It soon became clear that Mrs Hudson was in the mood for action in other areas too. For the greater part of our return journey she muttered darkly about polishing, and on our arrival she pitched us into a frantic campaign of domestic duties, from scrubbing the floors to dusting the tops of the wardrobes. While I scuttled to and fro, Mrs Hudson towered above proceedings like Horatius at the bridge, never apparently engaging fewer than two jobs at a time, with her eyes already running ahead to where a third was lurking. Her face was fixed in brooding concentration and you might have believed her entire being centred on the elimination of household chores were it not for the occasional words mumbled under her breath when her physical effort was at its most intense.
‘Introductions were made, were they?’ she quoted to herself as, on her hands and knees, she scrubbed at the tiles around the hearth. ‘I bet they were. If you touch pitch . . .’ and she continued to scrub, with strong, soot-stained hands.
I was far too breathless to ask any questions but my own mind was working too. Neale’s tale, and what it revealed about the casual ruthlessness of the people we sought to protect, preyed on my mind. What would happen to Neale now? By his own confession he stood guilty of crimes that had condemned scores of innocent people to a horrible death. I thought of Mrs Trent, all alone in Limehouse, mourning her lost son. There must be others out there, even among the untutored Sumatrans, who still sometimes gazed emptily ahead as they remembered a lost child’s terrible last moments. Somehow the scene kept blurring in my mind until it became a memory of the small fair-haired boy as he twisted and turned in the damp bareness of Fogarty’s cellar. I paused in my work. Mrs Hudson was polishing with controlled fury at the legs of Dr Watson’s chair. Later the fires would be lit and the gentlemen would return with news of their day, Dr Watson blinking in the gas light, Holmes listening to his exclamations with a quiet good humour. But for now there was a floor to clean, and I threw myself into the task with some of Mrs Hudson’s passion, suddenly glad of where I was and the people I was with.
‘So, Flottie,’ Mrs Hudson declared finally when we had retired to the kitchen with sore knees and necks. ‘The place is sparkling like a guardsman’s buttons and we are nearly at the end of this sorry affair. I think we can sleep well tonight. There shouldn’t be any more unpleasant surprises.’
‘Will you be able to explain everything to me after tomorrow, ma’am? There are still a few things I don’t quite understand.’
‘Of course, Flotsam. I would share my thoughts with you right now but I’m hoping that most of the explaining will be done tomorrow when Mr Neale finishes his tale. Let’s hope that in this at least he can be trusted.’
And Mr Neale was as good as his word. Mr Holmes and Dr Watson arrived home shortly after dark and after changing into smoking jackets settled down with their evening mail. Not long afterwards came a decisive knock on the kitchen door and Mr Holmes entered with a letter in his hand and a quizzical gleam in his eye.
‘Mrs Hudson, I see you have been busy today.’
‘Good gracious, sir, I didn’t expect you to notice. It was nothing more than a quick brush and a bit of polishing.’
‘You misunderstand me, madam.’ He held the letter up to his chin. ‘This is another note from Mr Neale. He has broken cover and writes that he wishes to see us tomorrow. He adds the following …’ Mr Holmes opened the letter and began to read.
‘Through the agency of your estimable housekeeper, Mrs Hudson, I have been persuaded that my only course is to place myself entirely in your hands.’
Mrs Hudson flushed slightly and turned to the large pot bubbling on the stove.
‘So you see, Mrs Hudson, your secret is out and I am in your debt. I begin to see you are a dark horse. Watson and I must look to our laurels.’
Mrs Hudson continued to stir the pot.
‘Indeed,’ the great detective continued, ‘Mr Neale even extends tomorrow’s invitation to you. That is, in my opinion, going a little beyond what is necessary but I’m pleased that he recognises your contribution.’
‘Really, sir, it would hardly be our place for Flotsam and I to accompany Dr Watson and yourself on such a delicate visit.’ I thought I detected a gleam in her eye. ‘It would be most irregular, sir. What would people think?’
The words were well-chosen for they were greeted with a frown.
‘Nonsense, Mrs Hudson! Dr Watson and I never stand on ceremony. We should be sorely limited in our investigations if we did. If it is Mr Neale’s wish that you be present, however unconventional, I have no hesitation in urging your acceptance. Indeed I insist on your company.’
‘Very good, sir,’ responded Mrs Hudson very formally. ‘If you furnish us with the address, sir, I’m sure Flotsam and I will both enjoy an outing.’
‘That is decided then, Mrs H. We meet at one o’clock sharp at 84 Cavendish Street. Mr Neale is returning to the house he lived in before Moran’s return from Sumatra turned him into something of a fugitive. I look forward to tomorrow. Oh, and Mrs Hudson …’ He paused on the brink of leaving the room. ‘Do not expect me ever to underestimate your talents in the future.’
‘So Mr Neale plans to leave Rumbelow’s, does he?’ growled Mrs Hudson when we were left alone. ‘Unwise, but perhaps inevitable. He must be wanting to put his things in order prior to an enforced absence.’
I had taken over the stirring of the pot and I watched as Mrs Hudson dipped a spoon for tasting.
‘Oddly, Flottie, although I feel the danger is contained, I still don’t like to see our pheasant flushed from cover. I shall make sure Scraggs is on Moran’s doorstep from dawn. If Moran leaves his house, I want to know within minutes. And if he stays put, Neale is surely safe.’
She touched the spoon very delicately with her top lip and then pursed both lips together meditatively.
‘Smart clothes tomorrow, I think, Flottie. And just a tiny bit more salt.’
Mr Neale’s house in Cavendish Street proved smart and spacious and featured a great deal of marble. We were shown by a sharp-faced maid through a hallway into an airy drawing room. Beyond the drawing room was another door and it was at this she knocked to announce us. As the door opened, I saw that Mr Holmes and Dr Watson were there before us. The room we were ushered into was the sort sometimes referred to as a snug, although it bore no resemblance to those back rooms in public houses from which the name derived. It was furnished with self-conscious regard for comfort, with leather chairs, a desk and bookshelves that were a little too orderly to convey any sense of habitual use. Three armchairs had been drawn up into the centre of the room. Those occupied by Holmes and Watson faced into the room with their backs to the door, but the one intended for Neale faced us all full on so that he commanded a view of the whole room, even of the low bench behind the door where Mrs Hudson and I had settled a little awkwardly. Mr Neale had greeted us with a nod but no further sign of recognition, and he waited until we were all seated before he began.
‘I would like to offer my thanks to you all for coming here,’ he opened. His voice was much stronger than the previous day and his stance more determined, as if he had achieved a dignity in these last hours which in the past, when the option of flight remained, had always eluded him. ‘I am a stranger to confession but I find that when one is ready to unburden one’s soul there is a certain satisfaction in drawing together an audience to hear it. You mentioned, Mr Holmes, that Inspector Gregory of Scotland Yard may honour our little gathering?’
‘Gregory will be here when he can,’ replied Holmes. ‘In the meantime, sir, I suggest you make a start.’
‘I had also asked my solicitor to be present but a message was returned to say that the gentleman who has dealt with my affairs in the past is out of town. I understand that someone is to be sent in his stead, but in truth I feel that his absence is a blessing. He might wish to check me in my narration and I am in no mood to be cautious with my words.’
A silence settled on his audience as he began. He told from the beginning the story of his fateful venture in Sumatra. As he spoke I seemed to see even more clearly than before the rainy season lashing over the miserable collection of huts that passed for a town, the relentless tropical growth that ignored all attempts at clearance so that the jungle was constantly at their throats. The scene set, he proceeded to describe his suggestion of exploiting the natives’ weakness for liquor, the growing contempt among his group for those around them, their descent into chaos and death. Holmes and Watson listened without interruption, Holmes’s face impassive while Watson’s betrayed an increasing sense of horror and revulsion. When Neale told of the decision after Postgate’s violent death to continue their selling regardless, the doctor could stand it no longer.
‘I say, sir! This beggars belief! I’ve never heard of such conduct amongst Englishmen!’
Neale smiled to himself.
‘Dr Watson, I fear your experience of our countrymen overseas has been very different from my own. Your regimental spirit may well have survived the Afghan campaigns, but out beyond the edges of the Empire there is less scope for fair play. Out there you soon realise that the Empire won’t protect you from the fevers and the flies. No-one will come to your aid when your money runs out in pursuit of a fairly-won fortune. And look around you. Back in London no-one asks about the means of your success. For seven years in the jungle I dreamed of a room such as this. Now, through dishonest endeavour, I have one. Did the army look after you so well, Doctor?’
Dr Watson seemed about to respond. His hands gripped the arms of his chair and his eyes burned with the indignant scorn of the honest man taunted for his honesty. But before he could launch into a reply, Mr Holmes had intervened.
‘Steady, Watson. We came here to listen, my friend. Let us hear all there is to hear before we pass comment.’
‘Very well, Holmes,’ mumbled Watson, and he subsided a little in his seat. However, his usually placid gaze retained a simmering anger.
Neale continued with his tale, describing his last desperate days in Sumatra. I marvelled at his new-found calm. Although his hands worked as he spoke and I could sense the tension in his body, he returned the gentlemen’s gaze frankly and his voice betrayed scarcely a hint of the hysteria that only the previous day had almost overwhelmed him.
He had just begun to describe his return to London with Carruthers when there was a fresh knock on the door, followed by the tentative entry of the maid. In one hand she held a silver salver on which rested a calling card.
‘The gentleman from the solicitor’s office, sir.’
Neale waved the card away. ‘Ask the gentleman to wait out there in the drawing room, Gladys. I have no need of him at the moment.’
Again I was surprised by the decision in his voice, as though his days of being afraid of others were finally over. However, the interruption had broken his flow and Mr Holmes took the opportunity to ask a question.
‘You were saying, sir, that you were able to continue your illegal activities in London. How could that be? There are surely a great many hardened criminals better versed in these things than yourselves?’
‘You are right, Mr Holmes. In London our luck turned. Carruthers had been able to ship a small consignment of the remaining gin ahead of us. I don’t know how he smuggled it past the excisemen, but he did. It was our only asset. But on trying to sell it we were taken in hand by a man called Melmoth. He was a gentleman by appearance but there was no doubt that he was the intellect behind any number of criminal activities. He had abrupt ways with people who tried to set up in competition and Carruthers and I thought we were bound for the bottom of the Thames that very night. But Carruthers talked fast, said he had connections in London whom he hoped to make use of. This man Melmoth seemed impressed when he heard we already had blood on our hands and he seemed even more impressed when he heard who Carruthers’s contacts were. You see, despite spending most of his life at odds with his family, Carruthers had always been well connected. He was able to mention peers, Members of Parliament, even a bishop.
‘Melmoth was clearly impressed. Suddenly he was our greatest supporter. He set us up with funds and premises, took charge of distribution and paid us well when the money began to flow. Soon we had little to do but sit back and enjoy the rewards, but we knew all along we were nothing to Melmoth but a front. If the Excise called, it was we who were incriminated. We didn’t even know Melmoth’s real name and we only saw him when he chose to call. We did exactly what he asked of us, took any risks, paid officials, gave jobs to anyone he named. He knew our guilty secret and would never have hesitated in sending us to the gallows if it suited him. But Carruthers did his part in making us indispensable, building on his connections in society until we were completely above suspicion.’
He paused for a moment to sip from a glass of water beside his chair. Holmes continued to regard him with unemotional intensity. From where I sat his strong profile gave him the appearance of a bird of prey, patiently marking his victim’s movements. Watson’s head was sunk low, as if in disgust. Mrs Hudson, who had listened quietly during most of Neale’s exposition, had leaned forward intently when he began to describe his affairs in London. She stayed there, poised, waiting for something, when Neale continued his tale.
‘I don’t expect your sympathy, gentlemen, but for the first time since my departure for the tropics I felt that fortune was favouring me. Then everything changed. I learned that Moran was in London.’ He shuffled uneasily. ‘I had thought him dead. Or to be honest I had hoped him dead. For at the back of my mind I always knew that, if he had survived, a reckoning of accounts was inevitable. In London it began to seem impossible that he would ever appear again – but he did. He wasted no time in finding us. He told us we were in grave danger from the vengeance of those we had exploited, that there was a blood vendetta against us. He told us he intended to enlist your assistance in protecting us from our hunters. He told us that, if we lent him money, he had plans to travel to America. And through it all we believed nothing except that we were in great danger. Oh, we had no doubts! We could see the hatred in his eyes. We even left our homes and took rooms in hotels, believing ourselves safer in such public establishments. But still we were devoured by fear. Moran is relentless, sir! His heart is cold as stone and his hatred implacable!’
Something strange was happening to Neale. For the first time his voice was beginning to rise and waver. He stood up and moved to the mantelpiece. I could see his body beginning to shiver and the fear he spoke of seemed to be seeping into the room as though a dark angel stood at our door. I saw Watson look around uncomfortably and Mrs Hudson’s hands grew tense as she sat gripping her knees.
‘Is that your story, Neale?’ Holmes’s tone was flat, implacable, but a note of urgency suggested that he too was aware of the changed atmosphere. ‘Is Moran responsible for Carruthers’s death? For the attempts on your life?’
‘I am sure of it, sir! I would stake my life that it is he alone I have to fear.’
‘Calm yourself. Moran is at home. The police are watching his door and I have my own observer placed outside. If he attempts to leave his house, word would reach us within minutes. Now I have another question, one of the greatest import. What can you tell us of this man Melmoth who seems to be the very centre of an evil web of crime?’
‘Melmoth, Mr Holmes? Why, yes. I will tell you everything. I have nothing to lose now. You see, by accident I was able to discover his true name.’
‘You can only gain by sharing it with us. It will stand well with a court if you assist us in this.’
But at this point there was another knock at the door and again the maid advanced a step or two into the room.
‘The gentleman from the solicitor’s, sir. He’s impatient to talk to you.’
For a moment all eyes were on Neale. From where I sat I could see the faces of Holmes and Watson turned eagerly towards him as he stood with his back to the mantelpiece, looking towards the open door.
As I looked, his expression began to change. His impatience at the interruption turned to mystification and then to a sudden, astonished disbelief. He seemed about to address the maid for his mouth began to open and then the sound of a shot exploded in our ears and Neale rocked backwards, a bullet hole drilled neatly into the centre of his forehead.
Almost before he hit the ground it seemed everyone was on their feet. Watson and Holmes were up out of the chairs and turning towards the door. Mrs Hudson and I were up and stepping forward, the open door hiding us from the assassin. Only the maid continued to look at Neale and it was her rising scream that masked the sound of the second shot.
This time it was Mr Holmes that crumpled, spinning to the floor as though clipped by the wheel of a speeding hansom. Two new cries went up and both Watson and Mrs Hudson leapt towards him. The maid was screaming uncontrollably now and Mrs Hudson had to push past her to reach the fallen detective. Watson was there first, striding over Neale’s fallen body and tugging at Holmes’s collar. Somewhere behind me running feet were escaping through the drawing room. I was in time to see the tail of a coat swirling out of view into the hall beyond.
‘Stop him!’ yelled Watson, looking up in time to see the hall door slammed shut. A thin voice brought us back to more pressing business.
‘Neale, Watson! Look to Neale!’ Mr Holmes was still conscious and gesturing with his left hand.
‘He’s dead, Holmes!’ snapped Watson, still tearing at the buttons of Holmes’s shirt. ‘Dead before he hit the ground.’
At this the maid stopped screaming and appeared to faint, landing with a soft thud at my feet. So while my companions struggled to remove their patient’s jacket, I fanned the fallen maid strenuously with my handkerchief. As I did so, crouched in the doorway, I was aware of a new figure advancing towards us across the drawing room. I recognised the tweed-clad figure of Inspector Gregory.
‘Good God!’ he cried. ‘What has happened? The man I passed in the hall said Holmes was murdered!’
Dr Watson looked up, his eyes wide.
‘The man you passed in the hall? Gad, sir! Why the devil didn’t you stop him?’
‘He was going for a doctor, Dr Watson. I …’
Realisation struck him like a blow and his honest face collapsed into despair. He began instinctively to turn in pursuit but Mrs Hudson stopped him.
‘Too late, sir. Help us here instead. We should lift Mr Holmes into that chair.’
Within a few minutes, a semblance of order had been created amidst the carnage. A footman and a heavily blowing cook had been quick to the scene and had removed the quivering maid. Holmes, though pale, remained conscious and his wound, when revealed, proved to be no more than a cut to the flesh of his upper arm.
‘You have been dashed fortunate, Holmes. Despite the bleeding there is little damage done. Once we have bound that wound properly, some few days of rest should see you well on your way to recovery.’
Holmes smiled at him grimly. His pale cheeks seemed to have sunk further into his face, making his features more gaunt than ever.
‘Rest, Watson? This is hardly the time. Action is what is called for now.’
Nevertheless, he remained obediently in his chair while Mrs Hudson and I bound the wound with bandages provided by the cook, freeing Dr Watson and Inspector Gregory to examine the fallen figure of Neale.
‘It’s as I thought,’ nodded Watson. ‘The first shot killed him outright. Whoever fired must have taken good aim.’
In a few words he described to Gregory the scene we had witnessed. ‘The villain fired from behind the maid,’ he concluded. ‘But why on earth should Neale’s solicitor want to take a shot at him?’
‘If you remember, sir,’ came Mrs Hudson’s voice softly, ‘when we arrived Mr Neale said he had sent for his solicitor. But if I recall correctly, a message came back saying that gentleman was out of town and another would take his place. Could it have been that the original message was intercepted, sir, by someone who wished Mr Neale harm?’
‘Good lord, Mrs Hudson! Could that be possible?’
‘It fits the facts, Watson,’ cut in Mr Holmes. ‘I warn you that you underestimate Mrs Hudson at your peril.’
Inspector Gregory stepped into the drawing room and returned with the calling card that still lay on its silver platter.
‘Hand-written,’ he commented. ‘And with signs of haste. “Lewis Monk, Attorney-at-Law”,’ he read. ‘An alias, do you think?’
‘Clearly,’ Mrs Hudson and Mr Holmes said together, and then paused to exchange glances of mutual acknowledgement.
‘Mr Neale wasn’t particularly meant to see the card, you see, sir,’ I piped up timidly. ‘It was just a way of making sure the maid would open the door.’
Mrs Hudson raised an eyebrow at me in an approving way but Dr Watson looked unconvinced.
‘A dashed risky plan though,’ he pondered. ‘How could he know he’d get a shot at him? Anything could have gone wrong.’
Mrs Hudson nodded gently.
‘I think, sir, we are dealing with someone who is not afraid to take risks.’ She tied a last knot in the bandage and Dr Watson examined her handiwork with approval.
‘Come now, Watson. Enough of this fussing.’ Holmes struggled to a more upright position. He was paler than ever but his eyes burned with determination. ‘Neale is dead, Moran inescapably compromised. We must act quickly.’
‘You think this is Moran’s work, eh, Holmes?’
‘I have just come from Moran, sir,’ put in Inspector Gregory. ‘When I left him he was repeating the tale he told you about Sumatra to one of my officers. I came here directly. It is inconceivable that he could have overtaken me.’
‘Then that sinister servant of his. Could he be the guilty man?’
‘Penge, sir? I’m afraid Penge left London for Cornwall on last night’s express. My men followed him to the station and I received a telegram earlier today from the local constabulary confirming his arrival in Truro. His home town, apparently.’
‘Then who, dash it?’
It was a question to which the policeman had no answer other than a shrug of bewilderment. Holmes, watching wryly from where he lay, turned to his companion.
‘I’m afraid a joker has turned up from the pack to upset all our calculations, Watson. We can at least hope the maid had a good look at the man. When she is calmer she may be able to provide a description.’
Gregory blushed furiously at this reference to the assassin and to spare his feelings we all tried to look away, only to find that by doing so our gaze came to rest on Neale’s paling corpse.
‘Perhaps, if you’re well enough to move to the drawing room, Holmes …’ suggested Watson.
But Mrs Hudson had risen to her feet and was frowning at a spot of dust on the mantelpiece. ‘This may of course be Mr Moran’s work, sir, if he were acting through a proxy. But I am inclined to believe that Mr Moran himself might now be in great danger.’
Again Mr Holmes smiled.
‘Ah, your woman’s intuition, Mrs Hudson? Just when I thought we had converted you to more scientific ways of thinking!’
He rose unsteadily from his chair and Watson helped him to stand. ‘You forget, Mrs Hudson, that Mr Moran is closely watched. His rooms are inaccessible except from the street and the entrance is under close guard. I think Moran is safe enough.’
‘From what you’ve told me, sir, shouldn’t I be arresting him for the other murder?’ Gregory seemed anxious to atone for his earlier error.
‘I would much prefer to speak to him first, Gregory, if I could prevail upon you to stay your hand for a few hours. We know him to be a villain but at the moment it is little more than Neale’s word against Moran’s. And Neale is not well placed to state his case.’
By now we had made our way to the drawing room and Gregory closed the door upon the grim scene in the snug.
‘You are in no state to see Moran now, Holmes,’ said Watson firmly. ‘You need that arm in a sling and I insist you rest a few hours at the very least.’
‘Very well, Watson. I shall call on him this evening. Moran will wait until then.’
But I could see from Mrs Hudson’s tightly set jaw that this was a view of things she did not share.
‘I beg you, sir. Perhaps I am wrong that Moran is in danger. But could we not take precautions? At least until you are well enough to call on him yourself, sir.’
Holmes considered her carefully. Perhaps it was the loss of blood or a reaction to the shock of his wound but his manner towards her seemed suddenly thoughtful.
‘Very well, Mrs Hudson,’ he said at last. ‘There can be no harm in it.’
He turned to Dr Watson. ‘I have already suggested to Moran that you will be sitting with him from time to time to reassure him as to his safety. Would you be so good as to go to him now? Given what we now know of him, I daresay your attentions will not be particularly welcome. But if you could stay there regardless until I have rested a little and can join you, I should be eternally grateful.’
Watson flushed with pleasure.
‘Of course, Holmes. Happy to be of assistance.’
‘I can think of no safer pair of hands than Watson’s, Gregory,’ said Holmes, ‘and he will not put Moran on his guard as one of your men would.’ Holmes turned again to Watson. ‘Gregory’s men will be on call should Moran try anything, but since he has no way of knowing of Neale’s confession I can see no reason why he should.’
‘In that case,’ declared Mrs Hudson, ‘I shall have no objection to Flotsam going with you, Dr Watson, in case you wish to send any messages back to Baker Street.’
Dr Watson smiled warmly.
‘Excellent! I shall enjoy Flotsam’s company greatly, Mrs H. We shall leave at once.’
Before we did, however, another small incident occurred. A knock at the front door was answered by the footman and a very small boy was ushered into our presence.
‘Message for Mr Holmes,’ he stated firmly as though it were an incontrovertible fact of existence.
‘I’m afraid the gentleman is a little indisposed,’ replied Mrs Hudson gently, indicating the bandaged arm. ‘Allow Inspector Gregory there to take receipt.’ So while Watson rooted in his pockets for a tip, Gregory opened the note and began to read.
‘My dear Mr Holmes,’ he began before breaking off. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to read this yourself, sir?’
‘Not at all, Gregory. I receive no correspondence of a personal nature and the fact of this note being delivered here is of great interest in itself.’
Gregory nodded and continued to read.
‘My dear Mr Holmes,
You must forgive me for the most unmannerly way in which I forced myself upon your acquaintance this afternoon. I would have chosen to meet under more agreeable circumstances. However, we are all the servants of chance and I regret that it was necessary to inflict on you a trifling wound. Rest assured that had I intended you any lasting harm, you would not now be reading this note. My restraint is a tribute to your reputation and to the hope that we may meet again in more propitious circumstances.
Necessitas non habet legem.
Melmoth’
‘Melmoth!’ exclaimed Watson. ‘What damned impertinence!’
‘And yet the neat hole in Neale’s forehead suggests his boast may not be an idle one, my friend.’
Gregory was looking confused. ‘Necessitas non what?’ he wondered aloud.
‘Necessity knows no law, sir,’ I informed him, remembering the utterances of my knife-grinding Latin teacher as he used to feast so liberally on Mrs Siskin’s baking.
‘Melmoth was the name used by Neale’s mysterious collaborator,’ Holmes explained to Gregory. ‘The man is apparently guilty of more crimes than the one we have just witnessed. Neale was on the brink of revealing his identity when the blow fell.’
He turned to the boy who still stood determinedly in front of him, looking pointedly at Dr Watson’s pockets.
‘Who gave you this letter? There’s a coin in it for you if you answer clearly.’
‘The gent, sir.’
‘And which gent was that, young man?’
‘The gent what gave me the letter, sir.’
‘That much logic cannot be faulted. Let me start again. Was this gentleman previously known to you?’
‘Nivver saw ‘im before. Came into The Red Lion, he did, asked the landlord if there was a boy to take a missage.’
‘And what did the gentleman look like?’
The witness seemed a little taken aback, as though it had never particularly occurred to him that all gentlemen didn’t look pretty much the same. However, he was not to be defeated and after a thoughtful pause he delivered his opinion.
‘He were a dark gent, sir. He weren’t fat at all. An’ he had a black ‘at on.’
Mr Holmes pondered for a moment.
‘Thank you,’ he concluded. ‘That is an admirable description. I’ve known members of the professional force offer a great deal less. Gregory, since Watson appears short of change perhaps you could reward this child for his labours. Meanwhile, let us ready ourselves to depart.’
It wasn’t until a cab was waiting at the door and Mr Holmes was about to step outside that Mrs Hudson stopped him quietly and drew him to one side.
‘I wondered, sir, if you would have an opinion on this?’
I saw her pass him a marble ashtray which he took with his good arm and eyed intently.
‘Tobacco ash, Mrs Hudson? I have written a monograph on just this subject.’ He looked again, suddenly oblivious of the horses blowing noisily outside. ‘Cigarette ash,’ he said at last. ‘And an expensive brand at that. Note the very fine texture of the ash. Egyptian, perhaps?’
Mrs Hudson let out a long slow breath. ‘Egyptian, sir? I thought as much,’ she said softly.
Holmes shot her a meaningful glance. ‘You think this is helpful, Mrs Hudson?’
Mrs Hudson turned slightly and her eyes met mine.
‘Oh yes, sir,’ she nodded. ‘I rather think it might be conclusive.’