Colin Dexter - Morse’s Greatest Mystery and other stories

“Amazing, Holmes!”

“As for the glove worn at the forefinger—”

“You would be better advised,” suddenly interposed the deeper voice of Mycroft, “to concentrate upon the missing person.”

May it have been a flash of annoyance that showed itself in Holmes’s eyes? If so, it was gone immediately. “You are quite right, Mycroft! Come now, Watson, read to us the paragraph from The Chronicle.”

I held the printed slip to the light and began: “Missing on the 14th November 188-. A gentleman named Mr. Horatio Darvill: about 5 feet 8 inches in height; fairly firmly built; sallow complexion; black hair, just a little bald in the centre; bushy black side-whiskers and moustache; tinted spectacles; slight infirmity of speech. When last seen, was dressed in—”

“But I think,” interrupted Holmes, “he may by now have changed his wedding vestments, Watson?”

“Oh, certainly, Holmes.”

There being nothing, it seemed, of further value in the newspaper description, Holmes turned his attention to the letters, passing them to me after studying them himself with minute concentration.

“Well?” he asked.

Apart from the fact that the letters had been typed, I could find in them nothing of interest, and I laid them down on the coffee-table in front of the somnolent Mycroft.

“Well?” persisted Holmes.

“I assume you refer to the fact that the letters are type-written.”

“Already you are neglecting your newly acquired knowledge of the method , Watson. Quite apart from the one you mention, there are three further points of immediate interest and importance. First, the letters are very short; second, apart from the vague ‘Leadenhall Street’ superscription, there is no precise address stated at any point; third, it is not only the body of the letter which has been typed, but the signature, too. Observe here, Watson — and here! — that neat little ‘Horatio Darvill’ typed at the bottom of each of our four exhibits. And it will not have escaped you, I think, how conclusive that last point might be?”

“Conclusive, Holmes? In what way?”

“My dear fellow, is it possible for you not to see how strongly it bears upon our present investigations?”

“Homo circumbendibus — that’s what you are, Sherlock!” (It was Mycroft once more.) “Do you not appreciate that your client would prefer some positive action to any further proofs of your cerebral superiority?”

It is pleasing to report here that this attempt of Mycroft to provoke the most distinguished criminologist of the century proved largely ineffectual, and Holmes permitted himself a fraternal smile as his brother slowly bestirred his frame.

“You are right, Mycroft,” he rejoined lightly. “And I shall immediately compose two letters: one to Messrs Cook and Marchant; the other to Mr. Wyndham, asking that gentleman to meet us here at six o’clock tomorrow evening.”

Already I was aware of the easy and confident demeanour with which Holmes was tackling the singular mystery which confronted us all. But for the moment my attention was diverted by a small but most curious incident.

“It is just as well, Sherlock,” said Mycroft (who appeared now to be almost fully awakened), “that you do not propose to write three letters.”

Seldom (let me admit it) have I seen my friend so perplexed: “A third letter?”

“Indeed. But such a letter could have no certain destination, since it apparently slipped your memory to ask the young lady her present address, and the letters she entrusted to you appear, as I survey them, to be lacking their outer envelopes.”

Momentarily Holmes looked less than amused by this lighthearted intervention. “You are more observant today than I thought, Mycroft, for the evidence of eye and ear had led me to entertain the suspicion that you were sleeping soundly during my recent conversation with Miss van Allen. But as regards her address, you are right.” And even as he spoke, I noted the twinkle of mischievous intelligence in his eyes. “Yet it would not be too difficult perhaps to deduce the young lady’s address, Mycroft? On such a foul day as this it is dangerous and ill-advised for a lady to travel the streets if she has a perfectly acceptable and comfortable alternative such as the Underground; and since it was precisely 3:14 P.M. when Miss van Allen appeared beneath my window, I would hazard the guess that she had caught the Metropolitan-line train which passes through Baker Street at 3:12 P.M. on its journey to Hammersmith. We may consider two further clues, also. The lady’s boots, ill-assorted as they were, bore little evidence of the mud and mire of our London streets; and we may infer from this that her own home is perhaps as adjacent to an Underground station as is our own. More significant, however, is the fact, as we all observed, that Miss van Allen wore a dress of linen — a fabric which, though it is long-lasting and pleasing to wear, is one which has the disadvantage of creasing most easily. Now the skirt of the dress had been most recently ironed, and the slight creases in it must have resulted from her journey — to see me. And — I put this forward as conjecture, Mycroft — probably no more than three or four stops on the Underground had been involved. If we remember, too, the ‘few minutes’ her wedding-carriage took from her home to St. Saviour’s, I think, perhaps... perhaps...” Holmes drew a street-map towards him, and surveyed his chosen area with his magnification-glass.

“I shall plump,” he said directly, “for Cowcross Street myself — that shabbily genteel little thoroughfare which links Farringdon Road with St. John Street.”

“Very impressive!” said Mycroft, anticipating my own admiration. “And would you place her on the north or the south side of that thoroughfare, Sherlock?”

But before Holmes could reply to this small pleasantry, Mrs. Hudson entered with a slip of paper which she handed to Holmes. “The young lady says she forgot to give you her address, sir, and she’s written it down for you.”

Holmes glanced quickly at the address and a glint of pride gleamed in his eyes. “The answer to your question, Mycroft, is the south side — for it is an even-numbered house, and if I remember correctly the numbering of houses in that part of London invariably begins at the east end of the street with the odd numbers on the right-hand side walking westwards.”

“And the number is perhaps in the middle or late thirties?” suggested Mycroft. “Thirty-six, perhaps? Or more likely thirty-eight?”

Holmes himself handed over the paper to us and we read:

I was daily accustomed to exhibitions of the most extraordinary deductive logic employed by Sherlock Holmes, but I had begun at this point to suspect, in his brother Mycroft, the existence of some quite paranormal mental processes. It was only half an hour later, when Holmes himself had strolled out for tobacco, that Mycroft, observing my continued astonishment, spoke quietly in my ear.

“If you keep your lips sealed, Dr. Watson, I will tell you a small secret — albeit a very simple one. The good lady’s coat was thrown rather carelessly, as you noticed, over the back of a chair; and on the inside of the lining was sewn a tape with her name and address clearly printed on it. Alas, however, my eyes are now not so keen as they were in my youth, and sixes and eights, as you know, are readily susceptible of confusion.”

I have never been accused, I trust, of undue levity, but I could not help laughing heartily at this coup on Mycroft’s part, and I assured him that his brother should never hear the truth of it from me.