CHAPTER 13

Bird in a Gilded Cage

Putting Heffie on the trail of Peter Findlay had been an inspired choice. Her contacts in the East End and her ability to move freely and pry information from its denizens made her valuable to Scotland Yard, and in this instance to Holmes. She would, Holmes informed me, locate this man far faster than he would. And this, he reasoned, would give us time to pursue the Marquis’s missing son.

The next evening, he said, we would confront the valet, George Perkins, in his lair.

‘I can’t imagine he will let us in,’ I said.

‘We must ensure by whatever means that he does, Watson. I have more concern than I expressed to Heffie. The sudden wealth. And yet thievery raises issues. The hostage possibility. The situation is odd.’

Holmes then asked me to prepare for our visit by dressing in my finest clothing. As I had to return to my house to retrieve suitable garments, I asked him to specify and was glad I did. I mistakenly thought he wanted me to bring my evening wear, but that was not at all what he meant.

‘No, no, your most expensive articles of clothing,’ he had said. ‘Preferably something well worn.’

‘I suppose that could be my late father’s cashmere Scottish jacket—beautiful, in a soft green, which I haven’t put on since last Christmas.’

‘Does it smell of mothballs?’

‘No. Mary aired it out last month. I wear it, as I said, at the holiday. But it might have a small hole or two.’

‘Perfect! Get it, and your finest old city shoes as well. That bespoke pair you used to wear when I first met you.’

‘What are we trying to convey, here, Holmes?’

‘Respectability. Old money. Do it.’

‘Why do you care?’

‘I don’t. It is a plan. Hurry, Watson.’

With our seasonal early sunset, it was dark and brisk as Holmes and I made our way on foot south from Baker Street to the Mayfair residence of the missing Reginald Weathering. The pavement was slick with ice, and despite the attentions of the street sweepers in this well-maintained enclave of extreme wealth, mounds of snow filled the gutter and clustered at the base of each building, appearing purple in the evening light.

The warm glow of gas and incandescent lighting threw squares of gold light onto these mounds and the glistening pavement. As we passed holly-bedecked restaurant windows, I glimpsed elegant patrons toasting with silver filigreed mugs, others enjoying roast beef. No dusty, loud public houses here. There was a place to congregate for every taste and social class.

Soon we arrived at a six-storey building of graceful mansion flats in red brick, trimmed in bright white, with high, arched windows and small curved balconies. Such buildings had gone up all over London in recent years. With two flats per floor, and attended by a porter and housekeepers, they were designed to attract the wave of new young doctors, solicitors, and well-heeled university graduates, flocking to London to make their fortunes. Holmes pulled me into a narrow space between that building and the next. ‘We shall wait here, Watson, until someone else is rung in. I do not want to give this couple the chance to bolt.’

As we waited, I mused that we looked casually wealthy, as best we could, being neither casual nor wealthy. Of course, Holmes was typically elegant in his sharply tailored frock coat and top hat. As he had reminded me earlier, many people considered detective work to be a rather lowly profession, which he mitigated, in part, by a certain sartorial flare. On the other hand, receiving prospective clients at 221B, he felt no compunction to impress. Rather, the opposite. I suppose it was this very lack of concern while at home that gave him a kind of upper hand with our visitors. Few failed to notice his house slippers.

There is a certain power in insouciance, I suppose.

In my pocket, at Holmes’s request, was my Webley. And in his leather-gloved hand, an expensive holly wreath, laced with red and gold ribbons, purchased along the way. I similarly carried a costly bottle of port. It appeared as though we were on our way to a party.

A svelte young woman with a remarkable red hat, adorned with several stuffed birds and a flirtatious veil, approached the building with a key and unlocked the door. Holmes rushed forward and caught the door then rudely blocked her entrance.

‘If you please, sir!’ she cried.

‘I asked you to stay away,’ said Holmes.

The exquisitely attired lady raised her veil and … oh, how had I missed this when Holmes hadn’t? It was Heffie, though quite transformed.

‘Oh, Mr Holmes, really. I am Lady Emerald this evening,’ said she in a voice that I would scarcely have recognized as Heffie’s. She slipped past him into the well-lit foyer.

We followed her inside.

‘That is a ridiculous pseudonym,’ said Holmes.

Heffie reverted to her usual East End voice. ‘I knows. But I likes it.’ She smiled.

‘Where did you get the key?’ I asked, astonished.

She mimed picking a pocket.

‘You cannot come with us, Heffie. I gave you a task the day before yesterday. Locating Mr Peter Findlay is a far more urgent mission.’ said Holmes.

‘I’ve already dunnit. Here’s ’is ’ouse address.’ She took a small slip of paper from her reticule and handed it to Holmes, who glanced at it and pocketed it. ‘Odd, though. ’E’s working over at the docks. Ferrar and Sons Shipping. But something strange is up at ’is house. It’s like a kind o’ business.’

‘How did you find where he lived?’ I asked, stunned at her efficiency.

‘I told ’em at Ferrar I were the new cleaner. Pulled out the employee records when they wasn’t looking. Simple. Just took a mop and bucket and a stupid mob cap. Got to say, I prefer these duds,’ said she, gesturing at her finery.

‘Well done, Heffie!’ I exclaimed.

‘A business at his house? Are you sure it is where he lives?’ asked Holmes.

‘’Course. I waited, saw him return there last night.’

‘Remarkably thorough,’ I said.

‘It is why I employ her, Watson,’ said Holmes. ‘What kind of business?’

‘Sign says “Baby Village”. Twenty little ones in there. But nothing good of it. The girl running it is a holy terror. Those little ones need ’elp, Mr ’olmes. I ain’t clear wot’s going on in there.’

Was this woman perhaps selling children as well?

‘Oh, an’ one more thing. I ’ad a friend watch this ’ere ’ouse. This mysterious lady didn’t go out all day yesterday, neither.’

‘Well done, Heffie,’ said Holmes, thinking. ‘But you cannot come inside with us now.’

‘Oh, dear sir, you remove all the amusement from my travails,’ said ‘Lady Emerald’ in a cultured accent.

‘That is too formal, Heffie. You’ll give yourself away.’

‘One must learn,’ said she. I will admit that her accent had impressed me. ‘By the way, the name of the prisoner is Katarina. It was engraved on a gift this Perkins feller had made.’

‘We do not yet know that she is a prisoner,’ said Holmes.

Heffie shrugged. ‘Something ain’t right.’

Holmes looked troubled. ‘I agree. Heffie, I do not like this. There may be danger here.’

‘No worries,’ said the girl. ‘I’ve ’elped you before, you know.’ She paused, imploring him with a look. ‘Please. I’d like to see this through.’

Holmes laughed. ‘Oh, all right then. But stay well back. And speak very little. You are not quite passing.’

Moments later, we stood before the door to Reginald Weathering’s flat. We rang.

‘Who’s there?’ came a distinguished voice from within.

‘Oh, it’s Scott and Sanderson, old fellow,’ drawled Holmes. He chuckled.

‘And Lady Emerald,’ Heffie added, in her polished voice. ‘We have brought you a wreath.’

There was a long pause. I leaned in close to whisper.

‘Wait, who am I, Holmes? Scott or—?’

‘Shh.’

‘What?’ came the voice from inside.

‘A wreath!’ said Holmes. ‘Is this George? George Perkins? You are having the party?’

The door was opened a crack. Facing us in an embroidered velvet smoking jacket and a matching smoker’s hat with a tassel stood a short, well-fed man in his mid-thirties, with sleepy eyes and a profusion of dark, curly hair. He held a whisky in a crystal glass in one hand, a cigar protruding from two fingers.

His eyes flicked over the three of us. We must have passed some kind of muster, for he smiled. His teeth were white against his dark complexion. He was a remarkably handsome man.

‘I am Perkins, yes, but there is no party,’ he said.

‘No party?’ said Holmes. ‘Miss Katarina said … Well, in any case, we have this wreath for you.’ He thrust it at the narrow gap, and as Perkins opened the door to take it, Holmes inserted his foot over the threshold.

‘She … How …? I did not order any wreath!’ exclaimed the man. Upon eyeing it, however, he relented. ‘Although it is rather a nice one.’

‘And it has a name on it,’ said Holmes, shaking the wreath insistently. He was slurring his words slightly, as though well into his evening libations. ‘“George Perkins.” That is you, isn’t it? It must be a gift.’

Perkins reached out to take it. ‘Ouch!’ The holly was sharp-edged. He started to close the door, but could not. ‘Remove your foot, please.’

‘I cannot, you have it wedged in the door,’ said Holmes, with a rather silly grin. ‘We are here for the party, old fellow.’

‘I don’t know any Sanderson or Scott. You must have the wrong flat,’ said Perkins.

‘But you are George Perkins? Five B? No, this is right. Ho ho! It’s nearly Christmas! I need some refreshment! That looks like an excellent Scotch you have in your hand there, my good man.’ Holmes’s voice had an almost manic gaiety quite unlike him. He was doing a credible impression of inebriation.

‘I tell you, there is no party here. I have no idea how you—’

‘Oh, bother!’ Holmes turned to Heffie. ‘Didn’t you say Katarina invited us, darling?’

Heffie peeked past Holmes with a flirtatious smile at the valet. ‘Indeed, my dear Mr Perkins, Kat-Kat invited us,’ purred Heffie, as Lady Emerald. ‘Yes. It was yesterday, at Worth’s. She invited us very particularly.’

‘Kat-Kat?’

‘She is here, is she not?’ Heffie smiled again. ‘Katarina!’ she called out.

‘You could not have met her at Worth’s,’ said Perkins, still blocking us all at the door. ‘She was in all day yesterday.’

‘My dear sir, many women secretly visit Worth’s,’ said Heffie, with a sympathetic wink, ‘and do not let their husbands know!’

‘Oh, hell, may we not come in, my good man?’ slurred Holmes. ‘I have managed to prick my finger on this damnable holly—yes, even through my glove here—and I should like to wash the blood off my hand.’

‘No!’

Holmes gave me a quick glance and nodded. I knew his signal at once. He signed one, two, three with the fingers of his hidden hand, and on three we both violently shoved the door. George Perkins stumbled back, dropping his whisky glass on the parquet floor where it shattered into a thousand diamonds swimming in gold liquid.

‘Who are you? What do you want?’ the fellow snarled as we charged through the door, Heffie on our heels.

I shut the door behind us. At the same time, I drew my Webley and turned to aim it at Perkins.

The man went white.

Heffie looked around in approval. ‘A lovely abode, Mr Perkins,’ said she, in that ‘educated’ voice.

Perkins backed slowly away from us, one hand raised, the other withdrawing a heavy gold pocket watch from his jacket. ‘My watch. Here, please take my watch, and … and … this ring! And …’ He started to reach towards his other pocket. ‘Cash. I can give you cash.’

‘Mr Perkins, hands where I can see them, please,’ said Holmes. ‘We are not here to rob you. However, we do have some questions. Answer them carefully or you will be with the police within the hour.’

Perkins froze. ‘Police? I—I—’

‘Let us all go into your sitting-room there and discuss this like reasonable gentlemen … and lady.’ Holmes nodded towards next room. ‘Depending on the outcome of this discussion, you will either go to prison or walk free.’

Moments later we faced Perkins in a richly appointed sitting-room where a fire burned brightly in the grate and glinted off polished brass fireplace implements. Silver candelabra illuminated the space in an inviting, warm light. Electric fixtures, I noted, were unlit, leaving the candles and fire to cast a warm glow. An orange cat slumbered on a hassock.

‘Sit, Mr Perkins. Watson, stay with him.’

‘But I only took two little things. And I bought …’ stuttered the valet.

‘Quiet,’ said Holmes.

Perkins swallowed nervously and sat on a chair. I sat on a settee facing him, keeping the gun trained on him. A Christmas tree, glittering in ribbons and shiny baubles but with unlit candles, stood behind him. A garland of pine tied in silver bows was threaded across the fireplace mantel, winding past china figurines, cut crystal trinkets and a small plaster bust of, I assume, Venus. In the heat, the scent of freshly cut pine filled the room. It was not unpleasant.

‘Watson! Eyes on the prize, if you would.’

The man leaped to his feet, glaring at me. ‘Watson, is it?’ he said. ‘I suppose that is a false name, also?’

‘Sit down, sir. Now,’ I said.

I waved the gun at him, and Perkins slowly sank back onto the chair. He had transformed from a man of leisure into a cornered wild animal. He went very still, eyes riveted on the gun. I kept it trained on him.

To one side, Heffie moved to a table on which were a veritable clutter of very expensive and feminine knick-knacks. She began to examine them with dainty mews of appreciation. The orange cat suddenly mewed back. Heffie laughed.

‘Heffie!’ Holmes barked.

She stopped at once, with a quick grin behind Perkins’ back. I did not think this appropriate, given the gravity of the situation. A man was missing, and as far as I imagined he might well have been murdered. And who knew whether the lady who had been seen in the window was a prisoner or not?

Perkins was certainly displaying all the indications of guilt. A bead of sweat ran down the fellow’s face, and he flicked it away. ‘Please … please, just tell me what you want. Whatever it is, you can have it …’ he said at last. ‘Whoever you are.’

‘You have aroused suspicion, Mr Perkins. You have been seen in several costly establishments this past week, spending exorbitant amounts of money.’

‘There is nothing criminal in spending money,’ said Perkins. ‘And I only took—’

‘We are not here about petty theft. Spending that kind of money on a valet’s salary is extraordinary. But you are also suspected of harbouring a young lady here. We understand you are not married?’ said Holmes.

‘That is none of your business.’

‘Is the lady a prisoner? That, too, has come under question.’

‘Ridiculous! Where do you come by this information? Have you been following me?’

‘No, this lovely lady has.’

He whirled to face Heffie and eyed her with hostility. ‘Impossible! I would have noticed.’

‘Not likely, sir,’ said Heffie.

‘But perhaps one question supersedes them all,’ continued Holmes. ‘Where is Reginald Weathering?’

‘Who … who are you?’ stammered the man.

‘My name is Sherlock Holmes, and this is my friend and colleague, Dr Watson. We have been engaged by the Marquis of Blandbury to find his son. At all costs.’

The man’s eyes widened in utter panic. ‘The Marquis? Sherlock Holmes! The detective? Dear God!’

There was a soft thump as George Perkins slid from his chair onto the floor in a dead faint.