Secret Archives of Sherlock Holmes, The, The (5 page)

‘Everything is arranged as you suggested, Mr Holmes,’ he remarked
sotto voce
as we bought our tickets and strolled on to the pier. ‘The local constabulary have agreed to put a dozen men on duty, some mingling with the crowds, some stationed as anglers along the length of the pier.’ He nodded towards the fishermen gathered by the railings. ‘If needed, I can summon them with a double blast on my whistle.’

‘Excellent, Lestrade!’ Holmes replied. ‘And what of Holy Peters’ sister?’

‘She, too, is taken care of,’ Lestrade assured him. ‘Two matrons from the Brighton police force will be despatched to the hotel and will arrest her on the stroke of eleven o’clock.’

‘So all we have to do is to await the arrival of our own big fish,’ said Holmes, with a satisfied air. ‘No doubt he will come in with the tide.’

The tide was indeed rising and, despite the potential danger of an imminent confrontation with Holy Peters, Holmes seemed to be enjoying himself immensely, walking briskly with his head flung back as he breathed in the crisp, salt-laden air, his eyes darting eagerly this way and that as he absorbed every detail of the scene, from the colourful dresses of the ladies as they promenaded up and down the pier to the more distant view of the beach, with its canvas changing tents and bathing machines for the convenience of the swimmers, the goat carts and
donkeys for the children, the horse-drawn wagonettes along the seafront ready to convey the holidaymakers to such places of interest as the Devil’s Dyke.
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Although it was by then essentially a pleasure centre, Brighton’s origins as a fishing port were still evident in the nets spread out to dry on the shingle and the stalls set out along the beach selling the proceeds of the latest trawl.

Further off still, and almost lost in the dazzle of the sun on the waves, were boats of all shapes and sizes – rowing boats and skiffs, yachts and dinghies – and beyond these the looming shape of the paddle steamer, the
Brighton Queen
, nosing up to the pier to unload its passengers at one of the landing stages.

I was so absorbed myself with all this colour and activity that I almost missed the sudden appearance of Holy Peters from among the crowds, and it was only when Holmes tugged at my sleeve that I noticed him.

Holmes set off after him, Lestrade and I following suit, falling in behind our quarry who, unaware of our presence, was striding out purposefully on this morning stroll of his, ignoring everyone about him until a few minutes later when his real motive for
being there became apparent. Suddenly the crowds parted to allow an invalid chair free passage. It was coming towards us as if making for the exit and we therefore had a clear view of its occupant, an elderly lady who, despite the sun, was well wrapped up in shawls, a plaid blanket spread over her knees. A
middle-aged
woman was in charge of the chair, a qualified nurse-companion, I assumed, judging by her
dark-blue
cloak and bonnet which gave her a professional air.

Holmes, Lestrade and I lingered at the railings among the anglers, watching with fascinated interest as Holy Peters set about his work.

To give the man his due, he was very good at it. The surprised delight with which he greeted the old lady as if the meeting was entirely fortuitous, the solicitous manner in which he bowed his head over her hand as he raised it to his lips, could not have been bettered.

‘Another stray chicken almost ready for the pot,’ Holmes murmured in my ear as Holy Peters, having concluded conversation with the old lady, which involved more sycophantic attention, took his leave with apparent reluctance, once more kissing her hand and standing almost to attention as she was wheeled away and her chair disappeared among the crowds, her daily intake of ozone evidently over for the day. It was only then that he turned away and set off briskly for the far end of the pier.

‘Well, gentlemen, shall we strike now?’ Holmes inquired.

Lestrade and I nodded our agreement and the three of us fell in behind Holy Peters, gradually converging in on him until we were so close on his heels that he could not fail to be aware not only of our presence but also that of several of the anglers, who, realising that events were beginning to reach a climax, had abandoned their rods and keepnets and had joined our posse.

Whether Lestrade had tutored his men in the more subtle arts of arrest or whether, like hunting dogs, they knew by instinct the skills of the chase, I do not know. I was only aware that, little by little, Holy Peters was being edged towards the railings at the point where a set of wooden steps led down to a small landing stage.

It was only then that he realised he was being forced into a trap. The expression on his face as he glanced back over his shoulder made this obvious. The remnants of the unctuous smile which still lingered on his lips from his parting with the elderly lady, no doubt already chosen as his next victim, had vanished completely to be replaced by a look of fearful apprehension. In that moment, the very flesh of his face seemed to shrink and his full, well-fed jowls shrivelled to loose bags of trembling skin.

He could have jumped or attempted to escape down
the steps but the tide was now lapping over them and inching its way up to the top.

Perhaps it was this insidious creeping of the water, silent and inexorable, that made Holy Peters hesitate.

It was at that moment that Lestrade, with impeccable timing for a man of whom Holmes had once remarked dismissively that he lacked imagination, acted.
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A double blast on his whistle, shrill and urgent, brought the scene to even more vivid life. Several of the erstwhile anglers moved forward as if galvanised by the sound and one of their number, a tall young man with the build of an athlete, threw himself at Holy Peters and brought him to the ground with a flying tackle, the skill of which I had not seen so superbly executed since my old student days at Blackheath Rugby Club.
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The next instant the young plain-clothes policeman had, with the help of two of his colleagues, turned Holy Peters briskly over on to his face, his arms doubled up behind his back, and a pair of handcuffs was snapped into place. To the spontaneous applause of a small crowd of spectators, who were uncertain as to who were the heroes and who the villains in this unexpected drama until this final moment, Holy
Peters was hoisted to his feet and hustled away to the exit.

Head high and chest out, Lestrade strode proudly at the front of this procession and even Holmes was impressed enough to declare, ‘Well done, Inspector!’ – a rare accolade on his part.

We fell in behind them, Holmes pausing for a moment to gather up some small object from the decking of the pier which he slipped into his pocket and which he only revealed when we had arrived at the police station, where we learned that not only had Holy Peters been charged, but his erstwhile sister had also been arrested at the Regal Hotel and that the pair of them were in custody in the cells downstairs, accused of the abduction and attempted murder of Lady Frances Carfax.

Once these formalities were over, Lestrade drew us to one side to thank us, Holmes in particular for the part he had played in bringing these two criminals to justice.

‘The most infernal pair of villains I’ve ever clapped eyes on, Mr ’Olmes,’ the inspector declared. ‘It’s a pity in a way that we can’t ’ang the two of them and be done with them for good. But at least we can be sure they’ll serve long sentences in gaol, thanks to the efforts of both you gentlemen. You’ll be returning to London, I assume?’

‘I have one more small task to perform,’ Holmes
replied, ‘and one small gift to give to you, Inspector.’

‘A gift?’ Lestrade’s sallow features lit up with pleasurable anticipation.

‘Only a trifle, my dear Inspector, but I thought it might amuse you,’ Holmes replied with a smile, plunging his hand in his pocket and displaying on his open palm the object which he had picked up from the decking of the pier.

Lestrade bent to examine it and then drew sharply back, his expression turning to one of mixed bewilderment and distaste.

‘What on earth is it, Mr Holmes? It looks like an ear!’

‘That is exactly what it is. An ear,’ Holmes assured him. ‘To be more precise, the ear which Holy Peters wore over his own to hide the injuries his real ear suffered when it was bitten in that bar-room brawl in Australia in ’89. The damage to it was too conspicuous a means of identification, so Holy Peters contrived to conceal it by attaching this wax ear over it.’

Lestrade gave a little nervous laugh as if still not entirely comfortable with the sight of the object lying in Holmes’ palm.

‘It’s a very good likeness,’ he ventured at last, clearly at a loss as to what to say.

‘Made by an expert, I should imagine,’ Holmes replied. ‘Possibly by Monsieur Oscar Meunier of Grenoble who, if you recall, made a wax bust of myself to display in the window of our sitting-room in Baker Street to fool
Colonel Moran into thinking I was at home and to draw his fire.
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Now if you will excuse me, Inspector. As I said, I have a small task to perform before Dr Watson and I return to London.’

‘What task, Holmes?’ I asked as we emerged from the police station.

‘To inquire after Miss Pilkington and Mrs Huxtable,’ Holmes replied, breaking off briefly to hail a cab. ‘I should like them to know what has happened and to reassure myself that both the ladies are well.’

I know that on occasions in the past I have criticised Holmes for his lack of warmth and sympathy for others but at times like these, when he reveals the more caring side to his nature, there cannot be a more considerate person in the whole world.

As soon as we had returned to the hotel and collected our luggage, we went in search of Miss Pilkington, whom we found seated alone in the ladies’ drawing-room, Mrs Huxtable, it seemed, on Holmes’ inquiry, having retired to her bedroom to recover from the shock of witnessing the arrest of Miss Wilberforce and of learning the truth about the criminal career of the lady and her so-called brother.

‘Thank goodness I wrote to you, Mr Holmes,’ Miss Pilkington declared. ‘I dread to think what would have happened to Mrs Huxtable had she gone to that clinic in Harrogate.’

‘Indeed,’ Holmes replied gravely. ‘But it is your future which concerns me at the moment, Miss Pilkington. Will you remain in Mrs Huxtable’s employ?’

‘I think not, Mr Holmes. I have come to the conclusion that children and elderly widows do not make the most agreeable of companions. I have a friend in Paris whom I met when I was working there as a governess. She owns a private school where she teaches English to French businessmen. She offered me a position there but unfortunately I had already accepted the post with Mrs Huxtable so I had to refuse. However, her offer is still open and I have decided to accept it. In fact, I have written a letter to her this morning. As soon as I receive her reply, I shall give my notice to Mrs Huxtable.’

‘A very wise decision,’ Holmes replied, rising to his feet and holding out his hand. ‘I wish you well.’

It was sincerely meant and so, too, was her gratitude for the part Holmes had played in averting what could so easily have been a tragedy.

There was one loose thread, however, which still remained.

‘What of Mrs Huxtable, Holmes?’ I asked, anxious that the lady should not be disregarded.

‘Ah, our stray chicken!’ Holmes replied with a smile. ‘In her case, I think there is nothing we can do but hope that she has learned her lesson and does not allow any more foxes into her henhouse but keeps the door securely locked and bolted.’