The Adventure of Canal Reach

by Arthur Hall

In describing the extraordinary experiences that it has been my good fortune to share with my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I fear that I have been guilty of neglecting to mention that his brother, Mycroft, occasionally passed on to us cases that subsequently proved to be of great interest. In fact, I grew to consider a communication from him to be an almost certain prelude to some new and unexpected adventure.

When Holmes was beset with the lassitude that, if it were not interrupted, inclined him towards the cocaine bottle, such a brotherly intervention was particularly welcome to us both. At such times I found it impossible to rouse him from the onset of a deepening depression of the spirit, but the prospect of a new problem or a new client invariably acted as an instant restorative.

I recall one bright autumn morning when we were faced with such circumstances. Holmes was at the beginning of the perilous slope that led to his darkest moods, and as I finished my breakfast I searched my mind for a distraction. I saw that his meal was untouched.

“Holmes, these kippers are delicious.”

He gave me a disinterested glance. “Are they, Watson? You can have mine if you are still hungry. As for me, I have no appetite.”

“But you must eat something.”

His eyes flashed with impatience and I readied myself for a bombardment of disparaging remarks when our landlady, Mrs. Hudson, entered to place a telegram before him. Knowing the signs she quickly withdrew, and silence descended upon us.

“Will you not open it, Holmes?” I prompted after a few moments.

He raised his head to look at me gloomily. “Doubtlessly you are hoping that this is some new affair to arrest my attention,” said he. “There is nothing on the envelope to suggest that, so it may equally be a reminder of an unpaid bill.”

“It would not be difficult to decide the matter,” I remarked as I pushed my plate away.

With a shrug, he slit open the envelope with his unused knife. “Mycroft wishes me to see one of his employees.”

He pushed the form across to me and I read:

My clerk, Marius Jackman, may prove of interest to you. I trust it will be convenient if he calls at ten o’clock.

Mycroft

“This could be something new.” I was glad to see a slight change in his expression. “You must not despair, old fellow.”

“Perhaps the man has lost his pen, or his cat.”

“I recall that some of the cases that you have described as most satisfying have developed from small incidents.”

Holmes nodded his head “That is true, I suppose. But wait. My pocket-watch tells me that the time is ten minutes to ten o’clock now. Be so good as to ring for Mrs. Hudson, so that the breakfast things can be cleared away by the time our visitor arrives.”

This was quickly accomplished. At ten precisely, the door-bell rang and Mr. Marius Jackman was shown into our room. He was a tall young man of about twenty-five, clad in the sombre attire that clerks in government service invariably wear. He sat down with us, as we took the armchairs around the unlit fire.

“And now, sir,” my friend began, “pray tell us how we can assist you.”

I noticed that Mr. Jackman had no difficulty in distinguishing between Holmes and myself, as with new clients in the past, and concluded that Mycroft must have described his brother accurately. I saw also that, although our visitor had laid down his hat and stick, he had neglected to remove his gloves.

“My superior, Mr. Mycroft Holmes, has sent me to you, sir.”

“My brother has notified me in advance. I assume you have a story to tell.”

The young man shifted in his chair. “Indeed I do. But I see that you are scrutinizing me closely, Mr. Holmes. Have we, perhaps, met before?”

“I think not,” my friend replied. “It is both my habit and a necessity of my profession to observe and draw conclusions from my clients. On occasion, the results can be helpful.”

“May I ask what you have deduced from my appearance?”

“Certainly, but I fear that there is little to tell. I know already that you are a clerk in my brother’s department at the Foreign Office, and I perceive that you write with your left hand, although you may not always have done so.

Mr. Jackman became very still. And eyes Holmes warily. “I am at a loss to understand your reasoning, sir.”

His puzzled expression did not surprise me, for I had seen it on the faces of many before now. Sometimes I had been able to define the path of Holmes’s thoughts, but this was not one of them.

“There is nothing mysterious about it,” Holmes replied with a quick smile. “When I see that you remove your hat and hold your stick with your right hand, I naturally conclude that this is the hand you use most. However, when I observe that you do not remove your gloves, I ask myself for an explanation. As the index finger of your right hand glove is empty, it is apparent that you have somehow lost the finger. You could no longer wield a pen with such a damaged hand, yet you earn your living as a clerk. Therefore, you must now use your left hand for writing, at least.”

“That is quite amazing,” said our visitor. “Yet it is simple enough when you explain it.”

“That observation has been made more times than I can count.”

“My lost finger is the result of childhood foolishness. I picked up my father’s shotgun when his back was turned. Until recently, I had a glove with a false finger fitted to it, but it seems to have been mislaid. My injury is rather upsetting in company.”

“As much harm is done by accident as by deliberate intent,” Holmes remarked. “A most regrettable misfortune, especially for a boy. But now sir, pray relate to us the story you mentioned.”

“Since my experience, I have pondered over it constantly,” Mr. Jackman began. “It seems to be harmless, and nothing but a silly practical joke. My preoccupation must have been noticeable, because on resuming my work, it was not long before Mr. Mycroft Holmes asked me the cause of it. I was surprised that he took the matter seriously, and immediately referred me to your good self.”

“I cannot help you until you make me conversant with the facts,” Holmes reminded him.

“Of course. A week ago, I took a few days holiday in Bath. I am an amateur historian in my spare time, and I wanted to look over the Roman remains there. I took a room at a small hotel and had been there a day when one of the other guests, a man who introduced himself as Mr. Peter Smith, struck up a conversation with me. We soon discovered that we had much in common and spent many hours together, touring the ruins and taking meals together. At his insistence, we shared a table for our meals in the hotel. Mr. Smith was extremely friendly and companionable, but I found it strange that he would allow me to pay for nothing. Our visits to coffee-shops, a theatre on one occasion, and even my hotel bill were paid for by him, to my utter astonishment. When I offered to pay my way he would have none of it, waving away my attempts.”

“And what did this most generous fellow eventually ask in return?” Holmes asked with a knowing look.

Our visitor raised his hands in a confounded gesture. “Absolutely nothing. That is why this incident was so puzzling! In fact, what happened was the very opposite to what I had come to expect. When I made a final attempt to reimburse Mr. Smith for some of the expense, he merely laughed. ‘I’ll tell you what, Marius my friend,’ he said just before we went our separate ways. ‘You come to visit me this weekend. I’ll show you some more historical places and you can buy me a meal if you’ve a mind to, although that doesn’t matter. It’s just your company I desire. Like you, I am unmarried, and loneliness sometimes overcomes me.’”

He paused, as if reflecting again on the situation.

“Did you agree?” I prompted.

“I did indeed,” he replied. “for I felt obliged to. On Saturday morning, I caught the early train to West Byfleet and hired a trap at the station. Mr. Smith had told me that his residence is situated close to that section of the River Wey, which is a canal connecting West Byfleet to Basingstoke, and after asking directions several times, I was able to find the area. I left the trap and walked along the narrow towpath, and began to wonder if I had arrived at the wrong place. I found myself confronted by a waterway long disused, stagnant and thick with algae and weed. It was a silent place, without any sound, until I disturbed some birds that had nested in the clumps of vegetation at the edge of the thick brown water.

“I paused to look at my surroundings more carefully. There were houses spaced along both banks, but every one that I could see appeared derelict. I walked further, hoping to see Canal Reach, for that was the name of the house that Mr. Smith had used, to be an acceptable place of residence in the midst of all this decay. I passed a number of old barges, moored at the opposite bank and already half-surrendered to the elements, before there appeared a long plot of uncultivated land with a single house at its end. As I approached the house, I could already see that it was in a similar condition to the others, and that a faded sign hung awkwardly and proclaimed it to be the address I sought.”

“You saw no one,” asked Holmes, “for all this time?”

“The entire scene was deserted, up to then. I rapped upon the door with my stick, without any response, several times. When I realised that this was futile, I took the narrow path at the side of the house, in the hope that I could attract the attention of someone in the downstairs rooms or in the garden. At one point, I stopped to peer into the largest of the windows, and was appalled by what I saw. There was no furniture visible, no inhabitants, or anything else! The sun shone in, illuminating a room containing nothing but a broken chair, at such an angle that I could see through an open door that the next room was much the same. I confess that I was mystified for, if this were some sort of practical joke, then what purpose could it have? Mr. Smith had seemed such an agreeable sort, befriending me during our brief association, that I could not believe it of him.

“I could see that there was nothing else to be done, so I returned to the towpath and was about to retrace my steps when I realised that I was no longer alone. Almost opposite on the other bank stood a red-roofed house that looked as if it were about to fall down, and to my surprise a woman stood at the gate of the small garden watching me intently. She was of striking appearance, past her youth, but still dark-haired and handsome, and wearing a scarlet dress. I called to her but she did not reply, instead producing a spy-glass from a case and proceeding to watch me through it. I concluded that the unfortunate woman must be very short-sighted and raised a hand to show that I had seen her, whereupon she lowered the instrument and turned away abruptly to retreat into the house.”

I saw that Holmes’s face was alight with interest. His eyes glittered.

“Can you remember which hand you raised to wave?” he enquired.

Mr. Jackman paused thoughtfully, wearing a puzzled expression at such a question. “I believe... yes, I recall clearly,” he said at last. “I held my travelling-case in my left hand, and waved with my right.”

“You are certain?”

He hesitated. “Quite certain. Is that significant?”

“Perhaps. What action did you take then?”

“I could see that I would learn nothing at Canal Reach,” our visitor resumed, “so I resolved to ask questions at the house where the woman had appeared. During my approach, I had seen no bridge to take me across to the opposite bank, so I knew that I would have to walk further. In fact, it was almost a mile before I was able to cross. Immediately upon reaching the house, I knocked upon the door. Then, having received no reply, I hammered upon it impatiently. This brought no result and so I encircled the place, only to find it as empty as Canal Reach, and with no sign of recent habitation. Finally, after peering through several windows, I retraced my steps. When I eventually came to the trap, I drove back to the station and returned to London.”

“To return to work on Monday, where you eventually explained your confused demeanour to Mr. Mycroft Holmes,” I finished.

“That was the conclusion of it.”

There was a moment of silence, broken only by the traffic in the street below.

Holmes said to our visitor, “Pray describe Mr. Peter Smith to us, as accurately and precisely as you can.”

“He is rather above average height. His hair is black, but greying at the temples. His moustache has a rather elaborate curl and his skin is dark or well-tanned. The style of his clothing is rather more flamboyant than is usual, and appears well-cut. I noticed a faint foreign accent creeping into his speech when he became excited, as he did several times in the course of our historical ventures and during conversation. He explained that he spent some time abroad in his youth.”

“Excellent. A most concise appraisal,” Holmes said approvingly. “Is there anything else unusual about him that comes to mind?”

Mr. Jackman considered, then recollected, “I distinctly remember overhearing an exchange between Mr. Smith and the receptionist at the booking-desk, shortly after I arrived. He was apparently desperate to secure a room, which he subsequently did, although he mentioned to me later that he had booked in advance. Probably I have misunderstood the situation, and my referring to it has no value.”

“Much to the contrary, I consider the incident to have great significance.”

“Indeed? Your ways are a mystery to me, sir.”

“I will endeavour to clear up all that is strange from this affair before too long. Now, Mr. Jackman, is there anything more about this curious encounter and its aftermath that you wish to tell us?”

Our client sat very still, then shook his head. “I can think of nothing further.”

“When you returned to your residence in London, was there anything amiss?”

“Nothing. All was as before.”

Holmes rose from his chair. “Then we will wish you good day. Be so good as to convey my compliments to my brother, and to inform him that I expect to be able to throw some light on all this in a day or two.”

Mr. Jackman left us then, looking more bemused than ever. When I returned from showing him to the door, Holmes stood at the window where I joined him.

“Can you make anything of this, Watson?” he asked as we looked down to see Mr. Jackman hail a hansom.

“It does seem as if Mr. Jackman’s original conclusion that he has been the victim of a rather pointless practical joke could be correct. Certainly, this man Smith cannot have profited from it.”

“Not financially, I agree. However, there are several points that require explanation.”

“I can see none.”

We turned from the window and resumed our seats.

“Consider,” Holmes began, “the incident at the booking-desk. Why do you think Smith lied to Mr. Jackman about having made a booking in advance?”

“It appears to have been an oversight of some sort. It may have caused some embarrassment.”

My friend smiled, perhaps at my lack of suspicion. “No, Watson, I consider it far more likely that Smith followed Mr. Jackman to the hotel, and could not have booked ahead because he did not know the destination beforehand.”

“Good heavens! Was the whole thing arranged, and not a chance meeting?”

“Undoubtedly. Next, there is the woman on the canal. Why did she need the spy-glass to see our client?”

“The lady sounds regrettably short-sighted.”

“And yet she saw him arrive, and only then went into the garden. She produced the spy-glass from a case, but not until she had drawn near.”

“The significance of that eludes me,” I confessed.

“It is simply that the spy-glass was necessary to confirm some detail. She could not approach Mr. Jackman because of the body of water that lay between them, so she obtained a closer view with the instrument. What small feature could have been so important, do you think? What is unusual about our client?”

I considered for a moment. As far as I could recall, Mr. Jackman had but one distinguishing mark. “His missing finger!”

Holmes beamed. “Excellent, Watson. I have said before that I never get your measure. His finger, indeed. If I have interpreted this situation correctly, the lack of that finger may have saved his life.”

“You understand all of this?”

“At this stage I am still uncertain, although I have arrived at a partial explanation. Another point in question, and there are probably others, is that of Mr. Peter Smith himself. If I describe to you a rather dark-skinned man who speaks with a faintly foreign accent and wears clothes of an unusual cut or colour, what do you conclude?”

“That he is from outside these shores, surely. But Smith explained to Mr. Jackman that his speech was influenced by time spent abroad.”

“I am inclined to believe that the truth is the exact reverse, that Smith is foreign and learned his English from time spent previously in this country. His skin colouring, mode of dress, and accent strongly suggest it. The final clue of course, is his choice of assumed name, that most English of surnames - ‘Smith’.”

“I suppose you may be right. But what is the meaning of it all? Why would an unknown foreigner befriend Mr. Jackman and then play such a purposeless trick?”

“The answer to that, I am hoping, lies in the vicinity of Canal Reach. If you are free, old fellow, you may like to accompany me there after lunch.”

* * *

We caught the afternoon train as it was about to pull out of the station. This new problem had lightened Holmes’s manner considerably, for he chattered uncharacteristically about varying subjects for almost the entire journey. On arrival at West Byfleet, we hired a trap, as Mr. Jackman has done before us, and obtained directions to the river. We turned off the road at a bridge that looked as if it had spanned the water for centuries and descended a gradual slope. Before long, the towpath grew narrow, and so Holmes tied the horse to an iron railing and we proceeded on foot.

Mr. Jackman had been accurate in his description, I thought, for the water was still and choked with weed. An evil smell arose from it that reminded me of marsh-gas, and the houses lining both sides of the canal were remote from each other and, under a dull autumn sky, appeared long since abandoned.

“This waterway was once the connection between West Byfleet and Basingstoke, as Mr. Jackman informed us,” Holmes remarked. “It was used to great extent by the boatyards that flourished here. Since most of them have now ceased to trade, the area has fallen into disuse. I doubt if a single house within sight is still occupied.”

“It certainly seems so. We have seen no one.”

We walked on, passing the mouldering craft moored at intervals. Presently we came to the plot of rough land that our client had described, and then to the ruined structure that we sought.

Holmes’s keen eyes swept over the place as we stood in silence before it. I saw nothing but a dilapidated house, but his enthusiasm was unaffected, as if it was exactly as he had expected.

“Wait here, Watson, while I make a short inspection.”

With that, he proceeded to walk around the building, producing his lens to examine the doors and window-frames. When he emerged I asked him about his findings, but he had little to say.

“There has been no one, with the exception of Mr. Jackman, on the surrounding path for a considerable time. The doors and windows have not been opened for a good deal longer.” He looked across the canal. “However, I am far more interested in the red-roofed house over there, so we will now make our way to it.”

We continued on until we came to the bridge that Mr. Jackman had described to us. After crossing, we passed a good many abandoned houses, some far apart and some much closer, but all in various stages of ruination.

At last we approached the one we sought, and entered through the tiny garden. Holmes again examined every side of the house with the aid of his lens after rapping on the door without response.

“Here also, there are signs that Mr. Jackman was here before us,” he observed. “However, this door at the side of the house has different footprints nearby. Also, it has been forced open recently.”

“Then here we may learn something.”

“We shall see.” Holmes turned the door-handle and braced himself to shoulder his way in, but it proved unnecessary. The door opened with a groan from hinges that were in need of oil. “Stay where you are, Watson. Do not move!”

His sudden exclamation startled me, and I imagined for a moment that some hideous trap had been left to ensnare further entrants. As it was, my friend merely sought to ensure that we made no disturbance to the dust that lay thickly inside.

He stepped into the short corridor carefully. “Tread only where I do, with your back to the wall.”

I complied, brushing away cobwebs as he walked slowly ahead with his eyes fixed upon the floor. When we reached the living-room, he was silent until he had studied the marks in the surrounding grime.

“It is quite clear what has taken place here,” he said then. “Two people, a man and a woman from the shape of their footprints, entered by the side door as we did. They then came in here and the man dragged that heavy table from the centre of the room to a position near the window. He then brought over those two chairs that you see, and the lady sat at this side of the table.” He gestured at the dust-laden surface. “Here is where she placed something, probably the spy-glass case, and that odd-shaped mark on the floor near the corner will be where the butt of a rifle rested when the weapon was propped against the wall.”

“So their intent was murder?”

“At first, at least. At some point, the woman retraced her steps to the side door and walked to the garden gate, which would have been when Mr. Jackman saw her, and then returned. Afterwards, they both left the premises.”

“You have deduced all this, from the patterns in the dust?”

“It is not difficult, if you form a hypothesis of what must have occurred and then check carefully that this is confirmed by the traces that have been left. As I have explained before, confusion arises when one attempts to bend the evidence to fit a supposition.”

“What have you found?” I asked, as he took an envelope from his pocket and scraped something from the floor into it.

“A small pile of ash, from a cigarette or cigar. It may tell us something.”

He spent a little more time looking around the room, then we returned to the corridor. The stairs received no more than a cursory glance, because the dust that lay thickly upon them remained in an undisturbed state.

“Back to Baker Street now, I think.” Holmes said finally, and we began the walk to return to the trap.

* * *

We arrived back to find Mrs. Hudson poised to serve dinner. I ate my roast lamb with mint sauce heartily, since this afternoon’s exertions had given me a healthy appetite. Holmes, as often when caught in the throes of a case, displayed little enthusiasm and hardly touched his food. The moment I laid down my knife and fork, he leaped to his feet.

“I have to analyse that tobacco, Watson. You can help me, if you will, by looking through the evening editions of the dailies and reporting to me anything, particularly of foreign activity in London, that strikes you as unusual.”

“I am glad to assist,” I replied to his retreating back, “as always.”

I scoured the news sheets, all the while aware of my friend at his workbench mixing chemicals and holding up test tubes to examine the results. After half-an-hour I gave up in disgust. I could find nothing of any relevance.

At almost the same instant, Holmes turned to our sitting-room. “What have you discovered, Watson?”

“Apart from the arrival in London of a group of Hungarian jugglers and the departure of a French count whose proposal of marriage to a society beauty was rejected, I can find nothing involving foreigners.”

“No matter. I would appreciate it if you would subject tomorrow’s morning editions to a similar examination.”

“Certainly. But have you made any progress?”

His eyes shone with satisfaction. “It is as I had begun to suspect. The tobacco was of an Italian mixture.”

“The woman described by Mr. Jackman would have fitted that description well.”

“And so the threads begin to untangle. There is but one missing piece to the puzzle, I think, for our case to be complete.”

“I confess to being confused, Holmes.”

“Not for long, old fellow, for I expect to be able to present the entire sequence of events to Lestrade shortly. For now, however, I suggest that we repair to our beds for a good night’s sleep. I expect us to be busy in the morning. Good night, Watson.”

With that, he turned abruptly and his bedroom door closed before I could reply. I realised then that weariness had settled upon me, and so followed his example.

Holmes was already halfway through his breakfast when I joined him. “The coffee is still warm in the pot,” was his greeting.

I made trivial conversation throughout the meal, until I realised that he was irritated by it. It was clear to me that as soon as I mentioned the affair that we were engaged upon, he would either prove reticent or overwhelm me with his enthusiasm, and my enjoyment of my bacon and eggs would be ruined.

“At last!” he exclaimed as I finished my last slice of toast. I put down my empty coffee cup as Mrs. Hudson appeared to clear the table.

“I see that the papers have arrived,” I remarked. “I will begin now, if you wish.”

“Pray do so, while I consult my index.”

I took the morning editions to my armchair, while he began to turn pages and select newspaper cuttings, only to discard them moments later.

I found something of significance soon after. “Holmes! I have it!”

He was beside me immediately, and we stared at the picture together.

“It is you, not I, who has solved this curious affair,” he said then.

“The resemblance is very close, but Mr. Jackman and this man are not identical,” I observed. “It is not difficult to see how one could be mistaken for the other, nevertheless. We can be sure that this is indeed someone different, since we can see clearly that he has no missing fingers.”

“Watson, you excel yourself,” Holmes beamed. “Not for the first time, I wonder which of us is the detective?”

I felt a keen embarrassment at such accolades of praise from my friend, especially twice in as many breaths. “I am always pleased to be of some little help.”

“Stout fellow! I see that the photograph is of the recently-appointed Italian Minister of Justice, Signor Carlo Caruso, who is here on a state visit. This adds considerable weight to my theory, especially as I believe that I have discovered the true identity of Mr. Peter Smith from my index. The article states that Signor Caruso will visit the National Gallery this afternoon, to view the exhibition of Italian old masters.”

“I fear that I am still a little at sea.”

Holmes snatched up his hat and coat. “All will soon be made clear, Watson. For now, I must leave you for a short while. Pray inform Mrs. Hudson that we will be taking an early lunch.”

With that he was gone, and from the window I saw him hail a passing hansom. I busied myself with a perusal of the remainder of the newspapers, and then with turning this affair over in my mind. I had just concluded that, while I understood some of the recent events that had surrounded us, I was unable to perceive the entire situation, when I heard the front door slam before Holmes bounded up the stairs.

“It is all arranged,” he said at once. “I have sent telegrams to Mycroft and to Lestrade. We must be outside the National Gallery by one o’clock, to witness Signor Caruso’s arrival.”

By the time he sat down, I had many questions to ask, but he would not be drawn. Until our lunch was served, he talked of Ancient Greek architecture and the noticeable rise of Germany as a military power between long silences as we ate.

We finished our meal and left our rooms before Mrs. Hudson could clear away. For the second time that day, Holmes was quick to secure a hansom, and we found ourselves in Trafalgar Square soon after.

“There seems to be a surfeit of constables,” I observed, “and the steps of the Gallery are quite crowded with onlookers.”

“The exhibition has proved popular. Ah! I see that Lestrade is already in charge.”

We joined the little detective at the base of the steps.

“Your telegram explained that this is a matter of some urgency, Mr. Holmes,” he said after greeting us, “and before I know it, I have at my disposal thirty constables. Normally I would have trouble getting more than two or three. It is all most curious.”

“Such is the influence of Mycroft,” Holmes murmured to me.

“I have read that there are important talks in progress, between ourselves and the Italians,” I said to Lestrade, “concerning some sort of alliance. Clearly, the government wishes to ensure that nothing occurs to threaten the outcome.”

“That sort of thing is far above my head, Doctor,” he replied.

Holmes’s keen eyes swept the crowd, and I saw him grow suddenly tense.

“How many constables did you say, Lestrade?”

“I was allowed thirty, some of them from other divisions.”

“So you are not familiar with all of them?”

The inspector looked at Holmes curiously. “Why do you ask?”

“Can you select three of their number, men that you already know, to join us here?”

“I can, but to what purpose?”

“The prevention of an assassination attempt on Signor Caruso. If you will instruct these men to obey my orders absolutely, I think I can promise that you will be arresting a criminal of some notoriety very soon.”

Lestrade stared at Holmes for what seemed to me to be a long time. I had begun to fear that the old distrust of my friend’s methods had resurfaced in the inspector’s mind when he turned abruptly and walked across to the line of constables at the edge of the crowd. I heard him call three names and beckon, and the four made their way back to us.

“This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” he explained to them. “I want you to obey his instructions in this business as you would mine.” He turned to my friend. “Mr. Holmes, these are constables O’Rourke, Patterson, and Denley. I have known them since I was myself in uniform.”

“Capital!” Holmes retorted. “Gentlemen, there is a dangerous criminal concealed here, but I believe I can expose him. I propose to search among the crowd lining the steps until I find the man I want. When I point him out I want you to restrain him immediately, one man to each arm and one to apply handcuffs. At my signal do not hesitate, no matter who I indicate. Is that understood?”

The three assented in unison.

While Lestrade and I looked on in a rather bewildered fashion, my friend and the three officers approached the crowd. Holmes at once produced his lens and, bending at the waist, appeared to be examining the steps, one by one, as they progressed upward along the line. They had not climbed further than the waiting constables when his arm shot out suddenly. “Good afternoon, Signor Atillio Parvetti.”

To my surprise, it was one of the other uniformed officers that he indicated. Lestrade’s three men instantly fell upon him, searched him, and led him away, struggling and cursing, to a waiting police wagon.

“You are sure of this, Mr. Holmes?” Lestrade said rather cautiously.

“If you need confirmation, Lestrade, you have only to look in your own files at Scotland Yard. You will discover that the murders of Mr. Howard Sangster, the industrialist, and Mr. Thomas Vernon, the newspaper magnate, have remained unsolved until now. Atillio Parvetti is a professional assassin who has visited these shores before.”

“But how did you identify him?”

Holmes smiled. “It was not difficult when I realised that the number of constables in attendance was actually thirty-one, rather than the thirty that you stated. Probably Parvetti’s intention was to dispose of one of them to maintain the expected number, had the opportunity presented itself. Having established that, it was simply a matter of deciding which constable was an imposter, and that was simplicity itself.”

“I cannot see it,” Lestrade admitted.

“Parvetti had made some attempt to alter his physical appearance, and there can be no doubt that he obtained his disguise from a costumier, but it occurred to me that he may not have considered his shoes. As I pretended to examine the steps I scrutinized carefully the footwear of each constable, until I saw a pair that were not only different from service issue, but of a foreign make. The design and pattern are quite unmistakable.”

“Here is the coach containing Signor Caruso. You have undoubtedly saved his life today, Mr. Holmes.”

“Not I, Lestrade, but Doctor Watson, who threw light on the true nature of the man’s plight. You need not mention me in your report, but I would be grateful if you would permit me to be present when Parvetti is questioned.”

“In the circumstances, I have no doubt that it will be in order.”

“Thank you. Watson, I will see you back at Baker Street, presently.”

With that we watched the dignified figure of Signor Caruso ascend the steps and enter the building without further incident. I returned to our rooms alone and settled myself in an armchair to read. I must have fallen asleep, and it was almost time for dinner when my friend returned in good spirits.

“Parvetti has confessed!” he announced. “I do not see that he could lose anything by it, however, since he is certain to face the hangman to pay for his previous crimes. I was able to point out his connection to at least two unsolved murders, and Lestrade agrees with my conclusions.”

“Allow me to pour you a brandy before dinner,” I offered as he sat down.

“Thank you, Watson. I confess to feeling the beginning of hunger pangs, stimulated no doubt by the aroma of the roast chicken that Mrs. Hudson is preparing.”

He was very animated at the successful conclusion of the case, but spoke only of other things. When we sat down to smoke afterwards, I could contain myself no longer.

“Holmes, will you give me a full account of this affair?”

He gave me a knowing look. “So that you can exaggerate and over-dramatize it before committing it to your publisher? Well. Watson, you have been instrumental in bringing this case to its end, so I will tell you all. By listening to Parvetti’s admissions at Scotland Yard, I was able to connect the entire chain of events.”

“Kindly delay long enough for me to retrieve my notebook.”

He nodded, drawing on his clay pipe. When I resumed my seat, he closed his eyes and began: “This case has its true beginnings some months ago, when Signor Caruso became the Italian Minister of Justice. He had long held an ambition to bring to trial Mario Conti, the head of one of the old crime families who had, until then, evaded all retribution for his considerable wrongdoings. This was a man who had lived a life of vicious crime, and of initiating it in others. He achieved his position through ruthlessness, and maintained it with threats and bribery. Signor Caruso was the first to refuse to capitulate, and Conti was imprisoned for twenty years. He did not serve much of his sentence, however.

“It so happened that a minor member of a rival family was also a prisoner, and the order went out to dispose of Conti. His wife, Signora Stefano Conti, swore revenge, on both the other family and Signor Caruso. The war between the families persists to this day, and Atillio Parvetti was commissioned to accompany Signora Conti on a journey to England, where they knew Signor Caruso was soon to visit.”

“But they mistook Mr. Jackman for him,” I ventured.

“Not at first. Parvetti watched government buildings in Whitehall and elsewhere systematically for weeks, and he may well have seen Signor Caruso from a distance, but when he set eyes on Mr. Jackman, as he would have done since Mycroft’s office is close by, he became uncertain. I wondered at first why Parvetti did not murder Mr. Jackman regardless, as would be a routine precaution in his profession, but neither he nor Signora Conti wished to take the unnecessary risk of drawing attention to themselves. Parvetti, remember, was already wanted by Scotland Yard for at least two previous killings. So it was then that Parvetti became the shadow of Mr. Jackman, seeking confirmation of his identity on the Signora’s instructions.”

“Hence the ‘accidental’ meeting at the hotel in Bath, and Parvetti’s pursuit of Mr. Jackman’s friendship.”

“Quite so. A rather inadequate photograph of Signor Caruso in their possession had proven to be of little use, and Parvetti was still undecided. Finally he devised the plan of luring Mr. Jackman to a lonely spot where Signora Conti could watch him closely, and then it would be decided if he should live or die. The confrontation occurred, of course, as he tried to gain entry to Canal Reach, and the spy-glass revealed that he had a missing finger. Knowing that this could not be Signor Caruso, despite the close resemblance, they then left the area at once. It occurred to me to wonder why Parvetti had not come to this conclusion earlier, but you will recall that Mr. Jackman was reluctant to take off his gloves and that his disfigurement was a source of some embarrassment to him. Evidently he had lost the glove containing the false finger by the time the Signora saw him.”

“The remainder of the story is not difficult to anticipate,” I said. “Parvetti and Signora Conti must have seen the same picture and notification of Signor Caruso’s visit to the National Gallery as ourselves, and the assassination attempt was arranged as a result.”

“Indeed, Watson. The rest you know, since you were present. I do hope that Lestrade will see fit not to mention my trifling involvement in this affair in his report. To claim this as one of his successes will undoubtedly enhance his career somewhat.”