Lestrade found the object in question and briefly examined it. ‘O’Donaghue was a thief,’ he said. ‘There is no reason why he might not have stolen this.’
‘Is there any reason why he
Lestrade had opened the case. It was empty. He snapped it shut. ‘This is all the merest moonshine,’ he said. ‘The trouble with you, Holmes, is that you have a way of complicating things. I sometimes wonder if you don’t do it deliberately. It’s as if you need the crime to rise to the challenge, as if it has to be unusual enough for it to be worth solving. The man in this room was American. He had been wounded in a gunfight. He was seen once in the Strand and twice in Wimbledon. If he did visit this pawnshop of yours, then we will know him to be the thief who broke into Carstairs’s safe. From there, it is easy enough to construe what took place here. Doubtless O’Donaghue would have had other criminal contacts here in London. He may well have recruited one of them to help him in his vendetta. The two of them fell out. The other pulled a knife. This is the result!’
‘You are certain of that?’
‘I am as certain as I need to be.’
‘Well, we shall see. But there is nothing more to be gained from discussing the matter here. Perhaps the owner of the hotel will be able to enlighten us.’
But Mrs Oldmore, who was now waiting in the small office that had formerly been occupied by the Boots, had little to add. She was a greyhaired, sour-faced woman who sat with her arms wrapped around her as if she were afraid that the building would contaminate her unless she could keep herself as far away as possible from its walls. She was wearing a small bonnet and had a fur stole across her shoulders, although I shuddered to think what animal had provided it nor how it had met its end. Starvation seemed a likely option.
‘’e took the room for the week,’ she said. ‘And paid me a guinea. An American gentleman, just off a ship at Liverpool. That much ’e told me, though not much more. It was ’is first time in London. He didn’t say so, but I could tell for he ’ad no idea ’ow to find ’is way around. He said there was someone ’e ’ad come to see in Wimbledon and ’e asked me how to get there. “Wimbledon,” I said. “That’s a posh area and plenty of rich Americans with fancy homes, and no mistake.” Not that there was anything fancy about him — he had little luggage, his clothes were tatty, and then there was that nasty wound on ’is face. “I will go there tomorrow,” he said. “For there is someone who owes me something and I mean to collect it.” From the way ’e talked, I could tell ’e was up to no good and I thought to myself then and there — whoever this person is, maybe he should look out for ’imself. I was expecting trouble, but what can you do? If I turned away every suspicious-looking customer who came knocking at my door, I’d have no business at all. And now this American, Mr Harrison, is murdered! Well, it’s to be expected, I suppose. It’s the world we live in, isn’t it, where a respectable woman can’t run a hotel without having blood on the walls and corpses spread out on the floorboards. I should never have stayed in London. It’s an ’orrible place. Utterly ’orrible!’
We left her sitting in misery and Lestrade took his leave. ‘I’m sure we’ll run into each other again, Mr Holmes,’ he said. ‘And if you need me, you know where to find me.’
‘If I should ever find myself in need of Inspector Lestrade,’ Holmes muttered after he had gone, ‘then things will have come to a pretty pass. But let us step into the alleyway, Watson. My case is complete and yet there is still one small point which must be addressed.’
We went out of the front of the hotel into the main street and then entered the narrow, litter-strewn alleyway that ran past the room in which the American had met his end. The window was clearly visible about halfway down, with a wooden crate set just beneath it. It was evident that the killer had used this as a step to gain entrance. The window itself had not been locked and would have opened easily from outside. Holmes glanced at the ground in a perfunctory way, but there seemed to be nothing there to attract his attention. Together we followed the alley to the point at which it ended with a high wooden fence and an empty yard beyond. From there, we returned to the main road. By now, Holmes was deep in thought and I could see the unease in his pale, elongated face.
‘You remember the boy — Ross — last night,’ he said.
‘You thought that there was something he was holding back.’
‘And now I am certain of it. From where he was standing, he had a clear view of both the hotel and the alleyway, the end of which, as we have both seen, is blocked. The killer can only have entered, therefore, from the road, and Ross may well have had a sight of who it was.’
‘He certainly seemed ill at ease. But if he saw something, Holmes, why did he not tell us?’
‘Because he had some plan of his own, Watson. In a way, Lestrade was right. These boys live on their wits every hour of their lives. They must learn to do so if they are to survive. If Ross thought that there was money to be made, he would take on the devil himself! And yet there is something here that I don’t understand at all. What is it that this child could possibly have seen? A figure caught in the gaslight, flitting down a passageway and disappearing from sight, perhaps he hears a cry as the blow is struck. Moments later, the killer appears a second time, hurrying away into the night.
Ross remains where he is and a short while later the three of us arrive.’
‘He was afraid,’ he said. ‘He mistook Carstairs for a police officer.’
‘It was more than fear. I would have said the boy was in the grip of something close to terror, but I assumed…’ He struck a hand against his brow. ‘We must find him again and speak with him. I hope I have not been guilty of a grave miscalculation.’
We stopped at a post office on the way back to Baker Street and Holmes sent another wire to Wiggins, the chief lieutenant of his little army of irregulars. But twenty-four hours later, Wiggins had still not reported back to us. And it was a short while after that that we heard the worst possible news. Ross had disappeared.
SIX
Chorley Grange School for Boys
In 1890, the year of which I write, there were some five and a half million people in the six hundred square miles of the area known as the Metropolitan Police District of London and then, as always, those two constant neighbours, wealth and poverty were living uneasily side by side. It sometimes occurs to me now, having witnessed so many momentous changes across the years, that I should have described at greater length the sprawling chaos of the city in which I lived, perhaps in the manner of Gissing — or Dickens fifty years before. I can only say in my own defence that I was a biographer, not a historian or a journalist, and that my adventures invariably led me to more rarefied walks of life — fine houses, hotels, private clubs, schools and offices of government. It is true that Holmes’s clients came from all classes, but (and perhaps someone might one day have pause to consider the significance of this) the more interesting crimes, the ones I chose to relate, were nearly always committed by the well-to-do.
However, it is necessary now to reflect upon the lower depths of the great cauldron of London, what Gissing called ‘the nether world’, to understand the impossibility of the task that faced us. We had to find one child, one helpless tatterdemalion among so many others, and if Holmes was right, if there was danger abroad, we had no time to spare. Where to begin? Our enquiries would be made no easier by the restlessness of the city, the way its inhabitants moved from house to house and street to street in seemingly perpetual motion so that few knew so much as the names of those who lived next door. The slum clearances and the spread of the railways were largely culpable, although many Londoners seemed to have arrived with a restlessness of spirit that simply would not allow them to settle long. They moved like gypsies, following whatever work they could find; fruit-picking and bricklaying in the summer, bunkering down and scurrying for coal and scraps once the cold weather arrived. They might stay a while in one place, but then, once their money had run out, they would bolt the moon and be off again.
And then there was the greatest curse of our age, the carelessness that had put tens of thousands of children out on to the street; begging, pickpocketing, pilfering or, if they were not up to the mark, quietly dying unknown and unloved, their parents indifferent if indeed those parents were themselves alive. There were children who shared threepenny lodging houses, provided they could find their share of the night’s rent, crammed together in conditions barely fit for animals. Children slept on rooftops, in pens at Smithfield market, down in the sewers
