The Exploits of Sherlock Holmes (33 page)

fear from Edith von Lammerain."

"Owing to you, my dear fellow," I cried warmly.

"Well, well, Watson. The case was simple enough and the work its own reward."

I glanced at him keenly.

"You look a bit fine-drawn, Holmes," I remarked. "You should get away into the country

for a few days."

"Later on, perhaps. But I cannot leave town until Madame has departed from these

shores, for she is a person of singular address."

"That is a very fine pearl which you are wearing in your cravat. I do not remember seeing

it before."

My friend picked up two letters from the mantelpiece and tossed them across to me. "They

arrived while you were absent on your round," said he.

The one, which bore the address of Carringford House, ran thus:

"To your chivalry, to your courage, a woman owes her all, and such a debt is beyond

reward. Let this pearl, the ancient symbol of Faith, be the token of the life that you have

given back to me. I shall not forget."

The other, which had neither address nor signature, ran:

"We shall meet again, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I shall not forget."

"It is all in the point of view," chuckled Holmes, "and I have yet to
meet the two women

who look from the same angle."

Then, throwing himself into his chair, he reached out lazily for his most obnoxious pipe.

At the present instant one of the most revered names in England is being besmirched by

a blackmailer and only I can stop a disastrous scandal.

FROM "THE HOUND OF THE BASKERVILLES."

11

The Adventure of the Deptford Horror

I have remarked elsewhere that my friend Sherlock Holmes, like all great artists,

lived for his art's sake and, save in the case of the Duke of Holderness, I have seldom known

him claim any substantial reward. However powerful or wealthy the client, he would refuse to

undertake any problem that lacked appeal to his sympathies, while he would devote his

most intense energies to the affairs of some humble person whose case contained those

singular and remarkable qualities which struck a responsive chord in his imagination.

On glancing through my notes for that memorable year '95, I find recorded the details

of a case which may be taken as a typical instance of this disinterested and even altruistic

attitude of mind which placed the rendering of a kindly service above that of material reward. I

refer, of course, to the dreadful affair of the canaries and the soot-marks on the ceiling.

It was early in June that my friend completed his investigations into the sudden death of

Cardinal Tosca, an enquiry which he had undertaken at the special request of the Pope. The

case had demanded the most exacting work on Holmes's part and, as I had feared at the time,

the aftermath had left him in a highly nervous and restless state that caused me some concern

both as his friend and his medical adviser.

One rainy night towards the end of the same month, I persuaded him to dine with me at

Frascatti's and thereafter we had gone on to the Cafe Royal for our coffee and liquors. As I had

hoped, the bustle of the great room, with its red plush seats and stately palms bathed in the

glow of numerous crystal chandeliers, drew him out of his introspective mood and as he

leaned back on our sofa, his fingers playing with the stem of his glass, I noted with satisfaction a

gleam of interest in those keen grey eyes as he studied the somewhat Bohemian clientele that

thronged the tables and alcoves.

I was in the act of replying to some remark when Holmes nodded suddenly in the

direction of the door.

"Lestrade," said he. "What can he be doing here?"

Glancing over my shoulder, I saw the lean, rat-faced figure of the Scotland Yard man

standing in the entrance, his dark eyes roving slowly around the room.

"He may be seeking you," I remarked. "Probably on some urgent case."

"Hardly, Watson. His wet boots show that he has walked. If there was urgency, he would

have taken a cab. But here he comes."

The police agent had caught sight of us and, at Holmes's gesture, he pushed his way

through the throng and drew up a chair to the table.

"Only a routine check," said he, in reply to my friend's query. "But duty's duty, Mr.

Holmes, and I can tell you that I've netted some strange fish before now in these respectable

places. While you are comfortably dreaming up your theories in Baker Street, we poor devils at

Scotland Yard are doing the practical work. No thanks to us from Popes and Kings but a bad

hour on the Superintendent's carpet if we fail."

"Tut," smiled Holmes good-humouredly. "Your superiors must surely hold you in some

esteem since I solved the Ronald Adair murder, the Bruce-Partington theft, the—"

"Quite so, quite so," interrupted Lestrade hurriedly. "And now," he added, with a heavy

wink at me, "I have something for you."

"Ah!"

"Of course, a young woman who starts at shadows may be more in Dr. Watson's line."

"Really, Lestrade," I protested warmly, "I cannot approve your—"

"One moment, Watson. Let us hear the facts."

"Well, Mr. Holmes, they are absurd enough," continued Lestrade, "and I would not waste

your time were it not that I have known you to do a kindness or two before now and your

word of advice may in this instance prevent a young woman from acting foolishly. Now, here's

the position.

"Down Deptford way, along the edge of the river, there are some of the worst slums in

the East End of London but, right in the middle of them, you can still find some fine old

houses which were once the homes of wealthy merchants centuries ago. One of these

tumbledown mansions has been occupied by a family named Wilson for the past hundred

years and more. I understand that they were originally in the China trade and when that

went to the dogs a generation back, they got out in time and remained on in the old home. The

recent household consisted of Horatio Wilson and his wife, with one son and a daughter, and

Horatio's younger brother Theobold who had gone to live with them on his return from foreign

parts.

"Some three years ago, the body of Horatio Wilson was hooked out of the river. He had

been drowned and, as he was known to have been a hard-drinking man, it was generally

accepted that he had missed his step in the fog and fallen into the water. A year later, his

wife, who suffered from a weak heart, died from a heart attack. We know this to be the case,

because the doctor made a very careful examination following the statements of a police-

constable and a night-watchman employed on a Thames barge."

"Statements to what effect?" interposed Holmes.

"Well, there was talk of some noise rising apparently from the old Wilson house. But the

nights are often foggy along Thames-side and the men were probably misled. The constable

described the sound as a dreadful yell that froze the blood in his veins. If I had him in my

division, I'd teach him that such words should never pass the lips of an officer of the law."

"What time was this?"

"Ten o'clock at night, the hour of the old lady's death. It's merely a coincidence, for there is

no doubt that she died of heart."

"Go on."

Lestrade consulted his note-book for a moment. "I've been digging up the facts," he

continued. "On the night of May 17th last, the daughter went to a magic-lantern entertainment

accompanied by a woman servant. On her return, she found her brother, Phineas Wilson, dead

in his arm-chair. He had inherited a bad heart and insomnia from his mother. This time there

were no rumours of shrieks and yells, but owing to the expression on the dead man's face, the

local doctor called in the police-surgeon to assist in the examination. It was heart, all right,

and our man confirmed that this can sometimes cause a distortion of the features that will

convey an impression of stark terror."

"That is perfectly true," I remarked.

"Now, it seems that the daughter Janet has become so overwrought that, according to her

uncle, she proposes to sell up the property and go abroad," went on Lestrade.

"Her feelings are, I suppose, natural. Death has been busy with the Wilson family."

"And what of this uncle? Theobold, I think you said his name was."

"Well, I fancy that you will find him on your doorstep tomorrow morning. He came to me at

the Yard in the hope that the official police could put his niece's fears at rest and persuade

her to take a more reasonable view. As we are engaged on more important affairs than calming

hysterical young women, I advised him to call on you."

"Indeed! Well, it is natural enough that he should resent the unnecessary loss of what is

probably a snug corner."

"There is no resentment, Mr. Holmes. Wilson seems to be genuinely attached to his niece

and concerned only for her future." Lestrade paused, while a grin spread over his foxy

face. "He is not a very worldly person, is Mr. Theobold, and though I've met some queer

trades in my time his beats the band. The man trains canaries."

"It is an established profession."

"Is it?" There was an irritating smugness in Lestrade's manner as he rose to his feet and

reached for his hat. "It is quite evident that you do not suffer from insomnia, Mr. Holmes,"

said he, "or you would know that birds trained by Theobold Wilson are different from other

canaries. Good night, gentlemen."

"What on earth does the fellow mean?" I asked, as the police-agent threaded his way towards

the door.

"Merely that he knows something that we do not," replied Holmes drily. "But, as

conjecture is as profitless as it is misleading to the analytical mind, let us wait until tomorrow.

I can say, however, that I do not propose to waste my time over a matter that appears to

fall more properly within the province of the local vicar."

To my friend's relief, the morning brought no visitor. But when, on my return from an

urgent case to which I had been summoned shortly after lunch, I entered our sitting-room, I

found that our spare chair was occupied by a bespectacled middle-aged man. As he rose to

his feet, I observed that he was of an exceeding thinness and that his face, which was scholarly

and even austere in expression, was seamed with countless wrinkles and of that dull

parchment-yellow that comes from years under a tropic sun.

"Ah, Watson, you have arrived in time," said Holmes. "This is Mr. Theobold Wilson about

whom Lestrade spoke to us last night."

Our visitor wrung my hand warmly. "Your name is, of course, well known to me, Dr.

Watson," he cried. "Indeed, if Mr. Sherlock Holmes will pardon me for saying so, it is largely

thanks to you that we are aware of his genius. As a medical man doubtless well versed in the

handling of nervous cases, your presence should have a most beneficial effect upon my

unhappy niece."

Holmes caught my eye resignedly. "I have promised Mr. Wilson to accompany him to

Deptford,. Watson," said he, "for it would seem that the young lady is determined to leave her

home tomorrow. But I must repeat again, Mr. Wilson, that I fail to see in what way my

presence can affect the matter."

"You are over-modest, Mr. Holmes. When I appealed to the official police, I had hoped

that they might convince Janet that, terrible though our family losses have been in the past

three years, nevertheless they lay in natural causes and that there is no reason why she should

flee from her home. I had the impression," he added, with a chuckle, "that the inspector was

somewhat chagrined at my ready acceptance of his own suggestion that I should invoke your

assistance."

"I shall certainly remember my small debt to Lestrade," replied Holmes drily as he rose to his

feet. "Perhaps, Watson, you would ask Mrs. Hudson to whistle a four-wheeler and Mr.

Wilson can clarify certain points to my mind as we drive to Deptford."

It was one of those grey, brooding summer days when London is at its worst and, as we

rattled over Blackfriars Bridge, I noted that wreaths of mist were rising from the river like the

poisonous vapours of some hot jungle swamp. The more spacious streets of the West End

had given place to the great commercial thoroughfares, resounding with the stamp and clatter

of the dray-horses, and these in turn merged at last into a maze of dingy streets that,

following the curve of the river, grew more and more wretched in their squalor the nearer we

approached to that labyrinth of tidal basins and dark, evil-smelling lanes that were once the

ancient cradle of England's sea trade and of an empire's wealth. I could see that Holmes was

listless and bored to a point of irritation and I did my best, therefore, to engage our companion

in conversation.

"I understand that you are an expert on canaries," I remarked.

Theobold Wilson's eyes, behind their powerful spectacles, lit with the glow of the

enthusiast. "A mere student, sir, but with thirty years of practical research," he cried. "Can

it be that you too—? No? A pity! The study, breeding and training of the
Fringilla Canaria
is