His last bow Some later reminiscences of Sherlock Holmes
she was still unmarried, I found her at Lausanne and tried all I knew.
She weakened, I think, but her will was strong, and when next I called
she had left the town. I traced her to Baden, and then after a time
heard that her maid was here. I’m a rough fellow, fresh from a rough
life, and when Dr. Watson spoke to me as he did I lost hold of myself
for a moment. But for God’s sake tell me what has become of the Lady
Frances.”
“That is for us to find out,” said Sherlock Holmes with peculiar
gravity. “What is your London address, Mr. Green?”
“The Langham Hotel will find me.”
“Then may I recommend that you return there and be on hand in case I
should want you? I have no desire to encourage false hopes, but you may
rest assured that all that can be done will be done for the safety of
Lady Frances. I can say no more for the instant. I will leave you this
card so that you may be able to keep in touch with us. Now, Watson, if
you will pack your bag I will cable to Mrs. Hudson to make one of her
best efforts for two hungry travellers at 7:30 to-morrow.”
A telegram was awaiting us when we reached our Baker Street rooms,
which Holmes read with an exclamation of interest and threw across to
me. “Jagged or torn,” was the message, and the place of origin, Baden.
“What is this?” I asked.
“It is everything,” Holmes answered. “You may remember my seemingly
irrelevant question as to this clerical gentleman’s left ear. You did
not answer it.”
“I had left Baden and could not inquire.”
“Exactly. For this reason I sent a duplicate to the manager of the
Englischer Hof, whose answer lies here.”
“What does it show?”
“It shows, my dear Watson, that we are dealing with an exceptionally
astute and dangerous man. The Rev. Dr. Shlessinger, missionary from
South America, is none other than Holy Peters, one of the most
unscrupulous rascals that Australia has ever evolved—and for a young
country it has turned out some very finished types. His particular
specialty is the beguiling of lonely ladies by playing upon their
religious feelings, and his so-called wife, an Englishwoman named
Fraser, is a worthy helpmate. The nature of his tactics suggested his
identity to me, and this physical peculiarity—he was badly bitten in a
saloon-fight at Adelaide in ’89—confirmed my suspicion. This poor lady
is in the hands of a most infernal couple, who will stick at nothing,
Watson. That she is already dead is a very likely supposition. If not,
she is undoubtedly in some sort of confinement and unable to write to
Miss Dobney or her other friends. It is always possible that she never
reached London, or that she has passed through it, but the former is
improbable, as, with their system of registration, it is not easy for
foreigners to play tricks with the Continental police; and the latter
is also unlikely, as these rogues could not hope to find any other
place where it would be as easy to keep a person under restraint. All
my instincts tell me that she is in London, but as we have at present
no possible means of telling where, we can only take the obvious steps,
eat our dinner, and possess our souls in patience. Later in the evening
I will stroll down and have a word with friend Lestrade at Scotland
Yard.”
But neither the official police nor Holmes’s own small but very
efficient organisation sufficed to clear away the mystery. Amid the
crowded millions of London the three persons we sought were as
completely obliterated as if they had never lived. Advertisements were
tried, and failed. Clues were followed, and led to nothing. Every
criminal resort which Shlessinger might frequent was drawn in vain. His
old associates were watched, but they kept clear of him. And then
suddenly, after a week of helpless suspense there came a flash of
light. A silver-and-brilliant pendant of old Spanish design had been
pawned at Bovington’s, in Westminster Road. The pawner was a large,
clean-shaven man of clerical appearance. His name and address were
demonstrably false. The ear had escaped notice, but the description was
surely that of Shlessinger.
Three times had our bearded friend from the Langham called for news—the
third time within an hour of this fresh development. His clothes were
getting looser on his great body. He seemed to be wilting away in his
anxiety. “If you will only give me something to do!” was his constant
wail. At last Holmes could oblige him.
“He has begun to pawn the jewels. We should get him now.”
“But does this mean that any harm has befallen the Lady Frances?”
Holmes shook his head very gravely.
“Supposing that they have held her prisoner up to now, it is clear that
they cannot let her loose without their own destruction. We must
prepare for the worst.”
“What can I do?”
“These people do not know you by sight?”
“No.”
“It is possible that he will go to some other pawnbroker in the future.
In that case, we must begin again. On the other hand, he has had a fair
price and no questions asked, so if he is in need of ready-money he
will probably come back to Bovington’s. I will give you a note to them,
and they will let you wait in the shop. If the fellow comes you will
follow him home. But no indiscretion, and, above all, no violence. I
put you on your honour that you will take no step without my knowledge
and consent.”
For two days the Hon. Philip Green (he was, I may mention, the son of
the famous admiral of that name who commanded the Sea of Azof fleet in
the Crimean War) brought us no news. On the evening of the third he
rushed into our sitting-room, pale, trembling, with every muscle of his
powerful frame quivering with excitement.
“We have him! We have him!” he cried.
He was incoherent in his agitation. Holmes soothed him with a few words
and thrust him into an armchair.
“Come, now, give us the order of events,” said he.
“She came only an hour ago. It was the wife, this time, but the pendant
she brought was the fellow of the other. She is a tall, pale woman,
with ferret eyes.”
“That is the lady,” said Holmes.
“She left the office and I followed her. She walked up the Kennington
Road, and I kept behind her. Presently she went into a shop. Mr.
Holmes, it was an undertaker’s.”
My companion started. “Well?” he asked in that vibrant voice which told
of the fiery soul behind the cold grey face.
“She was talking to the woman behind the counter. I entered as well.
‘It is late,’ I heard her say, or words to that effect. The woman was
excusing herself. ‘It should be there before now,’ she answered. ‘It
took longer, being out of the ordinary.’ They both stopped and looked
at me, so I asked some questions and then left the shop.”
“You did excellently well. What happened next?”
“The woman came out, but I had hid myself in a doorway. Her suspicions
had been aroused, I think, for she looked round her. Then she called a
cab and got in. I was lucky enough to get another and so to follow her.
She got down at last at No. 36, Poultney Square, Brixton. I drove past,
left my cab at the corner of the square, and watched the house.”
“Did you see anyone?”
“The windows were all in darkness save one on the lower floor. The
blind was down, and I could not see in. I was standing there, wondering
what I should do next, when a covered van drove up with two men in it.
They descended, took something out of the van, and carried it up the
steps to the hall door. Mr. Holmes, it was a coffin.”
“Ah!”
“For an instant I was on the point of rushing in. The door had been
opened to admit the men and their burden. It was the woman who had
opened it. But as I stood there she caught a glimpse of me, and I think
that she recognised me. I saw her start, and she hastily closed the
door. I remembered my promise to you, and here I am.”
“You have done excellent work,” said Holmes, scribbling a few words
upon a half-sheet of paper. “We can do nothing legal without a warrant,
and you can serve the cause best by taking this note down to the
authorities and getting one. There may be some difficulty, but I should
think that the sale of the jewellery should be sufficient. Lestrade
will see to all details.”
“But they may murder her in the meanwhile. What could the coffin mean,
and for whom could it be but for her?”
“We will do all that can be done, Mr. Green. Not a moment will be lost.
Leave it in our hands. Now, Watson,” he added as our client hurried
away, “he will set the regular forces on the move. We are, as usual,
the irregulars, and we must take our own line of action. The situation
strikes me as so desperate that the most extreme measures are
justified. Not a moment is to be lost in getting to Poultney Square.
“Let us try to reconstruct the situation,” said he as we drove swiftly
past the Houses of Parliament and over Westminster Bridge. “These
villains have coaxed this unhappy lady to London, after first
alienating her from her faithful maid. If she has written any letters
they have been intercepted. Through some confederate they have engaged
a furnished house. Once inside it, they have made her a prisoner, and
they have become possessed of the valuable jewellery which has been
their object from the first. Already they have begun to sell part of
it, which seems safe enough to them, since they have no reason to think
that anyone is interested in the lady’s fate. When she is released she
will, of course, denounce them. Therefore, she must not be released.
But they cannot keep her under lock and key forever. So murder is their
only solution.”
“That seems very clear.”
“Now we will take another line of reasoning. When you follow two
separate chains of thought, Watson, you will find some point of
intersection which should approximate to the truth. We will start now,
not from the lady but from the coffin and argue backward. That incident
proves, I fear, beyond all doubt that the lady is dead. It points also
to an orthodox burial with proper accompaniment of medical certificate
and official sanction. Had the lady been obviously murdered, they would
have buried her in a hole in the back garden. But here all is open and
regular. What does this mean? Surely that they have done her to death
in some way which has deceived the doctor and simulated a natural
end—poisoning, perhaps. And yet how strange that they should ever let a
doctor approach her unless he were a confederate, which is hardly a
credible proposition.”
“Could they have forged a medical certificate?”
“Dangerous, Watson, very dangerous. No, I hardly see them doing that.
Pull up, cabby! This is evidently the undertaker’s, for we have just
passed the pawnbroker’s. Would you go in, Watson? Your appearance
inspires confidence. Ask what hour the Poultney Square funeral takes
place to-morrow.”
The woman in the shop answered me without hesitation that it was to be
at eight o’clock in the morning. “You see, Watson, no mystery;
everything above-board! In some way the legal forms have undoubtedly
been complied with, and they think that they have little to fear. Well,
there’s nothing for it now but a direct frontal attack. Are you armed?”
“My stick!”
“Well, well, we shall be strong enough. ‘Thrice is he armed who hath
his quarrel just.’ We simply can’t afford to wait for the police or to
keep within the four corners of the law. You can drive off, cabby. Now,
Watson, we’ll just take our luck together, as we have occasionally in
the past.”
He had rung loudly at the door of a great dark house in the centre of
Poultney Square. It was opened immediately, and the figure of a tall
woman was outlined against the dim-lit hall.
“Well, what do you want?” she asked sharply, peering at us through the
darkness.
“I want to speak to Dr. Shlessinger,” said Holmes.
“There is no such person here,” she answered, and tried to close the