The Crown of Light

It was a close and humid day in the August of 1896. Holmes and I were returning on foot from an expedition to Bradley’s the tobacconist where I had replenished my supply of Arcadia mixture and Holmes had obtained a fresh stock of the abominable black shag whose fumes he inflicted on all and sundry. We were in no hurry, the oppressive atmosphere making the slightest exertion a labour, and as we rounded the corner into Baker Street a cab was seen to be standing before our door.

“I say,” I noted, “we appear to have a visitor.”

He paused to look at me sardonically. “An excellent deduction, Watson, and worthy of further exposition,”

“Really,” I said acidly, “I fail to see what other inferences are to be drawn from the mere fact of a hansom waiting before our chambers. Perhaps you will be good enough to enlighten me.”

He moved on slowly and I hastened to catch up with him. “Well, I would suggest that it has been there more than a few minutes. The horse has provided its own evidence of that, and since the beast is munching contentedly on its nosebag and the jarvey isn’t in view, it seems that the caller is the cabbie himself, either on his own behalf or as a messenger for a third party.”

“Of course, but that is so obvious that it scarcely warrants comment.”

“Then, my dear fellow, it must be equally obvious that the cab is there, so why mention it if you aren’t prepared to take the matter to the end?”

I knew from experience that when my friend was in a disputatious mood there was nothing to be gained by verbal fencing, so biting my tongue, I preceded him to our door to use my key. On our entering the hall, a man who could only be the cab driver sprang from the wooden chair on which he was sitting and looked from one to the other of us,

“Mr. ‘Olmes – Mr. Sherlock ‘Olmes?” he asked eagerly.

Holmes stepped forward. “I am he, and this is my colleague. Dr. Watson. Pray tell me in what way I may be of assistance to you.”

“I need ‘elp, Mr. ‘Olmes, desperate ‘elp, and I can’t think of no one else to turn to! I took the liberty of coming ‘ere, ‘oping you can advise me.”

Holmes gave the man an appraising look, then gestured to the stairs. “Come, I shall hear what you have to say, but I promise nothing at this stage.”

He led the way to our sitting room and, divesting himself of his coat, sat down with his back to the window with our visitor facing him. The man was agog to begin his story, but Holmes wasn’t to be hurried. “Fill the briar which protrudes from your waistcoat pocket. I think you will find the good Doctor’s special blend both soothing and stimulating at the same time.”

Taking the hint, I brought out my newly replenished pouch and passed it to our guest. Holmes filled his cherry-wood with his own pungent shag while I, on retrieving my pouch, selected the inscribed silver mounted briar presented to me by my brother officers of the 66th.

“Now, my good fellow,” said Holmes when our pipes were drawing, “I beg you to state your problem, and I promise to listen with all attention. The doctor will make notes against the unlikely event of my memory being at fault, then I shall decide if you can be helped.”

The man took a deep breath and loosened his neckerchief. “Well, Guv’nor, it’s like this. My name is Pritchard, Lewis Pritchard, and I’m the owner of the cab standing out front. I do very nicely at my trade, and live out Deptford way in as neat a little two-up, two-down as you could wish for. A few weeks back, I was asked if I’d be interested in buying the house at a very fair figure and I said I was. As I said, I make a good living from my cab and it’s a poor week indeed when I clear less than three pounds after all expenses, although it means being out in all weathers.”

“A man of industry,” Holmes murmured as Pritchard paused to relight his pipe. “Proceed, I pray you.”

“I married about three years ago, and although to our sorrow we as yet have no children, we are both young and pray that time will be kind to us.”

Here my companion interrupted him. “I take it you purchased your cab on your discharge from the Royal Artillery?”

Pritchard looked startled. “Why, yes sir, I did. But how do you know my regiment when I said nothing of it?”

Holmes waved a deprecatory hand. “Your bearing indicates you have seen military service, almost certainly overseas, and when you reached for Watson’s tobacco pouch, I observed the regimental crest tattooed above your wrist. The tattoo is of a style common to India. May I also venture to suggest that as you chose to drive a cab on your discharge and your horse looks particularly well-cared-for, you were most probably a driver.”

The man eyed Holmes with new respect as he nodded. “Right on target, Mr. Holmes, and if I say it myself, no finer lead driver ever took a gun into action. But if I may continue, you will have gathered that I made a very happy marriage, and all was well until some four months back, when I found on several occasions my wife was absent when I returned home at night. At first I paid little heed, until I noticed these absences took on a regular pattern of occurring every Tuesday and Thursday. I sought an explanation, but beyond saying she had been visiting friends, she offered nothing. When I pressed her, she became agitated and accused me of base suspicion and lack of trust. I protested strongly, yet her very words aroused in me those very feelings of which I stood accused.”

At this juncture Holmes, who had been listening intently with closed eyes, leaned forward and spoke sharply. “Tell me, sir, why do you represent yourself as something you are not?”

For brief moment the man looked confused, but recovered quickly. “I don’t understand. What do you mean?”

“Come now,” said Holmes with some asperity. “I beg you, don’t take me for a complete dunderhead. You are a man of some education which was probably acquired at a minor public school, although you didn’t reach university. Why present yourself as of the labouring classes? You play your part well, but to one who has made a study of philology, your deception is apparent. I warn you, Mr. Pritchard – or whatever your name is – I’m not to be trifled with, and unless some very good explanation is forthcoming, I must bid you good day.” He rose to his feet and looked down sternly at the man who had the grace to look abashed.

“I crave your pardon, sir,” said he. “You are in the right, although what you see as a deception was in no way intended to fool you. If you will allow me to tell something of myself, you might understand the reason for this masquerade.”

Holmes surveyed him keenly, and apparently satisfied resumed his chair. “Very well.” He nodded curtly. “Pray proceed.”

“I will not affront you by asking for a pledge of secrecy,” said our visitor. “I have every confidence you will appreciate my position when I tell you that I am the youngest of three sons from a prominent and well-respected family. My father and one brother hold important posts in the Civil Service. Not in the public eye but working, if I may put it so, behind the scenes. Whatever administration is in power, they are there to guide and advise the government to the best of their ability. My other brother is a lawyer with a leaning towards politics and a lot of ambition. When young, I led a wild and dissolute life, often causing my family acute embarrassment, and this culminated in my father disowning me completely, cutting me off without even the proverbial shilling.

“This shocked me into realising the dangerous path I was treading, and I sought to redeem myself by enlisting as a private soldier in the Royal Artillery. As you may well imagine, the lot of a gentleman ranker isn’t an easy one, and very early on I found it expedient to adapt my manner and speech to that of my comrades. I confess I never quite succeeded in mangling the Queen’s English as did some of my fellows, excellent chaps though they were. When I took my discharge the same considerations applied, and thus I came to you as that which I in fact have become. Does that explain my little deception?”

Holmes smiled faintly. “It is understandable in the circumstances, but what of your wife? How much of this does she know?”

Pritchard rubbed the bowl of his pipe against his cheek before answering slowly. “She is aware that I was once a gentleman, but of my family she knows nothing. She is a person of some education herself, her father being a wealthy clothing manufacturer who – although a self-made man – ensured that she and her older brother had the advantages denied him. As with a number of men who rise above their humble origins, Joe Smithers is still something of a rough diamond, but hoped his children would move up the social scale, and when his only daughter announced her intention of marrying a common cabman – to say that he disapproved is to understate the case. As Freda, my wife, was of age, he couldn’t forbid the match, but from thence on he has neither spoken nor made any effort to contact her in any way. In all fairness,” added the man, “I must make it clear that he settled the very handsome sum of two-hundred pounds a year on her, which is more than my father did for me. Of course, the money is hers to use as she sees fit, and I lay no claim to any part of it. Yet it is that very money that has precipitated the present crisis and brought me to your door.” His voice broke and he hung his head to recover his composure.

Holmes’s pipe gave forth a chorus of obscene gurgling noises and he laid it aside reluctantly, spilling ash down his waistcoat in the process. “Continue, Mr. Pritchard – if that is indeed your name.”

“It’s the name I’ve been known by these ten years past, so I can fairly call it my own. As I said, I was given the option of buying the house in which we live, and yesterday the offer was put on a firm footing and a price quoted which was more than fair. The present owner is advanced in years and is to spend the remainder of his days with a daughter in Sussex, so he requires a quick decision from me. Freda and I have often talked of owning our own home, and I was keen to get back to talk it over with her. As it happened, I picked up a fare who kept me darting hither and thither until quite late, and in consequence it was past ten o’clock before I’d seen to the nag and made my way home. Freda was home, but I knew she had been out as her boots stood in the passage showing signs of damp from the summer shower that had fallen earlier that evening.”

“A piece of deduction worthy of yourself, Holmes,” I chuckled.

He flung me an impatient look and urged our visitor to continue.

“I was too full of my news to make an issue of it then,” Pritchard went on, “but when I announced our good fortune, I was disappointed at her lack of enthusiasm. It wasn’t that she raised any objections, but neither did she seem to have any joy from it. It was when I came to speak of financial matters that things came to a head. As I mentioned, she has her own income, paid monthly through her father’s solicitors, and I have never inquired how she disposed of it. She isn’t prodigal or extravagant and I assumed she invested it safely, so when I suggested that a small portion of her money should be loaned to me to effect the purchase of the house, I was floored by her reaction.

“At first she was evasive, then when I pressed her for an answer, she became extremely agitated, and eventually refused point blank to lend me a penny. In vain I pleaded, pointing out that it would be a loan on strictly business terms, but she was adamant. I was set on having the property and with my own modest savings short of my needs, my only other resource was to obtain a loan for the remainder, but why should they have the interest when she might do so? Her response was to say that I must do as I saw fit, and at that I lost my temper, using harsh words that only served to reduce her to tears, with the result that for the first time in our marriage we retired to bed in an atmosphere of anger and hostility. I spent a restless night and rose well before dawn. I knew Freda was awake, for I heard her sobbing into her pillow, but I was still angry and went to prepare my breakfast without a word to her.”

The unhappy man paused and shook his head sadly before proceeding.

“It was while searching in the kitchen drawer for a knife that I came across this pamphlet.” He pulled from his inside pocket a creased piece of paper and held it out.

Holmes took it and unfolded it. Looking over his shoulder, I saw a cheaply-printed sheet headed “The Crown of Light Mission”, exhorting those in need of spiritual comfort to seek solace and guidance at the above on Tuesdays and Thursdays with Mr. and Mrs. Lester Burton, followed by an address in a less salubrious part of Bermondsey. Holmes perused it with an expression of distaste, then laid on the arm of his chair and sat back with a sigh.

“Apart from what we are meant to read,” he said, “it tells us little. It was produced on a small hand-press, not by a firm of commercial printers. The paper could have come from one of a hundred stationers and was cut to size by a pair of not over-sharp scissors, so I suggest it wasn’t intended for mass distribution, but run off as required to be given to selected persons. Did you ask your wife if she had knowledge of it?”

Pritchard nodded. “I went to her at once. At first she feigned ignorance, but when I pointed out that I hadn’t seen it before, and as she and I were the only people in the house, it followed that she must have put it in the drawer. Again she resorted to tears, saying I was determined to make her unhappy, but I still insisted on an answer. At last she said, not very convincingly, that it had probably been pushed through the door and she had put it away without reading it. At that I flung out of the house and went to my work a bewildered and unhappy man. As I prepared my cab for the day’s work, I fell to brooding on her conduct and decided that her refusal to be frank with me was in some way linked with her absences from home and that piece of paper.

“I left the mews and, ignoring any prospective fare who tried to hail me, I drove at my best pace to the address in Bermondsey to see if any clue might be gleaned. The place was an old warehouse, and as I entered the gate, I was accosted by a rough-looking character reeking of beer whom I took to be the caretaker. I attempted to question him about the mission, but all I got was foul abuse and told if I didn’t push off I’d be out on my ear. I saw no profit in trying to reason with the lout so I left, and it was then that your name came to mind. I thought there was nothing to be lost by entreating your help, or at least advice, and here I am. It may seem a trivial domestic matter to you, Mr. Holmes, but I’m at my wits end and know not where to turn for relief.”

Holmes raised his eyes broodingly to our caller. “As you say, it may well be a trivial matter, but my instincts warn me that there are deeper waters and bigger fish than may be apparent to us now. If you will give your consent to let me take whatever steps seem good to me, I shall be most willing to attempt to throw some light on to your problem. I believe your wife to be in grave trouble – so grave that she feels unable to confide in you, and may be driven to desperation if the matter isn’t resolved quickly.”

Pritchard blanched under his tan. “What can it be, Mr. Holmes?” he cried. “Freda is as pure and honest as the day is long. How could she be in serious trouble?”

“That we must discover, sir,” Holmes replied austerely. “I can make no judgement until I’m in possession of all the facts. There is nothing more you can tell me?”

“I have told you all I know. What must I do now?”

Holmes stroked his long nose. “Do nothing and go about your business as usual. Above all, put no further pressure on your wife, for I fear she is near breaking point. Leave me your address and that of the mews where you keep your equipage and I will be in touch. Now, good day to you, Mr. Pritchard, and be of good heart.”

The door had barely closed on our client before Holmes had vanished into his own room, reappearing ten minutes later as a completely different person. He wore a decrepit billycock hat and a shabby buttonless coat secured at the waist by a length of frayed string. He carried an old carpet-bag which clanked as he put it down, and a straggly moustache adorned his upper lip. I marvelled at his facility in changing his whole appearance and personality with a few simple accessories and to become the very essence of the character he purported to be.

“Come, Watson, we must move apace,” he cried. “Be so good as to secure a four-wheeler for our journey. No self-respecting cabbie will stop for such as I.”

Resigning myself to another missed lunch, I preceded him down the stairs and was lucky enough to find a growler discharging its passengers on the other side of the road. The driver looked askance at my disreputable companion but offered no objections, and on a muttered word from Holmes I directed the man to Bermondsey. Holmes slouched pensively in a corner, only rousing himself as we rattled over London Bridge, when he turned a quizzical eye on me.

“Well, what is your reading of the case?” I, too, had been pondering, but was forced to admit that I had no substantial theory to offer. Nevertheless, I made the effort.

“Obviously there is some threat hanging over Mrs. Pritchard, but on the present information I cannot conjecture what it can be. Apart from marrying in defiance of her father’s wishes, she seems to have led a blameless existence, and even her father wasn’t so uncaring as to cut her off completely. In fact, her allowance is very generous – as much as my wound pension from a grateful government. By Pritchard’s account, they are a loving couple and hitherto have had no secrets between them,”

“Excellent, my dear fellow. So we need more data to build upon, and perhaps it may be found in this squalid neighbourhood. Ah, we approach our destination, and that unprepossessing iron hut is the address we seek. Continue for two-hundred yards that I may alight unremarked, and wait where you can see without being seen.”

I rapped on the panel with my stick, and as the cab slowed, Holmes slipped nimbly on to the cobbles, his carpet-bag clinking in his hand. I told the driver to take the next turning and stop and, handing him a half-sovereign as earnest of good faith, bade him wait upon my return. I walked back to the corner in time to see Holmes shuffle up to the iron gate of the mission and enter. Crossing the road, I strolled in the same direction and, on coming level with the gate, I paused to fill and light my pipe, keeping a covert eye on the entrance. Less than a minute passed ere I heard the sound of voices raised in altercation. Then Holmes came into view, pursued by a large uncouth-looking figure uttering threats of violence bestrewn with some of the foulest oaths it has been my misfortune to hear. He slammed the gate behind Holmes, who retaliated with a shake of his fist, and to my dismay added his own comments in language that matched that of the other man. Never in the whole course of our association had my friend inclined to coarseness of expression, and to hear it now was a shock to my sensibilities. I excused him now on the grounds that it was in keeping with the character he was presenting and that he must deplore it as much as I. So reflecting, I turned back to where I had left the cab, throwing a quick glance over my shoulder to ascertain that my companion was following. On entering the cab, Holmes delved into the depths of his carpet-bag to produce a loosely-wrapped parcel from which he took a pair of boots and a light jacket.

“I fear the trousers must do,” he said, peeling off his moustache. “The absence of a hat can be accounted for by a gust of wind from the river. Have the cabbie drive to the nearest police station and we shall see if they have any useful facts about this so-called mission.” As we went, he told me of his encounter and its outcome. “I posed as an odd-job man seeking work, and found our repellent friend drinking beer in a back room. I recognized him at once as a notorious bully-boy from the Elephant and Castle, and I know for a fact that he has several counts against him for violence and petty thieving. It owes more to the constitution of his victims than his own restraint that he hasn’t faced a more serious charge than assault and battery. However, I asked fairly enough if there was any work to be had and I was told to push off, but I began to walk round and point out that the place could do with a few touches here and there. At that he became aggressive and offered to throw me out if I didn’t ‘sling my ‘ook’, and I became equally offensive with the result that you observed.”

“Good Heavens!” I gasped. “You could have come to serious harm at the hands of that brute!”

“Really, Watson, have you so little faith in me that you fear I couldn’t hold my own with such a crude rascal as he? You have remarked on my mastery of the noble art on more than one occasion. But here we are at the bastion of law and order. Be good enough to keep me company and be ready to stand surety for my respectability, dressed as I am.”

We entered the police station where a sergeant was writing laboriously in a ledger. He laid his pen aside with the air of one glad of the excuse to be relieved of his task and greeted us civilly.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” then a surprised look came to his face. “Why, it’s Mr. Sherlock Holmes and the Doctor! What brings you to this part of the world?”

I remembered him as the constable who had discovered the body of Enoch Drebber on that memorable first occasion when I had been privileged to see Holmes display his remarkable powers, and although unable to put a name to him, I recalled my friend anathematizing him as a blundering fool who would never rise in his chosen profession. I was human enough to be mildly gratified that the sergeant’s stripes proved my colleague to be even so slightly fallible. He could have read my thoughts, for he gave me a rueful grin before addressing himself to the sergeant.

“Rance, is it not? John Rance?”

“That’s so, sir. Sergeant Rance these two years past, thanks to you.”

Holmes looked mystified. “I recall nothing I have done to advance your career, pleased as I am to note it.”

“Not directly, Mr. Holmes, but I knew you thought I should have recognized that drunk in Lauriston Gardens that night as the murderer, so I got to thinking about smartening up my ideas and this is the result, while Harry Murcher still pounds a beat down Brixton way, so it’s you what takes the credit.”

“Then I congratulate you, Sergeant, and perhaps I may draw a little on that credit by asking you for some local information.”

“Anything I can tell you I will, sir, and perhaps there may be a good word in it for me. I’ll not presume to put myself alongside of Inspectors Lestrade and Gregson, but a favourable mention in my record can do no harm.”

At the mention of the two Scotland Yard inspectors, Holmes smiled sardonically and contented himself with a non-committal grunt. “What do you know of The Crown of Light Mission along the road from here?”

Rance sucked on his moustache and pondered the question before answering.

“Well,” said eventually, “I know nothing that gives us any concern – except for that caretaker they’ve hired.”

“You mean Bert Carver?” Holmes put in quickly.

“That’s him, and I give a lot to feel his collar, but since he come out of Pentonville last spring he’s had that job and never a sign of old ways. The job was found for him by a prison visitor and he reports to us once a week. Not very willingly, I may say, but so long as he don’t give no bother, there isn’t much I can do about him.”

“What of the minister, or whatever he calls himself?”

“All I know is what I hear from the beat man. This bloke turns up with a woman said to be his wife about six o’clock every Tuesday and Thursday and leaves just after nine. Where they live I’ve no idea, and I’ve had no call to ask. That’s all I can offer, Mr. Holmes, and I wish it could be more.”

“Ah, well,” sighed Holmes. “Not as much as I had hoped, but I shall remember your willingness to help, Sergeant.” A couple of florins slid across the desk to vanish quickly, and with Rance’s expression of goodwill echoing in our ears we made our exit and returned to Baker Street.

Over our belated lunch, my companion was taciturn, paying little heed to the handsome pork-and-veal pie provided by Mrs. Hudson. Eventually he pushed his plate to one side with the meal barely touched and went to the window, where he stood for some time gazing broodingly down at the street. I observed his back for some minutes before venturing to break in on his thoughts. “I say, if you aren’t going to finish that pie, I see no point in letting it go to waste.”

He turned to stare at me blankly for some seconds. Then, like a dog ridding itself of fleas, seemed to shake himself into the present.

“By all means, my dear fellow, make of it what you will, but be hasty, for we must go out again.”

My surprise was evident and he explained impatiently.

“Don’t you see, Watson?” he said irritably. “This is Wednesday, and tomorrow there is another meeting of this so-called mission. I feel it to be imperative that we prevent Mrs. Pritchard attending, and indeed to put a stop to its activities once and for all. I intend to see the lady and induce her to lay her trouble before me, that it may be lifted completely.”

“Do you think she will confide in you?” I said through a mouthful of pie. “If she will not trust her husband, why should she trust you?”

“It is possible. I’m a stranger to her and she has no reason to fear my censure or disapproval. I think that fact may persuade her to unburden herself if I can convince her that I can hold out hope of relief.”

“Can you promise her that?”

“There is blackmail involved, and you know my views on that. I will strain every nerve and sinew to bring to book those foul predators on human frailty. Now do hurry. I wish to talk to the lady before her husband returns home.”

Still chewing, I pursued him down to the street, and soon we found ourselves crossing to the south side of the river for the second time that day. Our journey took us through a succession of mean streets to Rotherhithe, and thence to the outskirts of Deptford where our driver halted to ask directions of a patrolling constable.

As we approached our goal, Holmes bade the cabbie stop and, after alighting, we watched the vehicle out of sight before we proceeded on foot. Holmes looked approvingly at our surroundings, and indeed the district was less sordid than those we had just traversed. It hadn’t yet lost the battle against the ever-encroaching octopus of London, and there was still a rural feeling to this little corner. The house we approached had gleaming brass-work on the newly painted door and gay curtains hung at the windows, evidence of the loving care lavished on this humble dwelling, The door was opened by a woman in her late twenties, as neat and tidy in her person as the exterior of the house, yet her eyes showed strain and worry foreign to the pretty features.

Holmes raised his hat. “Mrs. Pritchard?” he asked on her look of inquiry.

“Yes, that is my name. What can I do for you?”

“I am Sherlock Holmes, of whom you may have heard, and this is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson.” He indicated me, and I in turn raised my hat.

Her face took on a guarded look, but Holmes continued ere she could speak.

“I beg of you to forgive our intrusion, and rest assured we wish to cause you no distress. If you permit us to enter, I shall explain our business.”

After a momentary hesitation she stood aside. Then, closing the door behind us, led the way into a small but comfortable parlour.

“Be seated, gentlemen,” she said. “I know of your reputation, Mr. Holmes, but I’m at a loss to understand your interest in me.”

“I will be quite open with you, Madam,” began Holmes when we were seated. “I can but hope you will be as frank with me, for only the truth will serve to raise the shadow of anxiety from which you suffer.”

“I fail to see – ” she began, but Holmes held up an admonitory hand.

“Hear me out, I pray you, if not for your own sake then for the sake of your husband. My reasoning leads me to believe that you are being blackmailed, and the source of the blackmail is The Crown of Light Mission. If you will give me your complete confidence, I pledge myself to the downfall of the villains who batten on the fears of such unfortunates as yourself. I have no connection with the official police, and whatever you tell me will be safe with the good Doctor and me.”

She stared at him in amazement overlaid with fear and anguish, but my companion wasn’t to be diverted.

“You are being bled white by these people, and unless you confide in me, there can be no end to it until you are penniless and your marriage destroyed. Is that what you desire?”

Mrs. Pritchard had turned a deathly pale, her eyes fixed on the stern features of my friend. At length she made a gesture of resignation and spoke in a tone of great bitterness.

“How this came to your notice I don’t know, but you are correct in your assumption of blackmail. Not through any fault or misconduct on my part, but because of one who is very dear to me. I refer to my brother.”

She paused to take a deep breath, and then the words spilled out from her as water from a broken pitcher. “It began some four months ago when I received call from a man who purported to be collecting on behalf of The Crown of Light Mission. I have little time for these mendicants who seem to divert the larger part of the offerings into their own pockets. I refused instantly, but the creature had his foot in the door and said if I wouldn’t contribute on my own behalf, it would be to my brother’s advantage to do so. Of course, this held my attention and I demanded an explanation of his words.” She paused and looked at us defiantly. “Perhaps I should tell you something of my family to make the subsequent events clear,”

“I know you to be the daughter Joseph Smithers, a clothing manufacturer,” Holmes interposed. “I also know that you have an older brother, and that you married in defiance of your father’s wishes, but nevertheless he settled a generous allowance on you and that allowance is being filched by this so-called Crown of Light. Pray continue with your account, Madam.”

“Very well, Mr. Holmes.” She moistened her lips. “This person told me that Marcus, my brother who virtually runs the business now, has been embezzling large sums of money from the firm and spending it in dubious pursuits, and unless I wished my father to hear of it. I would be wise to contribute to their poor mission.”

Holmes frowned. “Surely in that case there would be more profit in going to your brother?”

“That was my first thought, but the man forestalled me by saying my brother was being taken care of and my small contribution was but a make-weight. I was bemused and near collapse, but I told him I had no money in the house. He smiled – oh, what a terrible smile! He told me to attend the next meeting of the mission and bring fifty pounds in gold. I was almost out of my mind and to get rid of him I acceded to his demands. Little did I know what it was to lead to, for since that day I have been paying three pounds at each and every meeting of that evil mission, twice a week.”

“Good Lord!” I exploded. “That’s more than your whole allowance!”

“You are well informed, Doctor,” she said bitterly. “I’m rapidly reaching the end of my resources, and what will then ensue I fear to contemplate.”

“What does your brother say of this?” asked Holmes. “Have you told him?”

The lady shook her head vigorously, “I was forbidden to tell him that I was also being made pay on the threat of the whole matter being exposed. What induced him to commit such folly is entirely beyond my comprehension.”

Holmes rose abruptly, taking me by surprise, but I could sense from his attitude that he was steps ahead of my thoughts.

“Thank you, Mrs. Pritchard. I think it safe to say that you have made your last payment to these leeches, and I may even offer some hope that you will see the return of at least part of your money. Come, Watson, time presses.”

He paused in the doorway to add almost as an afterthought: “Where might your brother be found at this hour?”

She hesitated. Then, convinced of my colleague’s integrity, she spoke. “He has his own establishment at Blackheath overlooking Greenwich Park. He is unmarried, but prefers to live away from home. My mother is a strong-willed woman who terrorises even my father so that he spends as much time as he can at the Walworth factory for the sake of peace and quiet.” She gave her brother’s address, which I scribbled into my notebook.

“Then be of good heart, Madam,” said Holmes. “Say nothing of this to your husband at this juncture, although I feel you would have been wise to confide in him from the first moment.”

We had the good fortune to find a cab-driver willing to take us up the steep incline of Blackheath Hill to the Heath, but it was a painfully slow journey. Dusk was falling as we were deposited at the gate of a neat little villa commanding a fine view over the park to the twinkling lights beginning to appear on the river beyond. Holmes pull on the bell was answered by an elderly woman of upright carriage. She took Holmes’s card and conducted us into an anteroom. We weren’t left to kick our heels for long before the door opened to admit a pleasant-looking fellow whose features proclaimed his kinship with Freda Pritchard.

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes?” he asked, twisting the card in his fingers.

“I am he,” my friend replied.

“Then this other gentleman can only be your biographer, Dr. Watson, whose accounts of your exploits I devour avidly. I’m honoured to meet you in the flesh, but I am at a loss to divine the reason for your presence. But be seated, I beg you. I usually indulge in a small drink at this hour and I hope you will join me.”

Once we were seated with a generous measure of Scotch whisky in our hands, Holmes came straight to the point.

“First of all, Mr. Smithers, I’m going to ask you a question that you will find insulting and impertinent. Please bear with me and take no offence, for once I hear the answer I expect to hear from your lips, I will reveal the purpose behind it.”

Smithers looks mystified but inclined his head in acknowledgement. “Fire away, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I know you do nothing without good reason, and you have fairly set my curiosity afire.”

“Very well, I will be blunt. Are you being blackmailed?”

Our host’s mouth fell open and he stared at Holmes in amazement. “Blackmailed?” he stuttered. “Why should I be blackmailed? My life is an open book, and though I have all the minor vices of most men of my age and position, there is certainly nothing that I’d pay to have hushed up.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Holmes. “That is as I thought, and now I can tell you the reasons behind my offensive question. Before I do so, I must ask for your assurance that I shall be left to deal with the matter in my own way, and that you will not try to take matters into your own hands.”

His grave tone impressed itself on the other who nodded a grudging consent, and Holmes went on to lay all the facts before him. Smithers listened with growing horror that quickly changed to rage and indignation as Holmes described the pitiful state to which Freda Pritchard had been reduced. At the end of the recital he sat pale and tight-lipped, his fists clenching and unclenching as the full enormity of the situation sank in.

“Good God, Mr. Holmes, why did she not come to me at once? I could have set her mind at rest and showed her the falsity of the charge.”

“That was the cunning part, sir. She was told that you too were paying for silence, and if she let it be known that she also was paying, all would be revealed. It was a plot to keep you apart, and that is why I came here tonight, certain that you were an innocent party. Who would know enough of your family circumstances to be so convincing?”

Smithers left his chair and paced rapidly back and forth, his brow corrugated in concentration before stopping to face Holmes.

“Tell me, sir, does the name Lester Burton strike a chord?”

Holmes looked up sharply, his eyebrows raised. “It does, but where did you hear it?”

Our host resumed his seat and laid his head back as if to collect his thoughts. Then he began to speak in a low voice.

“What I have to say is in the strictest confidence, which I’m sure you will appreciate. When my sister declared her intention of marrying Lewis Pritchard, it wasn’t the most welcome news to my father, but for all his faults he loves Freda and desires her happiness. The main opposition was from my mother, and you may think me lacking in proper respect when I say she not the most lovable of women, but it is a fact. Even my father fears her. She was a machinist in his first factory and was astute enough to see that he would rise in the world with the right encouragement, so she married him.” He grinned boyishly. “I was born five months after the wedding, but she wouldn’t thank you for reminding her of the fact. She has aspirations to be the great lady and saw Freda and me as stepping-stones into society, and you can imagine her chagrin when my sister remained obstinate and I showed no interest in the girls paraded before me.”

He sat up and fixed us with a firm look. “Don’t misunderstand me, gentlemen. I’m not averse to the company of the fair sex, but I prefer them to be of my own choosing.”

“We hadn’t thought otherwise,” said Holmes. “Proceed, I pray you.”

“Well, when Freda wouldn’t submit, my father forbade her the house – on my mother’s orders, of course – but to salve his conscience, he secretly made her an allowance. Mind you, I thought she could have done better, but for all I know he may be a most worthy fellow,”

“Doubt it not, sir,” my friend put in. “Until this business cast its shadow, they were the happiest couple alive. But forgive me, I interrupt.”

Smithers continued. “A few months ago I was at Croydon races, where I made a bit of a killing. I threw a celebration party at a nearby hotel, and among those present was Lester Burton, He seemed a stout-enough fellow and we travelled back together somewhat the worse for wear, as happens on these occasions. I must have found him a good listener, for I later recalled bemoaning the rift with my little sister. By morning it had gone from my mind until shortly before lunch, when who should turn up at the office but this Burton on the pretext of asking after my health. We went out for a steak pudding and a glass of porter, and out of the blue he asked if I would like to be reconciled with Freda and offered to act as intermediary.

“Against my better judgement I became interested, but had to point out that I knew nothing of her whereabouts except that it was in these parts. He waved my objections aside and I agreed to let him see if he could trace her. A week later he approached me again with the story that he had spoken with Freda and the message she sent was that she wanted to neither hear nor see anything of me nor of the rest of the family, and would I please leave her alone. Does that fit in with your theory, Mr. Holmes?”

“As I surmised, the idea was to prevent any communication between you. But now that the truth is out, we can bait the trap to catch our rat. Time is of the essence. Your sister cannot tolerate the strain much longer, and there are others in like situation.”

“What can I do, Mr. Holmes? I place myself at your disposal and will follow your instructions to the letter.” Holmes studied the man before giving a nod of agreement. “Your aid would be invaluable, but do nothing on your own initiative or the consequences may be dire. Be at my chambers at eight o’clock tomorrow morning. Do you know where this man Burton has his quarters?”

“Not the actual address, but although he was very close about himself, he did make a rather bad joke about having a fine view of Smithfield, Barts, and Newgate from his window.”

“That narrows the field. Now we must go, and we shall see you in the morning.”

“I’ll send the boy for a cab to take you to Blackheath or Maze Hill – whichever station is your choice.” Smithers rang the bell and gave the necessary orders, and ten minutes later we were on our way. At London Bridge, Holmes made straight for the all-night telegraph office, then mystified me by taking a cab to the General Post Office in St. Martin’s-le-Grand, where he disappeared for twenty minutes. He returned humming tunelessly to himself and spoke not a word for the rest of the journey. At Baker Street he jumped from the cab, leaving me to pay, and by the time I reached our sitting room he had gone into his own room, closing the door firmly behind him, and that was the last I saw of him that night.

Over an early breakfast he was more forthcoming. “Mr. Marcus Smithers will be on our doorstep shortly, as will our client, whom I telegraphed last night. I rely on your down-to-earth common sense, Watson, to see that the two get along together, for I hope that some part of the family feud may be settled out of this sordid affair.”

“That sounds like one of them now,” I said as a cab stopped outside.

The doorbell pealed faintly and my friend looked at me with a roguish smile.

“Would you venture to say which?”

I shrugged. “As I cannot see through walls it could be either, but no doubt you know differently.”

“It is certainly Smithers. If it was Pritchard arriving in his hansom, he would take time to settle his horse before leaving it. The gentleman whose tread is now on the stairs paused only long enough to pay the driver, who immediately drove away. Come in!” he called as a knock came on our door.

Smithers entered. “Good morning, gentlemen,” he said. “What’s afoot?”

“Pull up a chair, my dear sir,” said Holmes, “Allow me to pour you some coffee while we await another guest. In fact, I believe he is even now below.

A few minutes elapsed before Pritchard appeared, pausing on the threshold at the sight of our other visitor, but Holmes waved him to a chair and supplied him with coffee. He raised an eyebrow in my direction before taking a seat for himself and stuffing tobacco into his pipe.

I cleared my throat. “I think, gentlemen, this meeting is long overdue. Mr. Marcus Smithers, this is your brother-in-law, Mr. Lewis Pritchard.” I sat back to watch the conflicting emotions chase across the faces of the pair.

Smithers recovered first, getting to his feet to thrust out his hand. “My dear Pritchard!” he cried. “As Dr. Watson says, this is a long overdue meeting, and I’m delighted to make your acquaintance at last!”

For the merest fraction of a second our client hesitated, then he rose to clasp the proffered hand. “You are right, sir. This is a long-delayed meeting, but through no wish of mine. Your sister would have welcomed a sign from you, but alas, it never came.” He turned to me. “However, I fail to see how this concerns the matter in the forefront of my mind.”

“I think I do,” said Smithers, turning to look at Holmes and myself.

“It does indeed,” I said in my role of mediator. “You both have Mrs. Pritchard’s welfare at heart, and neither of you has the slightest cause to feel antipathy towards the other.”

Holmes intervened brusquely. “Please, gentlemen, let us proceed to the matter in hand, and explanations can come later. You will make your way to Deptford, where Mrs. Pritchard may have comfort from the knowledge that her conflict of loyalties is over. You, Mr. Smithers, know how all this came about and can lay the whole story before Mr. Pritchard and your sister. I enjoin all three of you to remain at Deptford until I telegraph, you, and above all you must convince the lady that she has nothing to fear. Now away with you. Watson and I have our own furrow to plough.”

As soon as our visitors had left, Holmes sprang to his feet and, ignoring the coffee cup he overset in his sudden access of energy, threw off his dressing-gown.

“Come. Mr. Lester Burton is due a visit from us. I think we can be certain of finding him at home at this hour.”

“I may be obtuse, Holmes, but do we know where to find him? The casual description he gave Smithers of the view from his window is vague enough and there must be a goodly number of locations with such a view.”

Holmes chuckled. “What do you imagine I was doing at Post Office headquarters as we came home last night?”

A light dawned on me and I could have kicked myself for not deducing the reason for my prolonged wait, but his tone piqued me.

“I didn’t think you to be bribing Crown servants to betray their trust and duty,” I snapped.

“Neither was I,” he snapped back. “It so happens that the authorities have cause to be grateful to me for a service I rendered them some months back, and they aren’t averse to aiding in the downfall of any miscreants if it’s in their power to do so.”

He chattered inconsequentially as we trotted along Oxford Street in a growler, but said nothing of the matter in hand until I asked who would be paying his fee in this messy case.

He smiled thinly. “I’m hopeful that Lester Burton will be persuaded to make a significant contribution once I have him in my grasp. I see by the set of your coat that you aren’t armed, but no doubt our sticks will serve if it comes to it. Ah, I think we may alight here.”

The sight of Barts Hospital revived memories of my first meeting with the man with whom my life was to be so involved, and divining my thoughts he clapped me affectionately on the shoulder. “Much has happened since that January day long ago, old friend. I shall never cease to be grateful to young Stamford for bringing us together. But come, the weather is about to break and we have no waterproofs with us.”

The sky had assumed a leaden hue presaging the imminence of heavy rain. Holmes hurried us down Old Bailey and into a doorway, the entrance to a block of service flats. He approached the porter ensconced in his cubbyhole and, after a few quiet words, a coin changed hands before the man resumed his perusal of the racing pages in his newspaper. We then made our way up the stairs to stop before a door on the second floor. Holmes pulled at the bell, then leant on his stick until the door partially opened and a plump face surrounded by side-whiskers peered out at us.

“Mr. Lester Burton?” said my friend ingratiatingly.

A wary look came over the suety face and the man licked his lips nervously. “Who are you? What do you want?”

“My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I wish to have a few words regarding The Crown of Light Mission. Ah, no you don’t!” Holmes thrust his stick into the gap in time to prevent the door slamming on us, then applying his shoulder to it burst into the apartment, forcing its occupant back several paces. I followed Holmes inside and shut the door behind me, leaning my back against it to preclude any escape.

“This is an outrage!” spluttered Burton, for I was sure it was he. “Leave at once or I shall call the police!” He retreated as Holmes advanced on him menacingly.

“Yes, by all means call the police, and a pretty story there will be to tell them. They take a very poor view of blackmail.”

“I have no idea of what you are talking about,” the man blustered, but his eyes were filled with fear as he edged back, followed inexorably by Holmes.

“Don’t trifle with me,” said Holmes, “At this very moment, a lady is on her way to lay information against you, but her husband and her brother, suitably equipped with horsewhips, will precede the minions of the law.”

Sweat beaded the plump features and Burton began to speak, but his words were drowned by a violent clap of thunder following the lashing of rain on the window. He began again and the pause had given him back some confidence.

“I refuse to bandy words with you, sir. I have heard of you as an interfering busy-body, and I can only conjecture that what little notoriety you have achieved has gone to your head. Withdraw at once, or I shall call the porter to eject you.”

Holmes glared at him with loathing and contempt. “How dare you attempt to outface me, you despicable cur!” he almost snarled. “I’m here to break you and ensure your evil trade is brought to an end. I’m not bound by any rules that may prevent the police treating you as you deserve.”

“And how do you propose to do that?” Burton sneered.

“That is your choice: Either surrender all the material that gives you power over your unhappy victims and sufficient funds to make at least some restitution, or be prepared to have me beat it out of you.”

“You wouldn’t dare. Even were your wild accusations true, what proof can you have?”

“All that I require.” Holmes loomed menacingly over the cowering figure. “Come, accept that the game is lost and you may yet take flight before the police arrive.”

The blackmailer put on a show of bravado. “Threaten all you will. You will find nothing here that you want. Get out!”

Taking a pace forward, Holmes grasped Burton by the shirt-front and shook him until his teeth rattled. Rarely had I seen my friend in such a cold rage and I feared that he would lose control entirely, but at last he flung the wretch into a chair where he huddled, his breath coming in shallow gasps. Holmes took a grip on himself and cast an eye around the room.

“Watson, do you go through that coat that hangs behind the door and see what you may find.”

My search produced a bunch of keys, a small diary, and a pocket book containing a number of bank-notes. I passed it all to Holmes who made a cursory assessment of the money then threw the keys back to me.

“See if you can match one of these to the safe that stands in the corner. I suspect its contents will prove illuminating.”

Burton made to protest, but a threatening gesture from Holmes made him subside fearfully in the chair.

The safe was an early model by Chubb, and the second key I tried allowed me to swing the door open. I was faced by two large ledgers, a bundle of papers, and a leather bag which on being opened revealed a considerable sum in sovereigns and half-sovereigns. Holmes pounced on the ledgers and swiftly turned the pages for several minutes before slamming them shut with a grunt of satisfaction.

“This is what we need,” he said grimly. “The bank-notes and gold will provide some recompense for such victims as can be traced and furnish my fee into the bargain. As for the papers – well – ”

“You can’t do that!” Burton screeched. “That’s theft!”

“Then tell the police,” Holmes replied contemptuously, turning away in disgust.

With a speed born of desperation Burton sprang from the chair and snatched at the pocket-book which Holmes had laid on the table. I leapt to stop him and he aimed a blow that caught me on the shoulder that sent me cannoning into Holmes. By the time we had recovered, our blackmailer had grabbed his coat and was halfway through the door. With a frantic lunge I tried to hold on to his arm, but he slipped through my grasp and ran for the stairs, leaving me staring at the pocket-book which was all that I retained of him.

“Let him go,” said my colleague. “We’ve drawn his teeth, and you did well to hang on to the money. If Mrs. Pritchard can be induced to lay information against him, he will not get far.”

I admit yielding to the temptation to keep to myself the fact that my rescue of the pocket-book was less deliberate than he assumed, but no harm was done by that. I went to stand beside my friend at the window to look down at the street. The rain had stopped and people were hurrying to get their business done before the next downpour. Suddenly, Holmes gripped my arm and sucked in his breath.

A running figure dashed into view at the very moment that a brewer’s dray lost a wheel immediately below us. The loaded cart tipped over, shedding its load, and the running man disappeared from sight beneath the heavy casks. The cries of horror from the horrified onlookers reached us through the closed window, and as the crowd congregated Holmes turned away.

“I think we would do well to leave before we are implicated,” he said quietly, and taking the ledgers and papers he pushed me towards the door. Pausing only to collect my stick, I followed him down the stairs and through the entrance hall, where the porter had deserted his post to see what was happening in the street. Crossing into Newgate Street we found a cab, and stopping only at the Strand telegraph office to send a wire to the Pritchards, proceeded back to our rooms.

I stopped suddenly as we entered the sitting room. “Holmes!” I gasped.

“The bag of gold!”

“Really, Doctor, do you think me so careless?” He threw the leather purse on to the table. “We have an hour before lunch, which I shall occupy by going through these books while you count the money.”

We applied ourselves thus, and the total sum staggered me. The pocketbook yielded £2,400 pounds in notes of various denominations, while there was a further £120 and ten shillings in gold coins. When I reported the amount to Holmes, he nodded his satisfaction,

“It seems Mr. Burton had no faith in banks, which is fortunate. At least a hundred-and-fifty of it belongs to Mrs. Pritchard, but it will be the deuce of a job to apportion the remainder. It seems that no sum was too insignificant for that creature to reach for, and his accounts show amounts a small as five shillings from more than one of his victims. I hope that some can be induced to come forward at tonight’s meeting if they can be persuaded they have nothing to fear. I shall enlist Mrs. Pritchard’ aid in that, as they may trust her as one of themselves.”

“But what hold could he have over all these people?”

“Who knows? If a duchess wished to conceal an indiscretion, she would be no more anxious than the wife of a market porter to pay for silence. It is a matter of degree. Where one would find five-hundred pounds, the other would struggle to raise five shillings. I’m not interested in the details. Blackmail is a dirty business whatever the sum involved, and I rank it as more evil than a murder committed in a moment of passion.”

“What of the papers?” I ventured.

“I shall destroy them unread. I’ve no desire to have people’s weaknesses laid before me, and whomever cannot be traced through the ledgers will have no more demands made on them. A prominent advertisement in the newspapers announcing that The Crown of Light Mission has sufficient funds for its needs should be enough to relieve the minds of most contributors.”

We didn’t linger over lunch and, as we hailed a cab, Holmes took a paper from a passing newsboy.

“I say, look at this,” he chuckled, passing the paper to me.”

The headlines shouted at me. “Man Killed by Falling Beer-Barrels”. I read on:

A man identified as Mr. Lester Burton was killed in an accident in Old Bailey when the wheel of a brewer’s dray collapsed and dislodged its load as a man ran by. He was killed instantly. Alfred Huggins, the porter at his residence, said Mr. Burton was a quiet gentleman who gave no trouble. It is believed that the deceased had two callers shortly before he met his death, but no trace of them can be found.

“No more than he deserved,” Holmes said, then leant back with closed eyes until our cab dropped us at the Pritchards’ house. Pritchard himself admitted us, and before he conducted us in, Holmes handed him the newspaper.

“It’s all over, then?” asked our client.

“Apart from some loose ends, but your wife has nothing to fear and never did have, as I expect you now know. However, with your permission I will ask a small service of her.”

“Ask what you will, Mr. Holmes. Anything to repay our debt to you. But come, she is waiting on you.”

With the advent of Holmes and myself, the small parlour seemed very crowded. As well as the Pritchards and Smithers, a thick-set elderly man stood squarely in the middle of the room, his ruddy face glistening with perspiration.

“So you’re the famous Sherlock Holmes,” he said before anyone else could speak. His eyes latched on to my friend’s lean figure, “I’m Joe Smithers, and a confounded old fool I’ve been.”

Holmes inclined his head. “Most of us are at times, even my friend Dr. Watson,” he said urbanely, obviously not including himself in that and ignoring my splutter of indignation.”

We disposed ourselves on the chairs brought in by Pritchard and the assembly looked expectantly at my colleague.

“You had something to ask my wife,” Pritchard said tentatively.

“I have indeed. Now the threat to your happiness is lifted, Mrs. Pritchard, do you have the courage to attend at the Mission tonight and help me do likewise for those others who were in the same situation? I have a number of names, and if you will identify those whom you know, I think they will trust you rather than myself.”

“There is no more danger?” the lady asked fearfully.

“None. Burton is dead and all his records are safe from revelation.”

“Then I will do it gladly. A number of poor wretches will have as much cause for gratitude as I. You understand that none of us knew any of the other’s secrets and we all went in fear of exposure, and also we had been threatened with physical violence if we talked between ourselves or failed to meet that man’s demands.”

A steely glint came into Holmes’s eye. “Ah, our friend Carver. I promised a police sergeant a good turn, and I found an interesting piece of information among Burton’s papers. He also had a hold on Carver over the matter of a night watchman who was killed in a robbery at a bonded warehouse. He deserves to be thrown to the lions, and Sergeant Rance will take great pleasure in feeling Carver’s collar, as he so elegantly puts it.”

He thought for a moment. “One loose end remains, and that is the woman calling herself Mrs. Burton. What do you know of her?”

“She hasn’t appeared these three weeks past,” replied Mrs. Pritchard. “I doubt she was his wife, for she seemed as cowed as the rest of us.”

“Then you have anything against her should she appear?”

“Nothing.”

“Then let us give her the benefit of the doubt.” Holmes cast his eye benignly on the gathering. “Can it be that I have also effected a family reconciliation?”

It was the elder Smithers who replied. “You have, Mr. Holmes. That is what I meant when I said I had been an old fool. Freda has chosen well, and all that I can do now is to make up for the lost years as best I can. One thing has come out of this, and from henceforth I shall be master in my own house. Too long have I been weak and skulked in my works for the sake of peace and quiet, but no longer. Freda and her husband will always be welcome in my home, and I hope I can persuade Marcus to return until such time as he finds a wife of his own choosing.”

Holmes rose to his feet. “Then we shall meet at Bermondsey at six o’clock tonight.”

There was but a limited response to Mrs. Pritchard’s attempt to return as much of the money as possible, the majority of the victims being happy to slink away, relieved to know that they were no longer menaced. Even Holmes was unable to trace all of Burton’s victims, and eventually a well-known charity received a handsome anonymous donation.

What fee Holmes awarded himself I don’t know, but some weeks later I was astonished to have in the post my not insignificant bookmaker’s account marked “Paid, with thanks”. I knew better than to raise the matter with my friend, for he can be very touchy at times.

It was several years later that I saw an item in The Daily Telegraph that raised my eyebrows. It announced the purchase of Lewis Pritchard’s cab firm by Tilling’s, the gigantic cab company. No mention was made of the price that was paid, but the paper’s business correspondent seemed to think that Pritchard had done very well out of the deal.

When I showed the paragraph to Holmes, he responded by pointing to the obituary column where I read of the death of Sir Charles Richards, a high-ranking official at the Foreign Office. My expression remained blank until Holmes gave me a hint.

“Richards? Pritchard? Come, Watson, I knew who Pritchard was right from the beginning. I thought even you could put two and two together and come up with the right answer.”