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

‘Yes?’ said he irritably.

‘We are looking for Mr Stephen Hollingworth,’ said Holmes.

‘Hollingworth? Never heard of him! Good night!’

‘One moment,’ said Holmes, as the stout man turned away. ‘Might I enquire the name of the occupant of this house?’

‘You can enquire all you want,’ returned the other in a rude tone. ‘The house hasn’t got an occupant. The occupant has taken himself off, bag and baggage, owing me a quarter’s rent.’

‘And that gentleman was?’

‘George Robinson. What is it to you?’

‘A slimly built man, with dark brown hair and moustache?’

‘Yes, as it happens. What of it?’

‘Ah!’ said Holmes, turning to us. ‘You are not familiar with the name “George Robinson”, Mr Herbert? No? Nevertheless. It must be he.’ He turned back to the man in the doorway, who stood with his hands on his hips. ‘You are the landlord, sir?’ he enquired.

‘Yes I am. He told me to come round this evening and everything would be squared up, but when I got here there wasn’t a sign of him and most of the rooms look as if someone has thrown a grenade into them.’

‘The house was let furnished?’

‘Yes; for six months: one quarter in advance and not a farthing seen since.’

‘As it happens, my colleague here is also owed a considerable sum of money by this man who calls himself Robinson,’ said Holmes, ‘and he, too, was sent a message concerning this evening.’

‘To come here?’

‘No, somewhere else; but Robinson wasn’t there either. May we come in?’

With a sigh, the stout man, who introduced himself as Elijah Hassocks, led us through into a room at the back of the house, which appeared to have been used as a study. There were signs everywhere of a hurried departure: cupboard doors standing wide open, and drawers pulled out and hanging at odd, drunken angles. Scattered about, on every available surface, were newspapers and magazines, among which I observed many copies of the Sporting Times , Sporting Life and other racing papers.

‘You see?’ said Hassocks angrily. ‘He presented himself as a first-rate tenant, but it seems he was a first-rate mountebank! Look!’ he continued, pointing his finger at the window, where one of the striped curtains had been cut off halfway down: ‘not content with defrauding me out of my rent, the blackguard has been amusing himself by destroying the furnishings! If you can shed any light on his whereabouts I’ll be very obliged to you.’

‘I fear that something has happened to him,’ said Mr Herbert.

‘Something will happen to him if I catch hold of him,’ retorted Hassocks.

‘I mean, he may have been abducted,’ persisted Herbert.

‘Well if so, his abductors have very considerately taken all his clothes and personal belongings, too.’

‘A large number of documents have been burnt earlier today,’ remarked Holmes, indicating a mound of blackened ashes in the fireplace, as he bent down and began to sift through papers which were strewn in disordered heaps upon the floor. Presently, he held up a large, battered old album, which had the initials ‘G.R.’ embossed upon the cover. ‘Other than this,’ said he, ‘which is perfectly empty, there is nothing remaining which bears a name or any indication of ownership. He appears to have gone to considerable lengths to hide his trail. Let us have a look in here,’ he continued, squatting down and examining the contents of a waste-paper basket, which had been hidden from view beneath a little side-table. ‘The humble waste-paper basket can occasionally be a singularly helpful source of information! Ah! This may be something!’

He had extracted a crumpled slip of paper from the basket, which he smoothed out upon his knee and studied for a moment. I leaned over his shoulder and read the following: ‘O. L. Friday morning,’ which had been underlined three times, and, below that, ‘£42–10s– 6d’.

‘What a very precise amount,’ I remarked.

‘Have you the IOU he gave you, Mr Herbert?’ said Holmes, looking up.

Herbert produced his pocket-book and pulled from it a small piece of paper which he handed to Holmes.

‘It is in the same hand,’ said the latter, in a thoughtful tone.

‘He has made a note of some debt and the day it was to be paid,’ I suggested.

‘Possibly,’ said Holmes, ‘although I fancy it has some other meaning. I think we have seen all we need to see here. Our next port of call must be Scotland Yard.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I spoke to Inspector Lanner two nights ago and he informed me that he is on evening duty all this week, which is fortunate, for he is the very man we need to see. My card, Sir,’ he continued, turning to Mr Hassocks. ‘If I can be of any service to you, pray let me know!’

We walked briskly down to Oxford Street where we hailed a four-wheeler and were at Scotland Yard within five minutes. Herbert and I waited downstairs while Holmes went up to see Lanner. The officer at the desk, no doubt moved to sympathy by my companion’s sorry appearance, brought us a cup of tea, and Mr Herbert’s spirits, which had begun to flag, picked up again.

‘Do you have any idea what is afoot, Doctor?’ he asked me.

‘None whatever. If I were to guess, I should say that your old school-fellow, so far from being subject to any menace himself, has perhaps subjected everyone else to what one might term financial menace.’

Herbert nodded his head.

‘That is how it strikes me, too,’ he concurred. ‘He owes money to his landlord, he owes money to me, he probably owes money to the men who assaulted me in Carstone Court.’

‘Gambling debts, no doubt.’

‘No doubt. And I cannot think that there is much hope of ever finding him. If he has left his house of his own accord, as appears likely, he might be anywhere. He might have taken a train to Land’s End or John O’Groats, for all we know!’

‘My thoughts precisely.’

Our discussion was interrupted by the reappearance of Holmes, accompanied by a smart-looking police inspector, with a neatly trimmed beard and sharp, intelligent eyes, whom I recognised as Inspector Lanner. They appeared to be in a hurry. Lanner nodded to us, then disappeared through a doorway.

‘The man you met at Little Wickling station,’ said Holmes, addressing Mr Herbert: ‘Might his name by any chance have been Gabriel Tooth?’

Herbert shook his head, but appeared in a state of surprise and confusion. ‘I did once know someone of that name,’ said he at length, ‘a boy in the form below mine at Whalley Abbey School. I had forgotten all about him until you mentioned his name. It could not have been he I met at Little Wickling, however, for I recall now that Tooth had ginger hair and a wide, freckled face. How did you hear of him, Mr Holmes?’

‘Inspector Lanner informs me that Tooth is the name your mysterious friend called himself when he visited the Hollingworths at Wickling Place; but I doubted that it would be his true name. I rather fancy,’ he continued after a moment, ‘that the man we are after is one Gilbert Rowsley.’

There was a tension in my friend’s voice as he spoke those words, and he regarded Herbert keenly. It was evident that he hoped to see a spark of recognition upon his client’s features at the mention of this name. If so, he was not disappointed. Herbert’s mouth fell open, he gasped audibly and his eyebrows shot up; then he clapped his hand to his head and remained immobile for several minutes.

‘Of course!’ he cried at length, rising to his feet in his excitement. ‘Gilbert Rowsley! Of course! It is he!’

‘Gilbert Rowsley is another of your old school-fellows, then?’ asked Holmes, barely able to contain the excitement in his own voice.