Morse's Greatest Mystery and Other Stories (15 page)

“Oh yes! I thought, though, it would be wiser for us to stop seeing each other for a while. But he did write—every single day. And always, in the mornings, I used to receive the letters myself so that no one else should know.”

“Were you engaged to this gentleman?”

“Yes! For there was no problem about his supporting me. He was a cashier in a firm in Leadenhall Street—”

“Ah! Which office was that?” I interposed, for that particular area is known to me well, and I hoped that I might perhaps be of some assistance in the current investigation. Yet the look on Holmes’s face was one of some annoyance, and I sank further into my chair as the interview progressed.

“I never did know exactly which firm it was,” admitted Miss van Allen.

“But where did he live?” persisted Holmes.

“He told me that he usually slept in a flat on the firm’s premises.”

“You must yourself have written to this man, to whom you had agreed to become engaged?”

She nodded. “To the Leadenhall Street Post Office, where I left my letters
poste restante
. Horatio—Mr. Darvill—said that if I wrote to him at his work address, he’d
never get to see my envelopes first, and the young clerks there would be sure to tease him about things.”

It was at this point that I was suddenly conscious of certain stertorous noises from Mycroft’s corner—a wholly reprehensible lapse into poor manners, as it appeared to me.

“What else can you tell me about Mr. Darvill?” asked Holmes quickly.

“He was very shy. He always preferred to walk out with me in the evening than in the daylight. ‘Retiring,’ perhaps is the best word to describe him—even his voice. He’d had the quinsy as a young man, and was still having treatment for it. But the disability had left him with a weak larynx, and a sort of whispering fashion of speaking. His eyesight, too, was rather feeble—just as mine is—and he always wore tinted spectacles to protect his eyes against the glare of any bright light.”

Holmes nodded his understanding; and I began to sense a note of suppressed excitement in his voice.

“What next?”

“He called at the house the very evening on which Mr. Wyndham next departed for France, and he proposed that we should marry before my step-father returned. He was convinced that this would be our only chance; and he was so dreadfully in earnest that he made me swear, with my hand upon both Testaments, that whatever happened I would always be true and faithful to him.”

“Your mother was aware of what was taking place?”

“Oh,
yes
. And she approved so much. In a strange way, she was even fonder of my fiancé than I was myself, and she agreed that our only chance was to arrange a secret marriage.”

“The wedding was to be in church?”

“Last Friday, at St. Saviour’s, near King’s Cross; and we were to go on to a wedding-breakfast afterwards at the St. Paneras Hotel. Horatio called a hansom for us, and put Mother and me into it before stepping himself into a four-wheeler which happened to be in the street. Mother and I got to St. Saviour’s first—it was only a few minutes’ distance away. But when the four-wheeler drove up and we waited for him to step out—he never did, Mr. Holmes! And when the cabman got down from the box and looked inside the carriage—
it was empty.”

“You have neither seen nor heard of Mr. Darvill since?”

“Nothing,” she whispered.

“You had planned a honeymoon, I suppose?”

“We had planned,” said Miss van Allen, biting her lip and scarce managing her reply, ‘a fortnight’s stay at the Royal Gleneagles in Inverness, and we were to have caught the lunchtime express from King’s Cross.”

“It seems to me,” said Holmes, with some feeling, “that you have been most shamefully treated, dear lady.”

But Miss van Allen would hear nothing against her loved one, and protested spiritedly: “Oh, no, sir! He was far too good and kind to treat me so.”

“Your own opinion, then,” said Holmes, “is that some unforeseen accident or catastrophe has occurred?”

She nodded her agreement. “And I think he must have had some premonition that very morning of possible danger, because he begged me then, once again, to remain true to him—whatever happened.”

“You have no idea what that danger may have been?”

“None.”

“How did your mother take this sudden disappearance?”

“She was naturally awfully worried at first. But then
she became more and more angry; and she made me promise never to speak to her of the matter again.”

“And your step-father?”

“He seemed—it was strange, really—rather more sympathetic than Mother. At least he was willing to discuss it.”

“And what was his opinion?”

“He agreed that some accident must have happened. As he said, Mr. Darvill could have no possible interest in bringing me to the very doors of St. Saviour’s—and then in deserting me there. If he had borrowed money—or if some of my money had already been settled on him—then there might have been some reason behind such a cruel action. But he was absolutely independent about money, and he would never even look at a sixpence of mine if we went on a visit. Oh, Mr. Holmes! It is driving me half-mad to think of—” But the rest of the sentence was lost as the young lady sobbed quietly into her handkerchief.

When she had recovered her composure, Holmes rose from his chair, promising that he would consider the baffling facts she had put before him. “But if I could offer you one piece of advice,” he added, as he held the lady’s coat for her, “it is that you allow Mr. Horatio Darvill to vanish as completely from your memory as he vanished from his wedding-carriage.”

“Then you think that I shall not see him again?”

“I fear not. But please leave things in my hands. Now! I wish you to send me a most accurate physical description of Mr. Darvill, as well as any of his letters which you feel you can spare.”

“We can at least expedite things a little in those two respects,” replied she in business-like fashion, “for I advertised for him in last Monday’s
Chronicle.”
And promptly
reaching into her handbag, she produced a newspaper cutting which she gave to Holmes, together with some other sheets. “And here, too, are four of his letters which I happen to have with me. Will they be sufficient?”

Holmes looked quickly at the letters, and nodded. “You say you never had Mr. Darvill’s address?”

“Never.”

“Your step-father’s place of business, please?”

“He travels for Cook and Marchant, the great Burgundy importers, of Fenchurch Street.”

“Thank you.”

After she had left Holmes sat brooding for several minutes, his fingertips still pressed together. “An interesting case,” he observed finally. “Did you not find it so, Watson?”

“You appeared to read a good deal which was quite invisible to me,” I confessed.

“Not invisible, Watson. Rather, let us say—unnoticed. And that in spite’ of my repeated attempts to impress upon you the importance of sleeves, of thumb-nails, of boot-laces, and the rest. Now, tell me, what did you immediately gather from the young woman’s appearance? Describe it to me.”

Conscious of Mycroft’s presence, I sought to recall my closest impressions of our recent visitor.

“Well, she had, beneath her fur, a dress of rich brown, somewhat darker than the coffee colour, with a little black plush at the neck and at the sleeves—you mentioned sleeves, Holmes? Her gloves were dove-grey in colour, and were worn through at the right forefinger. Her black boots, I was not able, from where I sat, to observe in any detail, yet I would suggest that she takes either the size four-and-a-half or five. She wore small
pendant earrings, almost certainly of imitation gold, and the small handkerchief into which the poor lady sobbed so charmingly had a neat darn in the monogrammed corner. In general, she had the air of a reasonably well-to-do young woman who has not quite escaped from the slightly vulgar inheritance of a father who was—let us be honest about it, Holmes!—a plumber.”

A snort from the chair beside which Holmes had so casually thrown Miss van Allen’s fur coat served to remind us that the recumbent Mycroft had now reawakened, and that perhaps my own description had, in some respect, occasioned his disapproval. But he made no spoken comment, and soon resumed his former posture.

“ ’Pon my word, Watson,” said Holmes, “you are coming along splendidly—is he not, Mycroft? It is true, of course, that your description misses almost everything of real importance. But the method! You have hit upon the
method
, Watson. Let us take, for example, the plush you mention on the sleeves. Now, plush is a most wonderfully helpful material for showing traces; and the double line above the wrist, where the type-writist presses against the table, was beautifully defined. As for the short-sightedness, that was mere child’s play. The dent-marks of a
pince-nez
at either side of the lady’s nostrils—you did not observe it? Elementary, my dear Watson! And then the boots. You really
must
practise the art of being positioned where all the evidence is clearly visible. If you wish to observe nothing at all, like brother Mycroft, then you will seek out the furthest comer of a room where even the vaguest examination of the client will be obscured by the furniture, by a fur coat, by whatever. But reverting to the lady’s boots, I observed that although they were very like each other in colour and
style, they were in fact
odd
boots; the one on the right foot having a slightly decorated toe-cap, and the one on the left being of a comparatively plain design. Furthermore, the right one was fastened only at the three lower buttons out of the five; the left one only at the first, third, and fifth. Now the deduction we may reasonably draw from such evidence is that the young lady left home in an unconscionable hurry. You agree?”

“Amazing, Holmes!”

“As for the glove worn at the forefinger—”

“You would be better advised,” suddenly interposed the deeper voice of Mycroft, “to concentrate upon the missing person.”

May it have been a flash of annoyance that showed itself in Holmes’s eyes? If so, it was gone immediately. “You are quite right, Mycroft! Come now, Watson, read to us the paragraph from
The Chronicle.”

I held the printed slip to the light and began: “Missing on the 14th November 188-. A gentleman named Mr. Horatio Darvill: about 5 feet 8 inches in height; fairly firmly built; sallow complexion; black hair, just a little bald in the centre; bushy black side-whiskers and moustache; tinted spectacles; slight infirmity of speech. When last seen, was dressed in—”

“But I think,” interrupted Holmes, “he may by now have changed his wedding vestments, Watson?”

“Oh, certainly, Holmes.”

There being nothing, it seemed, of further value in the newspaper description, Holmes turned his attention to the letters, passing them to me after studying them himself with minute concentration.

“Well?” he asked.

Apart from the fact that the letters had been typed, I
could find in them nothing of interest, and I laid them down on the coffee-table in front of the somnolent Mycroft.

“Well?” persisted Holmes.

“I assume you refer to the fact that the letters are type-written.”

“Already you are neglecting your newly acquired knowledge of the
method
, Watson. Quite apart from the one you mention, there are three further points of immediate interest and importance. First, the letters are very short; second, apart from the vague ‘Leadenhall Street’ superscription, there is no precise address stated at any point; third, it is not only the body of the letter which has been typed, but the signature, too. Observe here, Watson—and here!—that neat little ‘Horatio Darvill’ typed at the bottom of each of our four exhibits. And it will not have escaped you, I think, how conclusive that last point might be?”

“Conclusive, Holmes? In what way?”

“My dear fellow, is it possible for you not to see how strongly it bears upon our present investigations?”

“Homo circumbendibus
—that’s what you are, Sherlock!” (It was Mycroft once more.) “Do you not appreciate that your client would prefer some positive action to any further proofs of your cerebral superiority?”

It is pleasing to report here that this attempt of Mycroft to provoke the most distinguished criminologist of the century proved largely ineffectual, and Holmes permitted himself a fraternal smile as his brother slowly bestirred his frame.

“You are right, Mycroft,” he rejoined lightly. “And I shall immediately compose two letters: one to Messrs Cook and Marchant; the other to Mr. Wyndham, asking
that gentleman to meet us here at six o’clock tomorrow evening.”

Already I was aware of the easy and confident demeanour with which Holmes was tackling the singular mystery which confronted us all. But for the moment my attention was diverted by a small but most curious incident.

“It is just as well, Sherlock,” said Mycroft (who appeared now to be almost fully awakened), “that you do not propose to write three letters.”

Seldom (let me admit it) have I seen my friend so perplexed: “A
third
letter?”

“Indeed. But such a letter could have no certain destination, since it apparently slipped your memory to ask the young lady her present address, and the letters she entrusted to you appear, as I survey them, to be lacking their outer envelopes.”

Momentarily Holmes looked less than amused by this lighthearted intervention. “You are more observant today than I thought, Mycroft, for the evidence of eye and ear had led me to entertain the suspicion that you were sleeping soundly during my recent conversation with Miss van Allen. But as regards her address, you are right.” And even as he spoke, I noted the twinkle of mischievous intelligence in his eyes. “Yet it would not be too difficult perhaps to
deduce
the young lady’s address, Mycroft? On such a foul day as this it is dangerous and ill-advised for a lady to travel the streets if she has a perfectly acceptable and comfortable alternative such as the Underground; and since it was precisely 3:14
P.M.
when Miss van Allen appeared beneath my window, I would hazard the guess that she had caught the Metropolitan-line train which passes through Baker Street at 3:12
P.M.
on its journey to Hammersmith. We may consider two further clues, also. The lady’s boots, ill-assorted as they were, bore little evidence of the mud and mire of our London streets; and we may infer from this that her own home is perhaps as adjacent to an Underground station as is our own. More significant, however, is the fact, as we all observed, that Miss van Allen wore a dress of linen—a fabric which, though it is long-lasting and pleasing to wear, is one which has the disadvantage of creasing most easily. Now the skirt of the dress had been most recently ironed, and the slight creases in it must have resulted from her journey—to see me. And—I put this forward as conjecture, Mycroft—probably no more than three or four stops on the Underground had been involved. If we remember, too, the ‘few minutes’ her wedding-carriage took from her home to St. Saviour’s, I think, perhaps … perhaps …” Holmes drew a street-map towards him, and surveyed his chosen area with his magnification-glass.