The Case of the Reluctant Tenant
Chapter Four
I shall never agree with those who claim that familiarity breeds contempt. If it does, then it is a reflection upon the individual, not of the condition in general.
To my mind, there is something reassuring about the familiar, something to be valued. Like walking well-remembered London streets beneath a slate grey sky, knowing each and every turn of the road, and avoiding the cracked paving slabs where the rain collects and waits for the unwary. There are those who say that mountains are majestic – and I dare say they have a valid point – but give me the city on a dreary day with its rumbling skies and glistening pavements, and I am simply in my element.
Familiar territory perhaps, but these were unfamiliar times.
Many were the days when I have marched forth from Baker Street to pursue my own inquiries, content in my own company and glad of it. In that respect, today was no different. Where the difference lay, however, was in the certain knowledge that for the first time in some years I was quite emphatically setting out alone.
In many ways, the change was quite disturbing. The old saying is true to some extent, that one never really appreciates what one has until it is lost forever.
In my case, I had never realised how much I had come to rely my absent companion until now.
It had started with small things. Twice I left the house that afternoon, and twice I had cause to return, the first time for my gloves, the second for my keys, a fact that little impressed Mrs Hudson as I had already disturbed her barely two minutes before.
Normally, I am not forgetful, at least not where the fine details of an investigation are concerned. In other respects, perhaps I am not as attentive as I should be.
Looking back, however, I am reminded of the many times when I was without money and turned to Watson for change; of all the times I heard his voice behind me telling me to take my scarf; of times of the day when my enthusiasm for a case would make me neglectful of taking either food or drink.
Clearly, in some respects, my fellow lodger had made himself indispensable. If so, then the days of adjustment ahead promised to be most trying both for myself and Mrs Hudson's patience.
It had occurred to me that this sudden inconvenient lack of memory was yet another symptom of my folly the night before. I was eternally glad that fresh air and the stiff walk to Berkeley Square soon dispelled that theory, for I was soon aware of the lifting of the fog that lingered in the recesses of my mind and with it came the welcome return of my sense of equilibrium.
Like a thirsty man eager to sate his thirst, I was soon casting about for suitable candidates on which to try my restored powers. I must have offered some small amusement to the citizens of London that day, pounced upon as they were by a seemingly deranged fellow, eager to tell them their trade and occupation. From the elderly commissionaire to the chipper costermonger, the answers came to me as accurately and rapidly as they had ever done.
I could derive some comfort from the knowledge that my folly had not cost me my mind; in other regards, I had yet to say.
Thus it was that I eventually found myself outside the house of Mr Ebenezer Turner in the grey evening light, staring up at a dim glow from an upstairs window, the only sign of habitation in the building. Outside, several roughs loitered on the steps, no doubt on Mr Turner's instruction to send any potential assistance to Mrs Alice Love on its way.
Observing from a distance, it did not escape me how complete was her isolation. Like an embattled damsel in a castle tall, she remained distant from the world, very much alone in a city of millions. Whether she lived or died, it would matter to very few, save perhaps Mr Turner, currently thwarted in his plans for redevelopment.
Nor could I entirely avoid drawing the obvious parallels with my own situation. Here I stood, in the unrelenting rain, very much alone in a crowd that passed me by and muttered in annoyance at my obstructing their passage along the pavement. Kindred spirits, it seemed, are found in the unlikeliest of places.
Assistance too, for in the midst of my darker thoughts, I was aware that I had been joined in my observations of the house by a portly, middle-aged man with an umbrella and a leather case, which he clutched tightly under his arm to protect it from the downpour.
"She's still up there then?" said he, nodding to the lighted window. "I understand the house has been sold and the new owner wants her out."
"So I've heard," I replied.
The man chuckled. "She won't leave willingly, I'll wager. Good luck to her, I say."
I must admit to being somewhat wrong-footed by this turn of events. Generally speaking, one does not strike up a conversation about the fate of elderly ladies with soaking wet strangers on a cold, rainy evening in central London, on the grounds that it might be misconstrued as eccentricity in the extreme. However, the gentleman seemed sane enough, if his investment in a decent umbrella was enough to provide one with a sound judgement of his character, and so naturally my interest became somewhat piqued.
"I used to lodge in the rooms opposite hers in my bachelor days," he explained affably. "Funny old girl, she was. Never went out much. Church on Sundays and that was it."
"You never spoke much then?"
"Well, she used to ask me to get her the odd thing and it was no great hardship to me, so I was glad to help out."
He gave me a measured look.
"You have some interest in the house, sir?" he asked.
"In the lady," I said. "It seems to me that she may be in need of some assistance."
His gaze travelled to the loungers at the door.
"Nasty looking brutes. They've been there a few days. Only yesterday I saw them turning away the grocer's boy. I wondered then if she was in any sort of trouble."
It occurred to me to suggest that some small intervention on his part would not have gone amiss when he had witnessed this unkind deed. To be aware of an injustice and not to act has always been an anathema to my soul. I could almost hear my absence voice of reason telling me that not all men are as like-minded as me, and so gritted my teeth and held my tongue in the matter.
"Do you know of any reason why she would be reluctant to leave?" I asked him.
"Not I," he replied. "In all honesty, I was heartily glad to move out myself. At the time, money was tight and the rooms were cheap. For a good reason as it turned out! Many's the night I went to sleep with a pail clasped in my hands to stop the rain wetting the bed."
"Perhaps her rooms were better than yours," I ventured.
He gave a snort of laughter. "That I sincerely doubt. The place was tumbledown even back then."
"Oh, you saw the rest of the rooms?"
"Not hers. She used to come knocking when she needed something and then her door was always pulled to. If you ask me," he added confidentially, "she was a bit odd in the head, if you get my meaning. Someone told me it was the death of her husband that did it."
"He died in the house?" I asked, wondering if this gentleman had unintentionally hit upon the answer to the mystery. If so, and it was as I feared a sentimental attachment, then I could well envisage those same roughs being used to haul Mrs Love out onto the streets very shortly. Nothing else was likely in such circumstances to force her departure.
However, my assumption proved too hasty.
"No, I believe he died in a mining accident up north somewhere. He was a foreman or some such fellow, so I was told. After that, his widow moved down to London and here she is still."
"Had she family in the south? Was that her reason for moving here?"
"Not that I ever saw. Kept herself very much to herself. Tell you what though, she always paid her rent dead on nine o'clock every Monday morning, regular as clockwork. You could set your watch by her. Well," said he, "I must be going, Mr?"
"Mr Sherlock Holmes."
"Good heavens!" he cried. "Mr Henry Bagshott at your service. Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir!"
He pulled off his glove and offered me his hand. The smudges of ink on his fingers told of an occupation connected with the print industry, though the indented corn on his middle right-hand finger was against him being a typesetter.
"No doubt I will read an account of our meeting in tomorrow's Telegraph," said I dryly. "And pray do remind your colleagues that my surname should be properly spelt with an 'L'. Several times in the past has your paper been careless in that respect."
His lower jaw fell open. "Well, I never! How did you know I was a journalist?"
A brief explanation sufficed, although I omitted my observation that his attire was not of the quality usually to be found in the offices of the society papers, but rather more in keeping with the popular press.
"That, and my observation that you carry in your case the late edition of the newspaper, which has yet to go into public circulation and so could only have been obtained from their offices, led me to the obvious conclusion."
Naturally, he was suitably impressed, the equal of my own relief that this was becoming easier than ever with each application of my mind. With a cheery farewell and an assurance to correct the typographical errors associated with my name, he departed and was soon swallowed up in the milling throng.
As it was, our meeting had been fortuitous and instructive. Sentimentality as a reason seemed to be dwindling in favour either of the insanity of the woman or some criminal intent on her part. I was tending towards the latter, however improbable it appeared. Her punctiliousness in payment and general reluctance to allow even a chance view into her private domain suggested that the rooms contained something of great or incriminating value. In either case, the only way to prove my theories was to gain admittance and see for myself.
Putting that thought into action, however, was easier said than done. If I have teased Watson in the past that dealings with the fair sex was his department, then it was not entirely unkind or untrue. Elderly ladies with formidable attachments to shabby dwellings were likely to be more receptive to a kindly-faced doctor than a steely-eyed consulting detective.
Fortune seemed to be smiling favourably on me that evening, for whilst I stood in the grip of indecision, a small lad with a bundle under his arm crossed to the other side of the road in front of me and strode purposefully up to the house.
This I took to be the grocer's boy on his rounds and my suspicion was confirmed when at the sight of him, the loungers were galvanised into action, placing themselves in a human wall between him and the door. To his credit, he tried his luck at getting past them and thrice was thrust back, the last time falling into a puddle.
With their laughter ringing in his ears, he made his retreat, whereupon I crossed over and addressed him.
"You have a delivery for Mrs Alice Love?" I asked.
"That's right, sir," said he. "Here's her groceries. Only I can't get 'em to her, because of that mob at the door. Several days I've been trying and they're always there."
"I'll take them to her," said I, holding out my hand.
"It'll cost you," said he, stubbornly clinging to his parcel. "Mrs Love always pays on delivery."
He named his price and, as luck would have it, I had enough on me to cover the charge. Relieved of his burden, the lad scampered away. I had acquired the means of admittance; now I faced the problem of attaining it.
Any thoughts I had of having to fight my way inside came to nothing. The gang eyed me warily at my approach and once more formed their formidable barricade to prevent my access. My name meant nothing; the mention of Mr Turner, however, changed their manner completely.
"Sorry 'bout that, gov'ner," said one. "We were under strict instructions to stop the lad getting any food to her in there. But since Mr Turner sent you, I s'pose it's all right."
With my path thus cleared, I wasted no time in entering the house lest these villains change their minds. Inside was darkness, enlivened only by the glow of the gas lamps through the fanlight. From what little I could see, I noted that Mr Turner had not been inaccurate about the condition of the building.
Paper hung in strips from the walls, mottled with irregular blotches of grey-green damp patches, which gave the air that peculiar smell of mustiness and mushrooms. The paintwork was peeling and worn, clinging to what few uprights remained on the banisters by the frailest of filaments. At the sound of the creaking boards as I ascended the stairs, I heard the scurrying of many tiny rodent feet.
Mrs Love's rooms were located in the garret, with what little space there was divided between two the tenants. A thin sliver of yellow light showed beneath a door, leaving me in no doubt of her location.
Accordingly, I knocked and a thin, quavering voice answered.
"I have brought your groceries, madam," I replied.
"Leave them by the door," came the reply. "You'll find the money in the usual place."
The usual place turned out to be beneath the remains of a chamber pot to the left of the door. A few poor pennies wrapped in paper, just enough to provide for the bare necessities of body and soul, nestled under the broken pieces of china. As the sum of a person's existence, it did not speak of much hope for the lady who had left them or for the charity of the individual who would happily take them from her.
Sympathy is not generally an emotion in which I allow myself to indulge, but if ever a soul was in need of such consideration, then undoubtedly it was Mrs Love. It only served to bring home to me how wretched was the state of those deprived of the concern of a friend.
A crack of light appeared as the door opened a fraction and a frail hand emerged to grope for the parcel I had left. Finding the object for which it searched, the hand began to retreat. The door would have been shut again had I not put my foot in the gap and prevented its closure.
A wail rose up from behind the door, upon which a pathetic attempt at pressure was applied to try to be rid of my intrusion.
"Mrs Love," said I. "I must speak to you."
"Leave me alone," came a feeble voice. "Please, leave me be."
Her distress was absolute and my determination equally so. I could have easily pushed her back from the door, but another means immediately suggested itself to me and showed me a kinder way to gain admittance.
"Mrs Love, I knew your husband."
It could not have worked better had it been some magical incantation. The pressure on the door was released and it opened to reveal a malnourished white-haired lady, who peered up at me in surprise and delight.
"You knew my Alfred?" said she.
I nodded.
The door opened fully and she bade me enter. I accepted the invitation and found myself in a sitting room as pitiable as its occupant. The walls were streaked with green from the leaking ceiling, which was gathering large globules of water on its surface as the rain continued to fall outside. What furniture there was would have been considered shabby twenty years previously; now it was barely standing.
All the same, I saw the attempts she had made to make this hovel a home. Neat curtains at the windows, pictures on the walls, a lace tablecloth that had expensive when bought new on which was an old Worcester tea service. Through the ajar bedroom door could be glimpsed a faded silk bedspread, lovingly embroidered with birds and flowers. Mrs Love herself was attired in hopelessly old-fashioned but respectable dark blue dress, topped by a lace cap which struggled to contain her wiry hair.
"Won't you take a seat, sir?" said she, gesturing to a chair at the table. "I believe the boy should have brought some tea in this parcel, although I'm not sure if I have any milk."
"Please, madam," said I. "Don't trouble yourself on my account."
From the thinness of the lady and the sunken flesh of her face, it was evident she needed all the nourishment she could get. I would have felt most uncomfortable taking the food from her mouth, but she seemed not to have heard my remark.
"He's a good lad, but he always forgets the milk," she went on unconcernedly. "I used to ask my neighbour to get me some, but he's gone."
"So I noticed. You appear to be here on your own."
She offered me a wan smile. "I don't mind so much. It suits us."
"Us?" I queried.
"Alfred and myself. The quiet is good for him. That's why I can't leave, you see."
The saddest thing of all was that I did see. Whatever theories I had formed had been blown to dust the moment I had entered her rooms. Nothing more sinister than grief held her here, coupled with some fancy that the spirit of her dead husband lingered at her side.
"Mrs Love, I'm afraid you will have to leave eventually," said I. "Mr Turner is well within his rights to have you evicted."
Her face creased into a smile. "He has been so kind to me, that poor man. Always so apologetic when he had to ask for an increase in rent."
This meek gratitude and understanding was almost too pathetic to be true. What anger it gave rise to within me was beyond description.
"But it is bearable," she went on. "I have a small income, you understand, although the interest does not go as far as once it did. Everything seems so expensive these days."
She gave a small shake of her head, as though the business was of immense distaste to her, and then her gaze came back to mine.
"You said you knew my Alfred?"
"Yes," I lied. "I was sorry to hear of his passing."
"Oh, my dear sir," said she. "You were misinformed."
"I understood there was an accident."
"Yes, indeed. A terrible thing it was too. A mine shaft collapsed and several men perished. My Alfred went down and saved the lives of five others."
"Most courageous."
"He was a hero that day," Mrs Love went on, pride beaming from her countenance. "Everyone said so, especially as he was most grievously injured himself. He still is not fully recovered, but his health improves a little more every day. Would you like to see him? I'm sure he would be glad of the company."
She gestured for me to follow and led the way into the small bedroom. In all honesty, I had no firm inkling of what I might find therein. A likeness perhaps, a suit of clothes or possessions preserved as their owner had left them.
What I found, however, was the withered and skeletal corpse of the late Mr Alfred Love.
Continued in next chapter.
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