McHugh spoke with assurance. “’Twas ’im I tell ya, Mr. ’olmes, no doubt of it. I’d know thet face o’ ’is anywheres. The bloody rascal popped out o’ sight as soon as ’e saw me. Poor man, ’e seems to have gone off ’is rocker.”
“Quite possibly that is the case,” said Holmes. “But tell me, Mr. McHugh, you are a singer, a tenor if I am not mistaken, and have performed at Sadler’s Wells on occasion.”
“Now ’ow did ya come ta thet conclusion? Mrs. Davies told ya all about me, eh?”
“Quite the contrary; I deduced it. I observed also that Rose owed you a large sum of money for losses at the gambling table, one hundred pounds I would say.”
“’ow did you know thet? Even my Mary ’ere don’t know thet.”
“I am a student of opera, Mr. McHugh, and I heard you on occasion years ago before you ruined your throat with the overindulgence in substances antithetical to the musical stage. Your gambling debts did not help your voice, either. I remember vividly your remarkable rendition of ‘Nessun dorma.’ As to the gambling, here: this paper, which preceded me in this chair, and which I removed as we sat down, registers the debt. I assume its veracity.”
“The money’s gone wit ’im, Mr. ’olmes. I ’ope you find ’im, the bloody thief.”
“Please tell to me again exactly what you saw, where, and when.”
“It was three days ago, Mr. ’olmes, I was goin’ to me new job at Simpson’s food market. I was mindin’ me own business when I saw ’im. It musta bin aroun’ six thirty in the mornin’.”
McHugh stopped long enough to finish his ale. He wiped his lips on his sleeve.
“It was at Russell Square. It was still dark, I remember. ’e came boundin’ off the lift when ’e almost run me down. Then I saw who ’e was and tried to grab ’im but ’e pulled ’imself free and ran off. ’e looked if anythin’ very bad, wot wid ’is ’air all shootin’ in every direction, and ’is face almos’ black wi’ dirt. But I recognized ’im I did. No doubt about it. “’Course I dint get me money, the bloody crook . . .”
“Do you remember anything else, anything at all?” asked Holmes finally.
“I do, as a matter of fact. ’e was carryin’ a shovel.”
“Thank you, Mr. McHugh. Should you remember anything else, please let me know.”
Holmes stood up and we left. We returned to Barbara’s house. As we entered her sitting room, Holmes said, “Barbara, let us open the valises that Mr. Rose chose not to retrieve.”
Holmes brought them into the light. They were locked. Holmes took a pick from his overcoat and opened them.
“How curious, Holmes, why there’s nothing here—mirabile dictu—except two pieces of an old shovel, one in each of the valises,” said I.
“Interesting. A shovel, the column of which is broken in two so that it is now useless. But it may be no ordinary shovel, Watson. Note the letters stamped on it: C and L. It has been thoroughly cleaned, indeed scrubbed, before it was placed in the valise. I suspect that it broke just before Rose was set to leave and caused him some inconvenience. Most probably it is one like the shovel that McHugh saw.”
“But why did he not just throw the shovel into the trash?” I asked.
“I suspect, dear Watson, that when we learn that we shall have found Mr. Rose.”
We accompanied Barbara to her door, and then walked south and west to the edge of the square. Holmes stopped for a moment and glanced towards the Davies residence, then turned and looked upwards at the house in front of which we were standing.
“This one is empty, Holmes,” said I.
“Yes, indeed. I thought as much. And vacant for a long time. Now, Watson, let us walk down the hill to Kingsway.”
We had not gone far down the hill on Wharton Street when Holmes stopped again, this time in front of a small iron gate. It appeared to mark the entrance to no house or yard in particular, but opened upon an unkempt dirt path that went between two houses.
“Come, let us enter,” said Holmes.
We found the gate to be unlocked. Holmes closed it after us.
The path turned north and we walked now between two windowless walls that belonged to adjacent houses, one of which I realized was the vacant house we had just seen from the square. We walked to the end of the path, where it opened up into a grassy plot of weeds and trash, mainly pieces of rotted wood interspersed with which there were piles of filthy rags and what looked like the remains of an upholsterer’s shop. It was a silent piece of isolation in the very heart of the city, invisible from the street.
“Nothing of interest here,” I said.
“Quite the contrary, Watson. This pile of wood and other castoffs may have some connection with the circular marks on the window and the putty-filled holes in Barbara’s establishment. But let us continue.”
What struck me as an outlandish conjecture on Holmes’s part produced a wide smile on my face.
“Holmes, you’re going daft, old boy.”
As I spoke, Holmes climbed the stairs to the back of the nearest house and turned the knob. The door was unlocked.
“You may be right, but let us see. Remain here while I take a look.”
I stood firmly on guard of this unexpected melancholy spot between two houses. Holmes returned very quickly.
“It is all beginning to fit together quite nicely. Come, Watson, we haven’t a moment to lose. My only fear is that we will be too late. It is the new moon tonight, and our quarry will want to act in complete darkness.”
He pulled at me so strongly that I dared not ask him what he had found. He closed the gate and we continued our walk to the bottom of the hill, where he hailed a cab. When we reached Museum Street, he told the driver to halt and jumped out.
“Watson,” he said in almost a whisper, “I must spend a few hours on some questions related to this case. Meet me at home at six this evening. Call Lestrade and have him come. Tell him it is urgent, and both of you bring your revolvers.”
I watched as Holmes walked into the museum, and then directed the cabby to Baker Street. I called Lestrade and he arrived immediately.
“What’s he up to this time?” he asked as we sat and waited.
“I don’t really know,” said I, “except that Holmes left me at the museum and seemed somewhat excited, shall we say?”
We were both silent for several minutes as we pondered Holmes’s intentions.
“Then he’s onto something rather big, I should think.”
“Rather big indeed,” said Holmes as he came through the front door at that very moment.
“Here, gentlemen, put these rags on and we shall be off.”
The rags were an old shirt, torn trousers, and black handkerchiefs to hide our faces. Holmes was wearing the same.
“Gentlemen, let me explain part, at least, of what we are doing dressed this way. A few moments in the museum examining the architectural plans of this square when it was first built in 1820 gave me the clue that I needed. You may recall, Watson, that in the suitcases left behind by Ian Rose there were two parts of a shovel with the letters C and L?”
“I know that one, Mr. Holmes. Any bobby can tell you what that stands for: City of London. Those shovels belong to the city.”
“Indeed, Lestrade. And the old plans and maps I found in the museum pull all the clues together.”
“Why is that?” I asked.
“I’m afraid that we haven’t time for me to explain it all. Let us say only that a number of thieves, gravediggers to be exact, may be on their way to Lloyd Square, as I speak. We must get there before they do. As soon as we arrive, Watson, the two of you go to the cellar of the house we visited and hide in the dark corners far from the door. If I am correct, a group of men will begin to gather. By all means stay out of any light. One of the thieves, their leader, may address the men. As he leaves I shall arrest him. I shall be carrying a large kerosene lamp. When I light it, pull out your revolvers. I shall do the same. At that moment, Lestrade, identify yourself and put the whole group under arrest. If all goes well the men will be caught by surprise and will offer no resistance. If you have to fire, fire into the air. I shall see you in a little while, and I shall share my deductions with you.”