The House Of Silk

that. There! He is looking our way.’
    The man in question was wrapped in a coat and a scarf with a broad-brimmed, black felt hat and hands tucked beneath his arms so that beyond the fact that he
was
a man, and did indeed seem to be rooted to the spot, unsure whether to continue or not, there was very little of him that I could see to describe with any degree of accuracy. ‘You think he has come in response to our advertisement?’ I asked.
    ‘It is the second time he has passed our front door,’ Holmes replied. ‘I noticed him the first time fifteen minutes ago, walking up from the Metropolitan Railway. He then returned, and since then he has barely moved. He is making sure that he is not observed. Finally, he has made up his mind!’ As we watched him, standing back so that he could not see us himself, the man crossed the road. ‘He should be with us in a moment,’ Holmes said, returning to his seat.
    Sure enough, the door opened and Mrs Hudson introduced our new visitor, who peeled off the hat, the scarf and the coat to reveal a strange-looking young man whose face and physique displayed so many contradictions that I was sure even Holmes would find it difficult to pin him down. I say he was young – he could not have been past thirty – and he was built like a prizefighter and yet his hair was thin, his skin grey and his lips cracked, all of which made him seem much older. His clothes were expensive and fashionable but they were also dirty. He seemed nervous to be here, yet regarded us with a bullish self-confidence that was almost aggressive. I stood waiting for him to speak, for until then I would be unsure whether I was in the presence of an aristocrat or a ruffian of the lowest sort.
    ‘Please take a seat,’ said Holmes, at his most congenial. ‘You have been outside for a while and I would hate to think that you have caught a chill. Would you like some hot tea?’
    ‘I’d prefer a tot of rum,’ he replied.
    ‘We have none. But some brandy?’ Holmes nodded at me and I poured a good measure into a glass and handed it over.
    The man drained it at once. A little colour returned to his face and he sat down. ‘Thank you,’ he said. His voice was hoarse but educated. ‘I’ve come here for the reward. I shouldn’t have. The people that I deal with would cut my throat if they knew I was here, but I need the money, that’s the long and the short of it. Twenty pounds will keep the demons away for a good while and that’s worth sticking my neck out for. Do you have it here?’
    ‘You will have the payment when we have your information,’ Holmes replied. ‘I am Sherlock Holmes. And you …?’
    ‘You may call me Henderson, which is not my real name but it will do as well as any other. You see, Mr Holmes, I have to be careful. You placed an advertisement asking for information about the House of Silk, and from that moment this house will have been watched. Anyone coming, anyone leaving will have been noted, and it may well be that one day you will be asked to provide the names of all your visitors. I made sure that my face was hidden before I crossed your threshold. You will understand if I do the same for my identity.’
    ‘You will still have to tell us something about yourself before I part with any money. You are a teacher are you not?’
    ‘What makes you say that?’
    ‘There is chalk dust on the edge of your cuff and I notice a red ink stain on the inside of your third finger.’
    Henderson, if that was what I was to call him, smiled briefly, showing stained, uneven teeth. ‘I am sorry to have to correct you, but I am in fact a tidewaiter, although I do use chalk to mark the packages before they are unloaded and enter the numbers in a ledger using red ink. I used to work with the customs officer at Chatham but came to London two years ago. I thought a change of scene would be good for my career, but in fact it has almost ruined me. What else can I tell you about myself? I come originally from Hampshire and my parents live there still. I am married but have not seen my wife for a while. I am a wretch of the very worst sort, and although I would like to blame others for my misfortune, I know that at the end of the day it is entirely my own doing. Worse still, there is no turning back. I would sell my mother for your twenty pounds, Mr Holmes. There is nothing I would not do.’
    ‘And what is the cause of your undoing, Mr Henderson?’
    ‘Will you give me another brandy?’ I poured