Ted Riccardi - Between the Thames and the Tiber

“Mrs. Hudson has developed a certain acuity in these matters,” said Holmes, “a knack for perceiving irregularities in human affairs that even I at times have overlooked. Indeed, I have come to value her opinions. But let us hear directly from you what has happened.”

“Dumond’s death, as you know, was a terrible blow to me, and for a time I could barely think,” she began. “The world, however, does not stop even at the loss of one’s beloved. I found that Dumond had, to add to my sorrow, no money except what he earned as a doctor. There was nothing for me and my two young daughters to live on. I tried to find work, but all my efforts in that direction came to naught. It was at this low point in my life that I thought of taking in boarders. The house, as you know, is large, and when I examined it closely, I found that if I took in a few boarders, I would be able to survive: I could keep the house and feed my daughters and myself. I spoke to Mrs. Hudson about my plans, and she not only approved but helped me over the coming months. When the rooms were ready and Mrs. Hudson had approved the changes, I began interviewing prospective clients. It took me only a week to fill my rooms, and for the first time since Dumond’s death I thought I could go on.”

Holmes sat back and I could see his eyes running over the room and its contents, noting the stair just beyond the door, the paintings Dumond worked on during his spare moments, the large number of books neatly stored in their shelves.

“A few weeks ago,” she continued, “one of my rooms, then given to an American writer from Boston, was vacated, and I promptly advertised in The Times for a replacement. I could have rented the room twenty times over, but among the crowd of candidates was a young man, a medical student. His name was Ian Rose. He was an acquaintance of Dumond’s at the university, but I only knew him slightly. He was a Scot from Edinburgh, charming and witty, willing and able to pay an advance of six months. He knew my tragic story, since Dumond was among the occasional lecturers in surgery brought in to discuss special topics, in Dumond’s case the specialty being the knee.

“Mr. Rose turned out to be an ideal tenant, one considerate of others, neat in his habits, and extraordinarily helpful with my two daughters, whom he often took to the zoo when I was occupied. He kept irregular hours, and often was out for much of the night, but to his credit, he was as quiet as a mouse when he came in, sometimes in the early morning.”

“About three weeks ago,” she continued. “Mr. Rose came to my office to inform me that he would be returning to Edinburgh for advanced study and that he would soon be vacating his quarters. I was truly sorry to see him leave. I gave a small farewell party for him with his friends in the square, and on the morning of his last day in our house, I had a special breakfast prepared for him. At nine in the morning he came down those stairs with two suitcases. He placed them in the hall and told me that he was going to hail a cab to take him to the train station. We would then say our farewells. I nodded to him and went to my office, thinking that I would hear his familiar knock at my door momentarily. To make the story short, however, he never appeared. The valises were there in the late afternoon, and indeed are still there. I allowed no one to touch them. I called our mutual friends and his teachers at the university. No one had seen him. After two days of frantic searching for clues, I placed an advertisement in the paper and waited. There was no helpful reply, and at that moment I called the police. They were less than considerate, saying that missing persons were the greatest problem of the police in England. Their number had increased dramatically, and they, the police, hopelessly understaffed.”

“The rather typical remark of one who finds himself beyond his depth,” said Holmes with a smile. “There may be more to this disappearance than meets the eye.”

“There is one more point, dear Sherlock, that I must bring to your attention and that is this: one of our neighbors, Mr. McHugh, insists that he ran into Ian Rose as he was entering the station at Russell Square, but it was a very different Ian that he saw, if indeed it was Ian. The man was filthy, dressed in torn rags, his hair and beard unkempt. As soon as he saw Mr. McHugh, he uttered a cry of surprise, turned, and disappeared into the morning crowd.”

“Most interesting. Mr. Rose is most probably alive then. And where is Mr. McHugh? May we speak with him?”

“Yes, you may, but first have a look at Ian’s flat, and then we shall meet McHugh at his residence across the square.”

We followed Barbara up the stairs to the very top of the building. Rose’s quarters were very small and barely constituted what might be called a flat. They consisted of two small rooms, each with a small window, one large enough to take a bed, the other slightly smaller. It contained a desk and chair.

“I see that you have had the place cleaned,” said Holmes disappointedly. “A pity, since we might have found something of value to our investigation. Still, I shall have a brief look.”

I watched as he combed the floor on all fours, taking samples of dust and carpeting, anything that he could fruitfully test under the microscope. When he rose, he looked out one of the windows to the street below. He then examined the window frame and stared for a long time at one of the glass panes, which had some scratches on it. He called me over and asked whether they suggested anything.

“They appear to be curved, almost a circle, as if a round object had been repeatedly pressed and turned against it,” said I. “And there appears to be some soot and a bit of wax on the window, somewhat higher up.”

“Good, Watson. Now the question arises: what was the object employed and why was it used? Note, old boy, these holes in the window frame, recently filled with putty. There are four holes arranged, if I am correct, into a rough rectangle. Finally, look here, just to their right, a larger hole, about half an inch in diameter and also filled with putty only recently applied, since it appears to be soft, almost fresh. Let me have your pocket knife, Watson.”

Holmes extricated most of the putty. The hole went through the wall to the outside.

“Most interesting, Watson,” said he pensively, as if he were speaking to himself. There is some dark-colored soil, almost black, mixed in with the putty. Barbara,” said Holmes, “do you remember any of this being here before Mr. Rose left?”

“Yes, I forgot to mention to you that . . .” she paused.

“Mr. Rose was an amateur astronomer,” said Holmes finishing her sentence.

“Yes,” she replied in surprise, “but how on earth did you guess that?”

Holmes smiled. “I never guess. Watson can attest to that. I assume that when Rose first took the room he also took your permission to drill the holes—with the promise that he would do or pay for the necessary repairs. He said that he would need to do so in order to affix a small telescope, the implication being that in some vague sense he was indeed an astronomer.”

“You are quite correct. He filled the holes the day before he left. But what significance do they have? They are such a small detail.”

“My profession is based on such details, call them trivia if you will, but without them, the solution to many problems would never occur. And since we are only at the beginning of the case, they indeed may still prove to be of no significance whatsoever. The important thing is to observe them, however minute they might seem to be. One more look in this closet. Hello, what have we here? How did I miss that?”

Holmes had now noticed a loose board in the closet floor. He lifted it up and pulled out a small telescope.