discreet, will you not?’ I asked. ‘Venables would not wish his son to know that he has requested the inquiries.’
Holmes, who was in high spirits that morning, threw up his hands in mock horror.
‘When am I ever not the soul of discretion, my dear fellow? But pray continue. I can tell from your expression that you have not completed all you wished to say.’
‘About your fees –?’
Putting down his cup, Holmes regarded me with an expression of quizzical kindliness before replying, ‘For friends or friends of friends there are no charges. Besides, last night I completed a case on behalf of a wealthy client, an American peanut millionaire whose younger brother had formed an unfortunate attachment with a female midget. No, not another word, my good Watson. And now, if you have quite finished your kipper, we shall take a hansom to Titchbourne Street without any further delay.’
Titchbourne Street was a drab turning off Wapping Lane, not far from the river for, as we alighted from the cab, we could smell its muddy odour and could glimpse down the alley-ways which ran between the buildings the masts and rigging of the ships tied up at the wharves.
The street itself was lined with wholesalers’ and importers’ warehouses, their grimy brick edifices dwarfing a row of low, mean houses and a solitary public house, the Britannia, which stood on the corner.
To my surprise, number 10 to 19 was one of these warehouses, a four-storeyed premises with tiers of barred windows. A large board fastened across the façade announced in bold lettering the words: ‘Geo. Buckmaster, Furniture Importers and Wholesalers’.
‘This is very puzzling, Holmes,’ I remarked. ‘It is hardly the place where one would expect to find the headquarters of a charitable institition.’
‘But we have evidently found the correct address,’ Holmes replied. He had approached a black-painted door, the only entrance along the whole length of the frontage, to which was affixed a small plaque which read: ‘A. M. S. Head Office. Postal Inquiries Only’.
The door proved to be firmly locked for Holmes tried the handle in vain and, when persistent loud knocking failed to rouse anyone inside the building, he turned back towards the Britannia public house, remarking, ‘If I am not mistaken, there should be a way through to a rear entrance where goods are unloaded. Ah, I thought so, Watson! Here is an alley-way which leads along the side of the tavern and which should take us to it.’
Holmes was right. The alley opened into a broad cobblestoned lane, which ran parallel to Titchbourne Street and was entirely enclosed on both sides by the tall rear walls of the various wholesale establishments, all of which were supplied with ramps and double doors where goods could be despatched or delivered.
Indeed, as we approached the back of Buckmaster’s premises, we could see that a large covered van was standing outside such a pair of doors which were flung wide open, a boy holding the horses’ heads, while three men in sacking aprons unloaded furniture from the interior of the vehicle.
A short, stout man, wearing a billycock hat and with a largesilver watch-chain looped across the front of his waistcoat, appeared to be in charge.
He listened to Holmes’ inquiry, his head cocked on one side so that he could still keep an eye on the men’s activities.
‘The A. M. S.?’ said he. ‘I can’t tell you much about it; or even what it is, come to that, except it’s some institution or other as uses the premises for an accommodation address. A young man calls round every other day to collect any letters that have been delivered. You’ll have to ask the manager, Mr Littlejohn.’
He broke off to shout at the men who were lifting a large mahogany wardrobe off the van. ‘Careful with that! You’ll smash them mirrors in the doors!’ before, turning back to Holmes, he continued, ‘If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I’ve got work to do. Go and see Mr
Holmes, who was in high spirits that morning, threw up his hands in mock horror.
‘When am I ever not the soul of discretion, my dear fellow? But pray continue. I can tell from your expression that you have not completed all you wished to say.’
‘About your fees –?’
Putting down his cup, Holmes regarded me with an expression of quizzical kindliness before replying, ‘For friends or friends of friends there are no charges. Besides, last night I completed a case on behalf of a wealthy client, an American peanut millionaire whose younger brother had formed an unfortunate attachment with a female midget. No, not another word, my good Watson. And now, if you have quite finished your kipper, we shall take a hansom to Titchbourne Street without any further delay.’
Titchbourne Street was a drab turning off Wapping Lane, not far from the river for, as we alighted from the cab, we could smell its muddy odour and could glimpse down the alley-ways which ran between the buildings the masts and rigging of the ships tied up at the wharves.
The street itself was lined with wholesalers’ and importers’ warehouses, their grimy brick edifices dwarfing a row of low, mean houses and a solitary public house, the Britannia, which stood on the corner.
To my surprise, number 10 to 19 was one of these warehouses, a four-storeyed premises with tiers of barred windows. A large board fastened across the façade announced in bold lettering the words: ‘Geo. Buckmaster, Furniture Importers and Wholesalers’.
‘This is very puzzling, Holmes,’ I remarked. ‘It is hardly the place where one would expect to find the headquarters of a charitable institition.’
‘But we have evidently found the correct address,’ Holmes replied. He had approached a black-painted door, the only entrance along the whole length of the frontage, to which was affixed a small plaque which read: ‘A. M. S. Head Office. Postal Inquiries Only’.
The door proved to be firmly locked for Holmes tried the handle in vain and, when persistent loud knocking failed to rouse anyone inside the building, he turned back towards the Britannia public house, remarking, ‘If I am not mistaken, there should be a way through to a rear entrance where goods are unloaded. Ah, I thought so, Watson! Here is an alley-way which leads along the side of the tavern and which should take us to it.’
Holmes was right. The alley opened into a broad cobblestoned lane, which ran parallel to Titchbourne Street and was entirely enclosed on both sides by the tall rear walls of the various wholesale establishments, all of which were supplied with ramps and double doors where goods could be despatched or delivered.
Indeed, as we approached the back of Buckmaster’s premises, we could see that a large covered van was standing outside such a pair of doors which were flung wide open, a boy holding the horses’ heads, while three men in sacking aprons unloaded furniture from the interior of the vehicle.
A short, stout man, wearing a billycock hat and with a largesilver watch-chain looped across the front of his waistcoat, appeared to be in charge.
He listened to Holmes’ inquiry, his head cocked on one side so that he could still keep an eye on the men’s activities.
‘The A. M. S.?’ said he. ‘I can’t tell you much about it; or even what it is, come to that, except it’s some institution or other as uses the premises for an accommodation address. A young man calls round every other day to collect any letters that have been delivered. You’ll have to ask the manager, Mr Littlejohn.’
He broke off to shout at the men who were lifting a large mahogany wardrobe off the van. ‘Careful with that! You’ll smash them mirrors in the doors!’ before, turning back to Holmes, he continued, ‘If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I’ve got work to do. Go and see Mr
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