seemed as if he had been afflicted by no more than the odd pimple considered normal on a boy of his age. Having gathered everything he needed according to the practices of Sherlock Holmes, the boy sat on his bed and caught his breath. In truth he felt just a little dizzy, and droplets of perspiration had formed on the pale fluff above his lip. He reached for a glass of water, quenched his thirst, and slipped into bed again.
“See you later, dear. We’ll be back by teatime.” His mother’s voice echoed up into the stairwell.
“Bye,” replied the boy.
He waited until the door closed and he’d given the women enough time to walk to the end of the road, then pulled back the covers, leapt out of bed, and as an afterthought, shoved a pillow between the sheets so that it seemed as if he were there, but asleep. “The game’s definitely afoot,” he whispered, as he crept past the drawing room, where the sleeping grandmother snored and smacked her lips.
It took a good twenty minutes at not a very good pace to reach Margaret Street. Think backward, thought the boy. He referred to his notes—that morning he had recorded everything he could remember from the time he left school to the time he arrived home on the fateful day. Closing his eyes, he recalled the motorcar approaching, and the horse taking umbrage. Yes! It clipped the fence as it shied. The boy took out the magnifying glass and began to walk very slowly along the fence that ran the entire length of the terrace. There it was—though in truth, he could see the broken wood with his naked eye; there was no real need for magnification. Several slats were missing, and it was evident that the occupant of the house had pulled away the broken pieces and laid them to one side in the garden.
“What’re you looking at?” The voice came from an open door. A woman, wearing a floral pinafore over a gray woollen dress, stood before him. As a rule he would not have noticed much about her, but now he could see that she had bunions on both feet—why else would she cut into her slippers at the joint of the big toe? She had been reading the newspaper, likely by the window—which had enabled her to see him inspecting her broken fence— because her fingertips were black. She might also be a widow, for a house of this size would not warrant a housekeeper or cook, so if she were married, she should be peeling potatoes or some such thing, not reading the newspapers. It was clear to see that this woman pleased herself. The fact that the wood had been left in a pile and the fence not mended also suggested a woman alone, for surely any man worth his salt would have done something about the gaping hole by now.
“I was just wondering about your fence. I assume that’s where the motorcar caused the coster’s horse to shy.”
“You saw that, did you, lad?”
“Not really, madam. I was taken ill in the street, but I heard the noise, and I heard the coster, who kindly took me home, telling my mother about the disturbance.”
“Disturbance? I’d like to find the blighter what did that to my fence; too right I would. I’d give him a disturbance if I knew where to find him. And if you come across him, you come and tell me about it.”
“Yes, Mrs.…”
“Tingley. Mrs. Tingley. Mr. Tingley passed away last year, otherwise that there hole would have been put right by now.”
“Were you not at home when the event took place, Mrs. Tingley?”
The woman shook her head. “The one day a week I go to the church hall for a game of whist. All the ladies on the street go, so it’s quiet around here—otherwise the blighter wouldn’t’ve got away with it.”
“Ahhh, I see,” said the boy. “Well, good day to you, Mrs. Tingley.”
He walked on, stopping after a few paces to make a note in his book. He could have walked and penned at the same time, but if he did so, he might miss a detail. A good consulting detective would not miss a detail.
Holmes was a stickler for the measuring and counting of strides to ascertain the height of a man. Though at this stage the boy had no reason to do so, the idea of taking account of his pace, and then logging the details in his notebook appealed to him in case something could be deduced that might be of use as the plot thickened. Trusting he wouldn’t be seen, he went back to Mrs. Tingley’s house and, using the broken fence as a starting point, he stepped out, hopefully toward the house from which he had heard the argument and the gunshot. Frankly, he really didn’t know what he might discover in the pacing, but he was sure it would come in handy. He stopped to glance back every three strides. Yes, it was just about … here. He looked up at the terraced house. Was this the one? He tried to remember the day, to recall his feelings, then he began to feel a bit sick. He swallowed and wished he’d brought a flask of water with him, for his mouth had gone from moist to dry. But the sensation gave him an idea. He walked along the path, keeping his eyes peeled in case he saw a footprint in the soil, or something hidden in the hydrangeas. Nothing. He knocked at the door and waited.
Two locks were drawn back, and the door opened only to the extent that five inches of chain would allow.
“What d’yer want?”
“I am sorry to disturb you, madam, but I wonder—I have just recovered from a sickness and feel quite unwell. Might you have a cup of water?”
The boy thought the woman had recently enjoyed some sort of hairdressing experiment that caused small curls to form all over the scalp, so clearly she wasn’t short of a shilling or two. Her eyes, though, revealed a person who might be a good deal more accommodating than one might believe at first blush. She was older, he thought, than the woman he’d seen silhouetted at the window—much older, for this woman before him was of an age somewhere between his mother and grandmother. And it occurred to the boy that she might be scared.
“You do look a bit peaky. Wait here, I’ll get you the water.” The woman closed the door, opening it again after three minutes had passed. Leaving the door on the chain, she handed a cup of water out to him.
“Thank you, madam.” He drank the entire contents without taking a breath.
“You was thirsty, that you were.” Now the woman was smiling.
The boy handed back the cup.
“Madam, do forgive me, but as a gentleman, I must ask—do you have cause to fear? You appear very cautious, as if you are expecting an unwanted visitor.”
She shook her head. “No, not at all. Not at all.” She pressed her face toward the open door, as if to see along the street, though the chain prevented a good look.
“Are you waiting for someone?”
The woman sighed. “You look like a good boy.”
“My mother says as much, though she may have some bias.”
“You at the College?”
He nodded and hoped she would not ask why he was not in uniform.
“It’s that lodger of mine. Well, lodger as was. Not any more. No rent equals no board or lodging in this establishment. I lay down my rules when they come, and if the rent’s not paid, then they get chucked out. Bloke hadn’t been here long, but I had to give him his marching orders because I hardly saw the color of his money. He left sharpish enough, and without paying me a farthing of his arrears. You can’t be too careful though; you never know if they’re going to come back and give you a fourpenny-one and leave you with a black eye.”
“Was he not a good man?”
“Oh, he was all right, I suppose. But he kept late hours, on top of the arrears, and he brought back women.”
The boy blushed. “Did he?”
The woman looked up the street again without answering, then announced that this would never do, and she couldn’t stand there talking all day. The boy consulted his watch and realized that he couldn’t stand there either— for his mother and aunt would return to the house before him if he didn’t cut along.
Florence and Ethel checked his homework after tea, and then read together—passing Sherlock Holmes from one to the other as they made their way through
