The Secret Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes (11 page)

‘I think not, Watson,’ Holmes replied. ‘What good would it serve? The man is clearly dying and would not long survive a prison sentence. On some occasions, justice is better served than the law, as I believe is so in this case. The owners will regain their stolen possessions while The Magpie will be punished by losing them. You, too, I am afraid, will also suffer, my dear fellow, in consequence.’

‘How is that?’ I asked.

‘By being deprived of the opportunity to publish an account of the case. Not one word of it must ever appear in print. Certain of The Magpie’s victims might insist on charges being brought against him if they knew his true identity and that I cannot allow.’

I have given him my promise and have kept to it even though, only a month after our visit, a notice appeared in the obituary columns in all the London newspapers announcing the death of Joseph Parker, the millionaire, at his home in Maplestead Hall.

There was, however, a sequel to the story. When his will was published, it was discovered that the whole of his valuable art collection, thereafter known as the Parker collection, was left to the nation, and that large premises had been acquired in Kensington in which it was to be placed on permanent display, free of charge to the general public.

I occasionally visit it when I am in that part of London and have an hour or so free to wander through the galleries of paintings and sculptures. But it is always in the rooms set aside for the cabinets containing the
objets
d’art
that I pause the longest to examine those tiny, exquisite treasures of gold and silver, ivory and crystal, once so beloved of The Magpie for his exclusive delight and now enjoyed by so many.

Seeing them there on public display, I feel that he has at last paid his debt to society.

In my account of the adventure of the Devil’s Foot which took place in 1897, I described how the health of my old friend, Sherlock Holmes, began to suffer from the heavy load of investigations he had undertaken and how his specialist, Dr Moore Agar of Harley Street, recommended that he should lay aside all his cases and seek a complete rest.

I also briefly referred to the dramatic manner in which the eminent doctor was first introduced to Sherlock Holmes, adding that I might one day publish a full account of it.

As so many members of my reading public have pressed for further details of the case, I was tempted to put pen to paper and consequently I have written the following narrative. However, while Holmes, who has read it, has no objections to its publication, apart from his usual criticism that I have placed too much emphasis on description and not enough on facts, Dr Moore Agar has refused to give his permission for professional reasons.

I can understand his prohibition. As a well-known Harley Street specialist, he has his reputation to consider and, while the case casts no stigma on his good name as a highly regarded medical practitioner, the very fact that details concerning himself and, in particular, one of his patients should be made public has caused him to withhold his consent.

Although I have offered to change the names and to make any other alterations to the manuscript that he might see fit, he has remained adamant.

Naturally, I am disappointed. The case has several unusual features and illustrates, I believe, not only Holmes’ great deductive
skills but also his tenacity in following an inquiry through to the end. However, in the face of Dr Moore Agar’s obduracy, I have no other alternative than to place this narrative in my dispatch box, among my other confidential records, in the hope that one day, possibly on the death of the protagonists, the full account of the adventure may be published.

It began one September morning, about eighteen months after Sherlock Holmes had returned to London after an absence of three years, following his extraordinary escape from death at the hands of Moriarty at the Reichenbach Falls. My wife having died in the mean time, I had moved back to my old lodgings in Baker Street.

We had not long finished breakfast when Dr Moore Agar was shown upstairs. He was a tall, portly gentleman with a fine brow and a magnificent head of grey hair; very dignified in his bearing and forthright in his manner.

No sooner had he presented his card than he came straight to the point.

‘It is not my custom, Mr Holmes, to consult private detective agents. However, I wish to retain your services regarding a matter which is causing me considerable unease.’

‘Pray, be seated, sir,’ Holmes said. He had lit his after-breakfast pipe but, on seeing Dr Moore Agar’s expression of disapprobation, he knocked it out into the coal-scuttle before sitting down opposite his client. ‘I take it,’ he continued, ‘that, while you dislike the smell of tobacco, you will have no objection to my old friend and colleague, Dr Watson, being present at the interview?’

‘Not at all,’ Dr Moore Agar replied. ‘And I apologize if my disapproval of your lighting up your pipe made itself apparent. What a man does in his own home is his business entirely. However, as a doctor, I do indeed condemn the habit of smoking as being injurious to the general health. Having said that, I shall now pass on to the business which brought me here.

‘You should understand, Mr Holmes, that I have a private apartment over my consulting rooms in Harley Street. At about ten o’ clock last night, my doorbell was rung and the maid showed a gentleman upstairs. He introduced himself as Josiah
Wetherby but presented no card, his explanation being that he had left home so hurriedly that he had omitted to bring his pocket-book. I should add that he spoke with an American accent and was in a highly agitated state. He requested that I should immediately accompany him to his house in order to treat his daughter who had been taken ill.

‘In view of the lateness of the hour and the fact that I had never seen the man before, I demurred. Could he not, I asked, consult his own doctor? He explained that, as he had not long been in this country, he had not yet acquired a personal physician but, having heard of my reputation, he desired my services.

‘In the end, I reluctantly agreed and accompanied him downstairs to a carriage which was waiting outside my door. No sooner had we seated ourselves inside it than it started off at a brisk pace but to what address I have no idea, Mr Holmes, as the blinds were drawn over the windows. After a journey lasting about an hour, we drew up outside a house in a dimly lit street. I was hastily taken inside and up the stairs to a room on the first floor where a young woman was lying in a bed.

‘I examined her and found that her breathing was slow and irregular and that she was extremely drowsy, symptoms which made me suspect that she was suffering from the effects of a narcotic analgesic.’

‘Cocaine, do you suppose?’ Holmes put in quickly. ‘Did you observe any needle-marks upon her arms?’

Dr Moore Agar gave him a long, shrewd look as if he had deduced from the too-eager question that my old friend’s interest and knowledge derived from personal experience as was indeed unfortunately the case.
*

‘No; in my opinion, it was not cocaine, Mr Holmes. Nor did I perceive any marks on her arms which might have suggested that the narcotic had been injected into the bloodstream. I am more inclined to believe that the drug was morphine
*
and was introduced orally as a solid, perhaps as a powder or in tablet form. Mr Wetherby’s anxiety to explain that the young lady was subject to these attacks of extreme drowsiness tended to confirm my suspicions. There is indeed a medical condition known as narcolepsia
†
but I am convinced that the patient was not suffering from it.

‘As Wetherby refused to allow his daughter to be admitted to hospital, his excuse being that she had an aversion to such places, and as her condition was not serious, I recommended an immediate intake of caffeine in the form of strong, black coffee which would act as a stimulant upon the system and allay the symptoms.

‘I should add, Mr Holmes, that, apart from these circumstances which I have already described, there were two others which caused me further misgivings. The first was the marked differences in any physical resemblance between the young woman and Wetherby who claimed to be her father. The other was the absence of servants about the place, apart from a woman who Wetherby said was his housekeeper and who remained in the room while I examined the patient. It was she who went to make the coffee I had recommended which I administered myself.

‘After I had completed my treatment and my patient was showing signs of recovery, I was again hurried out of the house to the carriage by Wetherby who accompanied me on the return journey to Harley Street where I was left outside my front door.

‘I hardly slept last night, Mr Holmes, I was so uneasy in my mind. The young woman’s drugged state, Wetherby’s furtive manner, the fact that there appeared to be no servants in the house apart from the housekeeper, all suggested that I had been drawn unwittingly into some highly suspicious affair. At first, I contemplated going to the police but I have so little information to offer, no positive identification as to who these people are, no address, not even the faintest idea where the house is situated except it must be somewhere in London.’

‘But you have some evidence,’ Holmes pointed out. ‘You met the man who described himself as Josiah Wetherby. You say he is an American. What is his appearance?’

‘He was a tall, heavily built man; in his fifties, I should estimate, with a full, dark beard turning grey; well-dressed but rather coarse in his manner; hardly a gentleman.’

‘Did you notice any distinguishing features? I myself usually remark on a person’s hands.
*
They are often highly revealing as to their owner’s social standing and employment.’

Dr Moore Agar looked astonished.

‘How perspicacious of you, Mr Holmes! I did indeed take note of his hands. They were scarred and rough-skinned as if he had been used in the past to heavy, manual labour. His face also had a weather-beaten appearance, suggesting he had worked in the open air.’

‘Excellent!’ Holmes cried. ‘You see, we are already making progress! What of the young lady?’

‘She was fair-haired and fine-featured, which made me doubt that Wetherby was her father. As for the housekeeper, I can tell you nothing except that she was a short, stout, middle-aged woman. She did not speak while I was attending the patient so I have no knowledge of her accent or her social background.’

‘And the house?’

‘As I saw so little of its exterior, I cannot describe it in detail
except that it was a large, detached villa set back from the road and that there was a bay window to the right of the front door.’

‘The colour of the door?’

‘Black.’

‘Was there a knocker?’

‘Yes, indeed there was! It was in the shape of a dolphin. Really, Mr Holmes, it is quite astonishing how much detail I absorbed without being aware of it myself. There was, now I recall it, a number on the gate. It was thirty-two.’

‘Can you remember any other details, however unimportant they might seem?’

‘No; except I recollect there was a path of red and black tiles leading up to the front door. I could see nothing of the garden; the street lighting was so poor. However, I happened to notice that a large quantity of fallen leaves had blown up against the step as if from a nearby tree. When I returned home last night and prepared myself for bed, I discovered one of them stuck to the sole of my boot. I have brought it with me in case it should be useful to your inquiries as, trifling though it may be, it is the only material evidence I can offer you.’ Taking out his pocket-book, Dr Moore Agar extracted an envelope from it which he handed to Holmes. ‘I am not familiar with the species of tree from which it came.’

Holmes looked briefly inside the envelope before laying it to one side with the remark, ‘It may indeed be of use, Dr Moore Agar. In my experience, it is often on the most trivial-seeming data that the success of an investigation may depend. Pray continue. If there is nothing more you can tell us about the exterior of the house, let us pass on to its interior.’

‘Apart from the young lady’s bedroom, I saw only the hall, the staircase and the upper landing and these only briefly as Mr Wetherby hurried me up the stairs so quickly that I had little opportunity to look about me. Moreover, the lighting was exceedingly dim. However, I had the impression that the house was rented. There were few personal possessions about the place, not even in the patient’s own room. The general furnishings were old-fashioned and shabby. The blind was drawn
down over the window and there was a chest of drawers standing …’

‘The details of the furniture are of less consequence than the position of the young lady’s room,’ Holmes broke in. ‘Where precisely was it?’

‘At the front of the house and to the left of the door.’

‘Thank you, Dr Moore Agar. That is most useful information. We come now to the journey itself to this unknown address. You say it lasted about an hour. Have you no idea which route you took?’

‘I have already told you, Mr Holmes, that the blinds in the carriage were drawn,’ Dr Moore Agar replied, somewhat testily. ‘I could see nothing.’

‘Quite so. But that should not have prevented you from obtaining some impression of your journey. When you accompanied Mr Wetherby from your house, in which direction was the carriage facing, south towards Cavendish Square or north towards Regent’s Park?’

‘Towards the park.’

‘And when the carriage started off, which way did it turn?’

‘To the left and then soon afterwards to the right.’

‘So you were still proceeding in a northerly direction?’

Dr Moore Agar seemed to grasp the purpose behind Holmes’ questions for his heavy, rather severe features suddenly became quite animated.

‘You are quite right, Mr Holmes! You were recommended to me by a colleague as being the best private inquiry agent in the country and I can now appreciate why you have gained such a reputation. As a matter of fact, my curiosity was aroused by the singularity of Wetherby’s request and I paid particular attention to the first part of the journey. Allow me a few moments to consider.’ There followed a silence in which Dr Moore Agar contemplated his beautifully polished boots, chin in hand, before his brow cleared and he continued, ‘We seemed to travel along a relatively straight route for some distance. For part of the way, it was a main thoroughfare, for I recall seeing lights behind the drawn blinds and was aware of our carriage overtaking other vehicles. We then turned off to the right and began a
long, slow climb up an incline which lasted some considerable distance and which grew steeper as we progressed. Somewhere along it, we turned off to the left.’ Dr Moore Agar’s brief animation passed as he concluded, ‘I am afraid, Mr Holmes, that is all I can recollect. We took several more turnings after that but whether to the left or to the right, I cannot now recall. Mr Wetherby engaged me in conversation and my attention was taken off the journey.’

‘No doubt deliberately,’ Holmes remarked. ‘No matter. I believe I may have enough information.’

‘You mean you may be able to find the house?’

‘I shall certainly do my best to trace it this very day,’ Holmes replied, rising from his chair and holding out his hand. ‘I shall call on you at Harley Street as soon as I have any definite information. I take it
you will have no objections if the official police are called in at some later stage in the investigation should the case prove to be a criminal matter?’

As soon as Dr Moore Agar had given his assent and had departed, with many protestations of gratitude, Holmes settled down in his chair, refilling and relighting his pipe with every sign of satisfaction.

‘Despite Dr Moore Agar’s strictures on the evils of tobacco,’ said he, puffing away contentedly, ‘there is nothing like the smoke from a strong shag to clear one’s mind and stimulate one’s thoughts.’