It was not often I was able to bring a case to Holmes’ notice*  and it is with some misgivings I admit it was through my personal instigation that my old friend became involved in the following adventure.

It occurred in the year ’87, not long after my marriage when, having returned to civil practice, I had moved out of my former lodgings in Baker Street, leaving Holmes in sole occupancy among his books, his papers and his scientific apparatus.

It was my habit when paying professional calls on patients in the immediate vicinity of my consulting-rooms to do so on foot, particularly if the weather was fine, and it was while on one of these excursions one afternoon in June that I ran into, almost literally, an old army acquaintance of mine, Major Adolphus (Dolly) Venables, whom I had last met while serving in India. Major Venables had been an officer in my own regiment, the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, to which I was attached as Assistant Surgeon before being transferred to the Berkshires and posted to the Afghan frontier.

On my arrival in India, Major Venables and his wife had been extremely kind to me, inviting me on several occasions to their bungalow for afternoon tea or a chota peg.

They often spoke fondly of their son, Edward, known affectionately as Teddy, their only child who, as was the custom, had been sent back to England to be educated, in his case under the care of Mrs Venables’ maiden sister, Miss Edith Warminster.

After I was wounded and was invalided out of the army, I lost touch with ‘Dolly’ Venables although from time to time I heard news of him through mutual acquaintances, learning with considerable distress of the death of his wife in India of yellow fever. She had been an unassuming, gentle-hearted woman.

It was not until that June afternoon when I met with Venables again so unexpectedly in the street after an interval of several years that I was able to renew the friendship.

I found him little changed. He still preserved his upright, military bearing and open kindliness of expression which had characterised him in India although his former vigorous manner, that of a man used to an active, outdoor life, was not as apparent as it had once been. He seemed sadder and more subdued, an alteration which at the time I assumed was caused by his wife’s death.

Discovering that I lived not far from his own address in Dorset Court, he invited me to his house that evening, one of several such meetings which were to occur over the following months, usually at his place or the lounge-bar of some convenient hotel for, although my wife made him very welcome, he seemed a little inhibited in her company, perhaps comparing his own widowed state with our domestic happiness. It was also easier for us to reminisce about our army days together tête-à-tête in a totally masculine setting.

It was during these meetings that, little by little, I learned his story. Indeed, he seemed grateful to have someone in whom he could confide.

His main topic of conversation was his son, Teddy. As I have explained, the boy had been sent back to England to be educated at boarding school, spending the holidays with his maiden aunt at her home in Farnham.

Although no expense had been spared in his upbringing, it appeared that the effort had been largely wasted for the lad had proved troublesome both at school and at home. Indeed, he had been expelled from several boarding establishments for various escapades and misdemeanours.

Listening to Venables’ account, it was not difficult to guess that the main cause of his indiscipline was the aunt, Miss Warminster, who, like her sister, Major Venables’ late wife, was of a gentle, soft-hearted disposition and had failed to exercise that kind of control which a high-spirited youth requires.

Not to put too fine a point on it, the boy had been thoroughly spoilt.

On the death of Miss Warminster, when Teddy was sixteen, Major Venables had retired from the army on half-pay and had returned to England to supervise his son’s education, there being no one else whom he could entrust with the task.

However, the damage had been done and Venables, who whilst serving in his regiment had found no difficulty in disciplining the men under his command, had found his son intractable.

To add to his problems, there were also financial worries. As I myself had discovered on first being invalided out of the army, it is not easy to live comfortably on half-pay and, in the Major’s case, with school fees to pay and a growing lad to maintain, he had been hard put to it on occasions to meet all his bills. In fact, the house in Dorset Court where he was then living was a modest, rented dwelling, hardly bigger than an urban cottage, with two bedrooms only and very cramped living quarters on the ground floor which the Major had done his best to turn into a comfortable home for himself and his son by introducing various pieces of furniture in the way of rattan chairs and carved teak tables as well as a collection of Oriental knick-knacks which he had brought back with him from India.

He could not even afford a proper servant, being forced to rely on the services of a daily cleaning-woman only.

At the time of my meeting with him in the street, the Major had been living in Dorset Court for the past three years, providing a home for his son who was then nineteen and was studying medicine at my old hospital, Barts.

I met Teddy on only one occasion. He was leaving the house just as I was about to ring at the doorbell and he brushed past me quite rudely without speaking as I stood on the step. A tall, good-looking young man, he had inherited his mother’s fair hair and finely-drawn features but while hers had been infused with a gentle candour, his bore only the sulky petulance of an immature youth.

Through my contacts at Barts, especially with my former dresser, Stamford, I was able, by means of a few discreet inquiries, to learn a few more facts about young Venables that his father had either not thought fit to confide in me or had not known himself. All the information I received confirmed my worst fears.

The young man was often late for lectures, if he did not absent himself entirely, and, while intelligent, was lazy and lacked application. The standard of his work was frequently so unsatisfactory, according to Stamford, that there was a chance of his being dismissed before his course of studies was complete.

I come now to an evening in late December. My wife having gone to stay with her aunt* on a belated Christmas visit, I had, on her insistence, returned temporarily to my old lodgings in Baker Street where she felt I should be better cared for by Mrs Hudson than by our own unsatisfactory cook-general who was at the time serving out her notice.† It was also on my wife’s suggestion that I took the opportunity for a few days’ holiday myself, leaving a colleague in charge of my practice.

I had not seen the Major for two or three weeks, an earlier appointment to meet at the Criterion Bar having been cancelled by him on account of illness.

Holmes, who was engaged on a case at the time, had gone out on one of his mysterious errands connected with it and I was sitting alone by the fire, reading. It was a cold, wintry evening and there was no reason why I should not have remained indoors except that I was overcome by a sudden impulse to see my old army acquaintance. Although Holmes would have been amused at my fancy, putting it down to mere imagination or womanish intuition, I had a strong feeling that something was badly the matter and that the Major urgently needed my services.

It was only seven o’clock, not too late to pay him a call, and with no further ado, I got up from my seat by the fire, put on my heavy greatcoat and took a cab to his house.

There was a light burning in the hall of the Major’s house so I knew someone was at home although it was several minutes before he answered my ring at the bell.

When he finally opened the door, I almost failed to recognise him. In the few short weeks since I had last seen him, he was shockingly changed, his features haggard, his shoulders bowed, his gait that of an old man.

‘Are you ill, Venables?’ I cried, distressed by his appearance.

‘I have been, Watson,’ he replied in a husky voice. ‘But I am a little better now. It was kind of you to call and inquire after me. If you will forgive me, however, I am in no state to receive visitors.’

He seemed about to close the door but I refused to be dismissed.

‘I am coming in,’ I told him. ‘Although you say you are no longer ill, as a doctor my professional obligations will not allow me to walk away and leave you in this condition.’

He acquiesced reluctantly, preceding me down the hall to the little sitting-room where in the brighter light of the gas lamps, I was able to observe him more closely.

He looked ghastly as he sat huddled in a chair by the remains of a coal fire, gaunt and famished with grey skin and trembling hands.

I made up the fire and, having fetched a tumbler from the sideboard, poured him a stiff whisky from my hip flask.

It was only when the glass was in his hand and I had inquired, ‘Now, my dear fellow, what is the matter with you?’, that he found the strength or the courage to speak.

The story he had to tell was, I suppose, not altogether unexpected under the circumstances, especially in the light of what I had learned from Stamford.

Young Venables had been dismissed from Barts. And that was not all. For several months past, his conduct had caused his father far more concern than he had confided in me. The young man had been coming home later and later at night, sometimes the worse for drink. On occasions, he had not returned until the following day, dishevelled in appearance and refusing to give his father an account of where he had been and what he had been doing.

‘Dolly’ Venables had done his best to control his son’s excesses, remonstrating with him, threatening to stop his allowance, pleading with him for his dead mother’s sake to mend his ways. It was all to no avail. Young Venables had continued with his ill-disciplined behaviour.

One of the Major’s chief concerns was Teddy’s apparent access to money for, even after he had made good his threat and had cut off his son’s allowance, the young man still managed to acquire funds from somewhere, continuing to stay out late at night and to indulge himself in drink and expensive new clothes such as silk cravats, dress shirts, even a pair of hand-made boots from Bellamy’s of Piccadilly.

‘Although God knows where he found the money,’ the Major whispered, his hands clasped so tightly round his whisky glass that his knuckles showed white beneath the skin.

A final confrontation had taken place a week earlier. The young man had again returned home in an inebriated state in the early hours of the morning and, when his father had faced him on the stairs, a terrible quarrel had broken out in which Teddy had admitted he had been dismissed from Barts. On receiving a stern dressing-down from his father, the young man had lost his temper, shouted that he would not stay a moment longer to be treated like a child and, rushing into his room, had flung all his possessions into two valises before storming out of the house.

The Major had not seen or heard anything of him since and had no knowledge of his present whereabouts.

At this point in his account, Venables broke down.

It is a dreadful thing to see a grown man weep, especially someone of the Major’s proud and reticent disposition. As a friend, I was deeply moved by his distress; as a doctor, I was concerned about both his mental and his physical condition.

‘Now look here, Venables,’ I said, drawing one of the rattan chairs close to his. ‘There must be some action you can take to find out where your son is. Has he gone to stay with friends?’

It seemed that the Major had contacted all Teddy’s known acquaintances but none of them had seen him. In fact, the young man appeared to have cut himself off from all his former school friends and fellow students at Barts.

‘Then did he leave anything behind – a letter, say, or a diary – from which you might obtain a clue to his present address?’

‘Only this,’ Venables replied. ‘I found it under the paper lining in his bureau drawer.’

Reaching up to the mantelpiece, he took down a small pasteboard oblong which he handed to me. It was a visiting card on which were engraved the following words:

I said, ‘Does your son know this Colonel?’

‘Not to my knowledge although I myself was acquainted with Fortescue-Lamb several years ago in India. He was serving then in the Seventh Inverskillen Bombardiers. But you see, Watson, the baffling part of it is that Fortescue-Lamb retired from the army before I did and I happen to know that he emigrated to Australia to run a sheep farm. I remember joking with him about the suitability of his name for his new career. As I received a greetings card from him, postmarked Bollawanga, only this very Christmas, I assume he must still be there. You follow my point? If old Baa-Lamb, as we used to call him, is sheep-farming in Australia, what is he doing acting as secretary to this charity and why should my son have his card?’

‘Could you not write or call at this address in Titchbourne Street and make inquiries?’

‘I could indeed, Watson. I have hesitated to do so in case I caused any further bad feeling between Teddy and myself. He already resents my meddling in his affairs, as he calls it.’

‘Yes; I can understand your reluctance. Then would you have any objections if I explained the situation to Sherlock Holmes and showed him this card? The circumstances are certainly very strange and could well interest him. As he is quite used to making this type of inquiry, you may rely on his discretion.’

In the course of our meetings, I had told Venables a little about my own history and background since I had retired from the army, including the fact that I had once shared lodgings in Baker Street with the famous consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes, with whose reputation Venables was already acquainted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘About your fees –?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘What was, Holmes?’

‘The odour of cigar smoke.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mr Littlejohn smiled apologetically.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Holmes continued to press the point.

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

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

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

‘What threads, Holmes?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘What on earth are you doing, Holmes?’

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

‘Tonight? For what reason?’

‘When I break into Buckmaster’s premises,’ he replied coolly.

‘But isn’t that against the law?’

‘Of course it is, my dear fellow. If you can suggest a more legitimate method of entering the building, I shall be delighted to hear it. However, I fear I am left with no choice except to make an unauthorized entry. You wish to discover young Venables’ whereabouts, do you not?’

‘Of course I do, Holmes. But breaking and entering …!’

‘If I am to solve the mystery, then I have to acquire those letters we saw lying in the front vestibule in Buckmaster’s warehouse. I am convinced that they are crucial evidence to whatever lies behind young Venables’ recent activities and his sudden departure from home. I can, of course, proceed no further with the case, if that is what you prefer. Indeed, I ought to warn you that there is every chance that the Major’s son is involved in some unlawful affair. The data you laid before me suggest that this is so. The fact that he had money to spend, that he returned home late on many occasions in an inebriated condition and has since disappeared would indicate some illicit connection.’

A little apprehensive for Venables’ sake, I asked, ‘What do you think it can be, Holmes?’

He shrugged.

‘It is impossible to tell at this stage of the inquiry. But whatever the nature of the activity, it is certainly centred at Buckmaster’s premises. The letters, the cigar smoke and the newly-oiled padlock all point in that direction. Doubtless the manager, Littlejohn, has some knowledge of it. It was he who permitted the place to be used as an accommodation address and no doubt handed over keys to the premises so that the post could be collected. Moreover, you must have noticed how anxious he was not to lease out the vault to me even though I offered him a bribe and how concerned he became when I suggested I should speak to Buckmaster about it. Well, Watson? What is your decision? Shall I put away my picklocks or shall I continue with the case?’

I was silent for several moments, thinking of Venables weeping in that small rented house.

It was a difficult decision to make and I am not certain even now that I chose the right one. However, recalling Venables’ remark that he would rather know the worst than remain in ignorance of his son’s whereabouts, I finally made up my mind.

‘I think we should proceed, Holmes.’

‘You say “we”, Watson, although if you prefer not to be involved that is again a matter for your choosing. No, my dear fellow, do not answer me now. Wait until you have heard my plans for this evening before deciding. Firstly, I propose to take a cab to Ikey Morrison’s second-hand clothes shop in Cutlers’ Row, where I shall disguise myself as a street-loafer. Morrison’s is one of several such premises I use on these occasions.*  Suitably disguised, I shall then proceed to Buckmaster’s warehouse where I shall gain entry through the wicket opening in the large double doors at the back of the building. It has a spring catch similar to this one,’ he added, indicating one of the locks which were laid out on the table. ‘Once inside, I shall open the inner door which leads into the vestibule by the same method, purloin two or three of the letters we saw lying on the mat, and return to Ikey Morrison’s with them where I shall steam them open. Having read them and made notes of any names, addresses and details of their contents worth recording, I shall then reseal them, return to Buckmaster’s to post them back through the letter-box and, having removed my disguise, I shall take a cab home. I do not anticipate being inside Buckmaster’s warehouse for longer than ten minutes at most. So, Watson, shall you accompany me? Or would you prefer to remain here by the fire and await my return?’

On this occasion, I had no hesitation in coming to a decision although, as events were to prove, Holmes’ arrangements for the evening were to be seriously disrupted and we were, owing to circumstances quite unforeseen at the time, to be detained at Buckmaster’s premises a great deal longer than my old friend had planned.

‘Of course I shall come with you,’ I said warmly. ‘As the case involves the son of a friend, I have no intention of letting you undertake it on your own.’

There was a mischievous light in Holmes’ eyes as he inquired, ‘You are not concerned that, as a respectable married man and a doctor, you will be breaking the law?’

‘Not if it is in a good cause.’

‘Very well then, Watson!’ said he. ‘We shall commit the felony together.’

Later that evening, we set off by cab for Cutlers’ Row, a narrow street, only a little wider than an alley-way, which evidently served as the locality for other such businesses as Ikey Morrison’s for, as the hansom drove down it, I noticed a variety of signs advertising used goods for sale from furniture to boots and from books to kitchen utensils, while the three golden balls hanging above the pawnbrokers’ were so numerous that they twinkled in the flaring light of the gas-jets like whole galaxies of planets.

Despite the lateness of the hour, for it was by then nearly eleven o’clock, most of the shops were open for business, including Ikey Morrison’s which we entered through a narrow doorway into an ill-lit and malodorous interior, crammed full of second-hand clothes which lined the walls and even dangled from the ceiling, suspended on ropes.

As I hesitated at the door, reluctant to proceed any further, Holmes, who seemed perfectly at home in this unlikely setting, strode ahead towards the back of the shop, thrusting aside the hanging skirts and dresses, the dingy shirts and shabby coats, calling out Ikey’s name.

A crack of yellow light showed at the back and the small figure of a man emerged, blinking at us suspiciously. Then, recognizing my companion, he came forward eagerly, hands outstretched, to meet him.

‘Mr ’Olmes! This is a pleasure! Forgive me not welcomin’ you straight off but I thought you was the rozzers come nosin’ round. Gawd knows what’s a-goin’ on but they’ve been buzzin’ about round ’ere like flies on a plate of cat’s-meat for the past couple of nights. There’s two of ’em posted right this very minute at the top of the Row, dressed up as beggars, only they don’t fool no one.’

‘Is there now?’ Holmes asked with evident interest. ‘I wonder why?’

We had followed our host into a small back room where in the brighter light of a gas-lamp I was able to observe him more closely.

He was a tiny, sharp-eyed man with the features of an intelligent gnome and swift, darting movements. Almost before we had finished shaking hands, he had whirled about and, whisking some piles of old clothes from two chairs, had waved us towards them. I could imagine him darting through a crowd of people with similar speed and dexterity, helping himself to purses and pocketbooks before their owners were even aware of it. His hands, I noticed with interest, were small and long-fingered like the paws of an agile monkey.

There was no sign of Mrs Morrison and, when Holmes inquired after her, Morrison replied that she was down at the Castle having a wet, which I understood to mean she had gone to some local hostelry in search of alcoholic refreshment.

‘And now, Mr ’Olmes,’ Ikey Morrison continued, ‘I take it you’re ’ere on business?’

‘Indeed we are, Ikey. My friend, Dr Watson, and I need two outfits which will give us the appearance of a pair of street-loafers. I should also be much obliged if, on our return in about quarter of an hour, a kettle of water could be boiling in readiness.’

‘Nuffin’ easier,’ Ikey Morrison assured him, showing no surprise at Holmes’ request although, in the event, the kettle was not to be needed.

Darting across to a battered steamer-trunk which stood against the far wall, Ikey Morrison lifted the lid and, having rummaged about inside, produced two sets of very old clothes, including tattered waistcoats, torn shirts and a pair of overcoats, of such a dirty and disreputable appearance that I shrank from putting them on.

Seeing my hesitation, Morrison said, ‘They’re all clean, doctor. There ain’t no lice in ’em, if that’s what’s botherin’ you. I’ve ’ad ’em all steamed and frumigated.’

Despite this assurance, I declined to accept one of the caps, preferring to go bare-headed, and it was only on Holmes’ insistence that I agreed to the boots which Ikey Morrison offered me.

We changed behind a hanging curtain, Holmes streaking our faces as well as our hands with grease from a candle stump and grime from the floor, of which there was a plentiful supply.

Thus transformed into a pair of low ruffians and with our mufflers close about our faces, the dark lanterns which we had brought with us concealed under our coats, we emerged from Ikey Morrison’s shop and set off up Cutlers’ Row in the direction of Buckmaster’s warehouse, I taking care to slouch along, my hands in my pockets, as Holmes had instructed me.

Titchbourne Street was only a few turnings away and, as we passed the Britannia public house and entered the lane which ran behind it, Holmes touched my arm to draw my attention to a man who lay slumped in its doorway.

‘One of Lestrade’s men,’ he murmured in my ear.

‘Is he?’ I asked. I had taken him to be a tramp sleeping off an excess of alcohol.

‘You can tell by the boots. They are much too new. You see now, Watson, why I insisted on your changing yours?’

‘But what are Lestrade’s men doing in the area?’

Holmes raised his thin shoulders.

‘It could be any number of reasons. The neighbourhood is notorious as a meeting-place for criminals. I could name three premises in Cutlers’ Row alone which deal in stolen goods and that is not to take into account the numerous low “dives” and lodging-houses in the side-streets. But I rather think Lestrade’s men will not interfere with our own activities.’

As he had been speaking, we had passed along the lane and had reached the rear entrance to Buckmaster’s premises where Holmes halted and, having cast a glance up and down the turning to make sure that we were unobserved, drew me into the doorway.

It was a matter of a mere few seconds for him to take the bunch of picklocks from his pocket, select the right one and, inserting it into the lock in the small wicket opening, give it a dexterous turn at which the spring catch yielded and we were able to enter the building.

Once inside, we closed the door and lit our dark lanterns by the light of which we could see to cross the passage towards the door which led into the vestibule.

My heart was already beating high at the adventure and at the thought of the illegality of our actions when, just as we reached the door and Holmes was preparing to open it, we had cause to stop short.

In the distance we could hear the sound of wheels rapidly approaching.

‘I rather suspect,’ Holmes remarked, ‘that we are about to receive a visit from a certain gentleman who enjoys a good Havana cigar.’

There was no time for further explanation. Hardly had he finished speaking than the vehicle drew to a halt outside the building.

Motioning to me to do the same, Holmes extinguished his lantern, thrust it into his pocket and turned back towards the shaft, our nearest means of escape.

In the dim light filtering in through the glass panels in the door, I saw him seize the rope which dangled from the hoist and start to climb down it. A gesture of his head before it disappeared below floor level invited me to follow.

It was many years, not since my school-days, in fact, that I had climbed a rope and the wound I had received from the Jezail bullet on the Afghan frontier* made any vigorous exercise quite painful on occasions. Nevertheless, I copied his example, clambering over the low grille and lowering myself after him into the blackness of the shaft.

I found it a dizzying sensation, not knowing how deep it was or where it might end, and it was with considerable relief that at last I felt my feet touch solid ground and Holmes’ hand stretched out to steady me.

I had emerged into a stone passage, similar to the one upstairs but smelling more strongly of damp and disuse. Facing me was a heavy door, lined with green baize, to which Holmes, who had relit his lantern, drew my attention, shining the light across its surface.

‘Soundproofed,’ he said in a whisper. ‘Interesting, do you not agree, Watson? Why should anyone wish to soundproof a basement door in a furniture warehouse? Let us see where it leads.’

It was unlocked and yielded silently as Holmes put his hand against it.

Beyond lay a large room of such an extraordinary and unexpected appearance that I stood quite motionless for several moments, looking about me in utter astonishment. It was a large, vaulted chamber, well below street level and with no windows or even a grating through which natural light could penetrate, a feature which, together with the low arched ceiling, gave the place the claustrophobic atmosphere of a dungeon.

But here any comparison with a prison or an underground cell ended, for the room was furnished like an expensive West End club or the smoking-room of a gentleman’s private residence. The stone floor was covered with sumptuous rugs and carpets, the walls with hangings, while upholstered sofas and leather armchairs were grouped round low tables, lavishly supplied with boxes of cigars and cigarettes.

Holmes’ lantern picked out other details of the room, its light passing briefly over a carved sideboard loaded with glasses and bottles of wine and spirits, brass lamps with globes of engraved glass, waiting to be lit, and photographs of a salacious nature in which young women in a state of undress postured and smiled.

Among these luxurious furnishings, an ordinary roll-top desk which stood against the near wall seemed a prosaic item but nevertheless attracted Holmes’ attention. Darting across to it, he pushed up its lid and began hurriedly to examine the contents of the pigeonholes with which it was equipped, extracting several items.

I heard him give a chuckle of satisfaction.

‘I think, Watson,’ said he, ‘that we have reached the heart of the labyrinth.’

But before he could explain what he meant or show me the papers he was holding in his hand, he glanced up towards the vaulted ceiling, his aquiline features alert with an expression of keen attention.

‘Listen!’ he exclaimed.

I strained my ears but could hear nothing.

‘What is it, Holmes?’ I asked.

‘Footsteps,’ he replied. ‘Our caller is on his way downstairs. Come, Watson! It is time we found ourselves a hiding-place.’

This proved no difficulty. The hangings which covered the walls provided plenty of opportunity for concealment and we chose a corner near the door where the curtains, draped across the angle, afforded enough space for both of us, from which vantage point we could also keep the whole chamber under observation.

Here we waited in total darkness for several long minutes before a sudden draught of cold air as the baize-covered door was opened and the sound of voices alerted me to the arrival of not one but several unknown visitors.

A young man, his voice educated but slightly slurred as if its owner were the worse for drink, was exclaiming excitedly, ‘I say, stop pushing, you chaps! Give a fellow time to light the lamps!’

The next moment, a match flared in the darkness, the lamps were lit and, through a gap in the curtains, I was able to see the newcomers. They were six young men, all in evening clothes and all in a state of mild inebriation, among whom, to my dismay, I recognised Teddy Venables, a silk scarf loose about his neck and his fair hair dishevelled. They were accompanied by four young women who, by their tawdry finery and heavily rouged faces, I took to be street-walkers of the commoner type.

Between them, the group was making so much noise, talking and laughing loudly as they poured drinks from the bottles on the sideboard or threw themselves down on the sofas to light cigars, that I thought it safe to whisper to Holmes that I had seen young Venables.

From the glance which Holmes gave me, I realised that this piece of information was not unexpected.

I was wondering how we should be able to make our eventual escape from the vault without being detected, when the nature of the activity in the room began to take on a considerably more immodest form. Not content with merely smoking and drinking, several of the young men had pulled their female companions down on to the sofas with them and had started to indulge in the type of behaviour which is normally conducted only in private behind closed doors. Heels were kicked up, revealing petticoats and ankles. Even a thigh was exposed.

I hardly dared look at Holmes but when I ventured a sideways glance, I saw his ascetic profile bore an expression of distaste. I was about to ask in a whisper what we should do in the circumstances – whether we should turn our backs on the scene or reveal our presence – when the decision was made for us in a quite unexpected and astonishing manner.

The green baize door was flung open and several police officers burst into the room, the lean, sallow-faced Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard at their head.

My own surprise was nothing compared with the shock and consternation shown by the young revellers. Faced by the presence of the law, they scrambled off the sofas, hastily adjusting their attire and, under Lestrade’s orders, were soon lined up in a bedraggled formation against the far wall, some shamefaced, others, mainly the young women, brazenly defiant.

I heard Holmes murmur, a note of amusement in his voice, ‘I never thought I should welcome Lestrade’s intervention in a case with so much relief.’

With that, he swept aside the curtain and coolly stepped forward, much as an actor might walk to the front of a stage to receive the applause of his audience.

Lestrade spun about, his face expressing the same astonishment which only a few moments before I had experienced at his own sudden appearance.

‘Mr Holmes!’ he exclaimed. ‘And Dr Watson, too! What in the name of deuce are you doing here?’

‘I might ask the same of you, Lestrade,’ Holmes observed drily. ‘What investigation brings you to these particular premises at this hour of the night?’

Lestrade came forward to speak to us in a low, confidential tone.

‘A forgery inquiry, Mr Holmes.’

Holmes raised a quizzical eyebrow.

‘Forgery, my good Inspector? What on earth gave you that idea?’

‘I have received reports of several young men seen entering this building late at night. As there have been a number of false banknotes circulating in the district, especially amongst the second-hand dealers in Cutlers’ Row, I thought the felons had set up their printing press here in the basement.’

Holmes took a long glance about him, letting his gaze pass over the wall hangings and the sofas before finally coming to rest on the line of dishevelled revellers, especially the young women with their gaudy dresses and tumbled hair.

‘I hardly think’, he observed, ‘that the young men intended to occupy themselves tonight with the printing of counterfeit banknotes. The making of money, however, is one of their concerns but in an entirely different manner to that which you suspected. If you care to examine the contents of that desk over there, Inspector, as well as the letters lying upstairs on the doormat, you will find enough evidence for charging them with obtaining money by deception.’

Under other circumstances, it might have been amusing to observe the alacrity with which Lestrade crossed the room to the desk and, throwing open its lid, started to ferret eagerly about among its contents, pausing only in his task to address my old friend when he saw we were about to leave.

‘With your permission, I shall call on you later tonight, Mr Holmes; just to hear your opinion on the case, you understand.’

Holmes bowed in acknowledgement, making no comment until we had left the building, on this occasion by the more orthodox method of using the basement stairs, and had emerged into the street.

It was only then that he remarked, ‘I fear I have set Lestrade back on his heels. You, too, Watson. Although we have found young Venables, I imagine it was not in quite the manner you had expected. I did warn you though that the affair in which he was involved was most probably unlawful. However, neither you nor your friend the Major have any reason to thank me for this night’s work.’

‘How did you reach the conclusion that it was a case of deception, Holmes?’ I asked.

He held up a hand to detain me.

‘No further questions, my dear fellow. This is neither the time nor the place. Once we have returned to Baker Street and are seated in comfort by our own fireside, I shall present the facts to you.’

It was doubtless a wise decision on his part. Nevertheless, I spent a miserable time while we changed back into our own clothes at Ikey Morrison’s and took a cab to our lodgings, turning over in my mind how I was to face the Major, knowing that I was in part responsible for his son’s arrest.

On our return to Baker Street, Holmes treated me with great solicitude. Although he could at times be selfish and inconsiderate, at others he was a most kind and generous friend, a quality of character I have remarked on elsewhere in the published chronicles.

It was so on this occasion. He seated me by the fire which he himself coaxed into a blaze before, pouring me a whisky and soda, he sat opposite me, his expression troubled.

‘I think you should see these, Watson. I found them in the desk in Buckmaster’s vault,’ he said, handing me three visiting cards.

I looked at them disbelievingly. They were all similar in size to the one Venables had given me which he had found in his son’s bureau drawer and all bore the same address of the A. M. S. Head Office in Titchbourne Street. Only the names were different. They were respectively those of a Canon James Micklewhite, Secretary of the Anglican Missionary Society; a Captain Horace Landseer, a retired naval officer, Director of the Association of Merchant Seamen; and a Miss Florence Lovestanleigh, Lady Treasurer of the Actors’ and Music-Hall Artistes’ Sanatorium.

‘What does it all mean, Holmes?’ I asked.

‘I think this will explain it,’ he replied, handing me a sheet of paper. ‘It is a specimen letter, almost ready for posting, one of many I found in a compartment in the desk.’

The letter, which had been neatly produced on a typewriting machine, bore the same address as the cards – A. M. S. Head Office, Buckmaster Buildings, Titchbourne Street, London E. 1., and lacked only a recipient’s name and a signature at the bottom to complete it.

It read:

‘You understand now?’ Holmes inquired when I had finished reading the letter.

I burst out, ‘Yes, Holmes; I do indeed! And a very despicable affair it is, too. God knows how Venables will take it when he discovers his son is involved in this kind of fraudulent activity!’

Aware of my distress, Holmes said quietly, ‘I think, my dear Watson, that we should wait to hear what Lestrade has to say and we are in possession of all the facts before we speculate any further on young Venables’ part in the affair.’

However, Lestrade, who arrived about an hour later and who joined us by the fire, could offer little comfort. Indeed, the information he had to tell us made matters worse, not better.

From the letters and papers found in the desk, together with the statements taken from the young men involved in the deception, the activities of the A. M. S. were more widespread than either Holmes or I had imagined. In addition to the bogus charities of which we were already aware, Lestrade added several more to the list, including the Agency for the Maintenance of the Sabbath, the Academy for Metaphysical Studies and the Alliance of Moon-worshippers and Satanists.

Lestrade had brought with him the A. M. S. ledgers, which showed that over a period of eighteen months, the length of time the fraudulent charities had been operating, the group had, discounting costs of postage and printing, amassed the considerable sum of £1,463. 15s. 8d.

The books also included long lists of the names and addresses of subscribers, indicating the amount each individual had donated, the sums ranging from a modest half-crown to five guinea contributions. Further moneys in the form of postal orders had been discovered inside the letters lying on the doormat in Buckmaster’s vestibule.

‘A very clever scheme,’ Holmes remarked as Lestrade finished his account. ‘Quite unlawful and reprehensible, of course, but one has to grant the young men a certain ingenuity of mind. They have even had the foresight to use the initials A. M. S. for each of the charitable organizations they claimed to represent, thereby saving themselves the cost of having separate letter-headings printed. One serves for all. I wonder what title we ourselves should give them? The Amateur Mendicant Society perhaps? It seems apt. They have turned the craft of the begging-letter, usually little more than a cottage industry, into a highly successful business venture.’

‘That is only to be expected,’ Lestrade replied heavily, in tones of deep disapproval. ‘All the young gentlemen involved are well-educated and come from good family backgrounds. Indeed, some of the fathers are from the very professions which their sons claimed to represent in their charitable appeals. We’ve found the younger son of an archdeacon among them, as well as a naval officer and a retired major from the Indian Army.’

I groaned inwardly at this last remark of Lestrade’s but kept silent as he continued, ‘As I understand it, they are all black sheep of the family, short of money but disinclined to earn it honestly.’

‘They will be charged?’ Holmes inquired.

‘Indeed so, Mr Holmes. We cannot allow even an archdeacon’s son to deceive the public in this manner. It gives charity a bad name. My men are at this very moment informing the parents that the young men are being held in custody and of the charges which will be brought against them. What sentences are passed is for the courts to decide. One of them, the son of the Indian Army major I was telling you about, is likely to get off more lightly than the others. He only joined the conspiracy a few months ago and so wasn’t one of its instigators.’

This was a small crumb of comfort and one which I fervently hoped would console Venables when he learnt of his son’s arrest.

Lestrade, who had risen to his feet in preparation for leaving, added, as he buttoned up his overcoat, ‘I forgot to mention that one of Buckmaster’s employees was involved in the affair. The manager was paid a weekly fee for turning a blind eye to what was going on in the vault and to the fact that the young men had helped themselves to goods from Buckmaster’s warehouse in order to furnish their secret club-room, although he swears he knew nothing about any conspiracy to defraud. I have no doubt, however, that he will be dismissed from his post.’ Lestrade shook his head, his lean features sombre with disapprobation as he paused in the doorway to pass a final judgement. ‘Greed, Mr Holmes. A terrible thing is greed.’

As the door closed behind him, Holmes turned to me.

‘You will speak to Venables, Watson?’

‘Yes; I shall call on him tomorrow.’

There is no need for me to describe my interview with the Major except to say it was a most painful occasion, made no easier by my old companion’s pitiable attempt to see his son’s disgrace in the best possible light.

‘The law must take its own course, Watson,’ he said as we shook hands before I left. ‘At least I shall have the comfort of knowing where my son is, even though it may be behind bars. I can only trust that this will teach Teddy the lesson he so badly needs.’

Whether it did or not I have no way of telling. Soon after Teddy Venables’ arrest, the Major moved away from the district, no doubt too ashamed to face his friends and neighbours. I never heard from him again and do not know what happened to him subsequently nor to his son after he had served his prison sentence.

In case Venables should still be alive, I have for his sake refrained from publishing an account of the case apart from making a passing reference to it in ‘The Five Orange Pips’, which I doubt my former army companion will ever read. He was not a man who found much pleasure in books and as neither his name nor his son’s is mentioned in the relevant passage, no one is likely to connect them with the case of the Amateur Mendicant Society.

There are two short postscripts I wish to add to my account. The first concerns Inspector Lestrade who claimed all the credit for the uncovering of the fraudulent charities.

Whether it was for this reason that he failed to inquire why Holmes and I were concealed in the lower vault of Buckmaster’s premises and how we had gained access to the building in the first place, or whether, in the flurry of official business after the arrests, the question slipped his mind, I do not know.

As for the forgery case which Lestrade was investigating when he burst so unexpectedly into Buckmaster’s vault, this was later solved on information received from one of the gang in return for an undisclosed remuneration. The forgers had set up their printing-press in the cellar of the Britannia public house, in the very doorway of which one of Lestrade’s own officers had been posted, disguised as a tramp, on the night the Inspector had raided Buckmaster’s premises; the same man who, as Holmes had observed at the time, had failed to change his boots.

* Dr John H. Watson introduced Mr Sherlock Holmes to two other cases, that of Mr Hatherley, an account of which was published under the title of ‘The Adventure of the Engineer’s Thumb’, and that of Colonel Warburton’s madness, which so far has not found its way into print. (Dr John F. Watson)

* This was the second time Mrs Watson had gone to see her aunt in 1887, an earlier visit having taken place in September. Vide ‘The Five Orange Pips’. (Dr John F. Watson)

† Dr John H. Watson and his wife had problems with another domestic, Mary Jane, a ‘clumsy and careless servant girl’ who also had been served notice by Mrs Watson. Vide ‘A Scandal in Bohemia’. (Dr John F. Watson)

* Mr Sherlock Holmes had published a monograph on the subject, entitled ‘Upon the Distinction between the Ashes of the Various Tobaccos’, which is referred to in The Sign of Four. (Dr John F. Watson)

* Mr Sherlock Holmes’ skill at house-breaking and opening locks was put to use in several cases, including ‘The Adventure of the Illustrious Client’ and ‘The Adventure of the Retired Colourman’. (Dr John F. Watson)

* In ‘The Adventure of Black Peter’, Dr John H. Watson refers to ‘five small refuges in different parts of London in which he (Mr Sherlock Holmes) was able to change his personality’. (Dr John F. Watson)

* There is some confusion as to where exactly Dr John H. Watson was wounded. In A Study in Scarlet, he states that he was struck in the shoulder. However, in The Sign of Four, he refers to his ‘wounded leg’. (Dr John F. Watson)