The Secret Files of Sherlock Holmes (18 page)

‘Of course I do. As a matter of fact, I was rather surprised at your doing so. What could he possibly know that could be of use in our inquiries?’

‘A great deal, Watson. If you want to discover anything about
West End night life, ask a hotel doorkeeper. He is acquainted with the names of all the bordellos and quite used to directing male guests to the best establishments. On the basis of what I have already told you, I asked him to recommend a good-class brothel in the area where the girls are young and pretty. He named ten.’

‘Ten? Good Lord!’

‘Quite, Watson. And that does not take into account the hotels and accommodation houses which let rooms by the hour for the use of the many scores of prostitutes one can see walking about the streets of the West End. Among those he named was one in Montrose Street, just off the Haymarket, run by a couple called the Wilsons. It is called the “Canary Club”.’ He paused for a moment and then said, ‘I can see by your expression that you have not made the connection.’

‘No, Holmes; I am afraid I haven’t.’

‘Remember Palfrey, the house agent? He informed us that Mr Duckham asked for permission to put up a shelf in the house in Streatham to support a large cage of canaries.’

‘Oh, yes, of course! I see the significance of it now. But you are surely not suggesting …!’

I broke off, horrified by the implications.

‘Indeed I am, my dear fellow. Allow me to refresh your memory on the advertisement which Mrs Hare showed us. I have it here. It reads: “Girls and young women between the ages of fourteen and eighteen” – mark that, Watson! – are asked to present themselves for selection as parlourmaids et cetera in the “best households” with “no experience needed”. And this was intended to be read, remember, by young women from the East End, apprentice dressmakers and milliners’ assistants in the backstreet sweatshops. No wonder they flocked to the Temperance Rooms in Bow to be interviewed by the Honourable Mrs Clyde-Bannister, especially when they saw the wages which were offered. Fifty pounds a year! Even an experienced butler would count himself lucky to earn that amount. Consider also the fact that not only the Honourable Mrs Clyde-Bannister but also the Duckhams are no longer to be found at their former addresses and that all of them moved away in the summer or
early autumn of last year, which was the time that Mrs Hare last heard from her daughter. All of this convinces me that the whole affair from start to finish, from the interview at the Temperance Rooms in Bow to Rosie Hare’s employment with the Duckhams, was a conspiracy to lure gullible young women and girls like her into what I believe is termed the “flesh trade”.’

‘But that is absolutely appalling, Holmes! Something must be done about it!’

‘My sentiments entirely. That is why you and I, Watson, are going to visit the “Canary Club” tonight in the guise of two gentlemen out in the West End, looking for a little “fun”. So, please, my dear fellow, when we arrive there, do look as if you are enjoying yourself.’

Having never set foot in such an establishment in my life, I was not at all sure what to expect when the hansom deposited us outside number 45 Montrose Street.

From the outside, it seemed innocuous enough. It was one of those tall, elegant town houses with several steps leading up to a pillared porch. Only a discreet brass plate engraved with the words ‘The Canary Club. Members Only’ and a man in livery on duty at the front door marked it out as anything other than a select private residence.

Once inside the entrance hall, however, I soon realised that the place lived up to its name and reputation.

The first object to meet the visitor’s gaze as he entered was a large gilded cage, shaped like a Chinese pagoda, which contained about two dozen small, bright yellow canaries which hopped from perch to perch or fluttered against the wires, their sweet, chirruping song filling the air.

The foyer itself was lavishly and elaborately furnished but with that flamboyant and over-decorated taste of the
nouveaux
riches.
Huge chandeliers hung from the ceiling, their lights glittering on the crystal prisms and reflected back from the gilt-framed mirrors which lined the walls.

At the far end, a pair of double doors had been flung open to reveal a drawing-room or
salon,
decorated in red and gold, with elegant chairs and tables, at which couples were sitting, placed against the walls while in the centre of the room men strolled
about or stood talking to young women who were dressed in evening gowns of quite alarming
décolletage.

Holmes had already instructed me in the cab on what I was to expect and how I was to behave. I was to leave most of the talking to him and I was to show no surprise or shock at anything I might see or hear. I was also to remember that Holmes would address me as ‘Bunny’, a sobriquet which, he explained with a smile, suited me on account of the side-whiskers.

As the cab had turned out of the Haymarket, he had added, ‘Once we are there, I shall ask specifically for a red-haired girl.’

‘Why is that, Holmes?’

‘If you had read Rosie Hare’s letters, Watson, you would not need to ask. You may recall that a girl called Mary Sullivan was the only other successful candidate at the interview and accompanied Rosie Hare to the Honourable Mrs Clyde-Bannister’s house in Cadogan Crescent for training as a parlourmaid. In her letters, Rosie described Mary Sullivan, with whom she appeared to have struck up a friendship, as very pretty with beautiful red hair. She is, I gathered, of Irish extraction. If my theory is correct, then I believe we shall find that she is one of the young ladies on offer at the “Canary Club”.’

At this point, the cab had drawn up outside the establishment and, once we had entered, my attention was taken up by other matters. These included not only the appearance of the place but the presence of two more male attendants who came forward as soon as we stepped inside the door, one in livery who took our coats and silk hats, the other a tall, broad-shouldered man, whose impeccable evening clothes contrasted oddly with his brutal, prize-fighter’s face and who relieved us of five guineas each as membership fees.

I tried to appear as cool as Holmes as I parted with this outrageous sum, for Holmes seemed perfectly at ease as he stood with his hands in his pockets and a cigar in his mouth, surveying his surroundings with a swaggering air.

We had hardly turned away from paying this bruiser when a large, heavy-bosomed woman of middle age, dressed in extravagantly ruffled black silk, came towards us, holding out
her hand; her smile, however, barely disguising the hard glitter in her eyes.

‘I am Mrs Wilson,’ she announced. ‘I believe you gentlemen are new members. Who recommended you?’

‘The doorman at the Burlington,’ Holmes drawled nonchalantly. ‘He said the girls here were very choice.’

‘The best in London. Have you gentlemen any preferences?’

Holmes turned to me.

‘What d’you fancy, Bunny, old chap? I think I am in the mood for a little red-head.’

‘Céline is free at the moment,’ Mrs Wilson remarked, waving a hand towards the drawing-room.

Holmes nodded to her and strolled off towards the double doors, the cigar still in his mouth, although, once we were out of earshot of Mrs Wilson, he removed it for long enough to murmur to me, ‘We have just met the madam of the place, alias, I believe, the Honourable Mrs Clyde-Bannister.’

There was no time for me to reply. Holmes had entered the room and was approaching one of the tables at which was sitting a very pretty red-haired young woman, wearing a green silk evening gown which left all of her arms and most of her bosom bare.

‘Céline?’ Holmes inquired, drawing out a chair. ‘May we join you?’

In the moments before she was aware of our presence, I had been able to observe her. She had been staring straight in front of her, her face quite empty of any emotion as if there were nothing behind the pretty mask of her features except a void.

That expression still haunts my memory. The girl could not have been much more than sixteen.

A second later, the vacant look had vanished and she was smiling up at us coquettishly and rearranging the folds of her skirt to reveal a shapely ankle.

‘Of course you can join me, darlin’,’ she said, addressing Holmes. ‘Would your gentleman friend like another young lady to sit with us? There’s Mimi or Georgette, depending on whether he prefers a blonde or a brunette.’ Her voice had a
carefully refined overtone but beneath this it was still possible to discern a less cultivated Cockney-Irish accent.

‘Later, perhaps,’ Holmes told her. ‘At the moment, my friend, Bunny, and I are more interested in the arrangements of the establishment.’

‘You’re new here, aren’t you, darlin’? I thought you were. Well, the arrangements, as you call them, are these. Usually the gentlemen walk about for a while, seeing which young ladies they fancy. Then, when they think they’ve made their choice, they take the young lady in question to sit down at a table and settle the details. That’s always done over a bottle of bubbly. It’s one of the house-rules. If you sit down, you have to buy champagne. Once you’ve made up your mind, you go over there to settle up with Mr Wilson.’

She nodded across the room to where a man was sitting, like a king on a throne, on a large gilt and red velvet chair which was placed on a silk-draped dais. He was a huge man in evening dress, monstrously fat, his starched shirt-front glittering with diamond studs. Lolling back in his chair, he was surveying the promenade of men and women and those couples seated at the tables with a proprietorial air, his round, white face, like a full moon, glistening with sweat, and quite motionless apart from his eyes which were constantly roving to and fro.

‘When you’ve paid Mr Wilson your dues,’ Céline continued, ‘he’ll give you the number of a room that’s vacant and then you’re free to take the young lady upstairs.’ She raised her fan and fluttered it in front of her face with mock modesty. ‘I think I can leave the rest to your imagination, gentlemen.’

As she was speaking, a waiter had crossed the room to our table carrying a silver salver on which were placed three glasses and a champagne bottle in an ice-bucket.

‘How much?’ Holmes inquired.

‘A guinea, sir.’

A guinea!

It said much for Holmes’ perfect self-control that not even his smile wavered as he paid over the money together with a florin tip.

When the man had gone, Holmes filled the glasses and then, passing one to the young woman, remarked in a casual manner, ‘Céline. That’s a pretty name but I rather doubt it is your real one.’

She looked across at him, the glass half-way to her lips, not sure how to respond.

‘Perhaps you’re right,’ she began.

‘Not perhaps. I am quite positive. In fact, I know who you are and how you came to be here,’ Holmes continued, leaning forward and speaking now with great earnestness. ‘You are Mary Sullivan, a former apprentice dressmaker, and you attended an interview at the Temperance Rooms in Bow last May with the Honourable Mrs Clyde-Bannister – Mrs Wilson, to give her her real name. With you at the interview was another young woman, Rosie Hare. You and Rosie were the only two successful candidates. After a period of training at Mrs Clyde-Bannister’s house in Cadogan Crescent, Rosie was sent to a household in Streatham to serve as a parlourmaid while you were dispatched to a family in Hampstead. I believe I can guess what happened while you were there but I should like my suspicions confirmed. You were compromised in some manner. Am I not correct? And the price you had to pay was your agreement to work at the “Canary Club”.’

‘Compromised!’ Mary Sullivan said bitterly, the Cockney-Irish accent becoming more pronounced. ‘That’s one way of putting it!
I don’t know who you are or what your game is but you look like the sort a girl could trust. Yes, we went to Cadogan Crescent where we was supposed to have been trained as parlourmaids but it was mostly about how to speak proper and make ourselves look nice. There was a bit about waiting at table and serving wine but not much. Then we was sent off to these different addresses as parlourmaids. I never knew where Rosie went so I couldn’t write to her.

‘My place was all right – to begin with. The lady and gentleman of the house, Mr and Mrs Mallinson, was kind and the duties wasn’t hard. They had a cook and a woman came in daily to do the housework. Then one evening before dinner, there was such a set-to! Mrs Mallinson said she’d left a bracelet
on her dressing-table and now it was missing. She accused me of stealing it, which I denied ’cos I hadn’t so much as set eyes on it. Then Mr Mallinson said, “In that case, you won’t mind if we look in your room, will you?” And I said, “You look all you like. You won’t find it.”’

‘But they did,’ Holmes said softly. The remark was more in the nature of a statement than a question.

’Course they did! It was where they must have put it – in the top drawer under my chemises. Then Mr Mallinson said he’d have to send for the police. Well, naturally, I was ever so upset and I cried and Mrs Mallinson said, “Now Arthur,” – that was Mr Mallinson’s name – “we don’t want to get the girl into trouble, do we? You go and fetch Mr Wilson and ask him what we can do for the best.” So Mr Mallinson went off in a cab and came back with Mr Wilson.

‘I’d seen Mr Wilson before. He’d called several times at the house and been ever so kind to me, treated me like a real gentleman and gave me half a crown. Anyway, when Mr Wilson arrived, he talked to me and explained how serious it was to get caught stealing and how I could be sent to prison but I wasn’t to cry any more ’cos he knew of a way out. I couldn’t go on working for the Mallinsons but he owned a very select gentlemen’s club in the West End and he was looking for an attractive young lady like me to serve drinks to his clients. If I agreed to work there, he’d persuade the Mallinsons not to charge me with stealing. So I said I would although if I knew then what I know now I’d have sooner gone to prison.’

‘And the select gentlemen’s club was, of course, this place?’ Holmes said quietly.

‘That’s right, darlin’. I came here and finished up as one of Mr Wilson’s little canaries, trained to sing for the customers and hop about prettily on my perch.’