The Case of the Reformed Sinner

by S. Subramanian

Among the unfinished tales is that of Mr. James Phillimore, who, stepping back into his own house to get his umbrella, was never more seen in this world.

– “The Problem of Thor Bridge”

The Casebook of Sherlock Holmes

It was on the bitterly chill morning of December 22nd of the year ‘98, as I see from my notes for that twelve-month period, that the attention of my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes was first drawn to the singular affair - which I have elsewhere recorded as one of his notable failures - of Mr. James Phillimore. This was a deliberately misleading assertion on my part, one which I resorted to for reasons which I trust the present account will render clear. It is only now, some twenty-three years after the events described here, that news of the demise of this story’s protagonist releases me from the implicit obligation of silence on the matter which has bound me all these years.

The remains of our breakfast had just been cleared, and Sherlock Holmes and I had lazily retired to our respective armchairs, he to light his pipe composed from the dottles of the previous day’s smokes, and I to read the newspapers.

“All of fashionable London, my dear Holmes,” I said, “seems to continue to be in the grip of one, and only one, event: the disappearance from his home in Kensington, the day before yesterday, of the justly celebrated star possession in Lord Haileybury’s distinguished collection of jewelry, the sapphire known as the Noor Jehan. I see from the papers that his lordship has announced a reward of five-thousand pounds for its restitution to its rightful owner. Our friend Lestrade is in charge of the case, and reading between the lines of The Times’ report that ‘the canny Scotland Yard detective is reliably learnt to be approaching the problem from all possible angles’, I take it that he is in his customary state of bafflement over the mystery.”

“There is no particular mystery in the matter, Watson,” responded my friend in a bored voice. “I have been anticipating the event over the last few months, and I knew that it was only a matter of time before it happened. It is my strong belief that the facts underlying the case point in the direction of a prosaic theft involving a careless peer, and an alert butler who is a member in good standing of a well-established jewel-stealing outfit. For some time now, I have had my eye on the Camberwell Gang, headed by the notorious ruffian Edward ‘Bandy’ Benson. I have brought the imminent possibility of the sapphire’s theft repeatedly to the attention of Lestrade, but if he and his minions at the Yard will insist on taking their flat-footedness to hitherto unexplored depths of ineptitude, then there is little one can do to save the situation. It is that old adage about leading the horse to the water. I am convinced there is no great intellectual puzzle involved in the affair. All it calls for, to bring it to a successful resolution, is to display some urgency in following the movements of Mr. ‘Bandy’ Benson. But what have we here? The bell, the step, the knock: we are in luck, Watson. Surely it’s a Christmas gift - a client!”

I opened the door to admit a tall, strapping, fair-haired and fresh-faced young man.

Sherlock Holmes waved him to a chair, with the query, “What can my colleague Dr. Watson and I do to help you?”

“Mr. Holmes,” said our visitor, “I hope very much that I am not here upon a fool’s errand, and that I do not waste your precious time with some trivial and inconsequential problem. But I thought I must lay it before an expert to determine if it is a serious matter or not when a man steps into his own house to fetch his umbrella, only to vanish, thereafter, like a puff of smoke!”

“Come, this is a most agreeab - that is to say, distressing - state of affairs,” said Holmes, rubbing his hands together. “Pray sit down now, and explain, in your own words, the circumstances which have brought you here.”

“You should know that my name is Sebastian O’Connor, and that I am a junior clerk with the well-known stock-broking firm of Thurston and Ayres, which has its principal office in Camberwell. My presence here has to do with the sudden disappearance, yesterday morning, of my friend and professional colleague, James Phillimore. It has been our daily practice, over the last two years of our clerkship with T. and A., to walk each morning to our place of work, to have a pint of beer together at the end of each day’s work at The Camberwell Arms, to walk back from the public house to our respective diggings which are but a stone’s throw apart, and to offer worship, every Sunday morning, at the local Catholic Church (for we are of that persuasion). It is a life, as you can see, of ordinariness and routine - as ordinary and commonplace and non-descript and universal and same as our daily collars and hats and rolled-up umbrellas and briefcases!”

“The local Catholic Church at Camberwell,” interjected Holmes. “Would that be St. Francis Xavier’s Church, by any chance?”

“Indeed, yes,” replied our client.

“Ah! Pray forgive the interruption, and proceed with your most interesting narrative.”

“Well, yesterday, as on other mornings, I ambled over from my digs to Phillimore’s modest quarters. It was our invariable practice to walk together to our office. He would usually wait for me at the gate of the somewhat grandiosely-named Alexandria Mansions, which houses his own, and a dozen other similar two-room quarters. Yesterday, I found him apparently seeing off a couple of men of somewhat rude description, though the conversation was polite enough. I heard the older of the two men tell my friend, ‘I am grateful, guv’nor, for the return of my possession, what’s a ‘umble enough thing but of the greatest value, speaking sentimentally of course, to me.’ ‘No, no,’ said Phillimore. ‘It is no big thing - just one of those accidental mistakes which any of us is capable of making in a moment of absent-mindedness.’ The man made a hurried departure, holding his hat in his hand and his umbrella under his arm, after favouring my friend with what was no doubt intended as a smile of gratitude, but was rendered somewhat sinister by the unfortunate scar, running from chin to ear, that disfigured his face.”

“Scar from chin to ear, did you say?” interposed Holmes sharply. “May I enquire if the man was also noticeably bow-legged?”

“Why, yes!” said O’Connor in surprise. “How - ?”

“Never mind!” said Holmes, with a chuckle. “My apologies again for interrupting your narrative. Pray continue.”

“Well, there isn’t much left to report. Phillimore greeted me, and begging me for a moment’s time to fetch his umbrella, he went back through the front door of his house, closing it shut behind him. The seconds ticked over into minutes, and when there was no sign of his returning, I rang the bell at his door several times, but to no avail. Eventually, I had to get the porter to open the door with a key from his bunch of spares. We searched the quarters thoroughly, but there wasn’t a sign of Phillimore anywhere in that house. We could only surmise that he had given me the slip through the back-door, which is self-locking. Since then, he has not returned home, nor have I heard nor seen anything of him. Before alerting the police, I thought I should lay the problem before you, Mr. Holmes, for your opinion.”

“You have done wisely to consult me, Mr. O’Connor,” said Holmes. “Can you think of no reason why your friend should desert you so abruptly, if that is what has happened?”

“Not a single blessed reason that makes any sense, sir,” replied our client emphatically.

“Very well. Before I proceed in the matter, let me ask you just one more question. Have you ever encountered our scar-faced, bow-legged friend on any earlier occasion?”

“Indeed I have, Mr. Holmes,” replied Sebastian O’Connor. “On more than one occasion. He has been a frequent visitor, over the last few months, at The Camberwell Arms. He has even, on occasion, sought to make desultory conversation with us, with queries on where we worked and lived. Indeed, now that you ask me, he dropped in at The Camberwell Arms the night before last, which was the last occasion on which Phillimore and I had a drink together. It was an evening like most others, and the street was crowded as it usually is at that hour. It is a somewhat rough neighbourhood, and I had just been jostled by an unsavoury-looking character when I caught sight of a couple of burly constables walking down the street. I remember thinking - though I am quite capable of looking after myself - that this was a distinctly welcome sight. However, the matter passed off without incident. We had just entered the public house and seated ourselves on a couple of high stools in front of the bar when Mr. Bow-Legs walked in after us, sat on the stool next to Phillimore, had a quick drink, and departed. I am not even sure if my friend was aware of the man’s presence by his side, but I was, because I caught sight of his reflection in the strip of mirror in front of us.”

“All of this is most suggestive, Mr. O’Connor,” remarked Sherlock Holmes. “I am hopeful that we may find a solution to the problem of your missing friend, though I must prepare you for a life, henceforth, in which he does not figure as your daily companion at work or in leisure. Rest assured that when the matter is cleared up, you will have word of what has transpired from a mutual friend of ours.”

After our client had been ushered out, my friend turned to me. “Well, Watson,” said he, “What do you make of it?”

“I make nothing of it, Holmes,” I replied. “It is all an impenetrable fog to me.”

“Come, Watson, surely it is not so hopeless as all that. Indeed, if you do not allow yourself to be distracted by those suggestions of the bizarre and the outré which permeate the case so thoroughly, you should be able to see your way clearly through to its really rather straightforward solution. In my own case, I have the distinct advantage over you of knowledge regarding the identity of the gentleman whom our client referred to as ‘Mr. Bow-Legs’. The facial scar and the bent legs of a Camberwell habitué can belong to but one man - the Edward ‘Bandy’ Benson, of dubious repute, whom I mentioned to you before our client arrived.

“I have already acquainted you with the fact that my earlier investigations provoke the strong conviction that Benson has had a major hand to play in the theft of the Noor Jehan jewel. As the head of the Camberwell Gang and the principal planner of the sapphire’s theft, he would be the most likely recipient of the jewel. Understandably, and in the event of a swoop by the police, he would not wish to be found with the jewel in his possession. Let us begin with the eminently reasonable working hypothesis, then, that the sapphire entered Benson’s possession, presumably through some other member or members of the gang in a chain beginning with Lord Haileybury’s butler, sometime after its theft the evening before last.

“That was also the evening when our friend O’Connor saw him (or his reflection in the mirror) at The Camberwell Arms. An admirable receptacle for a stolen jewel is the handle of any umbrella that can be fashioned into a detachable knob. That, let us suppose, is where Benson secreted the sapphire. His umbrella, we may assume, is one of hundreds of identical ones in the city of London, with perhaps a mark of distinction such as his engraved initials on some part of the umbrella where no-one would think to look, and which would assist with reclaiming it when the time for that should come. It is reasonable to believe that he too saw the constables mentioned by O’Connor walking down the street, with, for all one knows, no specific immediate object in their minds. However, it is very likely that he panicked at the sight of the two policemen. In case they were looking for him, the last thing on earth he would have wanted was to be found by them with the umbrella in his hand. Given the circumstances, he needed to be quickly rid of the umbrella and to find a safe lodging place for it for the night, away from him.

“What simpler, then, than to enter The Camberwell Arms and sidle up to the stool next to Phillimore’s, have a quick one, and imperceptibly substitute his umbrella for Phillimore’s, which is conveniently leaning against Phillimore’s stool? Do you recall O’Connor’s wry reference to the artifacts of his and his friend’s daily apparel - their hats and collars and umbrellas and briefcases - as belonging to an indistinguishable mass of similar artifacts? Benson could count on Phillimore carrying his (Benson’s) umbrella home, thinking it was his (Phillimore’s) own. He could then reclaim it the next morning from Phillimore, without running the risk of the jewel being found anywhere in his own proximity on the evening and night after the theft. And that, precisely, is what our client found Benson doing at his friend Phillimore’s doorstep the following morning.

“Let us now shift our attention to Phillimore himself. It is entirely conceivable that he, like O’Connor, had registered Benson’s entry into The Camberwell Arms the previous evening. I would go further and say that he was perfectly aware of the little umbrella-substitution stunt that Benson pulled when sitting next to him at the public house. Phillimore’s interest, curiosity, and suspicions were by now, we may imagine, thoroughly aroused, but he kept them to himself. Back in the privacy of his quarters, he no doubt subjected the umbrella to thorough investigation, and discovered the Noor Jehan in the hollow of the detachable knob.

“Our friend James Phillimore is, I believe, a man of some considerable pith and enterprise. He resolved he would not turn his back on what chance had laid at his doorstep. He removed the jewel from its receptacle in the umbrella and screwed the false handle back on again. He must have contemplated doing a bolt that night, but Benson would have posted himself all night in front, and a confederate at the rear, of Phillimore’s quarters, just as a measure of abundant caution against the possibility of precisely such an exit by our friend. The two men would have been visible to Phillimore from his front and rear windows. Benson and this confederate were no doubt the two men to whom O’Connor saw his friend speaking at his doorstep yesterday morning.

“Having seen them off and greeted O’Connor, Phillimore knew that it would be only a matter of seconds before Benson discovered the loss of the sapphire and got after him. He had to act, and act with the greatest dispatch. Shouting something to his friend about fetching his umbrella, he entered his house and bolted through the back door, and then out of Alexandria Mansion through a rear exit. I would wager that he ran all the way to the Brixton Road or Camberwell Green Underground Station, clambered on to the earliest departing train, and then lost himself in the teeming millions of the city of London. ‘Bandy’ Benson would have been just that little bit too late to stop Phillimore.”

“Extraordinary, Holmes,” I exclaimed. “But what next? Must we not lay Phillimore by the heels?”

“Ah, Watson,” remarked Holmes. “Ever the man of action! I am wiring the contents of my recent little exposition to a young and quite brilliant man I know in Camberwell, in the hope that it will not prove too late for him to track down Phillimore and recover the sapphire from him. We shall know by tomorrow morning.”

And not another word would he say on the subject all the rest of the day.

Next morning, when I came down to breakfast, I was surprised to see that we already had a visitor, in the form of a diminutive individual dressed in the habit of the Roman clergy, his feet shod in a pair of comically rounded shoes, and carrying a somewhat disgracefully worn and over-sized umbrella in his hand.

“Watson!” cried Sherlock Holmes, “I would like you to meet my young friend from Camberwell, of whom I told you yesterday - the Reverend J. Brown of St. Francis Xavier’s Church. He has news for us!”

“Well, yes, Mr. Holmes,” said the priest, blinking in a somewhat vacant fashion. “I managed to track down young Phillimore without too much difficulty. I had a long talk with him - on this and that, don’t you know. The upshot is that he surrendered the Noor Jehan to me. It was just one of those temporary moral aberrations which the most virtuous of us are not always proof against. But he repents his error with genuine remorse. He is already on a boat, on my suggestion and with my help, to America, where he will start a new and honourable life with a new and honourable name. I suppose you would call it abetting a felony. I would call it helping a sinner.”

“I believe, my dear padre,” said Holmes good-humouredly, “that I would call it both - but Watson and I, I am sure, would heartily approve of abetting a felony in the cause of helping a sinner. We have occasionally cast ourselves in the role of a jury, acting on the principle ‘Vox populi, vox Dei’. What is more, and as I have had occasion to observe in a similar context earlier, it is the season of forgiveness.”

“But how did you track him down?” I asked. “And how did you persuade him to surrender the jewel?”

“Oh,” said the priest vaguely. “One’s little flock, you know. One knows the haunts of both their physical and spiritual geographies. I caught him as an angler catches his fish, but with a line and a hook made of reason and suasion rather than wire and iron. I hope that doesn’t sound awfully conceited to you. It’s the sort of thing we’re trained to do, you know. As to how we do it - well, we have our own little professional secrets, too! By the way, thank you, Mr. Holmes, for undertaking to return the sapphire to its rightful owner. Here it is, before I forget, and walk away with it.”

With that, the priest handed over the sapphire to my friend, and stumped out of our room. But we were destined to see him again, and quite soon at that. He was back in our room the following morning, with a radiant smile upon his amiable face, and the news that he had received a cheque for five thousand pounds from Lord Haileybury, made out in favour of St. Francis Xavier’s Church.

“This is your doing, Mr. Holmes. The benefit to the struggling school and hospital which our little Church has been endeavouring to support will be incalculable. How do I thank you?”

Sherlock Holmes laughed heartily. “By desisting from doing so, Reverend,” he said. “Surely, we are united by the common bond of seeking and finding fulfillment in helping those less fortunate than ourselves. I am no theologian, but I am hard put to it to find a purpose for life which is, at one and the same time, both humbler and grander than this ambition. In some hours from now it will be Christmas Eve, and we should indeed be rather sorry specimens of humanity if we did not allow its spirit to prevail with us. May the peace and goodwill of Christmas be with you, on this and every Christmas henceforth.

“And now, my dear Watson, since duty beckons, I must ask you to be so good as to stretch out a hand and pass me the papers of the Flint-Clerihew case, from the painfully routine and uninspiring rigours of which the sudden disappearance of Mr. James Phillimore has provided us with such a brief but engagingly welcome break.”