Pecunia non olet – Part 6

Harriet:

The dear landlady's reply came promptly and I was relieved it was a dish that did not need several hours to prepare as it was getting late. Setting to work Martha looked at me curiously and then disappeared smiling into the laundry to prepare for wash day – a shamefully delayed wash day.

When Sherlock arrived home, he did not look too well and with a sneeze confessed, that he had been soaked through during the course of the afternoon. Helping him out of his coat, a different one than the one he had left in, I led him into our small sitting room, where the table was already laid.

"I hope you did not need to wait for long?" he asked, looking contritely at his watch.

It was already past eight, but knowing my husband well enough already, I had been prepared and only needed to finish the meal I had prepared and within ten minutes dinner was served. His eyes widened at the sight of the bubble and squeak I had made for us, together with some of the leftover roast beef and a pint of dark beer.

"It is but a simple meal..." I smiled, plating up a generous slice of the fried cabbage and potatoes.

"Yes, but it is actually my favourite. How did you know?" he glanced up at me, then burst out laughing. "Of course, Mrs. Hudson!"

"Yes, Mrs Hudson helped me out there. I cannot believe I have never asked you."

"What an oversight in all those long weeks of our marriage..." he joked, tucking into his food with enthusiasm, looking better already, the colour returning to his cheeks and the tiredness leaving him. "This is really good. Almost as good as the bubble and squeak my uncle used to make. But the comparison is hardly fair, as he was the one to introduce me to this dish."

"Sherlock, I love you, too."

Smiling he took my hand: "Good. This would be a miserable marriage if you would not."

"Very much so. So, how was your day, my dear? Apart from obviously wet and cold." I enquired, curious about what he had found and if he had gotten any closer to the solution.

"My day was long and most informative, I would say. As far as I have gathered, no-one has seen the jewels since Mrs Trenton's death in '89. That year, Gilad Trenton also dissolved all the insurances on the items. And since then, all trace of the gems has been lost. It is as if they have disappeared into thin air at the death of Emily Trenton."

"That is odd, is it not?" I wondered. Had Trenton sold them? I asked Sherlock, but he shook his head.

"If he had, they could be traced, at least some of them. They are unique, Harriet, most unique. I have seen pictures of Mrs Trenton wearing them and they were breathtaking, even in the black and white photographs."

For a moment he ate in silence, his gaze absent as if he was contemplating on something. Then, with a jerk of his head, he looked up, dabbed his mouth with his napkin and stood.

"I am sorry to say so, Harriet, but you have married an idiot!"

"What is it?"

"We need to go to Lisson Grove. I have solved the case! Or at least part of it."

"What, now? It is raining cats and dogs again." I pointed at the dark window, the rain splattering against it.

"Yes, now. All the time I was so close, Hattie, so very close, there was just one piece missing. One final piece! And I now know what it is."

I stared at him in confusion as he downed the rest of his beer and then went to put his coat back on. Following him I slipped into my boots, buttoning them up as quickly as I could and then slipped into my coat as well and within five minutes we were on our way back into town, having been lucky to come across a hansom that had just dropped off one of our neighbours.

xxx

"Do you care to elaborate what exactly is going on?" I gasped, slightly out of breath after all the haste.

"Everett Trenton left for South America before 1874." was the fairly mysterious answer and it took a moment before I picked up on what was off about it.

"But did you not say, he was a young man in his late twenties to early thirties at most?"

"That is exactly the point, Harriet. He could, of course, be the son of the Trenton that left in the early 1870ies, but I was assured that Everett Trenton then was childless and not likely to have any children – and even if he had, later on, they again would be younger than this man."

"Could he be an illegitimate son, that was later adopted and taken on? Or adopted all together?" I suggested, without much enthusiasm.

"That, of course, is possible," Sherlock admitted. "But not very likely. Why would the man I have met, and who claims to be Everett Trenton, not simply say so? Legally he would still be the next male heir in line and thus inherit."

He had a point there. I sat back in the hansom and thought about what he had told me, but the only conclusion I could come to was, that the man who claimed the inheritance was a fraud. It was at this point, that the cabby enquired if we were sure to go to 'The Wheat-sheaf' in the middle of the slum that was Lisson Grove and even when we told him, this was exactly where we would like to go, he was rather reluctant to follow our instructions.

"Sir, I would not let a lady into that area," he warned my husband, who, with a smile, assured him, that I knew the district well and the people there knew me in turn and he could hardly do without me.

This of course was overstated, but in one thing my husband had a point. I was known in the area and it would be much easier with me by his side, to gather information from the locals. Locals who liked to take money from strangers, but did not like talking to them very much.

xxx

'The Wheat-sheaf' was a dingy pub, whose closest association with any kind of grain was the one with malted barley in its liquid form, but certainly not wheat. When we entered, several eyes fixed on us. Admittedly, we did look out of place, but as soon as one of the girls waiting for customers of another kind, saw me, she waved and greeted me with some enthusiasm, walking over to us, swaying her ample hips.

"Hey, Doc Stephens, what brings you here? And who is this sweety by your side?"

"Hello Sally, how are you? Have you taken my advice?" I greeted back, taking her outstretched hand.

"Oh, I have, it feels so much better now. You know, it's no good, when it's dry..." she cast a coquettish glance at my husband who tried to keep his expression fairly neutral and managed as far as only the slightest twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed his amusement.

"By the way, this is my husband, Sally."

"Oh, Mr Stephens, is it?" I was about to correct her, but Sherlock nodded in acknowledgement and I left it at that. So, Mr Stephens, he would be for the night, it seemed.

"Is there anything I can help you with Doc? I doubt you came here to have a nice time or did you?" Sally giggled, while another girl had come over, looking curiously at me with her large hazel eyes. I knew her also, but could not name her. She was a tiny creature with a pretty face, a face that was still devoid of the horrible disease she was spreading and that sadly she had chosen to ignore. I could not even hold it against her, she needed to live off something after all, and the world was not kind to women like her.

"No, we did not come here for entertainment's sake, we came here to enquire after an acquaintance of ours."

"Here?" the smaller girl spat out, looking incredulous. "What acquaintance of yours would come here, madam?"

"I could not possibly say, as most of them would keep their visits a secret, I am sure. But when finishing late at the hospital, I have often seen many a man in a dress suit and top hat." I answered with an insinuatingly raised eyebrow. "How are you, by the way? Feeling any better or is the sore still troubling you?"

Sherlock in the meanwhile, seemingly uncomfortable by the topic of our conversation, had walked over to the bar and ordered two pints of beer. Leaning over the counter I could see him talking to the landlord, a man as wide as he was tall, his face good humoured – at least as long as no-one tried to cause any trouble, which was more often than not. I knew the girls liked to come here, as he would take care that they would not be abused within his rooms. And from what I had gathered as a reward he often got their services for free.

"The sore is gone, Doctor. See, there was nothing to worry about, after all," she answered triumphantly. Sally stared at her with some contempt before doing what I was about to do, namely telling her, that this was one marked symptom of this treacherous disease.

"Oh, come on!" the girl laughed, waving her hand as if she still thought it to be a joke, but fear had sprung up in her eyes and she had turned a whiter shade of pale.

"It is not funny, Maggie. You should go and see the doctors down at Saint Anne's, they'll help you, for sure."

I was less optimistic than Sally, knowing that the cure for Syphilis was a rather drastic treatment, often killing the person it was supposed to help. In general, I tried to avoid the common treatment with mercurous chloride or some or other form of mercury ointment all together, as I found it often weakened the already much-affected organism. But there was not much of an alternative and one of my many projects at hand was to find one.

At this moment a man entered the inn and seeing the two women talking to another woman instead of one of the men – the one at the bar, with his decent coat and prim top hat in particular. When the pimp recognised me, his eyes narrowed even more and he walked over to us, trying his best to intimidate me. Women's rights never sat too well with their dirty lot, even if it was, strictly speaking, also for their own benefit, as a healthy harlot was an asset not to be underestimated.

To produce a health certificate was most beneficial and so, many brothels actually sent their girls over to us. Which at first, admittedly was more of a nuisance as with them cramming the waiting room, the women needing real medical attention often did not get the chance of seeing a doctor. At long last, I had offered the girls to come one by one, instead of all together and since then it worked well. It also helped with the funds of the hospital, as I had struck a deal, that each of the local brothels would pay a fee in return. With more than ten such establishments this was enough money to buy the most necessary medication for the whole of each month to provide for those much worse off. - Like those needing to rent their beds in one of the flea-ridden hostels littering the district.

With a concerned look on his face, my husband returned, the pints in either hand, beer dripping from them as they were filled to the brink and handing me one he made it very clear that he was not interested in any of the girls and that he would not tolerate any slight towards me. Quickly the pimp disappeared out of the door, while the two prostitutes followed him, knowing that else they would be in trouble. There was nothing for them here and they needed to earn money, lest they would feel his displeasure.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock asked with a worried undertone, which made me laugh.

"This, my dear, is my bread and butter, so to speak. Yes, I am all right. And before you ask, I am also quite safe around here. There are enough men and women I have helped and who in turn would lend me a hand if the need would arise."

"I am aware of that." was his dry reply. "And still, I have told you before, I do not like it. No husband would. But still, I accept it and I trust you." he assured me solemnly.

"Thank you!" I answered and stood on my toes to kiss him. "So?"

"So, the landlord remembers Kershaw. Said he was quite shocked to have killed a man. He had entered the pub white as a sheet and dripping wet, as he had been walking some distance through the misty night. What I was also not aware of was, that he, Kershaw, gave himself away, telling a policeman, checking the pub on his beat, that he had murdered someone and that he should be arrested. He was very drunk at that point and the landlord says the constable just took Kershaw with him to sober up in custody, as he was creating quite a stir."

"So, I take it our next stop will be the nearest police station?"

"Correct. It's the one down Edgware Road. But also, and perhaps most importantly, I found Kershaw had not spoken to anybody apart from the constable and the landlord, being too busy getting drunk."

"And this would be important why?"

"Because now, we can be certain, that Kershaw has met the impostor in prison and if he did so, it will be fairly easy to ascertain, what the man's real name is." he smiled disarmingly, wrapping his arm around me possessively, pecking me on the cheek.

"And you can be certain of this, because?"

"Because I have ruled out everything else."

Leaving most of our beer, as it was not a very good brew, we left the inn and turning right and walked down the alley that would lead us to Edgware Road and the small police station located there.

On our way there, he continued: "Jimmy Kershaw claimed, he had heard of the famous jewels while drinking in a pub. The landlord said, Kershaw has repeated over and over again, that he should have known better than to trust a drunkard on anything of this kind and that it has brought him nothing but trouble. Having met with Dawson and the time coinciding with Trenton's attempt to sever all ties with the man, I dare say it was him Kershaw has got the information from. Not purposely, mind, but it would have been easy enough to question him further by showing some compassion. The man is as it seems, a hopeless drunk."

"Sounds likely, indeed," I admitted.

"So, with this in mind, what would a man like Kershaw do next?"

"Watch his target?"

"Exactly, my dear. And thus he would have acquired the knowledge, that Gilad Trenton was in the habit of sleeping out of the house every single Thursday and only return during the late morning each Friday."

"Just that this particular night, Trenton was at home, as his friend had fallen ill and could not keep their weekly appointment." I finished the sentence for him.

"Precisely! Only to find no jewels as anticipated, but instead ending up killing an old man, he had thought to be out of the house."