Sherlock Holmes and The Other Woman Read online

  Another silence as he mused. “Is it possible, my dear fellow, you are merely repulsed by the sordidness of the solution? After all, housemaids do have illicit love affairs, and often with contemptible cads.”

  “I know,” I said. “I know. But something gnaws at me, Watson.”

  “What?”

  “I do not know. Something does not sit right.”

  “Then we missed something.”

  I chuckled. “My dear fellow, how can you have such faith in me?”

  “Because I know you,” he said. He buttered a slice of toast and put it on my plate. To humour him, I ate it.

  “If something is nagging at you, then there probably is something we’ve overlooked. You will not be satisfied until we’ve met this Rickman fellow and questioned him.”

  It sounded absurdly easy once he said it.

  “What a fool I am that I did not question Connie about the fellow when I had the opportunity,” I said. “If only I had not let the matter drop so easily.”

  “She would have dissembled in any case, Holmes,” he said. “And that’s assuming she knew anything to begin with. If this Rickman fellow is like other cads, he probably lied about everything, including his name. He’s probably really Charlie Snout, a pig-farmer from Somerset who already has two wives.”

  We laughed heartily at the idea. I think the laugh benefited me at least as much as the kippers.

  Watson and I took a cab to Scotland Yard. I spoke with Lestrade and Tavistock Hill. They will keep close watch for Rickman. Even in a city the size of London there cannot be many very tall men with fair hair. A shame, they pointed out, that I have nothing more to tell them about the fellow. I cannot imagine they will devote much time and attention to the search in any case. It is not as if Rickman can be arrested or charged with anything. His crime is against decency. Well, as far as we know.

  We returned to Baker Street around three o’clock. I have instructed the Irregulars to keep watch for Rickman, too. Billy and Tommy have sent word to their eyes all over the city. I have more faith in these boys than I do in all of London’s official force combined.

  Watson and I went to the Savoy to attend the revival of Gilbert and Sullivan’s Gondoliers. It’s not exactly Mozart but pleasant enough and a welcome distraction from irksome maidservants and Paris.

  Dinner at Simpson’s.

  Tuesday 29 March 1898

  Around four o’clock I was lying upon the sofa reading the newspapers when I was interrupted by a knock at the door. After a moment, Mrs Hudson came in and said there was a young woman who wished to consult with me. It was apparent from her air of distaste that the client did not meet my housekeeper’s minimum standard of ladylike behaviour.

  A moment later, I discovered why. Connie Kidwell came sailing into the room in a state of high dudgeon.

  “Here,” she said. “What you done with my Avery?”

  I stared at her for several seconds, waiting for her to control her emotions. Even Watson, kind and gentlemanly though he is, did not so much as offer her a seat.

  She stood before us, her coat wet and muddy, her hair wilting under a ridiculous black hat, and her cheeks flushed with deep anger and resentment.

  “I am afraid, Miss Kidwell,” I said. “I cannot talk to you when you behave in so uncivilised a fashion. Govern your manners or I shall escort you off the premises.”

  She stared at me, caught between fury and desperation. The latter won, as it always must.

  “I’m sorry,” she said in a manner that utterly belied her words. “I’m that worried about Avery. About Mr Rickman.”

  “Ah, done a bunk has he?” I said. “You do astonish me.”

  “Holmes,” Watson said. He shook his head and I assume he felt my sarcasm was misplaced. “What happened, Miss Kidwell?” he asked in his most soothing voice.

  I rolled my eyes, flopped back on the sofa, and listened.

  “After that old cow - I mean, after Mrs Prentiss dismissed me I went to my friend Patsy. She hid me for a couple of days... Their basement isn’t bad. Not like the one at the Prentiss house. But her missus, Miss Fellows, found me and kicked me out.

  “I tried to find Mr Rickman, but I... I can’t. I’m that worried... I went and stayed with my mum only she gave me the old heave-ho an’ all.

  “I went to Mrs Prentiss and apologised all sincere-like, but she wouldn’t take me back. She said I was a wicked girl for playing games. I think it’s that Agnes’s fault. If she hadn’t been so mean to me I’d never have hung her petticoat up for the world to see. Only a bit of fun it were...”

  “You didn’t have an address for Mr Rickman?” Watson said, cutting off this barrage.

  The girl shuffled. “I never needed it, did I?” she said. “I mean, ’e always came to me. He said he lived in Holborn. I’ve been all over that stinking place... I mean, I should say, I’ve searched but I can’t find him or anyone who knows him.”

  For the first time her voice cracked and I felt almost sorry for her.

  “I found a pub that I was told is a haunt for men from South Africa but they say they’ve never heard of him nor know anyone who looks like him. Did you make them say that just to put the wind up me, Mr Holmes? Because that’s as low a trick-”

  “I did no such thing, I assure you. So, I think we can safely deduce that Avery Rickman is not who he claimed to be.”

  “But...” I could see tears were not far from the surface as the enormity of her folly hit her. To her credit, she did not weep.

  “Tell me what you do know of him,” I said. “I should be very interested in learning what Mr Rickman’s business really is.”

  “He said he loved me.”

  “Yes, well... I think we cannot discount the possibility that this fellow’s intent was to gain access to your mistress’s home rather than for any of your allurements. Such as they are.”

  “Holmes,” Watson hissed.

  “No, it’s all right,” she said. “Perhaps I’ve been a fool. I know I’m no oil painting, and a man like that, a gentleman... But I love him.” The tears came at last, silent and without any attempt to wipe them away. They ran down her coarse red cheeks and plopped onto her cheap black coat. I confess, in that moment I did feel sorry for her.

  Watson said, “I think you should sit down, Miss Kidwell. I shall ask Mrs Hudson to bring some coffee.” He went downstairs to speak to our housekeeper, leaving me alone with the unfortunate young woman.

  “You must think me a fool,” she said.

  “I believe people in love are often fools, Miss Kidwell. You were deceived by a very clever trickster. However, I shall make every effort to find him, if I can. Now, what can you tell me about him?”

  “I don’t know how much is true. He said he was from Capetown and had been in England for six months. He definitely had an accent and that never changed.”

  “Do you think his accent really was South African?”

  “I thought he was German, but I don’t know. I don’t know what a South African is supposed to sound like.”

  “And his appearance?”

  “Well, he’s very tall, perhaps taller than you, but not by much. He has very fair hair, like pale gold, and bright blue eyes. He dresses well, but not really like a toff, now I think about it.”

  “How so?” I rose to get a cigarette from the Turkish slipper and stood by the mantle watching her. There was no doubt she was making an effort to be truthful and cooperative.

  “Well, his suit was made of good stuff but it was old. It had been taken in and mended a few times but I could do a better job of the sewing and I’m no seamstress. You’d think a man like that could afford a proper tailor. I offered to mend it for him.”

  “Hmm. Yes. Go on.”

  “And the coat was heavy, suede with silk lining and a nice fur colla
r, but that was old, too. The cuffs were frayed.” She forced back more tears. “I can’t believe I let him fool me like that...”

  “He claimed to be a diamond merchant?”

  “Yes, he did. He knew an awful lot about jewels. He told me about the cut of diamonds and how gems just look like little bits of stone when they’re mined and it takes craftsmanship to make them look the way they do in a piece of jewellery. He said when he gave me a ring it would be the best of all the Cs. I thought he meant like the seven seas, but he explained that diamonds, well gemstones, have a standard of carat, cut, clarity and oh, I know there’s another...”

  “Colour. Well, it may mean nothing, but on the other hand it suggests he took time to study the subject, or at perhaps had worked for a jeweller at one time. I understand Mrs Prentiss owns no expensive jewellery?”

  “No, Mr Holmes. I mean, she has her wedding ring and some nice earrings, but nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing anyone would go to any length to steal.”

  Watson returned with a tray. He poured a cup of coffee for each of us.

  “Drink that, Miss Kidwell,” he said. “I am sure you’ll feel better for having something hot inside you.”

  “Thank you, sir,” she said. She drank the coffee too quickly and coughed. Then she took one of the cheese sandwiches my friend offered her. I suspect she’d had nothing to eat or drink for some time.

  After she’d eaten, she said, “He said he was going to be rich. That he knew where there was treasure for the taking and there would be no harm in it because it they were no Christians who hoarded it.”

  “No Christians?” Watson said. He glanced at me. “What an odd way of saying it. I assume he meant scoundrels.”

  “You’re certain of his words, Miss Kidwell?”

  “Yes, Mr Holmes, absolutely certain. I worried over them, you see. I mean, hoarding sounds like something a thief might do. I was afraid he’d get hurt.”

  I glanced at Watson and saw my concern reflected on his face.

  At length there was nothing more she could tell me. She rose to leave but stood, undecided. “I know what a fool you must think me, Mr Holmes, but a woman knows when she is loved. Avery would not stay away from me by choice. Something’s happened to him or someone is keeping him from me. He does love me.”

  There was nothing to say to that. For a moment we all stood together in silence, then suddenly she wailed, “Where am I to go? What am I to do? I have no money, nowhere to live, my family want nothing to do with me. Oh Lord, what’s to become of me? I might as well just throw myself in the river.”

  Watson wrote something on one of his cards and handed it to her. “Hush, now,” he said. “Go to this address and explain your situation. They will look after you until the baby is born. You may tell them I sent you. Here’s a little money to tide you over for a day or two.”

  He placed a few coins in her palm and closed her fingers over them.

  “You’re a proper gent, sir, and no mistake. Thank you.” She turned to leave then, facing me, said, “If you see Mrs Prentiss will you please tell her I’m so very, very sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused. I know she’ll never employ me again, but I want her to know I understand now what I’ve done. Please will you tell her?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I’ll tell her. And if I find any news of your Avery Rickman I shall let you know.”

  She left a sight happier than she had arrived. I stood at the window and watched her waddle down the street.

  “Baby?” I asked Watson.

  “Oh yes, no doubt about it. Wretched girl. I don’t know what’s to become of her, Holmes, I really don’t.”

  Chapter Five

  Wednesday 30 March 1898

  I slept better last night and woke feeling refreshed. There has been no word from Beatrice; I can only hope she is on her way home. I telephoned Lestrade and gave him a more complete description of Avery Rickman.

  After breakfast, I made my way to Holborn. I decided to start in the Hatton Garden area. It is quite an extraordinary place, a perfect replica of a shtetl right in the heart of London. Most of the diamond merchants here are Jews. The ultra-religious hurry by wearing long ringlets, full beards, and black frock coats. The locals call them ‘Whitechapel cowboys’, I suppose because of the big hats they wear.

  Lestrade was able to help me in one area. He suggested that if I want information about the locals I should speak to Inspector Glaser. The man has been assigned to this district for the past five years. He seems to be well liked and trusted by the community. No easy task in an environment as suspicious as this.

  “It’s because I’m Jewish, too,” he told me when I met him. “I’m not a true insider, of course. I am not in the jewellery business, and I’m not from Russia or central Europe as so many of the merchants are. I’m a Londoner through and through. Nor am I particularly religious and, more to the point, I am a policeman. However, the people here trust me well enough because they know I will keep the peace and protect them as best I can. But I won’t stand for any monkey business either. If a man commits a crime I will find him and lock him up and I don’t care if he’s a gentile or a rabbi.”

  His eyes flashed as he looked at me and I found myself smiling. “You are a man after my own heart, Inspector Glaser.”

  We sat in a kosher café that has a clear view of Hatton Garden. Even as he sipped his Turkish coffee, Glaser’s eyes never left the street. Little, I believe, escapes his notice. Though I seldom have much regard for the official police force, there is so vital a sense of intelligence and honour in the fellow’s demeanour, I found myself instinctively trusting him. He is a strongly built man though some three or four inches shorter than I. His hair is thick and curly. Unlike many of his coreligionists, he goes bareheaded. His profile tends more to the Roman than to the Jewish. From the glances that follow him, I believe he is much admired by young women.

  “The people in this area have a reputation for insularity,” I said, watching the endless stream of black-coated men hurrying down the street outside. “They are not welcoming of strangers.”

  Glaser’s eyes flicked from the street to my face. “Can you blame them? They have been hounded from every place they’ve ever lived and suffered unspeakable cruelties and atrocities. No, trust does not come readily. That said, once you have gained their acceptance they will show you extraordinary loyalty.”

  “So if a stranger were to show up he would stand out?”

  “Unquestionably.” He leaned towards the window suddenly. Out on the street an urchin, following close on the heels of one of the ‘cowboys’, stopped and turned. Glaser tapped on the glass. The boy turned, gave a cheeky grin, waved, and ran off.

  “Young Weiss. One of the best pickpockets in the city, but he knows better than to try something with me watching him.”

  “Do you need to go after him?”

  “No, I shall talk to his mother. Believe me, she’s worse than a month in Pentonville.” He grinned.

  “What else do you know about this Rickman fellow, Mr Holmes?” he said.”Other than his claims to be a diamond merchant?”

  “Well, he purports to be South African, but might be German, or anything else, for that matter. I am told he speaks with an accent, but that could be fake. He has very fair hair and blue eyes and he is my height or a little taller.”

  He whistled. “Such a man would certainly stand out, and I haven’t seen anyone who fits the bill. Nor have I heard of any new merchants, not for some time. As for an accent, well, most of the dealers are from Russia or Germany or Poland so an accent would not distinguish him, not here.”

  Glaser downed the last dregs of his coffee. The café owner came over and refilled his cup. He nodded at my own, still full cup and I shook my head. The man handed Glaser a pastry. The policeman said, “Thank you, Avram, but it’s a bit early for me to eat.”

 
; “Put it in your pocket for later.” The man patted Glaser on the shoulder and said to me, “Twice this past year men tried to break into my place. Both times young David caught them. He’s a mensch. You know what that means? Mensch?”

  “It’s German for ‘man’.”

  “Oy, German. But in Yiddish it means...” he fumbled.

  “A gentleman,” Glaser said. “A man worth knowing.”

  “That’s it, that’s it,” said Avram.

  Glaser slipped the pastry into his pocket. “Thank you, Avram,” he said.”This gentleman is Mr Sherlock Holmes. You’ve heard of him, yes? He’s looking for a stranger who might be up to no good. South African, perhaps. Very tall. Very fair. You’ve seen no one?”

  “Sherlock Holmes? I thought you were a character in a story book.” He guffawed and I found myself joining in. “I’ve seen no one like that, David. But I’ll keep my eyes and ears open.” He pronounced the policeman’s name ‘Da-veed’. He went away, still chuckling at my name.

  After our coffee, Glaser led me through the meandering alleyways and lanes of his district. These thoroughfares are so narrow that in places neighbours can pass jugs of milk from their window to the people who live opposite. This might make for harmonious relations but the overall poverty has made this a high-crime area. Prostitution and thievery are stock in trade. There is violence, too, and the occasional murder. Still, compared with Whitechapel it is a very model of civility. Some of that, I surmise, is due to Glaser’s constant vigilance.

  I suggested this to him and he said, “I should like to take the credit for it, Mr Holmes, but there are enough religious Jews in this area to help keep the crime levels less than it might be. Not that a man cannot be both religious and a criminal, of course. Ah, here we are.”

  He led me into a dark building. There was a lad about eight years old sitting on the hall floor. He nodded at the policeman.

  “Any trouble, Ari?” Glaser said.

  “Only old Nancy and Liza having a bit of a barney.” The boy grinned showing a mouth empty of teeth.