The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes - The Ripper Legacy E-Book

David Stuart Davies

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Seitenzahl: 274

Beschreibung

Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson investigate the case of a kidnapped child. With no ransom note, and a sinister connection to the highest echelons of Victorian society, the companions' lives are in danger. What is the child's true heritage? And what is the connection with the vicious Whitechapel murders?

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Available Now from Titan Books

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Thirty-Nine

About the Author

The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes

AVAILABLE NOW FROM TITAN BOOKS THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES SERIES:

THE DEVIL’S PROMISEDavid Stuart Davies

THE VEILED DETECTIVEDavid Stuart Davies

THE SCROLL OF THE DEADDavid Stuart Davies

THE WHITE WORMSam Siciliano

THE ANGEL OF THE OPERASam Siciliano

THE WEB WEAVERSam Siciliano

THE GRIMSWELL CURSESam Siciliano

THE ALBINO’S TREASUREStuart Douglas

THE COUNTERFEIT DETECTIVE (October 2016)Stuart Douglas

MURDER AT SORROW’S CROWN (September 2016)Steven Savile & Robert Greenberger

THE ECTOPLASMIC MANDaniel Stashower

THE WAR OF THE WORLDSManly Wade Wellman & Wade Wellman

THE SEVENTH BULLETDaniel D. Victor

DR JEKYLL AND MR HOLMESLoren D. Estleman

THE PEERLESS PEERPhilip José Farmer

THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES:THE RIPPER LEGACYPrint edition ISBN: 9781783296590E-book edition ISBN: 9781783296606

Published by Titan BooksA division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

First edition: July 201610 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

© 2016 David Stuart Davies

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

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To Mark Gatiss, a great fan of the Baker Street boy, who helps tokeep the Sherlockian flame burning brightly.

One

Dr Watson’s Journal

I was not blessed with children. It was one of the great sadnesses of my life, but Fate decreed that I should never become a parent. When I married my beloved Mary, we both thought that in time we would have a baby. Ideally I wanted a boy and a girl. The girl would possess all the qualities of my intelligent and beautiful wife, and the boy would carry on the name of Watson with what I hoped would be distinction and honour. But it was not to be.

Both Mary and I were of the mind that the first few years of our married life should be devoted to one another. We thought that there would be plenty of time to introduce little strangers into our domestic situation later on. But in the fourth year of our marriage, Mary fell victim to a series of illnesses that in themselves were not life threatening but in combination seriously weakened her constitution. When she caught diphtheria in that cursed winter of 1892, she had little reserve to fight it. She was brave to the end, but nothing that I or my colleagues administered could prevent her from succumbing. Towards the end, I saw her gradually fading before my eyes, slowly evolving into a ghost.

Mary died in my arms.

I not only lost my wife that terrible day but so many of my dreams and, if I’m truthful, I do believe that I was never quite the same man again.

When Mary died I was already suffering a loss – one, however, that proved not to be permanent. My friend, Sherlock Holmes, the best and wisest man I knew, had disappeared from my life in 1891. I believed that he had tumbled into the roaring torrent of the Reichenbach Falls, in a death tussle with Professor James Moriarty. As I learned later, this was not the case. Moriarty had perished, but Holmes had escaped the same watery fate and effectively absented himself from public life for the next three years. I knew nothing of his remarkable escape and when he eventually returned to London after a time travelling on the continent and beyond, and walked back into my lonely life, I was so overjoyed to see him that any resentment that may have flamed in my breast at his deception was doused in the joy of the reunion.

Within a short time of his reappearance I had returned to our rooms in Baker Street and resumed my station in the armchair by the fire opposite my friend. ‘It is quite like the old days,’ he observed, one evening shortly after my reinstatement, as he idly plucked the strings of his violin.

I nodded and gave him a brief smile. But, in truth, it was not like the old days. We were both slightly damaged, different men from those two young fellows who first began sharing rooms together many years ago. Life certainly had taken its toll on me. I had loved and lost. There would always be an empty dark corner in my life now. In those idle moments that come upon one unexpectedly, I found my mind going back to my days with Mary: our courtship, our marriage, and those quiet evenings together. All gone.

Often I would see a lady in the street with her children and felt a physical pain of regret and longing. Of course, I would never reveal these feelings to Sherlock Holmes. He had little time for emotion and the world of domestic happiness was alien to him and held no interest for his clinical and oh so rational mind.

These were my secret thoughts and feelings, as I’m sure Holmes had his own, and we guarded them cautiously lest we reveal any inkling of their content. My friend, too, had suffered the slings and arrows of capricious fortune and his brush with death had brought intimations of his own mortality into his purview. He was still the enigmatic fellow I had first encountered, the brilliant thinker and detective, but somehow he was also a sadder man. Like the old days? In so many ways, yes. On the surface at least. But in other ways, no. Life had bruised us.

* * *

I have long resisted recounting the dark and dramatic details of the Temple kidnapping case for many reasons; some of them political, but mainly because it involved the loss of a child, something that had such a strong effect upon me emotionally. I have to confess I am not sure I know why I have decided to do so now, unless it is to ease the disquiet I feel when I recall this investigation and that the act of putting the details down on paper will be some kind of catharsis. Who can say?

* * *

It was a very wet day in the March of 1895. A net of rain held the capital in its thrall. As evening approached the leaden skies gave no hope of relief. I had returned to Baker Street after spending a desultory afternoon at my club. I had intended to have a game of billiards with my usual partner, Thurston, but he was not around so, after taking a light lunch, I mooched in the reading room perusing the papers, allowing boredom to take hold. I would have walked home had it not been for the rain, so instead resorted to the comfort and convenience of a cab.

As I entered our sitting room, shaking off my wet coat, I saw that Holmes had a visitor, a dark-suited young man, who sat opposite my friend in my armchair. He was leaning forward almost in a pose of supplication and, to my surprise, he seemed to be crying. His eyes were moist and his cheeks were damp. As I moved further into the room, he turned his face from me.

‘Ah,’ said Holmes briskly. ‘Here is my friend and associate, Dr Watson. Returned early from his club without the pleasure of his usual game of billiards, I see.’

‘How did…’ I stopped and gave a wry grin. I was used to this kind of recital by now, but that did not prevent me from being surprised by the accuracy of Holmes’s deduction.

‘No billiard chalk in your sleeve as there usually is and no pencil marks on your cuff where you make your calculations,’ Holmes responded, answering my half-formed question, before throwing a languid arm in the direction of our visitor. ‘Let me introduce you to Mr Ronald Temple, who has brought a little puzzle to our door for us to solve.’ Apparently unperturbed by the young man’s distress, Holmes turned to him with a cold smile. ‘Dr Watson is an invaluable aid to my detective work. I would like him to hear your story also. I trust that is agreeable?’

Ronald Temple did not seem capable of a verbal response and just nodded his head. Holmes glanced at me, his expression revealing that he realised perhaps he had been too brusque and businesslike in his treatment of our potential client. ‘I think perhaps Mr Temple could do with a brandy to steel him for the task of repeating his sad tale. If you would be so kind, Watson…’

Without a word I poured Mr Temple a brandy and slipped the glass between his nervous fingers. I was struck by how pale and cold they were. Indeed, the fellow was so inanimate and unresponsive that he appeared to be in some kind of trance. He was a tall, good-looking fellow, somewhere in his mid-thirties, with strong, intelligent features. His neat blonde hair was anointed with pomade, which shone in the firelight rather like some artificial halo. His clothes, although somewhat crumpled, were well cut and expensive. Dark circles beneath his eyes bore witness to several sleepless nights. Whatever problem he had brought to the door of Sherlock Holmes, his features reflected the anguish that it caused.

‘Do take a drink,’ said Holmes. ‘It will help to fortify you.’

Like a child, Mr Temple did as he was told. I pulled up a chair and waited.

‘Now,’ said Holmes, more gently, ‘if you’ll begin again, Mr Temple.’

We waited a few moments for our visitor to respond to Holmes’s request. He seemed distracted and weighed down with a disabling soulful burden, but at length he spoke. The words emerged as a hoarse whisper, flat and unemotional, belying the tortured expression on his face.

‘He’s been taken. William. He’s been kidnapped. Stolen from us.’

‘And William is…’ prompted my friend gently.

‘My son. William. He is eight years of age. He has been kidnapped. Taken.’

‘The police know of this?’ I asked gently, my heart going out to the distressed fellow.

He nodded and for the first time turned to me as though he had just become aware of my presence. ‘They have found nothing. They are lost. Just as we are.’

Holmes leaned forward and addressed Temple in a quiet, soothing manner.

‘Please, Mr Temple, give us the relevant facts and pray be precise as to detail. We need to know your whole story before we can assess the situation.’

Temple took a sip of brandy and began.

‘I am a stockbroker in the city and even if I say so myself, I am very successful in my profession. As a result I live a very comfortable life with a pleasant house in Cricklewood. I am married to my childhood sweetheart, Charlotte, and we have the happiest of marriages. Our happiness was increased when eight years ago our son William was born. He is a bright, intelligent fellow and…’ Temple paused, his voice cracking, and he gazed down unseeingly into the brandy glass.

Holmes and I remained silent and waited for him to regain his composure, which he did after another sip of brandy.

‘Six days ago, he travelled up to town with my wife and his nanny, Mrs Susan Gordon, a widowed lady who has been in her post since William was a baby. They visited the Natural History Museum – William is currently fascinated by dinosaurs – and then went for a stroll in Kensington Gardens. They walked by the lake, William rushing ahead as young boys do. For a brief moment Charlotte and Mrs Gordon lost sight of him in the crowd. At first they weren’t concerned. William is a good lad and they knew he would come back to them in time. And then… and then…’ Temple shook his head as though in denial, not wanting to reveal the next part of his narrative. ‘And then, they saw William in the company of two men, each holding him firmly by the hands, virtually dragging him away from the lake towards the entrance of the park. William seemed distressed and appeared to be struggling to be free of their hold, but to no avail. The brutes had him firmly in their grasp. My wife and Mrs Gordon were momentarily frozen with shock and horror at what they saw and then when the full realisation of what was happening dawned on them, they gave chase. They were hindered in their pursuit by the crowds and at one point a woman with a perambulator crashed into Charlotte, knocking her down. When they were able to resume their chase, William and the two men had… disappeared. Gone. There was no sign of them anywhere. The poor boy had been snatched from us.’

With these words he slumped back in his chair, the strain of recounting this haunting incident etched deep in his pale features.

‘What happened next?’ prompted Holmes after a pause.

‘We contacted the police and a search was instigated, but nothing was found. They seem at a loss at what to do other than wait to see if the boy turns up. That is hardly likely.’

‘Has there been a ransom note?’ I asked.

Temple shook his head. ‘We’ve heard nothing.’

Holmes steepled his fingers and gazed directly at Temple. ‘Can you think of any reason why your son was taken?’

‘None. He’s just an ordinary little boy. I am comfortably off but I am not rich.’

‘What about the two men who abducted William? Could your wife describe them?’

‘Only in the vaguest terms. She never really saw their faces – just from the side. They were tall, muscular men, probably middle-aged, and dressed in dark clothing. We are in a deep, dark fog, Mr Holmes. I come to you in desperation. Can you find our boy? Can you return him to us?’

Holmes’s features, lit by the firelight, looked grim as he replied. ‘I do not know. It would be wrong of me to give you false hope. There is very little to grasp in this case. Strangers snatch your son and disappear. There seems to be no motive other than the possession of a young boy.’

‘Then we are lost. Lost.’ Temple ran his fingers across his brow in a distracted fashion, his eyes moistening with tears once more.

‘Not quite, I hope. Indeed, hope is all I can offer you at present,’ said Holmes. ‘But beware, for it is only a slender hope. I just need the thinnest of threads so I can begin to ravel it slowly towards a solution. But there has to be that thread. I will look into the matter and see what I can do.’

This news brightened the face of our visitor and his features briefly fashioned themselves into a ghost of a smile. ‘Bless you, sir. Bless you.’

‘Please remember I can promise no miracles. One cannot make bricks without clay. It is essential I gain as much information about the kidnapping as possible. Therefore the first thing we should do is accompany you to your home so that I can talk with your wife and the nanny, Mrs Gordon. As they were major players in this drama, what they have to say may be of great use.’

* * *

Our journey to Cricklewood by hansom cab was carried out in silence, each of us lost in our own thoughts. No doubt Holmes was weighing up the meagre facts in his mind and contemplating the various scenarios that could result from them. His brows were contracted and those steely eyes had a faraway look, but it was the thin lips compressed and turned down that told me of his deep unease. By contrast Temple’s face was a blank. He was obviously exhausted and the strain of his situation had drained him of all emotion and thought for the moment.

Cedar Lodge was a smart Georgian villa set in its own grounds, approached by a curving tree-lined drive. The door was opened to us by a tall stately woman with strong aquiline features, emphasised by the fact that her straw-coloured hair was pulled back in a severe bun. She greeted Temple with a chaste kiss on the cheek.

‘This is my sister-in-law, Hilda Bennett. Mr Holmes and Dr Watson.’

We shook hands and exchanged muted pleasantries.

‘Charlotte is resting. I’ll let her know that you have returned,’ Miss Bennett said.

Temple nodded. ‘Please do. Mr Holmes would like to have words with her.’

With a brief nod, and a rustle of her skirt, she disappeared into the recesses of the house.

We were taken into a large, pleasant drawing room with French windows, which gave a view of a lawn and shrubbery beyond. A fire crackled and flickered in the hearth.

‘Please make yourself at home, gentlemen. I will arrange for some tea,’ said our host.

Without another word he left us. This was the first occasion that Holmes and I had been alone together since we had heard Temple’s sad story.

‘Well, Holmes,’ I said quietly, ‘what do you make of it?’

He shook his head sadly. ‘It is hopeless, Watson. Absolutely hopeless.’

Two

‘Poor mite. He ain’t eating still. He’ll waste away if he goes on much longer like this.’

The woman wiped her nose with the back of her hand and threw the plate into the sink. The sound of it echoed around the shabby chamber.

‘Hey, you silly cow,’ cried her husband with fervour, ‘I could’ve ate that.’

‘Ah, it’s gone cold now.’

‘Still…’ He pursed his lips and, with a petulant gesture, pulled a wooden chair away from the table nearer the fire. ‘The young gentleman’ll learn in time. Two or three more days and he’ll be ready to eat a dead rat. You mark my words.’

The woman gave a wheezy laugh. ‘I’d like to see you serve that up to him.’

The man grinned. ‘Rats is rich in vittles.’ He chuckled wheezily.

‘You are a devil, Percy. You really are.’ The woman smiled, revealing a mouth that had lost most of its teeth.

‘Well, maybe. I’d certainly prefer to be about some devilish business rather than turning into a nursery maid.’

‘It won’t be for much longer. At least that’s what he said.’

‘Aye, maybe.’ Absentmindedly, he examined his fingers; large, fleshy, dirt-ingrained appendages atop a huge hand. He clenched them into a fist and punched the air. ‘I miss the ring,’ he muttered to himself.

‘Ah, you’re too old and slow for that game now.’

He gave a grunt of annoyance. He knew that she was right and this made the knowledge all the more painful. He rubbed the gnarled growth on the side of his head which a thousand punches ago had been an ear. ‘I need some ale.’ He rose from the chair and made for the door.

‘You don’t be late and don’t come back roarin’ drunk. We have responsibilities, Percy, which we’re paid handsomely for.’

‘Yes, yes,’ he said, grabbing his overcoat from the coat hook. ‘I’ll be a good boy.’ He gurgled mirthfully and left.

The woman, Annie Grimes, sat for some time by the fire gazing at the flames, her mind free of thought, and then with a sigh she rose with some purpose. Candlestick in hand she made her way up the rickety staircase to the first room on the landing. She unlocked the door and peered inside. The boy lay curled on the rough sacking that served as his bed. He appeared to be asleep.

‘Hungry yet?’ said Annie, not unkindly.

There was no response.

Her expression soured. ‘Please yourself then,’ she said, closing and locking the door.

Three

Dr Watson’s Journal

Charlotte Temple was a very pretty woman in her early thirties. She was shorter and rounder than her sister and her features were somehow softer and kinder. It was clear that she had applied some extra face powder to hide the dark circles under her eyes and the ravages of sleepless nights that had marred her beauty. She shook both our hands gently, appearing somewhat wary of us, and then joined her husband on the sofa. Her sister, Hilda, sat upright in a chair by the drawing-room window.

‘I know how very trying this must be for you,’ said Holmes sympathetically, ‘but I do not ask you to recount the events of the day your son disappeared lightly. It may be that one trifling piece of information that you are able to give me may be of vital importance. We shall have to see.’ When he wanted to – usually in the pursuit of evidence for a case – Holmes could be remarkably gentle and persuasive with the opposite sex. It was a talent rather than a natural facility.

Charlotte Temple shifted her position on the sofa as though she was nervous, but she replied in a clear, forthright manner: ‘I am more than happy to go over the events again if they have only an infinitesimal chance of providing a clue to where my little boy is.’

‘Good,’ said Holmes with a smile. ‘So, this excursion to London. Had it been planned for a while?’

‘It was a belated birthday treat. William had a heavy cold on his birthday so the celebrations were somewhat muted. I promised him this trip when he was feeling better. We travelled up to town in the morning…’

‘We?’

‘William, my husband and Mrs Gordon, our nanny. My husband went off to his work and we visited the Natural History Museum. It was a very happy occasion.’

‘Were you conscious of anyone following you or did you perhaps see certain individuals more than once in different locations?’

Charlotte Temple shook her head. ‘No. Nothing like that,’ she said without hesitation.

‘Did anything unusual happen at all while you were at the museum?’

‘No, not that I can recall…’

‘Anything?’

Mrs Temple thought hard for some moments before replying. ‘Well, I was almost pushed to the ground by a fellow desperate to leave the building. He collided with me as he rushed past in a terrible hurry, knocking me sideways, and for a moment I feared I might lose my balance. He muttered his apologies without stopping.’

‘Could you describe him?’

She closed her eyes as though trying to bring an image of this man to mind. ‘It all happened so fast and I thought nothing of it. He was youngish, dark-haired and tall. Oh, and he carried a silver-headed cane.’

Holmes nodded. ‘Thank you. What happened after you visited the museum?’

‘We walked to Kensington Gardens. Our plan was to stroll about a little in the sunshine, watch the model boats on the Round Pond and then take William for a late lunch at a restaurant near to where my husband works. He was due to join us there.’

‘The two men you saw who took William away – did you observe them before the abduction? Loitering nearby, perhaps?’

‘Oh, Mr Holmes, this is a question that haunts me. I cannot be sure. Sometimes my mind says that I did. At other times, I think I’m fooling myself.’

‘I understand. Now please describe to me in precise detail what happened when William was taken.’

Charlotte Temple clasped her husband’s hand and took a deep breath before responding. ‘William had become fascinated by one of the boats on the pond, a little white-masted schooner. He rushed along the edge of the water keeping up with its progress. As a result, his enthusiasm caused him to run well ahead of Mrs Gordon and me and then… and then…’ She faltered momentarily, but resumed her narrative with added steel in her voice. ‘He disappeared from our sight, lost in the throng at the edge of the pond. At first we were not in any way alarmed, but as we quickened our pace to catch up with him we realised we could not see him – had no idea where he was. There were crowds that day and it was so easy to get lost in the crush. We began calling his name. And then, as we broke through a knot of people, we saw in the distance two men taking William away with them. They were virtually dragging him along at great speed.’

‘What were these men like?’

‘Again I can only give you the sketchiest of details. They were tall, brutish, I should say. Not gentlemen. That’s about all, I’m afraid.’

‘What happened next?’

‘We hastened after these men, calling out, but we were hindered by the crowd who took no notice of our cries and then out of nowhere it seemed this woman ran into us with a pram and winded me. I fell to the ground briefly.’

‘This woman – what was she like?’

‘Well, I assume she wasn’t the mother of the baby for she appeared quite advanced in years. A rough-looking woman, rather shabbily dressed. I certainly wouldn’t have wanted her to be in charge of any child of mine.’

‘Did you see the baby?’

Charlotte Temple seemed surprised at this question and her brow furrowed. ‘Well… no not really. The hood of the pram was up… but she’d hardly be pushing an empty perambulator would she?’

Holmes pursed his lips. ‘Quite.’

‘What did this woman say? Did she apologise?’ I asked.

‘No, she did not. She told me to mind where I was going and to get out of her way.’

‘A charming soul.’

‘I took little notice of her ill manners. I was desperate to catch up with the two men who had my boy, but by the time we resumed our chase they had… disappeared.’

Mrs Temple gave a sharp intake of breath and lowered her head as though the retelling of these dreadful details had robbed her of all energy. My heart went out to this poor distressed soul.

‘Why would they take him, Mr Holmes, for what reason?’ This question came from Hilda Bennett.

‘There are several possible reasons, but it would be futile to discuss them in detail now until we have more data. However, it does seem that a ransom is not one of them. There has been no communication from the kidnappers?’

Mrs Temple shook her head.

‘Do you have a photograph of your son? It will help greatly in our investigation.’

Mrs Temple nodded assent. ‘I will select one for you. Perhaps you also ought to know that William has a birthmark. On his shoulder.’ She indicated the location on her own body. ‘It is in the shape of a triangle or pyramid. It is very distinctive.’

Holmes jotted this down in his notebook. ‘Excellent. That is most useful to know. And now perhaps I could have words with Mrs Gordon.’

‘She can only tell you what my wife has done,’ said Temple. There was a brittleness in his voice, borne no doubt of frustration and tiredness.

‘Nevertheless…’ responded Holmes gently.

* * *

Mrs Susan Gordon was a homely soul, a lady in her early sixties I should guess, and one who radiated both warmth and reliability. We interviewed her alone in her private sitting room and indeed she gave the very same account of the abduction as Mrs Temple, but Holmes questioned her further.

‘These wonderful samples of needlepoint I see around me are your work, I suspect,’ he said with some enthusiasm.

The lady smiled. ‘Yes, they are.’

‘They are exquisite. You have a keen eye to perform work in such detail.’

‘I believe so,’ she replied modestly.

‘I am now going to call upon those eyes to describe to me the two men you saw take young Master William.’

‘Oh, it all happened so quickly… there really wasn’t time to notice much.’

‘Not much, but something.’

She hesitated for a moment, her brow furrowing gently. ‘Well, yes, I suppose it’s possible.’

‘Take your mind back to the incident. Form an image in your mind. Think hard. You are back in Kensington Gardens. There are people all around you. Young William – you see him ahead of you, by the water’s edge…’

‘Yes… yes I do,’ Mrs Gordon replied breathily, her body erect and her gaze directed into the far distance.

‘Now,’ said Holmes, leaning towards the woman, ‘you see the two men, tall…’

‘One was taller than the other. The shorter one was stout and had wispy hair sticking out beneath his cap.’

‘A cap, not a hat.’

‘Yes, a cap: one of those large tweed things – like the raised crust on a mutton pie.’

‘Good. What else? What about his features?’

‘I only saw him sideways, in profile. There wasn’t a lot to see.’

‘Clean-shaven?’

Mrs Gordon hesitated a moment. ‘Why no. He had a moustache, a big one. The sort that hangs over the lip. What do you call them?’

‘A walrus moustache.’

‘That’s it.’

‘What age was this man would you say?’

‘Difficult to say. The hair was greyish. Probably in his forties, maybe late forties.’

‘And what of his clothes?’

Mrs Gordon thought a while then smiled. ‘Why, now you come to mention it, I believe he was wearing checked trousers.’

Holmes threw me a satisfied glance. ‘And what about the other fellow? The tall one.’

‘Oh, he was an ugly brute. His features were large. Great big bulbous nose and pockmarked skin. And one of his ears, well it was like some sort of gnarled growth on the side of his head.’ She shuddered at the thought.

‘Excellent.’ Holmes clapped his hands with pleasure.

Mrs Gordon smiled benignly. ‘I had no idea that I remembered so much.’

‘The mind takes in many things subconsciously; it’s just that we need to take extra coaxing to retrieve them. You have done most excellently.’

‘Will it help?’

‘I hope so. I truly hope so.’

* * *

Some ten minutes later we took our leave of Mr and Mrs Temple. Holmes had secured a photograph of the missing boy and assured them he would do his best to discover the whereabouts of their son.

On the cab ride back to Baker Street Holmes said little. He sat, his shoulders hunched inside his ulster with his chin resting on his chest like some great brooding bird. I knew that in moments like this there was little point in trying to engage my friend in conversation. I was aware that he was deep in thought about the case, removed mentally from his physical surroundings, and I had no intention of interrupting his musings.

It wasn’t until late that evening, when we sat by our fireside sipping a nightcap, that I referred to the desperate business that he had been summoned to resolve.

‘Have you developed any theories regarding the matter?’ I asked in as casual a manner as I could muster.

Holmes gave a derisive snort. ‘I am a detective, not a magician. I cannot conjure up a solution out of thin air. I need data, facts, evidence. Only then can I function with some efficacy.’

‘Was there nothing you learned today that is of any use?’

Holmes pursed his lips. ‘A little. The two abductors are no doubt of the fancy sporting types. The tweed cap and checked trousers are de rigueur for the track and the ring and the brutish fellow with the bulbous nose and cauliflower ear is most likely a boxer, probably an ex-boxer now that he is employed in such nefarious activities as kidnapping. And I use the word ‘employed’ carefully, for it is clear to me that these two fellows are hired hands. Individuals of that ilk are not the progenitors of such crimes as kidnapping, they are merely worker bees. There is something dark and dangerous about this business, I am convinced of it. It goes much deeper than a simple kidnapping. It troubles me greatly.’ He stared into the dying flames and sighed.

* * *

I came down to breakfast the following morning quite early, but Holmes was already up and I found him at the table examining the photograph of young William Temple that his mother had given to us. As I sat by my friend, he passed it to me. ‘Do you notice anything odd about this photograph?’ he asked.