The next day I rose somewhat later than is my usual custom. I was more than a little fatigued by the events of the previous night. I kept forgetting that I was no longer the lithe young man who had travelled to Afghanistan with the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers. I prided myself that I kept reasonably fit, but however hard one tries, one cannot hold back middle age.
On entering our sitting room, I discovered Holmes at the table, his old clay pipe clamped in his mouth and his brow furrowed as he studied some sheets of paper. It was clear from the debris on the table that he had breakfasted some time ago.
He glanced up at my approach. ‘Ah, my dear fellow, how are you this morning?’
‘A little stiff and tired.’
‘Hot coffee and some of Mrs Hudson’s bacon and scrambled eggs should soon help revive you and put that old spring back in your step.’ He favoured me with a brief smile before returning to his perusal of the papers before him.
I took up his suggestion and some fifteen minutes later I was tucking into our landlady’s delightful comestibles. I had not realised how hungry I was. When I pushed away the empty plate and drained my coffee cup, I felt a hundred per cent better than I had done when I’d dragged myself out of bed.
I turned to my friend, who had been smoking quietly with his eyes staring dreamily at the ceiling. I knew this mood. He was deep in thought, weighing facts against possibilities, comparing the evidence we possessed with various theories.
‘What have you learned from those documents we obtained last night?’ I asked, and I could not resist adding, ‘The ones that nearly cost us our lives.’
Holmes lifted three sheets of paper from the table and let them fall from his grasp. ‘They tell us little but provide one vital piece of information: the name of the woman who brought the baby, the little boy with the triangular birthmark, to Mrs Chandler: Alice Sunderland.’
‘Is there an address?’
‘There is a street. Bat Street. No number.’
‘Bat Street?’
‘Whitechapel.’
‘Not a very salubrious area.’
‘Indeed. But considering the circumstances concerning the child, I hardly expected anything else. It could, I suppose, have been the child of a servant who needed to get rid of it in order to retain her position in a respectable household, but the Whitechapel address implies it is more likely that the boy is the offspring of a street woman.’
‘They have notoriously brief lives,’ I observed. ‘Few live to be more than forty years of age, riddled with disease of all humours. It is a wretched existence.’
Holmes nodded. ‘I well remember the poor women we encountered during the time of the Ripper murders.’
I saw the sadness in his eyes as he thought back to those sad, grotesquely painted, essentially fragile creatures who haunted the streets of Whitechapel. They were the prey of the drunkard’s blow, the pimp’s ill-treatment, disease, hunger and at that time, the Ripper’s blade also.
‘And this woman, this Alice Sunderland, if she is one of those unfortunates, it is unlikely that she will still be living in Bat Street after all this time.’
‘Indeed. Our lead is fragile in the extreme. She could be dead or have moved on. We shall just have to test the waters.’
‘When do you intend to visit Whitechapel?’
‘The place comes alive – if that is the phrase I want – at night. I suggest an early evening saunter along those benighted streets.’
* * *
I had intended to have a light lunch and take an afternoon nap before our evening excursion in an effort to fully recover from our adventures of the previous night. However my plans were disturbed by the arrival of a visitor. Mrs Hudson bore up his card on a tray, and Holmes glanced at it and handed it to me with a sardonic chuckle.
The card read: ‘Inspector Dominic Gaunt, Metropolitan Police, Scotland Yard, London’.
‘Since when have the police been issued with visiting cards?’ I asked.
‘I think this is a personal affectation. Inspector Gaunt appears to be one of the newer breed of inspectors that our old friend Lestrade has told us about: a little too pompous and arrogant for their own good. At least that’s Lestrade’s view. Now we can judge for ourselves.’
Our visitor entered our sitting room a few moments later. He was a tall, impressive figure, athletic in build with square handsome features and a thick mane of black hair. He was impeccably dressed and had keen, intelligent eyes. This policeman was certainly a contrast to the rather shabby, shambling figure of our rat-faced friend Giles Lestrade.
‘Mr Holmes, it is a great pleasure and honour to meet you,’ he said, his voice rich and deep with a slight hint of an Irish accent. He grasped my friend’s hand and shook it warmly.
Holmes smiled and nodded his head. ‘It is always a pleasure to meet a member of Her Majesty’s police force. You will know that this is my friend and colleague, Dr Watson.’
‘Sir,’ he said, turning to me in acknowledgement, but I was denied the privilege of a handshake.
‘Pray take a seat and tell us what brings you to our door, Inspector,’ said Holmes, indicating a chair. Inspector Gaunt did as he was asked.
‘I come to you concerning a rather delicate manner, Mr Holmes. I am currently in charge of the Temple kidnapping investigation.’ He paused and cast a searching glance at my friend, whose face remained a neutral mask. ‘It has come to my attention,’ continued Gaunt with a certain amount of awkwardness, ‘that you are also carrying out your own enquiries concerning this case.’
‘Oh,’ said Holmes, casually, ‘and how have you come into possession of such information?’
Gaunt hesitated. It seemed as though he was trying to decide how to respond to Holmes’s question. However, my friend did it for him.
‘No need to prevaricate, Inspector. You no doubt were told by your surveillance officer, who is positioned not far from the Temple residence’s entrance gate. I observed him yesterday when we paid a visit there. If my memory serves me right – and it usually does – he was dressed as some kind of artisan with a bag of tools.’
At first Gaunt seemed surprised at this revelation and then his face softened into a smile. ‘You are quite right, sir,’ he said. ‘The fellow you refer to is one of my men.’
‘Mr Temple has no doubt expressed his dismay at the police’s progress in this investigation and when your keen-eyed spy saw us arriving at the house, it would be easy to surmise that we had been engaged to supplement the official enquiry.’
‘Indeed. And as you intimate we have made scant progress in this affair. Both the boy and his abductors seem to have vanished off the face of the earth.’ Gaunt ran his fingers thorough his luxuriant hair. ‘That’s why I am here to enquire if you have made any headway with the matter. We should work together rather than separately…’
Holmes held up his hand to silence the policeman. ‘I am afraid, Inspector, it is a cast-iron rule of mine that I work alone in the interest of my client. It is only at the moment of climax that I am prepared to call in Scotland Yard.’
‘But surely our combined efforts…’
Holmes shook his head. ‘If I had wanted to be part of the Metropolitan machine I should have enlisted in the force.’
‘But if you have any pertinent information, surely you would be prepared to share it?’
‘Possibly. But at present I have gleaned nothing that could be of any use to you. It seems that we are both staring into the darkness hoping to catch a gleam of light. I am afraid that I cannot help you.’
Gaunt’s features darkened and his eyes blazed with suppressed anger. ‘Cannot or will not?’ he snapped.
Holmes made a dismissive gesture with his hand, prompting our visitor to rise abruptly from the chair. ‘I had expected more of you, Mr Holmes,’ he said with some heat. ‘There is a little boy’s life at stake. I would have thought that issue was paramount…’
‘Indeed it is. And I can assure you that all my endeavours are focussed on that problem.’
‘But you are not prepared to share your findings.’
‘My findings, such as they are, are currently of no use to Scotland Yard. When the path becomes clearer and a solution is in sight, that is the time I will turn to the official police force.’
‘Then, I shall take up no more of your valuable time.’ This statement was issued through gritted teeth. Gaunt strode to the door and flung it open before turning to face us once more.
‘Good day, gentlemen,’ he rasped before slamming the door shut.
Holmes gave one of his dry chuckles. ‘The arrogance of the man, coming here expecting me to do his work for him.’
‘You were a little churlish,’ I said.
‘Yes, I was, wasn’t I? There was something about Inspector Gaunt that I did not take kindly to.’
‘Nevertheless we are working for the same goal and you were not truthful with him. We have gleaned some evidence that may be of use to his investigation.’
‘And in the hands of the dunderheads at Scotland Yard could lead to catastrophe. The situation is extremely delicate. As Gaunt observed, a young boy’s life is in the balance. One careless move could lead to disaster. This matter needs treating with the utmost care and subtlety – qualities that are not prevalent within the confines of Scotland Yard.’
‘He seemed such an able fellow.’
‘Don’t be fooled by a smart suit and a confident manner, Watson. Gaunt did not come here to join forces with us in trying to solve this crime.’
‘What for then?’
‘To pick my brains. To learn what I knew.’
* * *
That evening we set off for Whitechapel. As dusk took hold of this grimy benighted area of London, Holmes and I turned into Bat Street. It was a wider thoroughfare than I had imagined. I had expected it to be a narrow alley of terrace houses, each as anonymous and shabby as the next, with blank grimy windows. I was wrong. It was a broad street with a small butcher’s shop, a pawnbroker’s and a public house, The Saracen’s Head, with a vivid sign advertising its presence. It was lively with pedestrians: there was a blind beggar soliciting alms and a singer grating his way through some unmemorable folk song along with a trio of street girls hanging around under a gas light, more in casual conversation than seeking trade. Holmes approached them and immediately they sensed a possible customer and broke away from the group, each striking what no doubt they considered was a provocative pose. They grinned and preened, waiting, it would seem, for Holmes to make his choice. Each woman was heavily made up so that their faces resembled a child’s garish shiny-faced doll. I could not say how old any of them were with accuracy. Certainly they were not in the flush of youth, but their mummified faces hid their true ages.
Holmes touched his hat in greeting. ‘I am anxious to discover the whereabouts of Alice Sunderland. I wonder if you ladies are able to help me.’
They giggled at the reference to the term ‘ladies’ and exchanged dark glances. Holmes held up a shiny coin. ‘I am prepared to pay for your trouble.’ Six avaricious eyes focussed on the coin.
‘What was the name again, duckie?’ said the tallest of the group.
‘Alice Sunderland.’
The three women exchanged glances again, nudged each other suggestively and laughed. ‘I think we could help you, but you see there are three of us. You get my meaning?’
Holmes nodded and withdrew a further two coins.
‘That’s right handsome of you, sir,’ said another, before stifling a giggle.
‘I’ll take those,’ said the tall one, holding out her hand.
‘The information first,’ said Holmes.
The woman leaned close to him and whispered something in his ear. Holmes’s face darkened; his whole expression was one of displeasure. With some reluctance he handed over the coins. The woman curtsied and burst into a fit of laughter and then passed a coin each to her companions, who seemed equally amused.
‘Come, Watson,’ said Holmes brusquely.
‘What on earth was that all about?’
Holmes flashed me a sardonic grin. ‘That was all about three street women getting the better of Sherlock Holmes.’
‘Do you mean they didn’t tell you where Alice Sunderland is?’
‘Oh, yes, they told me all right.’
‘Well, where is she?’
‘Under our very noses,’ he replied sourly.
By now we had reached the entrance of The Saracen’s Head. Holmes raised his cane and pointed to the small sign above the door that gave details of the proprietor who was licensed to sell beer, spirits and other intoxicating beverages. The name given was Alice Sunderland.
‘We had been thinking that Alice Sunderland was a prostitute, when it appears that she is the licensee of a thriving business.’ Holmes smiled and gave a dark chuckle. ‘If I had been a little more observant, I could have saved myself three sovereigns. Still, it proved a valuable lesson. One that I should have learned years ago: never make assumptions that blind you to other possibilities. Well, old boy, as my purse is somewhat depleted at the moment, the drinks are on you.’
The Saracen’s Head was full to bursting with customers. There seemed to be the whole array of London society in the place: a bunch of costermongers; numerous nefarious-looking fellows; a few soldiers; and several small West End types slumming it, using the East End as one of their cabaret stops. And of course there were prostitutes patrolling the clientele, seeking custom or a free drink.
With some effort we made our way to the bar. I ordered two pints of porter from the burly barman. As I paid, Holmes leaned forward and addressed the man. ‘Is Alice around?’ he asked, his voice coarser than normal. The barman raised a quizzical eyebrow as though he had not heard properly or understood the question.
‘Alice Sunderland,’ said Holmes.
The barman flipped out a watch from his waistcoat and studied it. ‘She’ll be on in a few minutes,’ he said, before moving down the counter to the next customer.
A small table in the corner had suddenly become vacant and with great alacrity, Holmes and I took possession of it.
‘What did he mean?’ I asked above the raucous babble that filled the room, as I sat down on a small stool.
‘I think we are about to be entertained,’ my friend replied, nodding towards the far end of the bar.
It was here the crowd was moving backwards to reveal a small makeshift stage and a battered upright piano, at which sat a large Negro wearing an amorphous white shirt and a bowler hat. He hammered out a set of raucous rallying chords while announcing in a loud, rich voice: ‘Pray silence, you lugs, for our own Ally Sunderland.’
A portly woman wearing what looked suspiciously like a ginger wig clambered up onto the stage. She was dressed in a large glittery gown that was obviously too small for her and as a result strained at every curve and crevice.
‘Hello, cheeky boys and girls,’ she cried.
The audience roared their approval and the piano struck up with the popular song, ‘The “Ticket-of-Leave” Man’. After the first verse most of the customers were joining in. I glanced over at Holmes, who maintained a tight amused grin.
Two more rousing songs followed and the crowd were now fully entranced by the performance. Then ‘Our Ally’ gave the touching ballad, ‘Alice, Where Art Thou?’ which brought a respectful hush from the throng. Her act concluded with an energetic rendition of ‘The Underground Railway’. As she finished, the whole audience roared their approval.
‘Is this the Alice Sunderland we are seeking, Holmes?’ I asked.
‘I see no reason why it should not be. It is time for us to find out.’ Without another word he was out of his seat and pushing his way through the crowd of admirers that clustered around Alice Sunderland. She seemed both delighted and amused by their open admiration. With great guile, Holmes managed to sidle right up to her and whisper in her ear. At once the broad smile that had adorned her plump features disappeared. Her eyes widened in shock and for a moment she stared at my friend without saying a word. He spoke to her again and at length she responded, shaking her head in denial, all the while her eyes darting around the room. Holmes had further words in her ear, to which, with some reluctance, she responded. Holmes nodded and moved away as surreptitiously as he had arrived. Within seconds, Alice Sunderland was beaming again and chatting with her admirers, but this time her jollity did not reach her eyes, which now registered fear and worry.
‘I think I have disturbed the lady, Watson, which shows that we are on the right track,’ my friend informed me on reaching my side.
‘What did she say?’
‘Not much, but she looked suitably distressed when I told her I wanted to talk to her about the child she sent to the baby farm eight years ago. She tried to deny it but I told her that I had proof from Mrs Chandler herself. That convinced our “Ally”. She said she couldn’t talk now, but invited me back when the pub closes around midnight.’ My friend rubbed his hands. ‘That should be a very interesting and enlightening interview.’