So it was that I felt great relief when Mrs Hudson announced that a man – a very insistent man who refused to give his name – was at the door to see Mr Holmes.
"Dark overcoat, hat pulled low across his forehead, and carrying a black walking stick?" Holmes asked without looking up from his chair.
"Why, yes!" exclaimed Mrs Hudson. "How ever did you know?"
Holmes made a deprecating gesture. "He has been standing across the street staring up at our windows for more than an hour. Of course I noticed when I went to light my pipe, and I marked him again when I stood to get a book just a moment ago."
"What else do you know about him?" I asked, lowering my copy of the Morning Post.
"Merely that he is an army colonel recently retired from service in Africa. He is a man of no small means, although without formal title or estates."
"His stance," I mused, "would surely tell you that he a military man, and the wood of his walking stick might well indicate that he has seen service in Africa, as well might his clothes. But how could you deduce his rank when he's not in uniform?"
"The same way I know his name is Colonel Oliver Pendleton-Smythe," Holmes said.
I threw down the Morning Post with a snort of disgust. "Dash it all, you know the fellow!"
"Not true." Holmes nodded toward the newspaper. "You should pay more attention to the matters before you."
I glanced down at the Morning Post, which had fallen open to reveal a line drawing of a man in uniform. missing: colonel oliver pendleton-smythe, said the headline. I stared at the picture, then up at Holmes's face.
"Will you see him, sir?" asked Mrs Hudson.
"Not tonight," said Holmes. "Tell Colonel Pendleton-Smythe – and do use his full name, although he will doubtlessly bluster and deny it – that I will see him at nine o'clock sharp tomorrow morning. Not one second sooner and not one second later. If he asks, tell him I am concluding another important case and cannot be disturbed." He returned his gaze to his book.
"Very good, sir," she said, and shaking her head she closed the door.
The second the latch clicked, Holmes leaped to his feet. Gathering up his coat and hat, he motioned for me to do likewise. "Make haste, Watson," he said. "We must follow the colonel back to his den!"
"Den?" I demanded. I threw on my own coat and accompanied him down the back stairs at breakneck pace. "What do you mean by 'den'?"
"Please!" Holmes put up one hand for silence and eased open the door. Pendleton-Smythe was striding briskly up Baker Street, swinging his walking stick angrily, as though it were a machete. We both slipped out and Holmes closed the door behind us. Then together we crossed the street and proceeded surreptitiously after the colonel. He seemed to be heading toward the river.
"What is this affair about?" I asked as I hurried after Holmes.
"Mr Pendleton-Smythe, had you bothered to read that article in the Morning Post, disappeared two days ago. Foul play was suspected. In the fireplace of his London home police inspectors found several scraps of paper, but little could be made out except one phrase: 'Amateur Mendicant Society.' What do you make of it?"
"A mendicant is a beggar, I believe."
"True!"
"But a whole society of amateur beggars? And for a retired army colonel to be involved in them! It boggles the mind."
"I suspect," said Holmes, "that modern views of beggary have colored your thoughts on this matter. Mendicants have been, at various times and in various cultures, both revered and despised. I suspect this is another name for the Secret Mendicant Society, a network of spies which is – or was, at any rate – quite real and much older than you realize. Its roots stretch back to the Roman Empire and as far abroad as Russia, India, and Egypt."
"You think it still exists, then?" I asked.
"I thought it had died out a generation ago in Europe, but it seems to have surfaced once more. I have heard hints in the last few years, Watson, that lead me to suspect it has become an instrument of evil."
"And Pendleton-Smythe…"
"Another Professor Moriarty, pulling the strings of this society for his own personal gain? Fortunately, no. He is, I believe, a pawn in a much larger game, although only a few squares on the board are yet visible to me. More than that I cannot say until I have questioned Pendleton-Smythe."
"What do these 'amateur mendicants' do? Are they beggars or not?"
"Quickly!" Holmes said, pulling me behind a stopped Hansom cab. "He's turning!"
Pendleton-Smythe had stopped before a small rooming house. As we peered out at him, he paused on the steps to look left then right, but did not see us. He entered the building and shut the door behind himself.
"Interesting," Holmes said. "But it confirms my theory." "That he's a beggar?" I asked, feeling a little annoyed for all the rushing about. "If so, he is surely a well-lodged one."
"Pendleton-Smythe has gone into hiding out of fear for his life. Why else would a man who owns a house choose to rent a room in such shabby surroundings as these?"
"Are we to question him here, then?" I asked.
He paused, lips pursed, deep in thought. After a minute I cleared my throat.
"No, Watson," he said, turning back toward Baker Street. "I think that can wait until tomorrow. I have much to do first."
The next morning Holmes knocked loudly on my door until, bleary eyed, I called, "What is it, Holmes?"
"It's half past six," he said. "Mrs Hudson has the kettle on and breakfast will be ready at seven sharp."
"For heaven's sake," I said, sitting up. "Tell me, why have you awakened me so early?"
"We have an appointment!"
"Appointment?" I asked, still cloudy. I rose and opened the door. "Ah. Pendleton-Smythe and his amateur beggars, I assume. But that's not until nine o'clock sharp – you said so yourself!"
"Exactly!" He had a fevered look to his eye and I knew he'd been up most of the night working on the mysterious colonel's case – although what the actual nature of the case was, I still hadn't a clue. Yet Holmes seemed to place singular importance on it.
When I had shaved and dressed, I emerged to find an excellent repast set out for us by Mrs Hudson. Holmes had barely touched his plate. He was rummaging through stacks of old newspapers strewn across the floor and every flat surface of the room.
"Here it is!" he cried.
"What?" I asked, helping myself to tea, toast, and orange marmalade.
"A pattern is emerging," he said softly. "I believe I have all the pieces now. But how do they fit?"
"Explain it to me," I said.
He held up one hand. "Precisely what I intend to do,Watson. Your clarity of thought may be what I need right now." He cleared his throat. "In 1852, Oliver Pendleton-Smythe and six of his schoolmates were expelled from Eton. They were involved in some scandal, the nature of which I have yet to ascertain official reports tend to be vague on that sort of matter."
"Rightfully so," I murmured.
"Young Pendleton-Smythe found himself shipped off to South Africa after six months of knocking about London, and there his career proved unexceptional. When at last he retired and returned to London, taking charge of his family's house, things seemed to go well for him. He announced his betrothal to Dame Edith Stuart, which you may also remember from the society pages."
"A step up for an army colonel," I commented.
"I suspect she may have been involved in the Eton scandal, but that is mere conjecture at this point," Holmes said. "Yes, to all appearances it is a step up for him. However, two weeks later he broke off the engagement, and the next day – three days ago, in fact – he disappeared."