The Secret Files of Sherlock Holmes Read Free

Phillimore, every morning to Clapham Junction station in order to catch the 8.05 train into Town where they both have their places of work, Mr Nelson as clerk at Murchison and Whybrow’s, the solicitors in King William Street, Mr Phillimore at Gudgeon’s in StSwithin’s Lane where he is employed as head-waiter. You have heard of Gudgeon’s, of course, Watson?’
    ‘Indeed I have,’ I replied, seating myself in the chair which Miss Page had just vacated. ‘It is a well-known restaurant in the City, much frequented, I believe, by bankers and members of the Stock Exchange.’
    ‘Quite so. Now it seems that every morning, on the dot of half past seven, as Mr Nelson described it, he would walk from Magnolia Terrace where he has lodgings …’
    ‘Just off Lavender Hill,’ Mr Nelson broke in.
    ‘… into Laburnum Grove where his old friend, Mr Phillimore, would be waiting for him at the gate of number seventeen. They would then set off together down Lavender Hill for the station. And then, three days ago …’ He looked across at Mr Nelson, inviting him to resume his account at the point where, it seemed, it had been interrupted.
    Mr Nelson was eager to pick up the story.
    ‘Well, Mr Holmes, as I was saying, it was Tuesday morning. There was Jim – Mr Phillimore – standing at his gate as per usual. There was nothing out of the ordinary about him except, as I got close up to him, he said, ‘I fancy I can smell rain in the air, Charlie. I’m just popping back into the house for my brolly. It’s in the hall so I shan’t be more than half a jiffy.’ So he gets out his keys, walks back up the garden path, opens the front door and goes inside, leaving the door ajar. And that’s the last I saw of him.’
    ‘You waited, I assume?’ Holmes asked.
    ‘Of course I did, Mr Holmes. I hung about at the gate for a good five minutes, expecting him to come out of the house at any moment. Then, when he didn’t appear, I went up to the house myself, thinking he’d been taken ill of a sudden. I pushed open the door and went into the hall, calling out his name. But there was neither sight nor sound of him in either of the downstairs rooms. It was while I was looking and calling that his housekeeper heard me and came out of the kitchen. When I explained what had happened, she went with me up the stairs to look in the bedrooms. It’s only a small house, Mr Holmes, and I swear we searched every inch of it, under the beds, in thewardrobes, even the cupboard under the stairs. But we found nothing.’
    ‘What about the garden? You searched that, too?’
    ‘Oh, yes, Mr Holmes. It is only a few yards square but there was no one there neither. It was as if he’d vanished into thin air.’
    ‘Could he have climbed into a neighbour’s garden?’ I put in.
    ‘No, he couldn’t, Dr Watson. The fence is too high as you’ll see for yourself if you come to the house; that is, if Mr Holmes is willing to take up the case.’
    He turned to look at Holmes in appeal but my old friend, puffing away imperturbably at his pipe, refused to be drawn and merely nodded in my direction to encourage me to continue my line of questioning which I did with some hesitation, anxious not to appear a fool nor to assume Holmes’ role of detective.
    ‘Then is there any other means of exit from the premises? A back garden gate, for instance?’
    ‘No, sir, there isn’t. The only other way Jim – Mr Phillimore – could have left was by a passage which runs along the side of the house to the back door. It’s the tradesmen’s entrance. But he didn’t go out that way. As I explained, I was standing at the gate for a good five minutes and I would have noticed him if he’d left by that route. There’s a few people about at that time in the morning, like me and Jim making their way to work, but I know every one of them by sight and there’s not enough of them for him to have slipped away unnoticed. Nor did his housekeeper see him pass the kitchen window