The Irregular Customer

Holmes and I rose as a squat, balding man marched in, a constable on either side. He came to a halt so abrupt that his companions almost bumped into his heavy body, to cast his eyes searchingly around the room.

“Aha!” he exclaimed as he saw my friend. “I have met you before.” He pretended to consider. “Yes, it was the Boulton extortion case, was it not? You obstructed me at every stage of my investigation, and then claimed to have solved the matter. You will not repeat that, sir, I swear.”

“I seem to recall things differently,” said Holmes, “as will your superiors, if you ask them. Come, Spicer, let us forget our past differences, for there is work to be done here.”

The inspector’s face reddened, but as he was about to answer Mr. Pritchard entered the room.

“Good morning, inspector. I am sorry to have to call upon you once more, but my friend and colleague about whom you visited us before was found murdered earlier. Mr. Holmes has already made some observations which he may be prevailed upon to share with you, if you so desire.”

“I am in no need of amateur assistance.”

“But I insist that he accompany you to the scene of the crime at least, in the interests of its speedy solution.”

A succession of unpleasant expressions crossed Spicer’s face, and he made no remark for what seemed like a long time. Finally, he blew out his cheeks in a long exhalation, and settled a malevolent stare upon my friend.

“Very well, as I seem to have little choice in the matter. See that you keep out of my way.”

“I will endeavour to do so,” Holmes said, suppressing a smile.

“You two, remain here on guard,” the inspector ordered the constables, who saluted but looked rather confused as if they were unsure as to what they should be guarding.

The four of us ascended the stairs. When we reached the chamber containing Mr. Conroy’s body, Inspector Spicer pushed before us into the room. He held up a hand to forestall any further entry, until he had made a cursory examination of the body and the window. Then, with a satisfied smirk, he beckoned us in.

“Obviously, the murderer entered here.” He indicated the window with a quick gesture. “The ivy seems to have provided a convenient hand-hold.”

“But nearer to the room next door, don’t you think?” said Holmes.

Spicer turned to look at my friend, wearing a ghastly, condescending smile. “If you had allowed me to finish, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I would have mentioned that.”

“Of course you would, Inspector. But how do you account for the presence of this dust, which is rather different from the faint layer at various points around the room?”

“There have been high winds lately, it has probably blown in from outside. In any event it is unimportant. We are concerned with a murder here, not the efficiency of the maid.”

“There are also the marks in the soil below, to be considered,” Holmes continued. “If you examine the area between the gravel path and the ivy, you will find that the footprints are very shallow. That should reveal something of the murderer’s stature and appearance, don’t you think?”

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes. I have already observed this and concluded that the killer may well be a midget.”

“And yet the distance between the places where the ivy has apparently been used as hand-holds is too great for that, by far.”

Inspector Spicer became very still and his face flushed deeply.

“I will hear no more of this. I allowed you to be present at Mr. Pritchard’s request, but I see that you seem incapable of restraining your interference. This is an official investigation that will be continued later. For now, Mr. Holmes, I would be obliged if you would remove yourself from this room before more evidence is destroyed. As for me, I will return later.”

At that, Inspector Spicer pushed rudely past us and descended the stairs at a run. We reached the hallway in time to see one of the constables in conversation with a third, who had presumably just arrived.

“Ah, here is the Inspector now,”

The new arrival approached Spicer, who bent close to him so that words were exchanged in a whisper. After a moment, he straightened up to his full height, glowing with triumph.

“So, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, it seems that you will not add this affair to your dubious successes. I have had men scouring the coast for a mile in both directions, anticipating that the murderer might have sought to escape by boat. They have found a cave, not far from here, with clear signs of habitation. It is in the direction of Bridport, where we will surely apprehend this man. I’ll wager he’ll be in a cell by nightfall.”

“My congratulations, then.” Holmes said warmly. “I see that there is nothing further to detain us here. Good day to you, Inspector.”

Mr. Pritchard accompanied us to the door.

“Surely,” he said, “you will not abandon your enquiries so easily?”

Holmes shook his hand. “Be assured, sir, that I will not.”

“I have little confidence in our friend, the Inspector.”

“I cannot say that I am surprised to hear that.”

“So you will continue?”

“Until all becomes clear and justice is properly served.”

“Then I am forever in your debt, for Ezekiel’s sake.”

“Please do not consider yourself as such. It is quite unnecessary.”

I, also, shook Mr. Pritchard’s hand and we said our farewells.

The groom brought the trap around and the house was soon left behind. The horse settled into a fast trot, and I held the reins as Holmes sat next to me wearing a thoughtful expression.

“Are we returning to London immediately?” I asked him.

“As soon as we have paid for our stay at the inn. I cannot see that we will discover much more to our advantage, here.”

“But the cave the inspector spoke of might contain something to throw light on this affair. In any event, the murderer is still at large.”

“But not here, doctor.”

I turned to him in surprise. “Where, then?”

“Spicer first assumed an escape by sea, then to Bridport when the cave was found. What is between Hawksfire House and Bridport that might provide a convenient way for the murderer to distance himself from his crime more quickly?”

I thought for a moment. “Of course, West Bay Railway Station.”

“Precisely.”

“You believe he made his escape by train?”

“No, I know he did.”

“Holmes, I saw the effect on you, when Mr. Pritchard told us of his friend’s real name. Is this connected?”

“Almost certainly, but when I am absolutely sure, Watson, my case will be complete.”

He would not be drawn further and said little else, but sat watching the gulls circle overhead and listening to the crash of the waves until we arrived at the inn. The landlord produced a copy of Bradshaw’s, at Holmes’ request, and he consulted it briefly before we repaired to our rooms to pack our few things.

“There is a train to Waterloo in one hour and forty-five minutes,” Holmes remarked as we paid the landlord.

“We are in no great hurry, then.”

“Ah, but we are, Watson. I have much to say to the station master first, and our friend here has once again allowed us the use of the pony and cart.”

The landlord nodded.”The boy has to drive over to the station anyway sir, to pick up an expected guest. It is no trouble to accommodate you.”

Holmes and I drank a pint of ale with the man before the boy arrived and received his instructions. Then we were once more hurtling through the lanes with the sound of the sea fading as we approached the station. We alighted and a half-sovereign was pressed into the boy’s hand as he left us to wait for his passenger, and we bought our tickets and made our way down the platform.

A uniformed guard put down his flag after waving off a local train, and turned towards the station master’s office. With a few quick strides, Holmes intercepted him.

“Would you be so kind as to direct us to the station master?”

“That would be me, sir.” The man smiled under his bushy moustache. “I’m station master, guard and, for some of the time, porter too. The station only needs me and a part-timer to run it, you see. It’s not like a main line station, where you get a lot of long-distance trains. Ours is mostly local traffic.”

“But there is a train to London, in an hour or so?”

“Yes indeed, sir. That’s the Waterloo train. All the others today are local.”

“Capital! That is the train we want. Tell me, was there a similar train last evening?”

“There was, the London evening train runs twice a week. I waved it off myself.”

“By any chance, do you remember anything of the passengers who boarded here?”

“I do sir, I do.” He set his hat back on his head and smiled. “Old Benjamin, he’s a farmer hereabouts, has been for as long as anyone can remember, went up for his weekly meeting with his grandchildren. Then there was a young man and his wife, strangers to me, with their two little girls.”

“You have an excellent memory,” Holmes said. “But I shall be surprised if there was not one other passenger.”

“There was sir, and he was a peculiar cove. Wrapped in a long coat he was, with a hat pulled down almost over his eyes. He had a squeaky voice too, and an odd way of moving, I noticed.” The station master went silent suddenly. “Why, sir, would you be Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

“I am indeed. How did you recognise me?”

“Oh, not by sight sir, not by sight. I just remembered that this curious stranger left an envelope with me, saying to give it to Mr. Sherlock Holmes who would certainly appear within the next twelve hours. It’s in my office. I’ll get it for you now.”

We watched as he, swaying from side to side as he walked, entered his office. Through the smeared window we saw him inspecting a cabinet, running his fingers along a row of pigeon-holes. Finally, he selected an envelope and held it up to the light, so that he might read the name written on it more easily.

“What is happening, Holmes?” I asked.

“Exactly what I expected to happen,” he said confidently. “The message, or whatever it turns out to be, is a surprise, though. The description of the passenger I could have related to you before we left the inn.”

“You never cease to mystify me, Holmes.”

“Then I suppose it is only a matter of courtesy to satisfy your curiosity. When we are safely aboard, and on our way back to London, I will attempt to enlighten you.”

The station master emerged from his office with the envelope, but was delayed from joining us by a waiting passenger who seemed to be having difficulty reading a time-table. It took about ten minutes to explain its intricacies, during which I noticed Holmes’ sharp eyes taking in every detail of our surroundings. I did not put it to him, but I formed the impression that he considered we might once again be under some kind of threat.

“Here we are, sir. I knew I’d placed it somewhere for safe-keeping. The station master turned and looked down the line as a pillar of smoke appeared and the sounds of the train reached us. With brakes squealing it slowed to a stop, and he opened the nearest door for us. “I wish you a comfortable journey, gentlemen.”

He put our bags aboard, although the help was unnecessary. I saw him touch his cap as Holmes gave him a coin. Shortly after he blew his whistle and raised a green flag. The station passed quickly out of our sight, replaced by long rows of trees whipping past the window.

I managed to contain my enthusiasm for the first ten minutes, during which Holmes conducted a monologue about plants which are found exclusively near the southern coast of England.

“Holmes, you did say that you would explain the recent developments in this case.” I reminded him at the first pause in his narrative.

He looked at me curiously for a moment. “Ah yes! Forgive me, Watson. Now, where shall I begin?”

“First, there is one aspect of all this that I feel we have overlooked.”

“And what is that, pray?”

I felt a rush of enthusiasm, because it seemed to me that, for once, I had noticed something that had escaped my friend. “Do you recall, Holmes, the first attempt on Mr. Conroy’s life? It was by means of a stone dislodged from the roof.”

“Indeed, I do.”

“How, then, did the would-be murderer come to be up there?”

“I am sorry to disappoint you, Watson,” he said with a smile at the corners of his mouth, “but I had actually considered that our enemy might be among Mr. Pritchard’s staff, for precisely that reason. The notion was quickly dispelled of course, when I realised that the fire had left much of that part of the house exposed, so that an outsider could easily gain entry. You may remember that I spent some time walking around beneath the Relic Room window, when I also examined the fire damage from a distance. I do not think that a great deal of strength was needed to hurl that piece of masonry down, for it was evident from the overhanging slates that the roof is in a poor state of repair.”

“I saw a change come over you, when Mr. Pritchard mentioned that Mr. Conroy’s real Christian name was “Edward””.

My friend leaned back until he found a comfortable position. I looked across at him, expectantly.

“That was indeed the turning-point in this affair, when inconsistencies finally came together.” He took out his pipe and tobacco pouch. “Do you recall, Watson, the affair of the One Hundred per Cent Society, about six months ago?”

“Of course. As far as I am aware, Lestrade never caught Mrs. McLyall.”

“Quite so. Yet we have encountered her again, I am certain.”

I cast my mind back. “You have deduced this because Mr. Conroy was murdered in the same manner as her previous victims?”

“Not entirely, although the similarity was of course obvious to me after Mr. Pritchard’s revelation of his friend’s real name. You will follow my reasoning at once, when I tell you that Edward Conroy was the foreman of the jury that convicted Mrs. McLyall’s husband.”

“Good heavens! I had no idea.”

“Nor had I, until I realised who ‘Ezekiel’ actually was. You may remember also that, apart from him, there were three other jurors who were under the protection of the official force for some time. I suspect that one of them, Michael Denning, did not die from an accidental collision with a landau, as reported in the newspapers.”

“So now there are just two remaining.”

He threw a spent match out of the window, and breathed a cloud of smoke. “There are. We must direct our energies towards saving them, by discovering the whereabouts of Mrs. McLyall and seeing that she is taken into police custody.” He took out the envelope that the station master had surrendered, and slit it open with his thumb. “Taking these deductions of mine as fact, this will come as no surprise.”

I leaned forward to peer at the object that he had shaken into his hand. “You were right, Holmes, it is the Gorgon’s head again!”

He nodded, sliding the card into his waistcoat pocket. “She is taunting us again, inviting us to pursue her. I suspected at once that ‘Miss Charlotte Breakthorpe’ who, after a short stay in the district suggested that Mr. Pritchard enlist our help, was in fact Mrs. McLyall, and that she was responsible for the attempts on Mr. Conroy’s life. I tell you, Watson, our summons here was neither coincidence nor accident. Her intention is likely as before, to kill us to remove the danger of arrest before she has disposed of the remaining jurors. I doubt if Lestrade has renewed his efforts in that direction lately, the newspapers are full of his investigations into The Halfpenny Green outrage.”

“We have survived much, before now, without the aid of the official force.”

“We have, and we will survive this. You have your service revolver still?”

I placed my hand on the pocket of my greatcoat. “It is never far from me.”

“Excellent!” Holmes knocked out the ash from his pipe through the open window. “I also am armed. It remains then, to keep watchful until this affair has run its course.”

“I think I shall be glad when we are back in Baker Street.”

“That is precisely the action we will not take, at least not yet. This card is an invitation to a rendezvous at the premises of the One Hundred per Cent Society, unless I am much mistaken. Why else would Mrs. McLyall send it now?”

“But the place was closed down after a police raid, surely?”

“With so little evidence there was not much they could charge that unsavoury crowd with, apart from keeping a disorderly house. I believe that someone awaits us there, either members of the Society under orders to murder us, or Mrs. McLyall herself.”

“Holmes,” I said with some exasperation. “You realise that we are walking into what is almost certainly some sort of trap?”

“Oh yes,” he smiled. “We must take great care. But consider, doctor, the possible results. We will apprehend either Mrs. McLyall, in which case this affair will be finally over, or one of the Society members who will give us her whereabouts.”

“Or we will be murdered and she will continue her campaign,” I finished.

“Cheer up, old fellow! Lunch time approaches, and the cuisine on this line has a good reputation. By late afternoon we will be back in London and may be able to finish this business and put it behind us. Perhaps we could bring in Lestrade later, as things progress.”

As it happened, our journey was delayed by an obstruction on the line. It took almost two hours to complete the removal of a derailed coach from an earlier train, so that it was evening and fully dark when we set foot at last on the platform at Waterloo.

“If there is anyone awaiting us at Coldharbour Lane,” I remarked, “they will impatient by now.”

“Most likely, but I’ll wager they will not have left.”

We left the station and Holmes immediately began to look around for a hansom. After a few minutes one drew up quite near to deliver a portly man with two large travelling trunks, and we boarded it as he stood calling for a porter.

“Coldharbour Lane, driver!” Holmes cried above the shouts of newspaper vendors and unofficial porters who were much in evidence and touting for business. We had not travelled half a mile when he rapped upon the trap above us and shouted, “Turn left after the statue.”

Obediently, the driver turned away at the entrance to the park, and the stone effigy of our Queen was left behind. Holmes directed him until we found ourselves in a shadowy alley, lit only by a few flickering lamps high on the walls.

“Holmes, what is this place?” I asked. “Why have we changed our destination?”

My friend turned from his inspection of the dark doorways. “Patience, Watson, you will see.”

A spark of light appeared in the distance. As we drew nearer, I could make out a small crowd of urchins gathered around the entrance to what appeared to be a church hall. The smell of some sort of vegetable soup was suddenly thick in the air, and then I understood.

“Rein in here driver, if you please,” Holmes called. “We will not be long.”

I expected him to leave the cab but he made no move. He sat there with his head thrust forward, obviously seeking someone. Then a tall boy of about sixteen years emerged from the hall, wiping his sleeve across his mouth.

“He has finished his supper, as I hoped. He is almost as much a creature of habit as brother Mycroft.” Holmes leaned out of the cab and shouted. “Elders! A moment of your time, if you please. It is I, Sherlock Holmes.”

The boy pulled on his cap and ran towards us. When he was close enough to see Holmes clearly, he saluted. I recognised him as one of the Irregulars, Holmes’ eyes and ears in the streets of London.

“Are you free, Elders?”

“Always, for you, Mr. Holmes.”

“Excellent. Then perhaps you would take the luggage of Doctor Watson and myself to Baker Street, and tell Mrs. Hudson not to wait up for us. Here is enough to cover the fare of a hansom which you will find around the corner, plus payment for your services at the usual rate.”

The boy saluted again. “Yes, sir, I will go now.”

He seized the bags from Holmes’ hands with great enthusiasm, and would have disappeared into the darkness had not my friend spoken again.

“One more thing, Elders.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Holmes?”

“I want you to get as many of your friends as you need to watch Baker Street until midnight. If we have not returned by then, you are to go to Scotland Yard and tell Inspector Lestrade to bring four constables to Coldharbour Lane. He will know exactly where you mean, and you should get some attention quickly enough if you mention my name as you arrive.”

At the mention of the headquarters of the official force the boy took on a wary look, but when my friend assured him that payment at double the usual rate for this extra service would be forthcoming the following morning, he became more cheerful.

“You can count on me, sir,” he said before leaving us.

“Coldharbour Lane now, driver,” Holmes said then, and the horse struck up a fair pace.

I remember that the night was clear, with no moon but starlight striking a reflection on some of the dark windows. As we dismissed the hansom I looked in vain for a street lamp but none was alight. All was complete blackness along the row of buildings, for every one appeared deserted. Not even a stray cat appeared in the hope of some morsel at the sound of our footsteps, and Holmes said nothing until we came upon a familiar silhouette.

It was as I remembered it -- the stone pillars at the entrance, and the studded double-doors. As he had done before Holmes rapped loudly, but this time without result.

“Perhaps you were mistaken,” I suggested in a whisper. “The Gorgon’s head visiting card may have been merely to let us know that we were once again dealing with Mrs. McLyall, rather than to induce us to return here. The woman struck me as rather vain.”

“I had thought that I had begun to know her,” Holmes answered after a moment, “but I may have been ahead of myself.” He looked at the blackened arch adjoining the premises. “Aha! But no, Watson, I saw a flicker of light on the wall there!”

Gripping our pistols, we moved around the side of the building and under the arch. A yard enclosed by high walls surmounted by iron railings opened up around us, with several small shelters that reminded me of the workplace of a blacksmith or tanner. In the centre of the enclosure a fire burned brightly, rapidly consuming what looked like the remains of packing-cases that had been piled high within the flames.

Around it four men sat on crates and empty boxes, each bent forward as if in contemplation. Apart from the roaring of the fire, I could hear nothing.

We approached cautiously, the noise from the flames covering our footfalls. None of the men moved.

“They seem unaware of our presence, Holmes,” I shouted above the crackling of the broken planks.

He peered at each man in turn, through the blazing heat.

“They are, Watson. They are unaware of everything. Each man has been shot through the chest.”