corner, half-covered in straw.

“That's Len,” said Harrison.

Holmes stooped to the captive, holding the light carefully away from the flammable straw. He looked up. “He's alive. Watson?”

I leapt to check and agreed. “He's in a bad way, however. Summon a police vehicle fast as you can. If we waste no time he should live, but it may be some hours before he can speak.”

Lestrade's hopeful look faded at that, but he sent one of his men running for help, which was only a short time in arriving. Gently the wounded man was removed from his noisome confinement and conveyed to hospital, accompanied by two of the constables, while Lestrade, Holmes, Harrison, and I examined the shed. We then moved to the house, where the four sailors were held in handcuffs, and where Berrenson stood guard over the slender man Holmes had felled. His hands had been tied behind him with cord from the washing line, and he looked most unhappy.

Lestrade surveyed the five prisoners. “Well, maybe someone will be willing to talk.” He pointed to the man Berrenson guarded. “Take that man to another room, Berrenson. Shut the door, and watch him every minute. Now,” he turned to the sailors. “I am Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. I entered this house upon receiving information that one of my men was being held captive. On the entrance of my men and myself you attacked us, attempting to hamper us in the execution of our duties. What have you to say for yourselves?”

The smallest of them glared at him. “Wotja mean we 'ampered perlice. You come charging in an' set abaht us. We didn't do nuffin' but fight fer our lives agin' them as attacked us.” (I shall not continue any attempt to reproduce his accent, since it was almost incomprehensible.)

Lestrade nodded. “I see. What ship are you from?”

It seemed that they were on leave from one of our warships. When Lestrade pointed out that their captain would have something to say about sailors from his ship attacking the police, the atmosphere changed.

“Here, guv, it weren't on purpose. This place is a boozing ken an' they're likely to have a go at any man they think too drunk to protect what he has. We was just playing cards and drinking quiet like, next thing I knows the door opens and a whole mix of people come in fighting. We did no more than try to escape it all.”

Lestrade looked thoughtful, as if considering this plea in mitigation. “Yes, I suppose that is possible. You may not have realized who we were. In that case, if you are open with me I shall allow you to leave and we shall not press charges. But I want every question answered. If I believe you to be lying or holding back it shall be the worse for you. Do you understand?”

“Yes, guv.”

In fact, all four did answer our questions as best they might, but they knew little. Summed up, this house had the reputation of providing very bad drink at low prices, and there were a couple of rooms where men might play cards while they drank. There were no women in the house, and the sailors had only ever seen two men on their visits, apart from the customers.

“Him you took with us were one of them.”

“And the other?”

“He left by the time we got here.”

More questions on that elucidated the information that there had originally been a second man who was usually in the house, but he'd vanished some two months earlier. He had been replaced by a third man, who had a room at the back and who had received a message shortly after the sailors arrived, and may have gone out in response to that.

“It were a boy what came. Lad of about ten or eleven, gave over an envelope wi' money in that. I saw it.”

Holmes took over here and we discovered that the envelope had contained at least two sovereigns, or possibly guineas. He regarded the man. “What did this third man say when he opened the envelope? Tell me everything he said or did from the moment the boy handed the envelope to him.”

“He opened it, I heard a couple a' coins chink together, and saw gold between his fingers, that's how I know about them. Then he read the note inside, weren't long, matter of a few lines mebbe. He spoke to himself like, said as how it were just as well word come, 'cos he didn't like this caper, not above half, an' he'd be glad to be shut of something.”

“Something?”

“He said a name mebbe, but he were turning away and I couldn't hear it.”

“Ah,” Holmes said. “Give me a description of this man.”

“He's tallish, heavy, but I don't think it's fat, not the way he walks. He don't have a Lunnon accent, more outside'a the city a bit. He've a white face, a big moustache, and his hair is middling brown. He've eyes that ain't no perticular shade.”

Lestrade snapped at him. “No particular shade, what does that mean?”

“Means I can't tell. I seen them look sorta light brown er yellowish, then again sometimes they look sort'a gray.”

I intervened. “You could call them a light hazel, Inspector, but they'd appear to change according to the light and what other color is behind the man. Holmes and I know a woman with eyes like that, and they can appear anything from light brown to amber to a medium gray even, depending on her clothing and make-up.”

Lestrade said something under his breath, and returned to questioning the sailor.

“Tallish? How tall is that?”

“Abaht as tall as Jimmy here.” I estimated his shipmate to be around five feet nine inches, and Lestrade noted that down.

“So” he said thoughtfully. “We have a man who is solid, but possibly more from muscle than fat, he has brown hair and a moustache. A moustache of what sort? Yes, I know you said it was large, what's the shape of it, man?” When told that it was of no particular shape, he unsuccessfully suppressed a groan.

Holmes came to attention abruptly. “Tell me, did you ever hear either man called by name, a nickname, or any name at all?”

The sailor stared at him. “Yerse, sir, I did. T' one you got, he's called Jeb Siddons. A time back, just after Joe'd gone and this one come here, I heard them talk together. I were half out from the drink and I lay down on the floor to stop me head swimmin'. They come in an', not knowing I were there, they talked a bit. Jeb called him Pers. He said it again afore they left and it were Pers right enough. Dunno what that meant.”

While I understood very little, Holmes appeared satisfied.

“No,” agreed Holmes, “I daresay you didn't.” He exchanged glances with Harrison and Lestrade, who ordered the sailors removed. Once they were gone, Holmes leaned back in the chair he had taken. Lestrade eyed him.

“Pers?”

“Persimmon Brand. The description fits, but he usually operates outside of London. It's interesting that from what that man says, Brand has been in and out of this house for at least two months. Brand wouldn't be away from his usual place of business for that length of time unless there was a chance of a major profit. He's very careful of his skin, and he doesn't like violence if it can be avoided. I suggest you let those sailors go. Have them escorted to their ship and say if you catch them in the city again before their next voyage, you'll have a word with their captain about all this.”

“In other words, clear the decks?” Lestrade's eyes twinkled.

I laughed at his atrocious nautical pun, and even Holmes produced a slight smile.

“Exactly. They have told us all they can, and now that we have a name, your own office will have details of the man, and you can take him up any time you find him. Now, to turn our attention to the man we do have, this Jeb Siddons. I know of him by repute. He's dangerous, vicious, and very fond of his own skin. Approach him the right way and if he isn't truly involved in this case, he is likely to tell you whatever he knows.”