An Excellent Mystery
aka The Adventure of the Lost Luggage
by Soledad
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. The modern version belongs to BBC and Messires Moffat and Gatiss. The items of the lost luggage were borrowed from this website: www. .uk/ lostluggage/ victorians. htm. Remove the breaks and you can see the actual items for yourself.
Notes to Chapter 02:
The places mentioned in this chapter are really existing ones, like New Street Station or The Grand Hotel. I'm aware of the fact that there was no such thing as a "Birmingham Constabulary". I invented it, based on what we saw about the Toronto Constabulary in "The Murdoch Mysteries", so that I could invent a Chief Constable, someone like Agatha Christie's Colonel Melchett, because I needed him for the future plot development.
The details concerning the Birmingham Police Force are genuine, however. They are borrowed from the excellent article "On the Beat in Birmingham" by David Cross in BBC History. Instead of a Chief Constable, they had a Superintendent as the chief official who was indeed Francis Burgess.
The Inspector Bradstreet featuring here has the personality traits of Inspector Baynes of the ACD canon. I just switched the names because I liked the name Bradstreet better.
For visuals: Inspector Bradstreet is "played" by no-one lesser than Steven Moffat himself, while Miss Evans is "played" by Emilia Fox.
Beta read by my dear friend Linda Hoyland, whom I owe my thanks. All remaining mistakes are mine.
Chapter 02 – Police Investigations
The City of Birmingham was proud of the fact of being one of the few cities that had not signed up to the Charter of Incorporation, back in 1832; the charter that allowed towns and boroughs to levy a rate on householders in order to pay for street lighting and cleaning, pavements and for the provision of police, as formed in London by Robert Peel, two years previously.
Not that there would have been anything wrong with the newly established London police; on the contrary. They had proved useful and very effective, in a very short time after their foundation. But Birmingham had been jealous of its independence and didn't want to copy what the Londoners were doing.
Instead of signing up to the Charter, the councillors and magistrates of the City had requested – and been granted – permission to establish a police force of their own. Thus the Birmingham Constabulary had been formed in August 1839, with the Chief constable at the top who was, as the description of his duties listed, "to direct the officers and men in their respective duties and to make such regulations with regard to the performance of them as he may find conductive to the interests of the service – subject to the approval of the Watch Committee" (1)
The first officer shouldering this particular duty had been Francis Burgess, a barrister at Warwick, who'd happened to be a friend of Lord John Russell, the Home Secretary; the same official who had granted permission to establish the Birmingham Constabulary in the first place. He had retired a mere six years ago, succeeded in the office By Captain Jacob Holroyd.
As in other cities, the constables were the backbone of the force; an ever-present sight on the streets in their top hats and tailed jackets. This uniform represented both authority and servitude, for although the police were considered public servants, they were also the public's masters. On duty, the constables carried a truncheon, hand cuffs, an oil lamp, a small wooden rattle to get people's attention and, in some of the more dangerous areas, even a cutlass.
Plain-clothes detectives were introduced a few years later. Their main duty was to circulate lists of stolen property and to check pawnshops as well as investigating more serious crimes. They worked under the guidance of the Detective Inspector. The Detective Inspector was often responsible for the attendance of police officers at court and was therefore able to meet the most regular criminals. Because of this, he needed a good memory for names and events.
Inspector Samuel Bradstreet, leader of the Station House Three of the Birmingham Constabulary, was blessed with an excellent memory… not to mention with an appearance that commanded respect from both the public and the criminal classes. He was a tall, stout official with a ruggedly handsome, sharply lined face, black hair that had yet to begin greying and well-groomed sideburns that would have made a Naval officer proud.
Unlike the detectives under his guidance, he stood out from his surroundings by wearing a peaked cap and a frogged coat. The latter was a reminder of his years spent as a uniformed officer. Years that he was not ashamed of; on the contrary. He often declared the importance of the uniformed troops in keeping up order, and his constables respected him even more for that.
Currently, he was standing in his modest office, eying suspiciously the two battered pieces of lost luggage, brought over from New Street Railway Station and currently sitting on a low table in the corner.
"Can you explain me, Andrew, what this is and what am I supposed to do with it?" he asked Constable Davies morosely.
"These were the oldest pieces Mr Roberts found while cleaning out the Lost Luggage Department before handing it over to his successor," explained the Constable. "We have found some leads to the possible owners, but as they have failed to claim their possessions for the last ten years, there is a strong possibility that either the luggage had been stolen and they didn't know where to look for it, or that they might have fallen victim to some serious crime. Mr Roberts asked us to take a look, in the hope that we might figure out what happened."
The Inspector nodded thoughtfully. Such things were part of their regular duties, even though he had little hope that they might actually succeed in this particular case. Too much time had gone by already.
"We might as well do so," he said. "Crime has been, thankfully, slow in recent weeks; we can afford to do a bit of detective work. It would also give us the chance to try out the new camera Captain Holroyd got us last month."
Constable Davies beamed over his entire visage. Cameras were relatively now in police work but embraced enthusiastically. The first pictorial record had been taken in 1858, in a studio next to the station in Moor Street. Station House Three had got its first camera several years later, and only when Captain Holroyd had taken over as Chief Constable would each station be equipped with their own darkrooms to develop the photographs.
Constable Davies proved to have a gifted hand with new technologies, so using the camera had been assigned to him as a special task. So far, he had not found a reason to try out the new model and was now eager to do so.
"I shall go and set up the camera at once, sir," he offered.
Inspector Bradstreet shook his head, though.
"You'll have time to do so later," he said. "I, however, shan't; not with the disciplinary issue against Leach taking place tomorrow morning. Let us write up the contents of both trunk and suitcase on a numbered list, and you can make your photographs following those lists when you find the time. After ten years, a day or two's delay would hardly count, I suppose."
Constable Davies happily agreed with the plan. Like all unmarried constables, he lived in the police station, in one of the rooms upstairs, so coming down and doing some additional work wasn't a great hardship for him. Less so if said work had something to do with photography or other technical matters.
He was one of the day constables, with his beat being New Street Station and the streets surrounding it, keeping those streets free from hawkers selling goods from suitcases, moving on persons causing and obstruction and looking out for children playing on the street.
All these were important tasks, especially inside and around a railway station, but they did not require actual detective work. Taking photographs of evidence – or of possible evidence, at least – on the other hand was detective work; and a very useful skill if one intended to lay down the uniform and become a plain-clothes detective one day. Which was his not-so-secret ambition.
Inspector Bradstreet knew of this ambition and encouraged Davies to work towards it. He even assigned to him tasks where he could prove his skulls that went beyond traffic or fire duty. Like working on such odd founds.
Therefore, the Inspector called in Miss Evans, the station's only clerk, to write down the aforementioned lists. Miss Evans was a sharp, energetic spinster in her forties (no-one knew what exactly that vague definition meant and no-one dared to actually ask), dressed only a touch above her actual status, with an unruly mass of greying, straw blonde hair that valiantly resisted any effort to keep it in some sort of order. She also wore a pince-nez, rimmed with gold wire, and oversleeves of black satin cloth to protect her clothing.
All constables and even the plain-clothes detectives went in holy fear of Miss Evans, for her tongue was every bit as sharp as her mind, and she was never afraid to speak said mind, whether she was asked or not. She even stood up to the Chief Constable, if she had to.
Inspector Bradstreet valued her nonetheless. For not only was she tireless and very precise at work, she was also utterly discreet, despite her outspoken manners. She wouldn't breathe a word about what she'd seen or heard during her working hours.
Now that she'd arrived with her inevitable writing set and notebook, they could finally begin. Inspector Bradstreet decided to start with the trunk, with the reasoning that ladies should go first.
As earlier at the Lost Luggage office, they retrieved the letter written by the housekeeper of The Grand Hotel first, and the Inspector read it carefully.
"You must speak to this Miss Robinson, Andrew," he then said to Constable Davies. "Assuming she's still working there."
"She is," supplied Miss Evans, while jotting down the item in her notebook. "She was in here last week, about some thievery in the hotel."
Miss Evans always knew such things; another reason why Inspector Bradstreet found her so valuable as a clerk.
"Excellent," said he. "See that you speak with her as soon as you can, Andrew. Today, if possible. Tomorrow, if you are too busy today."
"But sir, I cannot leave my beat," the Constable dutifully reminded him.
"Yes, you can if I send you," replied the Inspector. "Now, let us see what else is in this trunk!"
They began to remove the items systematically, starting with the silk top hat and the gloves that lay right under the letter from The Grand Hotel.
"Look at these gloves, Miss Evans," said the Inspector. "Clearly, they must have belonged to a woman. You as a woman, what can you say about them?"
Miss Evans fingered the gloves carefully, as if concerned that her chapped fingertips might cause any damage.
"They are size 6 1/2," said she, "So the lady to whom they belonged was probably a slim person with small, delicate hands. They were made by a very good glove-maker: look at the fine stitches; and hand-sewn, too. Fine workmanship, but not overly expensive. Something a lady from the upper middle class would wear. The wife or daughter of a well-to-do merchant, or of a businessman would be my guess."
"Thank you, Miss Evans, you have been very helpful," said the Inspector. "Pray return to your work as we continue. I might ask for your expert opinion later, should we find other items of ladies' clothing."
The next thing they found was a book, however; one bound in floral-patterned paper, save for the strip over its spine that was faded moss green. Faded were the gilded title and the name of the author written in black upon the front cover. It was one of those romance novels that had been so very popular among the young ladies ten years previously: "Wrongs Righted", penned by a Miss Annie S. Swan – an author neither man had heard before.
Written on the top of the first right-hand page was a name: Alice Spice.
"Perhaps the owner of the book," suggested Constable Davies. "It's the same surname as on the letter. Perhaps the wife or the daughter of that gentleman from Hawkhurst?"
"Good thinking, Andrew," the Inspector leafed through the novel and held up the postcard that had obviously been used as a bookmark.
"Ha!" he exclaimed. "Look at this?"
The postcard was not addressed to anyone in particular and contained a single, short message: 5 pm Boat Train, Restaurant Car
"Do you believe that this could be of importance, sir?" asked Constable Davies doubtfully. "A great many people travel by the Boat Train. And it is not even addressed to Miss Spice. She might have found it and picked it up to use as a bookmark."
The Boat Train travelled to Dower to meet the passenger boat crossing the Channel to Calais. Another train met the boat there, taking the passengers to Paris. It was a comfortable and very popular method of travelling, used indeed by a great many people, as Constable Davies had rightly pointed out.
"That is possible, of course," allowed the Inspector. "But it is also possible that Miss Spice was to meet somebody on the Boat Train, and the postcard does not have any address on it because it was originally sent in a sealed envelope. Perhaps we shall find an answer when we've finished going through the trunk."
However, what came next were – as they were politely called – a lady's unmentionables: a white camisole as generally worn under the corset, a pair of lady's bloomers, made of the finest white cotton, a long-sleeved night dress of white linen, and a white petticoat, pleated and trimmed with frills.
By then, poor Davies was beetroot red and highly uncomfortable, thus Inspector Bradstreet had pity on him, and asked Miss Evans to help with the unpacking and Davies, who had a neat enough hand, continued writing up the inventory list.
The clothes brush and sewing set, complete with needle case and thimble, were not truly surprising, but the next item confused even the Inspector who had seen his fair share of odd things.
"What is this?" he asked, holding up a long, slim… thing that had a wooden handle on one side and was covered with soft leather on the other one.
Miss Evans, however, barely gave it a glance.
"Oh, just a nail buffer," she said dismissively. "Ladies use them to make their fingernails shine. They were quite popular ten years ago when they came into use for the first time; every young lady had one. The fanciest ones even had handles inlaid with mother-of-pearl or ivory."
Inspector Bradstreet cast an involuntary glance at her fingernails, which were short and blunt, with two of them broken.
"Not women like me," she added with a crooked smile. "Those who did not need to work, you know."
The Inspector shook his head ruefully. It would have been hard to imagine the resolute, hard-working Miss Evans polishing her fingernails idly with one of these things.
The next item confirmed their theory that they were going through the possessions of a reasonably wealthy woman. It was a lady's walking dress in what had been the latest fashion at the time the trunk was found – and a very expensive one at that, made of heavy, pearl-grey silk, with a pale blue underskirt that was richly trimmed with pleats, flounces, rouching and frills. It had a form-fitting bodice with tight sleeves that again were trimmed with frills.
"I remember when these became the new fashion," commented Miss Evans with a very un-ladylike snort. "All of a sudden, bell-shaped dresses worn with hoops were counted as old-fashioned, and well-to-do ladies had to change their entire wardrobe in the shortest possible time if they did not want to be left behind by their friends. Exchanging the hoop for the bustle was an almost hysterical affair. More so as the new style was only flattering for those of a slim build."
"Which this young lady clearly was, judging by the narrowness of the bodice," said the Inspector.
Miss Evans nodded. "True; though a tightly laced corset could do wonders for a lady's fashionable shape."
"But-but that cannot be healthy!" protested Constable Davis, being a somewhat naïve young man with little to no experience with women's vanities. "Or comfortable!"
"Neither of which is its purpose," countered Miss Evans dryly.
Next, they found an empty perfume bottle, made of cut glass, with a bubble pattern decorating its surface. Then came a lady's card case, made of wood, with ebony and ivory veneer. Inside was a single calling card, belonging to Miss Alice Spice, Westminster, London.
"Hmmm," commented Inspector Bradstreet with interest. "Wasn't the letter of The Grand Hotel addressed to a Mr Spice in Hawkhurst, yet clearly meant for a woman?"
Constable Davies studied the letter that had been lying on top of the other contents of the trunk, together with the leather gloves and the silk hat.
"Indeed, sir," he said. "A daughter perhaps?"
"Or an unfaithful wife," replied the Inspector. "We'll see later, hopefully. Set it aside, Davies, together with the letter and the postcard that she used as a bookmark. Written evidence can contain hidden clues that may bring light in the most confusing cases if examined thoroughly. I learned this when I worked with the best detective of London while still with the Surrey force."
"The chief of the London police?" asked Constable Davies, properly impressed.
Inspector Bradstreet shook his head, laughing.
"Oh no, my good man; not a police officer at all. I had the privilege to work on a few cases with a gentleman whose name has become renowned in the whole of Britain in recent years: Sherlock Holmes himself. It was a delight to compete with his extraordinary brilliance, in order to solve some truly twisted cases."
"Do you believe he would enjoy our little local mystery, sir?" asked Davies.
"I rather doubt it," answered the Inspector with a snort. "It would seem too mundane to him; I wager he could solve it by sheer deduction without even leaving the room; just by sitting here, surveying the evidence and then figuring out everything effortlessly."
"He could truly do that?"
Like just about everyone in England, Constable Davies had read in the papers about the stunning mysteries solved by the great and mysterious Mr Holmes, but this was the first time he spoke to somebody who'd actually met the man in the flesh.
Inspector Bradstreet nodded. "That and much more. But I'm quite convinced that we can solve this particular riddle without his help."
"He wouldn't take the case anyway, I presume," said Miss Evans tartly. "He usually works for rich and influential people, finding lost diamonds and solving bizarre murder cases. He would never waste his time on such a small problem as a piece of lost luggage."
"Two pieces of lost luggage," corrected Inspector Bradstreet. "And he doesn't care who his client is or if they can pay for his services at all, if the riddle is interesting enough. The riddle is all he cares for, not payment of fame. Unravelling a mystery gives him the greatest satisfaction."
"But what is the big mystery here?" asked Miss Evans doubtfully. "The owners of these things are already known. You can send a wire to these addresses, sir, and tell them to fetch their belonging, and that will be the end of it."
"Oh, I don't think it would be quite that simple," said the Inspector. "Why hasn't either of them collected their luggage for ten years? They were both connected to The Grand Hotel, were expected there at the same time. Is that a coincidence? I find that a little hard to believe."
"Do you expect us to find more coincidences, sir?" asked Constable Davies.
"We'll know once we've gone through everything. Now, let's see what other clues might be hiding in this trunk."
The remaining items in the trunk proved most interesting. Firstly, they found a little evening bag. Inside it was an advertisement for a performance of 'Romeo and Juliet' at the Theatre Royal in Birmingham, as well as a ticket for the performance on Wednesday, 5th September, at 7.30pm.
"Dress Circle!" muttered Miss Evans with thinly-veiled envy. "She was sitting in one of the most expensive seats in the entire theatre."
"If she went there at all," said Inspector Bradstreet, handing the sheets to Constable Davies. "Put it there with the other papers, Constable."
The next item was a writing set: a steel nib pen, an ink bottle, a pen tray made of brass and a penny black stamp. Nothing interesting there, as Constable Davies stated, somewhat disappointed, after dutifully telling Miss Evans that the ink now long dried out had once been blue.
"Is that relevant?" she asked in a tone that her personal answer would be a loud and resounding 'no'.
"We can't tell it just yet," said the Inspector. "Better write down a dozen unimportant details than leave out the one that might prove vital afterwards."
Next came some jewellery, scattered together in a small velvet box: a pearl necklace, an amethyst and pearl bracelet and a gold ring.
"The pearls are genuine," declared Inspector Bradstreet, after having performed the biting test, "but the ring is plain, no inscriptions inside. Could it be a wedding band?"
"In any case, the size matches that of the gloves," said Miss Evans, taking a closer look. "Could also be an inherited wedding ring, though, meant to be used for her own wedding at a later time."
"She could still have been married," argued Constable Davies. "Perhaps the gentleman in Hawkhurst can say. She wouldn't have carried with her somebody else's wedding band, would she?"
"Unless she wanted to prevent the marriage from happening," replied the Inspector. "Guessing will lead us nowhere, though. We need more evidence to form a working theory."
"What about this?" Constable Davies lifted a small blue velvet purse, adorned with faded golden tassels on both ends, from the bottom of the nearly empty trunk. "There's some torn up paper in it; probably pieces of a letter or something more official."
"Show me!" the Inspector held out a broad hand imperiously, and Constable Davies obediently piled seven pieces of yellowed paper onto his palm.
Six of them were square pieces of roughly the same size. The seventh one was a long, narrow scrap and had been scrunched up in the corner of the blue purse.
The Inspector smoothed it out carefully and studied it with great interest.
At the top it said: 1875, Alice Spice, Spinster…
Underneath it said: Married in this church…
And under that were two signatures: Alfred Philip Anderson
And Alice… but the rest of the name was torn away.
"Ha!" cried out Constable Davies triumphantly. "So they were married after all!"
"Do have the kindness of telling me who they are, Davies," said Inspector Bradstreet dryly.
The fact that he called his subordinate by surname instead of saying 'Constable' or simply 'Andrew' clearly showed his impatience.
"The lady whose trunk this is and the man whom the suitcase belonged," explained Constable Davies.
"And you came to this brilliant conclusion based on which facts exactly?" asked the Inspector with a raised eyebrow.
"In the suitcase, the letter from The Grand Hotel, is addressed to a Mr Alfred Anderson, resident in London, Westminster," replied Constable Davies; then he added eagerly. "I can show you the letter, sir."
"Later," interrupted the Inspector. "We need to finish with the trunk first. A proper investigation must have a certain order."
"But we are finished with the trunk, sir!" protested the young constable. "There's nothing else in there!"
"We still haven't examined these," Inspector Bradstreet handed the pieces of torn up letter to Miss Evans. "Would you be so kind, Miss Evans, as to fit the pieces together and see if you can read the letter for me? It is written in such a small hand, and my eyes are not what they used to be."
"You really should consider getting some reading aids, sir; there is no shame in that," commented Miss Evans, but she did what had been asked of her.
In an amazingly short time she had all six pieces sorted and fitted together, and they could see that it was a letter indeed. A rather short one, clearly written by a woman.
"It was sent from the Hotel du Lac, dated on 3rd August 1879," said Miss Evans. "Where on God's green Earth could that be?"
"It is hard to tell without further details," replied Inspector Bradstreet. "It appears that every bigger lake favoured by gentlefolk in Switzerland, France, or even Italy does have an Hotel du Lac. Is there anything in the letter that could help with the location?"
Miss Evans shook her head.
"I'm afraid there isn't, Inspector. Indeed, it is a very superficial letter; something a young lady would send her friend in a hurry, just to keep in touch, and part of it appears to be missing. Shell I read it for you now?"
"If you would be so kind," said the inspector.
Unlike with the Constable, he tried to curb his impatience. Miss Evans was a very reliable co-worker; for that, he turned a blind eye on her minor character flaws; chatting away cheerfully while there were important things to focus on, being one of them.
Miss Evans nodded and did as she was told.
Dear Alice, she read
Hope you and Alfred are going all right. The family are here for a month, and hope it will be good for Miss Harriet, who has been real poorly this last few months. The scenery is very grand, but I miss home…
Here Miss Evans looked up.
"The bottom strip of the letter is missing, sir," she said, "but somehow the signature remained intact."
"Truly?" that seemed to invigorate the Inspector. "That will help."
"I don't think so, sir," said Miss Evans apologetically. "It's simply signed as 'Betsy'. As I said, a quick note from one young woman to another, in the usual informal style of young people in these days."
"Oh, bother!" Inspector Bradstreet deflated visibly. "Well, it can't be helped. We'll have to look for other clues. Can you put everything but the written documents back in the trunk before we begin to examine the suitcase?"
"Of course, sir," she replied with a faint grin. "It's better for a woman to handle a lady's… private things anyway."
The resolute and most efficient Miss Evans needed only ten minutes or so to get the trunk packed again, while Inspector Bradstreet carefully stored away every piece of paper found in his briefcase, from the calling card through the postcard-used-as-bookmark and the theatre ticket to the pieces of torn up letter and scrap of marriage certificate. Then they turned their attention to the suitcase.
At first, it yielded nothing but the usual things a man on a journey would carry with him: a buttonhook, a moustache curler, a cut-throat razor with a piece of carbolic soap and a cheap hand mirror. More interesting were a pair of dumb bells, carefully packed away in a cushioned cardboard box.
"Impressive," commented Constable Davies, giving one of the dumb bells a try and nearly dropping it on his feet, not having expected such a weight. "Our man was clearly mindful of his appearance and his health. He must have been quite athletic."
Miss Evans snorted. "Mindful of his appearance perhaps – most men are peacocks, after all – but certainly not his health. Smoking is a bad enough habit in itself, but he also indulged in tobacco snuff," she pulled a disgusted face. "Nasty stuff, it is."
Inspector Bradstreet smiled indulgently. He was quite fond of Hedges snuff himself – the same brand as the tin of tobacco powder found in the suitcase – but he knew that women generally found it vile. His own wife couldn't bear it, so he only used it in his office.
Both the rather battered silver cigarette case and matchbox were empty, though, so their owner had probably given up smoking in favour of the snuff. Whether it had been a good decision in the light of his marriage was another question entirely.
Next came a black overcoat – showing some wear and tear – and a matching black waistcoat. No surprise there; servants were generally expected to wear black. In the pocket of the waistcoat, though, they found an advertisement for a performance of 'Romeo and Juliet' at the Theatre Royal in Birmingham.
"Now that is interesting," commented Inspector Bradstreet, comparing it with the one found in the trunk. They were identical. "And hardly a coincidence, I say. Is there a theatre ticket as well?"
Constable Davies did some more fishing in the waistcoat pocket and came up with a slightly creased ticket indeed.
"It's for the performance on Wednesday 9th September, at 7.30 pm," he said with gleaming eyes. "Again, the same as the other one."
"Only that this is for the Gallery," said Miss Evans, taking a look at the ticket. "He was sitting in one of the cheapest seats of the theatre."
One of the seats in which she was usually sitting. She was a theatre aficionado but could only ever afford a seat on the Gallery – and even that not all too often.
"It is a bit much of a coincidence," said the Inspector in agreement. "Is there anything else in that pocket?"
"Oh yes, sir, indeed there is!" Constable Davies was all but jumping up and down in excitement as he pulled out a small white cardboard box – barely the size of two stamps fitted together – and handed it to his superior.
On the underside of the box was a short, hand-written message that said: To my beloved Alice from Alfred.
"Hmmm," said the Inspector, having become an expert in conciliatory gifts during the years of his marriage, due to the long and irregular hours she had to work. "Seems like some sort of jewellery box… a rather cheap one, I say."
He would never dare to try softening Susan's mood towards himself with such cheap trash. His wife wasn't demanding by nature, but she had good taste when it came to jewellery. She could afford it, too.
He opened the box to take a look. It was cushioned with a piece of fake silk, and upon it lay a square brooch,not longer than a woman's little finger. It was made of nice enough silver filigree and set with small white gems – or rather pieces of cleverly cut glass, by the sight of them.
"Not much of a gift for a lady who owns a genuine pearl necklace," said Miss Evans thoughtfully, "but perhaps he couldn't afford anything better. A mismatched couple if I've ever seen one. That rarely turns out well; especially if the woman is the one with the money."
"Perhaps she was attracted to educated men," said Constable Davis, lifting two books out of the suitcase: The Wonders of Electricity by Ascott R. Hope and Sketches by Boz by Charles Dickens. "Some women, especially wealthy ones, like that sort of suitor."
Inspector Bradstreet shook his head.
"I don't think that our Mr Anderson was an educated man. He most likely couldn't afford a formal education. He seems to be self-taught, though; he clearly was interested in new inventions and liked to read books by Mr Dickens, which is commendable."
"Do you like Mr Dickens's writing, sir?" asked Miss Evans in surprise. "I find his stories make me all melancholy."
"They do that," allowed the Inspector. Nonetheless, they have a unique charm. But enough of this. Let's finish examining the suitcase."
Next, they found a box of shirt collars, with two pairs of collar studs – rather nice mother-of-pearl ones, connected by a silver stud, so they were probably a gift from the lady of the trunk – a shirt and a separate collar, a nightshirt and a pair of long johns. Again, nothing a travelling man would not have in his luggage.
The next piece of interest was a photograph. The photograph of a middle-aged woman, wearing a bell-shaped dress; the sort that needed a crinoline to hold the shirts out.
On the back of the photograph was written by a spidery hand: To Alfred, from your loving mother, Elizabeth Anderson.
"There's no date," said Constable Davies, disappointed.
"No, but we can be certain that this photograph is at least ten years old," replied Miss Ellis.
Both men gave her baffled look. She sighed and went on explaining them the change of fashion again. Men could be so hard at understanding such things.
"These sorts of dresses were only worn till 1879. That is when the new fashion came out: the bustle. Of course, some old-fashioned ladies did refuse to accept it; or Mrs Anderson might have been too poor to be in fashion."
"Or the photograph was already few years old when given to her son," added Inspector Bradstreet, examining the picture of the stern-faced woman arranged artfully in front of the fireplace again. He couldn't find any clue of when it had been taken, though, so he put it away, together with the letter from The Grand Hotel.
Next the suitcase yielded a small tinware travelling cup, packed away in a matching case- Constable Davies unscrewed the round lid, removed it and sniffed.
"Ten years since it was used and one can still smell the whiskey," he said. "Our Mr Anderson must have had a hip flask of whiskey to accompany him on his travels. The Missus probably did not approve, though."
"Most likely not," agreed Inspector Bradstreet.
Some women had a queer reaction to their men drinking. His own wife was more tolerant in this area, but he was careful not to get thoroughly drunk when he was likely to encounter her. She didn't approve of that, either, and she was the one with the money and the connections.
So far this had caused no quarrel between them, but he was well aware of the fact that Susan's connections had secured him this enviable post in Birmingham and made sure not to provoke her too much. Fortunately for him, she was a patient soul with her own interests, but one could not be too careful though.
Especially when there was one's imperious mother-in-law to consider.
The last thing in the suitcase was a pair of gaiters – the sort worn in the countryside to prevent mud splashing onto one's trousers and to keep trouser legs dry. They were wrapped around the legs below the knee and either laced or buttoned up. This particular pair was the laced-up variety.
"That's odd," said Constable Davies. "What would a night porter of a fancy hotel need gaiters for? A gardener I would understand, or a stable hand. But a porter?"
"It might be some remnant from a previous employment," said Inspector Bradstreet. "We'll know once we've found that Mr Edmonds mentioned by the hotel keeper and spoken with him. Is that all?"
"No, sir," replied Constable Davies, "There is also this."
This was a scrap of paper lying on the bottom of the now empty suitcase. Davies fished it out and handed it to his superior. It appeared to be a strip from a marriage certification, with just a few random details remaining.
… in the Church of St. John.
Residence: 64 Tatchbrook Street, City of Westminster, London
Condition: Bachelor
Rank or profession: gardener
"Well, that explains the gaiters," said the Inspector. "And also gives us a few clues of which direction to begin our investigation."
"What investigation?" asked a new voice from the half-open door; a voice with an accent that sounded like a haphazard mix of American and Scottish.
"And what are you doing here anyway, instead of dealing with the misdeeds of PC Leach?" continued the newcomer, entering the room without invitation. "Organising a charity fair for the widows and orphans of policemen killed in the line of duty?"
Inspector Bradstreet suppressed a resigned sigh. He had hoped to solve their interesting little mystery before the Chief Constable could catch wind of it. Apparently, he wouldn't have such luck.
Captain Holroyd had very clear definitions of what belonged under the jurisdiction of the Birmingham Constabulary and what didn't, and the Inspector had the glum feeling that the mystery of the lost luggage would not be seen as their problem by his superior.
"Just investigating some pieces of lost luggage, probably connected with persons who've gone missing ten years ago, sir," he said, knowing all too well that said investigation would most likely end here and now."
~TBC~