I had expected that my friend would follow the watchers to their lair and return fairly shortly, to report that they were denizens of one of those East End boarding houses which were, at that time, often full of refugees from and plotters against the Tzar’s regime. Rather to my surprise, Holmes was gone for much of the day.
As we awaited his return, the lady and I took luncheon together, during which she regaled me with many amusing and extraordinary anecdotes culled from her years of travel in the East and in Australia, America and Canada. As I expected, from reading her books some years earlier, she was an
accomplished narrator, with an observant eye, a good memory and a strong sense of humour, so that our meal and much of the afternoon passed very pleasantly.
So it was that it was tea time before I began seriously to wonder at my friend’s absence. Mrs Fordeland expressed concern that the persons he had followed might have seen through his disguise and waylaid him. I was able to assure her that Sherlock Holmes disguised was totally unrecognizable and that he was well provided against harm by the extreme quickness of his wits, his training in bare-knuckle fighting and his ability in swordplay and baritsu. I diverted her fears with a number of anecdotes of occasions when Holmes’ disguises had proved impenetrable even to me.
We were taking our tea in the hotel’s conservatory when a waiter approached and told Mrs Fordeland that there was a clergyman in the lobby asking for her and saying that he had a message for her.
‘Be careful!’ I warned her. ‘This may be some ruse of the watchers.’
She nodded, but bade the waiter show the man in to us. I eased my chair a little away from the table and grasped my Adams revolver, which I had not neglected to slip into my coat pocket that morning.
The waiter returned accompanied by a figure who seemed, at first sight, completely harmless. The clergyman was an elderly, stooped individual, in shabby black and carrying a bundle of tracts. He peered about him through thick, half-round spectacles and introduced himself in a reedy, elderly voice as a missionary in the East End.
Despite my warning, Mrs Fordeland ushered our visitor into a chair and pressed upon him a cup of tea and a selection of cakes. Tea he accepted, but he insisted that he must follow the abstemious example of his Master and take only bread and butter.
I waited in growing impatience as he supped his tea and munched steadily at two slices of bread and butter. When he had done, he gazed about him again, as though surprised to find himself there, then took out a slim black notebook from an inside pocket.
‘I have a message,’ he said, ‘which I have been asked to deliver to a Mrs Fordeland at this hotel.’
‘A message?’ I said. ‘From whom?’
‘You must not rush me, Doctor,’ he said. ‘I am an old man and the memory is not as useful now as once it was. I have been today in the vicinity of Commercial Road, attempting, as always, to bring a little light into the harsh world of the foreigners there. In the course of my efforts I was approached by a young man who seemed to be some kind of salesman. He made a generous contribution to my mission on the understanding that I would deliver his message when I returned to town.’
He raised his notebook as though to peer at the pages, but his eyes dilated and he stared past us at the conservatory windows beyond.
‘Great Heavens!’ he exclaimed.
Mrs Fordeland and I swung our heads in unison. There was nothing untoward that I could see beyond the panes. The hotel’s small garden lay in the sunlight and nobody was in sight.
When we turned back the lined features and spectacles of the old cleric had disappeared. Above the shabby black clothing were the familiar features of Sherlock Holmes. Mrs Fordeland stared for a moment, then emitted a loud laugh. I shook my head slowly.
‘Holmes,’ I said. ‘Why do I never realize that it is you?’
He laughed. ‘I always think it a pity that many of my best dramatic creations are wasted upon an audience which will never know that it was witnessing a performance. It is some small consolation to have your applause, Watson. Now, Mrs Fordeland, if I may rescind my former refusal of cake and take another cup of tea, I shall be able to report to you the result of today’s enquiries.’
Once fully refreshed he leaned back in his chair.
‘When you both arrived here this morning,’ he began, ‘Major Kyriloff left his aide to watch the hotel and took himself off. The other two watchers seemed to be satisfied that they need not watch further and their cab drove off, followed at a reasonable distance by my own conveyance.
‘I had expected,’ he went on, ‘that they would make for an Underground station and travel to the East End, or perhaps take their cab all the way. I admit to being a little surprised when they took their cab to Victoria and boarded a train to Sussex. I followed, of course, and found that their destination was the village of Burriwell, under the Downs.’
He paused and sipped his tea. ‘It is a dangerous practice to believe that, because the majority of a class of people behave in a particular fashion, that all persons of that type will so behave. It is misleading to convince oneself that all Frenchmen are romantics, all Jews financially acute, all Irishmen aggressive or all Scots careful with their money, and I fear that I had fallen into that error. I had identified the bearded gentleman and his companion as Russian refugees, and so unconsciously expected them to be located in the eastern slums among their compatriots.’
‘I was therefore,’ he continued, ‘the more surprised to find that, not only are our mysterious pair living in a pretty village by the Sussex Downs, they are dwelling, not in some rented cottage, but as house guests of a wealthy maiden lady.’
Both Mrs Fordeland and I were surprised by Holmes’ information, but his next remark was an even greater surprise to me.
‘Tell me, Mrs Fordeland,’ he said, ‘does the name Agatha Wortley-Swan mean anything to you?’
Our client looked completely perplexed. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I am quite sure that I have never heard that name before.’
‘I have,’ I said.
Holmes turned. ‘You know the lady’s name, Watson? In what connection, pray?’
‘When I was finishing my degree in London, some twenty years ago or more, and when I was at Netley for the Army medical certificate, Agatha Wortley-Swan was a well-known society beauty. Her picture appeared in the Graphic and the Illustrated London more than once, and I believe some of the fellows at Netley actually knew the lady.’
‘Excellent!’ exclaimed Holmes, ‘but she has never married, and my researches in the village and my gossipy enquiries in the village inn have referred me only to some unspecified “tragedy” which left the lady single. Do you recall that, Watson?’
I cast my memory back two decades. ‘She was engaged,’ I remembered, ‘because all the fellows at Netley were heartbroken, but it went wrong. Her fiance died, I believe, in peculiar circumstances. I think, perhaps, that he was murdered.’
‘Murdered!’ repeated Holmes, and his eyes lit with that peculiar sparkle which appeared when his mind was fully and enthusiastically engaged. ‘Do you, by any chance, remember the luckless fiance’s name?’
I sifted my memory again. ‘I think,’ I said, ‘that he was a Captain Parkes of the Royal West Mallows.’
Holmes snapped his fingers. ‘Of course!’ he exclaimed.
He rose abruptly. ‘We must take our leave, Mrs Fordeland. My device today has given me more data and, with the help of Watson’s memory for a pretty face, I hope soon to have yet more. Rest assured that we are on the way to identifying this mysterious pair and finding out the nature of their interest in you. In the meantime, do not forget to keep me aware of any change in the patterns of their behaviour.’