My friend and I arrived at the restaurant a little before the appointed time of one o’clock. I observed as we entered certain ominous, cryptic symbols that had been drawn in white paint on the pavement just outside the door; these puzzled me until I remembered hearing that the street was soon to be widened, and the building containing our favorite restaurant was going to be rebuilt.
When I commented sadly on this fact to Holmes, he replied, in a rare nostalgic mood: “I suppose it is inevitable, Watson, that eventually all of our old haunts will be transformed. Only yesterday I learned that Newgate Prison is scheduled to be demolished within the year, and replaced by a new Central Criminal Court to be constructed along Old Bailey Street.”
“That will be a welcome change indeed,” I ventured.
“Nothing remains the same. It is even possible, Watson, that neither of us are as young as we once were.”
I could not very well dispute that observation. but neither could I see how the passing of our youth was relevant to my objection. While no one would regret the removal of the infamous pesthole of Newgate, whose replacement was decades–if not a century–overdue, the transformation of our restaurant of choice was quite another matter. A lengthy period of closing would be inevitable, and the re-opening when it came would surely see a new, and very likely less competent, staff on the premises.
Holmes had a favorite table at Simpson’s, from which he was able to watch the busy street, while at the same time any private conversation he might wish to conduct was relatively secure from eavesdroppers. Martin Armstrong soon joined us at that table.
The man who came to introduce himself was about twenty-five years of age, middle-sized, fair-haired and strong-featured, well dressed in the modern style that might be expected of a successful journalist. He greeted us with what must have been only a shadow of his usual breezy American manner, naturally subdued by the recent tragedy. He, like Altamont, was wearing a black armband, and plainly the loss of his fiancée had hit him hard.
In response to my companion’s first questions, Armstrong immediately confirmed his agreement with Mr. Altamont’s assessment of the situation at Norberton House.
“Yes, I’ve already heard all about last night’s séance, gentlemen. Louisa’s mother phoned me this morning, and gave me the whole story. She’s very excited, and seemed upset when I couldn’t share her enthusiasm.
“After that I talked with Rebecca–that’s Louisa’s younger sister. She wasn’t at the house last night, but she knew about the performance and is concerned about her mother.”
As our conversation continued over lunch, it became clear that the young American was perhaps a less determined–or more diplomatic– agnostic than Louisa’s father. but the fiancé was just as strongly convinced that the Kirkaldys–though he had never met them–were scoundrels whose ultimate goal must be the extraction of money from the bereaved family.
Armstrong was also in hearty agreement with Altamont that professional investigative help now seemed to be in order to prevent any fraud, and save the family from further grief.
The young man mentioned that his New York newspaper had in the past carried out some exposé of fraudulent psychic practitioners in America, and offered his co-operation.
This led to a discussion of investigative techniques, and so to the promised exclusive interview with Holmes–and also, a development which rather took me by surprise, to a conversation between myself and the journalist, in which my views were sought for publication. These talks occupied us through most of our luncheon.
Some minutes had passed in congenial discussion, when Holmes interrupted to ask whether Armstrong had recently noticed anyone following him.
Our companion put his notebook down on the table and blinked at him. “Following me? Here in London? Certainly not. Why do you ask?”
“Because there is a rather unsavory fellow out on the pavement, a foreigner I am sure, who appears to be taking a definite though furtive interest in our table.” Holmes nodded slightly toward the plate glass window giving on the street, which was in front of him as he occupied his customary seat. “No, don’t look round just yet. A Russian, I would wager–there is a certain style of dress affected by the political refugees from Moscow and St. Petersburg. He is a small man, wearing a black coat and dark cloth cap, clean-shaven, with something of the Slav about his cheekbones; he has come and gone three times in the past two minutes–no, don’t turn round! He is there again.”
Armstrong indeed looked as if he wanted to turn round, but he did not. “No, I have no idea why anyone would be following me. Of course I have spent almost eight months in Russia, on two separate tours of duty. I can assure you that there, between the revolutionaries and the secret police, and the countless intrigues involving both, one almost expects to be followed.”
Holmes shrugged slightly. “Perhaps the attentions of the gentleman outside are really directed toward myself. That would not be unheard of. but at the moment I know of no reason for anyone of his type to take such an interest in my activities.”
Meanwhile, I had been attempting to observe the object of Holmes’s scrutiny from the corner of my eye, and thought that I had had some success. Without turning my own face directly toward the window, I suggested, in a low voice, going out into the street and collaring the spy.
Holmes shook his head minimally. “No, old fellow, I think not. If the man is still there when we leave–perhaps. but for the time being our admirer has taken himself away again.”
The mysterious observer did not return again, and our luncheon was concluded without incident.
Two
On the appointed day, exactly a week after our first meeting with Ambrose Altamont, Holmes and I in response to our client’s invitation journeyed to his country house. At Victoria Station we boarded a train to the sizable village of Amberley in buckinghamshire.
We arrived in midafternoon. Martin Armstrong, who had come down from London a day earlier, had promised to meet us at the local station with his motorcar. For some reason I had rather expected an American machine–perhaps one of the new Oldsmobiles–but in fact the journalist was driving one of the Mercedes-Simplex models of 1902, a two-seater capable of carrying five or six passengers easily. According to some notes that I jotted down at the time, this vehicle was rated at forty horsepower, and equipped with the patented scroll clutch and four gears forward. Clearly Armstrong had so far recovered from his tragic loss as to take a proud interest in his new automobile and to discuss some of its finer points with us.
Only now, confronted by this evidence of material prosperity, did I fully realize how successful Armstrong must be in his chosen profession. Later I was to discover that he had successfully published one book in America and was at work upon a second.
Norberton House, as Armstrong informed us, was about three miles from the village, set in fine farming and hunting country. The day was still sunny and warm, recent rains had left the countryside fresh and green, and as we rode we enjoyed the sight of summer fields and hedgerows.
As we traveled, we queried our companion as to whether there had been any new developments relating to our business; as far as Armstrong knew, there had not.
Holmes also asked whether Armstrong had observed any new indication that he was being followed, either here or in London; and the American replied in the negative.