Sherlock Holmes (16 page)

I leapt from my chair, crying, “What? This
is...this is just the thing that our Home Secretary, Mr Asquith,
has been seeking to root out! Here, let me read you something I
have read but recently.” I rummaged amongst items in our latest
scrapbook and found the newspaper cutting. Clearing my throat I
began, “The Home Secretary, Mr H. H. Asquith, has ordered an
enquiry into 'massage parlours' regarding their immoral practices.
Rumours of numerous flagrant instances of immorality have been
discovered and brought to his attention. If these terrible
accusations are borne out by the enquiry, then the Home Secretary
will act swiftly and decisively to suppress any and all
establishments implicated.’ You surely cannot be saying that the
Bishop has been a client of such an establishment?”

Holmes was tight-lipped, replying, "Seemingly
so, Watson. The slip of paper with the address that his Lordship
gave me is the very same one as in the newspaper clipping.”  A
sly look now came over Holmes’ face as he asked, “How is the old
war wound in that shoulder of yours, Watson?”

Like a fool, I replied, “Well, it does pain
me sometimes, especially in the winter...” Holmes leaned towards
me, one eyebrow raised, a mischievous look in his eyes.

“No! No! Absolutely not Holmes. I cannot be
seen to enter such an establishment!”

Holmes smiled. “You are an old soldier, a man
of the world and a doctor! Who better to gather the vital
intelligence we need for our country, Watson?”

After a long and heated argument, one I knew
I could never win, I eventually acceded to his request. Holmes knew
how to play on my patriotism and the following morning found me
travelling to Old Burlington Street, in Mayfair. In an attempt at
modesty, I asked the cab driver to stop in Saville Row and I walked
the few yards round the corner.

Located between Saville Row and Bond Street,
the Georgian buildings were of high quality red-brick with fine,
Portland stone lintels. Finding the address and mounting the few
steps, I inspected the brass plaques to the side of the doorway. As
I worked my way down, I discovered that on the first floor were the
premises of a Mrs H. Withers.

I have to say that it was with a good deal of
trepidation that I climbed the stairs, fearing what I might find. A
door with a discreet name plaque was to my left as I reached the
landing. On closer inspection, it read, ‘Mrs H. Withers, Qualified
Masseuse’. Reading this I felt somewhat relieved. Perhaps this was
not to be what I had feared.

I knocked at the door and waited but a few
moments before a maid opened it and ushered me inside. The waiting
room was, I have to say, furnished in a very grand style. It was,
perhaps, even bordering on the pretentious. I was asked to wait a
few moments as 'Madame' was currently indisposed. This gave me a
little time to examine the room more fully. I wandered over to a
framed diploma on the wall. The diploma itself was lavishly gilded
and purported to certify that Mrs Henrietta Withers of Mayfair was
qualified in the technique of Swedish massage. I noticed that it
was signed by a physician whom I knew made a comfortable living
from providing such diplomas and certificates.

A grandly dressed lady of approximately
thirty five years entered the waiting room from a side office to my
left. She introduced herself, saying, “Good morning, sir. I am
Henrietta Withers. How may I be of service?”

I fumbled with my hat and began to describe
my ailments. “Err… Good morning. I have a slight problem with my
shoulder, a little stiffness from an old war wound and I wondered
if a little massage might be of some benefit.”

Mrs Withers smiled and listened
sympathetically. “I think, sir, that you will find our techniques
most beneficial and relaxing. If you will wait just a few minutes,
I am sure we will be able to afford you some relief. What I think
would benefit you would be our pine scented 'Bain de Luxe'.”

I pretended to consider that for a moment or
two before replying, “I was rather hoping for a massage.”

Mrs Withers patted my hand, saying, “Have no
fear, sir, we will no doubt be able to accommodate you in every
way.”

I have to say that, to my mind, this did not
sound as though it was a prescribed treatment. Mrs Withers then led
me into a well-furnished room and closed the door. The room had but
a single large gilt chair, upholstered in red velvet which matched
the drawn curtains. In the centre of the room was a bed covered by
a large, Egyptian cotton towel. To the side, a small table held
what appeared to be variously scented massage oils.

“Now sir, I will run your bath and the nurse
will be with you presently.” Mrs Withers disappeared into an
adjoining bathroom and I could clearly hear the sound of the bath
filling. Clouds of steam rolled across the ceiling into the room
and I could detect the scent of pine oil. “I will leave you for a
few moments and, if you would kindly undress, your bath is at your
disposal.” With that, Mrs Withers left.

I undressed and found that the bathroom was
well appointed having tiled walls and a roll-top bath, set on claw
feet. There were several different bath oils and salts arranged by
the bath and I carefully lowered myself into the water. I have to
say that sitting there in the hot water, to which had been added
the pine oil and, I imagine, a good measure of bath salts, was not
an unpleasant experience.

I was, however, a little surprised when Mrs
Withers entered the bathroom, sat down beside the bath and
proceeded to engage me in conversation. I could not, of course,
reveal myself as a medical man and spoke only of my time in the
military. After some ten minutes or so, she gathered up a large
bath sheet and held it out in front of her, saying, "There you are,
sir. I'm sure your nurse will now be ready to see to your
needs."

There was little I could do but to rise from
the bath and, casting modesty to one side, I allowed her to wrap me
in the towel. She did allow me to dry myself, which was a blessing.
Once dry, she bade me lie on the bed before once again leaving.

Almost immediately, a young lady appeared.
She too was well dressed and appeared to be twenty years of age.
She seemed quite pleasant and spoke in a business-like way with an
accent which had a hint of the East End. "Good morning, sir, I'm
Nurse Susan."

I stammered a 'Good morning' and she
proceeded to completely remove my towel and to give me a full body
massage. Whilst this was in progress, I thought it an ideal
opportunity to gather some information so I engaged Nurse Susan in
conversation. "Tell me, my dear, what hours do you work?"

Nurse Susan had applied some pleasantly
scented oil to my shoulder as I had indicated that this was the
area where I needed the relief! "Well sir, I usually work from ten
in the morning until six or seven in the evening, depending on what
the boss wants of me. Usually it's seven as we are so busy with
gentlemen." She smiled and winked. "A girl has to make a living
somehow."

 I thought to probe further. "Did you
find your nurse's training taxing?"

Nurse Susan thought for a moment. "No, not
really sir. It only took a couple of days to pick up the massage.
It was easy for me really as I'm used to rubbing my dad's back. He
suffers something terrible with it.” Finishing with my shoulder,
she asked, “There you are sir. Is there anywhere else that needs my
attentions?"

Even though I am an old soldier, I almost
blushed at the thought. "No, no thank you, Nurse Susan...but tell
me, are you well paid for this massage?" I enquired.

"I regret not sir. There are four of us girls
here and we do all the work and ‘Madame’ just takes the money."

I dressed and gave her a florin for which, I
could see, she was genuinely grateful. Susan was busy gathering the
towels as I asked, "I expect you meet all kinds of people
here."

"Oh yes, sir. City gents, lawyers and
gentlemen from their clubs. Sometimes we get foreign gentlemen and
even gentlemen of the cloth...although they don't wear their dog
collars, but you can always tell!"

I smiled, said thank you and, on excusing
myself, I returned to the waiting room where Mrs Withers was
standing, smiling expectantly.

"Was everything to your satisfaction, sir?"
she asked, seemingly genuinely interested in the reply.

I nodded. "Yes, thank you. Nurse Susan is
very skilled and most obliging.”

Mrs Withers positively beamed. "That will
just be a guinea then sir, I hope we will have the pleasure of
seeing you again."

I smiled rather weakly, reached into my
pocket and passed her the guinea. With that, I touched my hat and
bade her a Good morning.

Flagging down a passing cab in Saville Row, I
was indeed grateful to return to the safety of Baker Street. Once
there, I recounted my experiences to Holmes who listened politely
whilst stifling moments of great mirth. At the end of my tale
Holmes congratulated me on my devotion to the Crown. Despite his
obvious enjoyment of my discomfort, Holmes did appreciate the
intelligence that I had brought. After luncheon we relaxed with an
afternoon pipe of tobacco. Holmes lit his pipe and sat back with
his eyes closed, drawing steadily upon it. For my part, I picked up
my copy of The British Medical Journal, dated 10th November. I
thumbed through it and almost dropped my pipe when I happened upon
an article entitled, 'The Scandals of Massage' – Report of the
Special Commissioners of the British Medical Journal.

I read but a little before shouting out,
“Good grief, Holmes! I cannot believe it!”

Holmes was immediately wide awake. “What is
it, Watson?” I thrust the journal towards him and watched a thin
smile appear on his face as he read the three columns. “Well, old
man, you appear to have had an almost identical experience. You do
realise that you may be called as a witness before the
committee?”

Holmes saw the look of horror that passed
across my face before he laughed loudly. “Oh, Watson. I should not
tease you so.” He tapped my knee saying, “Now that we have
established the nature of Mrs Withers’ establishment, I think we
need to meet with the Bishop of Sandbury and place our cards on the
table.”

The following day found us travelling towards
Sandbury. We had taken a train from Liverpool Street Station and
were heading west, into Suffolk. I was interested to hear of any
theories Holmes might have regarding the Bishop of Sandbury.

“You know, Holmes, the Bishop's visits to Mrs
Withers may be perfectly innocent. He may indeed have some genuine
medical condition that requires massage.”

I thought I heard a chuckle from Holmes which
he managed to hide discreetly with a cough. “Yes, perhaps so.
However, I am concerned about his continued visits there and also
the international clientele of Mrs Withers. What better way to
legitimately come into contact with someone from, say, the German
embassy?”

I was shocked. “What! Do you think that this
may be the link?”

Holmes’ face was impassive. “Possibly,
Watson... but if so, how is the Bishop obtaining secret papers and
what is his motive for treason?” We travelled on, both deep in our
own thoughts.

Arriving at the large market town of
Sandbury, we hired a trap at the station which took us to the home
of the Bishop. The Bishop's residence was a grand Georgian house,
set back in its own manicured gardens. We walked up the graveled
drive to the pillared portico and rang the bell. We had not
telegrammed ahead to warn him of our visit, but we had enquired of
the Bishop of Westfield when he thought it would be best to call.
After a few moments, a maid came to the door.

Holmes smiled saying, “Good morning. We wish
to speak with the Bishop. I would be grateful if you could give him
my card.” Holmes drew a card from his card case but before he
passed it to the maid, he took a slim silver pencil from his pocket
and wrote two words upon the reverse of the card. I could see that
he had written 'Mrs Withers'.

The maid took the card saying, “Thank you
sir, I will see if the Bishop is available.”

With a smile and a knowing look, Holmes
replied, “I think you will find that he is.”

The door closed and we stood for barely half
a minute before a tall man in clerical attire came to the door. The
door opened and I could see that although ghostly pale, the man was
clearly agitated. This was undoubtedly the Bishop and in some
confusion, asking, “What is this? I don't understand?”

Holmes touched his hat saying, “I'm sure you
do, my Lord Bishop. May we come inside? I think it would be more
discreet to talk of Mrs Withers indoors.”

I did not think that the Bishop could have
looked any paler but now he appeared positively wraith-like. Saying
nothing, the Bishop opened the front door fully and ushered us
inside. We walked in silence, following him to what must have been
his study. The room was very grand, the walls covered with fine
carved paneling in a rich, red Mahogany. A large desk was in one
corner and there was a long wall devoted entirely to bookshelves.
Still unspeaking, we sat in two upright chairs before the desk.

Eventually, the Bishop broke the silence,
asking, “What exactly do you wish to discuss?”

Holmes sat forward a little in his chair.
“Let us be frank, my Lord. You are known to visit the lady’s
establishment quite frequently, despite it having a questionable
reputation.”

The colour had somewhat returned to the face
of the Bishop. “Yes, I do not deny it, although what business this
might be of yours, I cannot imagine...unless you intend to try and
blackmail me. If so, you are unfortunate for I have very little
money.” His voice was starting to take on a combative tone.