A Very Strange Place

We were to see Mrs. McLyall again, very soon. After breakfast next morning Holmes and I were enjoying our first pipe of the day, he using the dottles from the evening before, when Mrs. Hudson entered to announce an unexpected visitor.

Holmes and I rose to our feet. Mrs. McLyall swept in, today wearing a costume of bright blue. Her large earrings caught the light as she addressed us.

“Good morning, gentlemen. No, I will not sit. I am here only to return your property, Mr. Holmes.”

“My property?” Holmes queried.

She produced something from the tiny bag she carried. “This, which you left behind yesterday. Unintentionally, I am sure.”

Holmes took the object from her. I looked over his shoulder and saw that he held a visiting card identical to the one he had retained from the shop.

“This is not mine, Mrs. McLyall,” he said.

“It was found by my maid, shortly after your visit.”

“Nevertheless, it is not mine. Perhaps another visitor has lost it.”

“There have been none. I do not invite many people to my house.”

“Perhaps I could discover who owns a card with such an unusual design,” Holmes said thoughtfully.

“Then you must do it at your own expense. I do not wish to become a client of yours.”

“That was not my suggestion, but I am obliged to you for bringing me this. It may be an interesting little matter to look into, when I have a spare moment.”

Mrs. McLyall made to say something further, but stopped herself. Strangely, she wore an expression that could equally have been fear or anger, as she turned abruptly to leave us.

“Good day, gentlemen.”

“The Gorgon, again!” I exclaimed as we listened to her descending the stairs. “Holmes, what is the significance of this?”

“Did Mrs. McLyall look uncomfortable, do you think, Watson?” He sank back into his chair. “Clearly, she expected us to be puzzled, perhaps alarmed, at the sight of this card.”

“Who do you think left it at her house?”

“No one. It is possible that she was given the card and told to bring it here.”

“But by whom?”

Holmes shrugged. “Oh, I do not know his name yet, but it will be the same fellow who shot at us.”

“I saw no one,”

“Neither did I, which means that he is an assassin who knows his trade. But this card may be a warning, to tell us that our fate will be as Miss Patricia Quill’s, if we do not withdraw.”

“How can you know this?”

“I do not, it is conjecture, but the fact that he attempted to discourage us with his air-gun suggests it.”

“You said that Mrs. McLyall was involved somehow.”

“I did, and this all but confirms it. When our friend saw us at her house, he must have been unpleasantly surprised that we had connected her to this affair so quickly. You saw his prompt action.”

“And so later he sent her here?”

“Willingly or unwillingly, yes.”

“This seems fragile reasoning, Holmes. Surely the card could have been dropped accidentally in the house by Mrs. McLyall’s husband?”

My friend smiled. “There we reach the end of what is possible, for Mrs. McLyall is a widow. I noticed framed photographs of the couple, of their wedding and of subsequent occasions, taken at various intervals until a year or two ago. From then on she is pictured occasionally, but alone. If they were divorced I would have seen mention of it in my daily examination of the newspapers, but as I have not it is certain that the man died.”

“Very well,” said I. “I concede.”

Holmes began to pace up and down the room, deep in thought. He stopped suddenly near the window, glancing down. At the same moment I heard a carriage draw up outside.

I saw his thin frame relax, and he resumed his place in the armchair and took his old briar from the rack. “We have another caller, Watson. Inspector Lestrade has just arrived.”

A few minutes later, after Mrs. Hudson had showed the Inspector in, we were all three seated. Lestrade refused Holmes’ offer of tea or coffee but accepted a cigar, which he sniffed appreciatively before placing it in his pocket.

Holmes blew a cloud of smoke into the air above us. “Well, Inspector, not that we are any less glad to see you than always, but is there a particular reason for this visit?”

“There is, Mr. Holmes.” Lestrade looked more bulldog-like than ever, and the expression he wore I had come to recognise as a sign that he brought bad news. “This morning I have interviewed Mr. Avery Quill at Scotland Yard. I understand from him that he has enlisted your help also in finding his kidnapped daughter, Miss Patricia Quill.”

“That is so.”

Lestrade looked at the carpet, then brought his eyes up to meet ours. “Then it is my unpleasant duty to inform you of Miss Quill’s death. I am afraid the search is ended, for both of us.”

Holmes showed no surprise, nor would I have expected him to, since he had predicted this from the outset.

“Was she found in the Thames?” I asked, remembering the rest of Holmes’ forecast.

“No, Doctor,” Lestrade replied. “But not far from it. She was strangled and packed into a tea chest like a sack of old clothes, and left in the middle of Tower Bridge.” He grimaced, I thought in despair of his fellow man. “I have left orders that she be removed to Kings Cross.”

“What heartless blackguards have done this?” I murmured.

“We will find out, Watson, never fear.” Holmes knocked out his pipe into the hearth and replaced it in the rack. “Lestrade, was there, by any chance, an object enclosed with the body?”

The Inspector consulted his notebook and shook his head. “Nothing but a card.”

“That is what I meant. Was it a picture of a Medusa head?”

Lestrade stared at him in amazement. “How did you know?”

“We have seen a few of those, lately.”

“Is this the emblem of some new gang of kidnappers and killers? It sounds to me as if foreigners are involved here. That head with snakes in the hair is from one of those old Greek stories, isn’t it?”

“It is indeed, Inspector, and that might well be a line of enquiry worth pursuing,” Holmes said.

“Then the first thing is to get back to the Yard. Our files on foreign criminals known to be in London might tell us something.”

“I wish you well with it. Do let me know if you turn anything up.”

Lestrade got to his feet. “I will, Mr. Holmes, I will. After all, you have helped us at Scotland Yard, from time to time. Good morning, gentlemen.”

He left us and Holmes went back to the window, watching him hail a cab.

“Do you think there’s anything in the Inspector’s theory, Holmes?” I asked.

“I think it unlikely,” he turned back into the room and sat down. “Watson, be so good as to hand me my index from the shelf. I want to be sure that we have not encountered this device before.”

I picked up the volume, much heavier now than when I first met my friend, and he spent some time poring over newspaper cuttings and written entries that, I knew, went back many years. Finally he closed the book and shook his head. “Nothing. We must resort to other means.”

“You have something else in mind, then?”

“I have committed a grave error,” he said. “Until now this symbol has struck me as the sign of a criminal or a criminal gang, though not of a foreign one as Lestrade surmises. But what if it is the trademark of some sort of establishment? After all, is not a company or club most likely to issue cards to its salesmen or members? Watson, I have been blind!”

Before I could speak, Holmes had stood up and left the room in a rush. I heard him race down the stairs and open the front door. Moments later, from the window, I saw him keenly observing the passers-by until he raised a hand abruptly and whistled.

I, at first, thought that my friend was hailing a cab but it was a ragged urchin, who no doubt had been searching for a pocket to pick, who immediately crossed the street to stand before him.

There followed a short conversation, with the urchin nodding vigorously several times. Then Holmes shot out an arm, indicating a direction that the lad then took at a scrambling run.

I heard the door slam and Holmes returned, ascending the stairs at a slower pace. On the landing there was a brief exchange with Mrs. Hudson, her tone heavy with disapproval, before he came briskly back into the room and sat down.

“So, Holmes, you have brought in the Irregulars.” I said.

He nodded. “They remain my eyes and ears in the city. I have had to reassure Mrs. Hudson that only Wiggins will report to me here, not the entire pack, as before. The young fellow with whom you saw me in conversation was one of his lieutenants. It was fortunate that he came along, I expected a much longer wait.”

“You have set them to search the city?”

“I have informed them that any sight or reference to a Medusa head, anywhere, will earn them their reward.”

“So, we await results?”

“No, Watson. I must examine the body. By now, Lestrade’s men should have removed it to the mortuary.”

We caught a hansom nearby, and Holmes lapsed into one of his thoughtful silences. The attendant at Kings Cross Mortuary knew Holmes from previous visits, when he had accompanied Lestrade, and so it was with a minimum of delay that we were admitted to the dull, white-tiled room where Miss Patricia Quill lay on a cold stone slab.

Holmes and I shook hands with the bearded, leather-aproned man who emerged from the shadows.

“I have had little time as yet to begin my examination,” Doctor Renwick said, “save to remove the ligature from her neck.”

Holmes looked mildly disappointed, as he always did when the scene of a crime or a dead victim had received attention before his arrival.

“Do you still have it?” he asked Renwick.

The pathologist retrieved a piece of barbed steel wire form a table in the corner of the room. “This was used. It appears to have been twisted with a piece of wood or an iron bar. It must have been a particularly painful death.”

Holmes peered at the bloodstains and nodded. “Indeed. How long would you say, since death occurred?”

“A week, or not much less.”

“Do you agree, Watson?”

We turned to the body. This was a girl who once had a kind face and rich auburn hair. The shock of sudden death lingered in her eyes, and her condition suggested that the pathologist’s estimation was accurate. “From the degree of decomposition, I concur.”

My friend nodded. “So she was killed soon after her abduction, or perhaps at the same time. There was never any question of her being returned alive.”

“There could have been none.”

Holmes’ original suspicion, that the girl had been kidnapped not for ransom, but to prevent her from divulging something that she had seen or learned, appeared to have been correct.

“Evidently she was tied to a chair by her arms, thighs and ankles,” he continued, “making her murderer’s task easier. The bruises show that she was bound tightly enough to make all but the slightest movement impossible.”

“What could she know that it was so important to conceal?” I said pityingly.

“Doubtless we will discover that in due time. For the moment, I am concerned with another aspect that has presented itself.”

I was about to ask him to explain, but I saw from his face that it would have been unwise to disturb the inspection that he now carried out on the poor girl’s body. Presently he stood back and Dr. Renwick, who had been observing the procedure from a few feet away, advanced with his instruments.

“Thank you, Renwick,” Holmes said. “I will delay your work no longer.”

The pathologist wished us good morning and we left that bleak place. In the four-wheeler that we took back to Baker Street, I asked my friend about his new discovery.

“I will tell you, Doctor, when I am certain of my ground. At the moment there is not enough to have more than suspicions.”

He would reveal nothing more on the subject, saying only that he recalled that Mrs. Hudson promised roast lamb for lunch. But when we alighted outside 221b, that good lady stood on the doorstep, clearly in some distress.

“Mr. Holmes, Doctor Watson!” she cried anxiously, “The strangest thing has happened!”

“Calm yourself, Mrs. Hudson.” said Holmes. “Pray take a moment, then tell us what has alarmed you.”

“You had a visitor,” she gasped hurriedly. “A constable, with a message.”

“From Inspector Lestrade?”

“Yes, he said the Inspector would like you to meet him at once, at,” she retrieved a scrap of paper from the pocket of her apron, “41 Peregrine Street, Hampstead Heath.”

Holmes took it from her. “Cheap paper, badly crumpled, and equally cheap ink,” he murmured. “No spelling errors or distinguishing features.”

“That is Mr. Avery Quill’s address!” I exclaimed.

Holmes nodded. “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I am afraid that lunch must wait.”

He turned away, but she caught his sleeve. “Wait, gentlemen, please. There is more to tell. I showed the constable into your rooms, as he said he could wait for a short while. When you did not return I went to offer him tea, but he was nowhere to be seen.”

“You did not hear him leave?”

“No, Mr. Holmes, he must have crept down the stairs and shut the door quietly.”

My friend looked at her sharply. “Mrs. Hudson, we must leave immediately. Until we return, on no account enter our rooms, not even turning the door-handle. Do you understand?”

“Yes, but...”

“Please obey my instructions to the letter. Better still, if you can leave the house until then, do so. Ah, Watson, I see that you have already hailed a cab. We must go.”

As the cab, pulled by a sturdy young horse, set off through the thickening traffic of Baker Street, I saw that Holmes was paying great attention to the passing scene outside.

“Do you think we are being followed, Holmes?”

He shook his head impatiently. “No, Watson.” He tapped the wooden ceiling with his stick. “Cabby, rein in for a moment!”

As he had said we should hurry, this extraordinary behaviour puzzled me, until I saw him beckon to a passing police sergeant.

“Sergeant, this is of vital importance. My name is Sherlock Holmes. I am on my way to 41 Peregrine Street, Hampstead Heath, where I have reason to believe that a serious crime has been committed. Inspector Lestrade is aware of the circumstances, so I would be obliged if you would ask him to join us there.”

“The man saluted. “Yes sir. I am on my way to Scotland Yard now.”

He turned away, quickening his pace, and Holmes shouted to the driver to make all speed.

“But we are on our way to meet Lestrade now,” I reminded him.

Holmes smiled grimly. “Our visitor was not a genuine constable. Otherwise, he would have waited to give me the message personally. Lestrade would have ordered no less.”

“Then who could he have been? Do you believe he was the murderer of Miss Quill?”

“Probably, unless we are dealing with a gang.”

“Good heavens, Holmes! He was alone in our rooms.”

“That is why I warned Mrs Hudson not to go near.”

“Do you fear he might have left explosives?”

“I see it as a possibility.” He glanced out of the window. “I think it unlikely that they would have been left without some means of involuntary detonation, since he has no means of knowing the time of our return. Hence my stipulation that no one should touch the door handle or attempt to enter.”

“But, if this is so, anyone happening to be on the landing, say, would certainly be killed.”

“Which tells us that we are facing a most ruthless opponent. An alternative possibility is that he actually intended to accompany us to Mr. Quill’s house, or elsewhere, and then to dispose of us both.”

“But that assumes he is able to keep up the deception, at least for a while. If he knows anything of you, he must consider it unlikely that you would fail to identify him as an imposter.”

Holmes nodded. “Perhaps, but he is clearly one who is unafraid to take risks. I am beginning to think that we are dealing with someone quite familiar with concealing himself, and with murder.”

The driver reined in the horse, and we came to rest. Holmes asked him to wait, for we were far from the city now, without other means of returning.

We stood for a moment and looked around us. This was a country district with fields stretching away in every direction. Distant scarecrows stood among ploughed furrows, and apart from an inn on the horizon there was no other feature save the road and the scattering of crumbling villas which made up Peregrine Street.

Mr. Quill’s house stood alone, a testimony to long neglect. The windows were opaque from the grime of many winters. It crossed my mind that Mr. Quill was something of a miser, to have allowed his home to sink into such disrepair although he was far from poor, but I immediately reprimanded myself as I remembered his lamentable state of health.

Holmes rapped upon the door with his stick but there was no answer forthcoming, nor could we hear movement within. Finally, he called out, but to no avail. As he grasped the discoloured brass handle his remark about explosive devices flashed across my mind and I was at the point of shouting a warning, but at that instant the door opened easily.

“Calm yourself, Watson,” he said as if he had read my mind. “If I understand our enemy, and I think I do somewhat, it would not suit his purpose to have left explosives here. No, he wants us to see why he summoned us to this house.”

We stepped inside, into silence that was undisturbed even by the ticking of a clock. Holmes led the way through the parlour, a room of shadows and faded decorations, past a small hallway where assorted coats and hats hung, into a long room that served as a library. Apart from the laden bookshelves, the chamber held only a table with a reading lamp and two chairs.

In one of those chairs sat Mr. Quill, facing us as we entered. His face was more ashen than before, and distorted in terror. His tongue protruded from his gaping mouth, and his body was held upright by a piece of coloured cord which had been passed across his throat and around the high back of the chair, then tightened until breathing became impossible.

“Our enemy was afraid that Miss Quill might have confided in her father about whatever brought about her own death,” Holmes said. “I should have foreseen this.”

“Our adversary takes no risks, that much is evident.”

“You see now the reason for his visit to Baker Street?”

“He intended to accompany us here, to share Mr. Quill’s fate?”

Holmes shook his head. “No, it was never his purpose to remain in our rooms for long, nor to meet with us. His sole intention was to take the sash from my dressing-gown. I recognised it at once. As you see, he used it to strangle Mr. Quill.”

Closer scrutiny confirmed this. Holmes said no more until he had completed an examination of the body and the room, disturbing nothing.

“We will await Lestrade’s arrival, and give him the facts as we know them, before taking our leave.” He picked up something from the edge of the table. “I am not surprised to find this.”

He held in his hand a card with the depiction of the Gorgon’s head, identical to the others. After glancing at both sides, he tucked it in his waistcoat pocket.

“Holmes, what does this mean? Our enemy kills and leaves a card, steals your sash to use for murder. Are we dealing with a madman?”

He looked again at the dusty room, satisfying himself that he had missed nothing. “Not in the accepted sense of madness. He is vain beyond what is normal, and accustomed to killing for his own convenience. You will recall that I spoke of my suspicions that another motive was involved?”

“I remember your mention of it, while we were with Doctor Renwick.”

“Quite. I surmised almost from the beginning, that our adversary is familiar with my professional reputation and jealously guards a similar one of his own. By his action of taking my property from Baker Street, he has confirmed this. He is taunting us, Watson! He tells us, by means of the cards he leaves, that what we see is his work. His audacious method of gaining entry to our rooms and taking my sash is his way of announcing that my intervention in this case holds no fear for him because he considers himself at least an equal. I feel as if I should know him, as my familiarity with the criminal underworld is by no means inconsiderable. A search of my index is indicated, I think, upon our return.”

He had hardly finished speaking, when the heavy door at the front of the house crashed open and the thudding of several pairs of boots told us that Inspector Lestrade, together with more than one constable, had arrived.

“I received your message, Mr. Holmes.” The inspector appeared rather breathless, as if he had run all the way from Scotland Yard rather than taken a cab, as he rushed into the room. A constable accompanied him, and through the hallway I saw another guarding the street entrance.

“I have touched nothing, Lestrade.” Holmes said. “It is straightforward, as you see it. The murderer somehow gained entry through the front door and took Mr. Quill unawares here in the library. There are no signs of searching or robbery, so I am forced to the conclusion that this is connected to the killing of his daughter.”

Lestrade smiled and nodded. “You are no doubt correct in your assumptions, Mr. Holmes, but we will make our own examination.”

“Of course. If I have missed anything, you will be certain to discover it.”

“Scotland Yard has a long record of getting to the truth, but we are grateful for your help.”

With that we took our leave. In the cab on the way back to Baker Street, I noticed Holmes’ artful expression.

“Holmes, it did not escape me that you failed to tell Lestrade about the sash.”

“I saw no reason to complicate matters.”

“Or about the card with the Gorgon’s head.”

“Lestrade has made up his mind about that.”

“You can see your own way through this, then?”

“Not yet, but we get closer. I am anxious to hear from the Irregulars.”

“Have you any idea as to the identity of our adversary?” I asked after a moment of silence.

“I have been able to deduce only that he is no stranger to murder, and that he is a tall man. He is young and strong, and has short grey hair.”

I turned to him in surprise. “I confess that I saw none of this.”

“There is no great mystery to it. My dressing gown sash was tied in a scaffold knot, which indicates that our enemy knew precisely how to strangle efficiently, from some experience. The angle of the application to Mr. Quill’s neck and throat reveals that his murderer is tall, and the extent of the tightness suggests someone of strength.”

“But you said he is young, and has grey hair?”

“Did you not see the hat, near the corner of the room? It was far too small to have belonged to Mr. Quill. I imagine the murderer lost it as he fled, if he thought pursuit was close, or removed it to do his work and then forgot about it. It was of a style that an older man would consider inappropriate, as is the case with some new fashions. I glanced inside it, but did not disturb it, for long enough to notice the traces of hair oil where numerous grey hairs had stuck after being recently trimmed.”

I was about to add that he had also neglected to tell Inspector Lestrade about the ‘constable’ who had visited our rooms and left the message, but I knew Holmes well enough to be sure that this was no oversight. We alighted at Baker Street and Holmes entered quickly, calling out for Mrs. Hudson.

That good lady appeared at the top of the stairs, and came down to us hurriedly.

“Mrs. Hudson, did you follow my instructions about our rooms?” Holmes asked at once.

“I did, sir,” she said with a puzzled look, “but why...”

“Excellent. Please do not concern yourself, for now. I would be greatly obliged if you would take Dr. Watson to your kitchen and give him a cup of tea.”

He turned and stepped back into the street, leaving me as confused as Mrs. Hudson. A few minutes passed as that good lady prevailed upon me to explain what I could about the morning’s events, and we were about to repair to the kitchen when I heard a door open and the sound of footfalls on the floor above.

I signalled for silence, and went to the bottom of the stairs wishing that I had my service revolver in my pocket. As it was, I took a stout walking cane from the rack in the hall and began to climb. The footsteps sounded nearer, then Holmes came into view.

“My dear fellow!” I cried, much surprised.

“Do not alarm yourself, Watson.” He said as he descended, smiling. “Mrs. Hudson, perhaps we could have the roast lamb that was to have been our luncheon for supper, do you think? Some strong coffee too, would be in order. We may be going out again, tonight.”

Holmes would not be drawn out about any of his actions until we had fortified ourselves. As Mrs. Hudson, looking very unsettled, cleared away the plates and served our coffee, he leaned back in his chair and I saw that he was now ready to explain.

“I think I mentioned before my suspicions that our enemy has been following our activities closely, and that he has much expertise in doing so,” he began.

“You said he knew his trade.”

“Precisely. I believe that he was watching these rooms until we left for the mortuary, only then presenting himself as a visitor.”

“Never intending to meet us, only to gain access to our rooms?”

“As I have said. We know that he took my dressing-gown sash as a taunt to us, a challenge, but I could not rule out that some sort of deadly trap awaited our return.”

“You mentioned explosives.”

Holmes nodded. “That was the first possibility that occurred to me, but there were others. I was once involved in an affair in Harrow, where a particularly callous murderer arranged a pistol to fire automatically as his wife entered a room. I feared something of that sort here.”

“So that was why you told Mrs. Hudson to keep away from our door.”

“It was. On our return just now, I watched for a chimney sweep in Baker Street, but instead a window-cleaner appeared. I persuaded him to lend me his ladder for a half-sovereign.”

“And you climbed up to see through our window, ensuring that no trap awaited us,” I finished.

“I first made certain that the window had not been fitted with a device. We do not yet know how many steps our adversary is ahead of us, nor the extent of his knowledge of my methods. I then stepped into our room from there and examined the door before opening it and meeting you on the stairs.”

“As always, Holmes, you think of everything.”

“Not quite,” my friend said with unusual modesty, “or this matter would have been resolved before now.”

He was quiet for a while, as we sat watching the dusk close in.

“It has been an eventful day, Watson,” he said as we lit cigars.

“Indeed.”

A distant commotion outside grew louder, and Holmes smiled.

“The Irregulars have arrived, I think.”

I heard Mrs. Hudson answer the repeated ring of the bell. There was a pause, followed by the street door closing, and a fast tread upon the stairs. Holmes took the cigar from his mouth as a quick rapping began on the door to our rooms.

“Come in, Wiggins!” he cried.

A ragged urchin, taller than when I had seen him last, came in and stood to attention. “Thomson give me your message, Mr.‘Olmes,” he said.

“Very good. Have you been successful?”

“We ‘ave sir, but it took us all day. We found a place in Coldharbour Lane, the only one that answers the description you told him.”

Holmes nodded. “What sort of place is it?”

“Well, it has a painting outside, with a statue’s head and snakes crawling out of its hair. Gives you the creeps it does. Looks like a club, but not the sort you find in Pall Mall.”

“Coldharbour Lane, you say?”

“Certainly not the district for a gentleman’s club.” I remarked.

“No indeed,” Holmes agreed.

“If it’s not the place you wanted, we could go on looking,” Wiggins offered.

“First we will pay a visit to Coldharbour Lane.” Holmes took some coins from his pocket. “Wiggins, you and your band have done well. Here is payment higher than the usual rate, plus a bonus for the lad who actually discovered the address. If I require you further, I will find you.”

“Yes, sir.” He saluted. “We are at your service.”

He was gone in an instant, and we heard his voice and those of his companions diminishing as they made their way to wherever they would sleep this night.

“The game’s afoot, Watson,” Holmes said. “And I must say, our destination promises to be a very strange place indeed.”