The House Of Silk

obliged to dress up for lunch at the Savoy. After Holmes had alerted the constables in the street, the room had been closed off and kept under police guard until the cold touch of light could dispel the shadows and lend itself to a proper investigation, along with the general surroundings of the hotel.
    ‘Well, well, Mr Holmes,’ he remarked with a hint of irritation. ‘They told me you were expected when I was at Wimbledon and here you are again now.’
    ‘We have both been following in the footsteps of the unfortunate wretch who has ended his days here,’ retorted Holmes.
    Lestrade took one look at the body. ‘This would indeed seem to be the man we have been seeking.’ Holmes said nothing and Lestrade glanced at him sharply. ‘How did you come to find him?’
    ‘It was absurdly simple. I knew, thanks to the brilliance of your own inquiries, that he had returned on the train to London Bridge. Since then, my agents have been scouring the area and two of them were fortunate enough to come across him in the street.’
    ‘I assume that you are referring to that gang of urchins you have at your beck and call. I’d keep my distance if I were you, Mr Holmes. No good will come of it. They’re all thieves and pickpockets when they are not being encouraged by you. Is there any sign of the necklace?’
    ‘There seems to be no obvious sign of it – no. But then I have not yet had a chance to search the room in its entirety.’
    ‘Then maybe we should start by doing just that.’
    Matching his actions to his words, Lestrade examined the room carefully. It was a fairly dismal place with tattered curtains, a mouldering carpet and a bed that looked more exhausted than anyone who might have attempted to sleep in it. A cracked mirror hung on one wall. A washstand stood in the corner with a soiled basin and a single, misshapen lump of cast-iron soap. There was no view. The window looked over a narrow alley to a brick wall opposite, and although it was out of sight and some distance away, the River Thames had permeated the place with its dampness and smell. Next he turned his attentions to the dead man who was dressed as Carstairs had first described him, in a frock coat that came down to his knees, a thick waistcoat and a shirt buttoned to the neck. All of these were saturated with blood. The knife that had killed him had buried itself up to the hilt, penetrating the carotid arterty. My training told me that he would have died instantly. Lestrade searched his pockets but found nothing. Now that I was able to scrutinise him more carefully, I saw that the man who had followed Carstairs to Ridgeway Hall was in his early forties, well built, with thickset shoulders and muscular arms. He had close-cropped hair that had begun to turn grey. Most striking of all was the scar which began at the corner of his mouth and slanted over his cheekbone, narrowly missing his eye. He had come close to death once. He had been less fortunate the second time.
    ‘Can we be sure that this is the same man who imposed himself on Mr Edmund Carstairs?’ Lestrade asked.
    ‘Indeed so. Carstairs was able to identify him.’
    ‘He was here?’
    ‘Briefly, yes. Sadly, he was compelled to leave.’ Holmes smiled to himself and I recalled how we had been compelled to bundle Edmund Carstairs into a cab and send him on his way to Wimbledon. He had barely glimpsed the body but it had been enough to send him into a fainting fit and I had understood how he must have been on board the
Catalonia
following his experiences with the Flat Cap Gang in Boston. It may be that he had the same sensitivity as some of the artists whose works he displayed. It was certainly the case that the blood and grime of Bermondsey were not for him.
    ‘Here is further evidence if you need it.’ Holmes gestured at a flat cap, lying on the bed.
    Lestrade had meanwhile turned his attention to a packet of cigarettes lying on a table nearby. He examined the label. ‘Old Judge …’
    ‘Manufactured, I think you will find, by Goodwin and Company of New York. I found the stub of one such cigarette at Ridgeway Hall.’
    ‘Did you now?’ Lestrade let out a silent exclamation. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I suppose we can discard the idea that our American friend was the victim of a random attack? Though there have been plenty of those in this neighbourhood, and it is always possible that this fellow returned to his room and surprised someone as they were ransacking the place. A fight