The Secret Files of Sherlock Holmes (14 page)

‘Where to?’ I asked.

‘To the Coventry Hotel in Newton Street,’ he replied. ‘I wish to test out a theory.’

It would have been quicker to walk to Newton Street. The journey by hansom through the fog was painfully slow, the cabby not daring to urge the horse into anything faster than a walk and, at some of the busier crossroads, we came to a complete standstill while the driver listened for approaching vehicles before venturing forward.

Holmes fretted at the delay but there was nothing he could do to hasten the journey and it was almost an hour before we alighted outside the Coventry Hotel.

It was a small establishment, intended for the use of clients of modest means who could not afford more luxurious accommodation. The foyer was shabbily furnished and the only person on duty was an elderly clerk behind the reception desk who seemed to be slightly deaf, for he leaned forward to catch Holmes’ request.

‘I have come to collect some correspondence which has been forwarded to me here. The name is Sanderson.’

‘Sanderson?’ repeated the man, cupping a hand round one
ear. ‘There ain’t bin nothin’ delivered ’ere for anyone of that name.’

‘You must be mistaken, my man. I can quite clearly see some packets in the pigeonhole marked “S” behind you,’ Holmes insisted, pointing to a rack on the wall for the storage of residents’ post. ‘Would you kindly check that neither of those is for me?’

The clerk removed the packets and placed them on the counter, announcing as he did so, ‘There you are! They’re addressed to a Mr P. Smith, not Sanderson.’

‘I am so sorry,’ Holmes apologised and, handing over a shilling, he took me by the arm and drew me away from the counter, commenting loudly as he did so on the unreliability of the postal service.

Once outside the hotel, however, he gave a gratified chuckle.

‘Just as I thought, Watson! The money has not been collected; another piece of negative evidence to add to what we already know about the identity of the blackmailer. I am now in possession of nearly all the data I need. All that remains is to collect the final facts which will lead to the unmasking. I believe you will be returning home tomorrow? I remember your telling me that you expected Mrs Watson to arrive at Victoria on the 10.15 train on Wednesday.’

‘Yes, Holmes. I was proposing to leave tomorrow morning immediately after breakfast.’

‘A pity. But no doubt Mrs Watson could spare you for a couple of hours after luncheon on Thursday afternoon?’

‘I am sure she would be agreeable.’

‘She is a woman of commendable tolerance,’ Holmes remarked. ‘Then, if you are quite certain she will not object, be good enough to call in at Baker Street promptly at two o’clock. I believe you will find the events that will take place later that afternoon of particular interest.’

He would say nothing more on the subject either on the journey home or during the rest of the evening and, as soon as dinner had been served and cleared away by Mrs Hudson, he retired to his room, on purpose, I suspected, to avoid my questioning, and spent the rest of the intervening hours until
bedtime playing the violin, leaving me alone by the fire to ponder over the case.

I confess I could make little of it. The negative evidence which, according to Holmes, pointed to the identity of the blackmailer, remained an enigma. Nor could I see the reason behind the threats of exposure. If monetary gain was not the motive, what possible purpose was served by it?

Holmes was as disinclined to discuss the case the following morning over breakfast and, apart from a brief remark that he was pleased to see that the fog had lifted, he turned his attention to reading the newspapers, making no reference to the case in hand except obliquely when I was about to depart.

‘You have not forgotten, my dear fellow, our arrangements for Thursday afternoon? I can expect you no later than two o’clock?’

‘I shall be here on the hour,’ I assured him.

Despite my pleasure at my wife’s return and the resumption of our domestic life together, I have to admit that it was with considerable impatience that I looked forward to the following afternoon, eager to discover what would be the events to which my old friend had referred and wondering if they involved the unmasking of the blackmailer.

Promptly at two o’clock, as arranged, I again presented myself at 221B Baker Street and, having been admitted by the page-boy, made my way upstairs.

Although the fog had cleared, the weather was still overcast and, in the gloomy light of that November afternoon, the sitting-room was mostly in shadow, apart from the red glow thrown out by the fire which was blazing cheerfully in the grate.

There was no sign of Holmes, the only occupant of the room being an elderly clergyman seated beside the hearth.

I was annoyed at my old friend’s absence. I had hurried over my luncheon in order to be exactly on time to find that not only had he gone out and had not yet returned but there was another client waiting to see him whose business would clearly delay us still further.

‘Good afternoon,’ I said a little sharply, addressing the elderly clergyman and allowing my impatience to show.

“Good afternoon,’ said he, rising to his feet and peering at me myopically.

He was a tall old gentleman, dressed in clerical attire, with thinning white hair and whiskers and very bowed about the shoulders. His age, I estimated, was in the late seventies.

‘You, too, are waiting, I see, for Mr Holmes to return,’ I continued more pleasantly, a little ashamed, in the face of his obvious age and infirmity, of my earlier impatience.

‘Indeed not. I was waiting for your arrival, Watson,’ he replied unexpectedly. As he spoke, he threw back his shoulders and in that instant changed, apart from the outward trappings of his disguise, into the figure of my old friend and companion.

‘Good Lord! Holmes!’ I exclaimed. ‘This is most extraordinary! I could have sworn that I had never set eyes on you before.’

‘Then my disguise is obviously successful. But come, Watson,’ he urged. ‘Time is short. You have to change and then we have an appointment to keep at Carlton House Terrace for three o’clock.’

‘What on earth are you talking about?’ I demanded, bewildered by this turn of events. ‘What appointment? I remember you specifically asked Her Grace, the Duchess, to be absent from home on Thursday afternoon between two and four. And why should I have to change? Into what, my dear fellow?’

‘Into the Reverend James Applewhite. I have the necessary ecclesiastical garb here,’ Holmes replied, reaching behind the armchair and retrieving a large brown-paper parcel. ‘Clerical collar. Black coat and trousers. Black silk stock. While you are making your transformation, I shall give you a full explanation.’

This he did through the half-open door of the bedroom where I scrambled out of my own outer clothing and replaced it with the clergyman’s attire.

‘You and I, Watson, are highly respected members of the Committee for the Relief of Anglican Clergymen’s Orphans and Widows, a most worthy cause, I assure you. In my capacity as Canon Cornelius Blythe-Wilson, chairman of the committee, I have written to a certain titled lady, well known for her benevolence, requesting an interview for three o’clock this afternoon in order to explain our aims and to prevail on her
generosity for a donation to our funds. As you pointed out, Her Grace will unfortunately not be at home. However, I have every hope that she has left instructions that we are to be admitted into the house.’

At this point, having put on my black clerical coat and examined myself critically in the cheval glass, I emerged from the bedroom, well pleased with what I had seen, and was further gratified by Holmes’ response.

‘I say, my dear fellow! What a conversion! Had you not chosen medicine, I am sure you would have made an admirable vicar although with low church leanings, I suspect, rather than high Anglican aspirations. However, you make a most convincing-looking member of the clergy; apart, that is, from the broad smile. May I suggest a more serious expression? Ah, that is much better! Do try to remember that philanthropy is a very grave subject, not to be treated with levity. Here is your card, by the way. Pray do not lose it.’

He handed me a small pasteboard oblong which I glanced at quickly before stowing it away safely in an inner pocket. It read:

‘I had my card and yours printed, together with a sheet of the Committee’s headed writing-paper, by a jobbing printer in Clerkenwell, Gill by name,’ Holmes explained. ‘I also spent part of yesterday afternoon undertaking a little research at the offices of the
Morning
Gazette,
a most excellent journal which covers in great detail all important society functions and which also keeps a library of back editions. I am quite sure I have established the identity of the “certain gentleman” whose interest in music and poetry caught the attention of our exalted client. You will no doubt recall, Watson, that “Mrs Woods” told us they first met at a charity concert six months ago? That, I believe, was a recital of chamber music given by Lady Veyse-Chomleigh on May 6th,
tickets five guineas each by private subscription only, the proceeds to be donated to the Society for the Promulgation of Bible Studies in Fiji.

‘According to the
Morning
Gazette,
among the distinguished audience were the Duchess of Welbourne and Lord Paxton, heir to the Marquis of Salthurst and an officer in the Buff and Royals, who had recently returned from India, where his regiment had been serving, in order to take up a post as equerry to Her Majesty. You can therefore appreciate, I am sure, Watson, that any scandal concerning him and a married lady with whom he was conducting an imprudent correspondence would have serious repercussions in royal circles.’

The sound of hoofs clattering to a halt was heard at the street door and Holmes broke off to remark, ‘I believe our cab has arrived. I ordered a four-wheeler for half past two in preference to a hansom, which I thought an unsuitable conveyance for two respectable clergymen; far too lightweight and frivolous. And speaking of frivolity, Watson, please remember the expression!’

With that final warning, he preceded me down the stairs, assuming the uncertain gait of an elderly gentleman, while I followed behind him still aghast at the implications of what he had just told me.

A scandal which could involve not only a duchess but an equerry to the Queen!

I could only trust, as I took my seat beside him in the cab and Holmes instructed the driver in a quavering voice, ‘Carlton House Terrace, my man!’ that the expedition on which we were embarking would be successful in revealing the identity of the blackmailer.

These thoughts occupied my mind until our arrival at Carlton House Terrace where we alighted and where Holmes ordered the cabby to wait.

My concern was temporarily forgotten, however, in my admiration for Nash’s magnificent building with its lofty façade and Corinthian columns and, as we mounted the steps to the Duchess of Welbourne’s residence, I felt more than a little awed by its splendour.

On presenting our cards, we were admitted by a liveried
footman, who had evidently been told to expect us, into a large entrance hall, hung with family portraits, and from there were conducted up a wide staircase.

Once we had reached the upper gallery, we were shown into a room on the first floor, probably intended, judging by the elegance of its fittings, to serve originally as a small withdrawing-room or a lady’s boudoir but transformed into a well-furnished but practical study. Glass-fronted cabinets containing books and files lined the walls while a rosewood desk with ormolu fittings was placed directly in front of the window which overlooked St James’s Park.

Just inside the door and standing at right angles to it was another plainer and more serviceable desk, equipped with a typewriting machine and other office impedimenta in the way of racks for stationery and receptacles for stamps and india-rubber bands.

A lady, who was seated at this desk engaged in addressing envelopes, rose to her feet as the footman announced us.

In appearance she was as plain and as serviceable-looking as the desk itself, dressed from throat to toes in plain brown holland, its drabness unrelieved by any frill or ornament apart from a pair of gold pince-nez hanging on a chain round her neck, her mouse-coloured hair dragged back into a severe bun.

‘I am Miss Gordon, the Duchess of Welbourne’s private secretary,’ she said, holding out a chilly hand for us to shake. ‘Her Grace very much regrets that she is unable to receive you personally. She has another engagement elsewhere. However, she has instructed me to express her interest in your charitable organization and to pass on to you this donation to assist you in your work.’

At the end of this homily, uttered without a glimmer of benevolence, she picked up an envelope which was lying on her desk and passed it to Holmes who bowed and immediately launched in a reedy old man’s voice into a speech of his own, a little rambling and repetitive, expressing his gratitude not only on behalf of the committee he represented but of the widows and orphans of deceased Anglican clergymen whose
burdens would be considerably lightened by Her Grace’s generosity.

At the same time, as if trying to keep Miss Gordon in focus through short-sighted eyes, he took several tottering steps forward at which Miss Gordon promptly retreated, keeping her distance from this elderly, garrulous cleric, until, by the time Holmes had finished speaking, they had advanced into the centre of the room.

Here he paused, blinked all round him and having remarked inconsequentially on the view from the window – ‘How delightful it must be for Her Grace to sit here and look out at God’s creation!’ – he retreated once more towards the door where I was waiting for him, taking care to look suitably grave although I was highly diverted by Holmes’ performance.

We left shortly afterwards, climbing back into the four-wheeler, Holmes instructing the cabby to drive us to the Coventry Hotel.