The Secret Files of Sherlock Holmes Read Free Page B

that the two of them could still have some means of communication. Anyway, once she died, Cora – Miss Page – insisted on Jim naming the day and the wedding was fixed for June 14th, reception afterwards in the private room over the Farriers’ Arms and a honeymoon in Bournemouth.’ Mr Nelson stared down gloomily into his bowler hat which he was nursing between his knees. ‘It don’t look as if it’ll come off now, does it, Mr Holmes? Not with the bridegroom gone and vanished off the face of the earth.’
    ‘It would seem highly unlikely,’ Holmes agreed.
    ‘So what do you say, sir?’ Nelson continued eagerly. ‘Will you take the case? I don’t know who else to turn to. The police aren’t interested. They say that as Jim is over-age and there’s no sign of foul play, there’s not much they can do. He might turn up. Or then again he might not. It’s all very worrying andbothersome. He’s been a good friend to me, has Jim, and I would be more than grateful if you would make a few inquiries. I don’t know what your fees are but I have a bit of money put aside for a rainy day which I’m willing to part with for Jim’s sake for, with him disappearing the way he did, I reckon that day has already arrived.’
    Holmes seemed to come to a sudden decision for, springing to his feet, he held out his hand.
    ‘I shall certainly take on the case, Mr Nelson. As for the fees …’ He made a deprecatory gesture. ‘Payment will be by results. If I fail to find your friend, Mr James Phillimore, then there will be no charge. That seems a fair arrangement.’
    Before Mr Nelson could protest or even express his thanks, Holmes had ushered him out of the room and down the stairs to the ground floor where presumably Nelson found Miss Page for, a few minutes later, as Holmes and I stood at the window, we watched the two of them walking away down Baker Street, the lady clasping her tall, ungainly companion by the arm and talking vociferously while he listened, head bent, to her monologue.
    Holmes chuckled sardonically.
    ‘Unless Mr Nelson is very careful, he will find himself married off sooner or later to his friend’s fiancée,’ he remarked. ‘As he himself described her, she won’t take no for an answer. Well, what do you make of it, Watson? Not that particular relationship but the case of Mr James Phillimore, the vanishing head-waiter.’
    ‘It is certainly very strange,’ I replied. ‘Phillimore seems a man from a respectable enough background …’
    ‘Who also possessed a very keen sense of smell,’ Holmes added in a jocular fashion. ‘As I remember, Tuesday morning was particularly fine with not a cloud to be seen. And yet he assured Mr Nelson that he could smell rain and insisted on going back to the house for his umbrella. I think I detect a whiff of conspiracy. Come, Watson, get your hat. We are going out.’
    He was already striding towards the door.
    ‘Where to?’ I demanded, snatching up my hat and stick and hurrying after him.
    ‘Where else but seventeen Laburnum Grove, Clapham, toexamine the scene of Mr James Phillimore’s extraordinary disappearing act?’
    The house, as we discovered when the hansom cab deposited us at the gate, was a small, red-brick villa of the type erected in such areas as Clapham and Brixton for clerks, shop-assistants and minor tradesmen and their families. A narrow strip of front garden, just wide enough to accommodate two rose bushes and a tiny patch of lawn, separated it from the road where a few trees, too young yet to have developed beyond the sapling stage, grew out of the paving-stones between the gas lamp-standards.
    The garden path, a mere few yards in length and paved with red and yellow tiles, led up to the front door where Holmes banged on the knocker.
    The door was opened by an elderly, grey-haired woman, dressed in clean but shabby black, with tired, lined features – Mrs Bennet, the housekeeper, I assumed.
    ‘Come in, sir,’ she said, dropping a little bob