The Case of the Woman at Margate

I was sitting alone over an early breakfast, drawn from my bed by the promise of a fine day. The summer lingered as though reluctant to give place to autumn, and I was torn between the rival attractions of Middlesex playing at Lords and a thoroughly idle day in Regents Park. My friend and colleague, Sherlock Holmes, was still abed, nursing his ill humour at the inordinate amount of political comment that monopolised the daily press,

“Confound it, Watson,” he had railed. “Five governments in little more than a year is no way to conduct the business of our great country. It reduces us to the level of a Latin republic floundering from one crisis to another.” He had scattered the offending papers with a petulant scowl.

“Politics! It makes small difference to the criminal classes which party is in power. Does a footpad or swindler care if we have a Conservative or Liberal administration? Does a murderer or burglar pause to reflect who leads the country? Of course not. Yet because our press is so preoccupied in influencing the minds of a fickle electorate, those parasites of society pursue their nefarious calling without the glare of publicity that is such a deterrent.”

Wisely I had held my peace and waited for his peevishness to abate. Notwithstanding his discontent, the year had been a busy and productive one for Holmes. His standing had never been higher, and in the five-and-a-half years our association, I had seen his reputation flower from that of an obscure consulting detective to become the most sought-after figure in the history of criminal investigation. His services were in demand from the highest in the land as well as from the official police, yet would he be just as willing to help the poorest and most abject citizen if the case offered stimulation and challenge to his restless mind.

I reached for the last piece of toast, pausing as my ears caught the sounds of an altercation from below, Mrs. Hudson’s indignant tones punctuated by those of a man. Soon the good lady’s firm tread approached our door and I opened it on her knock to find her flushed and angry.

“I’m sorry, Doctor. There is a gentleman – ” She gave the word a disparaging sound. “A gentleman who insists on speaking to Mr. Holmes and refuses to be put off.” She snorted. “Barely seven of the clock, indeed!”

I gnawed at my moustache. I knew my friend had no pressing cases in hand, hence his irritability. Perhaps this was what would divert him from his present lethargy.

“Who is he, Mrs. Hudson?”

She pursed her lips and handed me an engraved card.

“‘Mr. John Ruddy’,” I read. “‘East Kent Manager, Rural and Urban Insurance Company, Margate’.” I tapped it with my thumb and spoke ruefully to our landlady.

“Well, Mrs. Hudson, if he will not go, then for the sake of peace and quiet I suggest you bring him up.”

She sniffed and turned away, grumbling beneath her breath. Soon the importunate caller was shown in. He was a sallow-featured fellow, some forty years of age, thin and with lank black hair plastered damply across his narrow skull. But for his rounded shoulders he would have been as tall as Holmes, and his eyes burned feverishly as he fidgeted with the brim of the brown billy-cock hat held in nervous fingers.

Hardly was he in the room before he burst into impassioned speech.

“Mr. Holmes, you must help me or I am ruined!” he cried in a high-pitched voice. “Perhaps I am ruined anyway, but – ”

“Mr. Ruddy, I am not Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” I broke in. “I am Dr. Watson, Mr. Holmes’s colleague and confidant. Please calm yourself and be seated while I find out if he will consent to see you.”

He stared at me wildly and almost danced in his agitation. “He must hear me, Doctor! My whole career hangs by a thread!” He grasped my arm and I shook him off impatiently.

“Sit down, sir,” I said with some asperity. “‘Must’ is not a word to be used to Sherlock Holmes. I will speak to him, but he is a busy man.”

I gave our visitor a stern look, then knocked on my friend’s door.

His querulous voice bade me enter.

“What the deuce is going on, Watson?” he demanded. “I could find more peace in the monkey-house at the Zoo.”

“You have a client,” I said, nettled by his tone. “He insists that you alone can rescue him from whatever dilemma he finds himself in. He is quite unnerved.”

“At this ungodly hour? Send him away, there’s a good chap. Tell him to return at a more civilized time.” His eyes suddenly lit up. “No, wait. This may provide some small diversion. Ring for fresh coffee and entertain him until I am fit to appear.”

Turning back into the sitting room, I found John Ruddy pacing the carpet, his sallow skin flushed with emotion as he spun round to face me.

“You are a fortunate man, Mr. Ruddy,” I said, not waiting for his query. “Mr. Holmes will attend you shortly. Meanwhile I shall send for fresh coffee. No doubt you left – ” I looked again at his card. “ – Margate well before breakfast.”

“Indeed I did, Doctor. I slept but little last night and, deciding my only hope of succour lay with Mr. Holmes, I caught the milk train at the crack of dawn.”

“Then some toast to stay you.” I rang for Mrs. Hudson, and despite the man’s protests, he attacked the food voraciously when it arrived.

It was twenty minutes before Holmes appeared, his old purple dressing gown flapping around his lean shanks. Our caller looked up, hastily swallowing a mouthful of toast, but ere he could speak Holmes held up an admonitory hand, the force of his personality imposing itself at once.

“Wait, my dear sir,” he commanded. “I too have my needs.” He poured coffee and picked up the card from the table where I had laid it.

He looked at it carelessly, then with great deliberation began to fill a pipe from the dottles of the previous day that were drying on the mantelpiece. Not until his head was wreathed in a halo of pungent smoke did he speak.

“Well, Mr. John Ruddy from Margate, what is the purpose of this early intrusion? Be brief but explicit and tell me why the death of Mr. Elias Burdick should cause you such unrest.”

Our visitor’s eyes started from his head and his hands trembled. “How – how – do you know that, Mr. Holmes?” he stuttered in amazement, while I struggled to contain my own astonishment as Holmes turned a sardonic eye in my direction.

“Come, sir,” said my friend, “Dr. Watson and I read our newspapers, and when we see that on Monday a body was taken from the sea at Margate, and is identified by Mrs. Emily Burdick as that of her husband Elias we take note. Hard on that I receive a visit from the East Kent representative of an insurance company. Why, what could be plainer?”

Ruddy’s face cleared. “Of course, Mr. Holmes, it must be obvious,” he cried, and I saw the flicker of annoyance in Holmes’s eyes at this casual dismissal of his powers of deduction.

“Then pray proceed,” said the latter coldly. “Watson, yesterday’s Morning Post and Evening News, if you will be so good. Go on, sir. My time is valuable.”

His pipe gurgled as he laid back in his chair with hooded eyes while our client began to speak, Holmes’s calm demeanour having a steadying effect on the man.

“As you see from my card, Mr. Holmes, I manage the East Kent region for my employers. All my working life has been spent in the insurance business, from office boy to my present position, albeit with several different companies as opportunity offered me advancement. My present post I have occupied for some three years, and the company, although small and relatively new, is both progressive and efficient.”

“Yes, yes,” Holmes interrupted. “Please come to the point,”

“As you say, sir. Just over three weeks ago, I had a request through the post to provide life cover for this Elias Burdick, his wife to be the beneficiary. Imagine my astonishment when the sum involved was no less than six-thousand pounds, the largest single piece of business that had come my way. Most of our policies are small affairs, what we regard as burial funds, with premiums of but a few cappers weekly, but they add up, sir, they add up. I replied at once, enclosing the appropriate forms and pointing out that I would require medical confirmation of his good health. Within forty-eight hours I had the papers back, together with a doctor’s certificate of recent date and the first monthly premium of thirteen-pounds-and-ten.”

As Ruddy had been speaking, I had been busy with the newspapers and found the items that Holmes had tucked away in his memory. I marked them with a pencil and gave him a brief nod.

“One moment, Mr. Ruddy,” Holmes was saying. “From whence did this request emanate?”

Our client looked slightly sheepish. “From Ashford, but it was poste restante at the main post office in that town. Burdick explained that he was an actor with no fixed address, travelling wherever work was offered. I realise now that I should have been more cautious, but in my anxiety to secure the business, I was less so than usual.”

“Indeed you were,” murmured Holmes. “The certificate of health – who issued that?”

“I don’t know. The signature was indecipherable, as so many are. Begging your pardon, Dr. Watson,” he added hastily. “It was from rooms in Wigmore Street, though, which is a reputable address.”

“Quite,” said Holmes drily. “At least near enough to Wimpole and Harley Streets to inspire confidence. You have it with you?” Ruddy delved into a pocket and handed a paper to Holmes, who glanced at it and passed it to me. The signature was indeed unreadable, but something in the address disturbed me and I went to the bookshelf for the London street directory.

“By George, Holmes!” I cried. “This – ” but he silenced me with a finger to his lips and I subsided into my chair.

“Pray continue, Mr. Ruddy,” Holmes urged.

“On Sunday night, a pile of clothes was found on a deserted part of the beach. It was reported in the stop press of the Monday morning’s paper, but it was badly smudged and I took little heed of it until in the local evening paper I read of a man’s body being recovered from the rocks. Even then I had no more than a feeling of sympathy for a stranger who had been foolhardy to get out of his depth and had met his fate alone and unnoticed. However, on reading further, I was shocked to find that the pile of clothes found earlier had been identified by the contents of the pockets as belonging to Elias Burdick, an actor who had that day been reported missing from his lodgings. Moreover, it was being assumed that the body was his.”

“So in all probability it was your client,” mused Holmes, “You had no knowledge of his presence in Margate or the reason for it?”

“No. My only contact with him had been by post, and that not for three weeks since,” Ruddy took out a handkerchief and mopped his brow. “Worse was to come. Imagine my dismay when yesterday noon a policeman escorted a lady to my office. He introduced her as Mrs. Emily Burdick, who had lately been to the mortuary to identify the drowned man as her husband.”

“A prompt appearance indeed,” observed Holmes. “So you saw a huge claim looming up. But surely, my dear sir, that is one of the hazards of your profession, unwelcome as it might be from your point of view.”

“If that was but all! Oh, Mr. Holmes, it has placed me in the most ghastly predicament. Never in my twenty years in the insurance business have I done anything dishonest or indulged in sharp practice, and even now I have behaved with perfect probity.”

“Then what is your problem?” asked Holmes with some impatience.

“As I have said, this was the largest single policy I have ever been asked to issue, and in my anxiety to secure it I acted somewhat precipitately. It is a company rule that any exceptional circumstances should be referred to Head Office for approval. Nothing specific is laid down, it being left to local judgement, and I have a certain amount of discretion.”

“Ah, I begin to get your drift,” my colleague put in. “You conducted this matter on your own initiative and responsibility, and now you fear the wrath of your superiors.”

“Exactly. My career will be finished – in ruins.” The poor fellow sobbed and wrung his hands in anguish.”

“But surely you hardly expected your Head Office not to perceive this large transaction? Would you not be taking commission on it?”

“Indeed, and it would have appeared in my monthly report due this very weekend. Had there been no claim, I could expect at the most a mild reprimand for excess of zeal. I was dazzled by the thought of my own cleverness, but now – ”

“I appreciate your position, Mr. Ruddy, but what can I do?”

“I have misgivings as to the validity of the claim,” replied the other fiercely. “My whole instincts and experience tell me it is wrong, yet I fear to approach the Board without firm evidence. Why, it may even be regarded as collusion on my part to defraud them. It is an immense sum.”

“I see.” Holmes steepled his fingers and dropped his chin onto them. For a long time he remained motionless, lost in thought. Ruddy made as if to speak, but I silenced him with a shake of the head. At last Holmes looked up, and when I saw his eyes with the old familiar light, I knew he was intrigued.

“Let me expound, Mr. Ruddy,” he said. “Three weeks ago you agreed to insure the life of one Elias Burdick for the sum of six-thousand pounds, payable in the event of his death to his spouse, Emily Burdick. The business was conducted by post with no personal contact. Your client gave no fixed address, preferring to use the G.P.O. at Ashford as his postbox.”

Ruddy nodded and Holmes continued. “Last Sunday, Elias Burdick is fortuitously drowned on your very doorstep, and within thirty-six hours his widow is at your office to establish her claim. It does appear that a few inquiries would not come amiss.”

“Then you will help me, Mr. Holmes?” The man’s eagerness was pathetic.

“I shall seek the truth, no more and no less. Tell me, did the lady offer any explanation for her late husband’s presence in Margate?”

“She was very distraught, but I gathered he had come hoping for some part at a local theatre.”

“She had accompanied him?” asked Holmes with a frown.

“I think not. What few words we exchanged led me to believe that she had read the newspaper accounts and had followed. The constable gave me to understand she was taking a room at the very lodgings that he had occupied. A respectable boarding-house run by a Mrs. Ellis.”

“Most interesting,” said Holmes, rising to his feet. “Very well, Mr. Ruddy, I shall look into the matter. “Return to Margate by the first available train and carry on as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. Do not under any circumstances get in touch with Mrs. Burdick or allow her to speak to you.”

“But will you not come with me?” demanded Ruddy, his face falling.

“No one must know of my involvement in the matter at this stage, but rest assured that Dr. Watson and I will be on the spot later today.”

“You will not approach my Head Office? That would surely bring about my downfall.”

“Trust me, sir,” Holmes said sternly. “Only by doing so have you any hope of retrieving your position. I shall telegraph my time of arrival. Watson, be so good as to see Mr. Ruddy to the door.” When I returned it was to find Holmes on his knees, the newspapers scattered about him. He looked at me severely as I came in.

“I marked the relevant paragraphs. Have you found them?”

“I have, and also the one you chose to ignore.”

“I saw nothing else of importance,” I replied huffily.

“You saw but did not observe. Look, man, here.” His finger stabbed at a small item tucked away on the second page of Tuesday’s Morning Post.

“Read it, my friend.”

A few lines sufficed to report that a waiter from the Stanton Hotel, Margate, one George Monk, had been missing since Sunday afternoon. All his effects remained in his room and nothing had been stolen from the hotel.

“How does that concern us?” I asked. “A coincidence, nothing more.”

“I distrust coincidences, even while admitting them,” Holmes said pettishly. “Two men missing on the same day from the same town with no apparent connection between them is indeed coincidence. Now, my dear fellow, you were going to tell me that the Wigmore Street address is nonexistent.” I nodded and he reached out to take his book of cuttings from the shelf.

For a considerable time he leafed backwards through the pages, sometimes lingering over one page or another then moving on with a mutter of frustration. At last he gave a cry of triumph and scribbled on the back of an envelope before turning the pages more rapidly. He made one more note, then closed the book with a snap.

“The case proceeds and the sea air beckons,” he cried. “Watson, the Bradshaw!”

By eleven o’clock, our train had left behind the sulphurous fumes of London and we were looking out on the green fields of Kent, the hops coming to fruition on the vines and the conical oast houses waiting patiently to begin their labours. Holmes had despatched three telegrams from London Bridge, announcing that one was to John Ruddy, but remaining coyly mysterious regarding the others. We had the compartment to ourselves and, defying all my efforts at conversation, my companion stared fixedly out of the window. The amber stem of his brier was clamped firmly between his teeth, only being removed to be stuffed afresh with his noxious black shag.

At last I was constrained to lower the window, and the tang of salt in the air told us we were approaching the popular seaside resort that was our objective. The train clanked to a halt, the engine giving what sounded like a sigh of relief at having completed the journey. We made our way out of the station and Holmes raised a finger to the driver of a four-wheeler who, oblivious to the soft warm atmosphere, was muffled to the chin in layers of coats and comforters.

“The Stanton Hotel, cabbie, and take your time.” My friend clambered in beside me and made himself as comfortable as possible on the lumpy horse-hair cushions.

“You have pondered much,” I ventured to observe, nettled by his taciturnity. “Have you reached a conclusion?”

“Have you?” He turned his beaky nose towards me, “You have the same information as I, so what do you make of it?”

“Very little” I confessed. “It is plain that Mr. John Ruddy suspects or perhaps even hopes for some irregularity in the claim, and also that you support him, but on what grounds?”

“Were it only that I would be easier in my mind,” he said sombrely. “No, old friend, I fear we fish in far murkier waters, but I must have more facts. Facts, Watson, are crucial.”

“Is it not possible that Ruddy, with the well-known reluctance of the insurance world to disburse money, is grasping at straws? Added to which is his fear of the consequences of his unorthodox transaction?”

“That is his primary concern,” agreed Holmes. “That is indisputable. A policy holder dies soon after the first premium is paid and his widow and beneficiary is on the spot almost at once to lay her claim. That is enough to disturb any responsible agent. But consider, Watson, how did Ruddy describe her?”

I thought back. “He said very little of her except that she was distraught. Surely that is natural?”

“Natural, yes, but think, man, think! We have this lady straight from seeing her husband’s body on a mortuary slab making a bee-line for the honey-pot of the insurer’s representative,” He gave the rusty chuckle that served him for a laugh. “A neat turn of phrase, Watson. Mark it well.” His face sobered. “Does that strike you as the actions of a grieving widow?”

“I suppose not, unless there was little affection between them and she was playing the part expected of her.”

He bent forward and tapped me on the knee with the stem of his pipe.

“There you have it. Playing the part – but what part?”

Before I could digest this, the cab drew up before an unpretentious but pleasant hotel and we alighted to climb the three wide steps to the entrance. A young woman presided at the reception desk, and on our approach she looked up with an engaging smile.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” she said. “You require rooms?”

“No, miss.” As ever Holmes remained impervious to feminine charms and his face was stern. “I wish to see the manager at once.” His tone had undergone a subtle change, no more than a slight coarsening of accent, but I knew it foretold a slipping into one of those parts which he so easily assumed.

“I’ll see if Mr. Hardy is free, sir,” said the young lady. “Who shall I say wishes to see him?”

Holmes leaned forward confidentially and lowered his voice. “I am Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard, but the name is not to be bandied about. Please inform Mr. Hardy. Our business is urgent.”

The young lady’s eyes widened, but she hurried away without a word.

“Holmes!” I hissed in his ear. “You go too far. What if he asks for identification?”

He patted his pocket and his lips twitched mischievously. “Be easy. I am well prepared. Just back me up like a good fellow.”

The young lady was back in a flash. “This way, sir,” she said in an awe-struck voice.

My companion turned on the charming smile of which he was capable when it served his ends, placing a finger to his lips in a conspiratorial fashion. We found ourselves in a small office with a rotund grey-haired man rising to greet us from behind a desk.

“James Hardy, Inspector. I trust nothing is amiss?” His chubby face was creased into an ingratiating smile and a pink tongue moistened his red lips.

“Nothing to cause you worry, sir, and I’d take it kindly if you will forget that we are police officers. We are here incognito on an extremely delicate business in which you may assist us.” The story fell easily from Holmes’s lips as he fixed the manager with a penetrating look.

“Of course, gentlemen. Please be seated and tell me how I may help.”

Holmes folded his long frame into a chair and brusquely signed for me to sit beside him. From his pocket he took a notebook which he studied for a while. I could see he had it open at a blank page, but his performance was impressive.

He looked up at last. “I understand, Mr. Hardy, that last Monday you reported that one of your waiters, a George Monk, was missing.”

“That is correct, Insp – er – ” Hardy paused uncertainly.

“Mr. Smith will serve, and my colleague is Mr. Brown.” Holmes laid a finger alongside his nose, a vulgar gesture, but well in the character of Lestrade whose name he had so lightly taken. “Tell me, sir, when did this man’s absence first come to your attention?”

“It was tea-time on Sunday. He had served lunch as usual, and then from two until four he was free. It was his habit, if the weather was clement, to take a stroll on the sea front each afternoon. It is but five minutes gentle walking from here.”

“And on Sunday he followed his normal practice?”

“To the best of my knowledge,” the manager replied. “Miss Hillman is positive that he went out at twenty minutes after two o’clock. She spoke to him as he passed her on the back stairs.”

“Miss Hillman is the young lady at the desk? How was he dressed?”

“I questioned her and she told me he was wearing a blazer, flannels, and carrying a straw hat. Quite the young blade. But surely, Mr. Smith, all this is known to the local police from the statement I made to Sergeant Lane on Monday?”

“That’s as may be, sir,” said Holmes gruffly. “This is a far deeper matter that I am pursuing. Be so good as to answer my questions without wasting time.” He wrote something in his notebook. “So twenty-past-two is the last known sighting of him by your staff?”

“Exactly.” Hardy frowned at being thus admonished. “When he failed to appear at tea-time, I was at first most angry, assuming he had absented himself wilfully, but when he did not turn up at dinner I became rather more worried.” The manager picked up a pen and rolled it in the palms of his hands. “I had gone to his room at quarter-past-four, but it told me nothing. His suit was on a hanger ready to be donned, and there was no hint that he had not expected to return. Several times during the evening I looked in, but nothing had changed.”

“So when he remained absent on Monday you went to the police. You have had no word from them?”

“Sergeant Lane came to interview us all – most discreetly, I may add – but I have heard nothing since.”

“Was Monk a satisfactory employee?” asked Holmes.

“He would not have remained otherwise. He was my only resident waiter, all the others being local men who come in daily.”

“What was his background?”

Hardy smiled faintly. “Rather unusual for a waiter. He had spent some years at sea as a steward on steamers to the East, but he had wearied of the life and, to use his own phrase, swallowed the anchor. I had one occasion to reprimand him when he first came, but he took it in good part. He wore a ring in his left ear, a common practice among seafaring men, but most improper in an hotel of this class.”

“Of course,” murmured Holmes. “Now, sir, first a word with Miss Hillman and then I shall want to see the man’s room. Will you fetch the young lady, please?”

When the latter came in, Holmes gave her his chair and stood looking down at her. She sat with neatly folded hands, her clear grey eyes looking out from a frank open countenance that in other circumstances would have been ready for laughter.

“Now, Miss Hillman, listen carefully,” Holmes began. “My name is Smith, and this other gentleman is Mr. Brown.” A small wrinkle of perplexity passed across her smooth brow as my friend continued. “You will forget any other name you may have heard, Miss, for I am here on more important matters than you can conceive. No word of this visit must pass beyond these four walls. Do I make myself clear?”

She nodded gravely. “I am not a simpleton, Mr. Smith. Neither am I a chatterbox. What do you want of me?”

“I understand you were the last person at this hotel to see Mr. George Monk before he vanished. That is correct?”

“I believe so. I had been to the kitchen for a cup of tea, leaving the porter at the desk, when Mr. Monk came down the service stairs on his way out. It was precisely twenty past two when I left the kitchen.”

“You spoke?”

“Briefly. He said ‘Good afternoon, Miss Charlotte,’ that being my name, and I replied, ‘Good afternoon, George. Mind you keep out of the sun’ It was a very hot day,” she added. “He went out, never to return.”

“You were on good terms?” asked Holmes.

“Oh, yes. He was a widely travelled man and told marvellous stories of his times when we were together in foreign parts.”

“Close friends, in fact?”

Miss Hillman blushed prettily. “On friendly terms. No more than that, Mr. Smith.”

“Thank you, miss, that is all. Remember, be circumspect.” He waited for the door to close on her then turned to the manager. “Now, sir, the missing man’s room.”

We were conducted to a small room under the eaves, the door of which Hardy unlocked and threw open. When he made to enter, Holmes put out an arm to bar his way and stood surveying the cramped quarters from the threshold.

“Nothing has been removed?” he asked.

“Nothing. Sergeant Lane made a thorough search but took nothing.”

Holmes sighed. “Then I doubt if there is much left for us. The trail is cold, but we may find something. Come, Brown, and do you, Mr. Hardy, remain here.”

We went in and Holmes allowed his eyes to wander over the room, touching nothing. Then turned to me with a snort.

“I think we will learn more of Sergeant Lane than of George Monk,” he said in a low voice. He opened the cupboard that served as a wardrobe and went through the pockets of the few clothes hanging therein, producing only a German silver pencil case and a soiled handkerchief. He dropped to his knees to examine the half-dozen pairs of boots and shoes in the bottom before looking over his shoulder at the manager who hovered uncertainly in the doorway.

“Mr. Monk was not a small man, judging by his apparel, yet his feet were not large.”

“Indeed not,” Hardy agreed. “It was a conceit of his that a size six boot left ample room to wear two pairs of socks in the worst weather.”

Holmes nodded absently and, still on his knees, let his eyes travel over the floor. Suddenly, like a rabbit darting into its burrow, he dived full length beneath the bed to came out with a small object in the palm of his hand. His eyes twinkled at me as he rose to his feet and dusted the knees of his trousers.

“So the good sergeant did leave us something,” he murmured. “Tell me, Mr. Hardy, could this be the ear-ring worn by your man?” He held out his hand and the light caught a glimmer of silver. The roly-poly manager shrugged. “Possibly, but I could not take an oath on it. All I can say it is similar.”

“But distinctive,” said Holmes. “Come, there is no more to be had here. I need not repeat, Mr. James Hardy, I require your discretion.”

“In my profession one learns discretion very early,” Hardy said pompously. “My lips are sealed.” He followed us to the hotel entrance and watched us descend to the street and vanish from his sight.

“Well,” I asked, “what now?

“I fear we have much to do and luncheon must be a casualty to our industry. The police station is our next objective. I believe I observed it on our journey from the station.”

Five minutes later we walked into the bastion of Margate’s law and order and found a uniformed inspector talking to a young and intelligent looking sergeant, both looked up as we entered and the senior man turned away towards an inner sanctum.

“A moment, Inspector” Holmes said authoritatively. “A word with you, please.”

“Cannot the sergeant deal with it, sir?” The inspector frowned. “I am a very busy man.”

“Not too busy to speak to me, I hope.” My companion took a card from his pocket to hand to the inspector, at the same time placing a finger to his lips.

The other glanced at the card then raised his eyes and spoke with alacrity. “Of course I will be pleased to speak to you, sir. Nothing will give me greater pleasure. This way, if you will. Lane, I am not to be disturbed.” This last to the sergeant who nodded impassively.

No sooner had his door closed on us than he stretched out his hand.

“My dear Mr. Holmes, this is indeed an honour and a delight. Inspector Griffin, my old colleague at Sevenoaks, has spoken most warmly of you. Please sit, gentlemen, and tell me how I may assist you. My name is Purdew.”

“First I must make a confession,” Holmes began when we were seated. “I am guilty of posing as a police officer and of using the name of Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard in order to obtain information quickly.”

Purdew’s eyes twinkled. “I’ll make a bargain with you, Mr. Holmes: If you promise to tell no one, neither shall I. Now, what brings you to Margate?”

“Two crimes which may be connected.” The inspector’s look invited my friend to go on, which he did. “The disappearance of George Monk from the Stanton Hotel and the alleged drowning of Elias Burdick.”

“‘Alleged drowning’?” Purdew looked blank. “With respect, Mr. Holmes, I see no room for doubt. The body was identified by his widow and our surgeon certified drowning as the cause of death. As for Monk, we think it probable that he has returned to his old calling of ship’s steward.”

“Inspector, are you aware that the Rural and Urban Insurance Company is liable for a very large sum in respect of Burdick’s death?”

“I knew them to be involved, but not to what extent. A constable escorted Mrs. Burdick from the mortuary to the agent’s office. I know Mr. Ruddy well.”

“Mr. Ruddy is not a happy man, Mr. Purdew. He has doubts about the validity of the claim.”

“As these people so often have,” replied the inspector. “It is in their nature.”

“I believe he has good cause in this instance,” said Holmes, and went on to relate the woeful tale told us by the unhappy man.

“It seems Mr. Ruddy acted somewhat irresponsibly and is now anxious to retrieve his position.” Purdew plucked at his moustache. “However, Mr. Holmes, I am at your disposal. What do you want of me?”

“What happened to the body of the drowned man?”

“Why, it is still at the mortuary pending Mrs. Burdick’s instructions.”

“Excellent!” Holmes clapped his hands. “May I inspect it?”

“As you wish. I should like to accompany you if I may.” On receiving a nod, the inspector reached for his cap and we followed him out into the street, he pausing for a brief word to the sergeant as we passed.

“Rather young to be a sergeant, is he not?” Holmes remarked casually.

“A bright and ambitious young man,” Purdew agreed. “Would that I could recruit more like him, but on the pittance a constable is paid, it is hard to do so.” He shrugged and lengthened his stride. “The mortuary is but two streets away.”

“Sergeant Lane investigated the business at the Stanton Hotel,” said Holmes. “What were his views?”

“We agreed that it seemed an impulsive action on Monk’s part,” said the inspector thoughtfully. “However, if he suddenly made up his mind to return to sea, there was little we could do.”

“And you think that is what happened?”

“In the absence of more evidence it seems likely.”

“Then perhaps we shall find more evidence,” Holmes replied, but refused to enlarge on his remarks.

I congratulated myself on the fact that I was following my friend’s reasoning thus far, and permitted myself a little smile. So often had I been dragged along at his coat-tails and left in the dark by his incisive brain that to find myself keeping abreast of his thoughts for once afforded me no small satisfaction. He must have divined my feelings, for as we reached the doors of the gloomy building he gave me one of his thin smiles while Inspector Purdew applied himself vigorously to the bell.

The wicket-gate was opened after an interval by a shirt-sleeved man who wore a leather apron and carried an enamel mug of tea. He was of indeterminate age and had a suitably lugubrious expression on his battered features.

“Not another customer, Guv’nor?” he said complainingly.

“Not this time, Charlie. We want another look at the one brought in on Monday.”

“Number seventeen.” Charlie gave a jerk of the head, “This way, if you please.” He led the way through the gloomy precincts and into a large cavern-like room where three or four shrouded bundles lay on slabs ranged against the wall. “There he is. Number seventeen.”

At a murmured word from Holmes the inspector dismissed the attendant, leaving us looking down at the pathetic heap before us.

“Are you squeamish, Purdew?” asked Holmes, one hand on the corner of the covering sheet.

“I’ve seen enough in my time to be inured,” said the other.

“This is your province, Watson, so I’ll not ask you.” He drew the sheet back to reveal a face battered beyond all recognition, at which he whistled softly.

“And this is the body identified by Mrs. Burdick as that of her husband? On what grounds, pray?”

“She said she would know him anywhere, but she pointed out the silver ring on his left hand. See, it is embedded in the swollen flesh.” The inspector pulled the sheet down and pointed.

Holmes produced his magnifying glass and peered closely at the ring, mumbling under his breath the while. Presently he turned his attention to the rest of the piteous remains, first turning the head from side to side then touching and probing the torso as he would a joint of meat.

His eyes narrowed in satisfaction when he finally threw the sheet to the floor and stood back.

“There is no doubt as to the cause of death, Mr. Purdew?”

“Our surgeon, Dr. Stubbs, has no doubt,” replied the inspector, “and he is a very competent doctor.”

“Watson? Would you agree?”

“If Dr. Stubbs made a thorough examination, and I see by the incisions that he did, I would not dream of contradicting him,” I said stiffly,

My friend gave and ironic smile at my defence of a professional colleague before turning back to the policeman. “The clothing recovered from the beach,” he queried. “Where is it?”

“Back at the station in the property store. It will be returned to the widow after tomorrow’s inquest.”

“Then we must make haste. Come.” Leaving the uncovered corpse as it was, he made his way out into the street, his long legs striding out as we kept pace with him as best we could. “I must see that clothing,” he flung over his shoulder to the perspiring Inspector Purdew as we entered the station. “Have it brought in at once, please.”

His tone was peremptory and Purdew looked at me in bewilderment, but I could only shrug and he gave the necessary orders to Sergeant Lane before leading us into his office. When the sergeant appeared laden with a linen sack, he hesitated nervously and looked uncomfortably at his superior.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said in a reverential voice, “but is one of these gentlemen Mr. Sherlock Holmes”

“What the deuce is it to you, Lane?” snapped the inspector. “Do not be impertinent.”

Holmes stepped forward. “I’m sorry, Mr. Purdew,” he said wryly. “I forgot to tell you I asked for two telegrams to be addressed to me here. It was most discourteous of me. They have arrived, Sergeant Lane?”

“Five minutes since, sir. I thought it might be a practical joke, but I wanted to be sure. Here, sir.”

He pulled them from his top pocket and Holmes snatched them from his hand, tearing them open feverishly and giving a small cry as he read the contents. “I am right, Watson, I am right.” He smiled grimly and tucked the telegrams away before turning his attention to the sack of clothing.

Tipping the contents on to the floor, he crouched down to paw through them, for all the world like a rag-picker at an East End street market.

The inspector looked at me with raised eyebrows and I gave him what I hoped was a knowing smile before giving my attention to Holmes, who was wrapped in concentration.

“Jacket, trousers – nothing in the pockets – linen, socks, cap.” He stood up, still talking to himself. “As I expected, no boots or shoes. Everything is here, Inspector?”

“Everything.” Before more could be said, there was a knock on the door and at a sign from Purdew the sergeant answered it. He exchanged few words then brought in a constable who had what appeared to be a bundle of dirty rags under his arm.

“I think you should see this, sir,” Lane said to the inspector. “Denton found these stuffed down a rabbit-hole by the big copse. Show the gentlemen, Denton.”

The embarrassed constable shook out the bundle to reveal a striped blazer, once-white flannels, and various other items of men’s apparel, including a pair of tennis-shoes upon which Holmes pounced avidly.

“Tell us, Denton,” the inspector was saying. “How did you come to find these?”

The constable shifted his feet and looked rigidly ahead. “Sir, at one-fifty p.m. I was patrolling – ”

“Yes, yes,” Holmes interrupted impatiently. “You are not giving evidence in court, man. Tell us a quickly as possible.”

“Do as the gentleman says, Denton,” added Purdew.

“Well, sir, I’d been round the copse and was going back to make my point with Sergeant Hoskins when I saw this flapping from a rabbit-hole.”

He indicated the blazer. “I dragged it out and found the rest of the stuff farther in. Sergeant Hoskins told me to bring it back here straight away.”

“This is all there was?” asked Holmes keenly,

“All I could see and reach, sir.”

Holmes and the inspector exchanged glances and, at a nod from the former, Purdew dismissed the constable with a brief word of commendation.

Holmes swung round sharply on Sergeant Lane, who was exhibiting signs of wanting to speak. “Come along, Lane, out with it,” he urged.

“I am correct in thinking that these clothes belong to the missing waiter, sir?” Holmes remained silent and the sergeant continued. “If so, then should there not also be a straw hat?”

“Perhaps it is still in the burrow. A thorough search will show us.”

“Organize it, Lane,” said Inspector Purdew. He waited until the man had left, then turned a worried look on Holmes. “It looks as if we must look for another body. Two men drowned within hours of each other!”

“Another body, Inspector? Whose, pray?”

“Why, George Monk’s, surely. Do we not agree that these are his clothes?”

“Most certainly. His name is on the laundry label inside the jacket, but I do not think a man taking an afternoon bathe would stuff a pair of pristine white flannels into a rabbit-hole, do you?”

The inspector rubbed his chin thoughtfully, then his face brightened. “Then he was not drowned. He changed into more appropriate attire before making his way to a port where he would find a ship.”

“Mr. Purdew,” Holmes said patiently, “we know that when Monk left the hotel he was carrying nothing, else the lady clerk would have remarked upon it to your sergeant or myself.”

“Then he purchased them in town and changed in the copse?”

My friend turned to me. “What do you say to that, Watson?”

I shook my head. As much as I deplored this baiting of the inspector who had received us in such a fine spirit, I was unable to keep a note of smugness from my voice. “I think we were looking at the mortal remains of George Monk not half-an-hour since,” I answered, and Holmes gave a delighted chuckle.

“Capital, Watson. You learn apace.” He turned to the inspector, who had dropped into his chair wearing a thunderstruck expression.

“Are you saying, Mr. Holmes, that the body in the mortuary is not that of Elias Burdick, but that of George Monk?”

“Exactly.” Holmes became apologetic. “Forgive me, Inspector. I had no intention of keeping you in the dark, but I like to verify facts before committing myself.”

“Then you suspected it from the first? Why?”

Holmes seated himself opposite Purdew and began to explain. “I learned from Monk’s employer that when he first came to Margate, he had cause to reprimand him for wearing an ear-ring, as is the habit of many sea-going men. Sergeant Lane was not told of this? No, but I found this under the bed in Monk’s room.” He produced the small silver object from his pocket.

“I think Watson will confirm its origin.”

“Benares work,” I said. “I saw much of it when I passed through India on my way to Afghanistan.”

“We were told that Monk had extremely small feet of which he was somewhat vain,” continued Holmes. “The corpse we saw had such small feet and his ear was pierced to accommodate an ear-ring.” Holmes leant forward and tapped the table. “But, mark this, Inspector – the ring so deeply embedded in his finger was of Benares silver-work also.”

“You make a case,” said Purdew, “but how do you account for the fact that Mrs. Burdick identified the ring as her husband’s?”

“Remember the face was so disfigured that it was unrecognisable. The ring was probably too tight to be removed even before the body was swollen in death, so needing to make a positive declaration, she seized on the ring.” Holmes sat back complacently and eyed the inspector.

“I begin to understand,” said the latter. “You believe that Burdick disposed of Monk with the intention of letting his wife claim the insurance money by identifying the body as that of her husband.” His face went red with anger and jumped to his feet. “What a pair of monsters! We must take her and force her to reveal her husband’s whereabouts.”

“All in good time,” said Holmes urbanely. “Inspector Purdew, you have been very patient with me thus far. Will you trust me farther?”

The policeman hesitated briefly before sitting down again. “What do you want of me, Mr. Holmes? I trust you implicitly.”

“Then listen carefully. This is what you must do.” Holmes began to speak tersely, receiving an occasional nod of understanding from the inspector. “Be sure of this, Mr. Purdew,” he concluded, “I have no wish for my name to come into this matter, and any credit accruing is yours alone.”

“It shall be as you say,” replied the gratified inspector. “What will you do meanwhile?”

“I shall attend Mr. John Ruddy, who must surely be impatient to hear of my progress. Then we shall proceed to Mrs. Ellis’s boarding establishment, where I understand the so-called widow is lodged. Remember, Inspector, be prompt, but do nothing until you have my signal, or all may be lost.”

He stood up. “Mr. Ruddy’s office is close?

“But five minutes’ walk. Turn left out of the station. The third turning on the left is Priory Road, and his office is halfway up on the right above an empty shop. You will see his plate at the side door.”

When five minutes later we came into the office to find our client impatient and anxious. He sprang up from his desk to grasp my colleague eagerly by the sleeve.

“Mr. Holmes!” he gasped. “At last! What news have you for me?”

Holmes shook himself free. “Compose yourself, sir,” he said crisply. “I can guarantee your six-thousand pounds is safe. What account you will give your superiors of your actions is for you to determine, but I’m sure a little judicious wording will ease your path. At the same time, I hope this will serve as a lesson to you.”

“Indeed it will, Mr. Holmes,” Ruddy said fervently. “My ambitions outran my judgement, but I know better now. But what happens next?”

“We have the final act to play out – but meanwhile there is the matter of my fee.”

“Ask what you will and I will gladly double it,” cried Ruddy.

“That is unnecessary,” replied my friend coldly. “My charges are fixed and not open to discussion. However, if you will write a cheque now you may hand it to me in exactly one hour’s time when you are relieved of your troubles.” He named a sum which was accepted without demur. “Now we pay a call on Mrs. Emily Burdick, to whom you present me as a financial secretary to your company.” Again his impish humour showed through as it so often did when we neared the end of a case. “Mr. Gregson is a capital name for me, I think. Mr. Ruddy. Whatever you do, say nothing to alert the lady to the fact that you are anything but the sympathetic agent of the insurance company. Can you play the part?”

“Mr. Holmes, I could play Hamlet himself with what is at stake!”

“I hope so. Watson, you look put out.”

“Is there no part for me in what you term ‘the final act’?” I asked.

My friend laughed and laid an affectionate arm across my shoulders.

“My dear fellow, where would I be without you? Of course you have your part, but more of that later. Let us proceed.”

Our objective was a neat villa a few hundred yards from the sea-front. A card in the window proclaimed vacancies, and the door was opened by a plump jolly-looking woman who smiled brightly at us.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” she said. “You require rooms?”

“I’m afraid not, Madam,” Ruddy replied in solemn tones. “You are Mrs. Ellis?” She nodded. “I am Mr. Ruddy, and I believe I am expected by Mrs. Burdick.

Her face took on an expression of sympathy. “Oh, the poor woman! How I feel for her in her grief. Come in, gentlemen, please.”

We were ushered into a comfortably furnished parlour and invited to sit down. Mrs. Ellis stood in the doorway, her fingers twisting the rings she wore on both hands.

“A moment, please.” Holmes took immediate charge. “I am an associate of Mr. Ruddy’s. Sit for a moment and tell us about Mr. and Mrs. Burdick.”

“There’s not much to tell.” She took a chair and continued to play with her rings. “Mr. Burdick came to me before lunch on Sunday asking for a room. He told me he was an actor from London hoping for a few weeks work at a local theatre before the season ended.”

“Did he say which?” asked Holmes.

“No, I had very little speech with him. Within an hour of his arrival he went out, to get the lie of the town, he said, and told me he would be in for tea. That was the last I saw of him.”

“He went out empty-handed?”

“He carried a Gladstone bag,” She sniffed and dabbed at her nose with a wisp of handkerchief. “He had not returned by eleven o’clock, which is when I start locking up, and by midnight I thought he had fallen in with friends and was sleeping elsewhere. It happens with actors,”

“You went to bed?” Holmes encouraged her. “Go on, please.”

Mrs. Ellis nodded unhappily. “I never dreamt anything was amiss. How could I? Well, Monday came and he hadn’t come back, so I went to his room. I found a suit and pair of boots in the wardrobe and his razor on the wash-stand. Then I got worried and went to the police.”

“Where you were told that Elias Burdick’s clothes had been found on the beach,” Holmes finished for her.

“Not only that,” she cried dramatically. “Even whilst I was at the station, it was reported that a body had been taken from the sea and was assumed to be that of my lodger. They wanted me to look at it, but as I told them, I’d hardly seen the man and they could do without my help.”

She shuddered. “What would I want with corpses I hardly knew?”

“You were well spared,” agreed Holmes. “And Mrs. Burdick?”

“That was Tuesday. All of a twitter, I was, and this lady came to the door with a policeman who said she was Mrs. Burdick and she wanted her husband’s old room. Not a word had she to say for herself, she was so upset, and I didn’t have the heart to refuse her. I took her up, and over a cup of tea the policeman told me she’d come straight from identifying her husband at the mortuary.”

Holmes pinched his long nose thoughtfully. “Tell me, Mrs. Ellis, how was the lady dressed?”

“All in black, head to toe just like a widow would be, and so heavily veiled that I marvelled she could see where she was going, Within five minutes she was down again, asking the policeman to take her to Mr. Ruddy’s office.” Mrs. Ellis lowered her voice. “Do you know, since she came back I’ve not seen hide nor hair of her. Stricken with grief, she is, and takes all her meals in her room. I just knock on her door and leaves the tray on the landing table. Number three, it is. I must say,” she added, “her appetite hasn’t suffered at all.”

“Grief takes on different forms,” Holmes observed sententiously, “Now, Madam, be good enough to inform the lady that Mr. Ruddy is here to do business with her. Say no more than that, you understand?” He eyed her sternly and with a nervous nod she left.

“Remember your part, Mr. Ruddy,” said Holmes in a low voice. “Watson, I shall leave the door open that you may see from a suitable vantage point but not be seen. Be on your guard, old chap.” He went to the window and gave a twitch of the curtain as the landlady returned,

“I’ll take you up, gentlemen,” she said, but Holmes shook his head,

“No, Mrs. Ellis, you will remain here. Have you any other guests in the house? No? Good, then you will lock yourself in this room and not come out until I or my other colleague tell you to.” He inclined his head towards me. “It is for your own safety.”

Such was the force of his personality that she nodded meekly and we heard the key turn as soon as we were in the hallway. Holmes went to the front door and quietly slipped the catch. Then we made our way silently up the narrow stairs.

We found ourselves in a poorly lit passage with several doors on either side. Number three was at the end, the door set at an angle, and at a sign from Holmes, I took up a position in the gloom where I could command a view of the room once the door was opened. Ruddy knocked on the door and a muffled voice from within bade him enter, which he did with Holmes hard on his heels.

I could see clearly into the room where a veiled figure sat in an upright chair placed with its back to the only window. As Holmes stepped over the threshold, I saw him check his stride for the merest fraction of a second, then continue.

“My dear Mrs. Burdick,” said Ruddy, his voice oozing sympathy. “This is a sad occasion indeed. May I present Mr. Gregson, our head cashier?”

“Very sad,” said Holmes evenly. “However, your husband’s forethought and prudence must provide some small consolation.” There was no reply and Holmes advanced farther into the room. “Do you not find the atmosphere somewhat close?” he went on, and not waiting for an answer, he stepped swiftly past the woman and threw the sash open to its fullest extent.

A strong breeze from the window rushed through the room and the woman turned her head in alarm. The draught took her veils and she frantically pulled them back over her face as Holmes slammed the window down. His long legs took him back to face her, his eyes blazing triumphantly.

“The game is up, Elias Burdick!” he cried. “Will you come quietly?”

With an unladylike oath the figure leapt from the chair, taking Holmes off balance and cannoning him into to Ruddy, who stood paralysed.

“Watson!” shouted my friend. “Seize him!”

I bounded forward and received a violent blow on the shoulder, but I grappled with the black-clad figure, realising at once that this was no woman who fought so desperately. I got in a telling punch to the ribs before a pair of sinewy hands took me round the throat and slammed me against the wall, driving the breath from my body. My assailant dived for the stairs, but hampered by the long dress was not quick enough to evade my clutching fingers which took hold of the streaming veil. It checked him for an instant then Holmes was on him and I was left gasping with the veils in my hand, together with a long black wig.

“Stout work, Watson,” panted Holmes, applying a vicious arm-lock to his captive and receiving a stream of invective in return. He took a whistle from his pocket to blow a shrill blast, and within seconds Inspector Purdew pounded up the stairs with Sergeant Lane and a constable at his heels.

Not wasting time on questions, Purdew clapped a pair of handcuffs on the writhing man and left the sergeant and constable holding him in a rough grip.

“Well done, Inspector.” Holmes straightened his coat. “Meet Elias Burdick, the murderer of George Monk. Also known as Luke Henry and Josiah Larkin, under which names he committed similar crimes. There are bodies buried under those names in Essex and Hampshire, but he can only hang once, unfortunately.”

The prisoner continued to struggle violently until a tap from the sergeant’s truncheon persuaded him of the futility of resistance, and at a signal from Purdew he was hustled downstairs to the waiting van.

“Is there anything more I should know, Mr. Holmes?” asked the inspector.

“I think not. You have a grasp of the situation that would make your London counterparts blush with shame.” He thrust out his hand. “Goodbye, sir. It has been a delight to work with you.”

After fulsome thanks, Inspector Purdew departed with his prisoner, leaving Ruddy to come forward to express his gratitude in more tangible form.

“I do not know how you did it, Mr. Holmes,” he said wonderingly. “I can never thank you enough.”

“I have my methods,” smiled Holmes as he folded the slip of paper into his pocket book. “Watson, my dear fellow, are you injured? I should have inquired sooner.”

“There is nothing wrong with me that a belated lunch will not cure,” I complained. “Do you realise we have had nothing since breakfast? Also we still have Mrs. Ellis locked in her parlour.”

“So we have. Good Lord, I had quite forgotten. The poor lady must be frantic.”

In the event, the good lady was reasonably composed, and a few judicious words giving a bare outline of events was sufficient to soothe her ruffled feelings.

“You will read of it in the papers, and Inspector Purdew will want a statement from you,” ended Holmes. “Meanwhile, speak to no one of it. Now, Watson, I believe you mentioned lunch.” An hour-and-a-half later we were on our way back to London. With my notebook open, I was sketching in the affair with it still fresh in my memory, and I paused to chew my pencil when I caught my friend’s eye.

“Still puzzled?” he asked with one of his impish smiles. “Why, you were with me every step of the way.”

“I thought so, but I must confess I became somewhat confused towards the end.” I tapped my notebook. “We knew that the body in the mortuary was that of George Monk, and it was meant to be taken for Burdick. Also it was reasonable to assume that Burdick had murdered that poor fellow in order to claim the insurance money.”

“Very good, old chap. Go on.”

“That is where I lose the thread,” I said. “I expected to find the villain’s wife there as his accomplice. Where is she?”

“There is no wife, and there never was.” He pulled out his pipe and began to fill it.

“Ah, those telegrams!” I exclaimed. “You kept me in the dark.”

“Not really. The telegrams were mere confirmation of similar cases I found in my commonplace book.”

“Then how the deuce did you know that the supposed widow was Burdick in woman’s guise?”

Holmes applied a vesta to the tobacco and surveyed me through a blue haze. He turned to look out of the window, and at first I thought he wasn’t going to answer me. He sucked at his pipe and for a full minute he remained stubbornly silent. Then he turned back to me with a wry smile.

“Confound you, Watson,” he said pettishly. “You have a facility for asking the most awkward questions. The whole truth of the matter is that I didn’t know that until the very last minute!”

“What!” My pencil fell from my fingers to roll unheeded on to the floor. “Are you telling me – ”

“Yes, Watson. Right up to the moment I stepped into that room, I fully expected to find Burdick’s female accomplice.”

“Then what changed your opinion?”

“You will recall that the supposed Mrs. Burdick was seated with her back to the window with her face heavily veiled and in shadow. As I went in, I saw a pair of boots peeping out from below the dress and to me they seemed somewhat over-large for a lady. There are some unfortunate women so endowed but it set me off on a new train of thought. You saw me open the window?”

“Yes, and caused a most infernal draught.”

“Precisely my intention. The breeze disturbed the veils swathing the woman’s head and in that fraction of a second I saw the nose.”

“The nose!” I echoed. “Surely, Holmes, a nose is a nose, is it not?”

“Oh, yes.” He gave me a thin smile. “You, my dear fellow, are more familiar with the whims and caprices of the fair sex, but even I am aware that no lady, whatever her other pre-occupations, would neglect to powder her nose to receive visitors, although she would remain veiled. That nose, Watson, was as shiny as a new sovereign, and at that moment the whole matter became clear.”

I recovered my pencil from beneath the seat and directed a quizzical look at my companion, “So you admit to a certain amount of luck at the end?”

“I admit nothing of the sort,” he said testily. “It was observation and deduction that brought the business to a satisfactory conclusion, and will hang Burdick under one name or another. Now let me relax for the remainder of the journey. I fear Lestrade will be at our door this evening. He has quite lost the scent in the matter of the vanishing shop at Highgate.”

“You owe the poor fellow something for the use of his name,” I said drily, but he closed his eyes and uttered not another word until we came to London Bridge.