For such an unsociable man, Holmes seemed to be effortless in attracting allies as needed. Just as the butler Jones was inclined earlier to his side, before the day was over we obtained help from a coffee proprietor, a baker’s apprentice, a secretary and a prisoner. Despite this notable ability, however, Holmes had few actual friends. I have often considered that I am perhaps his only true friend.
We began by setting out to visit the two adoption agencies mentioned in the news article. It would be a remarkable piece of luck if the would-be abductor turned out to be the father of Jonathan, and even luckier if he had identified himself to the agency in an effort to track his stolen child. It seemed unlikely to me, but Holmes deemed it worth a try.
The first agency, The Children’s Haven, was located not far from us in Marylebone, easily within walking distance. As we proceeded east on Paddington towards the fabled medical enclaves of Harley and Wimpole Streets, Holmes abruptly stopped in front of a small coffee house.
‘A hot chocolate, Watson, I am a bit chilly,’ he said, rather loudly, and opened the door of the shop.
This was unlike Holmes, but he darted inside, and I followed. Once there, he waved at the proprietor in a familiar manner, and the man waved back. He very rapidly propelled me to the back of the shop and we slipped out of a back door into a small mews.
‘Holmes, why—?’
‘We are being followed, Watson.’
‘I saw nothing!’
‘Of course not. Come with me.’
In a trice we had exited the mews, turned right, and doubled back to Paddington, emerging several doors east of the coffee house. Holmes pulled me into a doorway and cautiously peered towards the place we had just left.
Hovering across the street from the coffee house was a familiar figure in a well-tailored overcoat and a dashing black Homburg. The tall man was fixated on the entrance to the coffee house. It was Jean Vidocq.
Holmes shook his head ruefully. ‘As I thought, the lazy fellow! He hopes to solve the case by our efforts yet again. Wait here, Watson.’
‘You are not going to try to reason with him, Holmes? The man is a danger, or he can be.’ Not only had he knocked me down a flight of stairs, but I later witnessed his formidable fighting prowess in a street brawl in Paris.
‘Reason with Jean Vidocq? You know me better!’ From his coat he withdrew a small notebook with a silver pencil attached. He smiled as he scribbled a note and handed it to me. ‘Head back the way we came. Find a child or a beggar and pay him this to deliver my note to our French friend.’
‘A child or a beggar? Where will I find this willing messenger?’
‘Be creative.’ He added three pieces of silver to the note. ‘This will make someone’s Christmas a happy one. Then, as soon as Vidocq has left, proceed to The Children’s Haven. Wait for me there, Watson. Do not enter.’
With that, he vanished back into the empty mews.
My curiosity got the better of me, and I opened the note.
V.—I am on a different and far more lucrative case, and will leave you to the Endicotts. But I have information you can use. Meet me at the south end of Paddington Gardens, and I will share what I have found.—SH.’
Within moments I discovered a young apprentice of perhaps twelve, scraping ice from the windows of a bakery. I convinced the lad to take two minutes from his work to do my bidding. His face lit up upon seeing the silver. ‘Yes, sir!’ he said.
Five minutes later I reached the address of the first adoption agency. I was dismayed to read on a notice pinned to the door that it had closed permanently. Holmes was nowhere to be seen. I waited five, then ten minutes, stamping my feet to keep warm. The sky grew dark with clouds and I knew it would soon snow again. Through the windows of a restaurant across the street I observed diners who seemed to be enjoying hot soup. Breakfast, though recent, seemed long past. I considered going over there to wait when at last my friend appeared.
‘Holmes!’ I exclaimed at the sight of him.
His very fine beaver top hat (that I had long coveted) was smudged with grime on one side. A red welt showed above one eye.
‘Fisticuffs, Holmes? Will that man never cease to cause trouble?’
Holmes smiled. ‘Consider him duly challenged. I believe he will have a difficult time explaining the state of his own face to his new employers.’
I laughed. Holmes rarely engaged in physical tussles, but when he did it was usually no contest. Years of semi-professional boxing and proficiency in baritsu were just two of his attributes. An uncommon strength for such a thin man was another.
‘But surely Vidocq will be retained until Mycroft reveals the facts?’
‘My brother will have already informed Philip Endicott this morning. The sooner London sees the back of Jean Vidocq, the better.’
‘By Jove, you Holmes brothers have been swift!’ I declared.
But Holmes’s delight was short-lived as he then read the note regarding the closure of The Children’s Haven. If they had information that would help in the Endicott case, we would never find it now.
‘Onward, Watson, to Bright Little Ones. Let us simply hope that the Endicott adoption, if indeed Jonathan was adopted, took place there.’
Bright Little Ones was located on a side street in Belgravia, adjacent to a French hairdresser, who must have catered only to the elite, judging by the elegant gold-lettered sign and the beautifully attired lady we saw entering. A discreet but well-polished brass nameplate revealed the agency’s existence.
A stairway led to the first-floor offices, and alongside it on richly panelled walls were several oil paintings, impressive in their gilded frames, all portraying rosy-cheeked, happy children or, in one case, a mother and child. It seemed to be a kind of advertisement for the wares.
Prominently at the landing hung a large painting of a rather self-satisfied boy in a blue silk suit of the last century, staring out at the viewer in utter confidence.
‘Gainsborough’s Blue Boy,’ said Holmes. ‘A decent enough reproduction.’
Entering the office, we were greeted by a prim male clerk with a flamboyant orange cravat. Holmes gave our names. The young fellow looked up in surprise.
‘Mr Sherlock Holmes? The detective?’ the young man whispered, awestruck. ‘Only your surname is on our appointment list for today! Surely you do not wish to adopt a child? Or do you? I have read of you, sir! You have my deepest respect. James Halbrook at your service.’
At this stage in Holmes’s career, public recognition was rapidly increasing, but not always a given. ‘Thank you,’ said he. ‘How long have you been employed here, Mr Halbrook?’
‘Nine months, sir. Three months before Mrs Turner took over.’
I could sense Holmes’s disappointment at this. But there was a hint of discontent in the young man’s voice, and Holmes seized upon it. ‘Perhaps you can help me, then? I read that the manageress four years ago was a Mrs Pettigrew. I had hoped to speak to her.’
‘Passed away. A wonderful woman. Ran the business since 1873. Mrs Turner was her assistant for years. Apparently, she … inherited the place.’ That last had a tinge of bitterness.
‘This does not seem to please you, Mr Halbrook.’
The young man looked uncomfortable but nodded. He glanced nervously in the direction of the inner office.
Holmes lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘I am here on a case, as you have so cleverly inferred. Can you keep a secret?’ Smiling, he put a finger to his lips.
The clerk, delighted to be invited into a conspiracy, mirrored the gesture, and said, sotto voce, ‘Happy to be of service, sir.’
‘How does the agency support itself? I presume the adoptive families are wealthy. The fees to adopt are sizeable, I presume?’
‘Indeed, sir. Of course, that is also to ensure the adopters could generously provide for a child. Mrs Pettigrew was highly selective.’
‘Where do these children come from?’
‘I am not privy to that on an individual basis. But I believe from a variety of sources, both city and country. Parents who are dead, impoverished, or unable to care for their wee ones. It is all in the files.’
‘There must be papers to be signed, then, if the birth parents were alive?’
‘I suppose.’
‘And the new owner—Mrs Turner—is she equally selective about those who wish to adopt?’
The young man’s face tightened. ‘Things are different,’ he said. ‘Criteria have changed … and prices, er, fees have gone up.’
‘I do not follow.’
‘Well … some children now are placed more for, er, a variety of reasons.’
‘Hmm. Well, I hope to locate files on a particular adoption of four years ago. I believe it was a Bright Little Ones affair.’ He leaned in and spoke softly. ‘A dangerous criminal has surfaced with claims on the adopted infant. This child is now in peril.’
James Halbrook’s eyebrows shot up in alarm. ‘Dear me!’
I wondered at the wisdom of this gambit from Holmes. I should not have, of course.
‘Though you were not employed here at that time, do you know if there are records still extant?’
‘Oh, yes. But Mrs Turner would never allow—’
‘Mrs Turner would never allow what, James?’ came a woman’s voice behind us.
We turned to see a tall, pale woman in her late thirties standing in the doorway. She was elegant in a slim-fitting, grey dress with a ruffle at the neck. She had an Italianate face—long-nosed, with prominent cheekbones, flashing black eyes and the curved lips of a Roman statue. Quite a stunning woman, I thought, not conventionally pretty, but with a remarkable sense of style.
‘Ma’am,’ said James, ‘I was just telling Mr Holmes here that you would never allow an adoption without thorough investigation of the adopting couple.’
‘Well, of course not.’ She stepped forward with a warm smile and extended her hand. ‘Mrs Olivia Turner,’ said she. ‘Mr Holmes, I believe? And you are?’ She turned to me.
‘This is Mr Watson,’ said Holmes.
I smiled but wondered at the ‘Mr’.
‘Follow me, gentlemen.’
We were ushered into a luxurious office, where a fire burned merrily in the hearth and two velvet chairs faced a large, polished campaign desk. Mrs Turner took her place behind it. A tall window to one side of the desk looked out at the graceful brick and white-trimmed façade across the street. Snow drifted down picturesquely, clean and white. Even nature seemed kinder in the more expensive areas of London.
Mrs Turner eyed us carefully. ‘How can I help you, gentlemen?’ Her black, wavy hair was elaborately coiffed into a chignon with a profusion of curls down the right side of her face. Perhaps she was a client of the French hairdresser next door. I was glad that Mary did not go in for such extreme fashion, although Mrs Turner wore it well.
Holmes looked thoughtful, then glanced at me. He turned to the woman. ‘We are looking to adopt a young girl,’ said he. ‘But I believed we were to speak to a Mrs Pettigrew.’
Mrs Turner kept a small smile fixed upon her lips, as though she intended to convey a kind of benign helpfulness. ‘Mrs Pettigrew has sadly passed on,’ said she. ‘She contracted influenza from—from somewhere—and departed this earth last July. But I can help you.’
‘I see,’ said Holmes, disappointed. ‘Let us be hopeful. I will need you to assure us that any child we might adopt is free and clear of any encumbrances. Or illnesses.’
Yet again we were somewhere under false pretences, and Holmes had not seen fit to warn me. There were times when I thought he was simply improvising. But he had made an appointment. I wondered what my role was to be here.
‘Encumbrances?’ questioned Mrs Turner. ‘Whatever can you mean, sir? All our children are carefully checked for illness and temperament. That is why we have the reputation that we do. Only the best for the best.’
I had once bought a bull pup from a dog breeder with a similar rhetoric.
‘You can assure me that there will be no parents to emerge from the woodwork and lay claim to the child we receive?’ asked Holmes.
‘Out of the question. As I said, we research our children thoroughly.’ Without a blink, she added, ‘And the adoptive parents as well. We are a reputable agency, Mr Holmes.’
‘But the influenza?’
Mrs Turner sniffed. ‘That sad occurrence happened when Mrs Pettigrew was out visiting a prospective adoptee in unusual circumstances. It was there she contracted—but never mind. Any child you receive from us will have been carefully inspected.’
‘Inspected?’ said Holmes. ‘Ha! I am reassured, then.’
‘Your wife, sir? Usually both prospective parents interview with us.’
‘I will have to do,’ said Holmes crisply.
Mrs Turner took this in her stride. ‘Certainly, sir. Tell me more about what you are looking for. Age? Sex? Do you have a particular temperament in mind? Playful, inquisitive, respectful, docile?’
‘Oh, docile, of course. “Shy” would be excellent. A female only, aged ten to twelve. And sturdy. We will provide for her, of course, but she will have duties,’ said Holmes.
Mrs Turner returned the smile. ‘Understood. I am sure we can find you a suitable girl.’
‘However, if you are careful, don’t you want to know a little more about me?’ said my friend.
‘I observe, Mr Holmes. I can see from your clothing that you are a sombre, serious man, and from your immaculate grooming that you are respectable, neat, responsible and orderly.’
I fear that I made a small noise at ‘orderly’, and both turned to me. I cleared my throat.
Mrs Turner resumed, ‘The quality of your garments tells me that you can afford the care and upkeep of a child. You listed your profession as a banker on your application yesterday.’
Yesterday! Holmes had been busy.
She smiled, proud of herself for these keen deductions. She then turned to me. ‘And who might you be, sir?’
‘Mr Watson here is my solicitor,’ said Holmes.
At last. I attempted to put on my most solicitor-like mien.
‘But still, Mrs Turner?’ said Holmes. ‘You haven’t even asked if I am married.’
‘But of course you are, sir. Your exquisite grooming, your fingernails, the lack of even a spot of dust on your frock coat. A woman notices these things, you see.’ Mrs Turner beamed at us both. ‘Someone is looking after you. And now you know our secret. I am a kind of detective!’ She smiled flirtatiously.
Holmes beamed back at the woman. ‘So I see,’ said he.
‘And there is more,’ continued Mrs Turner. ‘You certainly have the means to support one of our special, bright little ones, Mr Holmes. Only a substantial citizen could afford a private solicitor to join him on such a visit.’
‘You are perceptive, madam,’ said Holmes. ‘But as I am a careful man, perhaps you can first set my mind to rest about this.’
And it was at this point that the meeting took a sharp turn into uncharted waters.