George Mann - Associates of Sherlock Holmes

Perhaps that is why I have turned my attention now to writing up one of the times when Holmes required my assistance – and, as it turned out, for more than just information. This was during one of the periods when Watson was living separately from Holmes, thanks to a recent marriage. It was his third, I believe. Holmes seemed to have a blind spot where Watson was concerned: the man was a serial womaniser with a serious gambling problem, but Holmes never criticised him for this, as far as I know. He certainly had enough reason: Watson was always criticising Holmes for his dalliance with the needle.

At the time this particular case came to my attention Watson was out of London – holidaying in Eastbourne with his new wife. I already had a thin file on her, but I saw no need to spoil the good doctor’s marital bliss by telling him anything of his wife’s rather colourful past. Perhaps he already knew. At any rate, it was early one morning at my club when Holmes appeared, accompanied by a footman and a young woman who looked as if she had been crying for some time.

I nodded to the footman, and as he withdrew I gestured to my visitors to sit down.

“Mr Holmes,” I said, “it has been too long.”

“Not long enough for me, Pike,” he rejoined. “I apologise, by the way, for the timing of my visit. I know that the hours you keep tend to run completely counter to the hours of the civilised world.”

“And I know that you keep whatever hours you choose, without recourse to looking at any clock,” I responded. “We are both as bad as each other.”

“Certainly not,” he snapped. He had thrown himself into a chair when he arrived, but now he drew himself up and nodded his head towards the lady with whom he had entered. “This is Miss Molly Morris,” he said. “Miss Morris has consulted me on a problem, and I find I am in the regrettable situation of requiring your unique brand of assistance.”

I gazed at Miss Morris, who was wiping her eyes with a lace handkerchief. She was dressed quite cheaply, but well. I would have put her down as an assistant in a haberdasher’s shop, rather than one of those women often and confusingly described as being “no better than they should be”, and I am rarely wrong on these matters.

Holmes continued: “Miss Morris’s fiancé was killed several days ago in the Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens, down near the Embankment. The exact nature of his death is odd; odder still has been the reaction of the police.”

“He was shot,” she interjected forcefully. “My family has worked in fairgrounds for generations, and I’ve seen shooting galleries. I know what a rifle shot sounds like. Gordon was standing in front of me, just opening his mouth to say something, when he was shot in the chest. He clutched at the wound, and keeled over.”

“I’m terribly sorry for your loss,” I said, leaning forward and patting her hand. “I fear that Mr Holmes may have misled you, however. I know he disapproves of the way I make my living, but I do not, I assure you, either commission shootings or know anyone who carries them out. Nasty, unpleasant, noisy things.”

“You make your living by making other people unhappy,” Holmes snapped. “Nevertheless, I am aware that you have a finely tuned ear for gossip and innuendo. Miss Morris’s fiancé is of, shall we say, a higher social station than she. I would like to know whether there is any family feud, any argument over a legacy, any dubious business arrangements, or any other reason why young Mr Gordon Drake might have been shot.”

“Drake is a common name,” I pointed out.

“Indeed. But this particular family have been involved in maritime insurance for generations.”

“Ah – the Cheyne Walk Drakes, with offices in Fenchurch Street and Deptford.” I nodded. “I have indeed heard of them, but not in any way that would help in your investigation. There is, as far as I am aware, no hint of scandal in that family.” I smiled at Holmes. “I would consider them to be consumers of the work I do, rather than the fuel for it.”

“The police tried to tell me he was stabbed,” Miss Morris interjected. “They told me that some mugger tried to take his wallet, and that when he resisted was knifed through the heart, but that’s just not so.”

I patted her hand again – I wasn’t sure if I was helping, but I had to do something. “Perhaps his family were unhappy at the impending marriage,” I said, “and they were trying to kill you, but missed. Had you thought about that possibility?”

Miss Morris looked at me in shock, then buried her face in her handkerchief and descended into a peal of sobs.

Holmes gazed at me sternly. “I have made investigations,” he announced, “and I am quite certain that Mr Drake’s family were happy that he was happy, and that they had taken Miss Morris to their bosom.” He held up a hand. “And, before you attempt to suggest that someone in Miss Morris’s family – perhaps a funfair shooting booth operator – was the guiding intelligence behind the shot, I have found only happiness in the extended Morris clan at the forthcoming nuptials.”

“No jealous paramours?” I inquired.

“Gordon was my first beau,” Miss Morris stated, cheeks still damp from her tears. I glanced at Holmes, and he nodded in agreement.

“I wish I could be of more help,” I said. “The trouble is that I know nothing.” I couldn’t let the opportunity to bait Holmes a morsel pass. “And, as you well know, Holmes, I’m not the kind of journalist who would just make something up. All my stories are based on verifiable facts.”

He raised an eyebrow, but made no response. Instead he stood up. “Watson has kindly offered to travel up to London and consult on Mr Drake’s –” he paused, “– physical state in the pathology lab at Scotland Yard. I have to meet him shortly.” He turned to Miss Drake. “I shall call a cab for you, and I shall report if I make any progress.” Glancing at me he added, “As for you, Pike, shall I slip you a shilling now or merely settle your bar bill on the way out?”

“Neither,” I said, surprising myself as much as him. “Take me with you to see Dr Watson, if you wish to recompense me.”

He fixed me with a gimlet eye. “Why would you want me to do that?”

I shrugged. “Boredom. That, and a feeling that there might be something in this case of interest to me.”

“Very well,” he said, “but do not get in the way.”

Holmes escorted Miss Morris to the door of the club while I collected my various notebooks and pens together and put them carefully in the shoulder bag I habitually carried with me. Men, I have noticed, have much less latitude than women when it comes to personal items. They have both clutches and handbags to choose from when carrying their personal items, whereas we have to make do with briefcases and, in extremis, carpet bags. It seems unfair on the male sex, so I instructed a man who works in leather in the back streets around Charing Cross to construct a square bag for me into which I can fit everything than I need and that I can then sling over my shoulder with a strap. It attracts a certain amount of attention when I am out. Jealousy, I expect. Some men are undoubtedly ahead of their time. Still, Oscar Wilde has complimented me on it, so I know I am on safe ground.

I met Holmes outside the club and we walked the fifteen minutes or so along the Embankment until we reached Scotland Yard. He was recognised by the constable on the door and waved through. My experiences of police stations have not been comfortable, and so I was nervous as he led the way towards the stairs and then down into the basement. For an uncomfortable moment I thought we were heading for the cells, but in fact he took me to a large room with several long, rectangular windows along the top of one wall through which, if I strained, I could see the feet of people walking past. The walls were lined with shelves containing all manner of unpleasant surgical instruments and anatomical specimens in glass jars. Three metal tables had been placed side by side in the centre of the room, with gaps between them large enough for two people to pass, side by side. The floor was tiled in white, and several drains had been sunk into it. The purpose of the drains became unpleasantly clear when I realised that the body of a naked man was lying face-up on one of the tables. No cloth or towel covered his modesty. He was, I should make clear, completely dead. It was not that kind of establishment.