Chapter 3
It was a little before midday on Wednesday when Harry discovered the letter from Esme Longstaff.
The envelope was addressed in the same copperplate handwriting Harry recognised from the young woman’s previous correspondence, although one or two of the vowels were carelessly shaped, as though written in haste.
Frowning, Harry slit the envelope apart and withdrew the letter.
Mr Sherlock Holmes
London
Foxley
Surrey
23 December 1932
Dear Mr Holmes
Please forgive me for intruding upon you once more, and with a matter I am by no means certain is worthy of your attention. But having begun, I must go forward and allow you to be the judge of the strange and puzzling encounter my father experienced when returning from London by train last evening.
He was, by his own admission, in peculiar spirits.
The journey into London was due to an interview for a position with Marshall and Sons on Tooley Street, but when he presented himself, the company had no record of having invited him.
Left with no option but to return to Waterloo station, he took the next train home.
He was joined in his compartment by a stranger, who seemed in some agitation, muttering and wringing his hands until my father was obliged to ask if he was quite well.
The stranger apologised for his behaviour and introduced himself as Mr Spender.
They shook hands and the man lapsed into silence, although it appeared he could not sit still.
When he jumped to his feet for the fourth or fifth time, exclaiming aloud, my father asked whether there was anything he could do to help.
The man subsided into the seat once more.
‘Would that there were, sir,’ he said. ‘But I fear it is too late for anyone to intercede now. My poor girl is lost to me.’
Startled, my father asked what he meant.
Mr Spender explained that his youngest daughter had vanished in London some weeks earlier and no trace could be found of her.
He had spent the day combing the city streets, to no avail.
‘I do not know what I shall tell her mother,’ he said heavily.
‘The disappointment will surely kill her this time.’
I am certain you will understand that my father saw in this stranger a kindred soul, a man suffering the same agony we had endured when my dear sister was missing.
When it became apparent that the police had been very little help, he suggested Mr Spender consult a detective.
‘We have!’ the man cried. ‘They take our money and offer no relief. Our Polly remains lost.’
At that, my father was quiet, because he had sworn to tell no one of your involvement in Mildred’s case.
And yet the other man’s distress weighed upon him, until at last the train pulled into the station and he stood to leave.
‘There is someone who can find her,’ he said, as he opened the door and prepared to step onto the platform.
‘Many believe him to be a work of fiction but he helped me and I am certain he could help you. His name is Sherlock Holmes.’
You must believe that he meant no harm, sir.
The encounter was so very strange and yet I cannot shake the uneasiness it has provoked in me.
On the surface, it appears to be simple serendipity, but I cannot rest. Should you find yourself contacted by this man, perhaps you will be able to reassure me that my anxiety is misplaced. I do hope so.
Yours faithfully
Miss Esme Longstaff
Harry read the letter three times before lowering it to the desk, a deep frown furrowing her brow.
She knew of a Polly Spender; a girl with that name had, until recently, been a maid in the household of the wealthy Lord and Lady Finchem.
Her sudden departure from that position had troubled Harry, coming only a few weeks after the theft that had seen Mildred Longstaff sacked from the same house, and she suspected Polly knew more about that than she was telling.
It was possible she had been involved in some way, perhaps even part of the criminal gang that had later tried to frame Mildred for the much bigger robbery that had seen her sent to Holloway.
Could it be the same girl? But that Polly Spender had not been missing in December.
Harry’s associate, Beth Chamberlain, had tracked the maid down in Southwark and tried to winkle more information from her.
The effort failed; Beth reported that Polly had been too afraid of the possible consequences to admit anything.
And now, according to the stranger on Mr Longstaff’s train, she had disappeared.
Could it be Polly’s fears had been justified?
Putting aside the question of identity, Harry turned to the peculiar details of the encounter on the train.
It was quite a coincidence that Mr Spender had boarded that same train and carriage as Mr Longstaff – a man who had suffered a remarkably similar familial heartache – but made more notable still by the fact that he had only been aboard the train because someone had summoned him to London for a false interview.
Could it have been a ruse to ensure he would be in a certain place at a certain time?
It might even be reasonably predicted that he would take the next train home after his frustrating visit to Tooley Street.
All Mr Spender would need to do was note which carriage he entered and follow.
What Harry couldn’t comprehend was why he should go to such trouble, especially when there had been no indication he had known who Mr Longstaff was.
It was all so strange and yet she was certain Esme’s misgivings were well founded. All was not as it seemed.
Rousing herself, Harry reached for a sheet of paper and wrote a hasty note to Beth.
Satisfied that her instructions were plain, she addressed an envelope and sealed it, ready for posting.
That done, she lifted the telephone receiver to call Oliver.
After a brief explanation, she donned her hat and coat, and scooped up the letter to Beth.
She could only hope the queue in the post office would be short.
Oliver was waiting in Cavendish Square when Harry arrived just after one o’clock.
He was seated at one of the benches lining the outer path, muffled against the cold in a heavy overcoat and hat, reading a newspaper.
Blackbirds cawed from the leafless trees as weak January sunlight did its best to dispel the winter gloom.
She made her way quickly towards him, dodging pedestrians and prams, conscious that she had used almost half of her lunch break already.
‘Thank you for coming,’ she said, perching on the chilly wood beside him.
Oliver lowered the newspaper. ‘Unfortunately, I don’t have long. Did you bring Miss Longstaff’s letter?’
Withdrawing it from her bag, Harry laid it on the bench. ‘I have no idea what it means.’
He took the envelope, exchanging it for his now folded copy of that morning’s The Times. ‘Meanwhile, someone is growing impatient.’ He tapped the front page. ‘It appears the game is not yet afoot.’
With a blink of surprise, Harry took up the broadsheet, scanning the lines of personal advertisements that made up the extensive agony column. Sandwiched between an appeal for unwanted false teeth and an advertisement for Cuthbert’s Travelling Circus, she found the one bearing a familiar name.
My dear Sherlock Holmes, I confess myself disappointed. Tempus fugit. Yours in expectation, Professor James Moriarty
Harry had not enjoyed Latin at school but she had retained enough to translate Tempus fugit into ‘Time flies’. It was exactly the kind of message Moriarty might send. Whoever was placing the advertisements must know the character well. What they were trying to achieve was less clear.
Oliver had turned his attention to Esme’s letter. ‘I suppose the first question must concern the desperate Mr Spender,’ he said, once he reached the end. ‘Has he written to Holmes to beg his help?’
Harry shook her head. She had opened every letter from the Christmas backlog.
There had been the usual assortment of petty concerns regarding neighbours and libellous accusations of worse crimes, along with one or two accounts that Harry imagined might have inspired Sir Arthur Conan Doyle to put pen to paper, but there was nothing from a Mr Spender, nor were any of the letters a plea for help to locate a missing young woman. ‘Not yet.’
‘I could make some discreet enquiries,’ he said, pursing his lips. ‘If Polly’s father has reported her disappearance to the police then there will be a report.’
‘If?’ Harry echoed, and gave him a measured look. ‘You don’t believe his story.’
‘It may all be exactly as he describes,’ Oliver said.
‘In which case the police will have made every effort to find his daughter and those efforts will be documented. We’ll be able to set Miss Longstaff’s mind at rest on that score, at least. But if no report has been made, we are left with several pressing questions. ’
She nodded. ‘Firstly, who set up the false interview to get Mr Longstaff to London? I think we may assume they are connected to Mr Spender in some way.’
‘It could be someone at Marshall and Sons. But an official-looking letter on headed paper could be mocked up by any half-skilled forger so I don’t think we can wholly suspect them.’
‘Then we come to Mr Spender himself,’ Harry went on. ‘It seems clear that he entered Mr Longstaff’s carriage with a purpose. If Polly is missing, then I suppose it’s possible he sought the name of the person who had helped to find Mildred.’
‘Then why not simply ask?’ Oliver said.
‘Perhaps he thought Mr Longstaff would recognise her name,’ Harry said but even as she spoke, she realised the suggestion was flawed.