and even, I heard, in holes scooped out of the dust-heaps on Hackney Marshes. There were, as I shall soon describe, charities that set out to help them, to clothe and to educate them. But the charities were too few, the children too many and even as the century drew to a close, London has every reason to be ashamed.
Come, Watson, that’s quite enough of this. Get back to the story. Holmes would never have stood for it had he been alive!
Holmes had been a mood of constant disquiet from the moment we had left Mrs Oldmore’s Private Hotel. During the day, he had paced up and down the room like a bear. Although he had smoked incessantly, he had barely touched his lunch or dinner and I was concerned to see him glance once or twice at the smart morocco case that he kept on his mantelpiece. It housed, I knew, a hypodermic syringe, but it would have been unheard of for Holmes, in the middle of a case, to indulge in the seven-per-cent solution of cocaine that was, without doubt, his most egregious habit. I do not think he slept at all. Late into the night, before my own eyes closed, I heard him picking out a tune on his Stradivarius, but the music was ragged and full of discords and I could tell that his heart wasn’t in it. I understood all too well the nervous energy that afflicted my friend. He had spoken of a grave miscalculation. The disappearance of Ross suggested that he had been proved right and, if this were the case, he would never forgive himself.
I thought we might go back to Wimbledon. From what he had said at the hotel, Holmes had made it clear that the adventure of the man in the flat cap was over, the case solved and all that remained was for him to launch into one of those explanations that would leave me wondering how I could have been so obtuse as to have not see it for myself from the start. However, breakfast brought a letter from Catherine Carstairs, informing us that she and her husband had gone away for a few days, staying with friends in Suffolk. Edmund Carstairs, with his fragile nature, needed time to regain his composure and Holmes would never reveal what he knew without an audience. I would therefore have to wait.
In fact, it was another two days before Wiggins returned to 221B Baker Street, this time on his own. He had received Holmes’s wire (quite how, I do not know, I never learned where Wiggins lived or in what circumstances) and since then he had been searching for Ross, but without success.
‘’e came to London at the end of the summer,’ Wiggins explained.
‘Came to London from where?’
‘I’ve no idea. When I met ’im. ’e was sharing a kitchen in King’s Cross with a family — nine of them in two rooms — and I spoke to them but they ain’t seen ’im since that night at the ’otel. No one’s seen ’im. It sounds to me like ’e’s lying low.’
‘Wiggins, I want you to tell me what happened that night,’ Holmes said, sternly. ‘The two of you followed the American from the pawnbroker to the hotel. You left Ross watching the place while you came for me. He must have been alone there for a couple of hours.’
‘Ross was game. I didn’t make him.’
‘I’m not suggesting that for a moment. Finally, we returned, Mr Carstairs, Dr Watson, you and I. Ross was still there. I gave you both money and dismissed you. You left together.’
‘We didn’t stay together long,’ Wiggins replied. ‘’e went ’is way and I went mine.’
‘Did he say anything to you? Did the two of you speak?’
‘Ross was in a strange mood and no mistake. There was something ’e’d seen…’
‘At the hotel? Did he tell you what it was?’
‘There was a man. That was all. It put the wind up ’im. Ross is only thirteen but ’e normally knows what’s what. You know? Well, ’e was shook to the core.’
‘He saw the killer!’ I exclaimed.
‘I don’t know what ’e saw but I can tell you what ’e said. “I know ’im and I can make something from ’im. More than the guinea I got from bloody Mr ’olmes.” Forgive me, sir. But them were ’is words exactly. I reckon he was all set to put the squeeze on someone.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Only that ’e was in an ’urry to be off. ’e ran into the night. ’e didn’t go to King’s Cross. I don’t know where ’e went. The only thing is that nobody saw ’im no more.’
As Holmes listened to this, he was as grave as I had ever seen him. Now he moved closer to the boy and crouched down. Wiggins seemed very small beside him. Malnourished and sickly, with matted hair, rheumy eyes and skin befouled by London dirt, it would have been impossible to distinguish him in a crowd. It may be that this was why it was so easy to ignore the plight of these children. There were so many of them. They all looked the same. ‘Listen to me, Wiggins,’ Holmes said. ‘It seems to me that Ross could be in great danger—’
‘I looked for ’im! I searched everywhere!’
‘I’m sure of it. But you must tell me what you know of his past. Where did he come from before you met him. Who were his parents?’
‘’e never ’ad no parents. They were dead, long ago. ’e never said where ’e come from and I never asked. Where do you think any of us come from? What does it matter?’
‘Think, boy. If he found himself in trouble, is there anyone he would turn to, any place where he might seek refuge?’
Wiggins shook his head. But then he seemed to think again. ‘Is there another guinea in it for me?’ he asked.
Holmes’s eyes narrowed and I could see he was struggling to compose himself. ‘Is the life of your compatriot worth as little as that?’ he demanded.
‘I don’t understand “compatriot”. ’e was nothing to me, Mr ’olmes. Why would I care if ’e lived or died? If Ross were never seen again, there are twenty more that would take ’is place.’ Holmes was still glaring at him and Wiggins suddenly softened. ‘All right. He was looked after, for a while anyway. There was a charity what took ’im in. Chorley Grange, up ’amworth way. It’s a school for boys. ’e told me once that ’e’d been there but ’e ’ated it and ran away. That was when ’e set up in King’s Cross. But, I suppose, if ’e was scared, if someone was after ’im, maybe he could have gone back. Better the devil you know…’
Holmes straightened up. ‘Thank you, Wiggins,’ he said. ‘I want you to keep looking for him. I want you to ask anyone you meet.’ He took out a coin and handed it over. ‘If you find him, you must bring him here at once. Mrs Hudson will feed you both and look after you until I return. Do you understand me?’
‘Yes, Mr ’olmes.’
‘Good. Watson, I trust you will you accompany me? We can take the train from Baker Street.’
One hour later, a cab dropped us off in front of three handsome buildings that stood next to one another on the edge of a narrow lane which climbed steeply for at least half a mile from the village of Roxeth up to Hamworth Hill. The largest of these, the one at the centre, resembled an English gentleman’s country home of perhaps a hundred years ago, with a red-tiled roof and a veranda running its full length at the level of the first floor. The face of the house was covered in vines which might be luxuriant in the summer but which were bare and spindly now, and the entire habitation was surrounded by farmland, with a lawn slanting down to an orchard filled with ancient apple trees. It was hard to believe that we were so close to London, for the air was fresh and the surrounding countryside most attractive, or it would have been had the weather been more clement, for it was very cold again and had begun to drizzle. The buildings on each side were either barns or brewhouses but had presumably been adapted to the school’s needs. There was a fourth structure on the other side of the lane, this one surrounded by an ornate metal fence with an open gate. It gave the impression of being empty for there was no light or movement there. A wooden sign read: Chorley Grange Home for Boys. Looking across the fields, I noticed a small group of boys attacking a vegetable patch with spades and hoes.
We rang the front bell and were admitted by a man who was sombrely dressed in a dark grey suit and who listened in silence as Holmes explained who we were and on what mission we had come. ‘Very good, gentlemen. If you would like to wait here…’ He admitted us into the building and left us standing in an austere, wood-panelled hall with nothing on the walls apart from a few portraits, so faded as to be almost indecipherable, and a silver cross. A long corridor with several doors stretched into the distance. I could imagine classrooms on the other side, but not a sound came from within. It struck me that the place was more like a monastery than a school.
Then the servant, if that was what he was, returned, bringing with him a short, round-faced man who had to take three steps for every one of his companion’s and panted loudly in his efforts to keep up. Everything about this new arrival was circular. In shape, he reminded me of the snowmen that I might see any time now in Regent’s
