The Reappearance of Mr. James Phillimore

The north wind was in our faces as we trudged homeward along Baker Street. It pushed dead leaves that danced with whispering rustles around our feet, along the pavement, and against the buildings. An October cold snap had descended on London several days before, along with brilliant blue autumn skies. We had enjoyed a refreshing change from the rains that had assailed us just days earlier, but now the clouds were building once again, and very shortly we would be inundated.

We had just reached the coffee house at the corner of Portland Mansions when we encountered a woman headed south. She had been walking with steady purpose, scanning passers-by with a peculiar intensity. When she spotted my friend Sherlock Holmes, she pulled up with recognition.

“Mr. Holmes!” she cried, causing several people nearby to look up and our way from their own inner distractions. “Your landlady said that you were out. It is you, isn’t it?”

Holmes frowned – a not-uncommon reaction when called out by strangers in public. While it could not be denied that my literary endeavors of the late 1880’s and early 1890’s had substantially increased his fame, making him much more recognizable and enabling him to increase his caseload substantially, he still felt that my efforts had deprived him of a certain amount of necessary anonymity. And I had to agree – although it must be noted that any anonymity that he desired was also often undone by his own insistence upon wearing his Inverness and fore-and-aft cap in both the city and the country, all the year round. However he had justifiable reasons for this, rightly believing that he could not be kow-towing to fashion if the needs of a case suddenly called him into action. “This coat and hat enable me to instantly begin an investigation – to be dressed to follow someone, travel to high or low places, and stay out for days if necessary. Imagine, Watson, if I were sankoing down the street attired in a topper and tails when I suddenly caught sight of a wanted man. Could I drop everything and pursue him in those clothes? What if the merry chase led me to Limehouse, or Dartmoor – and I still in my formal-wear? Nonsense!”

He was right, of course, and this had been proven dozens upon dozens of times. It didn’t hurt that Holmes cared nothing for fashion’s – or society’s – dictates. His was a Bohemian soul, and he wore what he wanted without regard to others’ opinions. On this day, it was a fortunate thing, as he was both identified by a new client, and he was also properly dressed – better than I was – for the rains that were arriving, with the first drops hitting around us even as we paused to talk to the strange woman.

Seeing that we were at the door of the coffee shop, I suggested that we quickly adjourn inside. It was warm and welcoming as always, with the old wooden floorboards creaking as we passed across them. Behind the counter, Mrs. Brett, the owner, smiled our way. About our age, Holmes and I had both known her since she opened the shop nearly two decades earlier, around the time that Holmes was able to explain a small mystery that had vexed her. Now a settled and middle-aged wife and mother of three, she had built up the business with a skill to be admired. While Holmes led the woman to a quiet table, I said hello to our long-time friend and ordered three of her moderate blends – aware that some of the darker roasts might keep me awake for days.

Soon, with three hot mugs in hand, I joined the others and was able to see the woman from the street in better circumstances. She was around sixty years old, and rather matronly in a plain but pleasant way. She was moderately dressed, without any bright colors or noticeable jewelry. She carried a sensible bag, and her expression denoted intelligence. I was glad to see it, for her initial approach on the street had suggested that she was impulsive and overwrought. Clearly something was worrying her to have caused such a forward introduction.

I could hear the intensity of the rain increase outside, and I knew that we were in for it over the next few days. When this storm blew away, the last remaining bits of summer would have truly departed.

“While you were serving us,” Holmes told me, “Mrs. Harlow introduced herself.” I glanced at her ring finger, which was bare. A widow, perhaps?

“She hasn’t related any other facts, however.” He turned back to the woman. “How can we help you?”

Mrs. Harlow took a sip of the coffee and held the hot mug cupped in her hands for a moment, clearly enjoying the heat in her fingers. Then, realizing that the silence was becoming awkward, she squeezed her eyes shut, took a deep breath, set down the mug, and began.

“I live at Number 12, The Arbour, in Highgate,” she said. At that, Holmes seemed to show a spark more interest, but perhaps only someone who knew him as well as I would have noticed.

“I bought my house there two years ago,” continued Mrs. Harlow, “when my husband passed away. He was a supervisory clerk at a bank in the City, and he wisely maintained an insurance policy that paid quite handsomely when he died. Sadly, we were never blessed with children, and after he was gone, I began to feel the need for a change. A house agent who had been a friend of my husband’s arranged for the sale of our old house and the purchase of the new one. I had considered traveling, but I realized that I’d like nothing better than to settle into my new home. And now…” She closed her eyes again, and a tear suddenly ran down one cheek.

“There, there,” I said, laying my hand on hers. “Whatever it is, I’m sure that we can help. What caused you to seek us out today?”

She dabbed at her eyes with a small handkerchief, produced from her bag. “After living so peacefully in my new home, I’m suddenly terrified of it. After… after last night, I didn’t know what to do. I recalled you, Mr. Holmes, from when you once helped a friend of mine, Mrs. Horace Mortimer, and so I hurried around, without even making an appointment. When your landlady said that you weren’t there, I turned away in despair. I… I believe that she called to me that you would be back soon and that I could wait, but I was so despondent that I simply needed to walk. Then I saw you both coming my way, and it seemed to be a miracle.”

I could tell that Holmes was becoming impatient, but he’d learned over the years that often a story has to be told in its own way. I patted Mrs. Harlow’s hand one more time and then withdrew my own. She was ready to continue.

“My little house is one of a row, not more than twenty years old. It consists of just two stories – a sitting room and parlor and kitchen on the ground floor, without a cellar, and a couple of bedrooms upstairs. It’s cozy and comfortable, and I’ve filled it with objects that please me. Books, and interesting little curios that I obtain – selectively, I assure you – during explorations to various parts of London. I live a very quiet and satisfying life, with only my cat to keep me company.

She gave a small sob, and then continued. “It has been thus for many months, until… until five days ago, at which time I began to have… visitations.”

Holmes shifted in his seat and leaned forward, his hands resting on the table, fingers intertwined, coffee ignored. “What sort of visitations?” he asked. “Surely you don’t mean to imply something along the lines of a spirit or ghost?”

She rocked a bit and chewed her lip before saying with a low cry, “Mr. Holmes, I simply do not know! I would have never thought that I could be afraid of such a thing, and yet – I have seen things that I cannot explain!”

Seeing that we were listening intently, she continued. “It began innocently enough, last Monday night – although at the time it was rather upsetting, as I didn’t realize how much worse things could become. I was awakened by a noise in the night, in the hallway outside my bedroom. I sleep with the door closed, and my cat, Molly, was with me. I’m normally a light sleeper, and it was no wonder that such a sound would disturb me. It was a distinct thump, as if someone were walking in the darkness had inadvertently knocked against the small table standing outside my bedroom door.

“I gave an inadvertent cry, certain that a robber had entered the house. I was quite fearful and uncertain as to what I should do. But then, instead of hearing footsteps making a quick escape, I heard a moan, a terrible sound that started low, almost like the wind, but then grew in volume and intensity until it was nearly a scream. I didn’t imagine it – it was no dream. Molly heard it as well, and instantly the hair on her back stood out while she cringed against me and hissed at the terrible sound. And then – it stopped abruptly, as if whomever – or whatever – had created it met with some great violence. Then, with another a painful groan, it vanished entirely.

“My heart was pounding, and I cowered in bed for the longest time. Molly seemed to calm herself after a while, but I never truly did. Morning light was beginning to peep through the windows before I managed to make myself arise. Only then did I remember that my door, while closed, had not been locked – for who locks themselves in their bedroom at night when living alone? Or perhaps that is a perfectly sound reason to do so, but it hadn’t ever occurred to me before, and while the door had a lock, I’d never had a key for it, from the day that I moved there.

“I examined the hallway and saw no signs of an intruder. The small table was as I’d left it. I crept around the house for an hour or so, looking for evidence of a break-in, or half-expecting someone – or something – to jump out at me from every door or recess that I passed. It was a terrible feeling – this home that I’d loved from the beginning, and which was to me the coziest of havens – now suddenly an unfamiliar and dangerous threat.

“I was too ashamed to call the police, for even I could see that no one had broken in, and there was no sign of damage or proof that anyone had been there. Possibly you, Mr. Holmes, could have read much that was invisible to me, but I simply never thought of you. Instead, I relayed a message to the locksmith – I am on the telephone – and requested that he provide me with a key to my bedroom that very day. He seemed curious, and came around within the hour, but I provided no answers to his unvoiced questions.

“That day was so long, and it was dark as well – not quite raining, but with fitful and unceasing winds rattling around. I would look out the windows at the low clouds scudding by, my unease growing. I’ve never gotten to know any of my neighbors, and I’ve lost track of the few friends that I had when my husband was alive. I realized just how alone I was. I couldn’t even go next door and ask if they had heard anything in the night – I had never met them, and they would think that I was touched in the head. Well, I suppose that I could have asked them, but it simply seemed impossible.

“And so Tuesday night came, and I followed my usual routine, cooking a small supper and carrying out the usual household chores. I tried to read, but every knock and thump from the rising wind outside distracted me. Finally, when I could avoid it no longer, I went up to bed.

“Somehow I fell asleep, comforted perhaps by my now-locked door. And yet, it was almost as if I’d known that the previous night was only the beginning. Around four in the morning, without any warning or preparation, my door was suddenly subjected to three very loud knocks – pounding, really, as if by a giant fist. And then, there was a low laugh – sinister, and slightly wheezy. It seemed to resolve itself into a repetition of sibilant whispers. Gradually they became loud enough for me to recognize their pattern: ‘Get out!’ they hissed. ‘Get out!’ Eventually they peaked in intensity before fading away.

“Once again, Molly beside me had been as frightened as I was. And yet, this time instead of cringing, she stood and walked down the bed, as if willing to fight. However, I was not so brave, making no effort to do anything but hide beneath my covers, weeping and wishing for morning.

“Wednesday was much the same, as has been each day since then. The daylight hours pass with a sense of dread and impending disaster, while the nights have been one terrifying incident after another. That night, nothing happened for so long that I began to believe it had ended – and yet, a sudden scream an hour or so before dawn woke me from a troubled slumber. After several moments nothing else happened, and I foresaw another wakeful wait for morning. Then I heard a terrible dragging noise on the door. It was over in seconds, and only when I exited hours later did I see that the woodwork had been damaged from the top to the middle, as if it had been raked by claws.

“Thursday night, I was awakened again by loud pounding on the door, followed by maniacal laughter. It was almost a comfort that nothing further occurred. And yet, when I went out in the morning, I found that a series of naked footprints, one after another, had been burned into the floor, leading from the top of the stairs to my doorway. I touched them and they were cool, but the floor where they lay was most definitely burned, and there was ash on my fingers. Likewise, at eye level on the wall across from my bedroom door was the word Leave, burned along the wallpaper.

“I know what you’re thinking, gentlemen: Why in God’s name was I putting up with this for so long? But I truly had nowhere else to go, and up until then I had feared approaching the police, as I had no real evidence – even the scratches on my door could have been made by me. My former sister-in-law had a mental affliction in which she made greater and greater efforts to inflict self-harm, pretending that she was being victimized by others, if she felt that she wasn’t getting enough attention, and I saw over the years how she was treated and not believed. Even the footprints could have been something that I constructed in a warped effort to bring myself to someone’s awareness. I only wish that I had gone yesterday morning, before this… this malevolent phantom escalated the affair to a new level!

“Last night, as I again prepared myself for another long night of waiting to see how I would be disturbed, I realized that I hadn’t seen Molly for an hour or so. I went to the rear of the ground floor, into the kitchen, and saw that her food hadn’t been eaten. I was more puzzled than I can say, and I searched high and low, calling her name. I knew that she couldn’t have slipped out, because I hadn’t opened the door in days – in fact, since the visit of the locksmith. Her absence made me more and more concerned, and angry as well, as if my willingness to fight back against this… this thing was finally awakening. Instead of going to bed last night, I lit all the lamps, found the largest knife that I owned and, carrying it into the sitting room, I placed myself in a chair, ready to confront whatever it was that was terrorizing me.

“Periodically through the night, I would pass through the house, terrified with every step and expecting to encounter the intruder, calling for Molly, and looking for anything unusual. But I never saw a sign of her, or my intruder. Eventually this morning came, and I was relieved – I seemed to have broken the cycle. And yet, it was a very hollow victory, for my only companion had vanished.

“As today wore on, I puttered about. I usually have very few chores, and so eventually I found myself back in the sitting room, reading a book, and becoming more and more sleepy. In mid-afternoon, I awoke with a start, with the vague sense that I’d heard a noise, like the sound of a door shutting in another part of the house. Rousing myself, for I’d slept deeply and I still felt as if I were halfway between wakefulness and drowsing, I picked up the knife and went to examine the house.

“I’d only reached the front hall, however, when I saw her – Molly – before me, on the floor near the front door. I dropped to my knees, the knife clattering to the woodwork beside me. She was dead – stiffened, and with a look of rage on her face, as if she’d fought whatever it was that killed her. The fur was bunched at her throat, and her head was… it was at an odd angle, as if her neck had been twisted and broken!”

At this point, Mrs. Harlow broke down, sobbing silently into her handkerchief. I glanced at Holmes. His gaze was intent, and there was an angry flame burning in his eyes that revealed his outrage at the circumstances faced by this poor woman.

“It was then that I knew I couldn’t stay,” said Mrs. Harlow. “I had remained for so long, but then I stood and fled, somehow remembering to grab my coat, hat, and bag. Thankfully I locked the house behind me, but I could have just as easily forgotten. I walked for quite a bit, only stopping to have a cup of tea and a bite to eat when I felt myself becoming weak. I was considering finally approaching the police when I thought of you, Mr. Holmes. I made my way to Baker Street, and then fortunately I saw you both on the street.” Her voice faded away, as if every bit of her energy had been used up remembering the terrors of the last few days, and now she was trustingly placing the matter in Holmes’s hands.

He thought for a moment, and then said, “I know that it will be difficult, and frightening, but can you return there, and wait for Dr. Watson and me to prepare ourselves?”

A look of terror filled her eyes. “I cannot! I can’t be alone there. Can’t you return with me?”

Holmes smiled and reached to pat her hand. “You won’t be alone. Dr. Watson and I have something to do first, but in the meantime, we’ll send you with a lad that I know, by the name of Philip Barsby.”

Young Philip was one of Holmes’s Irregulars, that group of lads – and occasionally lasses – who often served as his eyes and ears. I recalled passing Philip earlier as we had walked toward home. “His appearance,” Holmes continued, “may not provide the greatest confidence, but there is no one more true and sure. But you must remember,” he said, his tone changing, “that neither of you should speak to each other. Don’t say a word. Whatever is in the house must believe that you have returned there alone. Do you understand?”

She nodded, uncertain, but willing to take the lifeline thrown to her.

“I don’t believe that you will be in any immediate danger, but it’s essential that the house be reoccupied as soon as possible. I assure you that we will settle this in a very short amount of time.”

She nodded, and then her eyes widened momentarily. Tears formed, and I have no doubt that she was again seeing her poor cat lying dead in the hall where she had left it. So vivid had been her description that I could envision it there as well, and I felt her pain at being asked to go back. Holmes was not indifferent.

“I wouldn’t ask you to return if there was any other way,” he said. “But you may have left the place untenanted for too long already, and whomever wants you to leave must believe that you’re still defenseless, and without aid, if he is to reveal himself.”

“So,” she asked, eyes wide, “you don’t believe this to be some kind of monster?”

Holmes frowned. “Of course not. But if we have any hopes of putting a stop to this, we must hurry. You will return to Highgate with our young friend, as soon as I round him up, while Dr. Watson and I will repair to Baker Street and carry out our plans from there. Within the hour, the doctor will present himself at your home in the guise of a gas inspector.”

With that, I raised an eyebrow, but Holmes continued without pause. “You will enter, Watson, making a great show of explaining that you are checking for leaks. Putter about, make some noise, and then return to the front door, where you will noisily say goodbye. But you will not leave. Rather, you will also remain in the house, quietly, and no further conversation will pass between any of you, whatsoever. That is most important. Mrs. Harlow, is there somewhere that the doctor and our young friend Philip can wait unobserved until tonight?”

She nodded. “The parlor, by the front door, is rarely used, and there are comfortable chairs for reading.”

“No reading, Watson. I’m afraid that you must both wait in darkness. And no smoking either, old fellow.”

“I understand.” And I did. It was rather like that terrible night in ’83 when Holmes and I had hidden in a bed chamber where violent death had occurred before, knowing that the killer was waiting patiently in the adjacent room. There had been a ventilator constructed high in the wall where death would slip through, and any indication that we had replaced the room’s regular occupant, as revealed by smoke from our pipes or cigarettes, would have ruined Holmes’s scheme. The villain had never realized that we were there, and his murderous plot recoiled on him in a most fitting and satisfactory way – but not before Holmes and I had a few terrifying moments where our own deaths were entirely possible.

Holmes stepped outside to locate Philip Barsby, and I continued to speak softly to Mrs. Harlow, assuring her that my friend would soon find a solution. I didn’t mention that he had seemed to recognize the address, and I looked forward to learning from him its significance.

In a moment, Holmes returned and waved toward us from the door. I nodded to Mrs. Brett behind the counter and then gave Mrs. Harlow my arm. Outside, Holmes introduced Mrs. Harlow to Philip, a bright boy of perhaps ten. He carefully instructed that Mrs. Harlow should arrive at the front of her house alone, and then let Philip in discretely through the back door. He made it quite clear that there should absolutely be no conversation between them to indicate that Philip was inside the house. I felt that the boy was trustworthy in this matter, but I wondered if Mrs. Harlow could remain silent. I assured her that I would soon join them, and that Holmes had a good idea of what to do. Then we put them in a cab and sent them away. Then, with the cold rain in our faces, we dashed for our rooms up the street.

I knew that Holmes already had some sense of what had occurred, but I didn’t know yet how he came to any conclusion. I could only grasp with certainty that when Mrs. Harlow had stated her address, he seemed to show some additional interest, as if he’d recognized it. When we had entered the front hallway of our lodgings, and were shaking out our wet coats at the bottom of the stairs, I asked him to elaborate.

“Very good, Watson,” he said as we started upstairs. “You see that this narrative, consisting of a series of events that are all self-contained within that small household, and with a very limited cast of characters, could have occurred anywhere. The only facts that might have a wider significance are the profession of the late husband or that specific address. How did you decide to ask about one over the other?”

“I hadn’t given any thought to her late husband’s job at the bank,” I confessed, entering the sitting room and turning to face him. “Instead, I saw your interest when she mentioned her address.”

“Ha!” he barked. “I must learn to guard against your growing observational skills,” he said, “lest I become careless and give away other secrets before they can be dramatically revealed.” He dashed into his room, only to immediately return carrying a shabby overcoat and a leather folder of the type used by workmen recording observations. “This shall be your disguise,” he said. “Nothing too elaborate.” I took the items from Holmes, who then said, “Make sure that you bring your service revolver.”

I patted my coat. “As you know, I learned years ago never to step out without it.”

“Good man. Be on your way soon. Don’t look for me, but I will be nearby.” And he walked toward the door, stopping to pick up his loaded riding crop from the nearby stand.

“But Holmes,” I asked, “why were you interested in the address?”

“You’ll find it in my commonplace books,” he replied. “But don’t dawdle – that poor woman is counting on you to join her soon. It’s the Phillimore matter. You’ll find it filed under ‘F’.”

“Phillimore starts with a ‘P’,” I called, but he was already gone.

His filing system was always more curious than could be comprehended by lesser mortals, but I suspected that he had listed it under ‘F’ because he considered it to be a Failure. However, cases that he often judged to have unsatisfactory endings usually seemed, to me at least, to be astounding successes. Still, he would see something in those affairs that irritated him – a deduction made later than he would have liked, or his initial pursuit seemingly wasted time while he followed a false trail before comprehending the truth – and so forever after it would be labeled in his mind as a defeat. The Phillimore case of two years before had certainly been perceived that way by the public. When the man disappeared, Holmes had been consulted, and at the end he admitted that he had no solution. Afterwards, he’d accepted the good-natured chiding of the police, without revealing that he had in fact truly arrived at a solution, and rather easily at that. Yet he chose to hide it, rather than expose a man’s carefully constructed secret.

I found the book for the letter ‘F’ and carried it to the dining table. I knew that every minute was important, and that Mrs. Harlow and Philip Barsby might, even at that moment, be entering her Highgate home. But I wanted to understand what Holmes had remembered, and he apparently felt that it was safe for her to return there, at least initially, if she could muster the courage.

Holmes’s scrapbooks are not books at all, but rather a loose collection of documents somewhat enclosed in front-and-back covers. There are attached pages, but more are loose than not, and tucked between every leaf are other scraps of paper – photographs, receipts, handwritten notes, and brochures – along with other odd and unexplained items like feathers, or strips of papyrus with curious hieroglyphics upon them, or swatches of cloth. Each has a story, and relays some fact to Holmes that is often meaningless to others. In flipping through the sheets, I found his notes related to Phillimore, immediately after a small booklet describing the history of an ancient London church.

I scanned Holmes’s neat handwriting and saw immediately why he had been alerted by Mrs. Harlow’s story – the address that she gave us was the very same where James Phillimore had disappeared just over two years earlier, probably within a month or so before she purchased it.

The case was quite the nine-days wonder at the time, and it wasn’t long until Holmes was consulted by our old friend, Inspector Lestrade. Phillimore, a bachelor who worked for a nearby wine merchant, had stepped outside one spring morning and called to a passing constable. He hurriedly made some explanation about a mysterious package that he’d received, and asked the constable to whom he should report it. Then, as a shower was about to begin, and before the constable could answer, Phillimore excused himself for a moment, indicating that he was going to step back inside for an umbrella. He turned and passed in, partially pushing the door to but not entirely closing it – and vanished.

After a few moments, the constable, Wilkins, became impatient, but rather than simply walking on, he knocked and called several times before entering the house. Inside, he found that James Phillimore had seemingly disappeared without a trace. Wilkins pushed the door shut, locking it and taking the key that was still in the lock with him while he searched the house, moving methodically from room to room. Wilkins was known to Holmes and me as being one of the more responsible of the bunch, and it was proven this his examination of the house was quite effective while he listened carefully to make certain that no one was moving around in places where he was not then occupying. The house was a small one, and I didn’t take long to ascertain that it was mysteriously empty.

The windows were all locked, and there was a bar on the inside of the back door that absolutely could not have been replaced if Phillimore had exited by that route. Realizing that something was happening beyond his experience, Wilkins unlocked and re-opened the front door to blow his whistle. Within a few moments, several other officers had joined him, and before long Lestrade was there as well. A plethora of constables then swarmed through the place, and no sign of Phillimore was found.

Routine investigation revealed a number of documents left on Phillimore’s desk, including a number of threatening letters that had been mailed to him at that address from central London over the preceding week, all written by a mysterious man named “Willoughby”. Each was vague, promising that he would die for what he had done – without providing any details as to what exactly that might have been. Of this Willoughby there was no trace.

Phillimore, a quiet and anonymous man of around forty years, had led a routine life, moving from work to home and back again. He was engaged to be married to a middle-aged spinster named Sylvia Amherst, but the relationship had been long-standing, and there was no apparent urgency toward formalizing the arrangement. With no apparent clues, the public became fascinated with the story, especially as it somehow found its way into the newspapers, despite the efforts of the police to keep it quiet. Several anonymous letters to the editor were published, all calling for Holmes’s intervention. With no other direction to turn, Lestrade summoned Holmes and me, and was immediately chided by my friend for waiting so long. He wasted no time in examining the entire house, which had remained locked and guarded since Phillimore’s disappearance, while the inspector and I waited patiently in the sitting room off the front hall. We could hear Holmes exploring the building, upstairs and down, and then back again. Eventually he joined us, agreeing with Lestrade that Phillimore hadn’t exited by the windows or the back door. With that, he indicated that he would continue his investigation, and we departed, leaving Lestrade markedly unsatisfied.

Over the next couple of days, Holmes built up a greater picture of Phillimore – a bland fellow, living life with a sameness that never varied from day to day and year to year. We met with Miss Amherst, and found her to be a singularly unpleasant person who gave us to understand that if we found her errant fiancé, she would quickly place him under a much firmer thumb than how he’d previously found himself. She let it slip through implication that it had only been through the threat of a breach of promise suit that they’d remained engaged as long as they had.

When we were back outside, both rather shaken at being in the presence of such a harridan, Holmes announced that it was time to settle this. He then hailed a cab and directed us to the Charing Cross Hotel.

In the lobby, a boy of ten or so approached us. It was young Abel Foster, one of Holmes’s irregulars who often drew this sort of assignment, as he was from a middle-class home, and thus had both better manners and shoes. He informed us that Mr. Willoughby was still in his room, and how to find it. I started to ask how Willoughby had been located, but Holmes was already headed upstairs.

We knocked on the door of Number 412, which opened to reveal a rather plain middle-aged man with his brown hair combed low on his forehead. He peered at us curiously, but stepped back with a start when Holmes greeted him as Mr. Phillimore and asked if we could step inside.

Phillimore seemed to be trapped between amazement and nervous laughter when he realized that he’d been discovered, and that his use of the name “Willoughby” had been revealed. As expected, he wanted to know how he’d been found. Holmes explained that during his searches of the house, he’d found various footprints throughout belonging to Phillimore, as identified when matched with shoes belonging to the missing man, along with a number of constable’s prints, along with the inspector’s, the left of which had a marked inward twist. Oddly, some of those belonging to Phillimore had been mixed in with those of the constables in the ground floor entry hall. In fact, in a few cases these had lay on top of the constable’s prints. Following some of Phillimore’s tracks back from the front door, Holmes discovered that they had come from the closet underneath the stairs.

While Lestrade and I had waited in the sitting room, he had given the closet a more intense examination, aware that Phillimore couldn’t have simply hidden there while Wilkins searched the house, as he would have been quickly discovered. Further examination of the space had led Holmes to discover that it had a false back, with room enough behind it for a man to hide, although just barely. This was confirmed by seeing that Phillimore’s footprints were also there in the scattered dust.

Holmes had then realized what must have happened: Phillimore, planning to vanish, had waited until he saw a constable passing by. He called to him to obtain his attention, and then, with the excuse of retrieving an umbrella, he went back in the house, leaving the door open. He hurried to the closet, stepped inside and, closing the door behind him, he moved further back into the secret chamber. There, he had a constable’s jacket and helmet hidden, and he put them on and waited.

Holmes revealed then that he’d consulted with the various constables who had been at the scene that morning and verified that no one had been allowed in or out of the house but the police. Lestrade confirmed that the house had been locked up tight since. With this in mind, Holmes was certain that the evidence of the footprints was unaltered.

With the testimony of the constables also confirming that no one else had been in the house that morning, Holmes knew that Phillimore had waited until the house was full of policemen searching for him. Then, disguised as one of them, he simply kept his head down and walked purposely out to the street, where he strolled away and vanished.

“Amongst the papers in your desk was a recent receipt for a theatrical costumer, located near your place of employment. The clerk there verified that they had rented a constable’s coat and helmet to a man named Willoughby, and that they were returned later the same morning that you disappeared. Very conscientious, Mr. Phillimore, since you could have simply dropped them in any convenient alley. Perhaps more responsible of you was when you provided a required address – which turned out to be this hotel. You could have lied, but you had to tell them something, and this was what suggested itself to you. And then there’s the use of the name Willoughby – not very imaginative, I’m afraid – using it to rent the costume, as well as your room here at the hotel, and also on the threatening letters that you forged to yourself. Though disguised, the handwriting is unmistakable as your own. What significance does the name Willoughby hold for you? I was able to ascertain that as well. As James Phillimore, you’ve slowly but surely been emptying your bank accounts, making regular payments – never large enough to attract attention – to the accounts of someone named Willoughby.”

“That was my great-uncle’s name – Thomas Willoughby,” Phillimore replied with a rueful smile. “When I concocted this plan, it seemed fitting somehow to use that name, both on the letters, and as my new identity. Several months ago, you see, I received a rather substantial and unexpected inheritance from him. Realizing the freedom from responsibility that the funds now provided, I found that I had the itch to break out of my routine and see the world.”

“But why this complex subterfuge?” I asked. “If you could now afford it, you could have simply quit the shop, sold the house, and bought a ticket.”

Phillimore shrugged. “What can I say? I wanted to set forth as a different person – to be reinvented as an entirely different man. And Sylvia – that is, Miss Amherst…” He drifted off.

“Yes,” Holmes nodded. “She is rather unpleasant.”

Phillimore stared for a moment, as if feeling that he should defend her, before nodding. “She has always threatened to bring action against me if we should part. She is quite a… vengeful person. She would never have rested. Rather than that hanging over me, wherever I went, I decided that it was simply another reason to vanish entirely. Besides, I can assure you that she would much rather go forward as a jilted and broken-hearted fiancée – chewing on the grievance will sustain her for years!”

He smiled as he said it, but then a silence descended upon us, and his face settled into that bland forgettableness that was certainly its normal state. After a few minutes, Holmes glanced at me with an interrogative expression. “Well, Watson? No crime has been committed here. Do you think my little reputation can stand a bit of tarnish if we let this one remain unsolved, allowing Mr. Phillimore – that is, Mr. Willoughby – to follow his own path from here on out?”

“I think so,” I agreed, “if you do.”

And so, with Phillimore – as I continued to think of him – showing quite a bit of relief, we took our leave, and the matter played out for several more weeks in the press before fading and joining those other cases that are seemingly solution-less, but in actuality do have an explanation, if only one knows where to look and whom to ask.

Holmes’s short written précis of the affair didn’t deviate from my recollection. Yet, as I was about to close the scrapbook, I noticed a second sheet tucked behind the first, headed Phillimore – Continued. On this was only one cryptic sentence, written in Holmes’s distinctive hand: House at Number 12, The Arbour, Highgate Sold 17 October, 1895.

That corresponded to the approximate date that Mrs. Harlow had purchased the house, not long after Phillimore vanished. No surprise there – and yet, why did Holmes feel the need to document it?

Realizing that precious time was slipping away, I pulled on the shabby overcoat and, tapping my pocket where my service revolver rested, I walked down and out to the street, where one of the cabbies that we knew, Bert Deacon, was passing. He waved and seemed oblivious to the driving rain. Giving him Mrs. Harlow’s address, I settled back for the journey up to Highgate.

Deacon dropped me at the end of the block. The rain had diminished a bit, but the wind was rising. I walked slowly toward the remembered house, admitting to myself that I’d only given the neighborhood cursory attention when visiting there with Holmes two years earlier. Now, with the cold rain falling steadily and in the dim evening light, I was even less inclined to spend any time looking at it with any great intensity from the outside. I stopped in front of Number 12, put my foot on the single front step, and rang the bell.

Almost before I could withdraw my hand, Mrs. Harlow answered, her eyes wide with fear. “Good evening, ma’am,” I croaked in my best Cockney accent – not entirely a terrible effort, but not worth trying to recreate here within this printed record. “We’re checking the gas connections in the neighborhood – ”

“Yes, yes,” she interrupted, a bit shrill, and pulling me forward. “Come right in.”

Knowing that Holmes had put me in disguise for a reason, I’m sure that he thought that the house was being watched. Mrs. Harlow’s nearly panicked welcome of me was far too sudden – she might alert someone that my visit was more planned than the business-like and unexpected intrusion that it was supposed to portray. I needed to calm her down.

Inside, she quickly shut the door. The entry hall, much as I remembered it from two years earlier, was lit by a small gaslight. As my eyes adjusted, I saw young Philip standing in the shadows to the left, in the door of the small parlor. I nodded to him, and Mrs. Harlow began to whisper, hissing, “When I returned, just a few minutes ago – ”

I held up my hand abruptly, and she stopped speaking. Then, holding a finger to my lips, I finished my prepared speech, in case someone was already in the house, listening. After all, we knew that there was a secret space behind the walls of the under-stairs closet, and it hadn’t yet been searched. “Good evening, ma’am,” I growled. “Sorry to bother you so late in the evening, but we’ve a report of a gas leak in the neighborhood. Have you noticed anything unusual? Have you smelled any gas?”

She shook her head, and I said, to remind her to speak, “What’s that, ma’am? I’m a bit hard of hearing.”

“No,” she said, her voice almost a croak. Her hand was still on my arm, and I realized that she was trembling. “Not a thing.”

“Where are the pipes? I asked. “In the cellar?”

“No,” she said, calming a bit. “There is no cellar. They are out back, in an area near the small garden.”

“Ah, then,” I replied, making a few heavy footsteps across the hall. “Let me just see if I smell anything.” I took a quick and noisy turn toward the back of the house, and then returned to where Mrs. Harlow was watching. “Nothing inside then. I’ll just give it a check outside and then speak to your neighbors. Sorry to intrude.” And I opened the door before immediately slamming it shut – while I remained inside.

Then I put my finger to my lips once again and nodded toward the parlor, on our left. As she led me in, Philip stepped aside and I removed the heavy coat that had served to minimally disguise me. She took it from me and then stepped close, indicating that she wanted to speak. Leaning toward her, she breathed with a quiver in her faint whisper, “When I returned home, only a few minutes ago, Molly was gone!”

I immediately remembered that, when she had fled the house earlier, the body of her cat had been left behind on the hall floor. I wanted to ask further questions, and to return to the hall and examine the scene to see if I could observe any signs of how it had been removed, but I realized that I needed to follow Holmes’s instructions. Therefore, I simply nodded, I hope reassuringly, and indicated that I would now be taking a seat in the darkened room, as planned.

She pursed her lips a bit, as if she’d expected me to rush to examine the scene, or to somehow notify Holmes of this development, or to at least ask questions in my own strained whisper. However, when it was apparent that I was going to stay in the parlor with Philip, she mouthed the word, “Tea?” and I shook my head. She then set my coat on a small divan near the front window and walked out – quite stiff as she passed from the room, as if expecting a blow to fall at any second from a figure lurking just outside, or fearing that someone would jump from the dim surroundings with a heart-stopping scream –or perhaps she was just irritated with me as well.

And so began one of those long nights of waiting for something to happen. I only spoke to Mrs. Harlow one other time that evening, whispering so softly that I barely formed words, telling her that she should repeat her typical nightly routine, going to bed and locking the door behind her. Holmes hadn’t specifically mentioned this, but it seemed to make the most sense. And as for Holmes himself? I had no idea where he was or what he was doing, but I assumed, having known him for so long, that he would reveal himself when the time was best.

We heard as she made her dinner, and I regretted not eating something earlier, when I’d had the chance.

Around ten o’clock, Mrs. Harlow walked to the front door, ostensibly to check the lock, but actually to peer into the dark parlor and raise a hand, as if saying farewell to each of us. I acknowledged with my own wave in return, and then I heard her go up the stairs, her pace slow and her feet dragging, as if she were climbing a gallows. Philip and I sat in darkness. In a moment, from deeper in the house, came the muffled sound of her bedroom door closing and the lock turning. Seconds later, I heard the sound of a sob, as if she had finally given way to the terrible grief that had gripped her throughout the day.

But it occurred to me then that, while I was correct to hide as soon as I’d pretended to leave, as per Holmes’s instructions, I hadn’t been able to search the house, and that she might very well be in danger. Whatever had been terrorizing her had been content so far to do so at night when she was safely in her room, while it had the full run of the rest of the house. But she had been away today for an hour or so, and during that time, her bedroom was undoubtedly accessible. What if she was being attacked right now? The intruder, having hidden itself in her bedroom, could wait until she locked the door, believing herself to be safe, and then she would turn around, only to discover…

Just the thought of it made me stand before I realized it. Philip glanced at me in surprise, but good lad that he was, he didn’t make a sound. I was nearly on my way to pound up the steps, calling Mrs. Harlow’s name and telling her to open the door, when I stopped myself. Creeping to the hall door, I held my breath, trying to calm my heart and ignore the blood rushing in my ears, hoping not to hear any indications that some type of violence was occurring just a few feet above me.

But the house was silent, without even the typical creaks and settlings that one so often ignores, but nevertheless occur steadily. Even the lady’s sob had only occurred once. Finally believing that she was in truth safe behind her locked door directly above us, I crept back to my chair, nodding reassurance to Philip.

There was no thought that I would sleep, but I did wish again that I’d thought to provide myself with something to eat. I was aware that food was certain to be found at the rear of the house, just a short excursion along the hall to the kitchen. But of course there was really no question but that I would remain where I was. I had been hungry before, and I knew that I’d survive it, as would my young companion.

I had just checked my watch to see that it was a little after one o’clock when I heard it – a sound barely noticeable above the steady fall of the rain outside. At first I wasn’t sure that I’d heard anything at all. Perhaps there had been a noise out in the street. But I became convinced that it was real, and that it had been inside the house – a low thump, such as what a door makes when it’s closed.

I arose slowly, cursing as my knees cracked. However, I was certain that my aging joints couldn’t have been heard even five feet away. I glanced at Philip, and he nodded – he’d heard the noise from the other part of the house too. Walking forward with careful steps, and grateful that the house seemed solid and that creaking boards wouldn’t betray my movement, I paused at the hall door, the boy waiting behind me, looking warily around the door-frame at the stairs.

I nearly fell back, with the primitive part of my brain reacting in terror at the sudden and unexpected hellish vision before me. It was tall, well over six feet, but it would have been even taller if it had possessed a head. Arms dangled at the sides, flopping forward and backward as it came to the base of the steps from somewhere in the back of the house. Then it turned and started up, rising from one step to the next, making no effort to grab the banister for support. The shoulders were very broad, and only served to emphasize the absent head. But the twisted and mutilated aspect of the figure was only the merest part of its horror. For as it climbed, a hideous moan was building from within it, a low tone to a shriek. Even as I watched, it progressed into a terrifying ululation that pierced my ears. And throughout, perhaps the most terrifying of all, it appeared to glow with an inner fire that rippled and shimmered across its surface with every movement.

And yet, this light didn’t appear to illuminate the stairs around it. It was self-contained, as if the figure burned with its own inner radiance, seemingly pulling an unholy fire from some other dimension that only barely pierced our own. Altogether, it was a hideous sight, and I wondered what Mrs. Harlow would have thought if she’d actually encountered it, rather than simply hearing its scream and movement from the other side of a locked door.

And yet, this phantom climbed the stairs, an action wherein its physical being interacted with solid materials – Verily, it had to touch each physical step to propel itself upward. There was nothing supernatural about that. It didn’t float above the floor, or choose to suddenly glide, or apparate from one place to another, appearing instantaneously outside the poor woman’s door. It pushed itself, one step at a time, up from the ground floor, and as I watched it do so, I recalled a similarly glowing figure from nearly a decade before that had to run across the fog-shrouded wastes of Dartmoor in order to pull down its terrified prey, rather than simply materializing from the ether, as one would expect a vengeful spirit to do. That had been a real beast that could be killed – and this was certainly the same.

Yet, even as I felt for my gun, I saw another movement in the hallway beyond the stairs. The headless monster had just reached the top and had turned out of sight when a second figure appeared, also moving to the foot of the steps at a near run. While not nearly as frightening as what had just preceded it, the other was no less disturbing. It was a normal man, or at it was least shaped like one. But while the first had glowed with an unholy fire that seemed to undulate with every movement, the second was a black void, a darker darkness against the lesser of the unlit hallway. It mounted the steps lightly and ascended two at a time. Believing that I dimly understood, I followed, motioning Philip to stay back until the danger had passed.

What I saw as I reached the top of the steps and turned to face down the hallway filled me with dread. The tall headless figure, still producing the nerve-tearing shrieks, had somehow managed to wedge its hands into the doorframe itself, and was lunging back and forth to the sound of cracking wood. Meanwhile, I was shocked to see that there appeared to be a second set of arms hanging from the creature’s shoulders, swaying each time it tugged at the door. An entry was quickly being forced, and inside I could hear the terrified moans of Mrs. Harlow.

Then the door broke free and flew back into the room on its hinges. The figure made no move to enter, but rather stood there, swaying and moaning, it’s horrible cries gradually coalescing into understandable words: “Get out! Get out!”

I raised my revolver, intending to shoot it down, intent on stopping that hellish shrieking and hoping that my bullets could destroy it, even as we had once fired on and killed the deadly Baskerville hound. Only then, just before I pulled the trigger, did I notice the black figure standing between me and the monster. It had planted its feet and, shoulders thrown back, and it yelled in a well-recognized voice, “Enough!”

As if a door had been slammed on a terrible storm, the sudden silence was shocking. The tall monster froze, both sets of arms dangling down from its great shoulders, while beyond in the bedroom we could hear the quiet weeping of our client.

“Watson,” said Holmes, revealed now to be the figure in black. “Come forward. But keep your distance from this villain. He is a cornered rat, and might very well try anything.” As I moved nearer, Holmes shifted slightly to the left, and I saw that he held his riding crop. Reaching forward, he prodded the broad shoulders of the creature, only dimly outlined by the light coming from the street window past him at the end of the landing.

“Mrs. Harlow,” called Holmes. “We are here, and we have a gun trained on your persecutor. He is nothing other than a very evil man. Please light your lamp.” The creature shifted then, as if planting its feet to either dash past us desperately, or even to throw itself through the window behind it and out to the street.

“Halt!” cried Holmes. “Watson, if he moves again, shoot him in the leg.”

The figure settled back then – a collapse of apparent defeat, and with a very definite movement, but an action with a better intention than escape, and therefore I didn’t shoot him. Without being told, the intruder dropped a metal pry bar at his feet. Light appeared from the bedroom as the lamp was lit, better illuminating the tall shape, and suddenly negating the unearthly glow that had been spread across its clothing, revealing instead a series of dull whitish stripes – some sort of luminescent chemical smeared onto the cloth.

Holmes took a cautious step closer and, making a more forceful jab this time with his riding crop, he pushed again at the figure’s shoulders. With the sound of rubbing cloth, the whole structure started to slide, falling to the floor and revealing a rather harmless looking plain man, half-turned in our direction, and blinking rather stupidly in the dim light.

“Phillimore!” I said, nearly lowering my revolver, before Holmes snapped in response.

“Not James Phillimore. Rather, his cousin, Edward Harding.”

Moving closer, I could see that, in spite of whatever name that he was called, this was the man whom we had located two years before, in a room at the Charing Cross Hotel.

Beside me, Holmes was dressed entirely in black, and I could see that he had darkened his face as well, so that he would be nigh invisible in the darkness. He reached into his coat and pulled out a police whistle. After several long bursts, I heard a curious thump, and within moments we were joined by Inspector Lestrade and a brace of constables as they scrambled up the stairs.

“Is she all right?” was the inspector’s first question.

Holmes nodded, wiping the lamp-black from his face with a handkerchief. “I don’t think that he intended her any permanent harm – at least not yet. Convincing her to abandon the property was his goal. Isn’t that right, Harding?”

“I have nothing to say,” said the man whom I had believed to be James Phillimore, quite a bit more surly and harsh than his previously portrayed personality would have suggested.

“No matter,” said Holmes. “I know most of the story, and we’ll soon have the rest of it out of you. Constables – please remove him to the sitting room downstairs. We’ll join you shortly.”

The officers moved past us and took Harding into custody. Kicking the construct that had fallen from his shoulders out of the way, they quick-marched him in front of us and down the stairs. I moved past Holmes and Lestrade to the bedroom, where I found Mrs. Harlow nearly in hysterics. However, she soon understood that she had simply been harassed, although to a remarkably terrible degree, by a man and not a monster, and she rallied most satisfactorily.

She asserted that she was feeling strong enough to join us in a moment and hear the explanation from the man being held downstairs, and we left the room to wait for her while she dressed. As her door closed, Holmes lit one of the lamps standing on a side table and then leaned down to pick up the item knocked from Harding’s shoulders. In the light it was obvious that it consisted of a headless construct simulating broad shoulders, attached to a set of straps that had held it onto Harding’s frame, fitting over his own head and giving him the illusion of great height. It was draped in an oversized shirt and dark coat, and the arms hanging from the sides were tied off at the wrists and filled with what turned out to be sandbags, causing them to dangle and swing in the odd way I’d observed when he’d climbed the stairs.

“Devious,” muttered Holmes, tossing it aside once more.

“Mr. Holmes,” said Lestrade, “Who is that man?”

“All will be revealed,” replied my friend vaguely. Before he could be asked to elaborate, the bedroom door opened, and Mrs. Harlow joined us. I looked to see that Philip was standing at the top of the stairs. I hoped that he had stayed away when there was a chance of gunfire, but I doubted it.

Downstairs in the sitting room, we found the constables standing on either side of the man identified as Edward Harding. Two more had joined them, and another was standing by the front door. The prisoner was in a straight-backed chair, and I was glad to see that his hands were now manacled.

“There’s really no need for you to explain much of anything, Mr. Harding,” said Holmes. “I’ve waited quite a while to make your acquaintance once again, but I didn’t expect that it would be in this fashion, or so fittingly at this location.” He turned to me. “Would you care to enlighten the Inspector, Watson, as to our first encounter with the gentleman two years ago?”

I then related how, at the time of the mysterious disappearance, Holmes had tracked the man that we believed to be Phillimore from his hiding place behind the closet to the Charing Cross Hotel… and let him go. Lestrade exhibited a variety of emotions as the story was revealed, from surprise and wonder to frank irritation when learning that Holmes had discovered the solution but hadn’t bothered to share it with him. While agreeing that no crime had been committed, he was properly resentful that the case had been allowed to remain open on Scotland Yard’s books for so long, being logged as something of an embarrassment to them.

“And to you too, Mr. Holmes,” he added, although like me, he certainly realized even as he said it that such a consideration would be of no consequence whatsoever to the consulting detective.

“I didn’t see the harm in it then,” replied Holmes with a frown. “Men disappear all the time, and there is no law against it. I’ll grant that this method seemed eccentric, and overly complicated, but people’s motivations are often that way. But it was only later that I realized that I’d been duped.”

“How so?” I asked.

“It was when I recalled that the man we believed to be Phillimore was still legally the owner of this house. Did he simply choose to walk away from his investment here, or did he somehow have a plan to sell it? Out of curiosity, I checked the records and saw that it had sold quite soon after his supposed disappearance. But if he had truly disappeared, how could any legal affairs such as sale of the property be carried out? There was no body to prove that he had died, so in the eyes of the law he wasn’t dead. There were no apparent heirs to have him declared deceased in order to take possession of the house. And yet… the house had sold.

“I did a bit more research, learning that the woman who bought the house – you, Mrs. Harlow – had no connections to Phillimore, so it wasn’t a legally contrived transfer. I also found that, in fact, ownership of the property had been transferred to one Edward Harding – this man – some three weeks before Phillimore’s disappearance, and it was he who sold you the house. The arrangement was accomplished through an attorney in Southwark named Shaplow. I arranged an appointment with him, only to discover that he was quite infirm, although stubbornly refusing to give up his practice – the perfect man for such a scheme.

“I managed to convince him to reveal to me that he’d never actually met James Phillimore – the man had never visited his office – or witnessed any signatures, but instead he’d simply filed, for a substantial fee, a set of signed property transfer papers that were presented to him by his client, one Edward Harding. These being legal documents, they had to be recorded under the true names. Therefore, Harding was the owner of Phillimore’s house at the time of the man’s disappearance, and it seemed quite probable that Phillimore had no knowledge that his house had just been stolen out from under him before he vanished.

“Old Shaplow could only provide the vaguest description of Harding, and it was of no practical help whatsoever. When I subsequently searched for more about the elusive Mr. Harding, it was as if he no longer existed – as if he had disappeared too. I could prove through various records that he’d been born, and I discovered that he was Phillimore’s cousin, the son of the missing man’s late aunt. He had no other living relatives besides Phillimore. Harding himself had seemingly vanished two years before Phillimore’s disappearance, following his near-arrest in connection with an extensive embezzlement scheme, but there were no indications as to his current whereabouts.

“It was then that I suddenly looked at Phillimore’s disappearance from a slightly different perspective, and realized that there was no proof, other than the acknowledgement that Watson and I received at the Charing Cross Hotel, that the man we had confronted there actually was James Phillimore. There were no photographs in Phillimore’s house to show his appearance – if there had been, Harding had removed them so that there could be no positive identification – and if any images of Phillimore had existed in Miss Amherst’s possession, no one had thought to retrieve them from her. To be certain, I did revisit her soon afterwards, and she confirmed that she had no photographs of her missing fiancé. I made certain during that visit to obtain her description of him, but it was singularly vague and unhelpful – it could have been the man that we met at the hotel, and it could have been the attorney’s client, Harding. What I learned from Phillimore’s former co-workers was just as useless. They could have been describing any medium-sized man with brown hair and plain features. Harding looks very much like their representation of Phillimore – hardly a surprise, considering their family connection.

“I felt then that I could piece together the situation quite well by that point. Phillimore had come into an unexpected inheritance from his great-uncle Willoughby – a man who was also Harding’s great-uncle. Harding, who had already fled from his previous identity to avoid prosecution several years earlier, was apparently disqualified from receiving a share since he’d vanished, and couldn’t legally claim it without reappearing. He conceived of the idea of taking what his cousin had inherited by arranging things so that Phillimore would seem to have vanished.

“After he cleverly arranged the disappearance to seem as mysterious as possible, he would leave a trail for me to follow, especially prepared with the types of clues that I’m known to observe – the footprints in the dust, for instance, and the costume shop receipt for the constable uniform, which laid a clear trail to Willoughby at the Charing Cross Hotel. Harding additionally made sure that I was involved by repeatedly writing anonymous letters to the editors of various newspapers regarding the disappearance, in spite of the police efforts to keep the affair quiet, and then he further specifically demanded that I be involved. There was really no way that I wouldn’t examine the house and see what I was supposed to see. I would find him, blindly following the trail that he had constructed, and then he would hope to convince me with his seemingly harmless story that he – as Phillimore – just wanted to start anew, and that he should be allowed to stay hidden with the assets that he’d already transferred to different accounts under the name ‘Willoughby’ – again without his naïve cousin’s knowledge through the use of forged documents.

“There was always a chance, of course, that I’d simply wash my hands of the matter and notify the police that Phillimore had been found, in which case he could still hope to flee. No doubt a plan was already in place for that eventuality as well. If nothing else, he’d simply return to whatever identity it was that he’d held since vanishing as Edward Harding – which is likely what he’s done over the last two years, sinking back into that life when ‘James Phillimore’ was found at the Charing Cross Hotel, and I trustingly fell for his scheme like a fool, giving my blessing that his version of Phillimore should be able to go away and start over fresh, leading a brand new life. I allowed him to slip away, with the stolen inheritance and other resources that he’d siphoned away from his ignorant and trusting cousin.” He turned to the prisoner. “When I realized that I’d been fooled, Mr. Harding, I set out to find you, but you had truly vanished. You had gone down a hole and pulled it in behind you. Yet, I’ve never stopped looking. Imagine my surprise when you reappeared here, at the house where it all began!”

“But Mr. Holmes,” said Lestrade, puzzled. “If what you say is true, then we still don’t know where the real James Phillimore is located.”

“Ah, but I fancy that we will shortly.” He turned to Harding, who had listened the entire time with his lips so tight that they appeared to have vanished. “Would you care to share the rest of your cleverness, or shall I?”

The man seemed determined to stand mute, and so Holmes continued. “It really is a unique tale, and I’d think that you’d be quite proud of the discovery. I only became peripherally aware when I was looking at the records of the sale of the house. I saw that it was built in the mid-1870’s, upon the ruins of a much older church that had stood here in Highgate since the middle ages. I – ”

“The brochure!” I interrupted. “In your scrapbook, next to your notes on the Phillimore investigation!”

“Exactly!” cried Holmes. “You didn’t think to read the brochure when you refreshed your memory, thinking it was simply adjacent to my notes, but it was actually a part of the case. When looking into the records of the previous ownership transactions, I saw that this property, and the other houses around it, were built on what had originally been a church, and I was curious enough to obtain further information. As I assembled various facts, I learned that the crypts of the church still exist, underneath this row of houses. In fact, they can still be entered from a locked gate at the north end of the block. You stated, Mrs. Harlow,” he said, turning toward our client, “that the house has no cellar.”

She cleared her throat. “That’s true.”

“Not exactly,” Holmes countered. “It wasn’t constructed to have a cellar as such, but the crypt is located directly beneath us. In fact, I’ve only discovered tonight that the hidden chamber behind the closet wall itself opens yet again to a further narrow stairway, obviously constructed around the time that the house was built, leading down into the spaces below. When someone was able to get in and out despite the locked doors, I theorized another entrance, and thought that the hidden chamber behind the closet might have an additional opening – something that I should have seen two years ago.” He turned to Harding. “How long have you known of the crypt?”

Still the man refused to answer, but his expression had become more calculating and watchful, as if he was concerned as to which direction Holmes’s explanation was taking.

“You’ve certainly been using it to get in and out of the house this past week. I wonder if your cousin knew as well, or if it’s something you figured out later. Apparently,” Holmes continued, “you remained in contact with the real James Phillimore, even after disappearing as Harding and taking on a new identity. How did you explain to him why you had disappeared – or was he even aware of it? Your crime wasn’t widely reported at the time. Did you remain in touch with him after you fled as Harding, or did you only re-establish relations later, after he received the inheritance from your mutual grand-uncle, when you decided to take it away from him? No matter. You were clearly the man whose footprints were in the closet, and who wore the rented constable uniform, and who left a trail for me to find from this house to your room at the Charing Cross Hotel. That will be enough to hang you.”

Lestrade cleared his throat. “Yes, Inspector,” Holmes continued. “I will explain. When I heard Mrs. Harlow’s story this afternoon, giving this address, and specifically how someone was gaining access to it, in spite of locked doors, I immediately recalled what I had incidentally learned about the crypts while trying to track down the truth behind Phillimore’s disappearance of the last couple of years. It reminded me that one might be able to get into the houses by way of that route. This evening, after Watson and young Philip returned here to keep guard, I found the builder who first constructed these houses twenty years ago. He confirmed that such an entry was possible, if someone had discovered the existence of the crypts and had made alterations in one of the houses to access them.

“The builder and I entered the crypt, exploring under this row of houses until we found the crude wooden steps that had been built to lead up to the foundations of this very address. That was when I summoned you and your men, Lestrade. After that, Watson, we placed the crypt entrance under observation. As expected, a man surreptitiously made his way in a little after midnight. We followed and watched as he, ignorant of our attention, climbed the steep steps up and into the bottom of this house. He was carrying something – which turned out to be that contraption that he’d strapped on to look like a giant headless monster. He ascended the crude steps into the space built into the back of the hidden closet. We immediately followed, and I pursued him the rest of the way up the stairs while Lestrade and his men came through and then waited downstairs in the hall. I was in time to see Harding carrying out his most bold and threatening move yet, attempting to force his way into Mrs. Harlow’s presence to terrify her into abandoning the house – at least long enough for him to carry out an adequate search.”

“But for what?” asked the lady herself, now quite recovered, and clearly very angry at the prisoner seated before her. “What is it that he seeks? And why now, after I’ve lived here for two years?

“That specific answer still eludes me,” replied Holmes, “although it may have something to do with the man who first owned this house from the time that it was built in the 1870’s. You’ll have heard of him, Lestrade. Elias Bates.”

I saw a light of recognition pass across the inspector’s face. Sensing my confusion, he answered, “Bates was a most notorious fence, Doctor – made all the worse by the fact that he simply couldn’t be caught. We knew what he was up to, but his methods always proved too much for us. Do you mean to say, Mr. Holmes, that this was Bates’ house? And that he was the one who first built the secret closet, and the passage behind it, in order access the crypt, and then use it for his own illegal purposes?”

“Undoubtedly.”

Lestrade nodded and sat back, as if all now made sense.

“When age overtook Bates,” continued Holmes, “he simply closed up his operation, retired, and moved away. As you know, he died in Surrey several years ago, having never once been jailed. Years later, long after Bates had left London, the house was purchased innocently enough by James Phillimore, and it seems that he somehow discovered both the closet and then the access behind it to the crypt below while in the process of making himself at home. He foolishly shared that knowledge with his cousin Harding, who then made use of it over the course of the past week to enter the house while attempting to intimidate Mrs. Harlow into leaving.” He glanced at Harding. “Now, having circled back to the lady’s question, would you care to explain why you would do such a contemptible thing?”

Harding licked his lips, darting his eyes from Holmes to Mrs. Harlow and back, before speaking for the first time. “It started out innocently enough. I had some of James’s papers, after he… disappeared, but I had never took the time to look through them. When I finally did, I saw something – a diary from this Elias Bates fellow. James must have found it in the house, likely left behind, and tucked it away. It was quite old, and reading between the lines, so to speak, it seemed to reference a cache of jewels that Bates had hidden here – or so it seemed to me. James had never mentioned this diary to me while he was – before he disappeared. After reading it, I decided that he must have been trying to find the jewels himself. They may not even be here – Bates may have taken them with him when he moved away – but there was always a chance that they could still be hidden somewhere about, if only someone took the time to seek them. I decided to see if I could find them. But the diary was vague, and I had no idea just where to look. And this woman here – she never seemed to leave or go anywhere so that I could get in and search the house! Or if she did go out, it was at random times, so that I could never count on getting in and being allowed any peace.

“I didn’t want to hurt her, but I was getting frantic. I have… I have some debts that are due. The other night, I decided to sneak in after she’d gone to bed, and look all night if necessary. I came in through the crypt, just the way that James had discovered when he’d moved here, and I set about exploring, looking for some clue. But I accidentally bumped the table outside of her bedroom, and when I heard that she’d awakened, I froze. Then, not knowing if I could get back downstairs and out through the passage before she came out of the bedroom, I made as if I were some sort of ghost. Hoping that she was too scared to investigate, I then escaped down and out through the passage.

“After I’d had a chance to think about it, I realized that I might be able to scare her away for a much longer period of time, and I began to try more and more elaborate attempts each night. And yet, she refused to budge, no matter what I tried. Claws on the door. Flammable chemicals painted in the shape of footprints, and written as a warning. Nothing worked – she never went anywhere!”

“So,” said Holmes coldly, “you escalated the stakes and killed her cat.”

“I did. I left the closet slightly open during the day, and lured the cat in with some food. Then I caught it and killed it. I would have brought it back out that night, but she never went upstairs. So I waited and waited until I heard her sleeping the next day and then crept out, leaving it where she’d find it in the hall.” He licked his lips in a curiously reptilian fashion. “It worked,” he said, showing no apparent remorse. “She left.”

Without a word, Mrs. Harlow rose and stepped forward. Then she slapped him, the force of it creating a loud Crack! and turning his head violently. Before he could react, both constables pushed down forcefully on his shoulders, apparently preventing him from rising if Mrs. Harlow wished to give him another. Instead, however, she sobbed and stepped back, turning away from him.

“I wonder if your cousin knew what he was letting himself in for when he shared the secret of the crypt with you,” said Holmes. “He probably did it innocently enough – I’ve found no evidence that the real James Phillimore was as reprehensible as you are, Harding. The poor man never knew that sharing that curious knowledge would eventually lead to his death.”

“Now hold on,” said Harding, holding a hand to his face, still red from the vicious slap. “James planned his disappearance on his own. After he received the inheritance, he felt trapped – just as I told you when I pretended to be him in the hotel room. He knew that I had changed my name and taken a different identity, and he decided that he wanted to do the same thing. He asked my advice, and he arranged everything – including the payments to Willoughby.”

“Then why were you the man who carried it out?”

“He… he was afraid. That he couldn’t bring it off. He was never bold like me. He asked me to take his place in the house and pretend to be a constable.”

“Then why the rest of it?” I asked. “Why leave clues leading to the hotel, and arrange that Holmes be involved at all. Why not simply vanish through the secret stairs and into the crypt?”

“We… wanted a witness, someone eminently trustworthy, and sympathetic, in case something ever came up, legally, to verify that someone had seen James after he disappeared – that he was still alive, but without giving away the secret. To testify if needed that he hadn’t truly vanished.”

Holmes nodded. “Strangely, that part makes sense. I learned that there were some irregularities with your great-uncle’s estate, wherein the sales of various additional properties had to be arranged after the initial inheritance. In case Phillimore’s legal participation was required, you could discretely contact the attorney handling the estate, show up to sign whatever was necessary, a summon me there to verify that you were actually James Phillimore, and that I was still keeping your secret and that all was above-board – even if you were choosing to live in anonymity.

Harding nodded. But then Holmes asked, “Where, then, is the true James Phillimore? After you staged the disappearance, your part was finished, and he was free to assume his new life. But how could he do that, as you had arranged for control of the accounts where his inheritance had been placed, and you were now the owner of this house?”

Harding was startled. “Oh, yes,” Holmes continued. “You took over ownership of this house. Where does that fit in your explanation of selflessly helping your cousin?”

Harding again licked his lips, glancing from one to the other of us in rapid succession. He seemed to be coming apart before our very eyes. He began to speak, talking faster and faster, as if drowning us in words would make his story more believable. “He fell soon after we made our plans. He hit his head. And I realized that the inheritance, and everything else that he had, would be lost. I couldn’t reveal myself as his cousin to make a claim on his estate as his only living relative – not without resuming my identity as Harding. And even if I did, the family relationship didn’t seem strong enough to establish me as his heir. His plan for a new identity was already in place, and I simply took advantage of it.”

Holmes shook his head with a smile. “You should have simply stood mute, Mr. Harding. Now you’ve opened the door. No, no, it really won’t do. Certainly your cousin died, and I expect when we examine the body – and we will – we’ll see that he did die from a blow to the head, but I seriously doubt that he fell. You forget, I had already long ago worked out your plan to take everything he had, and that you had done so several weeks before his disappearance. You had already taken ownership of this house, through the forged papers at the attorney’s office. Your cousin James was still among the living then – he was still going to work every day, and he was still affianced, however unhappily, with Miss Amherst. He had in fact spent the entire day prior to his disappearance at work, and showed no signs of agitation. He was clearly a man who didn’t realize that he’d been fleeced of everything that he owned, and that he was living on borrowed time.

“He may have come up with the original idea to disappear, as you say, but once you realized that what he intended, you saw a way to make it work to your advantage. You killed him and took his place.”

Harding made a growling noise in his throat and tried to lurch to his feet before being slammed back once again by the massive hand of one of the constables. Holmes ignored him, turning instead to Lestrade. “Inspector, you’re as aware as I am of just how difficult it is to dispose of a human corpse. I would advise that a thorough search be made of the crypt below. That seems to be the most likely place. I suspect that you’ll find Mr. Phillimore buried somewhere, either in a shallow grave, or tucked in with one of the other permanent residents. Perhaps he’ll be hidden behind or underneath some rocks. But be careful – it’s possible he’s been covered in quick-lime, and I’d hate for any of your men to accidentally plunge their hands into it, or stir it up and breathe the dust.”

Lestrade waited until morning before sending a team into the crypt, armed with digging tools and powerful torches. They entered through the gate at the end of the street, as directed by the builder who had assisted Holmes the previous evening. He led them down into the dank passages. Holmes and I, on the other hand, walked along the street to Mrs. Harlow’s house, where she let us in and joined us at the closet door beneath the steps. We left her there, standing in the hall, while we passed through and down the rude stairs into the chamber below. Holmes pointed out some aspects of their reinforced construction, obviously added at some point after the house was initially built. Then we stood there, watching the police lanterns moving this way and that through the forgotten crypt, but ever closer, in the distant darkness, waiting for word about the discovery of James Phillimore’s body. It wasn’t long in coming. Within a quarter-hour, the poor man had been found, buried under a loose cairn of stones seemingly borrowed from other graves, his head crushed by a far heavier blow than could have never come from a simple fall. The autopsy would reveal a twisted and broken neck as well. As expected, the corpse was covered underneath the rocks in quick-lime, in the mistaken belief that it would hasten decomposition – although it did do a great deal to prevent any signs of decay that might reveal the body’s location.

Harding’s arrest and reappearance under his own name set off something of a frenzy, as one past crime seemed to lead to another, like peeling the layers of an onion. The capital crime, however, superseded the lesser, and he met his fate on a cold morning a few months later at Newgate Prison, after his pathetic attempts to claim insanity were quickly disproven.

If Elias Bates hid a cache of jewels in either the house or the crypt, it was never found, although I understand that intruders are regularly caught trying to conduct illegal treasure hunts underneath the row of houses where the ancient church once stood.

Mrs. Harlow, despite the week of terror that she’d been forced to endure, recovered quickly, along with the realization that she needed to find friends and interests away from her home. She began to interact with her neighbors, and from there her influence began to spread, eventually leading her to establish the highly respected mission in the East End for which she has since become well-known. More importantly, she took an interest in young Philip Barsby, orphaned at a young age, and eventually adopted him.

I ran into her a month or so later, not having seen her since the events of that terrible October night. She informed me that her cat was doing well, as if I would know of what she spoke. Seeing my ignorance, she laughed and said that she wasn’t surprised. She’d had a feeling, when Holmes had brought her a kitten just days after Harding’s arrest, that he wouldn’t be advertising the fact.

As she walked away, I considered how I would address this act of kindness when I saw Holmes that evening. But then I reconsidered. Obviously he hadn’t wanted it to be known, and I found that just the knowledge of his gesture was satisfying enough, without making him aware that I knew. Sometimes friendship is allowing someone else to keep his secrets.