The Secret Files of Sherlock Holmes (5 page)

It was generous of him to include me in this explanation when I had contributed nothing to the revelation but I really could not allow him to omit one very important factor.

‘Wait a moment, Holmes!’ I broke in. ‘What happened to Sammy Webb, the real delivery man?’

‘Simple, my dear fellow,’ Holmes replied. ‘Sammy Webb remained out of sight in the side-passage until Charlie Nelson, growing impatient at waiting for his friend to reappear, went into the house to find him. Webb then left by the front gate and sauntered off to rejoin his vehicle, Mr Phillimore having in the meantime climbed into the back of it among the loaves and halfpenny buns when there were no passers-by to witness his action. It was, you recall, Watson, a closed van. With Mr Phillimore concealed inside it, Webb then drove the vehicle away and resumed his normal round until they reached a quiet side street where Mr Phillimore, divested of his disguise, emerged and, no doubt, caught a train or omnibus to Victoria Station where he bought a single ticket to Margate. By the way,’ he continued, turning back to Mr Phillimore, ‘Sammy Webb explained his reasons for agreeing to help you. He is still most grateful for the two guineas you gave him to pay off the debts he had unfortunately accrued through playing cards.’

James Phillimore bowed his head in acknowledgement but said nothing, merely continuing to regard Holmes with that serious, attentive expression.

At this moment, the door opened and the pleasant, fair-haired landlady, whom Phillimore had addressed as Ellen,
entered, carrying a tray loaded with tea-things and a freshly-baked seed-cake. Placing the tray on a low table in front of the hearth, she smiled tentatively at the three of us and then, passing behind Phillimore’s chair, placed a hand briefly on his shoulder before leaving the room.

As the door closed behind her, Phillimore said in a low voice, ‘You remarked a little earlier, Mr Holmes, that you did not fully understand my motives for disappearing. That’s my reason – my Ellen, the best and kindest woman a man could ever wish to meet. I stayed here in this boarding-house last October, after the death of my mother, when the doctor ordered a rest and sea air. I am not by nature a romantic man, sir. All my life I have had to work hard and do my duty, serving other people. There has never been much time for day-dreams. But the moment I set eyes on Ellen, I knew she was the only woman for me. What could I do? I was engaged to Miss Page; a nice enough young lady although it was largely on her insistence that I agreed to becoming her fiancé. But compared to Ellen …’

He broke off, his grave features flushing with emotion.

‘Yes, yes, of course! I quite understand,’ Holmes said hastily before, turning to me, he urged, ‘Pour the tea, my dear fellow. I think all of us are in need of refreshment.’

By the time I had filled and passed round the cups, together with slices of the excellent seed-cake, Phillimore had sufficiently recovered his composure to continue his account.

‘I am sorry I have caused so much bother,’ he said quietly. ‘If I could have slipped away without troubling anyone, believe me, I would have done so. And it was always my intention to make up for any distress others have suffered on my account. I am making arrangements to have the house made over to Charlie Nelson. Like I said, he’s always been a good friend and I would like him to have the benefit of it. I certainly have no further use for the place. He’s living in lodgings at the moment and he’s none too happy there. Then there’s Mrs Bennet. She ought to have retired years ago but she’s a widow and can’t afford to stop working. I’m getting a solicitor to draw up an annuity for her which will pay her two pounds a week during her lifetime. As for Cora – Miss Page – well, I feel really bad
about letting her down but better that than an unhappy marriage as I hope she will realise herself when she has had time to think about it.’

‘She is not an unattractive young lady. She could quite easily find someone else to marry,’ Holmes suggested, giving me a small glance to warn me to say nothing on the subject of Charlie Nelson and Miss Page.

‘That’s as maybe, Mr Holmes. All the same, I shall make over to her the hundred pounds or so I’ve got saved up, without, of course, letting her, or anyone else for that matter, know what’s happened to me or where I’m living.’

‘It sounds most generous,’ Holmes murmured.

‘It’s the least I can do. You see, when I decided to disappear, I wanted to make a clean start and leave everything connected with my old life behind me – the house, my job, even my clothes.’

‘But not your investments? Oh, please, Mr Phillimore!’ Holmes expostulated as Phillimore started up in his chair. ‘Pray don’t distress yourself! I assure you I know nothing about any sums of money you may have put aside in a banking account apart from the fact that one must exist.’

‘Then how did you find out about it?’ Phillimore demanded.

‘By a simple process of deduction combined with a knowledge of human nature. It is a very unusual man indeed who, having worked as hard as you have done all his life, turns his back entirely on all that he has achieved. I assumed it was so in your case. As a matter of fact, it was an inadvertent remark on the part of your friend Charlie Nelson which gave me the clue. He spoke of the “tips” you had received at Gudgeon’s. Now a tip can be something more than a mere financial reward for good service. It can be a piece of advice, especially one involving monetary gain.

‘I happen to know Gudgeon’s. I have lunched there on several occasions and a very comfortable establishment it is, too; rightly popular with its select clientele which includes members of the Stock Exchange, who no doubt discuss their business affairs discreetly over an excellent luncheon of steak and kidney pudding accompanied by a glass or two of claret. A
head-waiter, especially one who has taught himself to lip-read for the benefit of his deaf mother, might very easily pick up a good many tips on when to buy or sell certain shares. Am I not right, Mr Phillimore?’

‘Indeed, you are, Mr Holmes,’ Phillimore admitted with a rueful smile. ‘I’ve been quietly investing any spare cash I could afford for years now.’

‘And Monday was a good day to sell. I noticed in
The
Times,
a paper which carries information on current share prices and to which you also subscribe, that the market was particularly buoyant. Hence your decision to disappear on Tuesday morning, once you had the opportunity to sell out on Monday. I hope you made a killing, as the ‘Change would describe it?’

‘Five thousand pounds, Mr Holmes; more than I’ve ever dreamed of owning and more than enough for Ellen and me to marry on, which we intend doing as soon as the banns can be read. After that, we’re proposing to invest the money by buying a nice, comfortable hotel on the sea-front which has recently come on the market, Ellen and me running it and with other people to do the cooking and waiting at table for a change.’

‘I wish you well,’ Holmes observed. ‘I am sure it will be a great success. However, when I asked you for the reason behind your disappearance, I meant not so much why you chose to vanish but what made you decide to do it in such a spectacular fashion. Why not simply walk out of the house, leaving a letter behind on the table for your housekeeper to find later? Am I right in thinking that Marvello the Great Magician, whom I noticed featured in all the music-hall programmes you left behind in the sideboard drawer and who must have been a particular favourite of yours, might have had some influence over your actions?’

Phillimore’s face lit up.

‘You’ve seen his act, have you, Mr Holmes? The little dog that disappears from its basket and reappears in his coat pocket? And the trick with his young lady assistant who vanishes from behind the opened umbrella? It was that turn which put the idea of the umbrella and disappearing into my head in the first place. He’s rightly called Marvello for he is a marvel, sir; a
veritable wonder. I’ve been to every music-hall where he’s been on the bill and I have never failed to be amazed how he does it.’

‘So you decided to emulate him?’

Phillimore looked a little embarrassed.

‘There isn’t much as escapes you, is there, Mr Holmes? You’re quite right. When I made up my mind to disappear, I thought – why not vanish in style instead of creeping off like a thief in the night? I wanted – well, it’s hard to explain but all my life I’ve never done anything that hasn’t been routine and humdrum. But vanishing! Now that’s something rare and out of the ordinary. As you’ll know, Mr Holmes, being a devotee, Marvello ends his act by disappearing himself in a cloud of coloured smoke to a great roll of drum beats. I couldn’t have the smoke and the drums …’

‘But your vanishing act was none the less carried out with considerable panache. I am sure the Great Marvello himself would have applauded it,’ Holmes remarked, getting to his feet and holding out his hand. ‘Goodbye, Mr Phillimore. We have a four-wheeler waiting outside and with a little good fortune and some smart driving on the part of the cabby, we may be able to catch the 5.10 to London. And rest assured, your secret is safe with us.’

As we climbed into the cab and it drove off towards the station, Holmes turned to me with a smile, cutting short the protest which I had been about to make, as if he had read my thoughts, a gift of mental prognosis which on several occasions I have had good reason to believe he may have possessed.

‘Yes, my dear Watson, you may indeed write up the story of the vanishing head-waiter if you so wish. But on no account must it be published. If Miss Cora Page should discover Phillimore’s present whereabouts, she would turn Margate inside out to find him and sue him for breach of promise. I have given him my word and, as far as the world at large is concerned, this investigation must remain one of those unsolved cases which proved too difficult even for my deductive powers.’

It was not often I was able to bring a case to Holmes’ notice
*
  and it is with some misgivings I admit it was through my personal instigation that my old friend became involved in the following adventure.

It occurred in the year ’87, not long after my marriage when, having returned to civil practice, I had moved out of my former lodgings in Baker Street, leaving Holmes in sole occupancy among his books, his papers and his scientific apparatus.

It was my habit when paying professional calls on patients in the immediate vicinity of my consulting-rooms to do so on foot, particularly if the weather was fine, and it was while on one of these excursions one afternoon in June that I ran into, almost literally, an old army acquaintance of mine, Major Adolphus (Dolly) Venables, whom I had last met while serving in India. Major Venables had been an officer in my own regiment, the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, to which I was attached as Assistant Surgeon before being transferred to the Berkshires and posted to the Afghan frontier.

On my arrival in India, Major Venables and his wife had been extremely kind to me, inviting me on several occasions to their bungalow for afternoon tea or a
chota
peg.

They often spoke fondly of their son, Edward, known affectionately as Teddy, their only child who, as was the custom, had been sent back to England to be educated, in his case under the care of Mrs Venables’ maiden sister, Miss Edith Warminster.

After I was wounded and was invalided out of the army, I lost touch with ‘Dolly’ Venables although from time to time I heard news of him through mutual acquaintances, learning with considerable distress of the death of his wife in India of yellow fever. She had been an unassuming, gentle-hearted woman.

It was not until that June afternoon when I met with Venables again so unexpectedly in the street after an interval of several years that I was able to renew the friendship.

I found him little changed. He still preserved his upright, military bearing and open kindliness of expression which had characterised him in India although his former vigorous manner, that of a man used to an active, outdoor life, was not as apparent as it had once been. He seemed sadder and more subdued, an alteration which at the time I assumed was caused by his wife’s death.

Discovering that I lived not far from his own address in Dorset Court, he invited me to his house that evening, one of several such meetings which were to occur over the following months, usually at his place or the lounge-bar of some convenient hotel for, although my wife made him very welcome, he seemed a little inhibited in her company, perhaps comparing his own widowed state with our domestic happiness. It was also easier for us to reminisce about our army days together tête-à-tête in a totally masculine setting.

It was during these meetings that, little by little, I learned his story. Indeed, he seemed grateful to have someone in whom he could confide.

His main topic of conversation was his son, Teddy. As I have explained, the boy had been sent back to England to be educated at boarding school, spending the holidays with his maiden aunt at her home in Farnham.

Although no expense had been spared in his upbringing, it appeared that the effort had been largely wasted for the lad had
proved troublesome both at school and at home. Indeed, he had been expelled from several boarding establishments for various escapades and misdemeanours.

Listening to Venables’ account, it was not difficult to guess that the main cause of his indiscipline was the aunt, Miss Warminster, who, like her sister, Major Venables’ late wife, was of a gentle, soft-hearted disposition and had failed to exercise that kind of control which a high-spirited youth requires.

Not to put too fine a point on it, the boy had been thoroughly spoilt.

On the death of Miss Warminster, when Teddy was sixteen, Major Venables had retired from the army on half-pay and had returned to England to supervise his son’s education, there being no one else whom he could entrust with the task.

However, the damage had been done and Venables, who whilst serving in his regiment had found no difficulty in disciplining the men under his command, had found his son intractable.

To add to his problems, there were also financial worries. As I myself had discovered on first being invalided out of the army, it is not easy to live comfortably on half-pay and, in the Major’s case, with school fees to pay and a growing lad to maintain, he had been hard put to it on occasions to meet all his bills. In fact, the house in Dorset Court where he was then living was a modest, rented dwelling, hardly bigger than an urban cottage, with two bedrooms only and very cramped living quarters on the ground floor which the Major had done his best to turn into a comfortable home for himself and his son by introducing various pieces of furniture in the way of rattan chairs and carved teak tables as well as a collection of Oriental knick-knacks which he had brought back with him from India.

He could not even afford a proper servant, being forced to rely on the services of a daily cleaning-woman only.

At the time of my meeting with him in the street, the Major had been living in Dorset Court for the past three years, providing a home for his son who was then nineteen and was studying medicine at my old hospital, Barts.

I met Teddy on only one occasion. He was leaving the house
just as I was about to ring at the doorbell and he brushed past me quite rudely without speaking as I stood on the step. A tall, good-looking young man, he had inherited his mother’s fair hair and finely-drawn features but while hers had been infused with a gentle candour, his bore only the sulky petulance of an immature youth.

Through my contacts at Barts, especially with my former dresser, Stamford, I was able, by means of a few discreet inquiries, to learn a few more facts about young Venables that his father had either not thought fit to confide in me or had not known himself. All the information I received confirmed my worst fears.

The young man was often late for lectures, if he did not absent himself entirely, and, while intelligent, was lazy and lacked application. The standard of his work was frequently so unsatisfactory, according to Stamford, that there was a chance of his being dismissed before his course of studies was complete.

I come now to an evening in late December. My wife having gone to stay with her aunt
*
on a belated Christmas visit, I had, on her insistence, returned temporarily to my old lodgings in Baker Street where she felt I should be better cared for by Mrs Hudson than by our own unsatisfactory cook-general who was at the time serving out her notice.
†
It was also on my wife’s suggestion that I took the opportunity for a few days’ holiday myself, leaving a colleague in charge of my practice.

I had not seen the Major for two or three weeks, an earlier appointment to meet at the Criterion Bar having been cancelled by him on account of illness.

Holmes, who was engaged on a case at the time, had gone out on one of his mysterious errands connected with it and I
was sitting alone by the fire, reading. It was a cold, wintry evening and there was no reason why I should not have remained indoors except that I was overcome by a sudden impulse to see my old army acquaintance. Although Holmes would have been amused at my fancy, putting it down to mere imagination or womanish intuition, I had a strong feeling that something was badly the matter and that the Major urgently needed my services.

It was only seven o’clock, not too late to pay him a call, and with no further ado, I got up from my seat by the fire, put on my heavy greatcoat and took a cab to his house.

There was a light burning in the hall of the Major’s house so I knew someone was at home although it was several minutes before he answered my ring at the bell.

When he finally opened the door, I almost failed to recognise him. In the few short weeks since I had last seen him, he was shockingly changed, his features haggard, his shoulders bowed, his gait that of an old man.

‘Are you ill, Venables?’ I cried, distressed by his appearance.

‘I have been, Watson,’ he replied in a husky voice. ‘But I am a little better now. It was kind of you to call and inquire after me. If you will forgive me, however, I am in no state to receive visitors.’

He seemed about to close the door but I refused to be dismissed.

‘I am coming in,’ I told him. ‘Although you say you are no longer ill, as a doctor my professional obligations will not allow me to walk away and leave you in this condition.’

He acquiesced reluctantly, preceding me down the hall to the little sitting-room where in the brighter light of the gas lamps, I was able to observe him more closely.

He looked ghastly as he sat huddled in a chair by the remains of a coal fire, gaunt and famished with grey skin and trembling hands.

I made up the fire and, having fetched a tumbler from the sideboard, poured him a stiff whisky from my hip flask.

It was only when the glass was in his hand and I had
inquired, ‘Now, my dear fellow, what is the matter with you?’, that he found the strength or the courage to speak.

The story he had to tell was, I suppose, not altogether unexpected under the circumstances, especially in the light of what I had learned from Stamford.

Young Venables had been dismissed from Barts. And that was not all. For several months past, his conduct had caused his father far more concern than he had confided in me. The young man had been coming home later and later at night, sometimes the worse for drink. On occasions, he had not returned until the following day, dishevelled in appearance and refusing to give his father an account of where he had been and what he had been doing.

‘Dolly’ Venables had done his best to control his son’s excesses, remonstrating with him, threatening to stop his allowance, pleading with him for his dead mother’s sake to mend his ways. It was all to no avail. Young Venables had continued with his ill-disciplined behaviour.

One of the Major’s chief concerns was Teddy’s apparent access to money for, even after he had made good his threat and had cut off his son’s allowance, the young man still managed to acquire funds from somewhere, continuing to stay out late at night and to indulge himself in drink and expensive new clothes such as silk cravats, dress shirts, even a pair of hand-made boots from Bellamy’s of Piccadilly.

‘Although God knows where he found the money,’ the Major whispered, his hands clasped so tightly round his whisky glass that his knuckles showed white beneath the skin.

A final confrontation had taken place a week earlier. The young man had again returned home in an inebriated state in the early hours of the morning and, when his father had faced him on the stairs, a terrible quarrel had broken out in which Teddy had admitted he had been dismissed from Barts. On receiving a stern dressing-down from his father, the young man had lost his temper, shouted that he would not stay a moment longer to be treated like a child and, rushing into his room, had flung all his possessions into two valises before storming out of the house.

The Major had not seen or heard anything of him since and had no knowledge of his present whereabouts.

At this point in his account, Venables broke down.

It is a dreadful thing to see a grown man weep, especially someone of the Major’s proud and reticent disposition. As a friend, I was deeply moved by his distress; as a doctor, I was concerned about both his mental and his physical condition.

‘Now look here, Venables,’ I said, drawing one of the rattan chairs close to his. ‘There must be some action you can take to find out where your son is. Has he gone to stay with friends?’

It seemed that the Major had contacted all Teddy’s known acquaintances but none of them had seen him. In fact, the young man appeared to have cut himself off from all his former school friends and fellow students at Barts.

‘Then did he leave anything behind – a letter, say, or a diary – from which you might obtain a clue to his present address?’

‘Only this,’ Venables replied. ‘I found it under the paper lining in his bureau drawer.’

Reaching up to the mantelpiece, he took down a small pasteboard oblong which he handed to me. It was a visiting card on which were engraved the following words:

I said, ‘Does your son know this Colonel?’

‘Not to my knowledge although I myself was acquainted with Fortescue-Lamb several years ago in India. He was serving then in the Seventh Inverskillen Bombardiers. But you see, Watson, the baffling part of it is that Fortescue-Lamb retired from the army before I did and I happen to know that he emigrated to
Australia to run a sheep farm. I remember joking with him about the suitability of his name for his new career. As I received a greetings card from him, postmarked Bollawanga, only this very Christmas, I assume he must still be there. You follow my point? If old Baa-Lamb, as we used to call him, is sheep-farming in Australia, what is he doing acting as secretary to this charity and why should my son have his card?’

‘Could you not write or call at this address in Titchbourne Street and make inquiries?’

‘I could indeed, Watson. I have hesitated to do so in case I caused any further bad feeling between Teddy and myself. He already resents my meddling in his affairs, as he calls it.’

‘Yes; I can understand your reluctance. Then would you have any objections if I explained the situation to Sherlock Holmes and showed him this card? The circumstances are certainly very strange and could well interest him. As he is quite used to making this type of inquiry, you may rely on his discretion.’

In the course of our meetings, I had told Venables a little about my own history and background since I had retired from the army, including the fact that I had once shared lodgings in Baker Street with the famous consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes, with whose reputation Venables was already acquainted.