The Secret Files of Sherlock Holmes (2 page)

Although elsewhere in the published accounts of my adventures with Sherlock Holmes I have referred in passing to the disappearance of Mr James Phillimore as one of Holmes’ unsolved cases, I have to confess that this was a deception on my part, carried out on Holmes’ instructions in order to protect the anonymity of Mr Phillimore’s exact
whereabouts
.

Rather than reveal them, especially to one certain individual, Holmes, preferring not to betray Phillimore’s trust, allowed the public to believe that, in this particular case, all his deductive powers were of no avail and that he had to admit himself defeated.

However, I have his permission to write an account of the mystery and, in the hope that at some future date he may agree to the story being published, I intend preserving it among my papers.

The adventure began one Friday morning in late May when I called at 221B Baker Street soon after the post had arrived. I found Holmes seated at the breakfast table in the first-floor sitting-room among the clutter of familiar objects, reading a letter which he passed to me with the comment, ‘Well, Watson, what do you make of that?’

By that time, I had known Holmes for long enough to have acquired some of his skills of observation and I perused the letter carefully before replying.

It read:

I noticed that the writing-paper was a popular brand, available at most stationers’, and that the script was the careful, round hand of a clerk while the address, Magnolia Terrace, Clapham, suggested that the correspondent was neither distinguished nor famous.

I said as much, adding, ‘You won’t accept the case, will you, Holmes? A missing head-waiter! It seems far too commonplace to do much to enhance your reputation. Surely it is best left to the police to solve?’

Holmes, who was lighting his after-breakfast pipe, raised his eyebrows at me.

‘Come, Watson!’ he chided gently but not without an amused twinkle in his grey eyes. ‘I have told you before
*
that the status of a client is a matter of less moment to me than the interest of his case. And this case, even though it involves a head-waiter, is certainly a curious one. Mr James Phillimore has not merely disappeared. It would seem he has totally vanished without trace on a Tuesday morning in broad daylight and in the middle of Clapham, too! Besides, although the police have been informed, they appear not to be interested in following up
the mystery. I shall certainly see this Mr Charles Nelson when he arrives and hear the full story before deciding whether or not to take up the investigation. Will you be able to stay for the interview? Or have you a more pressing appointment with one of your patients?’

It so happened that my morning was free and, once Mrs Hudson had cleared the table, Holmes and I settled down to read the morning papers while awaiting the arrival of Mr Nelson, Holmes occasionally interrupting the silence to comment out loud on some item which had caught his attention in the daily press.

‘I see share prices are still rising,’ he remarked at one point. ‘Now would seem the right time to sell one’s investments.’

A little later, he again broke in to exclaim, ‘By Jove, Watson! Another burglary in Knightsbridge, this time at the home of Lady Whittaker whose emeralds have been stolen. I am beginning to suspect a mastermind behind these thefts. It would not surprise me if one of these days we receive a visit from Inspector Lestrade of the Yard.’

Lestrade did not, in fact, call that morning although, sharp on the stroke of eleven, footsteps were heard ascending the stairs and, after a hesitant knock at the door, Mr Nelson, a tall, awkward man in his thirties, with thinning fair hair, entered the room. He was dressed in a respectable dark suit and carried a bowler hat which he twisted nervously between his hands as if awed at finding himself in the presence of the great consulting detective.

Unexpectedly, for his letter had made no reference to a companion, he was accompanied by a young woman in her mid-twenties; not unhandsome but a little too buxom and high-coloured to be considered beautiful and with a bold, imperious air about her. I could envisage her in a few years’ time developing into a formidable and overbearing matron.

Mr Nelson introduced her as Miss Cora Page, the fiancée of his friend, Mr Phillimore.

‘Miss Page’, Nelson continued, giving Holmes an apologetic glance, ‘insisted on coming with me.’

The reason for his diffidence was immediately apparent for,
no sooner had Holmes invited them to sit down, than Miss Page took charge of the interview.

‘Charlie here will be able to tell you the facts, Mr Holmes,’ she began, after casting a disapproving glance about her at the clutter of books, papers and scientific apparatus which occupied every flat surface in the room and had in places overflowed on to the floor. ‘My main concern is finding my fiancé. We were due to be married next month. The church is booked, the cake ordered, the dressmaker has nearly finished my wedding gown, apart from some alterations to the bodice, that is. And now Jim has gone and disappeared! I can’t believe he’d desert me practically on the altar steps. It’s too humiliating!’

Her voice rose as she spoke, her cheeks flushing even brighter, and, as she fumbled in her reticule for a handkerchief with which to dab her eyes, Holmes turned to me.

‘Miss Page is naturally distressed at the disappearance of her fiancé, Watson, and no doubt also fatigued by the journey here from Clapham. Such a long way to come! Be a dear fellow and escort her downstairs where I am sure Mrs Hudson will provide her with tea and biscuits.’

Taking the hint, I accompanied Miss Page to the ground floor where I installed her in the housekeeper’s room and, having seen her supplied with the refreshments which Holmes had recommended, I returned upstairs.

With Miss Page’s departure, Mr Nelson seemed more at ease and, as I re-entered the room, I found him leaning forward in his armchair in earnest tête-à-tête with Holmes, who, holding up a hand, cut short his prospective client’s account.

‘One moment, Mr Nelson, if you please. Now that my good friend Dr Watson has rejoined us, may I take the opportunity to recapitulate the facts of the case for his benefit?’ Turning to me, he continued, ‘Mr Nelson has been telling me that it is his custom to accompany his friend, Mr James Phillimore, every morning to Clapham Junction station in order to catch the 8.05 train into Town where they both have their places of work, Mr Nelson as clerk at Murchison and Whybrow’s, the solicitors in King William Street, Mr Phillimore at Gudgeon’s in St
Swithin’s Lane where he is employed as head-waiter. You have heard of Gudgeon’s, of course, Watson?’

‘Indeed I have,’ I replied, seating myself in the chair which Miss Page had just vacated. ‘It is a well-known restaurant in the City, much frequented, I believe, by bankers and members of the Stock Exchange.’

‘Quite so. Now it seems that every morning, on the dot of half past seven, as Mr Nelson described it, he would walk from Magnolia Terrace where he has lodgings …’

‘Just off Lavender Hill,’ Mr Nelson broke in.

‘… into Laburnum Grove where his old friend, Mr Phillimore, would be waiting for him at the gate of number seventeen. They would then set off together down Lavender Hill for the station. And then, three days ago …’ He looked across at Mr Nelson, inviting him to resume his account at the point where, it seemed, it had been interrupted.

Mr Nelson was eager to pick up the story.

‘Well, Mr Holmes, as I was saying, it was Tuesday morning. There was Jim – Mr Phillimore – standing at his gate as per usual. There was nothing out of the ordinary about him except, as I got close up to him, he said, ‘I fancy I can smell rain in the air, Charlie. I’m just popping back into the house for my brolly. It’s in the hall so I shan’t be more than half a jiffy.’ So he gets out his keys, walks back up the garden path, opens the front door and goes inside, leaving the door ajar. And that’s the last I saw of him.’

‘You waited, I assume?’ Holmes asked.

‘Of course I did, Mr Holmes. I hung about at the gate for a good five minutes, expecting him to come out of the house at any moment. Then, when he didn’t appear, I went up to the house myself, thinking he’d been taken ill of a sudden. I pushed open the door and went into the hall, calling out his name. But there was neither sight nor sound of him in either of the downstairs rooms. It was while I was looking and calling that his housekeeper heard me and came out of the kitchen. When I explained what had happened, she went with me up the stairs to look in the bedrooms. It’s only a small house, Mr Holmes, and I swear we searched every inch of it, under the beds, in the
wardrobes, even the cupboard under the stairs. But we found nothing.’

‘What about the garden? You searched that, too?’

‘Oh, yes, Mr Holmes. It is only a few yards square but there was no one there neither. It was as if he’d vanished into thin air.’

‘Could he have climbed into a neighbour’s garden?’ I put in.

‘No, he couldn’t, Dr Watson. The fence is too high as you’ll see for yourself if you come to the house; that is, if Mr Holmes is willing to take up the case.’

He turned to look at Holmes in appeal but my old friend, puffing away imperturbably at his pipe, refused to be drawn and merely nodded in my direction to encourage me to continue my line of questioning which I did with some hesitation, anxious not to appear a fool nor to assume Holmes’ role of detective.

‘Then is there any other means of exit from the premises? A back garden gate, for instance?’

‘No, sir, there isn’t. The only other way Jim – Mr Phillimore – could have left was by a passage which runs along the side of the house to the back door. It’s the tradesmen’s entrance. But he didn’t go out that way. As I explained, I was standing at the gate for a good five minutes and I would have noticed him if he’d left by that route. There’s a few people about at that time in the morning, like me and Jim making their way to work, but I know every one of them by sight and there’s not enough of them for him to have slipped away unnoticed. Nor did his housekeeper see him pass the kitchen window which he’d have to do if he went out that way. And, like I said, by the time I went into the house, he’d already vanished.’

I could think of no other questions to put to Mr Nelson and I was relieved when Holmes, leaning forward to knock out the ashes of his pipe into the coal-scuttle, resumed charge of the interview.

‘Tell me a little about your friend. What type of man is he?’

‘Oh, a very quiet, unassuming man, Mr Holmes. Very regular in his habits.’

‘Not the sort to take it into his head suddenly to disappear?’

‘Quite out of character. That’s why I’m so worried about him. He’s a steady, reliable fellow who I’d trust with my last shilling.’

‘Any problems at his place of employment?’

‘Quite the contrary. The management of Gudgeon’s are as concerned as I am about his disappearance. When I called round there to explain the situation to them, they spoke most highly of him.’

‘Then is he in any financial difficulties?’

‘Not that I know of, Mr Holmes. He lived very modestly, never spending more than he earned which, seeing as he was a head-waiter, were decent wages, not to mention the tips he’d get as extras.’

‘Tips!’ Holmes exclaimed, as if he had never heard of the word.

Mr Nelson regarded him in surprise.

‘Yes, Mr Holmes, tips; small gratuities which a satisfied customer offers for good service.’

‘Yes, yes, of course. I understand that. Pray continue, Mr Nelson. When I interrupted you, you were speaking of your friend’s modest style of living.’

‘And so it was, sir. He didn’t drink, didn’t smoke, didn’t gamble. His only extravagance was to treat himself occasionally to a seat in the upper circle at a music-hall. I know for a fact that he had over a hundred pound saved up. And he didn’t have to find a weekly rent neither. There’d been a bit of money in the family. His parents had owned an eating-house in the City Road. In fact, it was there where Jim got his foot on the first rung of the catering ladder, so to speak. As a lad, he’d worked for them, waiting at table. But, in his quiet way, Jim’s ambitious and gradually he moved on to higher things, eventually finishing up as head-waiter at Gudgeon’s. After his father died, his mother sold up the business and with the proceeds bought the house in Laburnum Grove, partly to retire to and partly to give Jim a home. He was living in lodgings at the time. Then, when old Mrs Phillimore died last October, he inherited the house along with its contents.’

‘Where, I assume, he intended setting up home with Miss Page after their marriage?’

Nelson gave Holmes another of his contrite glances.

‘I’m sorry about her coming with me, Mr Holmes. I had hoped to speak to you in private. But once she heard I had written to you for an appointment, she wouldn’t take no for an answer. She’s a very determined young lady is Cora. And naturally, she’s upset by Jim’s disappearance. As she told you, they were due to be married next month. Jim had been putting the wedding off on account of Cora and his mother not seeing eye to eye and neither of them willing to share the same house with the other. Mrs Phillimore was a bit of a Tartar, between me and you; crippled with arthritis in her later years and as deaf as a post. But that didn’t stop her getting her own way. It was on her account that Jim took on Mrs Bennet as a live-in housekeeper so there’d be someone to look after his mother when he was out at work. By the way, sir, I took the liberty of mentioning to Mrs Bennet that you might be calling at the house to make inquiries.’