Denis Smith - The Mammoth Book of the New Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes

‘That’s good enough for me!’ said Lestrade. ‘Let’s get back to the police station and see if we can’t find where that boat has gone!’

‘I can send a wire to Teddington Lock, to see if they’ve seen anything of it,’ said Welch as we left the grounds of Challington House and hurried down the road.

When we reached the police station, the sergeant on duty informed Lestrade that a reply had already been received to his earlier enquiry concerning Wilkinson. The police station at Norwood stated that a Mr Thomas Wilkinson had been reported missing the previous evening. He was, they said, deputy chief cashier at Churchfield’s Bank in the City, but had failed to return from work that afternoon as usual. A few moments later, Inspector Welch received a reply from Teddington Lock, stating that such a houseboat as he described had passed through the lock earlier in the morning.

‘Notify Scotland Yard, Deptford and all points east,’ said Lestrade. ‘Tell them that this boat must be stopped at all costs! I’m going back to town at once, Welch. You’d better come with me, Mr Ashby. You can help identify the boat and the Churchfield boy. Will you come, Mr Holmes?’

‘We’ll come with you as far as Paddington, at any rate,’ returned Holmes. ‘Then, I think, we’ll leave the matter in your capable hands, Lestrade!’

Everything that my friend had predicted came to pass exactly as he had foretold, as I learnt from the newspapers the following evening. According to the Echo , the Churchfields’ houseboat had eventually been stopped just off Greenwich Point, the whole family being taken into custody for questioning. They were subsequently charged with fraud, theft, arson and murder, although the last charge was later reduced to culpable homicide as it could not be proved that they had intended to murder Wilkinson when they struck him. Meanwhile, it was reported in the Pall Mall Gazette that Churchfield’s Bank had been in chaos, and had not opened its doors to the public all day, eventually announcing at three o’clock in the afternoon that it could no longer continue trading. The Globe , taking a different perspective on the affair, heaped praise on Inspector Lestrade, ‘without whose smart work and initiative’, it remarked, ‘a great crime might have gone undetected’.

‘They do not mention you at all,’ I said to my friend, as I finished reading these accounts of the case. ‘They seem to believe that Lestrade solved the whole business by himself!’

‘Thank goodness for that!’ returned Holmes with a chuckle. ‘I can assure you I had no desire to see my name linked with such a simple affair. Let Lestrade enjoy his moment of glory, Watson. One day we may need a favour from him. Meanwhile, let us hope that something a little more challenging turns up soon to exercise our intellects!’

The cold winter of 1886 was made memorable for me by the remarkable series of cases handled by my friend, Sherlock Holmes, in which it was my privilege to observe his methods of work and make a record of the details. Especially notable among these cases were the mysterious death of the eminent archaeologist, Sir Montague Knelling, the scandal concerning the Liverpool and Malabar Shipping Company, and the outrageous theft of one of the most precious possessions of the Empire. Yet, sensational though these cases were, none was perhaps so interesting as that which concerned the old Albion Theatre and the peculiar persecution to which those employed there were subject. Indeed, of all the cases in which I was able to assist Sherlock Holmes, during the time we lodged together in Baker Street, there are few which are impressed more vividly upon my memory.

I had returned to our chambers early in the afternoon of a chilly January day, to find that Sherlock Holmes was entertaining a visitor. Beside the blazing fire sat a graceful, handsome woman, elegantly attired in a maroon costume with salmon-pink trimmings and overskirt. Upon her head was a small turban-like bonnet, adorned with feathers of the same colours.

I had pushed open the door of our sitting-room with my thoughts elsewhere, hardly aware of my surroundings. But now, as I mumbled an apology for intruding, and made to withdraw, I hesitated. Something in the visitor’s features plucked a cord in my memory, as she turned her head in my direction and raised an inquiring eyebrow. We had met before, I was convinced. If so, I ought, from politeness, to acknowledge the fact. But I could not think where this meeting might have taken place and, thus, for a long moment, stood in what no doubt appeared perfectly idiotic silence. Sherlock Holmes evidently perceived my difficulty, for, in an instant, he had sprung from his chair and come to my rescue.

‘My esteemed friend and colleague, Dr Watson,’ cried he with a chuckle, as he took my arm and drew me into the room; ‘Miss Isabel Ballantyne, with whose celebrity you are doubtless already familiar.’

I took the hand which the lady extended, thinking what an idiot I was not to have recognised at once one of the most celebrated actresses of the day. Scarcely three months previously I had sat in the stalls and applauded at Isabel Ballantyne’s performance in a musical comedy entitled The Pirate Queen , in which her distinguished presence had served to elevate what was really only mediocre fare into a most enjoyable evening. I had also seen her be both captivating and amusing as Beatrice in Much Ado About Nothing , a portrayal which most critics thought unlikely to be bettered.

I recalled, also, in that instant of recognition, other things I had read of Miss Ballantyne over the years, of how her glittering success upon the London stage had not been accompanied by equal felicity in her private life. Those in the society papers who claimed to know about such things had spoken frequently of her many friends and admirers, but had hinted, also, at a private loneliness or melancholy at the centre of this giddy whirl of public life. Until, that is, the arrival upon the scene of Captain William Trent, the dashing former cavalry officer and big-game hunter, who had, against general expectation, wooed and won Miss Ballantyne’s heart. Hitherto little known in London society, he had at once assumed the heroic status of a modern-day Lochinvar, riding in from afar to rescue Miss Ballantyne from her melancholy. Anyone who could achieve what so many had aspired to in vain was clearly worthy of the very highest respect. The attitude of other men towards Captain Trent was, in consequence, therefore, largely one of genuine admiration, but tinged just a little, perhaps, with envy. Since Miss Ballantyne’s marriage to Captain Trent, eighteen months previously, her name had appeared less frequently in the society press, and it was supposed that she had at last found that private peace with which to balance her public glamour.

I stole another swift glance at our visitor’s face as I took her hand. Although no longer in the first flush of youth, she was, if anything, more attractive than ever. Those soft, dark, expressive eyes, that gentle, warm smile upon her lips – in an experience of female beauty which extended over many nations and races, I had never, I felt, descried a more winning or charming face.

‘I am very pleased to make your acquaintance,’ said I, sounding somewhat more formal than I had intended.

‘Delighted,’ returned she.

‘Miss Ballantyne was about to describe to me a curious series of incidents which have occurred lately at Hardy’s Theatre,’ said Holmes. ‘Richard Hudson Hardy’s company is in rehearsal there for a new production which is to open in three days’ time. I wonder, madam, if I could trouble you to repeat the gist of what you have already told me, so that my friend may understand the situation?’