You did not answer it."


"I had left Baden and could not inquire."


"Exactly.  For this reason I sent a duplicate to the manager of

the Englischer Hof, whose answer lies here."


"What does it show?"


"It shows, my dear Watson, that we are dealing with an

exceptionally astute and dangerous man.  The Rev. Dr.

Shlessinger, missionary from South America, is none other than

Holy Peters, one of the most unscrupulous rascals that Australia

has ever evolved--and for a young country it has turned out some

very finished types.  His particular specialty is the beguiling

of lonely ladies by playing upon their religious feelings, and

his so-called wife, an Englishwoman named Fraser, is a worthy

helpmate.  The nature of his tactics suggested his identity to

me, and this physical peculiarity--he was badly bitten in a

saloon-fight at Adelaide in '89--confirmed my suspicion.  This

poor lady is in the hands of a most infernal couple, who will

stick at nothing, Watson.  That she is already dead is a very

likely supposition.  If not, she is undoubtedly in some sort of

confinement and unable to write to Miss Dobney or her other

friends.  It is always possible that she never reached London, or

that she has passed through it, but the former is improbable, as,

with their system of registration, it is not easy for foreigners

to play tricks with the Continental police; and the latter is

also unlikely, as these rouges could not hope to find any other

place where it would be as easy to keep a person under restraint.

All my instincts tell me that she is in London, but as we have at

present no possible means of telling where, we can only take the

obvious steps, eat our dinner, and possess our souls in patience.

Later in the evening I will stroll down and have a word with

friend Lestrade at Scotland Yard."


But neither the official police nor Holmes's own small but very

efficient organization sufficed to clear away the mystery.  Amid

the crowded millions of London the three persons we sought were

as completely obliterated as if they had never lived.

Advertisements were tried, and failed.  Clues were followed, and

led to nothing.  Every criminal resort which Shlessinger might

frequent was drawn in vain.  His old associates were watched, but

they kept clear of him.  And then suddenly, after a week of

helpless suspense there came a flash of light.  A silver-and-

brilliant pendant of old Spanish design had been pawned at

Bovington's, in Westminster Road.  The pawner was a large, clean-

shaven man of clerical appearance.  His name and address were

demonstrably false.  The ear had escaped notice, but the

description was surely that of Shlessinger.


Three times had our bearded friend from the Langham called for

news--the third time within an hour of this fresh development.

His clothes were getting looser on his great body.  He seemed to

be wilting away in his anxiety.  "If you will only give me

something to do!" was his constant wail.  At last Holmes could

oblige him.


"He has begun to pawn the jewels.  We should get him now."


"But does this mean that any harm has befallen the Lady Frances?"


Holmes shook his head very gravely.


"Supposing that they have held her prisoner up to now, it is

clear that they cannot let her loose without their own

destruction.  We must prepare for the worst."


"What can I do?"


"These people do not know you by sight?"


"No."


"It is possible that he will go to some other pawnbroker in the

future.  in that case, we must begin again.  On the other hand,

he has had a fair price and no questions asked, so if he is in

need of ready-money he will probably come back to Bovington's.  I

will give you a note to them, and they will let you wait in the

shop.  If the fellow comes you will follow him home.  But no

indiscretion, and, above all, no violence.  I put you on your

honour that you will take no step without my knowledge and

consent."


For two days the Hon. Philip Green (he was, I may mention, the

son of the famous admiral of that name who commanded the Sea of

Azof fleet in the Crimean War) brought us no news.  On the

evening of the third he rushed into our sitting-room, pale,

trembling, with every muscle of his powerful frame quivering with

excitement.


"We have him!  We have him!" he cried.


He was incoherent in his agitation.  Holmes soothed him with a

few words and thrust him into an armchair.


"Come, now, give us the order of events," said he.


"She came only an hour ago.  It was the wife, this time, but the

pendant she brought was the fellow of the other.  She is a tall,

pale woman, with ferret eyes."


"That is the lady," said Holmes.


"She left the office and I followed her.  She walked up the

Kennington Road, and I kept behind her.  Presently she went into

a shop.  Mr. Holmes, it was an undertaker's."


My companion started.  "Well?" he asked in that vibrant voice

which told of the fiery soul behind the cold gray face.


"She was talking to the woman behind the counter. I entered as

well.  'It is late,' I heard her say, or words to that effect.

The woman was excusing herself.  'It should be there before now,'

she answered.  'It took longer, being out of the ordinary.'  They

both stopped and looked at me, so I asked some questions and then

left the shop."


"You did excellently well.  What happened next?"


"The woman came out, but I had hid myself in a doorway.  Her

suspicions had been aroused, I think, for she looked round her.

Then she called a cab and got in.  I was lucky enough to get

another and so to follow her.  She got down at last at No. 36,

Poultney Square, Brixton.  I drove past, left my cab at the

corner of the square, and watched the house."


"Did you see anyone?"


"The windows were all in darkness save one on the lower floor.

The blind was down, and I could not see in.  I was standing

there, wondering what I should do next, when a covered van drove

up with two men in it.  They descended, took something out of the

van, and carried it up the steps to the hall door.  Mr. Holmes,

it was a coffin."


"Ah!"


"For an instant I was on the point of rushing in.  The door had

been opened to admit the men and their burden. It was the woman

who had opened it.  But as I stood there she caught a glimpse of

me, and I think that she recognized me.  I saw her start, and she

hastily closed the door. I remembered my promise to you, and here

I am."


"You have done excellent work," said Holmes, scribbling a few

words upon a half-sheet of paper.  "We can do nothing legal

without a warrant, and you can serve the cause best by taking

this note down to the authorities and getting one.  There may be

some difficulty, but I should think that the sale of the

jewellery should be sufficient.  Lestrade will see to all

details."


"But they may murder her in the meanwhile.  What could the coffin

mean, and for whom could it be but for her?"


"We will do all that can be done, Mr. Green.  Not a moment will

be lost.  Leave it in our hands.  Now Watson," he added as our

client hurried away, "he will set the regular forces on the move.

We are, as usual, the irregulars, and we must take our own line

of action.  The situation strikes me as so desperate that the

most extreme measures are justified.  Not a moment is to be lost

in getting to Poultney Square.


"Let us try to reconstruct the situation," said he as we drove

swiftly past the Houses of Parliament and over Westminster

Bridge.  "These villains have coaxed this unhappy lady to London,

after first alienating her from her faithful maid.  If she has

written any letters they have been intercepted.  Through some

confederate they have engaged a furnished house.  Once inside it,

they have made her a prisoner, and they have become possessed of

the valuable jewellery which has been their object from the

first.  Already they have begun to sell part of it, which seems

safe enough to them, since they have no reason to think that

anyone is interested in the lady's fate.  When she is released

she will, of course, denounce them.  Therefore, she must not be

released.  But they cannot keep her under lock and key forever.

So murder is their only solution."


"That seems very clear."


"Now we will take another line of reasoning.  When you follow two

deparate chains of thought, Watson, you will find some point of

intersection which should approximate to the truth.  We will

start now, not from the lady but from the coffin and argue

backward.  That incident proves, I fear, beyond all doubt that

the lady is dead.  It points also to an orthodox burial with

proper accompaniment of medical certificate and official

sanction.  Had the lady been obviously murdered, they would have

buried her in a hole in the back garden.  But here all is open

and regular.  What does this mean?  Surely that they have done

her to death in some way which has deceived the doctor and

simulated a natural end--poisoning, perhaps.  And yet how strange

that they should ever let a doctor approach her unless he were a

confederate, which is hardly a credible proposition."


"Could they have forged a medical certificate?"


"Dangerous, Watson, very dangerous.  No, I hardly see them doing

that.  Pull up, cabby!  This is evidently the undertaker's, for

we have just passed the pawnbroker's.  Would go in, Watson?  Your

appearance inspires confidence.  Ask what hour the Poultney

Square funeral takes place to-morrow."


The woman in the shop answered me without hesitation that it was

to be at eight o'clock in the morning.  "You see, Watson, no

mystery; everything above-board!  In some way the legal forms

have undoubtedly been complied with, and they think that they

have little to fear.  Well, there's nothing for it now but a

direct frontal attack.  Are you armed?"


"My stick!"


"Well, well, we shall be strong enough.  'Thrice is he armed who

hath his quarrel just.'  We simply can't afford to wait for the

police or to keep within the four corners of the law.  You can

drive off, cabby.  Now, Watson, we'll just take our luck

together, as we have occasionally in the past."


He had rung loudly at the door of a great dark house in the

centre of Poultney Square.  It was opened immediately, and the

figure of a tall woman was outlined against the dim-lit hall.


"Well, what do you want?" she asked sharply, peering at us

through the darkness.


"I want to speak to Dr. Shlessinger," said Holmes.


"There is no such person here," she answered, and tried to close

the door, but Holmes had jammed it with his foot.


"Well, I want to see the man who lives here, whatever he may call

himself," said Holmes firmly.


She hesitated.  Then she threw open the door.  "Well, come in!"

said she.  "My husband is not afraid to face any man in the

world."  She closed the door behind us and showed us into a

sitting-room on the right side of the hall, turning up the gas as

she left us.  "Mr. Peters will be with you in an instant," she

said.


Her words were literally true, for we had hardly time to look

around the dusty and moth-eaten apartment in which we found

ourselves before the door opened and a big, clean-shaven bald-

headed man stepped lightly into the room.  He had a large red

face, with pendulous cheeks, and a general air of superficial

benevolence which was marred by a cruel, vicious mouth.


"There is surely some mistake here, gentlemen," he said in an

unctuous, make-everything-easy voice.  "I fancy that you have

been misdirected.  Possibly if you tried farther down the street-

-"


"That will do; we have no time to waste," said my companion

firmly.  "You are Henry Peters, of Adelaide, late the Rev. Dr.

Shlessinger, of Baden and South America.  I am as sure of that as

that my own name is Sherlock Holmes."


Peters, as I will now call him, started and stared hard at his

formidable pursuer.  "I guess your name does not frighten me, Mr.

Holmes," said he coolly.  "When a man's conscience is easy you

can't rattle him.  What is your business in my house?"


"I want to know what you have done with the Lady Frances Carfax,

whom you brought away with you from Baden."


"I'd be very glad if you could tell me where that lady may be,"

Peters answered coolly.  "I've a bill against her for a nearly a

hundred pounds, and nothing to show for it but a couple of

trumpery pendants that the dealer would hardly look at.  She

attached herself to Mrs. Peters and me at Baden--it is a fact

that I was using another name at the time--and she stuck on to us

until we came to London.  I paid her bill and her ticket.  Once

in London, she gave us the slip, and, as I say, left these out-

of-date jewels to pay her bills.  You find her, Mr. Holmes, and

I'm your debtor."


In MEAN to find her," said Sherlock Holmes.  "I'm going through

this house till I do find her."


"Where is your warrant?"


Holmes half drew a revolver from his pocket.  "This will have to

serve till a better one comes."


"Why, you're a common burglar."


"So you might describe me," said Holmes cheerfully.  "My

companion is also a dangerous ruffian.  And together we are going

through your house."


Our opponent opened the door.


"Fetch a policeman, Annie!" said he.  There was a whisk of

feminine skirts down the passage, and the hall door was opened

and shut.


"Our time is limited, Watson," said Holmes.  "If you try to stop

us, Peters, you will most certainly get hurt.  Where is that

coffin which was brought into your house?"


"What do you want with the coffin?  It is in use.  There is a

body in it."


"I must see the body."


"Never with my consent."


"Then without it."  With a quick movement Holmes pushed the

fellow to one side and passed into the hall.  A door half opened

stood immediately before us.  We entered.  It was the dining-

room.  On the table, under a half-lit chandelier, the coffin was

lying.  Holmes turned up the gas and raised the lid.  Deep down

in the recesses of the coffin lay an emaciated figure.  The glare

from the lights above beat down upon an aged and withered face.

By no possible process of cruelty, starvation, or disease could

this wornout wreck be the still beautiful Lady Frances.  Holmes's

face showed his amazement, and also his relief.

"Thank God!" he muttered.  "It's someone else."


"Ah, you've blundered badly for once, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said

Peters, who had followed us into the room.


"Who is the dead woman?"


"Well, if you really must know, she is an old nurse of my wife's,

Rose Spender by name, whom we found in the Brixton Workhouse

Infirmary.  We brought her round here, called in Dr. Horsom, of

13 Firbank Villas--mind you take the address, Mr. Holmes--and had

her carefully tended, as Christian folk should.  On the third day

she died--certificate says senile decay--but that's only the

doctor's opinion, and of course you know better.  We ordered her

funeral to be carried out by Stimson and Co., of the Kennington

Road, who will bury her at eight o'clock to-morrow morning.  Can

you pick any hole in that, Mr. Holmes?  You've made a silly

blunder, and you may as well own up to it.  I'd give something

for a photograph of your gaping, staring face when you pulled

aside that lid expecting to see the Lady Frances Carfax and only

found a poor old woman of ninety."


Holmes's expression was as impassive as ever under the jeers of

his antagonist, but his clenched hands betrayed his acute

annoyance.


"I am going through your house," said he.


"Are you, though!" cried Peters as a woman's voice and heavy

steps sounded in the passage.  "We'll soon see about that.  This

way, officers, if you please.  These men have forced their way

into my house, and I cannot get rid of them.  Help me to put them

out."


A sergeant and a constable stood in the doorway.  Holmes drew his

card from his case.


"This is my name and address.  This is my friend, Dr. Watson."


"Bless you, sir, we know you very well," said the sergeant, "but

you can't stay here without a warrant."


"Of course not.  I quite understand that."


"Arrest him!" cried Peters.


"We know where to lay our hands on this gentleman if he is

wanted," said the sergeant majestically, "but you'll have to go,

Mr. Holmes."


"Yes, Watson, we shall have to go."


A minute later we were in the street once more.  Holmes was as

cool as ever, but I was hot with anger and humiliation.  The

sergeant had followed us.


"Sorry, Mr. Holmes, but that's the law."


"Exactly, Sergeant, you could not do otherwise."


"I expect there was good reason for your presence there.  If

there is anything I can do--"


"It's a missing lady, Sergeant, and we think she is in that

house.  I expect a warrant presently."


"Then I'll keep my eye on the parties, Mr. Holmes.  If anything

comes along, I will surely let you know."


It was only nine o'clock, and we were off full cry upon the trail

at once.  First we drove to Brixton Workhoused Infirmary, where

we found that it was indeed the truth that a charitable couple

had called some days before, that they had claimed an imbecile

old woman as a former servant, and that they had obtained

permission to take her away with them.  No surprise was expressed

at the news that she had since died.


The doctor was our next goal.  He had been called in, had found

the woman dying of pure senility, had actually seen her pass

away, and had signed the certificate in due form.  "I assure you

that everything was perfectly normal and there was no room for

foul play in the matter," said he. Nothing in the house had

struck him as suspicious save that for people of their class it

was remarkable that they should have no servant.  So far and no

further went the doctor.


Finally we found our way to Scotland Yard.  There had been

difficulties of procedure in regard to the warrant.  Some delay

was inevitable.  The magistrate's signature might not be obtained

until next morning.  If Holmes would call about nine he could go

down with Lestrade and see it acted upon.  So ended the day, save

that near midnight our friend, the sergeant, called to say that

he had seen flickering lights here and there in the windows of

the great dark house, but that no one had left it and none had

entered.  We could but pray for patience and wait for the morrow.


Sherlock Holmes was too irritable for conversation and too

restless for sleep.  I left him smoking hard, with his heavy,

dark brows knotted together, and his long, nervous fingers

tapping upon the arms of his chair, as he turned over in his mind

every possible solution of the mystery.  Several times in the

course of the night I heard him prowling about the house.

Finally, just after I had been called in the morning, he rushed

into my room.  He was in his dressing-gown, but his pale, hollow-

eyed face told me that his night had been a sleepless one.


"What time was the funeral?  Eight, was it not?" he asked

eagerly.  "Well, it is 7:20 now.  Good heavens, Watson, what has

become of any brains that God has given me?  Quick, man, quick!

It's life or death--a hundred chances on death to one on life.

I'll never forgive myself, never, if we are too late!"


Five minutes had not passed before we were flying in a hansom

down Baker Street.  But even so it was twenty-five to eight as we

passed Big Ben, and eight struck as we tore down the Brixton

Road.  But others were late as well as we.  Ten minutes after the

hour the hearse was still standing at the door of the house, and

even as our foaming horse came to a halt the coffin, supported by

three men, appeared on the threshold.  Holmes darted forward and

barred their way.


"Take it back!" he cried, laying his hand on the breast of the

foremost.  "Take it back this instant!"


"What the devil do you mean?  Once again I ask you, where is your

warrant?" shouted the furious Peters, his big red face glaring

over the farther end of the coffin.


"The warrant is on its way.  The coffin shall remain in the house

until it comes."


The authority in Holmes's voice had its effect upon the bearers.

Peters had suddenly vanished into the house, and they obeyed

these new orders.  "Quick, Watson, quick!  Here is a screw-

driver!" he shouted as the coffin was replaced upon the table.

"Here's one for you, my man!  A sovreign if the lid comes off in

a minute!  Ask no questions--work away!  That's good!  Another!

And another!  Now pull all together!  It's giving!  It's giving!

Ah, that does it at last."


With a united effort we tore off the coffin-lid.  As we did so

there came from the inside a stupefying and overpowering smell of

chloroform.  A body lay within, its head all wreathed in cotton-

wool, which had been soaked in the narcotic.  Holmes plucked it

off and disclosed the statuesque face of a handsome and spiritual

woman of middle age.  In an instant he had passed his arm round

the figure and raised her to a sitting position.


"Is she gone, Watson?  Is there a spark left?  Surely we are not

too late!"


For half an hour it seemed that we were.  What with actual

suffocation, and what with the poisonous fumes of the chloroform,

the Lady Frances seemed to have passed the last point of recall.

And then, at last, with artificial respiration, with injected

ether, and with every device that science could suggest, some

flutter of life, some quiver of the eyelids, some dimming of a

mirror, spoke of the slowly returning life.  A cab had driven up,

and Holmes, parting the blind, looked out at it.  "Here is

Lestrade with his warrant," said he.  "He will find that his

birds have flown.  And here," he added as a heavy step hurried

along the passage, "is someone who has a better right to nurse

this lady than we have.  Good morning, Mr. Green; I think that

the sooner we can move the Lady Frances the better. Meanwhile,

the funeral may proceed, and the poor old woman who still lies in

that coffin may go to her last resting-place alone."


"Should you care to add the case to your annals, my dear Watson,"

said Holmes that evening, "it can only be as an example of that

temporary eclipse to which even the best-balanced mind may be

exposed.  Such slips are common to all mortals, and the greatest

is he who can recognize and repair them.  To this modified credit

I may, perhaps, make some claim.  My night was haunted by the

thought that somewhere a clue, a strange sentence, a curious

observation, had come under my notice and had been too easily

dismissed.  Then, suddenly, in the gray of the morning, the words

came back to me.  It was the remark of the undertaker's wife, as

reported by Philip Green.  She had said, 'It should be there

before now.  It took longer, being out of the ordinary.'  It was

the coffin of which she spoke.  It had been out of the ordinary.

That could only mean that it had been made to some special

measurement.  But why?  Why?  Then in an instant I remembered the

deep sides, and the little wasted figure at the bottom.  Why so

large a coffin for so small a body?  To leave room for another

body. Both would be buried under the one certificate.  It had all

been so clear, if only my own sight had not been dimmed.  At

eight the Lady Frances would be buried.  Our one chance was to

stop the coffin before it left the house.


"It was a desperate chance that we might find her alive, but it

WAS a chance, as the result showed.  These people had never, to

my knowledge, done a murder.  They might shrink from actual

violence at the last.  The could bury her with no sign of how she

met her end, and even if she were exhumed there was a chance for

them.  I hoped that such considerations might prevail with them.

You can reconstruct the scene well enough.  You saw the horrible

den upstairs, where the poor lady had been kept so long.  They

rushed in and overpowered her with their chloroform, carried her

down, poured more into the coffin to insure against her waking,

and then screwed down the lid.  A clever device, Watson.  It is

new to me in the annals of crime.  If our ex-missionary friends

escape the clutches of Lestrade, I shall expect to hear of some

brilliant incidents in their future career."






End of Project BookishMall.com Etext The Disappearance of Lady Frances Carfax


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