The Sensible Necktie and Other Stories of Sherlock Holmes (19 page)

“Where is this Carmichael fellow now?”

“He has regained some of his former reputation,” said Mycroft, “and now holds quite a prominent position within the Conservative Party.”

“I see. And the prospect of a Furniss junior rising to eminence may have caused him to fear for his future.”

“But I cannot see how he could have orchestrated this!” complained Furniss. “Least of all I cannot grasp how they have proof that I was in a completely different place than where I was.”

Holmes lowered his face and gazed at Furniss through the tangle of his brow. “Mr Furniss, if this situation becomes more delicate than it already is, just how prepared are you to publicly admit your visits to Rotherhithe to avert scandal?”

“If every Englishman saw it the way I did there would be no problem with that. But I know that a right honourable gentleman eating meat pies in a pub in Rotherhithe does not look good. It is slightly better, however, than a politician in a low house in Wapping. But I beg you, Mr Holmes, to do what you can before we consider this possibility!”

“You have my assurance of that, Mr Furniss.”

Mycroft gestured contentedly. “Then you take the case? Splendid! What do you propose to do first?”

Holmes sipped his wine in thought.

“A natural line of inquiry would be to find out who tipped the police off about the brothel in Wapping. Superintendent Croft is an old friend. But before we leave, could you please tell me, Mr Furniss, as precisely as possible at what time you saw that your monocle was missing?”

Furniss took the question seriously, and thought for a long while. “A quarter to seven. Yes, I remember the bells of St Mary's striking three quarters. That was what made me look up from my drink.”

“Thank you, Mr Furniss. And now, gentlemen, I bid you good day.”

We took leave of our lunch party, and Holmes promised to report on his progress to Furniss before the end of the day.

“What are your impressions of Gregory Furniss?” I asked Holmes as we were in a hansom rattling in the direction of Wapping.

“An endearing fellow, don't you think?”

“He is a snob!”

“A simple country boy trying to keep up with the smart set of the metropolis but displaying his exclusion to those who can detect the details. He tries just a bit too hard, does he not? It reveals his humanity. Not to mention that speech impediment.”

“His speech was perfect.”

“Exactly. But most of all I see a fellow flâneur in the impulse that drives him to visit Rotherhithe. Have you been, Watson? It is a most refreshing place when you grow tired of delicate maidens and dignified gents. I go there now and then, but unlike our Mr Furniss I take the precaution of assuming a disguise. All this of course springs from the carelessness of moving about in such an area dressed as a Mayfair dandy.”

“You think his presence aroused provocation?”

“I think that, by discovering these excursions, his enemies found a weak spot that they considered a suitable basis for blackmail.”

“Then why not simply obtain some evidence of his presence in Rotherhithe and blackmail him with that?”

“It is not aggravating enough. He can easily explain it away by claiming to do charity work or some such business. But it was a weak spot in that it brought him close to a dark and dangerous world. It would have been easy to snatch away something of his and plant it in a nearby house of revelry. The choice of the monocle was inspired, and cannot have been accidental. They knew beforehand that it was unique and would be seen as unquestionable proof of his presence. They probably chose the closest such house to the tavern.”

“The only problem being that it was on the other side of the river.”

“Yes, and this does not seem to have constituted an obstacle to them, which I would consider the most promising starting point for our enquiry. But Wapping police station is coming up on our right side. Come, Watson! Let us hope the superintendent is in.”

Superintendent Thomas Croft was a long and thin man, unusual for a uniformed policeman, and he was glad to see Holmes, with whom he seemed to have cooperated before the commencement of my acquaintance with him. He showed us into a cramped and unadorned office room, where he produced a wooden box from a shelf upon which several similar containers lay. Opening it upon a desk, he explained it as holding the items that had been confiscated at the raid. Among the numerous objects were articles of clothing, tiepins and silk handkerchiefs which gave a picture of the class of clients at that place of debauchery. In the bottom lay the monocle, which, in the same way as the other smaller items, had been placed in a brown envelope.

“Where exactly was it found?” asked Holmes.

“In one of the back rooms, on top of a bed,” replied Croft.

“Had the bed been slept in?”

I could not help but blush at Holmes' indelicate query, but the superintendent retained his composure.

“No. It was covered by a large bed throw.”

“I see.”

Holmes studied the eyeglass closely, first scrutinising the expertly cut octagonal glass itself, then holding up the piece of cord that was tied to a little ring in its corner. “The monocle does not show any signs of damage, which is most noteworthy. The only blemish is halfway down the cord, where it is frayed slightly. This piece of evidence has been handled with the utmost care. Tell me, superintendent, how did this raid come about? Did you receive an anonymous tip?”

“Actually, we did not. This operation had been planned for weeks, ever since our men on the beat started to report seeing suspicious comings and goings to and from that house.”

“How secret were your plans?”

Croft probably gathered that Holmes suspected a stool pigeon, but affected innocence. “It was of course only known to my men, but as you know there is never any guarantee. Some of them are not averse to a drink, and might well have spilled the beans as a result of it.”

“Thank you, superintendent! You needn't worry. This case is much too substantial for any criticisms of your work to play a major part in it. We would now be extremely grateful to you if we could inspect the scene of the raid.”

“It is not far from here, which is ironic, I suppose. I will have one of my constables escort you.”

A police constable called Brody showed us down the street, into a confusing jumble of narrow alleyways, and then out into a backstreet dwarfed on one side by a large warehouse. Here the immoral house lay, its unassuming exterior disguised as a seedy private dwelling. Brody unlocked the door and turned up the gas as we stepped in, throwing light upon a surprisingly garlanded front room, presumably made to look as inviting as possible in this part of the city to distinguished clients from its other part. We were taken up a small flight of stairs to a corridor whose shabby character contrasted with the decoration of the ground floor.

“This is the room,” said Brody, opening one of the doors.

It was a small and simple bedroom, occupied by a wide bed, a touch too large, with a washstand, a minuscule dressing-table and tattered crimson curtains hiding a window. Holmes stepped up to it and pushed away the curtain with a single motion of the hand. The glittering surface of the Thames was just below. Quickly, as if caught by a sudden bout of curiosity, he pulled open the window and leaned out. I walked up to him to see what he saw, and was nearly overcome by dizziness when I saw that the house we were in was perched quite high on wooden posts plunging straight into the black waters of the river.

Holmes turned around and looked at the constable. “At precisely what time did the raid commence?” he asked.

Brody produced his official notebook. “We entered the premises at exactly nine minutes to seven.”

“And how long did it take you to advance into this room?”

“Not more than six or seven minutes.”

“That should be about right. The time written on the envelope at the station was 6.57.”

“That means,” I interjected, “that it came here from the tavern in Rotherhithe in less than a quarter of an hour.”

“Which is impossible,” said Holmes, looking strangely pleased with this observation.

“A fast cab ride here from Rotherhithe,” remarked Brody, “takes at least half an hour.”

I looked out of the window again. “I have it! They brought it across in a boat. A steam launch would do the journey in that time.”

“At the same time drawing much attention to itself in this quiet corner of Wapping,” said Holmes. “A rowing boat would take much more than half an hour in this current. But the main thing that excludes the eventuality of a boat is the height of this window. That wall is impossible to scale.”

I could not but admit that he was right. “Then how was it carried out?”

Holmes glanced out the window again, peering into the distance as if he was looking for something. “Cunningly,” he replied. “Most cunningly.”

He remained silent during our cab ride back to Baker Street, and persisted with this reticence as he shrouded himself in his blue dressing-gown and took his position by the fire with his reliable briar, the pipe that he used for the most critical moments in his investigations. I knew him well enough not to disturb him when he was in this mood, but was at the same time bursting to ventilate my reflections on this curious problem and hear how he would react to, and probably undermine, my hypotheses. Consequently, I sat myself in the armchair opposite, and reluctantly began to immerse myself in the recent novel of Gissing, which had been lying untouched on the side table since the day a few weeks ago when I purchased it. No shadow upon the quality of the book intended, I confess I must have fallen asleep while reading it, being somewhat fatigued by the day's peregrinations. When I woke up, the chair in front of me was empty, the only traces of its previous occupant being a blue dressing-gown carelessly slumped across its armrest and a pipe cast aside on the occasional table with a rapidity that had caused some of its ashes to fall out on the floor. I could read the signs and I knew what they meant, and subsequently I went to bed that night a solitary lodger.

I had barely fallen asleep, when I heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs outside. I gathered that it was Holmes returning from his nightly investigation, and fell back on my pillow, certain that he would retire to his bedroom and that the silence would be restored. But the sounds from within our sitting room did not die out, and I could hear him pacing up and down for a few minutes, before he came out onto the landing, climbed the stairs to my bedroom, and started to knock on my door.

“Watson? Watson! Are you asleep?”

I sighed and picked up my watch from the bedside table. It was only half past twelve. “Not quite,” I replied.

“Excellent! I will be waiting for you in the sitting room. Make sure you wear your sturdy boots.”

“Boots?” I said. “Do you mean to say that I should get dressed?”

But there was no answer. He had already gone back downstairs.

As one is wont to do when the promise of a good night's sleep is at hand, I quarrelled with myself for a moment, almost allowing fatigue to conquer over my curiosity and my wish to see the case through to the end. Already upon first hearing Holmes' voice outside the door, however, I had unconsciously decided to join him in the sitting room, and so within five minutes I was there, dressed in durable tweeds and, as instructed, sturdy boots. Holmes was still wearing his overcoat and gloves, and stood by the window as if keeping watch.

“Mycroft will be along shortly together with Mr Furniss. I believe we must go in the shelter of darkness if we want to draw this case to a satisfying conclusion.”

“Where are we going?”

“Why, Rotherhithe, obviously. I just came back from there now, and sent word to Mycroft to come here with a four-wheeler.”

“Why must we go back if you were just there?” I said, still a bit sulky from my rude awakening.

Holmes looked at me, his face betraying no thoughts. “Because they fly at night, Watson.”

Two minutes later, a four-wheeler pulled up in front of the house, and we hurried down to embark upon the long journey to Rotherhithe. Mycroft looked less than pleased at being drawn out of the house at this late hour, and his young companion looked merely anxious, probably expecting this business to end in disaster.

“Holmes,” I said impatiently, “will you let us know what you have been up to for the past few hours?”

“I have been to Rotherhithe. And I must commend you, Mr Furniss, upon your choice of tavern! They do serve an excellent cottage pie.”

“Thank you, Mr Holmes,” replied our client, “but what have you learned?”

Holmes' secretive smile only broadened.

“My friend Watson will tell you that it is a motto of mine that one must always eliminate every eventuality in a problem until one possibility remains, and that possibility, no matter how improbable, must be the truth. This case was essentially about time and distance. It was necessary for your enemies to bring the incriminating piece of evidence across the river in time for the police to discover it in their raid, and before you went to the banquet where your alibi would be indisputable. But the distance between the tavern where you gathered strength before the evening's social event and the low house in Wapping was much too great to transport the monocle from one place to the other within the allotted time, and yet this plan was the one that your enemies thought the most efficient. They must therefore have had ready access to a method that made this plan possible before something simpler crossed their minds. I have spent the evening exploring the area between the tavern - which is located a few blocks from the banks of the Thames - and the river and I believe I have found the reason why your monocle made the journey across to Wapping without receiving any blemishes apart from a small fray on the cord.”

“Ah, you noticed that too, did you, Sherlock?” said Mycroft. “Yes, it is evidently the trace of a-”