He gave each urchin a shining shilling. They clattered happily away, as they had come, and we soon heard their shrill young voices from below.
Now Holmes knocked the dottle from his pipe. “Wiggins? Oh, he did very well. Joined her Majesty’s forces. My last note from him was post-marked Africa.”
“He was a sharp youngster, as I recall.”
“So are they all. And London’s supply of the little beggars never diminishes. But I have an inquiry to make. Let us be off.”
It took no feat of intellect to predict our destination. So I was not surprised when we stood before a pawn-shop window on Great Heap-ton, in Whitechapel. The street, as Holmes had deduced and the urchins confirmed, was narrow, with high buildings on the side opposite the shop. When we arrived, the sun was just cutting a line across the glass, the inscription upon which read: Joseph Beck―Loans.
Holmes pointed to the display in the window. “The kit sat there, Watson. Do you see where the sun strikes?”
I could only nod my head. Accustomed though I was to the unerring keenness of his judgements, the proof never ceased to amaze me.
Inside the shop, we were greeted by a pudgy man of middle-age whose moustaches were heavily waxed and drilled into military points. Joseph Beck was the archetype of German tradesmen, and his efforts to produce a Prussian effect were ludicrous.
“May I be of service, sirs?” His English was thickly accented.
I presume, in that neighbourhood, we were a cut above his usual run of clients; possibly he hoped to acquire a pledge of high value. He actually clicked his heels and came to attention.
“A friend,” said Holmes, “recently made me a gift, a surgeon’s-case purchased in your shop.”
Herr Beck’s protuberant little eyes turned sly. “Yes?”
“But one of the instruments was missing from the case. I should like to complete the set. Do you have some surgical instruments from which I might select the missing one?”
“I am afraid, sir, I cannot help you.” The pawnbroker was clearly disappointed.
“Do you recall the set I refer to, the transaction?”
“Ach, yes, sir. It took place a week ago, and I get very few such articles. But the set was complete when the woman redeemed it and carried it away. Did she tell you one instrument was missing?”
“I do not recall,” Holmes said, in an off-hand manner. “The point is that you cannot help me now.”
“I am sorry, sir. I have no surgical instruments of any description.”
Holmes pretended petulance. “All the way down here for nothing! You have caused me great inconvenience, Beck.”
The man looked astonished. “You are being unreasonable, sir. I do not see how I am responsible for what occurred after the case left my shop.”
Holmes shrugged his shoulders. “I suppose not,” said he, carelessly. “But it is a nuisance. I came a long distance.”
“But, sir, if you had inquired of the poor creature who redeemed the set―”
“The poor creature? I don’t understand.”
The severity of Holmes’s tone frightened the man. With the tradesman’s instinct to please, he hastened to apologise. “Forgive me, sir. My heart went out to the woman. In fact, I let her have the case at a too generous price. Her terribly disfigured face has haunted me.”
“Ah,” murmured Holmes. “I see.” He was turning away in clever disappointment when his hawk’s-face brightened. “A thought occurs to me. The man who originally pledged the case―if I could get in touch with him…”
“I doubt it, sir. It was some time ago.”
“How long?”
“I would have to consult my ledger.”
Frowning, he produced a ledger from underneath the counter and thumbed through it. “Here it is. Why, it has been almost four months. How time flies!”
“Quite,” agreed Holmes, drily. “You have the name and address of the man?”
“It was not a man, sir. It was a lady.”
Holmes and I glanced at each other. “I see,” said Holmes. “Well, even after four months, it might still be worth an effort. What is her name, pray?”
The pawn-broker peered at his ledger. “Young. Miss Sally Young.”
“Her address?”
“The Montague Street Hostel.”
“Odd place of residence,” I ventured.
“Yes, mein Herr. It is in the heart of Whitechapel. A dangerous place these days.”
“Indeed it is. Good-day to you,” said Holmes, civilly. “You have been most accommodating.”
As we walked away from the pawn-shop, Holmes laughed softly. “A type who must be adroitly handled, this Joseph Beck. One can lead him great distances, but he cannot be pushed an inch.”
“I thought he cooperated handsomely.”
“Indeed he did. But the least odour of officialdom in our inquiry and we should not have pried the time of day out of him.”
“Your theory that the scalpel was removed as a symbolical gesture, Holmes, has been proved correct.”
“Perhaps, though the fact is of no great value. But now, a visit to the Montague Street Hostel and Miss Sally Young seems in order. I’m sure you have formed opinions as to the stations of the two females we are seeking?”
“Of course. The one who pawned the set was clearly in straitened financial circumstances.”
“A possibility, Watson, though far from a certainty.”
“If not, why did she pledge the set?”
“I am inclined to think it was a service she rendered a second party. Some-one who was unable or did not care to appear personally at the pawn-shop. A surgeon’s-kit is hardly an article one would expect to find a lady owning. And as to the woman who redeemed the pledge?”
“We know nothing of her except that she sustained some injury to the face. Perhaps she is a victim of the Ripper, who escaped death at his hands?”
“Capital, Watson! An admirable hypothesis. However, the point that struck me involves something a little different. You will remember that Herr Beck referred to the one who redeemed the case as a woman, while he spoke in a more respectful tone of the pledger as a lady. Hence, we are safe in assuming that Miss Sally Young is a person to command some respect.”
“Of course. Holmes. The implications, I am frank to admit, escaped me.”
“The redeemer is no doubt of a lower order.
She could well be a prostitute. Certainly this neighbourhood abounds with such unfortunates.”
Montague Street lay at no great distance; it was less than a twenty-minute walk from the pawn-shop. It proved to be a short thoroughfare connecting Purdy Court and Olmstead Circus, the latter being well-known as a refuge for London’s swarms of beggars. We turned into Montague Street and had progressed only a few steps when Holmes halted. “Aha! What have we here?”
My glance followed his to a sign over an archway of ancient stone, displaying a single word, Mortuary. I do not see myself as especially sensitive, but as I gazed into the murky depths of the tunnel-like entrance, the same depression of spirit came over me that I had experienced at first sight of the Shires Castle.
“This is no hostel, Holmes,” said I. “Unless a sanctuary for the dead can be called such!”
“Let us suspend judgement until we investigate,” replied he; and he pushed open a creaking door that led into a cobbled courtyard.
“There is the smell of death here, without a doubt,” said I.
“And very recent death, Watson. Else why should our friend Lestrade be on the premises?”
Two men stood in conversation at the far side of the courtyard, and Holmes had identified the one of them more quickly than I. It was indeed Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard, even leaner and more ferret-like than I recalled him.