The fact that he was wrapped in a thick black coat with a hat and scarf across his chin did help to make a stranger of him. His clothes made him look even more rotund than he had before.
‘You will forgive me interrupting you, Dr Watson,’ he said, divesting himself of these outer garments and revealing the clerical collar which would have at once jogged my memory. ‘I was unsure whether to come but felt I must… I must! But first I must ask you, sir. This extraordinary business with Mr Sherlock Holmes, is it true?’
‘It is true that Holmes is suspected of a crime of which he is completely innocent,’ I replied.
‘But I read now that he has escaped, that he has managed to spring himself from the confinement of the law.’
‘Yes, Mr Fitzsimmons. He has also managed to evade his accusers in a manner which is a source of mystery, even to me.’
‘Do you know where he is?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘And the child, Ross, do you have any news of him?’
‘In what sense?’
‘Have you found him yet?’
Evidently, Fitzsimmons had somehow missed the reports of the boy’s terrible death — although, it occurred to me, sensational though they had been, Ross had not actually been named. It therefore fell to me to tell him the truth. ‘I am afraid we were too late. We did find Ross, but he was dead.’
‘Dead? How did it happen?’
‘Somebody had beaten him very badly. He was left to die by the river, close to Southwark Bridge.’
The headmaster’s eyes fluttered and he fell heavily into a chair. ‘Dear God in Heaven!’ he exclaimed. ‘Who would do such a thing to a child? What wickedness is there in this world? Then my visit to you is redundant, Dr Watson. I thought I might be able to help you find him. I had come upon a clue — or rather, my dear wife, Joanna, had discovered it. I brought it to you in the hope that you might know the whereabouts of Mr Holmes and pass it to him and that even given his own exigencies, he might…’ His voice trailed off. ‘But it is too late. The child should never have left Chorley Grange. I knew no good would come of it.’
‘What is this clue?’ I asked.
‘I have it with me. It was, as I say, my wife who found it in the dormitory. She was turning the mattresses — we do it once a month to air and to fumigate them. Some of the boys have lice… we wage a constant war against them. At any event, the bed occupied by Ross is now taken by another child, but there was a copybook concealed there.’ Fitzsimmons took out a thin book with a rough cover, faded and crumpled. There was a name written in a childish hand, in pencil on the front.
‘Ross could not read or write when he came to us, but we had endeavoured to teach him the rudiments. Each child in the school is given a copybook and a pencil. You will see inside his that he has forsaken his exercises. It is all very messy. He seems to have passed much of his time scribbling. But on examining it, we discovered this and it seemed to us to have significance.’
He had opened the book in the middle to show a sheet of paper, neatly folded and slipped inside as if the intention had been deliberately to conceal it. Taking it out, he unfolded it and spread it on the table for me to see. It was an advertisement, a cheap flyer for an attraction of the sort that I knew had once sprung up around such areas as Islington and Cheapside but which had since become rarer. The text was decorated by images of a snake, a monkey and an armadillo. It read:
‘I would, of course, discourage my boys from ever entering such a place,’ the Reverend Fitzsimmons said. ‘Freak shows, music halls, one penny gaffs… it astonishes me that a great city such as London will tolerate such entertainments, where everything that is vulgar and unnatural is celebrated. The lessons of Sodom and Gomorrah spring to mind. I say this to you, Dr Watson, as it may be that Ross concealed this advertisement for no other reason than that he knew it was against the very spirit of Chorley Grange. It may have been an act of defiance. He was, as my wife told you, a very wilful boy—’
‘But it may also have a connection for him,’ I broke in. ‘After he left you, he sought refuge with a family in King’s Cross and also with his sister.
But we have no idea where he was before. It could be that he fell in with this crowd.’
‘Exactly. I feel sure it is worthy of investigation which is why I brought it to you.’ Fitzwilliams collected his things and got to his feet. ‘Is there any possibility that you will be in communication with Mr Holmes?’
‘I am still hoping that he will contact me in some way.’
‘Then perhaps you will see what he makes of it. Thank you for your time, Dr Watson. I am very, very shocked about young Ross. We will pray for him in the school chapel this Sunday. No. There is no need to show me out. I will find my way.’
He took up his coat and scarf and left the room. I stared at the page, allowing my eyes to travel across the gaudy lettering and the crude illustrations. I think I must have read it two or three times before I saw what should have been obvious to me from the start. But there was no mistaking it. Dr Silkin’s House of Wonders. Jackdaw Lane. Whitechapel.
I had just found the House of Silk.
SEVENTEEN
A Message
My wife returned to London the following day. She had sent me a telegram from Camberwell to inform me of her arrival and I was waiting for her at Holborn Viaduct when her train drew in. I have to say that I would not have left Baker Street for any other reason. I was still certain that Holmes would attempt to reach me and dreaded the idea of his making his way to his lodgings, with all the dangers that would entail, only to find me not in. But nor could I consider allowing Mary to cross the city unattended. One of her greatest virtues was her tolerance, the way she put up with my long absences in the company of Sherlock Holmes. Never once did she complain, although I know she worried that I was putting myself in danger, and I owed it to her now to explain what had happened while she had been away and to inform her that, regretfully, it might be a while yet before we could be permanently reunited. And I had missed her. I looked forward to seeing her again.
It was now the second week in December and, after the bad weather that had begun the month, the sun was out and although it was very cold, everything was ablaze with a sense of prosperity and good cheer. The pavements were almost invisible beneath the bustle of families arriving from the countryside and bringing with them wide-eyed children in numbers that might have populated a small city themselves. The ice-rakers and the crossing-sweepers were out. The sweetmeat and grocer shops were gloriously festooned. Every window carried advertisements for goose clubs, roast beef clubs and pudding clubs and the very air was filled with the aroma of burned sugar and mincemeat. As I climbed down from my brougham and made my way into the station, pushing against the crowd, I reflected on the circumstances that had alienated me from all this activity, from the day-to-day pleasures of London in the festive season. That was perhaps the disadvantage of my association with Sherlock Holmes. It drew me into dark places where, in truth, nobody would choose to go.
The station was no less crowded. The trains were on time, the platforms filled with young men carrying parcels, packages and hampers, scurrying around as excitably as Alice’s white rabbit. Mary’s train had already arrived and I was briefly unable to locate her as the doors opened, pouring yet more souls into the metropolis. But then I saw her and, as she climbed down from her carriage, an event occurred that caused me a moment of disquiet. A man appeared, shuffling across the platform as if about to accost her. I could only see him from the back and, apart from an ill-fitting jacket and red hair, would have been unable to identify him again. He seemed to speak briefly to her, then boarded the train, disappearing from sight. But perhaps I was mistaken. As I approached her she saw me and smiled and then I had taken her in my arms and together we were walking towards the entrance where I had told my driver to wait.