Mr. Sherlock Holmes

The nature and methods of my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes were unique, certainly in my experience, among men. When I first realised this, and expressed my determination that his achievements should not pass into history unrecorded, it was with great reluctance that I was permitted to act as chronicler of some of his cases. His extraordinary feats often astounded me, but I always knew that he saw them as no more than exercises of his supremely logical mind.

There have been however, instances where to make an account available to the public would have caused lasting scandal, and so at my friend’s insistence I have consigned the relative papers to my box at Cox & Co., to be read long after he and I are gone.

Nor were these the only documents that were stored in this fashion. On other occasions when I proposed sending a completed story to my publisher I faced a firm refusal from Holmes, on the grounds that the contents, although true, were too fantastical to be readily believed, and occasionally he refused for reasons known only to him. Again I have had to obey his wishes, but reserved the right to preserve the documents so that they may be read by those possibly more enlightened in years to come. The following is an account of events that my friend at first forbade me to divulge, but he later relented.

I recall that it was shortly after the closing of the nineteenth century, during an autumn with rumours of further instability across Europe rampant in the newspapers, when I noticed a predictable change in Holmes’ manner.

Some little time ago, he had been jubilant with the success of the adventure in which Lady Heminworth was so cruelly tormented, in contrast to the affairs of Blessington and Mr. Kratides some years earlier, the memories of which occasionally depressed him still.

One morning he emerged from his bedroom late, after I had finished breakfasting. He sat in the chair across the table from me and I was warned. In general, since I had succeeded in weaning him off his habit of injecting a solution of seven per cent cocaine, his spirits had been lighter. But now he adopted his old, sombre look and the restlessness in his eyes told me the cause.

Already, it had been too long since Holmes had exercised his powers. Weeks had turned into several months, and daily I had seen the pressure of inactivity mounting in him. He would smoke or play a tune on his Stradivarius, his eyes straying towards the shelf where the cocaine bottle had been formerly kept, before moving abruptly to the window to gaze down on the ceaseless daytime parade along Baker Street. I could not tell if my presence inspired his resistance, or if it came from an effort of his iron will.

Physically, my friend had changed little. His tall, gaunt figure stood more upright than ever, the hawk-like nose and domed forehead appeared unaltered since our first meeting. Only his eyes and movements told me of the conflict within.

“Will you eat, Holmes?” I asked when we had greeted each other. “I will call Mrs. Hudson. The bacon today is excellent.”

He gestured dismissively, with a thin hand. “There is little point, when I have no appetite. Some coffee, perhaps.”

I summoned Mrs. Hudson, who looked gravely at Holmes as she brought a fresh coffee pot. This was his third day without food.

“Cheer up, old fellow,” I exhorted him as I crushed out the remains of my first cigarette of the day. “Something will come along. You have had stretches between cases before. Why not occupy yourself as usual, with research, until a client appears?”

He pulled at his morning coat to straighten it, and raised his eyes to me. “You are right of course, Watson. I am prone to melancholia between investigations, but it is foolishness itself to allow it to cloud my mind like this. I apologise, old friend, for how I must appear to you.”

“Not at all. After you have finished your coffee, might I suggest we take a walk together? Fresh air will help to clear your head.”

“Always you have my best interests at heart. Very well, a walk it shall be. I recall that your practice is in the care of a locum until the end of the week.”

“I returned early from Cheltenham, so Dr. Topping has a few days left to run.”

As we rose, a coach pulled up outside, and Holmes stiffened like a terrier and turned towards the window.

Moments later the bell rang, and we heard Mrs Hudson hurrying to answer the door.

“It may be that we will postpone our walk, Watson.” Holmes said with the ghost of a smile.

“But you were intending to go out before I mentioned it.”

“How pray, did you deduce that?”

“You are wearing your morning attire,” I observed, “rather than your usual dressing-gown at breakfast as of late.”

“Ha!” He cried, looking pleased. “Truly, I never get your measure, Watson.”

His words were hardly spoken, when the door opened and Mrs Hudson announced our visitor.

“Mr. Avery Quill to see you, Mr. Holmes.”

The man who staggered into the room alarmed me by his appearance, and I saw that Holmes also was taken aback. I was dimly aware of Mrs. Hudson withdrawing, for my attention was riveted on our visitor before the door was quietly closed.

He had been a tall man, but now his body was bent and he moved painfully. His face was as grey as that of a four-day-old corpse, and his sparse hair stood up in disarray. Even from several feet away I could see that his eyes were clouded by grief, and his hands shook as he looked from Holmes to me and back again.

“Good morning, gentlemen. I am here to see Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and I must begin by apologising for having no appointment.”

Holmes’ eyes were fixed upon him, but with concern rather than the usual glitter of anticipation at the prospect of a new client.

“My dear sir,” my friend exclaimed, “you are clearly unwell. Watson, some brandy while our visitor is seated.”

I poured a glass from the sideboard decanter, and put it into Mr. Quill’s hand. He drank deeply and leaned back in the chair, fighting to control his breathing. He closed his eyes and his mouth tightened as the harsh spirit reached his stomach, and I felt a racing pulse in his wrist.

“I must apologise again.” His words were barely audible, but grew stronger as he continued. “As you see, I have been ill. This threat hanging over me will hasten my end.”

Holmes’ keen glance had, I knew, taken in the many signs that this man was not merely ill, but at death’s door. At the same time, I myself observed that his clothing was fairly new and well pressed.

“Please take a few moments to compose yourself,” my friend said, “Then, when you are quite ready, tell us how we may assist you. There is no need for haste.” He saw that our visitor had shot a questioning glance in my direction, and explained my presence at once. “This is my associate and friend, Dr. Watson. He has accompanied me most usefully on many of my previous cases, and I can assure you that his discretion is absolute. Anything you would say to me, you can say to him also.”

Mr. Quill seemed to make a considerable effort and sat up in his chair. He thanked me as I took the empty glass from him.

“I must explain, gentlemen, that I have already taken this matter to the official police force. That was a week past and nothing has come of it. I heard your name favourably mentioned by one of the plainclothes detectives, and resolved to enlist your aid in addition if I could.”

“Do you recall the name of this officer?” Holmes asked.

“I do indeed. It was the detective who, as far as I can tell, has been most active in the case. A Mr. Lestrade.”

My friend’s expression was entirely controlled. “He is known to me. It was kind of him to be complimentary.”

Mr. Quill nodded, without expanding on Lestrade’s statement.

“Tell us, then,” Holmes said, “of the nature of this situation which evidently causes you much distress.”

After a short while Mr. Quill raised his head, and looked at each of us in turn.”It is my daughter. Someone has taken her.” His voice rose, now trembling. “She has been kidnapped!”

“A week ago, you said?”

“I did. It seems an age has passed, since then.

Holmes sighed. “If only you had come to me immediately. As far as you know, where was your daughter when she was abducted?”

“In her shop, surely. I bought the premises. She has no need to work, but she insists on earning her living independently. I could do nothing to dissuade her, for she has a strong nature. She works as a milliner.”

“And when did you discover that she was missing?”

“She lives with me -- there are just the two of us, since my wife passed away -- and I became concerned when she failed to return home when darkness fell.”

Holmes nodded. “So you went to her place of work?”

“Indeed. It was in darkness and deserted.”

“Was there anything in the shop that led you to conclude that she had been taken against her will? A note for instance, demanding a ransom payment?”

“I am quite sure that there was nothing,” Mr. Quill shook his head in despair. “I looked over her desk and on the display shelves, in case she had simply gone to visit a customer and left me a message as she has done once or twice before. There was no sign of anything.”

“Does she often visit customers?” I asked him.

“She does. Her usual practice is to take orders at the shop, and then visit the client for subsequent fittings. She always said she wanted every hat that came out of her shop to be unique, a work of art.”

“Quite.” The frown which had appeared on Holmes’ face deepened. “It was at this point then, that you reported your daughter‘s absence to Scotland Yard?”

“Not quite, sir. I allowed a few hours to pass, lest I trouble our busy police force needlessly. I entertained hope of her return until eleven o‘clock.”

“At which time you made the report?”

“That is correct.”

“With what result?”

“Very little that I can see. Mr. Lestrade has promised that the search will continue, but there has been no progress.”

No look of surprise passed across Holmes’ face. “Perhaps we can improve upon that.”

“My dear sir,” said Mr. Quill, his face an ashen mask, “you give me hope. I am not a rich man but I will recompense you as best I can.”

Holmes fixed him with a stare that was not unkind. “With that, you should not concern yourself. I know, Mr. Quill, that you are an importer of tea, and that business is not as good as it was.”

Our visitor’s eyes grew large with surprise. “You know me then?”

“Dear me, no! When you entered this room I detected the fragrance of an Assam mixture around you. Now, there is a distinct flavour of Darjeeling also. The presence of both these varieties reveals their substantial contact with your clothing, and therefore that tea is likely your business.” Holmes expression lightened. “Forgive me, tobacco is the aroma which accompanies most of my clients, and I perceive that you have forgone that pleasure for some little time. That of tea is much less common.”

“But I could have been a shopkeeper, or...”

“I noticed your trade association badge, pinned to your coat.”

“Of course.” Mr. Quill shook his head feebly, as if astonished at his own lack of astuteness. “Although, I fail to see how you could have concluded that my business is less profitable than it was, and how you knew that I have recently ceased to smoke.”

“As for your use of tobacco, that is the simplest of all,” Holmes said. “The faded stains on your fingers suggest that you have recently given up cigarettes or cigars, since the indications from a pipe would be quite different. The decline in your trade is unsurprising, for have there not been difficulties in bringing goods from the Indian sub-continent, these past few months?”

“There have indeed.”

“It is to be hoped that the situation is temporary, but of course, this means your warehouses will by now be considerably diminished to the detriment of your profits. As for your mention of my fee, I have a scale which never varies save when I dispense with payment altogether. There will be no difficulty there.”

“I am already in your debt, Mr, Holmes.”

“Not at all. However, it would be best to begin our enquiries immediately. I take it, Watson, that you will accompany Mr. Quill and myself to his daughter’s shop?”

“As ever, Holmes.”

“Then we shall be on our way.”

We left Baker Street a little after ten-thirty. I hailed a passing four-wheeler to take us to St James’s Street, where among the clusters of clubs and luxury shops, we found the establishment of Miss Patricia Quill.

Our client let us into the deserted shop and Holmes began to inspect the room before the door had closed behind us. His attitude, peering into every corner like a terrier into a rabbit-hole, was unrelenting. When he had examined the stock room beyond he came back into the shop with his head on his chest, absorbed in thought.

“What have you found, Holmes?” I asked.

“Nothing that I did not expect to find.”

“Is there anything else you wish to see?” enquired Mr. Quill.

“There remains the desk.”

We watched as Holmes pulled out every drawer and scrutinized every surface and shelf. Finally he stepped away, holding a single object.

“Is that a visiting card,” asked Mr. Quill.

“Something of the sort.” Holmes held it up to the light and turned it over.

“A statue with its head covered in serpents,” I observed.

“It is the Gorgon Medusa, from classical Greek mythology. One of the three Gorgon sisters.”

“But how does it come to be here?”

“That may be one of the things we are obliged to discover.”

“I cannot imagine my daughter’s connection with this,” Mr. Quill said.

“Perhaps that will become clear, before too long.” Holmes reached for the door. “However, I think there is nothing more to be learned here for the present. I see that a cab has just become vacant down the street, Mr. Quill, and you may wish to return home in it. If you will give your card to Doctor Watson, so that we will know where to find you, I think a walk in the late morning air will do us good.”

Mr. Quill, appearing rather surprised at this sudden dismissal, caught the cab, which rattled off and was quickly gone from our sight. I knew my friend of old, and the reason for his action was clear to me.

“Holmes, what is it that you want to speak of away from Mr. Quill’s hearing?”

“This is a bad business, Watson,” he said as we began to walk. “Mr. Quill’s unfortunate daughter has almost certainly been murdered.”

I nodded, sadly. “I saw your expression change, when Mr. Quill said that no ransom note was found.”

“I was concerned then, but now that I have examined the scene of the abduction, I am even more so.”

“It is certain that the girl was taken from the shop?”

Holmes paused as a man alighted from a landau and walked across our path. “Oh yes, the dusty stockroom floor reveals that clearly. When a young woman is kidnapped and no demand is made, what reason can be deduced?”

I hesitated to reply, not wanting to disappoint Holmes or appear obtuse. “I would say that her abductors set out to make her disappear from sight, probably because of something that she knew that could harm them.”

“Bravo Watson!” Holmes clapped his hands together, surprising me. “Indeed something that the girl knows or has seen, possibly accidentally, is the most likely cause. She may even be unconscious of its significance. That is why, far from demanding money to return her, the kidnappers have hidden and probably silenced her.”

“I fear for her, and Mr. Quill.”

“I, also. She is almost certainly already dead, since to keep her alive would be contrary to their purpose. We may never hear more of her, or she may be found floating in the Thames. As for her father, I am sorry to say that the news will worsen his already precarious state of health.”

“It will kill him,” I confirmed. “The colour of his face and the manner in which he holds his left arm are symptoms enough.”

“He has a failing heart?”

“Precisely.”

“Then we must concentrate our efforts to discover those responsible quickly and place them in Lestrade’s hands, if possible while Mr. Quill still lives, so that he at least knows that his daughter’s death has not gone unavenged.”

“Small compensation as that will be.”

“Sadly, we can do no more.”

As we continued I glanced at him, catching the look of steely determination that I had come to know when he was about to embark upon a case.

“As always, I am with you Holmes.”

“My dear Watson, I had no doubt of it.”

***

Later, over luncheon at Baker Street, Holmes suddenly broke the silence that he had maintained while we ate Mrs Hudson’s curried chicken.

“Watson, I saw a list of the girl’s clients on her desk. They were few of late, but regular. She has visited her most recent client twice during the week before the abduction, and it .occurs to me that it may be there that this affair began. If Mr. Quill is to be believed, she has been nowhere else except home during that time.”

“You mean that she may have seen or heard there, whatever the kidnappers wanted to keep hidden?”

Holmes put down his knife and fork. “That is possible. Except to confirm that the abduction took place there, I learned little else from that shop. In the sewing room that adjoined the stockroom, I found that her hat-making materials were laid out and undisturbed, but that is all. No, a visit to this woman may prove instructive.”

‘“This woman,’ Holmes?”

“Mrs. Hannah McLyall, of South Brixton.”

We put on our hats and coats, Holmes wore his ear-flapped travelling cap, against the cold autumn wind that had sprung up, and hailed a passing cab. We were soon among the sparse traffic on tree-lined roads leading southeast out of the capital. The cabby turned into Atlantic Road and passed several fine villas, before reining in the horse before iron gates set in a high wall.

When we were alone again, Holmes and I peered through rusting bars at the rather dilapidated house. It was a dull red brick building, halfcovered with ivy and with some sort of out-building beyond. We could see a solid-looking door at the end of a short drive that was edged by thick bushes.

“A cheery-looking place,” Holmes remarked.

“I would not care to live here.”

“Nor I.”

He turned the handle with some effort, and the gates creaked open. We walked along the uneven gravel path, past windows that were grimy and gripped by tendrils of climbing plants. It crossed my mind that we were probably at the residence of someone quite elderly, incapable of maintaining the property or unable to afford to do so. Yet she bought expensive hats! It was a small puzzle.

A maidservant, grim-faced and ancient, let us in, and took Holmes’ card to her mistress. The room that we were ushered into was much as I had expected, with numerous aspidistras on small tables surrounding the armchairs and the chaise-longue. The mid-afternoon light was filtered by the climbing plants at the windows, causing patches of shadow across the carpet. Scattered about were marble busts and portraits of men I did not recognise. A stifling sensation of confinement all but overcame me.

Mrs. McLyall, by contrast, surprised me. Despite my preconceptions, she was not an elderly person. The poor light made judgment difficult, but I would have put her age at no more than thirty-five. She was, however, an obvious eccentric. Her scarlet dress was emblazoned with gold designs that reminded me of the costume of a fairground fortune-teller, an impression enhanced by the shiny black mane of hair reaching almost to her waist. A tall woman, her skin was dark and her lips ruby-red, completing the Romany image.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen, and welcome.” She said in a strangely low-pitched voice. “It is always a pleasure to receive unexpected guests.”

“Thank you for doing so,” Holmes replied. “My name is Sherlock Holmes, and this is my friend and associate, Dr. John Watson.”

Mrs. McLyall smiled. “I am glad to make your acquaintance.” She half turned toward the door, where the maidservant stood waiting. “Some tea, perhaps?”

“Thank you, no,” said Holmes. “We will not take up much of your time.”

She raised a hand, and I heard the door close as the maidservant made her exit.

Mrs. McLyall shook a rogue strand of hair back from her forehead. “Pray tell me then, the purpose of your visit.”

She lowered herself onto the chaise-longue, and at a gesture Holmes and I took an armchair each.

“We would like to ask you,” my friend explained, “about someone we believe you to know.”

Mrs. McLyall raised her eyebrows, looking mildly puzzled. “But I am intrigued. Who could it be?”

“Miss Patricia Quill.”

“I cannot recall her.”

“You have bought more than one hat from her shop.”

“Of course!” Mrs. McLyall raised a hand to her brow. “The hat-girl! Was that her name? But why should you think that I would know her, apart from occasional small transactions between us?”

“We came across your name, while conducting an examination of Miss Quill”s business premises. She has disappeared suddenly and her father who, I fear, is in very poor health, is anxious as to her welfare.”

She regarded Holmes shrewdly. “The situations of both are unfortunate. However, I regret that I cannot help you. Apart from her visits here to fit or alter the hats that I had purchased, and my own occasional calls at her shop, I have no connection with this girl.”

“So,” I interjected, “you would have no idea as to where she would have gone if, for example, she suddenly decided to take a holiday or visit a relative?”

“None. We talked little. I doubt if we had anything in common.”

Holmes got to his feet abruptly. “It appears then that we have troubled you unnecessarily. I apologise for the intrusion.” He shot me a sidelong glance. “Come, Watson.”

We excused ourselves and left the house, walking slowly as he had lapsed into deep thought. We were almost at the gates before he broke the silence.

“Watson, your expression tells me that you are thinking that our visit was a waste of time. That, I assure you, is far from true.”

“But we learned nothing.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Did you not notice then, Mrs. McLyall’s initial reaction to my mention of Miss Quill? Also, she said “Was that her name?” speaking in the past tense. This reinforces my belief that the poor girl is already dead, as well as that Mrs. McLyall knew of this.”

“It seems then, that she is involved somehow.”

I think that Holmes would have said more, but the sudden harsh ring of something striking the iron bars of the gate propelled him into action. He forced me to my knees and sank with me, and we remained perfectly still among the fallen leaves for several minutes.

“You can get up now, Watson,” he said at last as he rose and brushed the knees of his trousers.

I stood up as he peered cautiously through the bars. He looked up and down the road before speaking again.

“We are safe now. Are you all right, old fellow?”

“I am unhurt, but what happened?”

He inspected the ironwork, where a small piece of rust had been dislodged to reveal bright metal. “Someone, doubtless our adversary or an agent of his, was practising his shooting skills.”

I looked out, surprised. “But, I heard no shot.”

“Probably an air-gun was used. We have met those before.”

We passed through the gates and I saw that an early mist was falling. At the end of the long road a carriage turned out of sight, but I was uncertain whether it contained our attacker. My friend smiled grimly.

“And so the game begins.” he said.