The Confession of Anna Jarrow

by S. F. Bennett

It was on the morning of the 15th April, 1894, that I returned to Baker Street to find that Sherlock Holmes had had a visitor in my absence. Inspector Tobias Gregson, doughty, steely-eyed, and greying around the temples, nodded to acknowledge my presence, not daring to interrupt Holmes’s discourse whilst he was in full flow. Beholding this familiar scene, it was as though the interruption of the last three years had never happened. We had simply picked up where we had left off, and much the better for it.

“The discrepancy between the height of the victim and the length of the ligature should give you evidence enough for a conviction,” Holmes was concluding as I laid down my parcels. “And if old Fazakerley gives you any trouble, you would do well to remind him of that old idiom: Man proposes, but God disposes. That should satisfy his Biblical sense of justice.”

“Well, I never. It seems as plain as a pikestaff when you put it like that, Mr. Holmes,” said Gregson, stooping to up gather up his hat. “It’s just as well you returned when you did, or this fellow might have got away with it.”

Holmes offered him a faint smile. “We are none of us infallible.”

“Even you?”

“I have my moments.”

Gregson allowed himself a snort of laughter before a more sombre expression took shape on his features. “That reminds me,” said he soberly. “Anna Jarrow was released a fortnight ago. I thought, under the circumstances, you’d want to know.”

I fancied I perceived a slight stiffening of Holmes’s back, as though the mere mention of the name had sent a shaft of bitter remembrance down his spine.

“Did she say anything?” said he, turning back to Gregson.

“Not she, Mr. Holmes. Wild horses wouldn’t prise that information out of her. She kept her counsel during her time in prison and never a word from the fellow. I don’t know whether to admire her loyalty or think her a fool. All the same,” said he, “we’re keeping a watch on her movements, in case he tries to make contact. There’s a fish I’d like to see squirming on a hook.”

“I take it your observations have thus far proved unsuccessful.”

Gregson nodded thoughtfully. “She’s never been out of our sight for a moment. And I’ve had good men on the case, I can’t fault them. Her letters have been intercepted and I’ve had several of the lads going through the dustbins. But there’s not been a word from him.”

Holmes accepted this news with equanimity. “Has a direct appeal been made to the lady? It may be that she was waiting for word from him on her release. A slight, after all this time, may prove to be the necessary incentive.”

The inspector looked unconvinced. “You’re welcome to try, seeing as how you have some personal interest in the business. To tell you the truth, I can’t justify keeping men on the case without something to show for it. Well, here’s her address. It’s a lodging house in Portsoken.”

With the interview at an end, Gregson left. Holmes considered the piece of paper before thrusting it into his pocket and turning briskly to me.

“Watson, you are busy this morning?”

“Not at all.”

“Then if you would be so good as to accompany me, my dear fellow, I would be much obliged. I can tell you about the case on the way.”

Once we were installed in a hansom cab and heading eastwards, Holmes began to elucidate.

“As you may have deduced,” he began, pulling on his gloves against the chill of the day, “the Jarrow case is something of a thorn in my flesh. One I class amongst my failures, certainly.”

“The name does not sound familiar,” I admitted.

“You were abroad at the time of the trial, Watson, so we may excuse your ignorance. Anna Jarrow was found guilty of being an accessory after the fact in the death of her husband. But for my intervention, she would have hanged for the crime of murder.”

“That does not sound like a failure.”

Holmes shook his head. “Mrs. Jarrow has spent fourteen years in prison because of her refusal to name her accomplice. The lady’s silence has been absolute and, despite my best efforts, I have been unable to put a name to the man. Such results are not to be applauded. They are what might be expected of a second-rate detective, who has barely mastered the ability to tell one footprint from another.”

“But if the lady would not tell, I can hardly see why you would blame yourself. That you saved her from the gallows must count for something.”

My companion released a long, troubled breath. “I have had many years to construct a theory as to the lady’s silence. If she were to at least confirm my suspicions, that would be sufficient. Mysteries are my natural enemies, Watson, and this has eluded me for too long. Well, well, we shall see.”

No sooner had the words left his mouth than the cab came to a shuddering halt. We were almost at the end of Oxford Street, and up ahead I saw a thick cluster of horses and cabman. Impatient passengers poked their heads from cab windows to shout at the medley of men who were attempting to clear the road of broken barrels from a brewer’s dray.

“It appears we have time enough for the telling of the tale,” said Holmes with forced joviality. “If you wish to hear it, that is. I am aware dredging up one’s past is an indulgence which others may find tedious.”

On the one hand, I had little choice, captive audience as I was. On the other, I was full of curiosity. I knew little of Holmes’s cases in the days before I had become his biographer, and the times when he had proved less than reticent on the subject were few and far between. His early life had been as a closed book, seemingly sealed forever after the events in Switzerland. To find myself in a cab with him, with little to do but to listen to the details of a case from years before, was something which only a few weeks ago I could have only imagined with the deepest of regret. I would have listened had he conversed on the most banal subject in the universe and counted myself fortunate for the experience.

“On the contrary, I would be most interested to learn more about the case.”

A smile of deep satisfaction took shape on his features. “Capital!” said he above the shouts and growing dissatisfaction of the waiting throng. He settled back in the seat and let his eyelids droop as he called upon his memories.

“Well, then, the case began for me in somewhat irregular fashion. It was in the early hours of the 7th November, 1879 that I awoke in my Montague Street rooms with the distinct impression that I was not alone. I was confirmed in that suspicion when I perceived a man standing by the open window at the side of my bed. I was less conscious of my need for security in those days, so that my pistol was out of reach. As it transpired, my concerns were unfounded, for my visitor had come, not to harm, but seeking my help.

“‘Mr. Holmes?’ said the fellow as I put a match to the candle. ‘Mr. Shelduck Holmes?’

“‘Sherlock,’ I corrected him. ‘But close enough.’

“‘My apologies,’ said he. ‘You’ll have to forgive my calling on you unannounced, but I’ve been told you do right by the likes of us.’

“In the yellow glow of the candlelight, I perceived a bull-necked man of about fifty years of age, dark-eyed and grizzled haired with a vigorous physique. In any other setting, his rough familiarity might have been vaguely menacing. To my mind, however, he seemed troubled to the point of desperation, so much so, that his manner appeared overly ingratiating.

“‘I assume you require my assistance,’ I replied as I rose and donned my dressing gown. ‘I dare say the contents of my purse would hardly be worth your time or effort.’

“My visitor started. ‘Who told you?’

“‘That you are a burglar by profession? No one. It was a logical deduction based on the facts at hand. You have lockpicks in your pocket - not the first thing a man thinks to take with him when leaving the house, unless he has a particular purpose in mind. If you wish to pass undetected in the future, I suggest you conceal your picks as something other than a moustache curling-iron. Most inappropriate for a clean-shaven man. Then there is your appearance here this evening. Most of my clients are content to use the door in the hours of daylight. The fact you have scaled the drainpipe when respectable citizens are in their beds speaks of a desire for anonymity. However, whilst I do not object to your method of entry, I do require a name.’

“‘Smith,’ he offered grudgingly. ‘Bill Smith.’

“‘Well, Mr. Smith, what can I do for you?’

“I offered him a drink, which he took with shaking hand and downed all at once. I refilled his glass and gave him a moment to compose himself whilst I charged my pipe and made myself comfortable for what promised to be an interesting affair. When a case begins in such a manner, it must have something to recommend it.

“‘It’s as you say, Mr. Holmes,’ said he, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. ‘I’ve cracked a few cribs in my time. I make no apology for that. I only steal from them what have got a few bob to spare.’

“‘The poor, by virtue of their condition, being exempt from your interest.’

“‘Well, Mr. Holmes, there’s no point robbing an empty box,’ said he. ‘But, whatever you may think of me, I do have a conscience. I’d never take a child’s toys or hurt anyone on purpose. I know there’s some folk that do, but that’s not my line. I take what I want and go.’ He paused and hurriedly swallowed the last of his drink. ‘That’s what has brought me here, sir. You see, the other night, I was out near Richmond and I saw something that fair turned my stomach.’

“‘Surrey?’ said I. ‘A little out of your way.’

“‘I take the Metropolitan Railway out west, sir. It’s only a few changes of train from where I live.’

“I could not stop myself from laughing. ‘And they said railways were the wonder of the modern age! How true. As beneficial for the criminal as the average man, I dare say. But please, Mr. Smith, pray continue.’

“He wetted his lips and, in the eyes he raised to mine, I read his depth of emotion as he recounted his tale.

“‘It was several days ago, Tuesday to be exact, the evening before Bonfire Night. I had information from a good friend of mine that there was to be a recital at the church hall in Manstone Green, and a few of the locals were attending, so their houses were empty. The train got in about a half-past-eight, and I took a turn about the streets to see what I could find. It didn’t take me long. A house in Fluxton Avenue, a decent-looking place, the real stilton I can tell you.’ He appeared flustered for a moment. ‘That is to say-’

“‘An establishment worthy of your attention,’ I replied. ‘I understand.’

“He nodded uneasily. ‘Well, I could see a woman at home on the ground floor, but upstairs at the top of the house, someone had put their best lustres on the window sill. I thought to myself, having come all this way, it was worth a look, and so through the back gate and up the drainpipe I went.’ He cleared his throat, for, as I correctly surmised, he was approaching the point in the story that gave him the most disquiet. ‘As it happened, I needn’t have wasted my time. All for show - they were, no gold, no jewellery, nothing worthwhile for me. I don’t like leaving empty-handed, so I went to see if the people on the first floor had anything worth pinching. I had to be careful in case the woman downstairs heard me, but quiet as a church mouse I am. In I goes, and I’m having a poke about in the sideboard and... well, that’s when I seen him, Mr. Holmes.’

“He had stopped abruptly. His face had drained of colour.

“‘Who did you see, Mr. Smith?’ I prompted.

“He swallowed heavily. ‘A tall, clean-faced fellow, sir, stretched out on the floor in the sitting room, dead. He had a towel wrapped around his head, all stained with his blood. Well, that was enough for me, I tell you. I got out of there as fast as my legs could carry me.’ He had the decency to look shamefaced. ‘On the train home, when I had time to think about it, I had my doubts about just leaving him there. I couldn’t go to the police. How would I explain my being there? And anyways, it might have been an accident. But why was he left there, all alone in the dark? It’s been playing on my conscience, I don’t mind telling you, sir. Then yesterday, “Mindful” Jackson mentioned your name to me as being a trustworthy sort who’d have a look into the business but not mention names as to how you got the information. He said he knew you.’

“As you are aware, Watson, I have always cultivated a degree of familiarity with the criminal classes, and, as with the matter at hand, it has proved fruitful, both in terms of cases and information. Jackson was a petty thief and swindler, known as ‘Mindful’ on account of his favourite phrase: ‘Mind how you go’. Good advice, I dare say, given his profession. I had exonerated him some time ago when he was wrongly arrested for the murder of a peer who had once had him whipped for a minor act of larceny. To say he thought himself forever in my debt is something of an understatement. In return for his ongoing assistance as my guide to the nefarious doings of his fellow criminals, I had always been discreet about my sources.’

“‘Jackson was correct,’ I told Smith. ‘On occasion, I have been known to keep a confidence for the benefit of the greater good.’

“‘That’s what I was hoping,’ said Smith eagerly. ‘I thought someone should know what had happened, especially as there’s been no mention of a death in the papers. That’s what made my mind up to tell you about it.’

“‘You are sure he was dead? Under the circumstances, you could have been mistaken.’

“‘His eyes were wide open, and he wasn’t blinking. And what with all that blood, Mr. Holmes, he was dead all right or my name’s not Bill Smith.’

“‘I sincerely doubt it is, but in any case I take your point.’

“‘I’ve seen a few dead ’uns in my time to know what they look like,’ my visitor continued, seemingly unaware of my comment. ‘But I’ve never come across one like this afore. Right upset me, it did.’

“‘I shall look into this business, never fear,’ said I, ushering him to his feet. ‘Time you made your exit, Mr. Smith. If I need to clarify any point, Jackson will find you? Capital. Ah, no, I think the front door would be preferable. I do not doubt your “talents” in your chosen field, but as my landlady is accustomed to my irregular hours, she would think less of a momentary disturbance of her sleep than of having the local constabulary descend upon the premises if you happen to be discovered in the act of leaving over the back wall.’

“So it was that the next morning, I took the early train to Manstone Green. My first stop was a newsagent, where I purchased a local paper. Smith had been correct when he had told me there had been no reports of a death. My attention, however, was caught by a report of a man missing since the morning of the 5th November. Mr. Charles Winslade had left his home in Fluxton Avenue at eight o’clock, caught the train into London, and had seemingly vanished into thin air. No word had been heard from him since. Confirming the address with the one Smith had given me was a mere formality, for I was certain I had my man.

“It also served to dispel any doubts I had about Smith’s story. He would not have been the first to report a crime he had committed in the hopes of turning attention away from himself. One should exercise caution before jumping to conclusions, however, and the question remained as to how a man allegedly found dead on the night of the 4th had been seen alive on the morning of the 5th.

“The local public house is always a good source of information and, on the basis that latitude is given to the newly-wedded, I posed as a prospective bridegroom, seeking information as to suitable lodgings after my nuptials. As expected, the regulars of the Red Lion were most forthcoming, at least until I touched on the question of crime in the area.

“There was a long pause before a lean man with a weather-beaten face at the bar spoke up. ‘If you’d asked me that last week, I’d have said there was no place safer for a young family than Manstone Green. But now...’

“He clenched his pipe between his stained and chipped teeth and glanced at the landlord. ‘Now, I’d have to say there were some rum doings about these parts. A lot of strangers wandering about in the dead of night. Why, only a couple of nights ago, Mrs. Higgins saw a man in Fluxton Avenue, and we all knew what he were up to.’

“‘Now, Jem,’ said the landlord disapprovingly, ‘we don’t know nothing of the sort. By all accounts, he weren’t no grey-beard. Stocky, Mrs. Higgins said, with a furtive look about him.’

“If, as I suspected, Mrs. Higgins had sighted Smith, it added strength to his story at the expense of casting doubt on his abilities as a burglar.

“‘T’were a nice neighbourhood, once,’ Jem continued. ‘If you ask me, he’s the reason Mr. Winslade took off.’

“Naturally, I pressed them on the subject and soon had details beyond which the press had divulged. The Winslades had taken lodgings in Fluxton Avenue several weeks before. Mr. Winslade was a commercial traveller, away from home a good deal, so that it had been Mrs. Winslade who had made their domestic arrangements. She kept to herself, seen only occasionally in the local shops, and once a week at the church service. That is, until the night of the 4th, when Mr. and Mrs. Winslade had attended the recital in the church hall. It was the first time many of the locals had seen Mr. Winslade, and he was described to me as dark, handsome man of about forty years of age, somewhat about six foot in height, with a fresh, clean-shaven appearance, although that night it was noted he had a rash upon his chin.

“Mrs. Winslade was younger than her husband by fifteen years and more, and was slim, fair, and petite in stature, with the trace of an accent. It was the general consensus of the Red Lion clientele that she had more than a few admirers in the neighbourhood. Most of these were from afar, but speculation centred around one man, tall, grey of hair and beard, whom the neighbours had noticed loitering outside the Winslades’ lodgings before finally being given admittance a week or so previously. Mrs. Higgins, the Winslades’ landlady, would later testify in court that Mrs. Winslade had introduced this man to her as her father. She said there was something unnerving about him, as though they had met before, and he had the eyes of a devil.

“Such fanciful notions did not interest me. I placed more value upon the reports that Mr. and Mrs. Winslade, undoubtedly a handsome couple, were ill-at-ease at the recital. Add that to Mrs. Higgins’s testimony of how the father had been visiting on the night of the 4th when Mr. Winslade came home, how she had heard the muffled voices of two men engaged in an argument and the sound of a window slamming shut, and I began to see how an elaborate crime had taken place.

“At this point, Watson, I should make it clear that the father left at approximately a quarter-past-seven. Mrs. Higgins heard a thump outside her door and found this grey-bearded gentlemen in the act of picking up his cane, which he had dropped down the stairs. She was certain it was him; it was the eyes, so she said. At ten to eight, Mr. and Mrs. Winslade left for the recital. They returned at ten past ten, and that was the last Mrs. Higgins saw of them until the husband left for work the next morning.

“And that was how matters stood. Jem, the self-appointed opinionist of the Red Lion, was convinced Mrs. Winslade had been having an affair with the man she had claimed was her father, and the husband, having confronted the pair, packed his bags and left. As the landlord said, however, if that was the case, why did they bother to attend the recital? There was some argument for keeping up appearances, although surely there are easier ways to accomplish a separation than for the wronged party to go missing.

“I had the advantage of Smith’s information. It seemed to me the argument that night had resulted in the death of one of the men involved. The bang heard by Mrs. Higgins was almost certainly a pistol shot. That would have left them the problem of the body.

“I put myself in their situation and took a turn about the town to see if I could locate a suitable place for the disposal of a body. Manstone Green is a small town, with a High Street boasting the usual variety of shops, and residential areas surrounded by common land. At present, the open land between the town and neighbouring Richmond is a bar to the latter’s expansion, but not a permanent one. In time, I dare say the larger shall subsume the smaller. For the present, however, the residents have attempted to retain their sense of community by the maintenance of their traditions. One is these is the construction of a large bonfire to be burned on Guy Fawkes’ Night. My eye was caught by its charred remains, which had yet to be raked over. A grisly possibility suggested itself. Sure enough, prodding through the blackened embers with my cane, I discovered what was left of the dead man.

“The local constabulary, with a missing man on one hand and body on the other, came to the obvious conclusion. The skull revealed the man had been shot in the head, the trajectory suggesting that the gun had been held above. The local detective, a saturnine and unimaginative man by the name of Jarvis, theorised that Winslade had been waylaid by thieves on the morning of his death. A struggle had ensued and he had been shot in the process. His body had later been placed in the bonfire under cover of darkness and burned by the unsuspecting organisers.

“So might the case have remained had I not interfered”

At this point in his narrative, Holmes sighed deeply and with, so I thought, what sounded to me like a touch of frustration.

“I raised the question as to timing of the fellow’s death,” said he at length, his gaze diverted to the busy streets of Cheapside as we continued on our way. “I convinced Jarvis that the time between dusk and the burning of the bonfire at seven o’clock would not have afforded an opportunity for the thieves to conceal the body as they did, since the stacked wood had been attended, lest any children attempt to hide in it. Furthermore, with the deed done, why would the thieves have remained in the area with a body which would have incriminated them? I suggested to the inspector that he should speak to the neighbours about the grey-bearded man and pointed to the significance of the rash on Mr. Winslade’s face that night.

“Despite his dislike of ‘meddlers’, as he called me, he took my advice and soon had formulated another theory, namely that the husband had died earlier in the evening at the hands of the father. To conceal the true nature of the crime, the father had shaved off his whiskers and applied boot polish to his hair to achieve the necessary look and had attended the recital in the guise of the husband. This was confirmed by my discovery of short grey hairs on the window sill of the Winslades’ lodgings, where the wife had attempted to dispose of the evidence of her father’s beard-shaving by shaking the cloth on which the hairs had fallen out of the window.

“Mrs. Winslade was challenged to produce her father. Instead, she chose to flee and was arrested at Southampton on suspicion of murder. More facts became known at the trial. Someone recognised her picture in the press and identified her, not as Mrs. Winslade, but as Anna Jarrow, the wife of Anthony Jarrow, sometimes Lord Jarrow, other times as Sir Anthony Jarrow, as the mood took him. Little about the man’s personal history was known. He seems to have been a man of indeterminate private means, with something of a reputation as a libertine and a thoroughly bad lot. It was discovered the couple had lived the high life around Europe. Both had suddenly disappeared, leaving considerable debts, three years before the lady’s appearance in England. All we ever got from Anna Jarrow was a confirmation as to her true identity; she would admit to nothing else.

“You will understand, Watson, this put a different complexion on the case. The police alleged the pair had fled to escape their debts, and after travelling extensively, had come to rest in Manstone Green, taking the name Winslade. Their past had caught up with them in the shape of the grey-bearded man, who perhaps had recognised the couple and was trying to extort money from them. They had conspired to kill him, and so Mr. Jarrow came home with a gun that night, intent on doing the blackmailer harm. At the operative moment, the two men had struggled and Mr. Jarrow had been killed. The blackmailer had then taken his place to prevent discovery of the crime until he had a chance to escape.”

Holmes paused and glanced over at me. “You do see the problem, don’t you?”

I nodded. “Why would Mrs. Jarrow assist a blackmailer who had killed her husband?”

“Quite so,” said Holmes. “If we give the spokesman of the Red Lion his due and cast the grey-bearded man in the role of her ally, then the events of that night begin to make sense. Mrs. Jarrow has a lover. When Jarrow returns home that night, he minds the pair in flagrante delicto. A confrontation takes place and one or the other produces a gun, the husband most likely, given their circumstances. During the struggle, the lover kills the husband by shooting him through the head. The pair then concoct a means of providing them both with alibis. The lover leaves, making sure he has a witness. He returns moments later, possibly by the same route taken by Smith. He shaves off his beard, darkens his hair, and takes Jarrow’s place at the recital - the only time the couple had been seen in public, mark you! - secure in the knowledge few in the neighbourhood have directly encountered the man. Even the landlady Mrs. Higgins said she only caught a few glimpses of his face, although by her evidence, she claimed to be familiar with the shape of his back and shoulders. That night, the lover takes the body to the bonfire which has been built ready for the next evening. He returns to the house and, still in his disguise as Mr. Jarrow, leaves the next morning and disappears.”

Holmes sat back in his seat, his features relaxing somewhat after the exertion of telling his tortuous tale. “I put this theory to the prosecution and that is the line they followed. Anna Jarrow pleaded not guilty, but offered no defence save that she was innocent of the death of the man who had been known as Charles Winslade. You can imagine the effect this had on the jury. The judge was obliged to give her the maximum sentence as an accessory after the fact, given her refusal to name her accomplice. I was able to dissuade them from a charge of murder, for the preceding argument suggested spontaneity. Nor could I support the theory that Mrs. Jarrow had executed the crime herself. The lady was scarcely five-feet-two, and would not have had the reach necessary to achieve the downward shot.”

“Unless Jarrow was sitting down at the time,” I ventured.

“I had considered that. The evidence of the landlady placed what was presumed to be the fatal shot at the time she heard the two men arguing. In addition, the wound was towards the front of the cranium; even a man comfortable in his wife’s presence would have felt some alarm at seeing her coming towards him with a pistol. No, my dear fellow, there was no doubt as to her being an accessory. But...”

Holmes thumped his fist on the side wall of the hansom in frustration.

“But what has always eluded me is the reason for her continued silence. Even now, after a lengthy incarceration, she refuses to give up his name. Hamlet may have considered a woman’s love brief, but he never met Anna Jarrow. I confess, my dear fellow, I find her loyalty to the fellow admirable, if misplaced. The motives of women will ever be a mystery to me, Watson.” His face took on a brighter aspect and a smile twitched at the sides of his mouth. “Or perhaps not. Well, we can but try, my dear fellow.”

The rest of the journey passed in silence. The time-stained walls of The Tower of London slid by, brooding over the soldiers in the barracks and visitors to its gloomy dungeons, a silent witness now to the jousts of kings and the deaths of queens in days of yore. Turning northwards, we wended our way through the busy streets, passing the shops of booksellers and clockmakers, into the area of Portsoken, bounded by Spitalfields to the east and Bishopsgate to the north. Our destination was a small court off the Minories, where red-bricked terraced houses slumped against each other like drunken men and sagged from every parapet and window ledge. Our cabman stopped in the main road, and we made our way on foot, passing lounging men and idle women outside a tavern on the corner, their faces mingling both curiosity and hostility.

The address proved to be a lodging house for destitute women recently released from prison, run by a charitable organisation for discharged prisoners. A painted board by the door listed the rules of the establishment: No gambling, no drunkenness, and no male visitors, to name but a few. This last I considered might be our stumbling block, but the matron in charge of the establishment was so suitably impressed by having a famous detective on the doorstep that she was inclined to wave the rule on this occasion.

Anna Jarrow had a room on the second floor, sparsely furnished with the bare essentials and embroidered religious quotations in frames on the walls. We found her seated by a table at the window, with a basket of clothes beside her chair and several garments spread out before her. She rose at our entrance, her expression registering recognition. She was thin, sallow, and hollow-eyed, the long years in prison ageing her before her time, but still there remained the shadow of the handsome woman she had once been.

“Mrs. Jarrow,” said Holmes severely. “Do you remember me?”

“How could I forget the man who had me sent to prison?” said she, the slight trace of the accent Holmes had described in her speech still detectable after all these years.

“Your actions, madam, did that.”

“As you say.” She gestured to the other chair in the room. “Won’t you sit?”

“This will not take long.”

She smiled. “It may take longer than even you can imagine, Mr. Holmes. I can guess why you are here.”

“Then perhaps you could save us all time by telling me what I want to know, Mrs. Jarrow. I see you are a busy woman.”

She glanced over at the basket of clothes. “It is meagre employment, but I am grateful for the work.” She took her own seat again. “Very well, let me hear what you have to say.”

“I erred at your trial,” Holmes asserted.

I confess I was taken aback to hear him admit such a thing. Mrs. Jarrow, however, maintained an admirable calm.

“I thought, as did many, that the man you were protecting was your lover,” he continued. “That you should protect him then, as you protect him still, made little sense. Had you provided the court with a name, leniency might have been granted.”

“Had I provided a name, he might have hanged. The crime was mine and mine alone.”

“Ah, Mrs. Jarrow,” said Holmes, shaking his head, “you did not fire the fatal shot that killed your husband.”

She nodded. “But it was my fault he was there. Allow me some portion of blame. To have named him would have been to condemn him. I was not innocent. If someone had to answer for the crime, better than it was me. As your Lord Byron once said: ‘They never fail who die in a great cause’.”

“It is your concept of the ‘noble sacrifice’, madam, and your enduring silence, which has led me to one inescapable conclusion as to the real identity of the grey-bearded man.” Holmes paused for effect. “He was your brother, was he not?”

Anna Jarrow stared at him for a long time. “I have no brother,” said she evenly.

“Not one I have been able to trace, admittedly,” agreed Holmes.

“That is because he does not exist. I grew up an only child in Antwerp.” She lowered her gaze and plucked listlessly at the pieces of cloth on the table. “I will concede, however, that he was not my lover.”

“Then who?”

“After all, this time, what does it matter? I have paid for my crime, Mr. Holmes.”

“It matters, Mrs. Jarrow, because a man died.”

“A worthless man!” she cried, with sudden emotion. She stared at us, her eyes blazing, and then, as if making up her mind, she nodded and looked away. “I should hate you, sir, but in truth, I pity you for your ignorance. Leave now. I have nothing more to say.”

And so we had no choice but to do as the lady said. No entreaty would sway her, and Holmes was forced to admit to Gregson that he had failed to extract the truth from Mrs. Jarrow. Over the next few months, other cases came to occupy us, and life at Baker Street settled back into our old routine. But still, as one after another came to a successful conclusion, I would see that faraway look come into his eye and he would fall to brooding on the Jarrow case. The reports from the Irregulars he had instructed to follow the lady petered out, and the case file was closed and consigned to the depths of his tin box.

Then, one morning at the end of November, Mrs. Hudson brought up an envelope, bearing a Dover postmark. I thought nothing of it until Holmes let out a cry and threw several sheets of paper across the kippers to me.

“See what you make of that, Watson!” he declared. “I did not fall so far from my mark. Read it aloud, if you will.”

It was a woman’s handwriting, flowing and elegant. The letter ran thus:

My dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes:

By the time you receive this letter, I shall have left England for good. I will not return. When last I saw you, you asked me for a name. You will never know that name. But that no one should be in any doubt, I thought someone should know the events which transpired that night, and the nature of the evil man who met his end.

I was a dancer in Amsterdam when I met my husband. I was young and thought myself in love. He was charming and handsome. He was also a thief. I did not know this when I married him, but even though I became aware of the source of his income, still I was content to live in grand style from the proceeds of his crimes. Then one day he received a letter, claiming to be from his father. He had told me he had been born in England, in Jarrow, which he had taken for his surname. His mother had died a few days after his birth, not before leaving a letter in which she claimed that he was the natural son of a well-born roué. That same man had known of his existence, and on his death, had bequeathed to my husband, as his eldest son, a diary, listing the dates and times of his many liaisons and the children who had resulted from his affairs.

I cannot speculate as to his intentions, unless to supply another living soul with evidence that his life had not been entirely without purpose, even one so base. For my husband, however, it was an opportunity. He began contacting the people named in the diary, demanding payment for his silence. They paid, fearing that even a breath of scandal would threaten their good names and inheritances.

Again, I said nothing. I enjoyed the money. Then one day, a payment did not arrive. We learned a few days later the young man concerned had killed himself. From then on, the money was poison to me. The food it bought turned to dust and ashes in my mouth. For all my silks and velvet, sackcloth was my preference. I saw my husband for what he was, and told him I would leave. He said he would not let me leave, and if I tried, he would find me and kill me rather than let me be with another. Despite his threats, I did escape him, taking the diary with me, so that he could blackmail no one else with its secrets. For three years, I ran from him, always moving on whenever I thought he was close to finding me.

Then, when my money was exhausted, I came to England and, to my shame, I used the diary, not for blackmail, you must understand, but for assistance so that this foul document might never fall into my husband’s hands. The man I chose agreed to help me, though he had the most to lose: His wife, his children, his home, his reputation. In exchange, I swore on the Bible that I would never betray his secret. This man was not wealthy, but he said he would find me the money for passage to Australia. Until such time, he provided me with enough to find lodgings to live comfortably. I chose Manstone Green, believing it to be insignificant enough to escape the attention of my husband. My knight errant, as I shall call him, visited me occasionally in the guise of my husband, so as not to attract the suspicion of the neighbours.

All was well until one evening a letter arrived. It was from my husband. He said he meant me no harm for he loved another and wished to start a new life in Canada. He said too that he would leave me in peace forever if I gave him £500, enough to pay for his ticket and a comfortable life abroad. I was cautious, but agreed to meet him at the house. He was older and greyer, but I recognised him. I told the landlady he was my father to allay her curiosity, although in truth he was but five years older than my knight. I told him I had limited funds, but I would see what I could raise. He agreed to return.

He was contrite that evening and seemed a changed man. But I was not convinced. I told my knight of his visit and we agreed that the sum must be found. My knight was the trustee of several funds, and he took the money from those accounts, with every intention of paying it back. I also advised him that we should take precautions, as I did not trust my husband. My knight said he would come armed. I did not know he meant a gun, but I thank Providence that he did, for surely I would not be here today.

On the evening of the 4th November, my husband returned earlier than expected. He was belligerent and had been drinking. By the time my knight arrived, he was angry, demanding not only the money, but the diary too. I refused to give it to him. He raised his fist to strike me and that is when my knight produced the gun. My husband leapt at him and they struggled. Somehow the gun went off. My husband was killed instantaneously.

You may ask why we did not both leave. My knight feared discovery if his description was given to the police and I was tired of running. After three years, I was finally free of Anthony Jarrow. And so we devised a plan whereby it would appear that my knight, the man believed to be my husband, had been killed the next day. I will never know how you discovered the truth, Mr. Holmes. We took such care.

As half-brothers, my knight shared a close enough resemblance to pass as my husband. My knight shaved my husband’s beard where he lay and stuck the whiskers to his own face. Then he powdered his own hair and left, making sure he alerted Mrs. Higgins on the way out. He returned only to find that the glue had stuck fast and I had to pull the hair from his face, leaving red marks upon his skin. We went out together so that the people would see us. At midnight, he dropped my husband’s body from the back window and carried him in a wheelbarrow to the bonfire. If anyone had stopped him, he would have said the body was a Guy for the fire. The next morning, he left and I later alerted the police that he had disappeared.

You were not too far wrong when you mentioned a brother, Mr. Holmes. Your only mistake was that it was my husband’s relation and not mine. You will never find him. The diary was the only evidence of his blood-tie to my husband and that was burned in that bonfire alongside an accursed man, who was surely his father’s son. I do not regret my actions. My knight killed in self-defence. Without him, I would be dead. Because of him, I would rather have died than had his death on my conscience. I kept my promise to him and all the others that wretched diary had damned.

I have paid for my sins, for the anguish I helped him cause to others and the lives he thought nothing of ruining. Now I must exorcise the ghost of the Jarrow name and begin my life anew, trusting that through my deeds, I may seek the forgiveness of a higher power.

Yours respectfully,

Anna Jansen (formerly Jarrow)

A silence fell over the table as I finished reading. Holmes had been listening with his chin sunk upon his chest and his gaze fixed on the fire. Slowly, he lifted his head and listlessly reached for the letter.

“I fear I have been like the dull, tiresome fellow of whom Dr. Johnson said ‘he seems to me to possess but one idea, and that is a wrong one’.” Holmes sighed. “Ah, the folly of youth, Watson. On the one hand, I had too much information; on the other, not enough. Had I known of Jarrow’s history, had Smith seen the hair colour of the dead man, then my conclusion would have been different. As it was, I placed too much importance on Mrs. Higgins’s evidence about the eyes.”

“The eyes?” I queried. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“The landlady said she knew it was the father because she recognised the eyes. She also said that the eyes had unnerved her, as though they were familiar. Of course they were. She had seen those same eyes in the brief glimpses she had had of the face of Mrs. Jarrow’s ‘knight’.” He gave a rueful laugh. “Well, Watson, potius sero quam nunquam, as Livy has it.”

“‘Better late than never’ indeed,” I agreed. “But perhaps not too late, Holmes. Now you have the full facts, you could discover the name of her accomplice.”

Holmes stared at the sheet and nodded slowly. Then suddenly, he screwed the pages into a ball and threw it into the fire. The flames caught and the paper shrivelled, glowing at the edges until nothing was left but a few blackened fragments.

“Yes, I could,” said Holmes, rising briskly to his feet and brushing the crumbs from his trousers. “But I will not. The lady has furnished me with the facts because she knows I will not use them. Besides, without the diary, what other proof of this man’s lineage exists? No, my dear fellow. Time enough has been wasted on this venture and we have other cases more pressing. The other letters in my morning post included a missive from Mycroft, demanding my presence at his club on a matter of some urgency. One should never appear too eager, especially where one’s relations are concerned, but I feel I should make the effort to put in an appearance. Well, Watson, have you breakfasted sufficiently? Then come. The Diogenes awaits!”