The Big Book of Sherlock Holmes Stories (8 page)

“I shall be most happy to answer your questions as far as it lies in my power to do so,” said the banker, his fat fingers playing with a bunch of seals at the end of his massive gold watch chain.

“When did Mr. Booth first enter your bank?” said Holmes.

“In January, 1881.”

“Do you know where he lived when he first came to Sheffield?”

“He took lodgings at Ashgate Road, and has, I believe, lived there ever since.”

“Do you know anything of his history or life before he came to you?”

“Very little I fear; beyond that his parents were both dead, and that he came to us with the best testimonials from one of the Leeds branches of our bank, I know nothing.”

“Did you find him quick and reliable?”

“He was one of the best and smartest men I have ever had in my employ.”

“Do you know whether he was conversant with any other language besides English?”

“I feel pretty sure he wasn't. We have one clerk who attends to any foreign correspondence we may have, and I know that Booth has repeatedly passed letters and papers on to him.”

“With your experience of banking matters, Mr. Jervis, how long a time do you think he might reasonably have calculated would elapse between the presentation of the forged cheques and their detection?”

“Well, that would depend very largely upon circumstances,” said Mr. Jervis. “In the case of a single cheque it might be a week or two, unless the amounts were so large as to call for special inquiry, in which case it would probably never be cashed at all until such inquiry had been made. In the present case, when there were a dozen forged cheques, it was most unlikely that some one of them should not be detected within twenty-four hours and so lead to the discovery of the fraud. No sane person would dare to presume upon the crime remaining undetected for a longer period than that.”

“Thanks,” said Holmes, rising. “Those were the chief points I wished to speak to you about. I will communicate to you any news of importance I may have.”

“I am deeply obliged to you, Mr. Holmes. The case is naturally causing us great anxiety. We leave it entirely to your discretion to take whatever steps you may consider best. Oh, by the way, I sent instructions to Booth's landlady to disturb nothing in his rooms until you had had an opportunity of examining them.”

“That was a very wise thing to do,” said Holmes, “and may be the means of helping us materially.”

“I am also instructed by my company,” said the banker, as he bowed us politely out, “to ask you to make a note of any expenses incurred, which they will of course immediately defray.”

A few moments later we were ringing the bell of the house in Ashgate Road, Broomhill, at which Mr. Booth had been a lodger for over seven years. It was answered by a maid who informed us that Mrs. Purnell was engaged with a gentleman upstairs. When we explained our errand she showed us at once up to Mr. Booth's rooms, on the first floor, where we found Mrs. Purnell, a plump, voluble, little lady of about forty, in conversation with Mr. Lestrade, who appeared to be just concluding his examination of the rooms.

“Good morning, Holmes,” said the detective, with a very self-satisfied air. “You arrive on the scene a little too late; I fancy I have already got all the information needed to catch our man!”

“I'm delighted to hear it,” said Holmes dryly, “and must indeed congratulate you, if this is actually the case. Perhaps after I've made a little tour of inspection we can compare notes.”

“Just as you please,” said Lestrade, with the air of one who can afford to be gracious. “Candidly I think you will be wasting time, and so would you if you knew what I've discovered.”

“Still I must ask you to humor my little whim,” said Holmes, leaning against the mantelpiece and whistling softly as he looked round the room.

After a moment he turned to Mrs. Purnell. “The furniture of this room belongs, of course, to you?”

Mrs. Purnell assented.

“The picture that was taken down from the mantelpiece last Wednesday morning,” continued Holmes, “that belonged to Mr. Booth, I presume?”

I followed Holmes's glance across to where an unfaded patch on the wallpaper clearly indicated that a picture had recently been hanging. Well as I knew my friend's methods of reasoning, however, I did not realize for a moment that the little bits of spiderweb which had been
behind the picture, and were still clinging to the wall, had told him that the picture could only have been taken down immediately before Mrs. Purnell had received orders to disturb nothing in the room; otherwise her brush, evidently busy enough elsewhere, would not have spared them.

The good lady stared at Sherlock Holmes in open-mouthed astonishment. “Mr. Booth took it down himself on Wednesday morning,” she said. “It was a picture he had painted himself, and he thought no end of it. He wrapped it up and took it out with him, remarking that he was going to give it to a friend. I was very much surprised at the time, for I knew he valued it very much; in fact he once told me that he wouldn't part with it for anything. Of course, it's easy to see now why he got rid of it.”

“Yes,” said Holmes. “It wasn't a large picture, I see. Was it a water color?”

“Yes, a painting of a stretch of moorland, with three or four large rocks arranged like a big table on a bare hilltop. Druidicals, Mr. Booth called them, or something like that.”

“Did Mr. Booth do much painting, then?” enquired Holmes.

“None, whilst he's been here, sir. He has told me he used to do a good deal as a lad, but he had given it up.”

Holmes's eyes were glancing round the room again, and an exclamation of surprise escaped him as they encountered a photo standing on the piano.

“Surely that's a photograph of Mr. Booth,” he said. “It exactly resembles the description I have of him?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Purnell, “and a very good one it is too.”

“How long has it been taken?” said Holmes, picking it up.

“Oh, only a few weeks, sir. I was here when the boy from the photographer's brought them up. Mr. Booth opened the packet whilst I was in the room. There were only two photos, that one and another which he gave to me.”

“You interest me exceedingly,” said Holmes. “This striped lounge suit he is wearing. Is it the same that he had on when he left Wednesday morning?”

“Yes, he was dressed just like that, as far as I can remember.”

“Do you recollect anything of importance that Mr. Booth said to you last Wednesday before he went out?”

“Not very much, I'm afraid, sir. When I took his cup of chocolate up to his bedroom, he said—”

“One moment,” interrupted Holmes. “Did Mr. Booth usually have a cup of chocolate in the morning?”

“Oh, yes, sir, summer and winter alike. He was very particular about it and would ring for it as soon as he waked. I believe he'd rather have gone without his breakfast almost than have missed his cup of chocolate. Well, as I was saying, sir, I took it up to him myself on Wednesday morning, and he made some remark about the weather and then, just as I was leaving the room, he said, ‘Oh, by the way, Mrs. Purnell, I shall be going away tonight for a couple of weeks. I've packed my bag and will call for it this afternoon.' ”

“No doubt you were very much surprised at this sudden announcement?” queried Holmes.

“Not very much, sir. Ever since he's had this auditing work to do for the branch banks there's been no knowing when he would be away. Of course, he'd never been off for two weeks at a stretch, except at holiday times, but he had so often been away for a few days at a time that I had got used to his popping off with hardly a moment's notice.”

“Let me see, how long has he had this extra work at the bank—several months, hasn't he?”

“More. It was about last Christmas, I believe, when they gave it to him.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” said Holmes carelessly, “and this work naturally took him from home a good deal?”

“Yes, indeed, and it seemed to quite tire him, so much evening and night work too, you see, sir. It was enough to knock him out, for he was always such a very quiet, retiring gentleman and hardly ever used to go out in the evenings before.”

“Has Mr. Booth left many of his possessions behind him?” asked Holmes.

“Very few, indeed, and what he has are mostly old useless things. But he's a most honest thief, sir,” said Mrs. Purnell paradoxically, “and paid me his rent, before he went out on Wednesday morning, right up to next Saturday, because he wouldn't be back by then.”

“That was good of him,” said Holmes, smiling thoughtfully. “By the way, do you happen to know if he gave away any other treasures, before he left?”

“Well not
just
before, but during the last few months he's taken away most of his books and sold them I think, a few at a time. He had rather a fancy for old books and has told me that some editions he had were worth quite a lot.”

During this conversation, Lestrade had been sitting drumming his fingers impatiently on the table. Now he got up. “Really, I fear I shall have to leave you to this gossip,” he said. “I must go and wire instructions for the arrest of Mr. Booth. If only you would have looked before at this old blotter, which I found in the wastebasket, you would have saved yourself a good deal of unnecessary trouble, Mr. Holmes,” and he triumphantly slapped down a sheet of well-used blotting paper on the table.

Holmes picked it up and held it in front of a mirror over the sideboard. Looking over his shoulder I could plainly read the reflected impression of a note written in Mr. Booth's handwriting, of which Holmes had procured samples.

It was to a booking agency in Liverpool, giving instructions to them to book a first-class private cabin and passage on board the
Empress Queen
from Liverpool to New York. Parts of the note were slightly obliterated by other impressions, but it went on to say that a check was enclosed to pay for tickets, etc., and it was signed J. Booth.

Holmes stood silently scrutinizing the paper for several minutes.

It was a well-used sheet, but fortunately the impression of the note was well in the center, and hardly obliterated at all by the other marks and blots, which were all round the outer circumference of the paper. In one corner the address of the Liverpool booking agency was plainly decipherable, the paper evidently having been used to blot the envelope with also.

“My dear Lestrade, you have indeed been more fortunate than I had imagined,” said Holmes at length, handing the paper back to him. “May I ask what steps you propose to take next?”

“I shall cable at once to the New York police to arrest the fellow as soon as he arrives,” said Lestrade, “but first I must make quite certain the boat doesn't touch at Queenstown or anywhere and give him a chance of slipping through our fingers.”

“It doesn't,” said Holmes quietly. “I had already looked to see as I thought it not unlikely, at first, that Mr. Booth might have intended to sail by the
Empress Queen
.”

Lestrade gave me a wink for which I would dearly have liked to have knocked him down, for I could see that he disbelieved my friend. I felt a keen pang of disappointment that Holmes's foresight should have been eclipsed in this way by what, after all, was mere good luck on Lestrade's part.

Holmes had turned to Mrs. Purnell and was thanking her.

“Don't mention it, sir,” she said. “Mr. Booth deserves to be caught, though I must say he's always been a gentleman to me. I only wish I could have given you some more useful information.”

“On the contrary,” said Holmes, “I can assure you that what you have told us has been of the utmost importance and will very materially help us. It's just occurred to me, by the way, to wonder if you could possibly put up my friend Dr. Watson and myself for a few days, until we have had time to look into this little matter?”

“Certainly, sir, I shall be most happy.”

“Good,” said Holmes. “Then you may expect us back to dinner about seven.”

When we got outside, Lestrade at once announced his intention of going to the police office
and arranging for the necessary orders for Booth's detention and arrest to be cabled to the head of the New York police; Holmes retained an enigmatical silence as to what he purposed to do but expressed his determination to remain at Broomhill and make a few further inquiries. He insisted, however, upon going alone.

“Remember, Watson, you are here for a rest and holiday and I can assure you that if you did remain with me you would only find my program a dull one. Therefore, I insist upon your finding some more entertaining way of spending the remainder of the day.”

Past experience told me that it was quite useless to remonstrate or argue with Holmes when once his mind was made up, so I consented with the best grace I could, and leaving Holmes, drove off in the hansom, which he assured me he would not require further.

I passed a few hours in the art gallery and museum and then, after lunch, had a brisk walk out on the Manchester Road and enjoyed the fresh air and moorland scenery, returning to Ashgate Road at seven with better appetite than I had been blessed with for months.

Holmes had not returned, and it was nearly half past seven before he came in. I could see at once that he was in one of his most reticent moods, and all my inquiries failed to elicit any particulars of how he had passed his time or what he thought about the case.

The whole evening he remained coiled up in an easy chair puffing at his pipe and hardly a word could I get from him.

His inscrutable countenance and persistent silence gave me no clue whatever as to his thought on the inquiry he had in hand, although I could see his whole mind was concentrated upon it.

Next morning, just as we had finished breakfast, the maid entered with a note. “From Mr. Jervis, sir; there's no answer,” she said.