Although elsewhere in the published accounts of my adventures with Sherlock Holmes I have referred in passing to the disappearance of Mr James Phillimore as one of Holmes’ unsolved cases, I have to confess that this was a deception on my part, carried out on Holmes’ instructions in order to protect the anonymity of Mr Phillimore’s exact whereabouts.

Rather than reveal them, especially to one certain individual, Holmes, preferring not to betray Phillimore’s trust, allowed the public to believe that, in this particular case, all his deductive powers were of no avail and that he had to admit himself defeated.

However, I have his permission to write an account of the mystery and, in the hope that at some future date he may agree to the story being published, I intend preserving it among my papers.

The adventure began one Friday morning in late May when I called at 221B Baker Street soon after the post had arrived. I found Holmes seated at the breakfast table in the first-floor sitting-room among the clutter of familiar objects, reading a letter which he passed to me with the comment, ‘Well, Watson, what do you make of that?’

By that time, I had known Holmes for long enough to have acquired some of his skills of observation and I perused the letter carefully before replying.

It read:

I noticed that the writing-paper was a popular brand, available at most stationers’, and that the script was the careful, round hand of a clerk while the address, Magnolia Terrace, Clapham, suggested that the correspondent was neither distinguished nor famous.

I said as much, adding, ‘You won’t accept the case, will you, Holmes? A missing head-waiter! It seems far too commonplace to do much to enhance your reputation. Surely it is best left to the police to solve?’

Holmes, who was lighting his after-breakfast pipe, raised his eyebrows at me.

‘Come, Watson!’ he chided gently but not without an amused twinkle in his grey eyes. ‘I have told you before* that the status of a client is a matter of less moment to me than the interest of his case. And this case, even though it involves a head-waiter, is certainly a curious one. Mr James Phillimore has not merely disappeared. It would seem he has totally vanished without trace on a Tuesday morning in broad daylight and in the middle of Clapham, too! Besides, although the police have been informed, they appear not to be interested in following up the mystery. I shall certainly see this Mr Charles Nelson when he arrives and hear the full story before deciding whether or not to take up the investigation. Will you be able to stay for the interview? Or have you a more pressing appointment with one of your patients?’

It so happened that my morning was free and, once Mrs Hudson had cleared the table, Holmes and I settled down to read the morning papers while awaiting the arrival of Mr Nelson, Holmes occasionally interrupting the silence to comment out loud on some item which had caught his attention in the daily press.

‘I see share prices are still rising,’ he remarked at one point. ‘Now would seem the right time to sell one’s investments.’

A little later, he again broke in to exclaim, ‘By Jove, Watson! Another burglary in Knightsbridge, this time at the home of Lady Whittaker whose emeralds have been stolen. I am beginning to suspect a mastermind behind these thefts. It would not surprise me if one of these days we receive a visit from Inspector Lestrade of the Yard.’

Lestrade did not, in fact, call that morning although, sharp on the stroke of eleven, footsteps were heard ascending the stairs and, after a hesitant knock at the door, Mr Nelson, a tall, awkward man in his thirties, with thinning fair hair, entered the room. He was dressed in a respectable dark suit and carried a bowler hat which he twisted nervously between his hands as if awed at finding himself in the presence of the great consulting detective.

Unexpectedly, for his letter had made no reference to a companion, he was accompanied by a young woman in her mid-twenties; not unhandsome but a little too buxom and high-coloured to be considered beautiful and with a bold, imperious air about her. I could envisage her in a few years’ time developing into a formidable and overbearing matron.

Mr Nelson introduced her as Miss Cora Page, the fiancée of his friend, Mr Phillimore.

‘Miss Page’, Nelson continued, giving Holmes an apologetic glance, ‘insisted on coming with me.’

The reason for his diffidence was immediately apparent for, no sooner had Holmes invited them to sit down, than Miss Page took charge of the interview.

‘Charlie here will be able to tell you the facts, Mr Holmes,’ she began, after casting a disapproving glance about her at the clutter of books, papers and scientific apparatus which occupied every flat surface in the room and had in places overflowed on to the floor. ‘My main concern is finding my fiancé. We were due to be married next month. The church is booked, the cake ordered, the dressmaker has nearly finished my wedding gown, apart from some alterations to the bodice, that is. And now Jim has gone and disappeared! I can’t believe he’d desert me practically on the altar steps. It’s too humiliating!’

Her voice rose as she spoke, her cheeks flushing even brighter, and, as she fumbled in her reticule for a handkerchief with which to dab her eyes, Holmes turned to me.

‘Miss Page is naturally distressed at the disappearance of her fiancé, Watson, and no doubt also fatigued by the journey here from Clapham. Such a long way to come! Be a dear fellow and escort her downstairs where I am sure Mrs Hudson will provide her with tea and biscuits.’

Taking the hint, I accompanied Miss Page to the ground floor where I installed her in the housekeeper’s room and, having seen her supplied with the refreshments which Holmes had recommended, I returned upstairs.

With Miss Page’s departure, Mr Nelson seemed more at ease and, as I re-entered the room, I found him leaning forward in his armchair in earnest tête-à-tête with Holmes, who, holding up a hand, cut short his prospective client’s account.

‘One moment, Mr Nelson, if you please. Now that my good friend Dr Watson has rejoined us, may I take the opportunity to recapitulate the facts of the case for his benefit?’ Turning to me, he continued, ‘Mr Nelson has been telling me that it is his custom to accompany his friend, Mr James Phillimore, every morning to Clapham Junction station in order to catch the 8.05 train into Town where they both have their places of work, Mr Nelson as clerk at Murchison and Whybrow’s, the solicitors in King William Street, Mr Phillimore at Gudgeon’s in St Swithin’s Lane where he is employed as head-waiter. You have heard of Gudgeon’s, of course, Watson?’

‘Indeed I have,’ I replied, seating myself in the chair which Miss Page had just vacated. ‘It is a well-known restaurant in the City, much frequented, I believe, by bankers and members of the Stock Exchange.’

‘Quite so. Now it seems that every morning, on the dot of half past seven, as Mr Nelson described it, he would walk from Magnolia Terrace where he has lodgings …’

‘Just off Lavender Hill,’ Mr Nelson broke in.

‘… into Laburnum Grove where his old friend, Mr Phillimore, would be waiting for him at the gate of number seventeen. They would then set off together down Lavender Hill for the station. And then, three days ago …’ He looked across at Mr Nelson, inviting him to resume his account at the point where, it seemed, it had been interrupted.

Mr Nelson was eager to pick up the story.

‘Well, Mr Holmes, as I was saying, it was Tuesday morning. There was Jim – Mr Phillimore – standing at his gate as per usual. There was nothing out of the ordinary about him except, as I got close up to him, he said, ‘I fancy I can smell rain in the air, Charlie. I’m just popping back into the house for my brolly. It’s in the hall so I shan’t be more than half a jiffy.’ So he gets out his keys, walks back up the garden path, opens the front door and goes inside, leaving the door ajar. And that’s the last I saw of him.’

‘You waited, I assume?’ Holmes asked.

‘Of course I did, Mr Holmes. I hung about at the gate for a good five minutes, expecting him to come out of the house at any moment. Then, when he didn’t appear, I went up to the house myself, thinking he’d been taken ill of a sudden. I pushed open the door and went into the hall, calling out his name. But there was neither sight nor sound of him in either of the downstairs rooms. It was while I was looking and calling that his housekeeper heard me and came out of the kitchen. When I explained what had happened, she went with me up the stairs to look in the bedrooms. It’s only a small house, Mr Holmes, and I swear we searched every inch of it, under the beds, in the wardrobes, even the cupboard under the stairs. But we found nothing.’

‘What about the garden? You searched that, too?’

‘Oh, yes, Mr Holmes. It is only a few yards square but there was no one there neither. It was as if he’d vanished into thin air.’

‘Could he have climbed into a neighbour’s garden?’ I put in.

‘No, he couldn’t, Dr Watson. The fence is too high as you’ll see for yourself if you come to the house; that is, if Mr Holmes is willing to take up the case.’

He turned to look at Holmes in appeal but my old friend, puffing away imperturbably at his pipe, refused to be drawn and merely nodded in my direction to encourage me to continue my line of questioning which I did with some hesitation, anxious not to appear a fool nor to assume Holmes’ role of detective.

‘Then is there any other means of exit from the premises? A back garden gate, for instance?’

‘No, sir, there isn’t. The only other way Jim – Mr Phillimore – could have left was by a passage which runs along the side of the house to the back door. It’s the tradesmen’s entrance. But he didn’t go out that way. As I explained, I was standing at the gate for a good five minutes and I would have noticed him if he’d left by that route. There’s a few people about at that time in the morning, like me and Jim making their way to work, but I know every one of them by sight and there’s not enough of them for him to have slipped away unnoticed. Nor did his housekeeper see him pass the kitchen window which he’d have to do if he went out that way. And, like I said, by the time I went into the house, he’d already vanished.’

I could think of no other questions to put to Mr Nelson and I was relieved when Holmes, leaning forward to knock out the ashes of his pipe into the coal-scuttle, resumed charge of the interview.

‘Tell me a little about your friend. What type of man is he?’

‘Oh, a very quiet, unassuming man, Mr Holmes. Very regular in his habits.’

‘Not the sort to take it into his head suddenly to disappear?’

‘Quite out of character. That’s why I’m so worried about him. He’s a steady, reliable fellow who I’d trust with my last shilling.’

‘Any problems at his place of employment?’

‘Quite the contrary. The management of Gudgeon’s are as concerned as I am about his disappearance. When I called round there to explain the situation to them, they spoke most highly of him.’

‘Then is he in any financial difficulties?’

‘Not that I know of, Mr Holmes. He lived very modestly, never spending more than he earned which, seeing as he was a head-waiter, were decent wages, not to mention the tips he’d get as extras.’

‘Tips!’ Holmes exclaimed, as if he had never heard of the word.

Mr Nelson regarded him in surprise.

‘Yes, Mr Holmes, tips; small gratuities which a satisfied customer offers for good service.’

‘Yes, yes, of course. I understand that. Pray continue, Mr Nelson. When I interrupted you, you were speaking of your friend’s modest style of living.’

‘And so it was, sir. He didn’t drink, didn’t smoke, didn’t gamble. His only extravagance was to treat himself occasionally to a seat in the upper circle at a music-hall. I know for a fact that he had over a hundred pound saved up. And he didn’t have to find a weekly rent neither. There’d been a bit of money in the family. His parents had owned an eating-house in the City Road. In fact, it was there where Jim got his foot on the first rung of the catering ladder, so to speak. As a lad, he’d worked for them, waiting at table. But, in his quiet way, Jim’s ambitious and gradually he moved on to higher things, eventually finishing up as head-waiter at Gudgeon’s. After his father died, his mother sold up the business and with the proceeds bought the house in Laburnum Grove, partly to retire to and partly to give Jim a home. He was living in lodgings at the time. Then, when old Mrs Phillimore died last October, he inherited the house along with its contents.’

‘Where, I assume, he intended setting up home with Miss Page after their marriage?’

Nelson gave Holmes another of his contrite glances.

‘I’m sorry about her coming with me, Mr Holmes. I had hoped to speak to you in private. But once she heard I had written to you for an appointment, she wouldn’t take no for an answer. She’s a very determined young lady is Cora. And naturally, she’s upset by Jim’s disappearance. As she told you, they were due to be married next month. Jim had been putting the wedding off on account of Cora and his mother not seeing eye to eye and neither of them willing to share the same house with the other. Mrs Phillimore was a bit of a Tartar, between me and you; crippled with arthritis in her later years and as deaf as a post. But that didn’t stop her getting her own way. It was on her account that Jim took on Mrs Bennet as a live-in housekeeper so there’d be someone to look after his mother when he was out at work. By the way, sir, I took the liberty of mentioning to Mrs Bennet that you might be calling at the house to make inquiries.’

He again looked appealingly at Holmes but when he failed to respond apart from nodding encouragement to the man to continue, Nelson resumed his account.

‘Old Mrs Phillimore led him a terrible dance when she was alive. Boss him about! I’ve never heard the like of it. Not that Jim ever complained and he was a good son to her. Taught her and himself to lip-read so that the two of them could still have some means of communication. Anyway, once she died, Cora – Miss Page – insisted on Jim naming the day and the wedding was fixed for June 14th, reception afterwards in the private room over the Farriers’ Arms and a honeymoon in Bournemouth.’ Mr Nelson stared down gloomily into his bowler hat which he was nursing between his knees. ‘It don’t look as if it’ll come off now, does it, Mr Holmes? Not with the bridegroom gone and vanished off the face of the earth.’

‘It would seem highly unlikely,’ Holmes agreed.

‘So what do you say, sir?’ Nelson continued eagerly. ‘Will you take the case? I don’t know who else to turn to. The police aren’t interested. They say that as Jim is over-age and there’s no sign of foul play, there’s not much they can do. He might turn up. Or then again he might not. It’s all very worrying and bothersome. He’s been a good friend to me, has Jim, and I would be more than grateful if you would make a few inquiries. I don’t know what your fees are but I have a bit of money put aside for a rainy day which I’m willing to part with for Jim’s sake for, with him disappearing the way he did, I reckon that day has already arrived.’

Holmes seemed to come to a sudden decision for, springing to his feet, he held out his hand.

‘I shall certainly take on the case, Mr Nelson. As for the fees …’ He made a deprecatory gesture. ‘Payment will be by results. If I fail to find your friend, Mr James Phillimore, then there will be no charge. That seems a fair arrangement.’

Before Mr Nelson could protest or even express his thanks, Holmes had ushered him out of the room and down the stairs to the ground floor where presumably Nelson found Miss Page for, a few minutes later, as Holmes and I stood at the window, we watched the two of them walking away down Baker Street, the lady clasping her tall, ungainly companion by the arm and talking vociferously while he listened, head bent, to her monologue.

Holmes chuckled sardonically.

‘Unless Mr Nelson is very careful, he will find himself married off sooner or later to his friend’s fiancée,’ he remarked. ‘As he himself described her, she won’t take no for an answer. Well, what do you make of it, Watson? Not that particular relationship but the case of Mr James Phillimore, the vanishing head-waiter.’

‘It is certainly very strange,’ I replied. ‘Phillimore seems a man from a respectable enough background …’

‘Who also possessed a very keen sense of smell,’ Holmes added in a jocular fashion. ‘As I remember, Tuesday morning was particularly fine with not a cloud to be seen. And yet he assured Mr Nelson that he could smell rain and insisted on going back to the house for his umbrella. I think I detect a whiff of conspiracy. Come, Watson, get your hat. We are going out.’

He was already striding towards the door.

‘Where to?’ I demanded, snatching up my hat and stick and hurrying after him.

‘Where else but seventeen Laburnum Grove, Clapham, to examine the scene of Mr James Phillimore’s extraordinary disappearing act?’

The house, as we discovered when the hansom cab deposited us at the gate, was a small, red-brick villa of the type erected in such areas as Clapham and Brixton for clerks, shop-assistants and minor tradesmen and their families. A narrow strip of front garden, just wide enough to accommodate two rose bushes and a tiny patch of lawn, separated it from the road where a few trees, too young yet to have developed beyond the sapling stage, grew out of the paving-stones between the gas lamp-standards.

The garden path, a mere few yards in length and paved with red and yellow tiles, led up to the front door where Holmes banged on the knocker.

The door was opened by an elderly, grey-haired woman, dressed in clean but shabby black, with tired, lined features – Mrs Bennet, the housekeeper, I assumed.

‘Come in, sir,’ she said, dropping a little bob of a curtsey. ‘You must be Mr Sherlock Holmes, the famous detective. I’ve read about you in the illustrated papers. Mr Nelson said you might be calling on account of Mr Phillimore’s disappearing. He said I was to answer any questions – Mr Nelson, that is.’

After Holmes had introduced me and Mrs Bennet had dropped another curtsey, a difficult manoeuvre in Phillimore’s narrow hall, still further encumbered by a large hat-stand, she showed us into a small sitting-room which overlooked the back garden where she waited just inside the door, her work-worn hands folded on the front of her apron.

I have remarked elsewhere* on Holmes’ skill at putting a humble witness at ease. It was so with Mrs Bennet. It is also worth recording his own ability to appear totally relaxed in whatever surroundings he may find himself, whether it be the splendours of a panelled library in a ducal mansion or the fetid basement of an opium den in Limehouse.

On this occasion, he drew out an upright chair and, seating himself upon it, crossed his legs as if perfectly at home in Mr Phillimore’s cramped but tidy living-room, with its ugly furniture, too large for the space yet polished to a high gloss, its potted plants and its family photographs, most of them featuring a heavy-chinned, disagreeable-looking old lady who could only be the late Mrs Phillimore.

‘There is no need to be nervous,’ Holmes said, addressing Mrs Bennet and giving her one of his most cordial smiles, for when Holmes is in a good humour, there is no kinder nor more charming man in the whole world. ‘I shall ask you a few simple questions, nothing more. First of all, I should like you to tell me in your own words exactly what Mr Phillimore did on Tuesday morning from the time he rose until he left the house.’

‘Rose, sir?’ Mrs Bennet seemed surprised that the great detective should have come all that way to question her about such trivial domestic happenings. ‘The same as he always did. He got up at half past six as usual, washed and shaved – I took him up a can of hot water – dressed and came downstairs for his breakfast.’

‘And then?’

‘He put on his coat, called out goodbye to me and went out by the front door to wait at the gate for Mr Nelson.’

‘Nothing else happened before he left? No post came? No messages?’

‘Only the paper, sir, which he glanced at over his breakfast.’

‘Ah, the morning newspaper!’ Holmes seemed unwarrantedly pleased by this information. ‘And which morning newspaper does Mr Phillimore subscribe to?’

‘The Times, sir.’

I was surprised to hear this. It seemed an unusual choice of reading matter for a head-waiter and one which I could only ascribe to Phillimore’s contact with Gudgeon’s City clients who no doubt had influenced his taste towards a more superior daily paper. Holmes himself, however, appeared not to find the information significant for, when I glanced at him to observe his response, apart from commenting ‘Really?’ in an uninterested voice, he passed on to other matters.

‘Tell me what happened after Mr Phillimore left the house.’

‘Why, nothing at all, sir, until I heard Mr Nelson in the hall calling out Mr Phillimore’s name. I was in the kitchen, washing up the breakfast things and, when I went out to see what Mr Nelson wanted, he told me that five minutes before Mr Phillimore had come back into the house to get his umbrella and hadn’t come out again. We looked all over and Mr Nelson searched the garden but there was no sign of him.’

‘I see he did not, in fact, take his umbrella,’ Holmes remarked. ‘It is still in the hall-stand.’

‘Is it, Holmes?’ I interjected. ‘I had not noticed.’

‘He didn’t take nothing!’ Mrs Bennet burst out, her mouth beginning to tremble. ‘He’s left everything behind – every stitch of clothing he owned down to his winter overcoat and his best boots. Oh, sir, what’s happened to him? And what’s to happen to me and the house? My wages is paid up until the end of the month and the police have told me to stay on in case he turns up. I can’t think where he can have gone to or why. He’s never done anything like this before. He’s so regular, I swear you could set Big Ben by him. He’s not even so much as gone away on a holiday except for that week he spent in Margate after his mother died and the doctor ordered him a complete rest and a change of air.’

‘Margate?’ Holmes inquired. ‘Do you happen to know whereabouts in Margate he stayed?’

‘I couldn’t say, sir, except it was a boarding-house with a funny, foreign-sounding name.’

‘I see. And apart from his holiday in Margate, have there been any more recent changes in Mr Phillimore’s routine?’

‘Well, not really …’

Seeing her hesitate, Holmes asked quickly, ‘But you have noticed something?’

‘Only his wardrobe, sir. He took to locking it over the past few days. I noticed on Monday morning when I went to his room to hang up a coat I’d sponged and pressed for him.’

‘But it is unlocked now?’

‘Why, yes, sir, so it is!’ Mrs Bennet exclaimed. ‘How did you know that?’

‘It seemed a possibility,’ Holmes answered carelessly before continuing, ‘There is one more question and then I shall not need to detain you any longer, Mrs Bennet. After Mr Phillimore left by the front door, did you notice anyone pass by the kitchen?’

‘No, sir; I did not. I was stood by the sink in front of the window from the time Mr Phillimore left the house until Mr Nelson called out and not a blessed soul went past it. I’d take my Bible oath on that.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Bennet,’ Holmes said gravely. ‘You have been most helpful.’

‘Has she, Holmes?’ I asked, after Mrs Bennet had left the room. ‘I can’t see she has added anything of significance to our knowledge of the case apart from reiterating the same information we have already learned from Mr Nelson.’

‘You underestimate her contribution, Watson. There is the matter of the locked wardrobe.’

‘Oh, that!’

‘Never dismiss the smallest fact, however unimportant it may appear. It is the basis on which all successful deduction is founded.’

‘Then what about The Times?’ I asked eagerly. ‘I thought, when Mrs Bennet mentioned it, it seemed an odd choice of paper for a head-waiter to read.’

‘Ah, The Times! One should certainly never dismiss The Times. A most worthy publication,’ Holmes remarked with an abstracted air. He had wandered across the room to examine a pair of french windows which led into the back garden before turning his attention to the two drawers of a large and ugly sideboard which occupied the adjoining wall. ‘Ah! What have we here? Take a look at these, Watson.’

He handed me a small bundle of printed sheets.

‘They’re music-hall programmes,’ I replied, glancing through them briefly. ‘The Tivoli. Collins’s. Oh, I say, Holmes! Look at this one. Lottie Lynne was playing at the Alhambra in February. I wish I had known. I might have gone to hear her. Such a delightful voice!’

‘I have noticed before, Watson, that you have a predilection for small, blonde young ladies,’ Holmes commented with an amused air, putting the programmes back into the drawer and shutting it. ‘I myself prefer the acrobats. Well, I think I have seen all I need down here. I suggest we examine the rest of the house and then the garden.’

The house was so small that the search took a mere ten minutes, Holmes only pausing to open Phillimore’s wardrobe, still containing his abandoned clothes, but apart from the brief remark ‘Roomy, I see!’, he made no other observation.

The garden was smaller even than the house, a mere few square yards of lawn bordered by narrow flower-beds, all neatly kept, and surrounded on all sides by an eight-foot-high fence which had additional two-foot lengths of trellis nailed to the top of it, making escape by that route impossible, as Mr Nelson had pointed out.

There was not even a potting-shed nor a decent-sized bush where a man might conceal himself. Nevertheless, Holmes stalked all round its perimeter before examining the passage which ran along the side of the house.

It was a narrow path, squeezed in between the building on one side and a continuation of the fence on the other. At the far end, it ran at an oblique angle to join the tiled path which led from the gate to the front door. At the near end, it opened out on to a small paved area outside the kitchen door where presumably tradesmen would make their deliveries.

We left number seventeen Laburnum Grove shortly afterwards, Holmes striding off so briskly down the road towards Lavender Hill that I was hard put to keep up with him. At the bottom of the hill, we turned into the main thoroughfare, where Holmes hailed a cab.

When Holmes had given instructions to the driver and the hansom had started off, he turned to me to ask unexpectedly, ‘Tell me, Watson, what would you say would be the lifetime’s ambition of a hotel or restaurant employee?’

‘To retire, I should imagine, and never have to fold another napkin again.’

‘But suppose, like Phillimore, he was the type who wished to rise in the world?’

‘Well then, to own the establishment in which he’d worked and watch other people fold the napkins.’

‘Exactly, Watson!’ Holmes said with an air of satisfaction and, settling himself back against the upholstery, folded his arms and closed his eyes, his lean, aquiline features taking on an expression of such intense concentration that I knew better than to interrupt his train of thought.

The silence continued until, as we were rattling across Batter-sea Bridge, he roused himself to remark, ‘You know, Watson, there are several unusual elements in this case but the one which strikes me as most extraordinary of all is the timing of Mr Phillimore’s disappearance. Why Tuesday? Why not Monday or Friday? If one wished to vanish, it would seem more logical to choose either the beginning or the end of the week. As far as I can ascertain, nothing remarkable happened on Tuesday morning to make Phillimore decide it was time to disappear.’

‘Perhaps he couldn’t on Monday. Something may have happened to detain him.’

I saw Holmes’ keen features suddenly light up.

‘My dear old fellow!’ he exclaimed. ‘I believe you may have put your finger on the key to the whole mystery!’

‘Have I, Holmes?’ I asked, highly pleased, and was further gratified when Holmes continued, ‘I should value your opinion on the case. Tell me, what aspect of it most intrigues you?’

‘I must admit that I find Phillimore’s motivation the most puzzling feature. A man of regular habits suddenly takes it into his head to vanish without a word of warning, abandoning not only his house, his job and his life’s savings but his clothes …’

‘Together with his fiancée,’ Holmes reminded me with a smile. ‘Perhaps Miss Cora Page was the reason for his disappearance. Phillimore would not be the first man who, faced with the imminent prospect of marriage, showed a clean pair of heels just before his wedding day. Should I ever find myself in such an unlikely and unfortunate situation, I should be strongly tempted to do the same. And, by the way, Watson, if we succeed in running Phillimore to earth, I want you to say nothing to him about the possibility of Miss Page’s transferring her affections to Charlie Nelson.’

‘Why?’

‘My dear fellow, is it not obvious?’

‘You mean he would be jealous?’

‘I mean Phillimore, who appears a decent enough individual, might come out of hiding in order to save his friend from the same dreadful fate which nearly overtook him. “Greater love hath no man …” and all that. I have your word?’

‘Of course, Holmes. So you think we shall find Phillimore?’

‘I believe there is a very good chance of our doing so. You remarked a little earlier on Phillimore’s regularity of habits and I think that it is in this aspect of his personality that we shall find the answer to his secret. But first I want to return to Laburnum Grove at the same hour of the morning in which Phillimore disappeared. Although Charlie Nelson and Mrs Bennet both swore they saw nothing unusual, I am convinced something must have occurred but so ordinary that neither of them noticed it. Whenever there is an apparent mystery, one should always look to the commonplace in order to solve it. But few people do. They prefer the mystery to its solution. It is this tendency on the part of human nature on which depends the success of the stage magician or illusionist.’ He gave me an oblique glance as if inviting my comment but, as I did not then understand the significance of his remark, I said nothing and, after a brief silence, he continued, ‘Will you be free early tomorrow, Watson? I propose taking a cab to Clapham and observing for myself exactly what occurs in Laburnum Grove at half past seven in the morning.’

‘I shall be delighted to accompany you, provided it won’t take too long. I have an appointment at ten o’clock with a patient.’

‘A patient!’ Holmes exclaimed, throwing up his hands in mock surprise. ‘This is such a rare occurrence, Watson, that I shall make myself personally responsible for seeing that you are returned to your consulting room in good time.’

The following morning, I again presented myself at 221B Baker Street where I joined Holmes for an early breakfast. A hansom had been ordered for seven o’clock and we set off once more in the direction of Clapham, through half-empty streets, looking clean and dazzling-bright in the morning sunshine after an overnight shower which had laid the dust and left the leaves on the trees glistening as if newly washed.

As we turned into Laburnum Grove, Holmes instructed the driver to draw up on the opposite side of the road to number seventeen and a little distance from it, from which position we had an excellent view not only of Phillimore’s garden gate but a good stretch of the street as well.

Several people passed down the road in the direction of Lavender Hill, by their appearance and attire mostly clerks and shop-assistants on their way to their respective places of employment and, after a few minutes’ wait, we were rewarded by the sight of Charlie Nelson turning the corner from Magnolia Terrace, at precisely half past seven.

I saw him hesitate at the gate of number seventeen and glance across at the house, as if reminding himself of his erstwhile companion’s extraordinary disappearance and then, on drawing level with our hansom, cast another glance in its direction, surprised no doubt at the presence of a cab in the area at that hour of the morning. But I comforted myself with the thought that Holmes and I were sitting too far back inside the vehicle for him to see us.

It was as this idea struck me that I heard Holmes give an involuntary exclamation but not, as I first thought, at Nelson’s interest in our cab. His gaze was fixed on another vehicle which had come slowly plodding into view on the opposite side of the road.

It was a baker’s van, drawn by a tired-looking pony, not the type of conveyance to attract anyone’s attention and yet Holmes was watching with keen interest as the bread delivery man, a tall youth of about eighteen or so, dressed in a cap and a long white apron, climbed down off his seat and, taking his basket from the rear of the vehicle, opened the gate to Phillimore’s house, walked down the path and disappeared from sight into the passage which ran along the side of the building.

Meanwhile, the pony, well used, it seemed, to this morning routine, ambled slowly along the street to a gate a few doors along where it waited for its driver.

Within a few moments, the delivery man had reappeared but, before I could comment on Holmes’ evident interest in the man’s activities, Holmes had leapt out of the cab and, ordering the driver to take me to my address in Paddington,* called out as the cab drove off, ‘You must not be late for your appointment, Watson. I shall expect you at Baker Street for luncheon. Twelve o’clock sharp!’

Rather than arriving late, I was a good hour and a half too early and I spent the intervening time until my patient arrived musing over the strange case of Mr Phillimore’s disappearance although I could make little of it.

A locked wardrobe? A bread delivery man? A head-waiter who read The Times and had a liking for an occasional visit to a music-hall?

None of it seemed to point to Mr Phillimore’s present whereabouts and I looked forward impatiently to the time when I could return to Baker Street and question Holmes over luncheon.

On this occasion, luncheon was a simple meal of cold meat, bread and pickles which Holmes urged me to eat quickly as time was short.

‘Now look here, Holmes,’ I protested as I seated myself at the table. ‘You and I have shared many adventures and you have always taken me into your confidence. Do you or do you not know where Mr Phillimore is hiding and, if you do, how have you arrived at your conclusion?’

‘My dear old fellow,’ Holmes replied, carving away energetically at the cold beef. ‘I had no intention of keeping you in the dark. I myself was not sure of all the facts until this morning. But I am now fairly confident that I can find our vanishing head-waiter.’

‘How?’

‘From my observations of human nature; a most worthwhile subject, Watson, which every aspiring detective should make his lifetime’s study. I have frequently noticed that even the most hardened and experienced criminal has a particular routine or pattern of behaviour which, if only one can discover it, will lead to his arrest. Remember Harry Beecham, the notorious forger? He was constantly moving his equipment from one back street workshop to another so that the police had the deuce of a job keeping up with him. I eventually ran him to earth because he always went to the same barber in Shadwell to have his hair cut; had done for years and could not, it seemed, shake off the habit. Now, how much more likely is that precept to apply to Mr James Phillimore, par excellence a man of regular routines to whom familiarity of surroundings would be essential? He may have disappeared in Clapham but he has most certainly reappeared in some environment where he will feel almost as much at home.’

‘Oh, I see, Holmes!’ I exclaimed. ‘The boarding-house in Margate where he spent his week’s convalescence!’

‘Exactly!’

‘But how do you propose finding him? Margate is a popular seaside resort. It must contain hundreds of boarding-houses. Do you intend inquiring at each and every one of them? It could take days.’

‘Not days, Watson; merely a matter of a few hours. Mrs Bennet mentioned that the establishment had a foreign-sounding name. I suggest “Mon Repos” is a distinct possibility. I have noticed before that it is a favourite with seaside landladies although why they choose that particular nomenclature, when to run such businesses must be anything but restful, is beyond my comprehension. I cannot believe it is meant ironically. Landladies are not usually renowned for their sense of humour. We shall also look for a boarding-house which has a neat garden and a freshly-whitened front doorstep. I believe Mr Phillimore’s inclinations may very well run in those directions. Now do eat up, Watson. I have ordered a cab to take us to Victoria Station to catch the 1.15 to Margate.’

We caught the train, Holmes passing the journey by chatting amiably about many different subjects – French literature, the quality of the acoustics in St James’s Hall, the best fish-restaurant in London; anything but the case in hand – until the train arrived at Margate.

We took a four-wheeler from the rank outside the station, Holmes instructing the cabby to drive us to any boarding-house in the resort with the name of ‘Mon Repos’.

There were nine, the man informed us.

At the first two, Holmes got out and rang the bell, returning after a few minutes with a shake of the head, indicating that they were not the one he was seeking.

At the third, a dingy house with dirty lace curtains and a ‘Vacancy’ sign hanging in the window, he did not even trouble to alight. After giving it a cursory glance, he ordered the cabby to drive on.

The fourth ‘Mon Repos’ was a red-brick villa, not unlike Phillimore’s house in Clapham only larger and standing detached in a decent-sized front garden in which brightly-coloured flowers were growing in neat beds.

‘I believe we have found it, Watson!’ Holmes exclaimed and, telling the cabby to wait, he leapt out and strode up the path to the front door.

His knock was answered by a short, pleasant-looking woman in her thirties with soft fair hair and a ready smile.

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ she began, ‘but I have no vacancies. Every room has been taken.’

‘It is not rooms my friend and I are inquiring about,’ Holmes told her. ‘My query concerns one of your lodgers, a Mr James Phillimore.’

As she put one hand to her mouth in sudden consternation, a door leading off the hall opened and a tall man with greying hair emerged. His long chin must have been inherited from his mother but not his general demeanour, which was agreeable and good-natured. He was comfortably dressed in shirt-sleeves and slippers but, despite the casual nature of his attire, he still retained the attentive and respectful manner of an upper servant or the more superior type of waiter.

‘Mr Holmes, isn’t it?’ he inquired, advancing towards us. ‘Mr Sherlock Holmes? I saw you through the window as you came up the path and I recognised your face from the pictures in the Illustrated London News. And your companion is Doctor Watson, I presume? I imagine my old friend Charlie Nelson put you on to finding me. It’s the kind of action I might have expected of him. A good pal is Charlie Nelson, not the sort to leave any stone unturned, if you’ll forgive the expression.’ Turning to address the landlady who in a state of some distress had retreated into the hall, he added reassuringly, ‘It’s all right, Ellen. There’s nothing to worry about. I propose that these gentlemen and me adjourn to the sitting-room to talk matters over. A pot of tea wouldn’t go amiss, would it, sir?’

This time he addressed Holmes directly.

‘Indeed it would not, Mr Phillimore,’ Holmes assured him.

Together the three of us retired to the sitting-room, through the door of which Phillimore had just emerged. There, in comfortable and well-furnished surroundings, Phillimore installed Holmes and myself in a pair of armchairs, he himself choosing a seat facing us on the other side of the fireplace.

‘Well, sir,’ he said, looking across at us with a grave yet frank expression. ‘So you have found me out.’

‘Not entirely,’ Holmes admitted, ‘for, although I know the method by which you contrived your disappearance, I am still a little puzzled about your reasons. I spoke this morning to Sammy Webb, the young man who delivers the bread. This was after you left me, Watson, to attend your patient,’ he broke off to explain for my benefit before turning back to Phillimore. ‘He was reluctant to give you away but, on receiving my assurance that I was acting entirely for your benefit, Mr Phillimore, he explained how, on Tuesday morning, he walked round to your back door – part of his normal routine, incidentally – where he left on the doorstep a penny bag of bread-rolls, the usual order. You meanwhile, having returned to the house ostensibly to collect your umbrella, had gone quickly and quietly upstairs to your bedroom to retrieve a cap, a long white apron and a large basket of the type in which bread is carried, part of a simple but effective disguise, the props for which are easily obtained and which you kept concealed in your locked wardrobe. Thus attired and carrying the basket, you left the house through the sitting-room windows and walked round to the front of the house by means of the side passage, appearing to all the world as Sammy Webb, the bread delivery man. No one took any notice of you, not even Mrs Bennet who was washing-up at the sink by the kitchen window. I asked her this very morning if she had seen a delivery man but she had registered neither Webb’s arrival nor his apparent departure, so accustomed is she to his routine. Even your friend, Charlie Nelson, waiting for you at the gate, failed to give you a second glance. He, too, is so used to seeing Webb make his deliveries that he swore he saw nothing unusual happen on Tuesday at the time of your disappearance. It wasn’t until Dr Watson and I waited outside your house this morning in a cab that we realised the truth.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

He broke off, his grave features flushing with emotion.

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

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

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

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

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

‘It sounds most generous,’ Holmes murmured.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Phillimore’s face lit up.

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

‘So you decided to emulate him?’

Phillimore looked a little embarrassed.

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

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

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

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

* Dr John H. Watson remarks on this quality of Mr Sherlock Holmes in ‘The Adventure of Black Peter’. (Dr John F. Watson)

* Dr John H. Watson makes this comment in ‘The Adventure of the Missing Three-Quarter’. (Dr John F. Watson)

* After his marriage to Miss Mary Morstan, Dr John H. Watson moved out of 221B Baker Street and took up private practice, first in Paddington, later in Kensington. (Dr John F. Watson)