The New Mysteries of Sherlock Holmes (12 page)

The voice was so refined that it might almost be described as effete. Yet it belonged to a grimy man dressed in a torn and tattered ruffian’s coat. As he reached the head of the stairs, he halted, and studied us with an undisguised curiosity that I felt verged upon the indecent.

‘You are President of the Amateur Mendicant Society, I believe.’

‘You are well informed, sir.’ The man gave a little bow. ‘Tobias Rothwell, at your service. And how honoured I am to meet Mr Sherlock Holmes, the distinguished consulting detective. Gentlemen, may I welcome you to our little club. Would you like to accompany me downstairs?’

We followed Rothwell, our footsteps echoing eerily on the stone steps. The staircase seemed to wind down into the very bowels of the earth, and the air was dank and unpleasant. Cobwebs festooned the brick walls and I could hear the scurrying of unseen rodents. When at last we reached the bottom, we found ourselves in a narrow passageway lit by a single candle, facing a stout door. The dust in the air stung my sinuses and made me want to sneeze.

As we approached, the door swung back, on unexpectedly well-greased hinges, to reveal the white-garbed Indian who had admitted us to the building. He executed a graceful bow, and stepped aside. Rothwell moved forward, and with a wry smile, beckoned Holmes and myself within.

Nothing could have prepared me for the extraordinary sight that greeted our eyes. We had entered a long, low-ceilinged room and it was as if we had walked straight in from the pavement of Pall Mall and entered a subterranean pastiche of the Athenaeum. The walls were panelled in mahogany, the carpet on the floor felt as smooth as velvet. The room held a dozen chesterfields, as well as a generously stocked bar at the far end. The air was thick with cigar smoke and the low murmur of convivial conversation. Perhaps twenty-five men were present, including another couple of white-garbed Indian servants. Several of the club members held in their hands wine glasses of the most exquisite crystal; others smoked contentedly and perused the Court Circular in
The Times
. Their demeanour possessed the negligent assurance of men who ruled the Empire, yet every single man in the room, like Rothwell, was dressed as a beggar. Their faces were grubby, and there were rents in their rough shirts and trousers, while their footwear was worn and ill-fitting. A couple of them cast us an idle glance. Most paid no attention whatsoever to our arrival in their midst.  

‘Mr Holmes, Dr Watson, I bid you welcome,’ Rothwell said. ‘May I offer you a drink? We make the immodest claim that our cellar is one of the five finest in London.’

‘Thank you, no,’ Holmes said. ‘We are here in connection with the will of the late Miss Alicia Stubbings.’

Rothwell frowned. ‘She is deceased?’

‘The name is familiar to you, I see.’

‘Certainly. Miss Stubbings was once engaged to be married to my uncle. Three months ago, she wrote to me at my home in Park Lane to say how much she had admired his work for charitable causes through this Society. She said she was coming towards the end of her life, and wanted to know if the Society still flourished, as she had it in mind to leave a portion of her estate to further its aims. I confirmed that the Society was still very much extant, and that I had recently been elected to the office of its President. Our correspondence ended at that point, and I was unaware that she had passed away.’

‘She died at home recently. After various bequests, the residue of her estate is given to the Amateur Mendicant Society.’

I detected eyebrows rising beneath the grime. ‘That is undoubtedly generous. Had she no family?’

‘There is a brother, Hubert, who is well provided for, but nobody else.’

‘Then there is no question of the gift depriving anyone of much-needed funds,’ Rothwell said. ‘Excellent. Our stocks of Imperial Tokay are running rather low and there is a particularly fine case coming up for auction shortly.’

‘Your aims are not exclusively unselfish, I gather,’ I said.

‘Nor have we ever pretended otherwise,’ Rothwell replied smoothly. ‘Tell me, Dr Watson, how much charity is practised without a hint of self-interest? The members of this Society are no hypocrites. We assist the unfortunate by collecting money in the streets of London, but we have never set out to do good at the expense of our own pleasure. Every member of this club can afford the finest dress-suit from Savile Row, but relishes the opportunity to escape from the quotidian – and the Society, sir, provides such escape. Each of us relishes the opportunity to mix with like-minded fellows over a glass of the finest wine in the comfortable dress of ruffians. This is a unique haven below the bustle of the streets. To go up and out into the city disguised as beggars adds a wonderful piquancy to our leisure. The combination of hedonism with altruism caters admirably for our tastes. I can only regret that neither of you gentlemen has the educational pedigree to entitle you to join our little gathering.’

‘We shall have to seek our consolations elsewhere,’ Holmes said briskly. ‘May I ask if you are familiar with an attorney by the name of Peter Mueller?’

Rothwell shook his head. ‘In common with the majority of my colleagues in the Society, I employ the services of Edgar Trump. He acts personally for the Chief Cashier of the Bank of England, and is an infinitely reliable fellow. You can see him over there, the short man at the bar enjoying a Havana in the company of the Queen’s Swan Warden?’

‘Mueller drew up the will which disinherited Alicia Stubbings’ housemaid and almost doubled the bequest to this Society,’ I said sharply.

‘Then we owe him a debt of gratitude for his professional services,’ Rothwell said coolly. ‘As well as to Miss Stubbings for her generosity.’

‘He is a large man with a guttural accent,’ I said. ‘Does the description tally with that of any of your members?’

‘I trust, my dear Dr Watson, that you are not implying sharp practice on the part of this Society? I should warn you that Trump has a partner with a special practice in the law of slander.’

I was about to make an angry retort, but felt Holmes’ restraining hand on my wrist. ‘Come, Watson. Our business here is done.’

‘But…’

Rothwell gave me an ironic nod. I felt my cheeks burn. Even the Indian servants, I suspected, were smirking behind my back.

‘I am sure you would not wish to outstay your welcome, Doctor.’

‘Good day to you, Rothwell,’ Holmes said. ‘Watson, we must be punctual for our next  appointment.’

He led me briskly through the door and back up the stone staircase. Soon we were standing outside in the alley-way and I gulped in the chill air of early evening. It seemed much fresher than the clammy and self-satisfied atmosphere in the lower vault of the warehouse.

‘Well, Watson?’

‘I am convinced that they are men with something to hide,’ I said.

‘Show me the man with nothing to hide,’ Holmes said, ‘and I will show you a cipher. Come, let us take a cab to the late Miss Stubbings’ house.’

We arrived at Dismore Street five minutes before the time we had agreed. It was a shabby thoroughfare in the vicinity of St Pancras and I heard the rumble and clank of trains as we dismounted. The wind was blowing fiercely now, and the street was deserted and forlorn. The house occupied the middle place in a terrace and it was plain that little attention had been paid to its upkeep since Alicia Stubbings’ middle years. Paint peeled from the front door and the window frames, and the net curtains were as ragged as Tobias Rothwell’s shirt.

Stubbings had agreed that John Pawson and his wife might remain in the house rent-free until either it was sold, or they found alternative accommodation, provided that they kept it clean and tidy. I wondered if it troubled his conscience that, by witnessing the will, he had deprived the dismissed housemaid of one-tenth of his sister’s estate. The sum was negligible in Rothwell’s eyes, but a small fortune to members of the working class. My heart went out to the penurious victims of an old woman’s moods.

The door was answered by a small, neat maid with intelligent brown eyes, whom I took to be Effie Pawson. It was evident that we were expected. Hubert Stubbings, she told us in a firm, educated voice, had arrived a quarter of an hour ago and explained that Holmes had expressed an interest in seeing his late sister’s home.

She showed us into a sitting room which had once been expensively decorated, although it was clear that nothing had been spent upon it for many years. On the walls were half a dozen gilt-framed paintings, dusty and dirty with age and lack of care.

The upholstery of the settee and armchairs showed its age, and the Persian carpet was threadbare. Holmes surveyed the surroundings with care, before lapsing into serene contemplation of some irony concerning our situation that had, I confess, entirely escaped me.

Stubbings rose. ‘I have explained to Effie here the reason why I sought your assistance. It may be that some slippery business has been conducted in the matter of my sister’s last will, to her considerable disadvantage.’

The maid lowered her eyes. ‘Thank you for your trouble, sir, but there is no need to be concerned on our account. John and I seek nothing more from Miss Stubbings. You have been kind to allow us to stay here for a few days, but John heard today that his cousin in Canterbury has found positions for us there, so after tonight we shall have no further need of your generosity.’

‘The Amateur Mendicant Society has profited at your expense,’ Stubbings protested. ‘Until the night of my sister’s death, she had left you one-tenth of her estate.’

‘It is a considerable sum,’ the maid murmured. ‘Far more than John or I could ever hope to earn in service. But the fact remains that she dismissed me on the spot, and…’

‘Without cause!’ Stubbings said. ‘A selfish act entirely typical of Alicia. I am sorry to say it of her now that she is dead, but her foolishness persisted to the very end, in securing the services of a solicitor who was far from what he seemed. Yet there is hope! It is possible that the will I witnessed is invalid after all!’

The maid started. ‘I cannot believe that, Mr Stubbings. Nor would I wish to profit from a legal quibble. Please do not concern yourself about me. My late mistress was impulsive on occasion, but she was undoubtedly entitled to dispose of her property as she wished.’

‘How did Miss Stubbings come to engage Mueller to act on her behalf?’ Holmes asked.

‘I…I am not sure. I think she consulted the Law List.’

‘Perhaps your husband can cast some light on the matter,’ Holmes suggested. ‘May we speak to him?’

Effie Pawson gave my friend a bewildered glance, but left the room and in a few moments returned in the company of a slender man, almost six feet in height, with thinning brown hair. He strode forward to shake Holmes by the hand.

‘Mr Holmes! It is good to make your acquaintance, sir. I have been fascinated to read about your many exploits. And Dr Watson, too! Good day to you.’

Like his wife, he was well-spoken and gave an immediate impression of a shrewd intelligence. His words of welcome were warm, but his gaze was watchful, as if he believed that, given the slightest opportunity, we might make away with the silver teaspoons.

With the introductions effected, Holmes asked the man about his mistress’s behaviour in the days leading up to her death.

‘Oh, she was always unpredictable, sir. Nothing changed there in the months that Effie and I worked for her. If you were in Miss Stubbings’ service, and spoke the least word out of turn, you were dismissed without a character. You might say that the two of us led charmed lives, until the very end.’

‘She took a fancy to you, I suppose,’ Holmes said.

John Pawson shrugged. ‘I can only say that we did our best to serve her well.’

‘Yet Alicia banished you from her home, Mrs Pawson, without the slightest justification!’ Stubbings exclaimed.

‘She was an ailing woman, sir,’ the maid said.

‘Though there was nothing amiss with her faculties?’ Holmes asked.

‘Nothing at all, to that I would swear.’

‘It was unconscionably harsh to treat you in the way she did.’

‘Well, sir, she was an old lady, and she had her fancies. Like this peculiar – what was it? - Amateur Mendicant Society.’

‘Ah yes, pray tell me, what do you know of the Society?’

‘Miss Stubbings was once engaged to one of its most prominent members,’ Effie Pawson said. ‘I am afraid he sounded to me like a rather vain young fellow, who showed more interest in the affairs of the Society than the prospect of marriage. But the distance of time had lent enchantment and I do believe that she was more in love with him this past twelvemonth than when he was still alive.’

‘She dismissed you from her service and disinherited you less than twenty-four hours before her death,’ Holmes mused. ‘You would be forgiven for a display of bitterness, or at least disappointment.’

Effie Pawson lowered her head. ‘I can only repeat that I have never had any expectation of inheritance, Mr Holmes. It is not a matter that arises with those of our station in life. So there was no cause to feel betrayed. My sole regret is that Miss Stubbings died thinking ill of me.’

‘But not, at least, of your husband. Pawson, you had something to remember her by.’

‘Aye, sir. A few small items for which she entertained some sentimental affection, that is all.’

Holmes gestured to a rather grubby landscape of swirling browns and greens that hung over the fireplace. ‘That painting, for instance?’

Pawson stared. ‘Quite the detective, Mr Holmes! You are right, sir. It is not much of a picture, but I once expressed admiration for it, merely to be polite. And she left me a watch-chain and a pair of her father’s cuff-links as well.’

Holmes considered the painting. I thought it plainly in need of restoration, but the very sight of it seemed to amuse him.

‘Are you an art lover, by any chance?’

‘Why, yes.’ Pawson smiled. ‘In my youth, indeed, I fancied that I might make a career as an artist. Alas! My dreams came to nothing in the end. But you are quite right. It is evident that your reputation as a detective has been well-earned.’