The Secret Files of Sherlock Holmes (6 page)

On my mentioning Holmes’ name, Venables sat up, his haggard features alight with new hope.

‘Would you ask him to take the case, Watson? I should be enormously relieved if Mr Holmes would agree. I feel Teddy is in some kind of trouble but I should much prefer to know the worst than remain in ignorance. What are Mr Holmes’ fees? I am afraid the state of my present finances …’

He broke off, once more plunged into a state of despair.

To console him, I said airily, although I had no idea what Holmes might charge in this particular case, ‘Oh, they are very small, Venables; a mere token sum,’ intending, should they not be so, to make up the difference out of my own pocket rather than see my old army companion suffer any further distress. ‘So that is decided,’ I concluded, anxious to bring Venables to a decision. ‘I shall place the facts before Sherlock Holmes tonight.’

In the event, I did not have the opportunity to discuss the case with Holmes that evening. Although I waited up for him until after midnight, he failed to return home until the early hours and it was not until the following morning over breakfast that I was able to give him the full story of Teddy Venables’ disappearance and to show him the visiting-card.

Holmes listened attentively to my account, inquiring when I had finished, ‘And you say that this Colonel Fortescue-Lamb is at present in Australia?’

‘Yes; according to Venables. So you see, Holmes …’

‘I do indeed, Watson. But the mystery can be quite easily solved. As soon as we have finished breakfast, we shall take a cab to the –,’ he consulted the card, ‘– A. M. S. Head Office in Titchbourne Street and ask whoever is in charge there how Fortescue-Lamb manages to run two such widely separated ventures.’

‘You will be discreet, will you not?’ I asked. ‘Venables would not wish his son to know that he has requested the inquiries.’

Holmes, who was in high spirits that morning, threw up his hands in mock horror.

‘When am I ever not the soul of discretion, my dear fellow? But pray continue. I can tell from your expression that you have not completed all you wished to say.’

‘About your fees –?’

Putting down his cup, Holmes regarded me with an expression of quizzical kindliness before replying, ‘For friends or friends of friends there are no charges. Besides, last night I completed a case on behalf of a wealthy client, an American peanut millionaire whose younger brother had formed an unfortunate attachment with a female midget. No, not another word, my good Watson. And now, if you have quite finished your kipper, we shall take a hansom to Titchbourne Street without any further delay.’

Titchbourne Street was a drab turning off Wapping Lane, not far from the river for, as we alighted from the cab, we could smell its muddy odour and could glimpse down the alley-ways which ran between the buildings the masts and rigging of the ships tied up at the wharves.

The street itself was lined with wholesalers’ and importers’ warehouses, their grimy brick edifices dwarfing a row of low, mean houses and a solitary public house, the Britannia, which stood on the corner.

To my surprise, number 10 to 19 was one of these warehouses, a four-storeyed premises with tiers of barred windows. A large board fastened across the façade announced in bold lettering the words: ‘Geo. Buckmaster, Furniture Importers and Wholesalers’.

‘This is very puzzling, Holmes,’ I remarked. ‘It is hardly the place where one would expect to find the headquarters of a charitable institition.’

‘But we have evidently found the correct address,’ Holmes replied. He had approached a black-painted door, the only entrance along the whole length of the frontage, to which was affixed a small plaque which read: ‘A. M. S. Head Office. Postal Inquiries Only’.

The door proved to be firmly locked for Holmes tried the handle in vain and, when persistent loud knocking failed to rouse anyone inside the building, he turned back towards the Britannia public house, remarking, ‘If I am not mistaken, there should be a way through to a rear entrance where goods are unloaded. Ah, I thought so, Watson! Here is an alley-way which leads along the side of the tavern and which should take us to it.’

Holmes was right. The alley opened into a broad cobblestoned lane, which ran parallel to Titchbourne Street and was entirely enclosed on both sides by the tall rear walls of the various wholesale establishments, all of which were supplied with ramps and double doors where goods could be despatched or delivered.

Indeed, as we approached the back of Buckmaster’s premises, we could see that a large covered van was standing outside such a pair of doors which were flung wide open, a boy holding the horses’ heads, while three men in sacking aprons unloaded furniture from the interior of the vehicle.

A short, stout man, wearing a billycock hat and with a large
silver watch-chain looped across the front of his waistcoat, appeared to be in charge.

He listened to Holmes’ inquiry, his head cocked on one side so that he could still keep an eye on the men’s activities.

‘The A. M. S.?’ said he. ‘I can’t tell you much about it; or even what it is, come to that, except it’s some institution or other as uses the premises for an accommodation address. A young man calls round every other day to collect any letters that have been delivered. You’ll have to ask the manager, Mr Littlejohn.’

He broke off to shout at the men who were lifting a large mahogany wardrobe off the van. ‘Careful with that! You’ll smash them mirrors in the doors!’ before, turning back to Holmes, he continued, ‘If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I’ve got work to do. Go and see Mr Littlejohn at the main office in Grace Street, that’s my advice.’

‘Would you have any objection if I looked briefly inside the building?’ Holmes inquired and, when the man appeared to hesitate, there was a chink as coins exchanged hands; at which the foreman winked, touched one finger to the brim of his hat and, having cocked his head this time in the direction of the interior of the warehouse, sauntered off in a deliberately nonchalant manner.

Taking this elaborate pantomime as permission, Holmes and I also strolled off as casually towards the double wooden doors, which were fitted with an extra entrance by way of a small wicket opening and which led into a broad stone passage.

As we entered, I noticed Holmes lift his head to sniff the air as if he had detected some peculiar aroma in the atmosphere. For my part, I could smell nothing more than the musty scent of old plaster and a damp cellar odour which seemed to come seeping up the stone steps from some basement or lower vault below the building.

The stairs in question led off to our right, one flight ascending to the upper floors, another leading downwards, this set of steps being closed off from the passage by means of a tall iron grille, secured by a padlock and chain.

Alongside the staircases ran a shaft fitted with ropes, its
purpose being, I supposed, to serve as a hoist for raising or lowering heavier items of furniture to and from the upper storeys. Another gate, this time only knee-high, barricaded off the opening to this shaft in order to prevent anyone falling accidentally down it.

At the far end of the passage was a second door, fitted with glass panels, which was locked, as Holmes discovered when he tried the handle.

It led into a small vestibule which must have given access to the front entrance in Titchbourne Street for, when I joined Holmes to peer through the dusty glass, I could see the street door with its letter-box facing us and several envelopes lying below it on a strip of matting which partly covered the bare floor-boards.

The vestibule looked unused, the paintwork grimy, the ceiling festooned with old cobwebs.

The men had begun to carry the furniture from the van into the warehouse and, taking it as a sign that it was time to depart, we left, Holmes nodding to the foreman as we passed him.

Once out of earshot, he remarked, ‘Strange, Watson!’

‘What was, Holmes?’

‘The odour of cigar smoke.’

When I confessed I had not noticed it, Holmes, whose senses were keener than those of any other man I knew, raised his eyebrows.

‘Did you not? It was stale but still strong and unmistakably from a good havana. As you know, I have made a study of the various tobaccos and the different types of ash they leave behind.
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Their aromas are also quite distinctive. I cannot imagine even the foreman smoking such an expensive brand. And look at this!’

He extended the long index finger of his right hand, on the tip of which was a small dark stain.

‘Oil,’ he explained briefly before wiping it away with fastidious care on his pocket handkerchief. ‘It was from the padlock
on the grille which barred off the basement stairs. I am becoming more and more interested in the case you have laid before me, my dear fellow. A missing medical student and a secretary to a charitable institution who contrives simultaneously to run an Australian sheep-farm! And now cigar smoke and a freshly oiled padlock! The investigation has begun to develop most satisfactorily.’

Although I was gratified by Holmes’ remark, I was becoming curious about our destination for he was walking ahead of me so rapidly and purposefully that I was forced to lengthen my own stride in order to keep up with him.

When I inquired, ‘Where are we going now?’, he replied over his shoulder, ‘To Grace Street, of course, to interview the manager, Mr Littlejohn.’

‘Should we not ask directions, Holmes? The district is quite unfamiliar to me.’

‘But not to me,’ he replied carelessly. ‘I know this area particularly well. An old acquaintance of mine lives only a few streets away – Ikey Morrison, a former pickpocket and a good one, too, who turned respectable when he married a widow, the proprietress of a second-hand clothes shop. Ikey now runs the business. He is a most useful fellow to me in a variety of ways.’

By that time, I had known Holmes for long enough not to be entirely surprised at anything he might tell me about himself.

At the end of the lane by the Britannia public house, Holmes turned off, plunging confidently into a series of narrow byways and alleys, thus demonstrating his familiarity with the neighbourhood, until we eventually emerged into a busy thoroughfare, full of shops and businesses, which he announced was Grace Street.

Buckmaster’s premises were half-way down on the left, a small, rather shabby establishment, consisting of an almost bare front office, minimally furnished with one chair and a deal counter behind which a solitary clerk was on duty.

On Holmes’ request to see the manager, we were shown into a back room where a plump, moist-faced young man was seated at a desk.

Littlejohn, for so the man proved to be, had an outward air of smiling affability, an open, hail-fellow-well-met manner which was belied by the wary expression in his eyes and by a looseness about his lower lip suggesting greed and self-indulgence.

On the way there, Holmes had warned me how he proposed conducting the interview and I was therefore prepared when he introduced me as Mr Sullivan, himself as Mr Chadwick, partners in a firm importing Benares brassware, and announced that we were looking for a warehouse in the district in which to store our goods.

‘I have been advised,’ Holmes continued, ‘that Buckmaster’s owns large premises and that, as manager, you might be willing to lease out some of the floor space.’

Mr Littlejohn smiled apologetically.

‘Unfortunately, I cannot accommodate you, Mr Chadwick. All our available space is needed for the storage of our own goods.’

‘Are there not even a few square feet to spare?’ Holmes persisted. ‘Or even a basement which is available for rent?’

‘There is a lower vault,’ Mr Littlejohn conceded. ‘However, it is too damp to be used.’

‘Benares brassware does not easily deteriorate. I might add that I am willing to pay above any fixed asking rent if you could oblige me.’

I saw Littlejohn pause at this offer of money in his own pocket, running his tongue over his lower lip so that it glistened greedily before his expression turned to one of regret.

‘I am sorry, Mr Chadwick, but I really cannot help you.’

Holmes continued to press the point.

‘Would it be worth my while to apply to Mr Buckmaster himself?’

At this, Mr Littlejohn dropped all pretence of joviality, his eyes growing hard and watchful, his voice coldly dismissive as he replied, ‘Mr Buckmaster is an elderly gentleman who leaves the management of the business entirely in my hands. You will oblige me by refraining from contacting him, Mr Chadwick. It will be of no use. Good morning to you, sir!’

Outside in the street, Holmes began to chuckle but he gave no reason for his amusement, merely remarking, as he hailed a passing hansom, ‘Highly satisfactory, Watson! A few more threads are in our hands.’

‘What threads, Holmes?’

But the only reply I received was the enigmatic comment, ‘To the cord which, like Ariadne’s clew, will lead us to the heart of the labyrinth where no doubt we shall find young Teddy Venables.’

To my secret disappointment, on our return to Baker Street Holmes made no further reference to the case, instead devoting the rest of the morning to reading the newspapers, leaving me to speculate on what exactly he had meant by his reference to threads.

It was only after luncheon had been served and cleared away that he turned his attention again to the inquiry.

Going into his bedroom, he emerged carrying a large cardboard box, the contents of which he spread out on the table. They comprised a collection of locks of different types and a bunch of what I took to be small metal rods, pointed at one end and of varying thicknesses.

Drawing up a chair, he proceeded to set aside one of the locks and to select a metal rod from among the others with great care and deliberation.

Overcome with curiosity, I put down the
Morning
Chronicle
and looked over his shoulder.

‘What on earth are you doing, Holmes?’

‘Is it not obvious, Watson? I am making sure that my lock-picking skills
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have not quite deserted me. One has to keep in practice, you know, and I shall need all my expertise tonight.’