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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Sprache: Englisch
This collection of stories, allegedly written by Doctor Watson, includes the tragic tale of Lord Deerswood's unwanted legacy, the account of the jealous contortionist, the affair of the beautiful housekeeper, the deadly doings of the costumed Russian, the Aladdin's Cave episode, and the extraordinary circumstances surrounding the deadly Sumatran rats. The discovery of these Sherlock Holmes cases - one of which reunites Holmes with brother Mycroft - represents a treasure trove for Baker Street devotees.
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Seitenzahl: 359
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014
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THE SECRET DOCUMENTS OF SHERLOCK HOLMES
June Thomson
Contents
I should again like to express my thanks to June Thomson for her help in preparing this fourth collection of short stories for publication.
Aubrey B. Watson LDS, FDS, D.Orth.
FOREWORD
by Aubrey B. Watson LDS, FDS, D.Orth.
Those of you who have read the three earlier collections* of Dr John H. Watson’s hitherto unpublished accounts of certain inquiries undertaken by Mr Sherlock Holmes will not need reminding of the curious circumstances under which they were acquired. However, for those who are not familiar with the facts, I supply the following brief explanation of how these papers came into my possession.
They were first obtained by my late uncle, also a Dr John Watson, although he was a doctor of philosophy, not of medicine, and his middle initial was F not H.
However, because of the similarity of his name to that of Mr Sherlock Holmes’ friend and companion, my uncle had made a study of the work of the great consulting detective and his near namesake, Dr John H. Watson, and was considered by many to be an expert on the subject.
It was for this reason that in July 1939, my uncle was approached by a Miss Adeline McWhirter who claimed to be a relative of Dr John H. Watson on his mother’s side of the family. She had, she said, inherited the despatch box containing Dr Watson’s handwritten accounts of some of Mr Holmes’ inquiries which, for various reasons, had never been published and which he had placed for safe keeping in his bank, Cox and Co. of Charing Cross.† Finding herself in straitened circumstances, Miss McWhirter had reluctantly decided to sell both the box and its contents.
After a careful examination which convinced him of their authenticity, my late uncle bought them and was planning to publish the manuscripts when war was declared a few months later in September 1939. Afraid for their safety, he therefore made copies of the Watson documents before depositing the originals in the strongroom of his own bank in London.
Unfortunately, the bank suffered a direct hit during the bombing of 1942 which reduced the papers to charred fragments and so damaged the despatch box that the words painted on the lid, ‘John H. Watson, M.D. Late Indian Army,’ were indecipherable. My late uncle was therefore faced with a dilemma for he was left with nothing to prove the existence of the originals apart from his own copies.
Unable to trace Miss McWhirter to verify his account and fearful of his reputation as a scholar, my late uncle decided not to publish the Watson papers after all and, on his death, the whole collection, together with his own footnotes and several short monographs he himself had written on various aspects of the canon, passed to me under the terms of his will.
As I am an orthodontist and therefore have no academic reputation to consider, I have, after much careful thought, decided to offer the documents for publication although I cannot vouch for their authenticity. Readers must decide that for themselves.
I have in places added footnotes of my own in order to bring up to date those already supplied by my late uncle. Readers will also find in an appendix one of his monographs, that concerning the vexed question of the true identity of the King of Bohemia.
* These collections, published by Constable and Co. Ltd., are TheSecretFilesofSherlockHolmes(1990),TheSecretChroniclesofSherlockHolmes (1992) and TheSecretJournalsofSherlockHolmes (1993). Aubrey B. Watson.
† Dr John H. Watson refers to this despatch box in ‘The Problem of Thor Bridge’. Aubrey B. Watson.
THE CASE OF THE AINSWORTH ABDUCTION
I
Although I know, even as I take up my pen to commit the following account to paper, that there is little chance of it being published, at least not for several years, I have nevertheless decided to record the events in case a future editor might wish to place it before the general public.
It began one morning in September, a few months after my marriage to Miss Mary Morstan and my return to civil practice.* I was on my way home from an early visit to one of my patients in the vicinity of Baker Street and, having not seen my old friend Sherlock Holmes for several weeks, I decided to call on him at my former lodgings.
I found him, surrounded by test tubes and retorts, busily engaged in a chemical experiment which had filled the room with the most noxious fumes.
‘It is a test I am carrying out into coal-tar derivatives,’ he explained, having greeted me cordially. ‘Unfortunately, I have not so far succeeded. But I shall persevere with the task until I discover a satisfactory solution.’†
‘If you do not asphyxiate yourself first, Holmes,’ I remonstrated, crossing the room to fling open the windows.
‘My dear fellow,’ he replied, ‘I should much rather die in the cause of chemistry than suffocate with the boredom of idleness.’
‘You have no cases on hand then?’
‘Not at this precise moment. However, I am expecting a client to call shortly although what his business is remains a mystery. You may if you wish read his telegram which is on the table.’
Picking up the sheet of paper, I glanced over the message which read: WILL CALL ON YOU TODAY AT 11 AM ON URGENT BUSINESS STOP AINSWORTH.
‘It is hardly informative,’ I agreed. ‘Perhaps the matter is too delicate or too complex to explain in a telegram.’
‘Or my prospective client is too miserly to spend more than a few pennies on sending it. We shall soon find out. It is a quarter to eleven now. Will you wait for his arrival, Watson, to find out what this urgent business is about? Or have you more pressing affairs of your own?’
‘I shall be delighted to stay,’ I replied. ‘My practice is fairly quiet at the moment.’
‘But evidently flourishing,’ Holmes remarked. On seeing my surprise, he continued, ‘There is no mystery, Watson. As soon as you walked into the room, I noticed you were wearing new boots which, judging by their quality and the distinctive pattern of stitching along the uppers, were bought at Eastgate’s of Brompton Road.* Anyone who can afford their prices must be well on the way to success. And now, my dear fellow, come and sit down in your old armchair and tell me what you have been doing since I last saw you.’
There was, however, little time for private conversation. Hardly had we sat down and Holmes had filled and lit his pipe than the front door bell rang and his client was shown into the room.
He was a large, florid man, very broad across the chest and with features to match his girth for the heavy chin, beetling eyebrows and broad, fleshy cheeks, mottled a dark purplish-red in colour, seemed exaggerated beyond normal. His presence, too, was larger than life as was his voice, both of which seemed to fill the room to overflowing.
‘Mr Sherlock Holmes?’ he boomed, fixing both of us in turn with an impatient glare from his bright blue eyes.
‘I am Sherlock Holmes,’ my old friend replied.
‘Then who the devil is he?’ our visitor demanded, turning that choleric stare in my direction.
‘That gentleman is Dr Watson, a colleague of mine,’ Holmes explained coolly.
‘I came to consult you, not some other d–d fellow!’ came the riposte.
I half rose from my chair in preparation to leave the room, having no desire to cause any unpleasantness between Holmes and his prospective client. As I did so, Holmes gestured to me to remain seated before addressing his visitor in a cold, clipped voice.
‘Either Dr Watson remains in the room or you must leave, sir. He has my complete confidence and I have no intention of conducting any business in his absence. The choice is entirely yours.’
For a moment, I thought the man would explode with rage. His chest swelled up like a turkey cock’s and his mottled complexion turned an even brighter red while his blue eyes were positively blazing. However, he managed with difficulty to contain his anger and, nodding curtly to me as if giving me his permission to stay, he acquiesced grudgingly.
‘Very well, Mr Holmes. I agree.’
‘Then pray be seated, Mr Ainsworth, and explain what urgent business has brought you here.’
‘Not Mr Ainsworth,’ he retorted, lowering himself into the armchair which Holmes had indicated and which he entirely filled with his enormous frame. ‘I am Sir Hector Ainsworth. As to my business, sir, before I begin to explain that, I should first like to know your fees. I am not a rich man.’
I saw Holmes suppress a small smile at this confirmation of his client’s parsimony. However, it was with a serious expression that he explained his terms, adding that these did not include expenses.
Sir Hector puffed out his cheeks and looked much taken aback.
‘That is a great deal of money, Mr Holmes,’ he remarked.
‘On the contrary, my fees are considered reasonable and, under certain circumstances, I am prepared to charge only by results. Should I fail, you will pay nothing.* If, however, you think these terms excessive, I advise you to take your business elsewhere,’ Holmes suggested suavely, rising to his feet as if he considered the interview over.
‘No, no! You mistake me, sir!’ Sir Hector blustered. ‘I am prepared to accept your fees. I am not used to London prices, that is all. Why, the cab driver who brought me here from Paddington station charged me sixpence – yes, sixpence, sir! – for the journey. It is outrageous! Of course, I refused to tip the fellow.’
‘Your business with me concerns money?’ Holmes inquired in an attempt to bring his client back to the point.
‘Money? What the deuce made you think that?’ Sir Hector demanded, swelling up once more with fury at Holmes’ interpretation. Then recalling whatever business had brought him to Baker Street, he once more subsided.
‘Well, yes, Mr Holmes, money does come into it although I cannot for the life of me imagine how you came to such a conclusion. It concerns my daughter Millicent, my only child and therefore my sole heir. She is already in possession of a small capital sum, left to her by her mother, my late wife. But under the terms of her will, my daughter cannot touch either the capital or the interest until she marries or reaches the age of thirty, whichever occurs first.’
Sir Hector paused here as if his account were over and he were waiting for Holmes to reply.
‘I do not see the point,’ he began.
‘Not see the point! Why, it is as plain as the nose on your face, sir! The scoundrel who has abducted my daughter intends to marry her by force and then seize hold of her money! That is the point, Mr Holmes! I am surprised a man of your much-vaunted intelligence fails to grasp it.’
Holmes’ lean features flushed with anger but he controlled his impatience and, when he spoke, his voice was admirably calm and steady.
‘I think, Sir Hector,’ said he, ‘that you should start at the beginning. When exactly was your daughter abducted?’
‘Sometime last night. I was told of her absence by her maid who, going to wake her this morning, found her bed empty.’
‘Do you know who has abducted her?’
‘Of course I do!’ Sir Hector boomed in reply. ‘It is the assistant groom, a miserable little runt of a creature called Weaver, Albert Weaver. Once I lay hands on the man, I intend horsewhipping him to within an inch of his life! That is your brief, Mr Holmes. You find my daughter and return her to my care. At the same time, you hand Weaver over to me to deal with as I think fit.’
‘So that you may horsewhip him?’ Holmes suggested, both his tone and expression perfectly serious.
The irony was lost on Sir Hector who nodded vigorously.
‘Exactly, sir! I am glad you have at last grasped the point. Now is there anything else you need to know?’
‘A few more facts, Sir Hector. Where does Weaver sleep?’
‘Sleep? What the devil has that to do with the case?’
I saw Holmes’ jaw tighten before he said in a voice as cutting as a steel blade, ‘If I am to take on the inquiry, then I must decide which questions are relevant. I repeat: Where does Weaver sleep?’
‘Over the stables, where grooms are usually accommodated. The head groom and the stable boys also have rooms there.’
‘How did Weaver gain access to the house last night? Were there any signs that he had broken in?’
Sir Hector seemed strangely disconcerted by this question and for several long moments remained uncharacteristically silent. Then he said with obvious reluctance, ‘Not that I am aware of although I understand from the cook that when she came downstairs at six o’clock this morning, she found the back door unlocked and unbolted.’
‘So someone inside the house must have let him in?’ Holmes suggested with sweet logic. As his client again remained silent my old friend continued, ‘Sir Hector, it pains me greatly to have to put this question but it must be asked. Has your daughter indeed been abducted or has she in fact eloped?’
The effect of this question on Sir Hector was not as extreme as I had expected. There was no eruption of anger although his eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets. However, when he spoke, it was with the exultant tone of a man scoring a point in an argument.
‘Elope, sir? With a groom? My daughter has too keen a sense of family honour to do any such thing. Besides, if she had eloped, why would she leave all her clothes behind? Answer me that, Mr Holmes.’
‘You mean she took nothing?’
It was Holmes’ turn to be disconcerted.
‘Not a stitch!’ Sir Hector retorted with undisguised triumph. ‘I myself questioned her maid most carefully on that very point.’
‘How curious!’ Holmes murmured, half to himself.
I doubt, however, if Sir Hector heard this comment for, his anger once more roused, he was holding forth in his usual overbearing manner.
‘That is not to say nothing was taken. Oh, no, sir! The infernal scoundrel, Weaver, helped himself to my gig and the pony to go with it as well as my daughter’s horse which I gave her on her twenty-first birthday. Nice little mare; cost me a fortune. And that’s not to mention the tackle. Saddle, bridle, the lot, gone from the stable! And now, Mr Holmes, is that the last of your tomfool questions? Or is there something else you need to know?’
‘Only a description of your daughter.’
Sir Hector seemed curiously nonplussed by this request. Screwing up his eyes as if trying to focus on some far-off image he only dimly perceived, he was silent for several moments.
‘There is no point in beating about the bush, Mr Holmes,’ he said at last. ‘My daughter Millicent is no beauty. In fact, to put it bluntly, she is a very plain young woman; takes after her late mother. Age, twenty-two; dark hair; tall, about my height and built like a grenadier.’
Although I had to bite my lip and turn away to look studiously out of the window, Holmes received this information with perfect gravity.
‘And what of Weaver, the groom?’
‘I’ve told you already, he’s a miserable little runt of a man; a former jockey; clean-shaven; sandy-coloured hair. Age? I have never troubled to ask the fellow but I suppose he must be about twenty-six. As for Jemima …’
‘Jemima?’ Holmes sounded perplexed.
‘My daughter’s mare, Mr Holmes! She’s a chestnut; white blaze on the forehead; jumps like a cat. Now is that all, sir? Then I assume you will want to make inquiries at Elmsfield Hall, my place of residence. Here is my card, giving details of my address. The nearest station is Elmsfield, a small market town a few miles from Reading. I suggest you catch the 12.45 train from Paddington which I myself intend taking.’
‘I am afraid that may not be convenient, Sir Hector,’ Holmes replied firmly. Turning to me, he continued, lowering one eyelid fractionally although the rest of his face remained perfectly sober, ‘I should much appreciate your assistance on such a complex case, my dear doctor, but I believe you have some urgent business of your own to attend to first. At what time will you be free?’
I was much surprised at Holmes’ unexpected invitation as well as amused by the manner in which it had been made. Joining in the spirit of the game, I pretended to ponder on the proposition for a few seconds before replying.
‘I should be finished by one o’clock.’
Sir Hector, torn between exasperation at Holmes’ refusal to accept his own arrangements but mollified, as I have no doubt Holmes intended, by my old friend’s reference to the complexity of the case, broke in impatiently.
‘Then I suggest you catch the 1.25 train instead. I shall send the carriage to meet it. Good morning to you, gentlemen.’
Shaking hands energetically with both of us, he seized up his hat and stick and went stamping out of the room.
Holmes waited until he heard the street door slam shut behind him before bursting into laughter.
‘What an extraordinary man, Watson! ’Pon my word, I declare I have rarely met such a peculiar client. As for the case, that presents a most unusual dilemma. Has Lady Millicent been abducted or has she eloped? And if she has eloped, why has she taken no clothes with her except, I assume, what she was wearing at the time? But what were they? Hardly just her nightgown, one supposes. And why take her horse? If she and Weaver intend a runaway marriage, I would have thought it would have been more of an encumbrance than a blessing. By the way, my dear fellow,’ he continued in an offhand manner, ‘I was right, was I not, in assuming you would be willing to accompany me this afternoon?’
‘I have only two routine visits to make on patients, neither of whom is seriously ill. I am sure my neighbour, Jackson,* will make them for me. It is a reciprocal arrangement and I obliged him only a fortnight ago.’
‘And Mrs Watson will not object?’
‘Not at all, Holmes. She often urges me to take more time away from the practice.’
‘An inestimable woman!’ Holmes murmured. ‘You are indeed fortunate, my dear fellow. However, to return to the case in hand, I shall meet you, shall I not, at Paddington station to catch the train as planned? It will be much pleasanter to travel by ourselves without having to suffer the fatigues of Sir Hector Ainsworth’s overpowering presence.’
‘I shall indeed be there,’ I assured him.
It was only after I had taken my leave and was on my way home by hansom that it struck me how cleverly Holmes had so arranged matters that he had not only secured my companionship but at the same time had managed to dispense with Sir Hector’s. But any small doubt I might have felt at his skilful manipulation of the situation was more than compensated by the thought that I would once more accompany him on an investigation and I felt an immediate quickening of my pulse at this prospect.
II
Those arrangements which I needed to make to cover my absence were soon completed. Jackson agreed to act as my locum and my dear wife welcomed the news that I was to enjoy a few hours of leisure in the countryside in the company of Holmes. It was therefore with a light heart that I set out to walk the short distance to Paddington station* where I met my old friend.
I found him in excellent spirits. In the intervening hours since we had last met, he had looked up Sir Hector Ainsworth in his encyclopaedia of reference† and regaled me on the journey with this information as well as other tidbits of gossip he had picked up from an acquaintance who moved in aristocratic circles and on whom he had called briefly on the way to the terminus.*
‘Sir Hector is evidently extremely wealthy, Watson, having married Henrietta Bagworth, the heiress to Sir Montague Bagworth, the shipping millionaire, who was known to his intimates as Monty Moneybags. Gossip has it that the daughter was an amiable woman but so exceedingly plain that her father paid Sir Hector a huge sum to take her off his hands. However, the unfortunate Millicent seems destined to remain a spinster, Sir Hector having failed to offer a large enough dowry to tempt a prospective bridegroom. I understand the impoverished Duke of Chester once persuaded his eldest son to pay court to her but, having met her, he promptly took to his heels and fled the country for Bechuanaland where I understand he still remains.’
‘Poor woman!’ I interjected, thinking of my own domestic happiness.
‘I quite agree, my dear fellow. We are fortunate not to belong to the aristocracy where marriage, specially for women, is more a question of money, looks and breeding than the softer emotions. Although Lady Millicent may own one of the necessary attributes, breeding, and is likely to inherit another, money, at her father’s death, I fear she fails so miserably on the third that no man will look at her with the exception, it appears, of Albert Weaver, the groom, and I suspect even in his case it may be the prospect of her fortune which has attracted him rather than the lady herself.’
‘But abduction, Holmes! That is a serious matter!’
‘Of course it is, my dear fellow, if, as I remarked before, Lady Millicent has indeed been abducted. But that remains to be seen.’
We passed the rest of the journey discussing a report in the morning papers of a burglary which had taken place at Lord Packburton’s and in which his entire collection of Far Eastern exotica had been stolen until we alighted at Elmsfield, a small market town, where we found Sir Hector’s carriage awaiting us. After a journey of about three miles through pleasantly wooded countryside, we arrived at Elmsfield Hall.
The house was an imposing Queen Anne mansion, its magnificent stone façade, with its many-tiered windows, surmounted by a large triangular pediment. Yet despite its grandeur, there were signs of neglect, caused no doubt by Sir Hector’s miserliness. Grass was sprouting between the flagstones of the terrace, and the lawns and flowerbeds, which extended in front of the building, looked ill tended.
We were greeted at the door by an elderly butler whose mournful expression put me in mind of an undertaker’s mute.
His lordship, he informed us, as he showed us into the drawing room, had been called away to attend to some business with a tenant farmer, but had left instructions that we were to be given any assistance we might require.
‘I should like to speak to Lady Millicent’s personal maid,’ Holmes said.
‘Very good, sir,’ the butler replied.
When he had left the room, Holmes remarked in a jocular manner, ‘I am much relieved we are spared Sir Hector’s presence, Watson. Without it, I am sure we shall make better progress. Let us hope his tenant keeps him fully occupied for the rest of the afternoon.’
He broke off as there came a knock at the door which, on his calling out ‘Come!,’ opened and a young, fresh-faced country girl entered the room.
‘You are Lady Millicent’s maid?’ Holmes inquired and, having received her assent, he added. ‘And what is your name?’
‘Polly Noakes, sir,’ said she, dropping a little curtsy.
‘Then come and sit down, Miss Noakes,’ Holmes said, conducting her to one of the armchairs where she perched herself on its edge, clearly ill at ease at finding herself seated in the drawing room, usually the exclusive prerogative of the gentry.
‘And now, Miss Noakes,’ he continued, assuming his most amiable manner as he sat down opposite her in a comfortable tête-à-tête designed to make her feel at home, ‘there is nothing to be afraid of. Dr Watson and I are merely inquiring into Lady Millicent’s disappearance. I am sure you want to help us all you can.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Polly Noakes replied faintly.
‘Excellent! Now I understand it was you who found your mistress was missing when you went to wake her this morning.’
‘Yes, sir,’ came the same faint answer.
‘And she had taken none of her clothing with her?’
This time she answered with a little nod of her head.
‘Then what was she wearing when she left?’
It took Polly Noakes a few seconds to grasp the significance of the question and then her brow cleared and she piped up, ‘Her riding habit, sir.’
‘Indeed? I am most grateful to you, Miss Noakes, for you have solved one of the minor mysteries of the case,’ Holmes said with grave courtesy. ‘Now tell me what you know about your mistress and Albert Weaver, the assistant groom.’
‘Not much, sir,’ the girl said, blushing bright pink at Holmes’ compliment and appearing to gain a little more confidence from it. ‘They used to go out riding most mornings for an hour or so, her ladyship on Jemima and Weaver on Sir Hector’s big black horse, Samuel. Then, in the afternoons, they usually practised jumping in the paddock.’
‘“Usually”?’ Holmes inquired.
‘Well, sir, for the past week, the arrangements have been turned around, so to speak. The training lessons were held in the mornings and they went riding in the afternoons.’ She hesitated for a moment and then added more boldly, ‘The last five afternoons they were gone for more than an hour. It was more like three. It was a terrible rush, sir, to get Lady Millicent out of her riding clothes and into a gown in time for tea in the drawing-room at five o’clock.’
‘Did your mistress give you any explanation for this change in her routine?’
‘No, sir; and it wasn’t my place to ask.’
‘Quite so. Then tell me, Miss Noakes,’ Holmes said, leaning forward in his chair and regarding her with great interest, ‘as you are clearly a young lady of remarkable powers of observation, have you noticed anything else out of the ordinary over the past five days, however trivial?’
Colouring up again prettily, she replied after a moment’s hesitation, ‘Only the tickets, sir.’
‘What tickets?’
‘I don’t know, sir. I found them in the pocket of Lady Millicent’s riding habit when I was brushing it down ready to put away. One lot was pink, the other yellow.’
‘Do you still have them?’ Holmes inquired, his voice carefully casual.
‘Only the last ones, sir, those I found yesterday afternoon. The others, the pink ones, I left out on the dressing-table but Lady Millicent must have thrown them away. I can’t remember when I found those. It could have been Tuesday or Wednesday.’
‘Never mind about that. You still have those you found yesterday, the yellow ones?’
‘Yes, sir. They’re where I left them. Would you like me to fetch them?’
‘If you would be so good.’
As soon as she had left the room, Holmes turned to me.
‘I believe, Watson, we may be close to finding an answer to our dilemma – is this affair an abduction or an elopement? I always find it most significant when someone alters their normal routine, as Lady Millicent has evidently done recently. Perhaps these tickets will explain not only why such a change was made but also what Lady Millicent and Weaver were doing every afternoon for the past five days which took up several hours of their time.’
He broke off as Polly Noakes re-entered and handed to him two little oblong slips of yellow paper.
‘Thank you, Miss Noakes,’ Holmes said gravely. ‘You have been most helpful.’
Bobbing a little curtsy, she began to leave the room but turned back at the doorway, her face flushed and her eyes bright with unshed tears.
‘She is all right, isn’t she, sir? Lady Millicent, I mean,’ she asked in an anxious tone. ‘She’s been a good mistress to me and I wouldn’t want her to come to any harm.’
‘I am certain we shall find her safe and well,’ Holmes assured her.
As soon as the door closed again behind her, Holmes, with me at his shoulder, began eagerly to examine the two tickets she had given him. They were small, little more than two inches long and one and a half inches wide, and both had torn perforations along the left-hand side. The paper of which they were made was of a thick, coarse quality and on each was printed in heavy black ink a letter and a number, B24 on one and B25 on the other, while a single letter A had been handwritten on each in the top right-hand comer.
‘What do they remind you of, Watson?’ Holmes inquired.
‘Halves of theatre tickets?’ I suggested. ‘The other halves were torn off at the door.’
‘No, not a theatre,’ Holmes said musingly. ‘At least, not a usual one. Theatre tickets are invariably printed with the name of the theatre and the title of the play as well as the place where the seats are to be found in the auditorium, the dress circle, for example, or the stalls. Besides, the paper is too coarse. But they certainly appear to be tickets to somewhere or for something. The question is: what? And why the two different colours, yellow for one set and pink for another?’
‘Could they be raffle tickets then? I remember my wife buying some at a Christmas charity fair in aid of the Association for Bible Studies in Poplar. They were very similar in size and each book of tickets sold was a different colour.’
‘A possibility,’ Holmes conceded. ‘But why the handwritten letter A in the top right-hand corner? And why should Lady Millicent have bought tickets for at least two raffles on separate days? Such a theory hardly explains either why she and the groom were absent for nearly three hours unless …’
Before he had time to complete the sentence, the door burst open and Sir Hector came striding into the room, dressed on this occasion in tweeds, his boots and gaiters liberally spattered with mud. Something had clearly annoyed him for, barely acknowledging our presence, he plunged immediately into an angry tirade.
‘I apologise for not being here to greet you. I was called away by one of my tenant farmers. It was urgent, he said. Do you know what the fellow wanted? To complain about a leaking roof! Expected me to pay for the repairs as if I am made of money! Fix it yourself, I told him. There’s plenty of spare tarpaulins in the stockyard. The man’s a fool, sir! An utter buffoon!’
To my astonishment and also Sir Hector’s, Holmes greeted this last remark with a little outburst of his own.
‘Of course!’ he exclaimed, striking his hands together. ‘What a fool I have been not to see it before!’
‘See what?’ Sir Hector expostulated. ‘Are you referring to my tenant? But you haven’t met the man!’
‘No, not him, Sir Hector. I was speaking of Weaver.’
‘The assistant groom? But why …?’
‘There is no time now to explain! Dr Watson and I must return immediately to London.’ Hurriedly shaking his client by the hand, Holmes added, ‘Do not trouble to send for the butler, sir. We will ourselves call at the stables and order the carriage. I shall write to you as soon as I have news of your daughter’s whereabouts.’
‘And when do you suppose …?’ Sir Hector began.
We failed to hear the rest of the sentence. Holmes had bundled me out of the room. Having let ourselves out at the front door, we dashed round to the stables where we found the carriage already prepared for our return journey, the coachman idling away the time by smoking a small cigar and chatting to one of the maids.
At our precipitate arrival, he flung aside the cheroot and leapt upon the box while the young woman fled inside the house. Within minutes, we were seated inside the carriage and bowling along the road to Elmsfield station.
I was naturally curious to discover the reason behind our sudden departure for I could see nothing in the situation to warrant Holmes’ decision to return immediately to London. However, although I questioned him directly on this very point, he refused to give me an answer, merely remarking with an infuriating smile, ‘All in good time, Watson. At the moment, I have nothing more than an hypothesis which needs some facts to support it. As soon as I have those, you will be told everything.’
My exasperation was increased when, on arriving at Elmsfield station, he insisted I went ahead of him through the ticket barrier while he, for some equally inexplicable reason, turned back towards the entrance.
‘But there is a London train due at any moment!’ I protested. Indeed, as I spoke, I could hear the engine approaching and could see its plume of smoke rising above the rooftops.
‘Then hold it for me, Watson,’ said he coolly as he walked away.
He caught the train with seconds to spare. As I stood at the open door of a first-class carriage, fuming with impatience, I saw him come running like a stag on to the platform, waving an arm at the guard who had his flag raised and his whistle at his lips.
‘I suppose,’ said I sarcastically as the whistle blew and he bounded into the compartment beside me, ‘that you will also refuse to explain what business was so urgent it nearly made you miss the train.’
‘Not at all, my dear fellow,’ said he with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. ‘I was anxious to verify one of the facts I referred to earlier. My hypothesis is now taking shape very nicely. In fact, Watson, I think I may say with every confidence that this little affair is almost over.’
III
I heard nothing from Holmes over the next two days and had begun to think that, despite his confident assertion that the case was as good as solved, he had come to some unforeseen impasse when the door bell rang.
It was about one o’clock and, my wife being away visiting an old school friend of hers, Mrs Isa Whitney,* I had, after eating lunch alone, retired to my consulting room for a quiet half-hour spent reading the MorningPost before setting out on my afternoon calls.
Thinking the visitor might be a patient, I was in the act of folding up the newspaper and tucking it away out of sight when Holmes came bursting into the room.
‘Watson!’ cried he. ‘I am delighted to find you at home. Fetch your hat and stick, my dear fellow. We are going out.’
‘Where to, Holmes?’ I asked, a little taken aback at his unexpected appearance.
‘To Clapham.’
‘Why to Clapham?’
‘To solve the riddle of the Ainsworth case,’ he replied impatiently as if I should have been aware of his intentions.
‘But I have patients to call on,’ I protested.
‘None of whom are of any great importance,’ he retorted. Seeing my surprised expression, he burst out laughing. ‘You were not quite quick enough in hiding the MorningPost under that pile of medical journals. A portion of its front page is still visible. The conclusion is therefore obvious. A doctor who has time to read the newspaper can have no urgent cases on hand. So do hurry up, there’s a good fellow, and send for that accommodating neighbour of yours. I have a hansom waiting at the door.’
Knowing it was useless to protest that I had been merely enjoying a few moments of leisure before setting off on my professional rounds, I hastily scribbled a note for my neighbour, Jackson, and also for my wife who might return home before me, then I seized my hat and stick and followed him outside to the cab, hoping he might enlighten me on the journey.
But he was as secretive as before and refused to confide in me what evidence he had acquired in the past two days which had led him to make inquiries on the south side of the river.
‘Wait and see, Watson,’ was all he would reply, adding with barely suppressed amusement, ‘We are catching a train which later this afternoon will take us to a destination where all your questions shall be answered.’
I could make nothing of this enigmatic remark apart from supposing that Clapham Junction was in some way connected to the case although I could not see its significance. Lady Millicent had left Elmsfield Hall by gig. As far as I knew, there was no suggestion that a train journey had played any part in her abduction or elopement unless Holmes’ investigation had proved otherwise.
He was in a particularly effervescent mood that afternoon and spoke so entertainingly on a variety of subjects that I gave up puzzling over the conundrum and became so absorbed in his sprightly conversation that I paid little heed to the route we were taking.
It was therefore much to my surprise that, when the cab at last drew to a halt and we alighted, I found myself not at Clapham Junction but on the avenue which runs alongside Clapham Common, one of those large open tracts of grass and trees which have made the southern suburbs of London so popular a place of residence for those who can afford to escape from the close confines of the city centre.
I was also surprised to see that part of this large area was given over to a fair. Stalls had been set up upon the grass as well as amusements of every kind, including swing boats and a helter-skelter, while, over to the right, a large tent had been erected, gaily decorated with flags and bunting.
‘Where exactly are we going, Holmes?’ I asked when he had finished paying off the cabby.
‘There!’ he said, flourishing his stick at the tent. ‘To the circus.’
I must confess I was considerably annoyed by this remark. While it was true I had no seriously ill patients to attend to, I considered it thoughtless of Holmes to have taken me away from my practice for so trivial a reason as a visit to the circus. But I had no opportunity to express my exasperation. Holmes had gone striding ahead and by the time I caught up with him he had already plunged into a narrow passageway left open between a double row of hoopla stalls and coconut shies. The crowds of people and the clamour of the stallholders, urging passers-by to try their luck at rolling a penny or to visit one of several freak shows, exhibiting midgets, fat ladies or human skeletons, made conversation impossible.
It was only when we reached the booth selling tickets to the circus that I understood his reason for bringing me to so unlikely a destination.
‘Do you see now, Watson?’ he asked with a smile, showing me the tickets he had just purchased.
They were two slips of coarse, bright blue paper, perforated down the centre, each half printed with a large letter C and consecutive numbers, 14 on one and 15 on the other. Each was also marked with a large letter A in the top right-hand corner.
‘They are just like those Lady Millicent’s maid found in the pocket of her riding habit!’ I exclaimed.
‘Exactly, Watson!’
‘But what on earth made you realise they were circus tickets?’
‘It was a chance remark of Sir Hector’s. If you recall when we met him at Elmsfield Hall, he referred to his tenant as a buffoon. The word set into motion a sequence of other words, from buffoon to clown, and from clown to circus. I am afraid I was teasing you when I spoke about catching a train to our destination. It was that train of thought I had in mind.
‘The word “circus” also reminded me of something which I had glimpsed briefly outside Elmsfield station when we took the carriage to Elmsfield Hall. That was why, when we returned to the station, I sent you on ahead. I wanted to look more closely at the billboard on the wall outside to make quite sure I had remembered correctly, as indeed I had. What I had glimpsed so briefly but which had nevertheless lodged in my mind was a large, garishly coloured poster for Molesworth’s Circus which had been visiting Reading during the previous week.
‘That fact and the discovery of the tickets in Lady Millicent’s pocket convinced me that she, in company with Weaver, had visited the circus on at least two occasions for its afternoon performances. As the ticket seller has just confirmed, different coloured tickets are issued each day, blue, yellow, pink and so on. They are also marked A or E to indicate whether they are for the afternoon or evening performance. That is to prevent members of the public who have attended one of those performances from using them to re-enter the tent without paying after the interval on another day or indeed to prevent anyone finding a discarded half ticket from doing the same.
‘It took me a little time to find out where Molesworth’s Circus was now performing and to make a few preliminary inquiries before calling on you this afternoon.’
‘But what possible connection can Lady Millicent have with the circus?’ I asked.
‘The performance has already started. Shall we enter and find out?’ Holmes replied, leading the way towards the entrance where a man dressed in a red uniform, lavishly bedecked with gold braid and silver buttons, tore our tickets in half before waving us inside.
Much of the interior of the large tent was taken up by tiers of wooden benches, arranged in a horseshoe shape round the circus ring which was separated from the audience by a low barrier. On the far side was another opening, hung with heavy red velvet curtains through which the performers entered. Above this entrance, a small group of musicians, consisting of brass and percussion players who were dressed like the ticket collector in red uniforms, was installed on its own velvet-hung balcony.
As we entered, these musicians were accompanying the antics of a troupe of clowns with a cacophony of braying trumpets, banging drums and clashing cymbals which, mingled with the shouts of the clowns themselves and the delighted shrieks of laughter from the audience, was quite deafening.
We found our seats and settled down to watch the rest of the afternoon performance which, I must confess, in my impatience to discover what part Lady Millicent could possibly play in this unlikely setting, I found only mildly enjoyable although Holmes seemed hugely entertained by all the acts, even the dancing dogs and the lady fire-eater.
It was the fifth act on the bill which was evidently the one we had come to see for, as the ringmaster announced it, I felt Holmes stiffen beside me in anticipation.
‘And now, ladies and gentlemen and all you dear, delightful children,’ the man was declaring, ‘it gives me great pleasure to introduce to you an entirely new act, never before seen in this country – the beautiful, the bewitching, the breathtaking Vittoria, the circus belle, and her magnificent mount, Jemima!’
With that announcement and to a roll of the drums and a fanfare from the trumpets, the curtains at the back of the ring parted and in trotted a chestnut horse, its head adorned with pink and white plumes and its harness jingling with tiny silver bells. On its back, which was covered by a magnificent crimson and silver saddle cloth, was standing the slight figure of a young woman, dressed in pink-sequined tulle, her long golden hair adorned with plumes matching those of the horse.
