Out on the sidewalk, we looked in both directions. There seemed to be no obvious alleyway leading back between the buildings. “We’ll have to go all the way around the block,” said Mr. Clemens, squinting in the afternoon sunlight. “Any guesses which way is better?”
“None at all,” I said.
“This way, then,” said Mr. Clemens, and we started off to the left.
The block was on one of the oldest streets in Chelsea. Even so, the houses were cleaner, and surrounded by considerably more greenery and open space, than those in the more central districts of London. So, with the sun having decided to make another uncharacteristic appearance for this time of year, I found myself enjoying our little walk. In fact, when we rounded the corner, we discovered a delightful little park across the street. I must admit I found myself more interested in the trees and shrubbery than in our purpose. Thus, I was caught somewhat off guard when Mr. Clemens stopped in mid-block and said, “Here’s what we’ve been looking for.”
I turned and found that we were at the entrance of a narrow alleyway between buildings. An unpaved lane lay ahead of us, and, past the shadow of the buildings, I could see the garden walls on either side of it, the brickwork broken at intervals by wooden gates. “We’ll just stroll down here, and see what there is to see,” said Mr. Clemens, and before I could say anything (not that anything I said was likely to change his mind), he was walking down the alley as nonchalantly as if he were the owner of the property, come to see what his tenants were doing with it.
The garden walls on either side were uniformly six feet high—just tall enough that I would have to stand on tiptoe to see over; my employer, four inches shorter than I, was at an even greater disadvantage. About halfway down the lane, he stopped and craned his neck toward the left side. After jumping up and down a couple of times, trying to see over the wall, he turned to me with a frown and said, “Damnation, all these buildings look the same from the back side. Can you tell which house is the one we’re looking for?”
“I’m not certain,” I admitted. The buildings on this block had evidently all been erected around the same time, and were very similar in both design and materials. “Do you remember how many doors it was from the corner? We could count buildings and find it that way.”
“Seven, if I remember right,” he said. “I wasn’t paying close attention, though.”
“Neither was I,” I said. “Shall I go back around front and count, to be certain? It won’t do us any good to look in the wrong backyard.”
“That’ll take too long,” said Mr. Clemens. “Tell you what—give me a boost so I can peek over these damn fences. I bet I can figure out which house it is we want, once I can get a good look at ’em all.”
“If you say so,” I replied. He walked over to the wall, reached up, and put his hands on the top—which, fortunately, had not been covered with broken bottles as was the custom in New Orleans. I bent down and put my hands together to form a step, then lifted him straight up. Despite his being considerably shorter than I, he was by no means an easy burden—clearly, he had never stinted himself at suppertime.
After a few moments’ pause—looking up, I could see him swiveling his head from left to right—he said, “As best I can figure, the one just to our right is Miss Martha’s. I counted houses, and that’s the seventh from the corner. Besides, it looks right.”
“Looks right?” I said, lowering him back down. “I thought you said they all looked the same.”
“The curtains on the second floor look right,” said Mr. Clemens. “And I can see that ledge running under the window,” he added. “It’s got to be the place.”
I stood on tiptoe, trying to verify his information. But the glare from the windows made it hard to see the curtains, and as far as I could tell, all the buildings on that side had the same ledge under the window. I told him as much.
“Well, I think it’s the right place,” he said, somewhat petulantly. “Let’s go see if we can get in that gate.”
We walked the short distance to the wall behind the building he had picked out. A green-painted garden gate (or, rather, a rustic wooden door that extended the full height of the wall) stood before us. Mr. Clemens tried to open it, first pushing, then pulling, but without success. “Locked,” he said. “Or maybe it’s just hooked from the inside. Boost me up again, Wentworth; maybe I can reach the latch and get it open.”
Almost involuntarily, I found myself repeating a phrase that I had heard from my lawyer father far too often during my own youth. “That would be trespassing.”
“Don’t be silly, Wentworth,” said Mr. Clemens. “We aren’t going to steal anything, or hurt anybody. An innocent man could hang if we miss some important piece of evidence because we were afraid to open a gate. Now give me a boost—or would you rather go over the wall yourself?”
“Oh, very well,” I said. But while I understood the need to gather evidence wherever we found it, somehow I felt like a timid young boy mocked by bolder playmates for not joining in their daredevil games. I had not felt like that in a long time. But when Mr. Clemens put his hands atop the gate, and lifted up his left foot, I obediently
