The Secret Files of Sherlock Holmes (19 page)

‘Do they ever open the cage door and let you out?’

Mary Sullivan laughed.

‘Oh, we get taken out for an airing from time to time, carefully chaperoned by Mrs Gough in case we try to fly away.’

‘Mrs Gough?’

‘She’s in charge upstairs and a right tartar she is, too. It’s her
husband on the door who acts as chucker-out in case any of the gentlemen turns awkward. He used to be a prize-fighter. You don’t want to get on the wrong side of him.’

‘Have any of the little birds managed to escape?’

‘Not that I know of. Most of them don’t want to anyway. They enjoy being in their cage. It’s warm and they’re well fed. They don’t much care as long as they’re given champagne and pretty clothes to wear.’

‘And what about the ones who do care? What happens to them?’

‘They get sent on.’

I saw Holmes’ expression sharpen.

‘“Sent on”? Where to?’

‘Nobody’s supposed to know but the maids upstairs, them that cleans the rooms and helps us dress, warns us sometimes, “You watch out! If you don’t mind your p’s and q’s you’ll finish up on the train from Victoria with the Goughs.” That’s what happened to Rosie.’

‘Did it?’ Holmes asked with an offhand air. ‘When was this?’

‘A couple of nights ago. She arrived here in September, about a week after I did and with exactly the same story as me.
She’d
been accused of stealing and Mr Wilson had offered
her
a job in his gentlemen’s club. Marguerite, they called her. But she was always crying and not singing as nicely for the clients as she was supposed to. Then Mr Wilson caught her trying to get one of the gentlemen to post a letter to her mother. We’re not supposed to have any family who cares about us. I know my old ma was glad to see the back of me. The Honourable Mrs Clyde-Bannister, Mrs Wilson to you, dear, made a special point of that at the interview. “Any close relatives or friends?” she said. “I only ask because sometimes my girls are sent abroad with the families they’ll work for and I don’t like to think I’m causing distress at home.” The bloody old hypocrite! Anyway, as I was saying, Rosie tried to pass on a letter and Mrs Gough locked her in one of the upstairs rooms. Then, a couple of nights ago, a four-wheeler came to the house and the next day Rosie had gone. And so had the Goughs. “She’s been sent on,” was all Mr Wilson would tell us. But all of us girls knew where.
Can’t you guess, darlin’? No? Gay Paree. Where else? It seems French gentlemen like little English canaries.’

‘Good Lord!’ I exclaimed involuntarily, quite forgetting the warning Holmes had given me in the cab.

But my horrified exclamation was covered up by Mary Sullivan’s own cry of, ‘Oh, my Gawd, Mr Wilson’s coming over! Now I’ll be for it! He don’t like us girls wasting time chatting to the clients when we should be getting down to business.’

Wilson was indeed making his way across the room to our table, moving with surprising agility and silence for a man of his vast bulk.

‘Anything the matter, gentlemen?’ he inquired, smiling unctuously but fixing both Holmes and me with a hard stare from pale blue eyes which were almost hidden in the folds of fat round his cheeks.

‘No; why should there be?’ Holmes drawled carelessly, lounging back in his chair. ‘We are simply enjoying a pleasant little chinwag, old fellow.’ Turning to me, he went on, ignoring Wilson, ‘What d’you say, Bunny? Shall we take a stroll and see what other little birds are on offer before making up our minds?’

With a wink at me, he got up and walked away, leaving me to follow after him which I did with some haste, eager to escape from the unspeakable Wilson.

Once we were well clear of the man and had joined the other promenaders in the centre of the room, I grasped him by the arm and said in a low voice, ‘How are we going to get out of this dreadful place without arousing Wilson’s suspicions even further?’

‘Leave it to me, my dear fellow,’ Holmes replied. ‘I have already thought of a way. After a couple more turns up and down the room in which we shall ogle the
jeunes
filles
as if we had every intention of making an offer for two of them, you will suddenly be taken faint and will have to be escorted off the premises. Do you think you can manage that?’

‘With no trouble at all,’ I assured him fervently.

Indeed, when the time came, there was hardly any need for me to feign a sudden indisposition. The heat in the room combined with the champagne, the odour of cigars and the
heavy perfume with which the young women were liberally doused caused me to feel quite light-headed and, with Holmes’ arm in mine, I staggered into the entrance hall, my old friend announcing loudly as he collected our coats and silk hats, ‘Too much bubbly, that’s your trouble, Bunny old chap!’

I felt better as soon as we reached the fresh air of the street where Holmes left me in the care of the liveried doorman, remarking to him as he went back inside the house, ‘Damned stupid of me! I’ve left my cane behind.’

He was back within minutes, the cane under his arm although he waited until we had started walking back towards the Haymarket before explaining to me in a low voice, ‘Just as I thought. When I went back into the place, Mary Sullivan was being escorted upstairs by Mrs Wilson. I have a strong suspicion that the young lady is about to be “sent on”.’

I stopped in my tracks.

‘But that’s quite dreadful, Holmes! I fear we are to blame. We must return at once and prevent it!’

‘My dear old friend, you will achieve nothing by charging in there like a knight on a white horse, waving a sword. Evil monsters like the Wilsons have to be snared before they can be slain. We must have proof and for that we have to wait for them to make the first move which will be later tonight; at half past midnight to be precise.’

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘You will recall that Mary Sullivan spoke of the Victoria train and how Rosie Hare was, as she thought, “sent on” to catch it two nights ago? Well, there is a boat train which leaves Victoria at one fifteen to connect with the night-ferry from Dover to Calais. I believe a four-wheeler will be sent for at half past twelve to collect Mary Sullivan and her escort, the Goughs, to catch that train. Observe, Watson, that the nearest cab-stand is over there on the corner from where one has a clear view down Montrose Street. I want you to stay here and keep a watch on both the cab-stand and the “Canary Club”. Should anyone come out of the house and approach any of the drivers, it is your responsibility to prevent the cab from setting off.’

‘But how?’

‘I leave that entirely to your discretion, my dear Watson. I, meanwhile, shall take a hansom to Scotland Yard to alert Lestrade.’ Holmes glanced at his pocket-watch. ‘I have an hour and a half to persuade our friend the Inspector that action must be taken; not long as Lestrade is not a man who is normally quick-thinking but I hope time enough.’ The next moment he had crossed to the cab stand and had leapt into a hansom, leaving me standing alone on the pavement.

Rarely have I spent a more uncomfortable hour and a half with the exception of the time I served in India and was wounded at the battle of Maiwand in ’80 during the Afghan War.

A bitter wind blew down Montrose Street, bringing with it small crumbs of frozen snow which swirled and eddied across the pavements.

Although at the far end of the road I could see the bright lights of the Haymarket, there were few passers-by apart from the occasional late reveller looking for a cab and the streetwalkers who continued plying their trade. I was accosted more than a dozen times.

To keep warm, I walked up and down stamping my feet, seeking shelter from time to time in a doorway where I anxiously consulted my own pocket-watch.

At twenty minutes past twelve when I had given up hope, a four-wheeler, followed closely by two more, drew up beside me and my old friend jumped out, accompanied by Lestrade and two police officers, eight more emerging from the other cabs, all in plain clothes.

‘Thank God, Holmes!’ I cried. ‘I thought you would not get here in time!’

‘Then we are not too late?’ he asked. ‘We had to wait for warrants to be drawn up.’

Lestrade said defensively, ‘It all has to be done by the book, Mr Holmes. The “Canary Club” is a private gentlemen’s establishment. We can’t just force our way in without the proper authorization. But murder and White Slave trafficking! That’s a serious matter!’ He turned away to address the ten officers who had accompanied him and Holmes. ‘Now I want you men to
walk along easy-like, as if you’re out strolling in the West End, enjoying yourselves. And none of you is to make a move until I give the word. Have you got that?’

The men murmured in assent and the group split up, Holmes and I walking with Lestrade along Montrose Street, the plain-clothes officers spreading out singly or in pairs on either side of the road.

It was only when we had drawn level with the entrance to the ‘Canary Club’ that Lestrade gave the order.

With a shout of ‘Right, men!’, he charged up the steps, knocking aside the liveried porter, and flung himself against the door.

What happened next occurred so quickly that I have only a blurred impression of the events.

I remember bursting into the entrance hall on Lestrade’s heels with Holmes a few paces in front of me, the other men bundling in behind us. I also recall Gough coming for us like a maddened bull and three officers wrestling him to the floor. The rest is a confusion of women screaming, men shouting, glass breaking.

And then Holmes broke free of the mêlée and, calling to me to follow, ran towards the staircase, taking the steps two at a time.

On the landing, we were faced by many doors, some closed, some open, the occupants of the rooms having come out in a state of considerable
déshabillé
to see what the noise was about. Ignoring them, Holmes sprinted down the corridor, trying the handles of the doors which were still closed until he came to one which was locked.

‘Watson!’ he shouted. ‘Help me by putting your shoulder to this!’

I did as he ordered and, under our combined weight, the door crashed inwards and we were precipitated into the room.

It was a bedroom, containing a great quantity of mirror-glass and silk draperies but what immediately caught my attention was the figure of Mary Sullivan lying asleep on the bed, guarded by a gaunt, hard-faced woman, dressed in black – Mrs Gough, I assumed – who had been seated on a chair but who ran from the room as Holmes and and I burst into it.

‘Let her go!’ Holmes ordered. ‘Lestrade’s men can deal with her.’ He bent down over Mary Sullivan’s recumbent form to sniff at her lips and then turned to me, his expression grim. ‘She’s been chloroformed, Watson. Help me carry her out into the fresh air.’

Wrapping her in the quilt from the bed, Holmes and I between us supported her downstairs and out into the street where I hailed a passing four-wheeler in which we conveyed her to Charing Cross Hospital.

Having seen her safely placed in the hands of the medical staff at Charing Cross, we returned by cab to Prince’s Street police station where Lestrade had arranged for the Wilsons and their accomplices to be taken for questioning.

We found Lestrade in the middle of interviewing Wilson, who was seated on a chair, his starched shirt-front burst open and his face the colour of grey blubber.

The Inspector greeted us as we entered.

‘Come in, gentlemen. We have rounded up all the occupants of the “Canary Club” including this fine, fat bird who’s been singing his heart out,’ Lestrade said with a smile of satisfaction. ‘It seems they set up these interviews for young women in various parts of the East End, not just in Bow but all over the place. He’s also given us the names and addresses of the couples who rented the houses where the young women were supposed to have gone into service. I’ve sent some of my men to arrest them. He was just telling me about Rosie Hare when you arrived. Go on, Wilson. Tell us what happened to her and the other girl who was found dead in the Thames six months ago. What was her name?’

‘Lizzie Hamilton. And I had nothing to do with either of them!’ Wilson protested, his fat cheeks trembling with terror. ‘It was the Goughs! They were supposed to take them to another establishment in Paris. Lizzie Hamilton was the first. She’d been chloroformed to keep her quiet but she came to in the cab on the way to Victoria station and started struggling and screaming. Gough was worried the cab-driver would hear her so he hit her on the head. It was Mrs Gough who suggested they dump her in the Thames. They couldn’t be sure she
wouldn’t kick up another rumpus on the boat or on the train to Paris. So they told the driver the girl had been taken ill and, instead of going to Victoria, he was to drive them to Wapping where they said her mother lived and to put them down in a quiet street near the river. Once the cab had gone, they carried her along an alley to the bank and threw her in. The same happened with Rosie Hare. After Lizzie’s death, I told them it wasn’t to occur again. But they wouldn’t listen –’

He broke off, blubbing like a child.

Holmes and I left soon afterwards, neither of us caring to wait for Wilson and the others to be charged and both of us eager to return to the sanctuary of Holmes’ rooms in Baker Street.

Lestrade, of course, took all the credit for the successful raid on the ‘Canary Club’ and the arrest of Wilson and his accomplices.

Holmes was quite resigned to it, having grown used to the Inspector’s habit of stealing the limelight.

As for the Wilsons and the Goughs, they paid their dues to society, the Goughs with the ultimate punishment for the deaths of Rosie Hare and Lizzie Hamilton. The Wilsons both received long gaol sentences for their part in the conspiracy and for being accessories to murder; the others, varying terms of imprisonment.

I wish I could state that the successful conclusion of the case put an end to the monstrous trade in young female flesh but I fear this is not so. On my rare visits to the West End, I occasionally recognise among the streetwalkers the faces of young women whom I last saw taking part in the promenade up and down the
salon
of the ‘Canary Club’.