concentrating on the shoes that were laid out in front of them while the man we had met at the door, Mr Vosper, watched over them. They all rose as we came in and stood in respectful silence but Fitzsimmons waved them down cheerfully. ‘Sit down, boys! Sit down! This is Mr Sherlock Holmes from London who has come to visit us. Let us show him how industrious we can be.’ The boys went on with their work. ‘All well, Mr Vosper?’
‘Indeed so, sir.’
‘Good! Good!’ Fitzsimmons positively beamed with approval. ‘They have two more hours work and then an hour of leisure before tea. Our day finishes at eight o’clock with prayers and then bed.’
He set off again, his short legs working hard to propel himself forward, this time leading us upstairs to show us a dormitory, a touch spartan but decidedly clean and airy, with beds lined up like soldiers, each one a few feet apart. We saw the kitchens, the dining room, a workshop and finally came to a classroom with a lesson in progress. It was a square room with a single, small stove in one corner, a chalk board on one wall and an embroidered text with the first line of a psalm on another. There were a few books neatly stacked on shelves, an abacus and a scattering of objects — pine cones, rocks and animal bones — which must have been collected from field trips. A young man sat marking a copybook while a twelve-yearold boy, acting as the class monitor, stood reading to his fellows from a well-worn Bible. The boy stopped the moment we walked in. Fifteen students had been sitting in three rows, listening intently, and once again they stood up respectfully, gazing at us with pale, serious faces.
‘Sit down, please!’ exclaimed the reverend. ‘Forgive the interruption, Mr Weeks. Was that the Book of Job I heard just now, Harry? “
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Very good. A fine choice of text.’ He gestured at the teacher who alone had remained seated. He was in his late twenties, with a strange, twisted face and a tangle of brown hair that sprawled lopsidedly on one side of his head. ‘This is Robert Weeks, a graduate of Balliol College. Mr Weeks was building a successful career in the city but has chosen to join us for a year to help those less fortunate than himself. Do you remember the boy, Ross, Mr Weeks?’
‘Ross? He was the one who ran away.’
‘This gentleman here is none other than Mr Sherlock Holmes, the well-known detective.’ This caused a certain tremor of recognition among some of the boys. ‘He is afraid that Ross may have got himself into trouble.’
‘Not surprising,’ muttered Mr Weeks. ‘He was not an easy child.’
‘Were you a companion of his, Harry?’
‘No, sir,’ the monitor replied.
‘Well, surely there must have been someone in this room who befriended him and who perhaps spoke with him and can now help us find him? You will recall, boys, that we talked a great deal after Ross left here. I asked you all where he might have gone and you were unable to tell me anything. I beseech you all to consider the matter one last time.’
‘My desire is only to help your friend,’ Holmes added.
There was a brief silence. Then a boy in the back row put up his hand. He was fair-haired and very fragile and I guessed about eleven. ‘Are you the man in the stories?’ he asked.
‘That’s right. And this is the man who writes them.’ It was rare for me to hear Holmes introduce me in this manner and I have to say I was extremely pleased to hear it. ‘Do you read them?’
‘No, sir. There are too many long words. But sometimes Mr Weeks reads them to us.’
‘We must let you return to your studies,’ Fitzsimmons said and began to usher us towards the door.
But the boy at the back had not finished yet. ‘Ross has a sister, sir,’ he said.
Holmes turned. ‘In London?’
‘I think so. Yes. He spoke about her once. Her name is Sally. He said that she worked at a public house, The Bag of Nails.’
For the first time, the Reverend Fitzsimmons looked angry, a dull red patch spreading into the round of his cheeks. ‘This is very wrong of you, Daniel,’ he said. ‘Why did you not tell me before?’
‘I had forgotten, sir.’
‘Had you remembered, we might have been able to find him, to protect him from whatever trouble has come his way.’
‘I’m sorry, sir.’
‘We’ll say no more of it. Come, Mr Holmes.’
The three of us walked back towards the main door of the school. Holmes had paid the cab driver to wait for us and I was glad to see he was there, for it was still raining heavily.
‘The school does you credit,’ Holmes said. ‘I find it remarkable how quiet and well disciplined the boys seem to be.’
‘I am very grateful to you,’ returned Fitzsimmons, relaxing once again into his more congenial self. ‘My methods are very simple, Mr Holmes. The stick and the carrot — quite literally so. When the boys misbehave, I flog them. But if they work hard and abide by our rules, then they find that they are well fed. In the six years that my wife and I have been here, two boys have died, one with congenital heart disease, the other of tuberculosis. But Ross is the only one who has run away. When you find him, for I am sure that you will, I hope you will prevail upon him to return. Life here is not as austere as it may seem in this vile weather. When the sun shines and the boys can run wild in the open air, Chorley Grange can be a cheerful place too.’
‘I am sure of it. One last question, Mr Fitzsimmons. The building opposite. That is part of the school?’
‘Indeed so, Mr Holmes. When we first came here it was coach-builder’s factory but we have adapted it to our own needs and now use it for public performances. Did I mention to you that every boy in the school is a member of a band?’
‘You have had a performance recently.’
‘Only two nights ago. You have doubtless noticed the many wheel tracks. I would be honoured if you came to our next recital, Mr Holmes — and you too, Dr Watson. Indeed, might you consider becoming benefactors of the school? We do the best we can, but we also need all the help that is available.’
‘I will certainly consider it.’ We shook hands and left. ‘We must go straight to The Bag of Nails, Watson,’ Holmes said the moment we had climbed into the cab. ‘There is not a second to be lost.’
‘You really think…?’
‘The boy, Daniel, told us what he had refused to tell his masters but only because he knew who we were and thought we could save his friend. For once, Watson, I am being guided by my instinct and not by my intellect. What is it, I wonder, that gives me such cause for alarm? Whip the horses, driver, and take us to the station! And let us just pray that we’re not too late.’
SEVEN
The White Ribbon
How differently things might have turned out had there not been two public houses in London with the name The Bag of Nails. We knew of one in Edge Lane in the heart of Shoreditch and, believing this to be a likely place of employment for the orphaned sister of a penniless street child, made our way directly there. It was a small, squalid place on a corner, with the stink of old beer and cigarette smoke seeping out of the very woodwork, and yet the landlord was amicable enough, wiping his huge hands on a soiled apron as he examined us across the bar.
‘There’s no Sally working in this place,’ he said, after we had introduced ourselves. ‘Nor has there ever been. What makes you gentlemen think you might find her here?’
‘We’re looking for her brother, a boy called Ross.’
He shook his head. ‘I know no Ross, neither. You’re sure you’ve been directed to the right place? There’s a Bag of Nails over in Lambeth, I believe. Maybe you should try your luck there.’
We were back out in the street immediately and soon crossing London in a hansom, but already it was late
