Further Associates of Sherlock Holmes Page 13

  All of this flashed through my mind in just a few seconds, but it was apparently too long for the man inside. He called out, almost impatiently, for me to enter.

  The sitting room of 221B Baker Street was smaller than I had expected. Mr Holmes stood before the front windows, his right hand in the pocket of his dressing gown. He seemed quite tense – not unusual, if he’d just had an argument with the man I met downstairs.

  “I’m sorry,” I began. “You’ve just had another visitor—”

  He seemed as if he willed himself to relax, taking a step forward. His brow was knitted, but he made an effort to straighten his posture, whereas before he had stood as if poised to defend himself. He removed his hand from the dressing-gown pocket, and I was startled to see that it held a gun. He stepped purposefully toward the mantel, where he laid it down, then he reached for a pipe, turned, and dropped into a chair facing me, stretching his long legs out in front of the cold fireplace. I was surprised to see how tired he looked. Careworn as well, as if he had been desperately overworked for too long. And yet, in spite of his obvious weariness, there was a tightness about him, rather like a coiled spring, with all that compressed energy simply waiting to be released.

  “My landlady has apparently stepped out,” he said. “I can’t offer you any tea, but you’re welcome to smoke.” He gestured toward a cane-backed chair beside him. Happy to have made it this far, and hopeful that I’d be able to tell my story and ask for his help, I gratefully sat down, fishing out the makings of a cigarette.

  “I took you for a pipe smoker,” he said, glancing at my pocket, where the shape of my pipe was obvious.

  “I’m out of pipe tobacco.”

  He was packing his own pipe with tobacco from a foreign-looking shoe tacked to the side of the mantel. “I can offer you some shag, although I’m told that my method of keeping it tends to dry it too much for most people to enjoy. But if you’ll notice over there—” and he gestured toward the chair opposite him on the other side of the fireplace, “—there is some Ship’s. It’s not too old, as my friend that uses it is still a regular visitor.”

  “Dr Watson’s, then,” I said. “Is he not here?”

  “The good doctor married a couple of years ago, and now has a practice in Paddington.”

  Replacing the cigarette fixings, I withdrew my old pipe, a friend to me both in port and on my travels, and stepped across for the tobacco. It was a bit stronger than what I normally used, but I felt that I would need the extra boost that it provided to convince Mr Holmes to help me.

  As we both finished the tedious process of getting our pipes lit, I settled back and started to speak. But even as my mouth opened, Mr Holmes said, “Do you enjoy the London to Liverpool run better than plying up and down the Thames?”

  I nearly dropped the pipe. I had seen a little bit of this for myself, during that short time I had been around him in September ’88. And I knew as well from reading about it in the story in Lippincott’s, called The Sign of the Four, that he did this type of thing all the time, the way that an old salt can tell the coming weather from the clouds, or judge the shallowness of the water just from the smell. But I somehow hadn’t expected him to practise it upon me.

  I glanced down. “I can see how you would know I’m a sailor,” I said, “and this is the uniform of the Liverpool, Dublin, and London Steam Packet Company, out of the Albert Dock—”

  “On the May Day, perhaps?”

  I swallowed. “Yes. But how did you know about the Thames?”

  He pulled his legs back and crossed them. “You were born in Southwark, and were raised in a brick house adjacent to the Thames, straight across from the Tower. It’s since been torn down. You have four younger brothers, no sisters, and you are the eldest at twenty years of age. You are left-handed, and walked here today, rather than taking a cab or some form of public transport. You are obviously a sailor, and have been on the Liverpool boats for two years, after spending your life assisting your father on his steamship, the Aurora.” He closed his eyes. “Black, as I recall, with two red streaks. And a black funnel with a white band.”

  “Ah.” I understood now. “You remember me.”

  “Yes,” he nodded. “Sometimes hard facts make deduction unnecessary. You are Jim Smith, son of Mordecai Smith. You were but seventeen when Jonathan Small hired you and your father to wait for him while he retrieved the Agra Treasure, in order to transport it downstream to a waiting ship.”

  I nodded. “After we ran aground that night, you and Dr Watson were quite kind to me. When the police took charge of the Aurora until it could be searched in the morning, and my father and I were pulled onto the police launch, you gave me your coat.”

  He waved it away. “I was sorry to hear about the loss of your mother.”

  I raised my eyebrows in surprise. “How did you know about that?”

  “Your little brother, Jack. He sometimes assists my Irregulars.”

  Ah, Jack. I feared for him. Since my mother’s death, he had been in the care of my other brothers, who in turn were nominally under the protection of my father. However, as his situation had declined, so had their prospects. I was glad that Jack was benefiting from some association with Mr Holmes, however remote.

  “I didn’t know that Jack had found employment.”

  “That says a great deal about your brother’s trustworthiness.” A slight smile danced around his eyes. “I knew when the little scoundrel asked me for a shilling back in ’88, and then another, that he was sharp.” His expression changed, and he added, “I was also sorry to hear of the loss of your house and dock.”

  “Yes. When the building of the Tower Bridge was announced, we had no idea that it would swallow our little piece of property. We were given what was termed ‘adequate compensation’, but of course it wasn’t. I believe that my mother’s broken heart was what led to her early death.”

  “And your father?”

  I sat up straighter. “That’s why I’m here, Mr Holmes. It seems that my father has disappeared, and I need your help to find him.”

  Mr Holmes’s eyes narrowed, and a pained expression crossed his face. “I’m afraid you have come at an inopportune time,” he said. “My previous visitor has been pushed right to the wall, of late, and he has indicated that certain events are being set in motion that cannot be stopped. Things are quickly coming to a head, and all my attention and energy in the next few days will be occupied elsewhere.”

  “Perhaps,” I said earnestly, seeing my chance slipping away before I’d even been able to present my case, “if you’ll only let me tell you the circumstances, you might be able to at least offer a suggestion.”

  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Proceed. Perhaps an armchair investigation might be for the best today.”

  At that moment, I heard the street door open and close. Mr Holmes immediately sat up, glancing toward the gun on the mantel. Then, something in the sounds below must have seemed familiar, because he visibly relaxed. He stood and crossed the room to the door. “Mrs Hudson!” he cried before bounding down the steps. In a moment he returned, stating, “Excuse me. I had to relay some urgent instructions, as well as request some tea. I had observed that you appeared to be thirsty before beginning your tale, and as you’ve taken the Blue Ribbon, I didn’t want to offer you anything stronger.”

  “It’s true. I took the pledge a year ago, after my father’s drinking increased. It had always been something of an issue, but my mother was able to keep it in check. Since her death, he has become much worse. I believe that is what has gotten him into this situation.”

  Returning to his seat, he waved. “Tell me more.”

  I settled back. “After we lost the property, we relocated to a house farther back from the river. My father found a new place to dock the boat, but it wasn’t the same. Part of what gave him any success at all was having our house – and my mother – right there at our own dock to keep an eye on things, to manage the business, and frankly to keep him out of t
rouble. Now that she was at the new house all day, my father was left to his own devices at the dock, and he quickly fell into the bad habits that had called to him throughout his life.

  “As I said, my mother was heartbroken. My father stayed away, drinking instead of earning a living with the Aurora. In the end, he lost it to the creditors, and my mother died, all within the same month. I had stopped working with him long before that. I had wanted to stay and try to help him find some sort of success, and frankly to keep him on the right path, but we simply had to have someone bringing in a steady wage. I was able to get on with Liverpool, Dublin, and London, and at least that kept food upon the table.

  “When my mother died, Father seemed to rally for a while, for the boys. He stopped drinking, and he obtained a job with a merchant of some sort, who needed someone to manage his imports. My father had no experience with that sort of thing, but he did know the docks and the ships, so it seemed like a good fit. He was able to feed my brothers, and I began to worry less about all of them.

  “It didn’t take long, however, to see that something was weighing upon my father’s mind. It took several months before I could get the truth from him, and even then the details were sketchy. The short of it is that his employer was involved in some sort of smuggling, which I suppose is no surprise, and with every week that passed, my father became increasingly worried that he was being snared tighter.

  “There was a sort of feeling growing within the groups that my father had dealings with, an uneasiness that it was all going to come crashing down at some point, taking everyone involved with it. Once, when I was home for a visit, Father broke down, worrying what would happen to the boys if he were arrested, and making me promise to take care of them. I calmed him, but the worry about it kept growing in my head.”

  “Who is your father’s employer?” interrupted Mr Holmes.

  “Mr Parnell. Abel Parnell.”

  His eyes narrowed. “And does young Jack know that any of this was taking place?”

  “I’m certain that he does.”

  “He never told me about any of it.”

  “Apparently his trustworthiness and discretion run both ways.”

  His lips tightened in something like a smile, and at that moment, the landlady knocked on the door, bringing in the tea. Pouring a cup for each of us, she departed. I sipped mine gratefully, while Mr Holmes left his untouched. He waved for me to continue.

  “A week ago, I returned home to find the boys alone. My father had gone on some errand for Mr Parnell several days earlier, and hadn’t returned. Thankfully he had left them enough money, plus what remained of my wage, so that they hadn’t run out of food. We’re fortunate that a widow next door keeps an eye on things since Mother died, but in any case, it was of some concern that my father hadn’t been home. I began to fear that either he had resumed drinking, or that his position with Mr Parnell had led him into deeper danger. I asked around at his usual haunts, but no one had seen him. Then I crossed the river and went to Mr Parnell’s office, off Oxford Street, but I couldn’t get past the clerk, who simply said that he had no idea where my father could be, and that if I didn’t leave, he’d have me thrown out.

  “I waited outside for several hours, knowing that it was unlikely that I’d see my father arrive just when I was on the scene – and I was right. He never appeared. Finally, I had to return to Southwark, making sure that my brothers would be all right for another week while I was off on my run to Liverpool and Dublin.”

  “And when you returned again this morning,” said Mr Holmes, standing, “you found that your father was still missing.” He walked behind me, to some shelves filled with commonplace books that were mounted on the wall beside the fireplace, and pulled down a volume.

  “That’s right,” I said. “I asked at a few of my father’s old watering holes, and around the docks, but it felt as if I was wasting my time again. Finally, knowing it would be pointless to return to Mr Parnell’s office, I recalled meeting you and decided to see if you could offer any advice.” I paused, and then said, with a lowered voice, “I’m afraid that I cannot pay what you usually receive.”

  He glanced up from the book with surprise. Then, with an impatient shake of his head, he said, “My fees are fixed, except when I remit them entirely.” Closing the book with a snap, he returned it to the shelf. “As I will in this case.” He started to turn away, and then reached up and touched the book for a moment, looking from there to several other items around the room, almost with sadness.

  “I have encountered Mr Parnell before,” he continued. “He is an agent of the very man that you met upon your arrival.” I raised my eyebrows, and he correctly read my thoughts. “It is not so much of a coincidence as you might think. The man that was leaving today sits like a spider in the midst of a web that stretches across London, with a thousand dirty threads in every direction. These days, it would be almost impossible to meet a criminal who isn’t connected with the Professor, my earlier visitor, in some way or another. It really is becoming intolerable.”

  “Then why haven’t you done something?” I blurted out.

  His lips tightened, and he turned toward the closed door behind him. Shrugging out of his dressing gown as he went, he answered, “I have.”

  He opened the door, revealing a small bedroom, barely lit by the tall window that looked out toward the rear of the house. I remained seated as he began pulling on a coat. I was afraid to speak, scarcely hoping that something I’d said had interested him and that he was preparing to help me.

  He returned and crossed the room, and I stood. At the door to the landing he pulled on an overcoat and asked, “What did the Professor say to you downstairs?”

  “He warned me. He said I must be one of those urchins that you use, and that it would be well for me to get away from you.”

  His eyes narrowed. “He must have seen your resemblance to Jack. I’ll need to get word to him and the others to stay out of sight for a while.”

  He held open the door and gestured for me to precede him. “Let us go see Mr Parnell.”

  Downstairs, he paused for a moment before opening the door. “I really do have some scruples about taking you with me. Just now, I’m under a rather dangerous cloud, you see.”

  I swallowed. “Mr Holmes, I had no real hope of any help today whatsoever. I’m very grateful, and I’ll be happy to accompany you.”

  He nodded and opened the door. “Then we shall attempt to avoid the danger.”

  Outside, he paused, looking up and down the street, as if expecting something that didn’t seem to be there. Right in front of us was a hansom cab. Having never ridden in one, it didn’t occur to me to think that I would now, and it turned out that I was correct. As if assuming that I’d meant to walk toward it, Mr Holmes put a hand on my arm. “There are times when an urgency requires that one take the first cab that presents itself. Then, at other times, one should not take the first, or even the second. Today, if you have no objections, I think that we shall eschew horse-drawn transportation altogether – it has the disadvantage of trapping one in a box at the mercy of one’s opponent, especially if the driver deviates from your chosen route. What do you say, Mr Smith, to a ramble through London?”

  I agreed, a little puzzled, and we started down Baker Street. My eyes met those of the cabman, and for a moment, it seemed as if his narrowed in anger. Then, I was racing to keep up with the much longer legs of my companion.

  Mr Holmes didn’t cut a straight path. He led me down George Street and Thayer Street, and on into narrower William Street. He asked me a few more questions about my father, but he seemed to already know the answers, and while he listened intently, his attention was mostly turned toward keeping an eye on our surroundings. He looked toward doorways and passages and into mews, and upwards as well, towards windows and rooftops.

  We were on the crossing at the corner that leads from Bentinck Street on to Welbeck Street when Mr Holmes threw out his arm and pulled me back. It was a two-horse v
an, driven crazily by a man who was whipping his horses mercilessly. He took the corner into Bentinck Street on two wheels before racing down the short distance to Marylebone Lane. He turned there again and vanished.

  I took another step back on my own and almost stumbled. Mr Holmes, still gripping my arm, steadied me, and said with a grim look on his face, “The Professor didn’t waste any time. We’ll have to be more careful.”

  I nodded. I had thought we were already being careful. But then again, we hadn’t been killed, and that was something.

  Keeping away from the edge of the pavement, we soon crossed Wigmore and Henrietta Place, and then made the short turn into Vere Street, which would lead us to Oxford Street. Somehow I felt that we would be safer on that busy thoroughfare than we had been so far.

  I was soon convinced of a couple of things – one, that I probably should have taken Mr Holmes up on his offer to remove myself from this situation, and two, that I was right to want to get to Oxford Street as soon as possible. We had barely started down Vere Street when Mr Holmes gave a cry, pushing me forward at the same time. Thank goodness he had been looking up. I heard rather than saw the impact on the pavement behind me. I stumbled but kept my feet and, turning quickly, saw a shattered brick lying between us. Naturally, I looked up, just in time to see an angry rat-like face staring down at us for only an instant before it pulled back and vanished.

  A constable was just down the street at the Oxford end, and Mr Holmes called him over. Explaining in general terms that someone had intentionally dropped the brick from the rooftop above, thus endangering passers-by, he convinced the somewhat sceptical officer to investigate. A knock on the door and an explanation from the policeman to the landlady quickly gained us access to the roof. Mr Holmes crawled about, looking here and there, while the policeman pointed several times to a pile of building materials nearby, explaining with some pride his theory that the wind – of which there was none whatsoever that morning – had blown one of the bricks over the side. Neither Mr Holmes nor I mentioned that we had seen the man who dropped the missile, and the policeman became frustrated when his theory wasn’t praised, or in fact even acknowledged. Finally, the detective straightened, thanked the constable, and led us back to the street.