The Request of a Lady

Holmes was soon proven right. The first attempt was not long in coming. He spent the entire day at the window studying the activities in Baker Street, breaking his vigil only to eat.

As the afternoon wore on a yellow fog appeared and thickened quickly, so that the lamps of passing coaches were barely visible. It was at this point that my friend left his post and settled himself in an armchair, taking up his old briar thoughtfully.

“Ah, it is tea-time,” said I. “Mrs. Hudson is even now taking the stairs.”

Holmes shook his head. “I think, Watson, we will find that she has some other reason for intruding, for I hear no rattle of tea-cups. On the other hand, she has concluded a conversation at the front door, no more than a few minutes ago. I had thought it was with a friend, until she invited her visitor inside and immediately set out for our door rather than her own quarters.”

“I did not hear the bell, Holmes.”

“Nor did I, but Mrs. Hudson was applying herself to polishing the doorknob when the lady approached. That much I heard, but as to the contents of their conversation I know nothing, since the lady is exceptionally quietly spoken.”

“You expect this lady to be a client, then?”

“That is one possibility.”

Moments later, Mrs Hudson showed in a young woman, elegantly dressed in a blue costume and with shining hair hanging to her shoulders. Holmes replaced his pipe, unused, in the rack.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen.” Her face lit up with a smile that embraced us both. “Forgive me, but am I addressing Mr. Sherlock Holmes?” Her eyes switched between us.

“I am he,” my friend said. “Pray, sit in this chair, near the fire, and tell us how we can assist you. You may expect the same discretion from my friend and associate, Dr. Watson, as from myself.”

When she was seated comfortably Holmes offered her tea, which she refused politely. “I regret that I am not able to stay for long, circumstances are pressing.”

“Very well. Please tell us what you can.”

The only sound in the room was of a log shifting in the fireplace, and Holmes reached out to turn up the lamp against the falling darkness. The young lady, after a moment’s hesitation, began.

“I am Mrs Beatrice Morton, of St John’s Wood. I was married four years ago. We are Somerset people, my husband Tim and I, and we moved to London recently in the hope that he could find work in the docks. All has been well for three months, until the manifestations began.”

Holmes leaned forward in his chair, immediately interested. “Manifestations?”

“The strangest things have happened to us. My Tim will stop whatever he might be doing, and his eyes follow something that I cannot see, as it travels around the room. At other times, he will scream in terror, yet have no memory of it when questioned. I have spoken to our neighbours, but they have seen or heard nothing.”

“Have you, yourself, any reason to suppose that these seizures have anything other than an imaginary cause?” Holmes asked.

“None,” she produced a square of lace and dabbed a tear from her face, “until this morning. Tim spent a restless night, waking often and shivering from fitful dreams. He kept saying that the devil spoke to him in his sleep, threatening to destroy our house with us inside.”

“I think, dear lady, that a priest would be more help to you than us,” I said.

But Holmes gave her a thoughtful look. “And when you arose, had anything been touched?”

“It had, that was when I realised that Tim was not going mad, as I had feared.” Her face grew taut, and we could clearly see the strain she had been under. “Our drawing room was all but destroyed, the carpet torn up and furniture smashed or thrown about. We kept our money hidden in a chest of drawers, but it was missing.”

“The chest, was it damaged?”

“The money was in a purse, concealed and attached to the back of a drawer which was broken apart. The purse was torn into several pieces, as if by a wild animal.”

“But only your husband and yourself knew of this hiding place?”

“Of course.”

“Did he leave you, during the night?”

“His restlessness kept me awake, so I know that he did not.”

“And neither of you heard any disturbance?”

“I heard nothing unusual. The rush of a hansom speeding past the house, a dog howling, the singing of a drunken man. Nothing more.”

“Have you consulted the official police, on this matter?”

She shrugged, somewhat hopelessly. “I happened to be nearby, earlier today, and called into the Bow Street Police Station. The sergeant on duty listened patiently, then told me to go home to rest. He gave me no advice regarding my husband.”

“Strange happenings indeed,” Holmes said. “We can at once rule out ghosts, since they, if they exist, have no use for money. There must therefore be another explanation. I recall that you told us that your time is short, so we will not detain you, but if you will leave your address I will look into the matter this evening.”

“I have arranged to take my husband to a physician who, I have been advised, may be able to help him. The house will be empty, but I have a spare key.”

Holmes took it from her and she made her exit. The instant we heard the door close, he went to the window. When he turned away, I was astonished to see him burst into peals of laughter.

“My dear Holmes!”

“Calm yourself, Watson, I have not gone mad. I am deeply insulted however, that our adversary should make such an attempt to lure me into a trap.”

“That woman was distressed,” I spluttered. “How can you...?”

“I must go,” he said quickly. “Time is short.”

“But Holmes, you said...”

He smiled. “There is more than one way to spring a trap, don’t you think?”

His greatcoat hung on the hall-stand and I retrieved it for him. As I helped him into it, I slipped my service revolver into one of its pockets.

“When will you return,” I asked.

He rushed onto the landing, calling something over his shoulder which I missed. His footsteps descended the stairs and the front door slammed. I reached the window in time to see him disappear into the passing crowd.

I spent a restless evening, reading a page or two of a book between periods of pacing and constantly returning to the window. The only interruption was when Mrs. Hudson brought my dinner, a beef casserole which I hardly tasted. Such was my anxiety.

Despite all of this I must somehow have fallen asleep, until the loud closing of the front door shocked me into wakefulness. I had scarcely time to get to my feet before Holmes strode into the room, seemingly in excellent spirits.

“Your pistol, Watson, with my thanks” he said, handing the weapon to me. “Fortunately, I had no need of it.”

“Holmes!” I exclaimed. “Are you injured?”

“Not at all,” he said, taking off his coat. “Before we retire, let us sit and enjoy a cigar. I can see how anxious you are to hear of my adventure this night.”

He went into his bedroom and reappeared almost instantly in his mouse-coloured dressing gown. I passed him a cigar and he lit it at once, sitting back in his chair and blowing a huge smoke ring that floated for a moment above him.

“What is happening, Holmes?” I asked impatiently. “I have been totally in the dark since Mrs. Morton’s visit.”

“Ah, that. A greater farce I have rarely been confronted with. At first I took her for a genuine client, but even a cursory examination of the facts, and of her appearance, revealed otherwise.”

“I can recall nothing suspicious in the woman’s looks.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Well, Watson, let us consider a few facts. She said she had been married for four years, did she not?”

“I remember that she did.”

“Quite. Then does it not appear to you unusual that her wedding ring was as shiny as if it had just been taken from the goldsmith’s shelf?”

“Perhaps, but a fastidious woman would polish it regularly.”

“Undoubtedly, but such a woman would still have the indentation in her skin that comes from wearing a ring constantly. Mrs Morton had no such thing. That was what first aroused my suspicions.”

I felt foolish at missing such an obvious flaw in the woman’s representation of herself. I sighed heavily. “Was there more?”

Holmes tossed the remains of his cigar into the fire. “Several things, but I will mention only two. She lacked the fresh-faced complexion of someone who purports to be from Somerset, and then of course there is the question of her perfume.”

“The fragrance was delightful.”

“Indeed. But far too expensive for a dock-worker’s wife. Having noticed these inconsistencies I realised at once that the object of her tale was to induce me to leave here, and surmised that our adversary was behind this. That is why I pretended to accept the case and agreed to her suggestion of a visit to the house in St John’s Wood in her absence.”

“And why you left here hurriedly soon after Mrs Morton, in order to follow her through the fog.” I realised.

“I was expecting to be led directly to our enemy, but the hansom took her to a house in Rotton Row, near Hyde Park. When I had ascertained that this was merely her lodgings and she lived there alone, I directed my driver to take me to St John’s Wood.”

“Holmes, I am disappointed. Why did you not take me with you?”

“I considered it but decided that the wiser course was that you should remain here in case our adversary should pay us another visit, to further inconvenience us. He has already demonstrated his ability to deceive Mrs. Hudson, and I do not doubt that he is capable of adopting another guise to do so again. I was aware of course that you had lent me your service revolver, but we both know that another pistol, fully loaded at all times, is hidden here for emergencies. I was confident that you would deal with that situation, if it arose.”

“As it was, I was undisturbed.”

“I am relieved to hear it, but you must see that it was an eventuality that it was best to anticipate. When the cab dropped me in St John’s Wood, I found the address that Mrs. Morton had given in Four Mile Road, quite easily. It is a corner house, one side adjoining a narrow alley in such a way that it is possible to see into the living room from either direction through large plate-glass windows.”

“A former shop, then?”

“Not for some time, I think. The room appeared as if it had been furnished well, but recently devastated as Mrs. Morton described. The district was poorly lit, the gas lamps few and the buildings dark shapes in the patches of swirling fog, but I found my way along a short path containing a rockery and a disused ornamental fountain to the front door. After examining the lock, I looked into the room from both sides, to ascertain that no explosive device would be activated on entry.”

“A marksman could have hidden nearby,” I said. “It is a dead-end road with many passages leading off into surrounding streets. I once visited a patient there. You unwittingly placed yourself in danger, Holmes.”

“That had occurred to me,” my friend admitted, “but I depended upon the darkness and the fog to make me a difficult target. In any event, no such attempt was made. I opened the front door carefully with the key provided by Mrs. Morton, conducting a visual inspection from the threshold. My attention was drawn to an open space, where the furniture had been cleared and where I must pass in order to reach a door in the opposite wall. As a test, I took a heavy stone from the rockery and rolled it across the carpet. As a result, almost the entire floor collapsed, revealing a line of sharp iron railings set in concrete in the cellar directly below.”

“Great Scott!” I exclaimed.

“When the dust had settled I examined the room and, crossing by means of what floorboards remained, the kitchen beyond. It was obvious that the place had been empty for some time, and that everything had recently been arranged for my visit.”

“Meaning that ‘Tim’ and his visions were figments of a fertile imagination?”

“Indeed. Most likely that of our friend Rendt.”

My mind was full of images of the fate that had so nearly befallen my friend.

“But what of Mrs. Beatrice Morton?” I asked, after I had taken a moment to collect myself.

A smile passed over Holmes’ gaunt features. “She was actually an actress, not very successful, and earning her living playing small parts at provincial theatres. Her real name is Norah Carpenter.”

“How did you discover this?”

“I knew it before she left this room. I know theatrical makeup when I see it, Doctor.” Holmes poured two glasses of port, and passed one to me. “Also, she has a tendency to overact.”

“But her name?”

“I heard that from her own lips. After I had locked up the house in Four Mile Road, it came to me that I was quite near one of the little places I keep all over London, for my convenience in certain situations. There were no cabs in sight, but I was able to walk there in a short time. Once in the room, I changed my appearance and clothes. Another short walk and I found a hansom that had just discharged a fare, and thus returned to Rotton Row.

“You can imagine, Watson that a caller at that late hour was hardly appreciated, and Mrs. Morton was now quite a different person from the lady who had visited us here. When I represented myself as Inspector Murdoch of Scotland Yard, engaged in the pursuit of the murderer of Sherlock Holmes, it served to restore her amiability somewhat. I explained that we knew of her involvement, from which I gathered that she was totally unaware of where her actions had led, and that her only chance of avoiding the rope was to give me all the information she had. She became very white-faced but was able to confirm my impression of the appearance of Rendt, though she knew him as ‘Archie Cole,’ a theatrical agent. They met by chance, or so she still believed, in a tavern, and on ‘discovering’ her profession, he put to her his proposition.”

“What reason could he have given, for wishing such an impersonation?”

“I did not enquire into that, but it seemed to me that she was desperate. From the gush of information that followed, I gathered that several recent productions she was featured in were unsuccessful and closed early. The value of all she told me was limited, I think that Rendt is very careful on that score, and I left her wondering if she could expect her arrest within the next few days.”

“Will you tell Lestrade?”

“I think not. As I said, I believe desperation drove her to take part in this. She struck me as a basically honest person, and the anxiety of waiting for a knock on her front door will be sufficient punishment.”

“You surprise me sometimes, Holmes.”

He shrugged. “She was only the lure, and an unwitting one at that. When I was out of sight of her house I got into conversation with the driver of a four-wheeler, who told me he was expecting to wait for hours, while his master attended a meeting of the local temperance society. I was able to persuade him, in exchange for a few coins, to return me to a street near my room in St John’s Wood where I became again as you see me now.”

“So was it worth it, taking such a risk?”

“You chided me for walking into a trap, as you saw it, but now it will become clear to you that it was indeed worthwhile. Among the things I learned from Mrs. Morton, or rather, Miss Carpenter, was that ‘Archie Cole’ arranged to meet her this afternoon, when she will receive payment. Of course the odds are heavily against him turning up, unless he wishes confirmation of her actions first-hand, but she had no choice but to trust him. It struck me, Watson, that the presence of two uninvited guests at that rendezvous might see an end to this affair.”

I put down my empty glass. “As always, Holmes, I am with you.”

“It does not deter you that Rendt will certainly be armed, and prepared to kill out of hand in order to escape?”

“I should think not. I have my service revolver.”

“Capital! You were always a stout fellow, Watson. But now I think it best if we both retire to our beds. Good night.”

With that he disappeared into his room. From my own bed I thought I heard him pacing for a while, but then there was silence.

It was well after ten o’clock when we arose the following morning. From the window, I saw that the fog had dispersed. Holmes appeared preoccupied, saying little during our late breakfast and busying himself by opening the post. The pile of discarded letters grew, each occupying his attention for a few moments only. Finally, he pushed them to one side and got to his feet.

“Nothing,” he said in disgust.

“Were you expecting something in particular?” I asked.

“No, but the prospect of something new is always encouraging. The notion of soon having nothing to do, I find depressing.”

“Let us take that as it comes. For now we have our present problem to resolve.”

He walked gloomily over to one of the armchairs and sat down, holding up a newspaper in front of his face. My own post consisted of a couple of letters from colleagues, mostly regarding the recent influenza outbreak, and a medical periodical that I took with me over to the other armchair. In this way, interrupted only by our scant conversation when Mrs. Hudson brought our mid-morning tea, we passed the hours before noon in silence.

That good lady returned promptly at mid-day, to serve us a luncheon of boiled ham. As we pushed away our empty plates, Holmes took his watch from his waistcoat pocket.

“It is almost time we were off, Watson.”

“You have told me little of your plans.”

“My intentions are quite simple. Rendt has specified that they are to meet outside Meux’s Brewery, on the Tottenham Court Road. I propose that we arrive beforehand, and conceal ourselves. We will observe his meeting with Miss Carpenter, and take him prisoner as she departs.”

“You are confident that you will know him from her description?”

“Provided he is not in disguise, yes. We will see how readily she recognises him.”

“Holmes, should we not inform Lestrade?”

“We will do so, the moment we have Rendt in our custody. I would not like to see a host of uniformed policemen, poorly hidden, scaring away our quarry before the rendezvous can take place. You will have your service revolver, and I shall bring a stout stick to ensure his capture.”

“How much time do we have?”

“Less than an hour,” he said as he stood up and crossed to the window, “but I see that there are one or two hansoms awaiting fares across the road, so we can be on our way immediately.”

Throughout the journey Holmes wore a pleased expression, from which I gathered that he had great hopes of a quick end to this case. We wound our way through streets crowded with horse-drawn traffic, and with boys pulling barrows laden with vegetables. The weak autumn sun gave the scene a rosy glow, a cheerfulness that I was far from feeling.

At last we reached Tottenham Court Road and the cab was dismissed. We stood on the pavement, shielded by a group of parked four-wheelers, while Holmes surveyed the scene carefully.

“We are the first to arrive,” he said. “Now to find a place to watch and wait.”

Opposite, the brewery was fronted by a low-hanging awning. Passers-by were visible only as a stream of shadows while under its shelter. It was impossible, from here, to distinguish the men from the women, nor indeed to tell the number of the crowd.

“There, perhaps.” I ventured.

“You are a natural hunter, Watson,” my friend said to my surprise as we crossed the street.

We mingled with the crowd, until we gained a position under the awning that gave us a clear view both to the left and right and of the buildings opposite.

“It is now almost two o’clock,” Holmes said in a low voice. “If the meeting takes place as Miss Carpenter described it, we should be able to lay hands on Rendt from no more than a few feet away. He cannot see us until he is close.”

In silence, we waited. The noise from passing traffic, from horses and shouting men, seemed to fade as I concentrated on watching everyone who came into sight. The crowd ebbed and flowed like a living sea, until a great clock nearby struck twice.

“She is prompt.” Holmes inclined his head to the right of us and I saw Miss Carpenter, now in a dark green costume, walk into view.

Hesitating near the edge of the shadow cast by the awning, she appeared confused. Moments passed as she scrutinised the faces in the surrounding crowd. Disappointment crept onto her face, and I remembered that Holmes had said he considered it likely that Rendt would fail to appear.

“There, Watson!”

An extraordinarily slender, handsome man, rather swarthy and dressed in a grey suit and hat, detached himself from the throng and moved nimbly towards Miss Carpenter. Holmes had produced handcuffs from his pocket and was on the pair before a word passed between them. They turned together, meeting this sudden invasion with shock or surprise. Miss Carpenter gave a frightened cry, and I recalled that she believed Holmes to be dead, but Rendt was already fleeing and dragging her by the arm.

My friend, in close pursuit, was knocked off his feet as two burly men emerged from the crowd. The one who had struck Holmes aimed a booted foot at his face. My friend rolled and regained his feet as smoothly as an acrobat, but he had lost his stick. The ruffian reached for Holmes’ throat, and received a blow from the handcuffs, used like a whip, across his unshaven jaw. He screamed as blood flowed, his hands held to his face. His companion seized Holmes from behind, but by now I had forced myself through the surrounding crush and drawn my pistol. The closeness of so many, and Holmes’ struggles, made accurate firing impossible, but my weapon made a useful club and his assailant dropped like a stone to the pavement.

“Quickly, Watson! They must not escape!”

My friend, dishevelled but already recovered, led the way through the crowd which had thickened because of the activity. Some moved out of our way at once, no doubt believing that we were the criminals and perpetrators of the assault. We broke through into the open, where onlookers viewed us suspiciously.

“They are gone, Holmes,” I said, looking all around.

“Straight ahead is St. Giles Circus. If they had taken that direction, they would still be visible to us. It is in these alleys, the passages between buildings, that they must have taken refuge.”

It was in the second of these that we found the body of Miss Carpenter. Her throat had been cruelly cut with a razor or knife, and she lay prone among the decaying waste of a greengrocer’s shop in a pool of blood.

Holmes, his face set like stone, stooped to examine the corpse as we were interrupted by the shrill wail of police whistles. In a moment we were joined by a young constable, who entered the alley with his truncheon drawn.

“We are too late, I fear,” I said.

The constable glanced at Holmes, then back to me, uncertainly.

“This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” I explained. “We were in pursuit of the man responsible for this.”

Holmes stood up. “Constable, you must summon Inspector Lestrade, at once. He knows of this case and is engaged upon it. We will remain here until he arrives.” He glanced at me. “Rendt will be far away, by now.”