In ‘The Adventure of Black Peter’ I referred in passing to the other cases which engaged Holmes’ attention in the year ’95,*  among them that of Wilson, the notorious canary-trainer whose arrest ‘removed a plague-spot from the East End of London’.

In the same account, I also remarked on my old friend’s capriciousness in refusing to help the powerful and wealthy where a problem failed to engage his sympathies, preferring to devote his time and effort to the affairs of some more humble client whose case appealed to his imagination and challenged his ingenuity.

Although these two references may appear to be unconnected except in the most general way, there is, in fact, a direct link between them which will be apparent only to those who were involved in the investigation.

As for the case itself, Holmes and I have spent many hours discussing the merits and demerits of publishing a full account of the facts.

On the one hand, it would bring to public attention a most unsavoury aspect of life in the great metropolis of London – and no doubt other cities, too – as well as serving as an awful warning to the young and gullible on whom such abominable creatures as Wilson and his accomplices have preyed.

On the other, we are most anxious not to offend the sensibilities of our readers, most particularly the fair sex and those gentlemen of a refined and sheltered upbringing to whom such revelations would be an all too shocking exposure of some of the worst aspects of our society.

After much earnest debate, Holmes and I have concluded that the present-day moral climate is not yet ready for the publication of the truth. However, I have my old friend’s permission to make a record of the case which I shall preserve among my papers in the hope that, at some future date, a more robust readership will be prepared to accept in print the full and unexpurgated account of the case of Wilson, the notorious canary-trainer.

The adventure began prosaically enough one evening in January of ’95 with the arrival at Holmes’ rooms at 221B Baker Street of Mrs Annie Hare. I use the word ‘prosaically’ quite deliberately for there was nothing about either Mrs Hare herself or her story which suggested that the case she laid before us was anything more than a commonplace affair concerning a missing daughter, a misfortune which had, no doubt, happened to many other mothers in Mrs Hare’s position.

In appearance, Mrs Hare herself was unremarkable. She was a small, slight woman, with worn features, shabbily dressed in black and with nothing more than an old red shawl over her shoulders, an inadequate covering for such a bleak winter’s evening. Even as Mrs Hudson showed her into the sitting-room, Holmes and I, seated on either side of a blazing fire, could hear the wind rattling the window-frame and flinging handfuls of hard raindrops, like scatterings of gravel, against the panes.

I shall summarise her story as she was too much intimidated by Holmes’ reputation and too inarticulate to relate it in a consecutive and coherent form. Indeed, it took much patient questioning on my friend’s part to elicit all the facts of the case, which amounted to this.

She was the widow of a hansom-cab driver who, succumbing to pneumonia, one of the hazards for anyone following that particular profession, had died several years before, leaving her with a daughter to support, which Mrs Hare had done by taking in washing and acting as charwoman to those of her neighbours in Bow, in the East End of London, who could afford the pitifully small charge she asked for her services.

But – and she was most anxious to stress this point – she had always kept herself decent and had brought up her daughter in a respectable manner. Indeed, the words ‘decent’ and ‘respectable’ figured largely in her account.

The daughter, whose name was Rosie – and in speaking of her Mrs Hare’s eyes lit up and her haggard features took on an animation which suggested that she herself when young must have possessed a beauty of her own – was a pretty, intelligent girl who, in her mother’s words, had been ‘good at her schoolwork’ and whose ambition it was to rise above her situation and to find employment either as a shop-assistant in a West End store or as a maidservant to a good family, aspirations which the mother had encouraged.

At this point in Mrs Hare’s narrative, I saw Holmes’ aquiline features soften with an expression of keen compassion, a response I shared. For what chance had a young woman from such a background and with, no doubt, a limited education of fulfilling such a dream?

Indeed, as Mrs Hare’s account continued, it became apparent that both the young woman’s and her mother’s hopes had received an early setback. On leaving school at the age of thirteen, Rosie had been able to obtain no better employment for herself that that of a trimmer in a wholesale milliner’s in Wapping where she worked long hours in a basement room for the princely sum of five shillings and sixpence a week.

And then, the year before, when Rosie was fifteen, her fortune had suddenly changed.

An advertisement had appeared in the local newspaper, the Bow and Wapping Gazette, appealing for young women to apply for well-paid domestic posts in good-class households.

‘Do you have the advertisement with you, Mrs Hare?’ Holmes inquired.

She had and, taking a worn purse from her skirt pocket, handed a piece of paper to Holmes who, having read it and raised a quizzical eyebrow at its contents, passed it to me.

It had been carefully cut from the newspaper and read as follows:

‘May I keep this?’ Holmes asked when I had returned the cutting to him, and, on receiving Mrs Hare’s consent, he continued, ‘I take it your daughter attended the interview?’

‘She did, sir,’ Mrs Hare replied. ‘She asked for the afternoon off work, even though it meant losin’ part of ’er wages, and went along to the address given in the paper. And Lor’, sir! She said there was dozens of girls waitin’. It were gone four o’clock afore she was seen.’

‘By the Honourable Mrs Clyde-Bannister, I assume. Did your daughter describe her to you?’

‘She said she was a large lady, very well-spoken and dressed like a duchess in black silk. And diamond rings! Rosie said she’d never seen the like of them.’

As Mrs Hare continued, I noticed that Holmes’ features, while not losing their expression of compassion, had grown sharper and more attentive as if the story itself, rather than the pitiable circumstances which surrounded it, had caught his interest.

To sum up the rest of Mrs Hare’s account, it seemed that Rosie was only one of two successful applicants, the other being a young apprentice dressmaker named Mary Sullivan. The week following the interview, both young women were taken to live at the Hon. Mrs Clyde-Bannister’s West End house, number 14 Cadogan Crescent, where for the next month they were to be trained in the duties of parlourmaids.

The training having been successfully completed, the two young women were then placed in households, Rosie Hare with the Duckham family in Streatham, Mary Sullivan somewhere in Hampstead although Mrs Hare did not know the exact address.

At first, Mrs Hare had received regular weekly letters from her daughter while she was living at Cadogan Crescent and with the Duckhams in Streatham, saying how happy she was and expressing her gratitude both to the Hon. Mrs Clyde-Bannister and to the Duckhams for their kindness.

When Holmes asked her if she had brought the letters with her, Mrs Hare produced a small packet from under her shawl, carefully wrapped up in brown paper, which Holmes said he would examine at his leisure and return to her at a later date.

And then the letters from her daughter had stopped coming.

‘When was this?’ Holmes asked.

‘Five months ago, sir, in September last year,’ Mrs Hare replied.

She went on to explain that she had waited for several weeks and then, thinking that her daughter might have been taken ill, had asked a neighbour to write on her behalf to Rosie at the Duckhams’ address.

‘You see, Mr ’Olmes,’ she said, twisting one corner of her shawl nervously between her fingers, ‘I never was much of a scholar, not like Rosie. I can’t read nor write. This neighbour of mine, Mrs ’Arris, always read Rosie’s letters to me. That’s one of the reasons why I never went to the ’ouse when the letter I’d sent to Rosie was returned, marked “Gone Away” or somethin’ like that on the envelope. I can’t read the street names to find my way there and I couldn’t ask Mrs ’Arris to come with me. She’s got the five little ones to look after.’

‘But you found your way here,’ Holmes pointed out.

‘Oh, that was different, Mr ‘Olmes. Afore I married my Albert, I used to work as a charlady at an ’ouse in the next street, so I knows my way ’ere on foot. And anyway, I didn’t like to turn up at the Duckhams’ in case I got Rosie into trouble. She said that at the interview Mrs Clyde-Bannister asked perticular if she ’ad any family, ’cos she’d ’ad bother in the past with girls gettin’ ’ome-sick. So Rosie said, no, she ’adn’t. She was a n’orphan. That’s why I’ve come to you, sir. I’ve ’eard you’re a famous detective; but you’re not like the regular police. I couldn’t go to them. Even if they was interested in finding my Rosie, which I doubt, I wouldn’t want them causin’ trouble in case they lost Rosie ’er place. But you’re different, sir. I wondered if you’d ask around, quiet-like, and find out what’s ’appened and where the Duckhams ’ave moved to. I couldn’t come afore this ’cos I ’ad to save up the money. I’ve got it now, though,’ she added timidly. Fumbling again in her shabby purse, she took out some coins which she laid on the table. ‘I don’t know what your charges is but there’s fifteen shillin’s there.’

‘Keep the money,’ Holmes said, pressing it back into her hand.

‘You mean you won’t look for my Rosie?’ Mrs Hare asked on the brink of tears.

‘I mean, Mrs Hare, that I charge only by results and, in the case of an interesting investigation such as yours, there are no fees whatsoever. I shall certainly make inquiries about your daughter. I gather all the addresses I shall need, including yours, will be found in the letters? Then all I shall require from you at the moment is a description of your daughter.’

‘Well, sir, she’s a bit taller than me and she’s got dark ’air and eyes. And, like I said, she’s as pretty as a picture.’

‘Any distinguishing features?’ When Mrs Hare appeared not to understand, Holmes rephrased the question. ‘Any scars or marks by which I might recognise her?’

‘Oh, I see, sir. Yes; she ’as a mole on ’er neck just below ’er right ear; only a small one; more like a beauty spot.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Hare,’ Holmes said. ‘That is all I shall need for the time being. I shall call on you in Bow when I have any news. And now, madam, I am going to order a cab for you. No, no!’ He held up a hand as she began to protest. ‘You cannot possibly walk all the way home in this weather. As for the fare, I shall see that the driver is paid. You can settle with me at some other time.’

‘Oh, Mr ‘Olmes, I don’t know ’ow to thank you!’ Mrs Hare cried.

Holmes looked deeply embarrassed.

‘Please, no thanks,’ he murmured, rising to his feet.

‘And no comment from you either, Watson,’ he added when, having escorted Mrs Hare downstairs and seen her into a hansom, he returned to the room.

‘I was only going to remark,’ I said mildly, knowing Holmes’ dislike of having attention drawn to his generosity, ‘that if Mrs Hare had been taught to read and write she could have pursued her own inquiries.’

‘We can only hope that, with the introduction of the Board schools,* education will become so widespread that in fifty years’ time, illiteracy will be a thing of the past. But I doubt whether, even if Mrs Hare had been sent to the most exclusive academy for young ladies, she could have undertaken an inquiry of this nature. The case has too many complexities.’

‘Has it, Holmes? It sounded straightforward enough to me. A young woman betters herself and then chooses to have nothing more to do with her mother. We shall no doubt find her living happily with the Duckhams wherever it is they have moved to.’

‘I trust you are correct, Watson. For my part, I fear the case is not so simple. But we shall see. For the moment, I shall content myself with reading Rosie Hare’s letters to her mother and seeing if I can find any useful information in them.’

He settled himself at his desk, occasionally passing a letter to me. But I have to confess I soon grew bored with reading them. Despite Mrs Hare’s insistence that her daughter had been ‘good at her schoolwork’, they were ill-written, misspelt accounts of the trivial events in Rosie’s life and I soon transferred my attention to the evening newspaper.

After a quarter of an hour’s silence, Holmes put the letters away and asked, ‘Can you be free tomorrow, Watson, or will your professional duties keep you busy?’

‘No. My practice has been remarkably quiet for the past week or so. I have no urgent cases.’

‘Then be good enough to return here* at ten o’clock when we shall take a cab and visit Cadogan Crescent where the Honourable Mrs Clyde-Bannister has her establishment as well as the house in Streatham where the Duckhams used to reside.’

‘Are you also proposing to call in at the Temperance Rooms in Bow?’

‘I see no point in going there at this stage in the inquiry. It is nearly nine months since the Honourable Mrs Clyde-Bannister rented them and I fear the trail may well have gone cold.’

On my return to Baker Street the following morning, Holmes ordered a hansom and we set off first of all for number 14 Cadogan Crescent, an imposing residence just off the Square, where Holmes alighted and rang the bell. After a short conversation with the parlourmaid who opened the door, Holmes returned to the cab to announce that the house was no longer occupied by the Honourable Mrs Clyde-Bannister. The present residents had taken over the lease in June of the previous year and knew nothing about any earlier tenants.

From there, we drove to Maplehurst Avenue, Streatham, where we hoped to have better luck.

Maplehurst Avenue was a pleasant, tree-lined road of modern detached houses, standing in quite large grounds, number 26 being situated about half-way down. But from the neglected state of the garden and the absence of smoke from the chimneys, the place appeared to be empty, an impression confirmed by the ‘To Let’ board nailed to the front gate post.

The house-agents were Palfrey and Dickinson, with an address in Streatham High Road to which, on Holmes’ instructions, the cab-driver took us.

On this occasion I accompanied him into the office, where Holmes spoke to Mr Palfrey, explaining the reason for his visit. Mr Palfrey, however, could tell us very little about his erstwhile tenants, the Duckhams. They had rented the house furnished the previous summer for three months, the rent being paid in advance by Mr Duckham, whom Mr Palfrey described as being ‘tall and well-dressed but not really what he would call a gentleman’.

‘A little too flash, if you know what I mean,’ Mr Palfrey added.

As for Mrs Duckham, Mr Palfrey had seen neither her nor any domestic staff who might have been employed in the house.

The Duckhams had moved out at the beginning of September, their three-month lease having expired. They had left no forwarding address. Only one letter had arrived after their departure, which Mr Palfrey had opened and had returned to an address in Bow, marking the envelope ‘No Longer in Residence’.

And that was all he could tell us about the Duckhams, apart from the canary cage.

‘Canary cage?’ Holmes inquired.

‘Mr Duckham asked if he could have a shelf put up in the conservatory. Evidently he had a large cage of canaries which he wanted to raise off the floor because of the draughts. I agreed and recommended a jobbing carpenter. As far as I am aware, the shelf is still there. And that is really all I know about them,’ Mr Palfrey concluded.

Holmes was in a pensive mood on the return journey and I knew better than to break the silence although I could not understand why the case should require such deep contemplation on his part.

It seemed ordinary enough to me.

At Baker Street, I kept the cab to go on to my consulting rooms, realising that Holmes would probably prefer to be alone with his thoughts.

As we parted, he remarked, ‘I shall be in touch with you, Watson, as soon as there are any developments in the case.’

But I heard nothing from him and I did not, in fact, see Holmes again for another three weeks. There was a sudden outbreak of bronchial infections due to the cold weather and my time was taken up with visiting patients.

It was a Friday evening in February before I had the leisure to call in again at Baker Street to find Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard already there, seated by the sitting-room fire, while Holmes was pacing up and down in a state of considerable excitement.

‘My dear fellow!’ he exclaimed as I entered. ‘How fortunate you have come! The Inspector has just been telling me of an extraordinary case. Pray repeat the details of it, Lestrade, for Watson’s benefit.’

‘I don’t know about it being extraordinary,’ Lestrade said, turning his lean, sallow face in my direction. ‘God knows we get enough suicide victims fished out of the Thames, especially at this time of the year. They’re usually poor, homeless devils, beggars and such-like, who can’t face another winter’s night sleeping on the streets. But this one is different. She was found floating in the river near Wapping about two hours ago by a bargeman; a young woman, well-dressed and nourished; pretty, too, if you disallow for the effects of drowning. The fact is, Dr Watson, and it’s the reason I’ve called on Mr Holmes, it’s the second case like it in the past six months …’

‘Holmes, you don’t think –?’ I began eagerly, interrupting Lestrade’s account.

I had been about to ask if he thought either of the young women could be Rosie Hare. But Holmes frowned and gave a little shake of his head to indicate that I was to say nothing on the subject.

Lestrade was watching us, his sharp, little eyes bright with curiosity.

‘Yes, Dr Watson?’ he asked. ‘You were saying?’

‘My old friend was merely going to remark,’ Holmes put in easily, his expression perfectly bland, ‘that I might find the case useful for the statistical tables I am compiling on suicide victims – their ages, social backgrounds and so on. But pray continue, Lestrade. You were speaking of the similarity of this case to another six months ago.’

‘So I was. Well, Dr Watson, both victims were young women who, judging by their appearances, didn’t seem the type to chuck themselves into the river. And both had been struck on the temple before they drowned. Now, I’m not saying it’s murder. They could have injured themselves as they fell. But it’s too much of a coincidence for my liking. There’s another odd thing as well about that first suicide. No one reported a young woman of her description as missing and no one came forward to claim the body. That’s why I have called on Mr Holmes this evening. As they say, two heads are better than one.’

‘Or three in this instance,’ Holmes remarked. ‘What do you say, Watson? Lestrade tells me the body has been taken to Wharf Street police station. I was about to accompany him there. Would you care to join us? As a medical man, you may very well be able to help the inquiry by examining the corpse and giving us your professional opinion.’

‘Of course, Holmes,’ I said. ‘Although the police surgeon has no doubt made his own examination, there may be some further details I can add to his report.’

We left the house shortly afterwards and, as Lestrade hurried ahead to hail a passing cab, Holmes took the opportunity to say to me in a low voice, ‘Say nothing to Lestrade about Rosie Hare.’

I could not understand his reticence over the case but I complied with his request and kept silent on the journey to Wharf Street, merely listening as Lestrade described a series of burglaries at large country houses in which valuable art treasures had been stolen.

‘I am surprised,’ Lestrade remarked at one point, ‘that none of the victims has asked for your help, Mr Holmes, for I don’t mind admitting that neither the local constabularies nor us at the Yard have been able to discover who is behind these felonies.’

On our arrival at Wharf Street police station, we were conducted by the duty sergeant into a small back-room which had been turned into a temporary mortuary and where the body, covered with a rough blanket, was lying on a trestle table.

Lestrade declined to come with us, having made his own examination earlier, and Holmes and I entered the room alone.

As I removed the blanket, I immediately saw the bruise to which Lestrade had referred. It was a large contusion and, in my opinion, would have caused unconsciousness but whether the injury was the result of a deliberate blow or an accident there was no way of telling.

Apart from this bruise, the face was unmarked, except for the obvious signs of drowning, never a pleasant sight. But, as Lestrade had pointed out, beneath the discoloration and the bloating of the features, it was still possible to discern that, when alive, the young woman, who could have been no more than fifteen or sixteen, had been remarkably attractive. The hair was long and dark, the form slim and shapely while the clothes she was wearing, a red silk dress and a fur-trimmed cloak, were fashionable and of a good quality.

From the degree of rigor mortis, I estimated that she had been dead for about twenty-four hours.

Holmes, meanwhile, was making his own examination, lifting each flaccid hand in turn and then moving the head a little to the left to expose the neck, revealing as he did so a small black mole just below the right ear.

‘Good Lord, Holmes!’ I exclaimed. ‘Mrs Hare said her daughter had a mole in just that position!’

‘Exactly,’ Holmes said grimly. ‘I fear, Watson, that we have found Rosie Hare but too late to save her. As Mrs Hare will have to be sent for to identify her, I shall have to tell Lestrade a little about our inquiries. But leave that to me. I shall say nothing at this stage about the Duckhams nor the Honourable Mrs Clyde-Bannister. Nor about my suspicions regarding the case.’

‘What suspicions, Holmes?’

‘Look at her hands, my dear fellow. Her mother last received a letter from her six months ago when she was engaged as a parlourmaid in the Duckhams’ house in Streatham. The question is, what has she been doing since that time? Not housework, that is certain. The hands are soft and white, the nails unblemished. Even if she had undertaken only the lightest of household duties, she could not have kept them in so perfect a condition. They are a lady’s hands; not a servant’s.’

‘Then what do you think she has been doing?’

‘I have my own theory which I shall explain to you when there is more time. At this moment, we must find Lestrade. But leave the explaining to me, there’s a good fellow.’

We ran Lestrade to earth in the duty-room, warming the backs of his legs before a huge coal fire.

He listened sombrely to Holmes’ explanation, which was a brief summary of the interview with Mrs Hare, and then, having dispatched a constable in a cab to fetch Mrs Hare from her address in Bow, he turned back to remark, ‘If I may say so, Mr Holmes, Mrs Hare doesn’t seem a likely client for someone with your reputation. I thought it was only the well-to-do and the famous who came looking for your services.’

He clearly suspected Holmes of holding back information although my old friend merely replied with a shrug, ‘I accept any client, Lestrade, rich or poor, as the mood takes me. I just happened to have time on my hands when Mrs Hare called at Baker Street. Unfortunately, my inquiries about her daughter had reached an impasse until this evening when you arrived to inform us of the suicide. I shall, of course, be willing to assist you in your own investigation, should you so wish, but at the moment I know no more about the facts of the case than you do.’

Strictly speaking, this was true. As Holmes had pointed out, he had only suspicions which it seemed he was unprepared to confide even to me.

I prefer not to dwell on the arrival of Mrs Hare and the distressing scene which followed her identification of the body as that of her daughter. It is painful to recall and all of us, Lestrade included, were in a subdued mood when she departed, accompanied by a police constable who had orders to see that she was placed in the care of a woman neighbour.

To my surprise, when Holmes and I left, I assumed to return to his lodgings, Holmes instructed the cab-driver to take us to the Burlington Hotel, Piccadilly, not to Baker Street, although he refused to explain the purpose behind this unexpected visit.

When the cab halted outside the hotel, Holmes alighted, telling me to wait as he would be only a few minutes.

From inside the hansom, I watched him go up the steps but, instead of entering, he remained on the portico, deep in conversation with the uniformed doorman. Then, having given the man a coin, Holmes climbed back into the cab.

‘What was all that about, Holmes?’ I asked, as the cab started off again, this time for Baker Street.

‘I was merely confirming my suspicions,’ said he, ‘and opening up a new avenue of inquiry which we shall explore together, my dear Watson. Be good enough to call at Baker Street at nine p.m. tomorrow, wearing evening dress.’

‘Evening dress?’ I exclaimed, quite taken aback by this request.

‘Yes; evening dress, Watson; white tie, tails, silk hat. I assume you have the necessary attire?’

‘Of course I do. I was merely questioning the need for it. Where are we going? To the theatre? Or to dine somewhere in the West End?’

But all Holmes would say in reply was, ‘Wait and see, Watson,’ before adroitly changing the subject by remarking, ‘By the way, speaking of the theatre, I hear there is a very good play on at the moment at the Adelphi.’

Nor would he discuss his plans when we arrived back at Baker Street and, when I left that evening to return home, I was no wiser than I had been before.

It was in a state of considerable curiosity that I returned to Holmes’ lodgings the following evening at nine o’clock, dressed, as he had stipulated, in evening wear, to find him similarly attired, his silk hat and silver-knobbed cane lying ready on the table.

‘Excellent apart from the final touch,’ he said, placing a gardenia in my buttonhole. ‘You now look the perfect man-about-town, ready for a little diversion in what I believe the French call a maison de tolérance. Or in good, plain English, Watson, a brothel.’

‘Now look here, Holmes!’ I protested. ‘I am a respectable widower* and doctor. I cannot possibly accompany you to one of those places. Supposing I were recognised?’

‘I thought you might object so this morning I took the precaution of purchasing two simple but effective pieces of disguise – a pair of side-whiskers for you, my dear old friend, and a rather splendid waxed moustache for myself. The gum arabic is on the table. The looking glass is above the mantelshelf. As we glue our facial adornments into place, I shall explain why our inquiries will take us to a certain West End bordello. You remember I remarked on Rosie Hare’s hands and posed the question of what she had been doing in the six months since she last wrote to her mother? There seemed to me to be only one profession open to a girl of Rosie’s background which enabled her to lead a life of leisure. Her clothes, which were fashionable and expensive, also bore out that impression.’

He broke off at this point to help me fix my side-whiskers into place and to examine both our reflections in the glass with a critical eye before continuing, ‘You will also recall that I spoke to the doorman at the Burlington Hotel?’

‘Of course I do. As a matter of fact, I was rather surprised at your doing so. What could he possibly know that could be of use in our inquiries?’

‘A great deal, Watson. If you want to discover anything about West End night life, ask a hotel doorkeeper. He is acquainted with the names of all the bordellos and quite used to directing male guests to the best establishments. On the basis of what I have already told you, I asked him to recommend a good-class brothel in the area where the girls are young and pretty. He named ten.’

‘Ten? Good Lord!’

‘Quite, Watson. And that does not take into account the hotels and accommodation houses which let rooms by the hour for the use of the many scores of prostitutes one can see walking about the streets of the West End. Among those he named was one in Montrose Street, just off the Haymarket, run by a couple called the Wilsons. It is called the “Canary Club”.’ He paused for a moment and then said, ‘I can see by your expression that you have not made the connection.’

‘No, Holmes; I am afraid I haven’t.’

‘Remember Palfrey, the house agent? He informed us that Mr Duckham asked for permission to put up a shelf in the house in Streatham to support a large cage of canaries.’

‘Oh, yes, of course! I see the significance of it now. But you are surely not suggesting …!’

I broke off, horrified by the implications.

‘Indeed I am, my dear fellow. Allow me to refresh your memory on the advertisement which Mrs Hare showed us. I have it here. It reads: “Girls and young women between the ages of fourteen and eighteen” – mark that, Watson! – are asked to present themselves for selection as parlourmaids et cetera in the “best households” with “no experience needed”. And this was intended to be read, remember, by young women from the East End, apprentice dressmakers and milliners’ assistants in the backstreet sweatshops. No wonder they flocked to the Temperance Rooms in Bow to be interviewed by the Honourable Mrs Clyde-Bannister, especially when they saw the wages which were offered. Fifty pounds a year! Even an experienced butler would count himself lucky to earn that amount. Consider also the fact that not only the Honourable Mrs Clyde-Bannister but also the Duckhams are no longer to be found at their former addresses and that all of them moved away in the summer or early autumn of last year, which was the time that Mrs Hare last heard from her daughter. All of this convinces me that the whole affair from start to finish, from the interview at the Temperance Rooms in Bow to Rosie Hare’s employment with the Duckhams, was a conspiracy to lure gullible young women and girls like her into what I believe is termed the “flesh trade”.’

‘But that is absolutely appalling, Holmes! Something must be done about it!’

‘My sentiments entirely. That is why you and I, Watson, are going to visit the “Canary Club” tonight in the guise of two gentlemen out in the West End, looking for a little “fun”. So, please, my dear fellow, when we arrive there, do look as if you are enjoying yourself.’

Having never set foot in such an establishment in my life, I was not at all sure what to expect when the hansom deposited us outside number 45 Montrose Street.

From the outside, it seemed innocuous enough. It was one of those tall, elegant town houses with several steps leading up to a pillared porch. Only a discreet brass plate engraved with the words ‘The Canary Club. Members Only’ and a man in livery on duty at the front door marked it out as anything other than a select private residence.

Once inside the entrance hall, however, I soon realised that the place lived up to its name and reputation.

The first object to meet the visitor’s gaze as he entered was a large gilded cage, shaped like a Chinese pagoda, which contained about two dozen small, bright yellow canaries which hopped from perch to perch or fluttered against the wires, their sweet, chirruping song filling the air.

The foyer itself was lavishly and elaborately furnished but with that flamboyant and over-decorated taste of the nouveaux riches. Huge chandeliers hung from the ceiling, their lights glittering on the crystal prisms and reflected back from the gilt-framed mirrors which lined the walls.

At the far end, a pair of double doors had been flung open to reveal a drawing-room or salon, decorated in red and gold, with elegant chairs and tables, at which couples were sitting, placed against the walls while in the centre of the room men strolled about or stood talking to young women who were dressed in evening gowns of quite alarming décolletage.

Holmes had already instructed me in the cab on what I was to expect and how I was to behave. I was to leave most of the talking to him and I was to show no surprise or shock at anything I might see or hear. I was also to remember that Holmes would address me as ‘Bunny’, a sobriquet which, he explained with a smile, suited me on account of the side-whiskers.

As the cab had turned out of the Haymarket, he had added, ‘Once we are there, I shall ask specifically for a red-haired girl.’

‘Why is that, Holmes?’

‘If you had read Rosie Hare’s letters, Watson, you would not need to ask. You may recall that a girl called Mary Sullivan was the only other successful candidate at the interview and accompanied Rosie Hare to the Honourable Mrs Clyde-Bannister’s house in Cadogan Crescent for training as a parlourmaid. In her letters, Rosie described Mary Sullivan, with whom she appeared to have struck up a friendship, as very pretty with beautiful red hair. She is, I gathered, of Irish extraction. If my theory is correct, then I believe we shall find that she is one of the young ladies on offer at the “Canary Club”.’

At this point, the cab had drawn up outside the establishment and, once we had entered, my attention was taken up by other matters. These included not only the appearance of the place but the presence of two more male attendants who came forward as soon as we stepped inside the door, one in livery who took our coats and silk hats, the other a tall, broad-shouldered man, whose impeccable evening clothes contrasted oddly with his brutal, prize-fighter’s face and who relieved us of five guineas each as membership fees.

I tried to appear as cool as Holmes as I parted with this outrageous sum, for Holmes seemed perfectly at ease as he stood with his hands in his pockets and a cigar in his mouth, surveying his surroundings with a swaggering air.

We had hardly turned away from paying this bruiser when a large, heavy-bosomed woman of middle age, dressed in extravagantly ruffled black silk, came towards us, holding out her hand; her smile, however, barely disguising the hard glitter in her eyes.

‘I am Mrs Wilson,’ she announced. ‘I believe you gentlemen are new members. Who recommended you?’

‘The doorman at the Burlington,’ Holmes drawled nonchalantly. ‘He said the girls here were very choice.’

‘The best in London. Have you gentlemen any preferences?’

Holmes turned to me.

‘What d’you fancy, Bunny, old chap? I think I am in the mood for a little red-head.’

‘Céline is free at the moment,’ Mrs Wilson remarked, waving a hand towards the drawing-room.

Holmes nodded to her and strolled off towards the double doors, the cigar still in his mouth, although, once we were out of earshot of Mrs Wilson, he removed it for long enough to murmur to me, ‘We have just met the madam of the place, alias, I believe, the Honourable Mrs Clyde-Bannister.’

There was no time for me to reply. Holmes had entered the room and was approaching one of the tables at which was sitting a very pretty red-haired young woman, wearing a green silk evening gown which left all of her arms and most of her bosom bare.

‘Céline?’ Holmes inquired, drawing out a chair. ‘May we join you?’

In the moments before she was aware of our presence, I had been able to observe her. She had been staring straight in front of her, her face quite empty of any emotion as if there were nothing behind the pretty mask of her features except a void.

That expression still haunts my memory. The girl could not have been much more than sixteen.

A second later, the vacant look had vanished and she was smiling up at us coquettishly and rearranging the folds of her skirt to reveal a shapely ankle.

‘Of course you can join me, darlin’,’ she said, addressing Holmes. ‘Would your gentleman friend like another young lady to sit with us? There’s Mimi or Georgette, depending on whether he prefers a blonde or a brunette.’ Her voice had a carefully refined overtone but beneath this it was still possible to discern a less cultivated Cockney-Irish accent.

‘Later, perhaps,’ Holmes told her. ‘At the moment, my friend, Bunny, and I are more interested in the arrangements of the establishment.’

‘You’re new here, aren’t you, darlin’? I thought you were. Well, the arrangements, as you call them, are these. Usually the gentlemen walk about for a while, seeing which young ladies they fancy. Then, when they think they’ve made their choice, they take the young lady in question to sit down at a table and settle the details. That’s always done over a bottle of bubbly. It’s one of the house-rules. If you sit down, you have to buy champagne. Once you’ve made up your mind, you go over there to settle up with Mr Wilson.’

She nodded across the room to where a man was sitting, like a king on a throne, on a large gilt and red velvet chair which was placed on a silk-draped dais. He was a huge man in evening dress, monstrously fat, his starched shirt-front glittering with diamond studs. Lolling back in his chair, he was surveying the promenade of men and women and those couples seated at the tables with a proprietorial air, his round, white face, like a full moon, glistening with sweat, and quite motionless apart from his eyes which were constantly roving to and fro.

‘When you’ve paid Mr Wilson your dues,’ Céline continued, ‘he’ll give you the number of a room that’s vacant and then you’re free to take the young lady upstairs.’ She raised her fan and fluttered it in front of her face with mock modesty. ‘I think I can leave the rest to your imagination, gentlemen.’

As she was speaking, a waiter had crossed the room to our table carrying a silver salver on which were placed three glasses and a champagne bottle in an ice-bucket.

‘How much?’ Holmes inquired.

‘A guinea, sir.’

A guinea!

It said much for Holmes’ perfect self-control that not even his smile wavered as he paid over the money together with a florin tip.

When the man had gone, Holmes filled the glasses and then, passing one to the young woman, remarked in a casual manner, ‘Céline. That’s a pretty name but I rather doubt it is your real one.’

She looked across at him, the glass half-way to her lips, not sure how to respond.

‘Perhaps you’re right,’ she began.

‘Not perhaps. I am quite positive. In fact, I know who you are and how you came to be here,’ Holmes continued, leaning forward and speaking now with great earnestness. ‘You are Mary Sullivan, a former apprentice dressmaker, and you attended an interview at the Temperance Rooms in Bow last May with the Honourable Mrs Clyde-Bannister – Mrs Wilson, to give her her real name. With you at the interview was another young woman, Rosie Hare. You and Rosie were the only two successful candidates. After a period of training at Mrs Clyde-Bannister’s house in Cadogan Crescent, Rosie was sent to a household in Streatham to serve as a parlourmaid while you were dispatched to a family in Hampstead. I believe I can guess what happened while you were there but I should like my suspicions confirmed. You were compromised in some manner. Am I not correct? And the price you had to pay was your agreement to work at the “Canary Club”.’

‘Compromised!’ Mary Sullivan said bitterly, the Cockney-Irish accent becoming more pronounced. ‘That’s one way of putting it! I don’t know who you are or what your game is but you look like the sort a girl could trust. Yes, we went to Cadogan Crescent where we was supposed to have been trained as parlourmaids but it was mostly about how to speak proper and make ourselves look nice. There was a bit about waiting at table and serving wine but not much. Then we was sent off to these different addresses as parlourmaids. I never knew where Rosie went so I couldn’t write to her.

‘My place was all right – to begin with. The lady and gentleman of the house, Mr and Mrs Mallinson, was kind and the duties wasn’t hard. They had a cook and a woman came in daily to do the housework. Then one evening before dinner, there was such a set-to! Mrs Mallinson said she’d left a bracelet on her dressing-table and now it was missing. She accused me of stealing it, which I denied ’cos I hadn’t so much as set eyes on it. Then Mr Mallinson said, “In that case, you won’t mind if we look in your room, will you?” And I said, “You look all you like. You won’t find it.”’

‘But they did,’ Holmes said softly. The remark was more in the nature of a statement than a question.

’Course they did! It was where they must have put it – in the top drawer under my chemises. Then Mr Mallinson said he’d have to send for the police. Well, naturally, I was ever so upset and I cried and Mrs Mallinson said, “Now Arthur,” – that was Mr Mallinson’s name – “we don’t want to get the girl into trouble, do we? You go and fetch Mr Wilson and ask him what we can do for the best.” So Mr Mallinson went off in a cab and came back with Mr Wilson.

‘I’d seen Mr Wilson before. He’d called several times at the house and been ever so kind to me, treated me like a real gentleman and gave me half a crown. Anyway, when Mr Wilson arrived, he talked to me and explained how serious it was to get caught stealing and how I could be sent to prison but I wasn’t to cry any more ’cos he knew of a way out. I couldn’t go on working for the Mallinsons but he owned a very select gentlemen’s club in the West End and he was looking for an attractive young lady like me to serve drinks to his clients. If I agreed to work there, he’d persuade the Mallinsons not to charge me with stealing. So I said I would although if I knew then what I know now I’d have sooner gone to prison.’

‘And the select gentlemen’s club was, of course, this place?’ Holmes said quietly.

‘That’s right, darlin’. I came here and finished up as one of Mr Wilson’s little canaries, trained to sing for the customers and hop about prettily on my perch.’

‘Do they ever open the cage door and let you out?’

Mary Sullivan laughed.

‘Oh, we get taken out for an airing from time to time, carefully chaperoned by Mrs Gough in case we try to fly away.’

‘Mrs Gough?’

‘She’s in charge upstairs and a right tartar she is, too. It’s her husband on the door who acts as chucker-out in case any of the gentlemen turns awkward. He used to be a prize-fighter. You don’t want to get on the wrong side of him.’

‘Have any of the little birds managed to escape?’

‘Not that I know of. Most of them don’t want to anyway. They enjoy being in their cage. It’s warm and they’re well fed. They don’t much care as long as they’re given champagne and pretty clothes to wear.’

‘And what about the ones who do care? What happens to them?’

‘They get sent on.’

I saw Holmes’ expression sharpen.

‘“Sent on”? Where to?’

‘Nobody’s supposed to know but the maids upstairs, them that cleans the rooms and helps us dress, warns us sometimes, “You watch out! If you don’t mind your p’s and q’s you’ll finish up on the train from Victoria with the Goughs.” That’s what happened to Rosie.’

‘Did it?’ Holmes asked with an offhand air. ‘When was this?’

‘A couple of nights ago. She arrived here in September, about a week after I did and with exactly the same story as me. She’d been accused of stealing and Mr Wilson had offered her a job in his gentlemen’s club. Marguerite, they called her. But she was always crying and not singing as nicely for the clients as she was supposed to. Then Mr Wilson caught her trying to get one of the gentlemen to post a letter to her mother. We’re not supposed to have any family who cares about us. I know my old ma was glad to see the back of me. The Honourable Mrs Clyde-Bannister, Mrs Wilson to you, dear, made a special point of that at the interview. “Any close relatives or friends?” she said. “I only ask because sometimes my girls are sent abroad with the families they’ll work for and I don’t like to think I’m causing distress at home.” The bloody old hypocrite! Anyway, as I was saying, Rosie tried to pass on a letter and Mrs Gough locked her in one of the upstairs rooms. Then, a couple of nights ago, a four-wheeler came to the house and the next day Rosie had gone. And so had the Goughs. “She’s been sent on,” was all Mr Wilson would tell us. But all of us girls knew where. Can’t you guess, darlin’? No? Gay Paree. Where else? It seems French gentlemen like little English canaries.’

‘Good Lord!’ I exclaimed involuntarily, quite forgetting the warning Holmes had given me in the cab.

But my horrified exclamation was covered up by Mary Sullivan’s own cry of, ‘Oh, my Gawd, Mr Wilson’s coming over! Now I’ll be for it! He don’t like us girls wasting time chatting to the clients when we should be getting down to business.’

Wilson was indeed making his way across the room to our table, moving with surprising agility and silence for a man of his vast bulk.

‘Anything the matter, gentlemen?’ he inquired, smiling unctuously but fixing both Holmes and me with a hard stare from pale blue eyes which were almost hidden in the folds of fat round his cheeks.

‘No; why should there be?’ Holmes drawled carelessly, lounging back in his chair. ‘We are simply enjoying a pleasant little chinwag, old fellow.’ Turning to me, he went on, ignoring Wilson, ‘What d’you say, Bunny? Shall we take a stroll and see what other little birds are on offer before making up our minds?’

With a wink at me, he got up and walked away, leaving me to follow after him which I did with some haste, eager to escape from the unspeakable Wilson.

Once we were well clear of the man and had joined the other promenaders in the centre of the room, I grasped him by the arm and said in a low voice, ‘How are we going to get out of this dreadful place without arousing Wilson’s suspicions even further?’

‘Leave it to me, my dear fellow,’ Holmes replied. ‘I have already thought of a way. After a couple more turns up and down the room in which we shall ogle the jeunes filles as if we had every intention of making an offer for two of them, you will suddenly be taken faint and will have to be escorted off the premises. Do you think you can manage that?’

‘With no trouble at all,’ I assured him fervently.

Indeed, when the time came, there was hardly any need for me to feign a sudden indisposition. The heat in the room combined with the champagne, the odour of cigars and the heavy perfume with which the young women were liberally doused caused me to feel quite light-headed and, with Holmes’ arm in mine, I staggered into the entrance hall, my old friend announcing loudly as he collected our coats and silk hats, ‘Too much bubbly, that’s your trouble, Bunny old chap!’

I felt better as soon as we reached the fresh air of the street where Holmes left me in the care of the liveried doorman, remarking to him as he went back inside the house, ‘Damned stupid of me! I’ve left my cane behind.’

He was back within minutes, the cane under his arm although he waited until we had started walking back towards the Haymarket before explaining to me in a low voice, ‘Just as I thought. When I went back into the place, Mary Sullivan was being escorted upstairs by Mrs Wilson. I have a strong suspicion that the young lady is about to be “sent on”.’

I stopped in my tracks.

‘But that’s quite dreadful, Holmes! I fear we are to blame. We must return at once and prevent it!’

‘My dear old friend, you will achieve nothing by charging in there like a knight on a white horse, waving a sword. Evil monsters like the Wilsons have to be snared before they can be slain. We must have proof and for that we have to wait for them to make the first move which will be later tonight; at half past midnight to be precise.’

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘You will recall that Mary Sullivan spoke of the Victoria train and how Rosie Hare was, as she thought, “sent on” to catch it two nights ago? Well, there is a boat train which leaves Victoria at one fifteen to connect with the night-ferry from Dover to Calais. I believe a four-wheeler will be sent for at half past twelve to collect Mary Sullivan and her escort, the Goughs, to catch that train. Observe, Watson, that the nearest cab-stand is over there on the corner from where one has a clear view down Montrose Street. I want you to stay here and keep a watch on both the cab-stand and the “Canary Club”. Should anyone come out of the house and approach any of the drivers, it is your responsibility to prevent the cab from setting off.’

‘But how?’

‘I leave that entirely to your discretion, my dear Watson. I, meanwhile, shall take a hansom to Scotland Yard to alert Lestrade.’ Holmes glanced at his pocket-watch. ‘I have an hour and a half to persuade our friend the Inspector that action must be taken; not long as Lestrade is not a man who is normally quick-thinking but I hope time enough.’ The next moment he had crossed to the cab stand and had leapt into a hansom, leaving me standing alone on the pavement.

Rarely have I spent a more uncomfortable hour and a half with the exception of the time I served in India and was wounded at the battle of Maiwand in ’80 during the Afghan War.

A bitter wind blew down Montrose Street, bringing with it small crumbs of frozen snow which swirled and eddied across the pavements.

Although at the far end of the road I could see the bright lights of the Haymarket, there were few passers-by apart from the occasional late reveller looking for a cab and the streetwalkers who continued plying their trade. I was accosted more than a dozen times.

To keep warm, I walked up and down stamping my feet, seeking shelter from time to time in a doorway where I anxiously consulted my own pocket-watch.

At twenty minutes past twelve when I had given up hope, a four-wheeler, followed closely by two more, drew up beside me and my old friend jumped out, accompanied by Lestrade and two police officers, eight more emerging from the other cabs, all in plain clothes.

‘Thank God, Holmes!’ I cried. ‘I thought you would not get here in time!’

‘Then we are not too late?’ he asked. ‘We had to wait for warrants to be drawn up.’

Lestrade said defensively, ‘It all has to be done by the book, Mr Holmes. The “Canary Club” is a private gentlemen’s establishment. We can’t just force our way in without the proper authorization. But murder and White Slave trafficking! That’s a serious matter!’ He turned away to address the ten officers who had accompanied him and Holmes. ‘Now I want you men to walk along easy-like, as if you’re out strolling in the West End, enjoying yourselves. And none of you is to make a move until I give the word. Have you got that?’

The men murmured in assent and the group split up, Holmes and I walking with Lestrade along Montrose Street, the plain-clothes officers spreading out singly or in pairs on either side of the road.

It was only when we had drawn level with the entrance to the ‘Canary Club’ that Lestrade gave the order.

With a shout of ‘Right, men!’, he charged up the steps, knocking aside the liveried porter, and flung himself against the door.

What happened next occurred so quickly that I have only a blurred impression of the events.

I remember bursting into the entrance hall on Lestrade’s heels with Holmes a few paces in front of me, the other men bundling in behind us. I also recall Gough coming for us like a maddened bull and three officers wrestling him to the floor. The rest is a confusion of women screaming, men shouting, glass breaking.

And then Holmes broke free of the mêlée and, calling to me to follow, ran towards the staircase, taking the steps two at a time.

On the landing, we were faced by many doors, some closed, some open, the occupants of the rooms having come out in a state of considerable déshabillé to see what the noise was about. Ignoring them, Holmes sprinted down the corridor, trying the handles of the doors which were still closed until he came to one which was locked.

‘Watson!’ he shouted. ‘Help me by putting your shoulder to this!’

I did as he ordered and, under our combined weight, the door crashed inwards and we were precipitated into the room.

It was a bedroom, containing a great quantity of mirror-glass and silk draperies but what immediately caught my attention was the figure of Mary Sullivan lying asleep on the bed, guarded by a gaunt, hard-faced woman, dressed in black – Mrs Gough, I assumed – who had been seated on a chair but who ran from the room as Holmes and and I burst into it.

‘Let her go!’ Holmes ordered. ‘Lestrade’s men can deal with her.’ He bent down over Mary Sullivan’s recumbent form to sniff at her lips and then turned to me, his expression grim. ‘She’s been chloroformed, Watson. Help me carry her out into the fresh air.’

Wrapping her in the quilt from the bed, Holmes and I between us supported her downstairs and out into the street where I hailed a passing four-wheeler in which we conveyed her to Charing Cross Hospital.

Having seen her safely placed in the hands of the medical staff at Charing Cross, we returned by cab to Prince’s Street police station where Lestrade had arranged for the Wilsons and their accomplices to be taken for questioning.

We found Lestrade in the middle of interviewing Wilson, who was seated on a chair, his starched shirt-front burst open and his face the colour of grey blubber.

The Inspector greeted us as we entered.

‘Come in, gentlemen. We have rounded up all the occupants of the “Canary Club” including this fine, fat bird who’s been singing his heart out,’ Lestrade said with a smile of satisfaction. ‘It seems they set up these interviews for young women in various parts of the East End, not just in Bow but all over the place. He’s also given us the names and addresses of the couples who rented the houses where the young women were supposed to have gone into service. I’ve sent some of my men to arrest them. He was just telling me about Rosie Hare when you arrived. Go on, Wilson. Tell us what happened to her and the other girl who was found dead in the Thames six months ago. What was her name?’

‘Lizzie Hamilton. And I had nothing to do with either of them!’ Wilson protested, his fat cheeks trembling with terror. ‘It was the Goughs! They were supposed to take them to another establishment in Paris. Lizzie Hamilton was the first. She’d been chloroformed to keep her quiet but she came to in the cab on the way to Victoria station and started struggling and screaming. Gough was worried the cab-driver would hear her so he hit her on the head. It was Mrs Gough who suggested they dump her in the Thames. They couldn’t be sure she wouldn’t kick up another rumpus on the boat or on the train to Paris. So they told the driver the girl had been taken ill and, instead of going to Victoria, he was to drive them to Wapping where they said her mother lived and to put them down in a quiet street near the river. Once the cab had gone, they carried her along an alley to the bank and threw her in. The same happened with Rosie Hare. After Lizzie’s death, I told them it wasn’t to occur again. But they wouldn’t listen –’

He broke off, blubbing like a child.

Holmes and I left soon afterwards, neither of us caring to wait for Wilson and the others to be charged and both of us eager to return to the sanctuary of Holmes’ rooms in Baker Street.

Lestrade, of course, took all the credit for the successful raid on the ‘Canary Club’ and the arrest of Wilson and his accomplices.

Holmes was quite resigned to it, having grown used to the Inspector’s habit of stealing the limelight.

As for the Wilsons and the Goughs, they paid their dues to society, the Goughs with the ultimate punishment for the deaths of Rosie Hare and Lizzie Hamilton. The Wilsons both received long gaol sentences for their part in the conspiracy and for being accessories to murder; the others, varying terms of imprisonment.

I wish I could state that the successful conclusion of the case put an end to the monstrous trade in young female flesh but I fear this is not so. On my rare visits to the West End, I occasionally recognise among the streetwalkers the faces of young women whom I last saw taking part in the promenade up and down the salon of the ‘Canary Club’.

There was, however, one small ray of hope and happiness in this whole sad and sordid affair. When Mary Sullivan was discharged from hospital, she called on Holmes to thank him and to ask for Mrs Hare’s address. The last we heard of them, Mary had found employment in an East End dressmaker’s, a decent place run by a kindly couple, and she had moved in with Mrs Hare as a surrogate daughter.

Holmes summed it up very aptly, I thought, by quoting indirectly from Shakespeare’s Merchant of Venice: ‘Just one small good deed, Watson, shining like a candle in a very naughty world.’

* These cases occurred after Mr Sherlock Holmes’ apparent death at the hands of Professor Moriarty at the Reichenbach Falls in May 1891 and his return three years later in the spring of 1894. In the meantime, although the exact date is uncertain, Mrs Watson, née Mary Morstan, had died. Vide ‘The Final Problem’ and ‘The Adventure of the Empty House’. (Dr John F. Watson)

* Mr Sherlock Holmes comments on the Board schools in ‘The Adventure of the Naval Treaty’, referring to them as ‘Beacons of the future!’. (Dr John F. Watson)

* There is some uncertainty about the exact year when Dr John H. Watson sold his Kensington practice and returned to 221B Baker Street to share lodgings again with Mr Sherlock Holmes. Some scholars place the move in 1895. However, in ‘The Adventure of the Veiled Lodger’, which is internally dated as occurring ‘early in 1896’, a year after ‘The Case of the Notorious Canary-trainer’ took place, Dr John H. Watson writes of receiving ‘a hurried note from Holmes’ requesting his attendance at Baker Street, suggesting that he had not then moved back to his old address. (Dr John F. Watson)

* See footnote to page 132. (Dr John F. Watson)