Elizabeth Lockhart was a grande dame of the old school, who would not have looked out of place at Henley Regatta or a Chelsea tea party. She sat in a high-backed wing chair, her spine as straight as any guardsman’s, and observed us disapprovingly through her pince-nez. Holmes had taken an immediate dislike to her, and she to him.
“Come now, Mrs Lockhart,” he said, barely concealing the impatience in his voice, “you must be able to tell us something about the work this man carried out on your behalf. I do not ask for intimate details, merely a very general idea of the scope of the task he was set.”
When Mrs Lockhart continued to stare at him as though he were an incompetent kitchen maid, pursing her lips and saying nothing, Holmes pressed on, the last vestiges of courtesy beginning to fray at the edges.
“Was it a theft, madam? An assault? Did you perhaps discover that your illustrious family is descended from Black Country leather-workers or Scandinavian herring fishermen?”
In his defence, Mrs Lockhart had been nothing but obstructive since we had arrived, and Holmes had spent the last ten minutes attempting to cajole the slightest useful morsel of information from our unresponsive host. Still, discourtesy was unlikely to aid our cause, and so I did my best to pour oil on these particular troubled waters.
“I think my friend is trying to say that, while we fully understand that – quite rightly – you have no desire for your private business to be discussed with strangers, if you could see your way to providing a general – a very general – idea why you called in a detective, it would be most helpful to us.”
Mrs Lockhart turned her attention to me. “And you say that you are policemen?” she said after a long, thoughtful pause.
“We are assisting the police, yes,” I confirmed, and consoled myself that I had not exactly lied, though it would have been more accurate to say that a single policeman was assisting us, and that quite unofficially.
“Assisting, yes…” Her voice faded; then, as though coming to a decision, she addressed herself to me again, ignoring Holmes entirely.
“I will tell you one thing, and after that I would be obliged if you would leave me and my house in peace, and take your unpleasant companion with you. His eyes are too close together. He has the look about him of a Bohemian or an anarchist.”
I felt Holmes bridle beside me, but I laid a hand on his arm in warning.
“Any information that you could supply would be extremely helpful and much appreciated.”
“If you absolutely must know, and if that is the only way in which I shall be rid of you both, I engaged Mr Holmes to investigate a spate of petty thefts.”
“Domestic thefts?” Holmes interjected. “Did these thefts occur here, in the family home?”
“I am aware of the definition, thank you,” Mrs Lockhart replied acidly. “And yes, the dishonesty in question was of a domestic nature.”
“And Holmes was able to help?”
Mrs Lockhart’s glare could have frozen water solid. “I believe I have told you all that you asked. Suffice it to say that Mr Holmes was thoroughly professional and that the whole matter was cleared up satisfactorily.”
“How, though, did you know that the man you spoke to actually was Sherlock Holmes?”
I thought for a moment that I saw a momentary flash of something fearful behind the old lady’s eyes, but if I did, it was quickly replaced by a scornful glare. “Other than the successful conclusion of our business, you mean? I have also viewed several sketches of him, and Mr Holmes was as like his image as any man I have seen.” She rang a small bell that sat on a table to one side of her chair. “Now if you will excuse me, I am expecting visitors. Invited visitors.”
I rose and prepared to bid the lady good day, but Holmes would not be silenced.
“One last question, if I may, Mrs Lockhart,” he began. “When did you last see Mr Holmes?”
“About six weeks ago. I paid him in full in cash, and he left at once. I hope never to see him – or you! – again.”
The door behind us opened, and the butler who had shown us in indicated that we should now follow him out. Any further questions Holmes might have had would have to wait. The lady opened a slim volume that had lain in her lap and, ignoring our farewells, read until we had left the room.
Or rather, almost until we had left the room, for as the door swung closed behind us, Holmes turned smartly on his heel and pushed his head back into Mrs Lockhart’s drawing room.
“One more thing, if you don’t mind, Mrs Lockhart,” I heard him say. “Did Dr Watson accompany Mr Holmes when he called upon you?”
I could not make out the muffled reply, but I heard Holmes say, “He did? Excellent. Then I will trouble you no more, madam,” as he finally closed the door and joined the butler and me in the hall.
“Shall we be on our way, do you think, Watson?” he asked, with every appearance of satisfaction. He strode past the butler, taking his hat and gloves from the man as he did so. I followed, my mind oddly troubled by the thought of a fake John Watson joining the fake Sherlock Holmes.
* * *
As was often the case when deep in thought, Holmes preferred not to speak in the cab we took back to the hotel. Instead we sat in silence and I took the opportunity to examine the streets as we passed through them.
Even more than in London, splendour and poverty existed in close proximity to one another here, and as we progressed towards Broadway, I was conscious that many of the side streets and alleys I glimpsed as the hansom sped along were dark, dirty places, redolent of the worst slums at home. Growing weary of the silence, I remarked as much to Holmes, but he gave no sign that he had heard me. If his interest was not to be piqued by a comparison of the two cities, I thought perhaps an appeal to his vanity might prove more successful.
“Tell me, Holmes,” I enquired, “how did you know to ask whether the fake Holmes has an equally false Watson?”
Holmes’s eyes at once lit up. “I did not know, I confess,” he said with a small smile. “But I was reasonably certain – certain enough in any case to test the theory.”
“You guessed, then?”
“Never!” Holmes was insistent, as I knew he would be. I now had his full attention. “As you know, I do not guess. Guessing is a waste of both my time and my intellect, each of which is precious and not to be frittered away by idle conjecture. No,” he continued, “I had a theory, that is all.”
“A theory?”
“Exactly so. One created whole from the available facts, and then tested by direct interrogation.”
“What facts, Holmes? I have seen and heard nothing to suggest an accomplice.”
“Are you forgetting the friend who holds the imposter’s correspondence when he is out of town?”
I could not hide my surprise. I confess I had forgotten, but even if I had not, it seemed a small base on which to build a theory. I said as much to Holmes, but that only heightened his evident satisfaction.
“Not just that, Watson! You are overlooking the coat rack,” he exclaimed, rubbing his hands together with pleasure. “Did it not occur to you to wonder why there was a coat rack in the imposter’s office? It surely did not come with the room, for Mrs van Raalte said the room was rented unfurnished, nor can it be seen from the doorway, so it was not part of the dressing of the office. No, our man took the time and effort to purchase a coat rack and place it there.”
“Perhaps he wished for somewhere to hang his coat?”
“In an office that was not an office, and hence contained no clients? Why should he? On the rare occasions he was there alone, he could leave his hat and overcoat on the spare chair. Far more likely that he had a regular visitor and so felt the need of a rack. And the most likely such visitor is, of course, a close acquaintance – or an accomplice, as you put it. Having established that, what else would such a man be called but John Watson?” Satisfied with his own reasoning, Holmes chuckled at the look on my face, then broke off as a new thought occurred to him. “Why,” he cried suddenly, “I’m sure that Mrs van Raalte could settle the matter and tell us if ‘Holmes’ had a regular visitor of any sort.”
He knocked on the roof of the cab and when it pulled to a stop shouted up that he wished to be taken to Mrs van Raalte’s address.
“Shall I come with you?” I asked.
“Not this time, Watson. I will not be long, and besides we are supposed to be meeting Inspector Bullock at the hotel.” He leaned out of the cab window and looked down the street. “It cannot be more than half a mile – a mile at most – to the hotel from here. The walk will do you the world of good, I’m sure.”
Before I had time to protest, I found myself on the pavement, watching Holmes’s cab disappear into the distance. The hotel was nowhere in sight, and I recognised none of the buildings around me, but I knew the direction at least.
As I made certain that I had my bearings, I had the unsettling feeling that I was being watched. Making every attempt at subtlety, I shaded my eyes against the low sun and took surreptitious stock of my surroundings. The street was busy but not overly so, and it was not hard to pick out the one man in the vicinity who was staring in my direction. A dark figure stood just inside an alleyway across the street from me, his face, where it was not already hidden by the shadows, shaded by a wide-brimmed bowler hat, worn tipped forward at an angle so that the brim almost touched his nose.
I had barely wondered whether I should confront the man or simply return to the hotel, when the decision was made for me. The figure stepped backwards into the gloom and was gone, and by the time I arrived at the spot he had vacated, there was nobody to be seen. I took a few steps down the alley, but was acutely aware of the filth under my feet and the looming tenements that seemed to lean towards me the further I progressed down the path. Behind me on Broadway, the sun was shining and industrious people buzzed around like bees, pushing this fledgling country forward by sheer willpower and hard work. Here, though, mere yards from the main thoroughfare, a different world emerged to greet me, one spawned in poverty and nurtured in filth and violence. Even the light seemed dimmer, as the tenements crowded together at their peaks, leaning in like drunkards and blocking the light.
I confess I stood on the spot for several minutes, so shocked was I by the sudden change. Of course, I had been in the slums of London on many occasions, but though Limehouse, Holborn and the rest were as hideous as anything New York had to offer, they stood relatively distinct in their deprivation, separated from the better areas of town by more than just a dozen feet of paving stone.
In any case, it appeared that whoever had been watching me was gone. The only person in sight was a pale-faced child of indeterminate age (somewhere between twelve and seventeen, I would hazard) – a girl, with large grey eyes and short-cut, greasy hair which visibly crawled with vermin.
“Excuse me, young lady. Did anyone pass you in the last few minutes?” I asked her, for the position in which she stood, in the only doorway in sight, facing out into the alley and commanding a view of both the archway through which I had just come and the corner ahead of me, was an ideal one for observation.
She must have heard my words, for her head turned slowly in my direction. She blinked heavily several times but said nothing in reply, though her mouth opened and closed again as if there was something she wished to say. I repeated my question, but this time she turned away, suddenly uninterested in me.
The new focus of her interest was swiftly made clear. A group of grimy toughs rounded the corner in front of me and stood directly in my path. The girl shuffled inside the doorway, pulling the door shut behind her as the men walked towards me, but I could see her face indistinctly at the nearest window. The gang came to a halt a few feet in front of me, and the man foremost – the leader, I assumed – reached inside his jacket and slowly removed a wicked-looking razor, which he opened and allowed to rest casually in his hand. Recognising that I was not welcome in the alley, I made discretion my byword and beat a retreat back into the light of the main street.
Nobody followed me and so, with a sigh, I began to walk towards the hotel, occasionally casting a glance behind me. After a hundred yards, and with no sign of pursuit, I was able to relax and consider what had just happened. I was certain that the man standing in the entranceway had been watching Holmes and me, but for what reason? Though we had made no attempt to hide our identities, neither had we advertised them, and we had only been in the country for a day and a half. In fact, the only people we had spoken to at any length had been Bullock, and the two ladies, Mrs van Raalte and Mrs Lockhart. The latter could be ruled out, I thought, on the grounds that we had only just left her, and she could hardly have arranged for a confederate to have us under observation so quickly, even if she knew our intended destination. Which was all very well, but I could not envisage the other two potential suspects being involved either. Bullock was on our side, I was sure, and I did not imagine that a boarding house landlady had the resources to have us followed. The question must perforce wait for Holmes’s input.
With this thought in mind, I doubled my speed, keener than ever to speak to my old friend.
* * *
To my annoyance, the hotel turned out to be a good deal further away than Holmes had claimed, and it took me over an hour to walk there. My mood was not improved by a steady, if light, drizzle that set in some ten minutes after I began walking and which clung to my trousers and jacket and left me sodden, nor by the discovery that Holmes had found Mrs van Raalte absent and so had taken the cab straight back to the hotel. As I arrived wetly at the entrance, I could see both him and Bullock in front of a roaring fire in the lobby, enjoying a glass of whisky and a pipe apiece.
I wasted no time in interrupting them. “Well, I am glad to see you so comfortable, Holmes!” I began, but I was allowed to go no further in my outburst before he leapt to his feet and ushered me into his seat in front of the fire. Before I could say a word he had called over a waiter, ordered a fresh set of drinks and offered me a cigarette from his case. In light of his solicitude, it would have been churlish to continue to lambast him for his thoughtlessness, so I contented myself with lighting the cigarette and basking in the heat of the fire while he explained himself.
“There was, sadly, no sign of the good lady. I waited ten minutes or more, in the event that Mrs van Raalte might return from whatever errand had taken her away, but when she continued to be absent, I saw no purpose in remaining and ordered the cab to bring me back here. The inspector was already ensconced where you see him now, awaiting our joint arrival.”
“I was wondering how you’d manage with Mrs Lockhart, if truth be told. But Mr Holmes has already brought me up to date. I’m only sorry that she wasn’t of more help.”
Holmes rushed to demur. “Not at all, Inspector. Mrs Lockhart was exceedingly helpful in her own way.”
Bullock cocked a quizzical eyebrow in Holmes’s direction at this, nor could I hide my own confusion. It had seemed to me that the meeting with Mrs Lockhart had been a disappointment, seeing as we had garnered only the bare fact that Holmes had a companion. I said so to Holmes, and asked – with some vigour I admit, for I was not entirely placated for my long walk in the rain – what vital clue had I missed?
“Not a clue as such, Watson. More an unwillingness to speak, which in itself spoke volumes on the lady’s behalf.” He knocked the ashes from his pipe and placed it on the table at his side before continuing; Holmes, I suspect, enjoyed these moments of anticipation almost as much as the revelation itself. “No? You do not see it? You did not remark on the lady’s almost violent desire not to speak of the case undertaken by the imposter on her behalf?”
“I considered it no more than a natural embarrassment at having her dirty laundry aired in public. I don’t doubt that most women would have reacted in a similar manner.”
“To a simple matter of a dishonest servant? Come now, Watson, did the lady strike you as so shrinking a violet?”
I could not deny that Mrs Lockhart had appeared a woman of strong personality. “Perhaps not. But even so, what does her reticence tell you?”
“That the matter was not one of petty theft, for one thing. And that whatever service this faker provided for Mrs Lockhart, it was one that filled her with shame, not gratitude. You heard her say that she hoped to see neither myself nor the other Holmes ever again?”
Now that I thought on it, I had indeed heard her say those very words, but until that point it had entirely slipped my mind. It was certainly an unexpected thing to hear about someone who had done the lady a service.
“She is unlikely to do so.” Inspector Bullock was emphatic in his interruption. “As far as I can tell, no client has ever engaged the man’s services a second time.”
Holmes’s eyes lit up at this information. “Do you say so? Not a single client? That is a fact particularly worthy of thought.”
He fell silent and stared pensively into the fire for several minutes, absent-mindedly tapping his fingers on his knee as he did so. “A possibility suggests itself, but we must speak to his other clientele, I think, before we can be certain.”
I recalled what Bullock had said previously regarding the unofficial status of our investigation, fearing that his further assistance would prove impossible, but I need not have worried. Clearly, the mystery had piqued his interest and, in consequence, he was more than happy to remain involved.
“I will put together a list of all the imposter’s known cases and have it ready for you first thing in the morning,” he offered immediately.
“All known?”
“I’m afraid I can be no more accurate than that, Mr Holmes. The truth is that nobody knows for sure how the other Mr Holmes comes by his cases, since he does not advertise and – unlike your good self – is neither affiliated with, nor keen to help, the police.”
“Nobody makes use of the man’s talents within the police force?”
“Not that I know of, Mr Holmes, no.”
“And he has never approached your department and offered his services?”
“Again, I’m not aware of it if he has.”
“And would you be?” I interjected. “Aware of it, I mean.”
“I’m senior officer at present, Doctor, so yes, I would be informed if a civilian was involved in any of our cases.”
“Don’t you consider that odd, Inspector?” asked Holmes. “In my experience, while police officers are prone to a lack of thought, a paucity of foresight and an absence of deductive powers, they are always keen to take what help they can from a gifted amateur.”
“The credit too,” I added with a smile.
“There is that,” Holmes agreed. “Perhaps one of your number has availed himself of the imposter’s services but kept that fact to himself, the better to impress his superiors? After all, whatever other failings he might have, the man appears to have pleased all his clients and may, therefore, be a formidable investigator.” He sniffed pointedly. “Though it pains me to admit as much.”
I had felt Bullock tense beside me as Holmes rather thoughtlessly denigrated his profession, and now he rushed to its defence. “No, no, Mr Holmes, I refuse to believe that. No man in the New York Police Department would ever filch credit for another man’s work. Nor would he employ the services of – forgive me, Mr Holmes – an untrained amateur detective.”
Holmes’s thin smile spoke volumes to one who knew him well, but for all his perceived prickly nature, no one could accuse Holmes of allowing personal feelings to impinge upon his work, and he did not rise to the bait. Instead, he was at pains to placate the inspector.
“He has been doing rather well for an untrained amateur, has he not, Inspector? But I take your point. Personally, I have spent a lifetime studying crime and criminals, but I believe it no great self-flattery on my part to state that no other detective has done the same. An experienced police officer would find little assistance from such an untutored fellow, I’m sure.”
Mollified by Holmes’s words, Bullock relaxed and, as is often the case when a painful disagreement has been narrowly averted, was, if anything, even more well-disposed to us than previously.
“Give me until tomorrow morning and I’ll drop a list in with the concierge,” he declared, adding, “It may not help, however. One wealthy New York socialite is much like the next, I’m afraid.”
“Even so, we could not hope for more, Inspector,” I replied gratefully. “It is good of you to give so much of your time to two visitors to your city.”
“No matter, Dr Watson. I would fain help a countryman, and a friend of Tobias Gregson more than most. Now,” he said, rising to his feet and beckoning for his overcoat, “I must be away. Eager as I may be to assist you, I must also look to those other, more official cases I have currently in hand. My captain is a good man, but a stickler for the rules, and he would not look kindly on any unauthorised activities on my part.”
“He shall hear nothing but praise from us, should the opportunity ever arise,” Holmes assured him, while I shook his hand in farewell. “Your assistance has been invaluable already, and should you be able to provide the names of further of the imposter’s clients, we will be in your debt.”
We stood and watched as Bullock disappeared into the street, then resumed our seats by the fire.
“Could he have left the city, do you think?” I asked, the question having played on my mind for some time. “The fake Holmes,” I clarified. “Could he have moved on altogether, assumed a new name and shifted his base of operations elsewhere?”
Holmes shook his head decisively. “Why should he have? He had no expectation that we would ever discover his duplicity, far less that we should make our way across the Atlantic to confront him. And with no reason to run, he has even less cause to change his name. No, he remains in New York, I am sure of it. Besides,” he concluded, “if we assume he has gone and so leave ourselves, what is to prevent the blackguard from returning the very next day and re-establishing himself as ‘Sherlock Holmes’?”
“Bullock would be looking out for him,” I protested. “Far more difficult for him to work his tricks with a police inspector watching over his shoulder.”
Holmes tutted impatiently. “Bullock himself said that the police do not have so much as a complete listing of the imposter’s cases, suggesting that he has never been of interest to them in any meaningful sense. And while you are quite correct that the inspector would take more of an interest in any future sighting of the man, he has in all likelihood committed no crime – leaving the police impotent to act and, in a busy city such as this, unlikely to spare a thought for a fake detective who, it seems, makes their lives a little easier by solving every case presented to him. No, Watson, I cannot look to anyone else to safeguard my interests. I must find this man myself.” Before I could protest, he corrected himself with a smile. “Rather, we must find this man ourselves.”
That decided, we called a waiter over and ordered dinner. There was nothing else to be done until morning.