The Big Book of Sherlock Holmes Stories (92 page)

“We can at least expedite things a little in those two respects,” replied she in business-like fashion, “for I advertised for him in last Monday's
Chronicle
.” And promptly reaching into her handbag, she produced a newspaper cutting which she gave to Holmes, together with some other sheets. “And here, too, are four of his letters which I happen to have with me. Will they be sufficient?”

Holmes looked quickly at the letters, and nodded. “You say you never had Mr. Darvill's address?”

“Never.”

“Your step-father's place of business, please?”

“He travels for
Cook and Marchant
, the great Burgundy importers, of Fenchurch Street.”

“Thank you.”

After she had left Holmes sat brooding for several minutes, his fingertips still pressed together. “An interesting case,” he observed finally. “Did you not find it so, Watson?”

“You appeared to read a good deal which was quite invisible to me,” I confessed.

“Not invisible, Watson. Rather, let us say—unnoticed. And that in spite of my repeated attempts to impress upon you the importance of sleeves, of thumb-nails, of boot-laces, and the rest. Now, tell me, what did you immediately gather from the young woman's appearance? Describe it to me.”

Conscious of Mycroft's presence, I sought to recall my closest impressions of our recent visitor.

“Well, she had, beneath her fur, a dress of rich brown, somewhat darker than the coffee colour, with a little black plush at the neck and at the sleeves—you mentioned sleeves, Holmes? Her gloves were dove-grey in colour, and were worn through at the right forefinger. Her black boots, I was not able, from where I sat, to observe in any detail, yet I would suggest that she takes either the size four and a half or five. She wore small pendant earrings, almost certainly of imitation gold, and the small handkerchief into which the poor lady sobbed so charmingly had a neat darn in the monogrammed corner. In general, she had the air of a reasonably well-to-do young woman who has not quite escaped from the slightly vulgar inheritance of a father who was—let us be honest about it, Holmes!—a plumber.”

A snort from the chair beside which Holmes had so casually thrown Miss van Allen's fur coat served to remind us that the recumbent Mycroft had now reawakened, and that perhaps my own description had, in some respect, occasioned his disapproval. But he made no spoken comment, and soon resumed his former posture.

“ 'Pon my word, Watson,” said Holmes, “you are coming along splendidly—is he not, Mycroft? It is true, of course, that your description misses almost everything of real importance. But the method! You have hit upon the
method
, Watson. Let us take, for example, the plush you mention on the sleeves. Now, plush is a most wonderfully helpful material for showing traces; and the double line above the wrist, where the type-writist presses against the table, was beautifully defined. As for the short-sightedness, that was mere child's play. The dent-marks of a
pince-nez
at either side of the lady's nostrils—you did not observe it? Elementary, my dear Watson! And then the boots. You really
must
practise the art of being positioned where all the evidence is clearly visible. If you wish to observe nothing at all, like brother Mycroft, then you will seek out the furthest corner of a room where even the vaguest examination of the client will be obscured by the furniture, by a fur coat, by whatever. But reverting to the lady's boots, I observed that although they were very like each other in colour and style, they were in fact
odd
boots; the one on the right foot having a slightly decorated toe-cap, and the one on the left being of a comparatively plain design. Furthermore, the right one was fastened only at the three lower buttons out of the five; the left one only at the first, third, and fifth. Now the deduction we may reasonably draw from such evidence is that the young lady left home in an unconscionable hurry. You agree?”

“Amazing, Holmes!”

“As for the glove worn at the forefinger—”

“You would be better advised,” suddenly interposed the deeper voice of Mycroft, “to concentrate upon the missing person!”

May it have been a flash of annoyance that showed itself in Holmes's eyes? If so, it was gone immediately. “You are quite right, Mycroft! Come now, Watson, read to us the paragraph from
The Chronicle
.”

I held the printed slip to the light and began: “Missing on the 14th November 188–. A gentleman named Mr. Horatio Darvill: about 5′ 8″ in height; fairly firmly built; sallow complexion; black hair, just a little bald in the centre; bushy black side-whiskers and moustache; tinted spectacles; slight infirmity of speech. When last seen, was dressed in——”

“But I think,” interrupted Holmes, “he may by now have changed his wedding vestments, Watson?”

“Oh, certainly, Holmes.”

There being nothing, it seemed, of further value in the newspaper description, Holmes turned his attention to the letters, passing them to me after studying them himself with minute concentration.

“Well?” he asked.

Apart from the fact that the letters had been typed, I could find in them nothing of interest, and I laid them down on the coffee-table in front of the somnolent Mycroft.

“Well?” persisted Holmes.

“I assume you refer to the fact that the letters are typewritten.”

“Already you are neglecting your newly acquired knowledge of the
method
, Watson. Quite apart from the point you mention, there are three further points of immediate interest and importance. First, the letters are very short; second, apart from the vague ‘Leadenhall Street' superscription, there is no precise address stated at any point; third, it is not only the body of the letter which has been typed, but the signature, too. Observe here, Watson—and here!—that neat little ‘Horatio Darvill' typed at the bottom of each of our four exhibits. And it will not have escaped you, I think, how conclusive that last point might be?”

“Conclusive, Holmes? In what way?”

“My dear fellow, is it possible for you not to see how strongly it bears upon our present investigations?”

“
Homo circumbendibus
—that's what you are, Sherlock!” (It was Mycroft once more.) “Do you not appreciate that your client would prefer some positive action to any further proofs of your cerebral superiority?”

It is pleasing to report here that this attempt of Mycroft to provoke the most distinguished criminologist of the century proved largely ineffectual, and Holmes permitted himself a fraternal smile as his brother slowly bestirred his frame.

“You are right, Mycroft,” he rejoined lightly. “And I shall immediately compose two letters: one to Messrs.
Cook and Marchant;
the other to Mr. Wyndham, asking that gentleman to meet us here at six o'clock tomorrow evening.”

Already I was aware of the easy and confident demeanour with which Holmes was tackling the singular mystery which confronted us all. But for the moment my attention was diverted by a small but most curious incident.

“It is just as well, Sherlock,” said Mycroft (who appeared now to be almost fully awakened), “that you do not propose to write three letters.”

Seldom (let me admit it) have I seen my friend so perplexed: “A
third
letter?”

“Indeed. But such a letter could have no certain destination, since it apparently slipped your memory to ask the young lady her present address, and the letters she entrusted to you appear, as I survey them, to be lacking their outer envelopes.”

Momentarily Holmes looked less than amused by this light-hearted intervention. “You are more observant today than I thought, Mycroft, for the evidence of eye and ear had led me to entertain the suspicion that you were sleeping soundly during my recent conversation with Miss van Allen. But as regards her address, you are right.” And even as he spoke I noted the twinkle of mischievous intelligence in his eyes. “Yet it would not be too difficult perhaps to
deduce
the young lady's address, Mycroft? On such a foul day as this it is dangerous and ill-advised for a lady to travel the streets if she has a perfectly acceptable and comfortable alternative such as the Underground; and since it was precisely 3:14 p.m. when Miss van Allen first appeared beneath my window, I would hazard the guess that she had caught the Metropolitan-line train which passes through Baker Street at 3:12 p.m. on its journey to Hammersmith. We may consider two further clues, also. The lady's boots, ill-assorted as they were, bore little evidence of the mud and mire of our London streets; and we may infer from this that her own home is perhaps
as adjacent to an Underground station as is our own. More significant, however, is the fact, as we all observed, that Miss van Allen wore a dress of linen—a fabric which, though it is long-lasting and pleasing to wear, is one which has the disadvantage of creasing most easily. Now the skirt of the dress had been most recently ironed, and the slight creases in it must have resulted from her journey—to see me. And—I put this forward as conjecture, Mycroft—probably no more than three or four stops on the Underground had been involved. If we remember, too, the ‘few minutes' her wedding-carriage took from her home to St. Saviour's, I think, perhaps…perhaps…” Holmes drew a street-map towards him, and surveyed his chosen area with his magnification-glass.

“I shall plump,” he said directly, “for Cowcross Street myself—that shabbily genteel little thoroughfare which links Farringdon Road with St. John Street.”

“Very impressive!” said Mycroft, anticipating my own admiration. “And would you place her on the north, or the south side, of that thoroughfare, Sherlock?”

But before Holmes could reply to this small pleasantry, Mrs. Hudson entered with a slip of paper which she handed to Holmes. “The young lady says she forgot to give you her address, sir, and she's written it down for you.”

Holmes glanced quickly at the address and a glint of pride gleamed in his eyes. “The answer to your question, Mycroft, is the south side—for it is an even-numbered house, and if I remember correctly the numbering of houses in that part of London invariably begins at the east end of the street with the odd numbers on the right-hand side walking westwards.”

“And the number is perhaps in the middle or late thirties?” suggested Mycroft. “Thirty-six, perhaps? Or more likely thirty-eight?”

Holmes himself handed over the paper to us and we read:

Miss Charlotte van Allen

38, Cowcross Street

I was daily accustomed to exhibitions of the most extraordinary deductive logic employed by Sherlock Holmes, but I had begun at this point to suspect, in his brother Mycroft, the existence of some quite paranormal mental processes. It was only some half an hour later, when Holmes himself had strolled out for tobacco, that Mycroft, observing my continued astonishment, spoke quietly in my ear.

“If you keep your lips sealed, Dr. Watson, I will tell you a small secret—albeit a very simple one. The good lady's coat was thrown rather carelessly, as you noticed, over the back of a chair; and on the inside of the lining was sewn a tape with her name and address clearly printed on it. Alas, however, my eyes are now not so keen as they were in my youth, and sixes and eights, as you know, are readily susceptible of confusion.”

I have never been accused, I trust, of undue levity, but I could not help laughing heartily at this coup on Mycroft's part, and I assured him that his brother should never hear the truth of it from me.

“Sherlock?” said Mycroft, raising his mighty eyebrows. “He saw through my little joke immediately.”

It was not until past six o'clock the following evening that I returned to Baker Street after (it is not an irrelevant matter) a day of deep interest at St. Thomas's Hospital.

“Well, have you solved the mystery yet?” I asked, as I entered the sitting room.

Holmes I found curled up in his armchair, smoking his oily clay pipe, and discussing medieval madrigals with Mycroft.

“Yes, Watson, I believe——”

But hardly were the words from his mouth when we heard a heavy footfall in the passage and a sharp rap on the door.

“This will be the girl's step-father,” said Holmes. “He has written to say he would be here at a quarter after six. Come in!”

The man who entered was a sturdy, middle-sized
fellow, about thirty years of age, clean-shaven, sallow-skinned, with a pair of most penetrating eyes. He placed his shiny top-hat on the sideboard, and with an insinuating bow sidled down into the nearest chair.

“I am assuming,” said Holmes, “that you are Mr. James Wyndham and” (holding up a typewritten sheet) “that this is the letter you wrote to me?”

“I am that person, sir, and the letter is mine. It was against my expressed wish, as you may know, that Miss van Allen contacted you in this matter. But she is an excitable young lady, and my wife and I will be happy to forgive her for such an impulsive action. Yet I must ask you to have nothing more to do with what is, unfortunately, a not uncommon misfortune. It is clear what took place, and I think it highly unlikely, sir, that even you will find so much as a single trace of Mr. Darvill.”

“On the contrary,” replied Holmes quietly, “I have reason to believe that I have already discovered the whereabouts of that gentleman.”

Mr. Wyndham gave a violent start, and dropped his gloves. “I am delighted to hear it,” he said in a strained voice.

“It is a most curious fact,” continued Holmes, “that a type-writer has just as much individuality as does handwriting. Even when completely new, no two machines are exactly alike; and as they get older, some characters wear on this side and some on that. Now in this letter of yours, Mr. Wyndham, you will note that in every instance there is some slight slurring in the eye of the ‘e'; and a most easily detectable defect in the tail of the ‘t.' ”