The Mammoth Book of the Adventures of Professor Moriarty

The Mystery of the Missing Child Christine Poulson

‘Where do you suppose Mrs Hudson goes on a Thursday evening, Watson?’

‘I have no idea, Holmes.’

‘And why is she so reluctant to tell us? She has so far evaded my tactful enquiries.’

In Mrs Hudson’s absence, Maisie, our little skivvy, brought up the tea. Holmes poured it out and winced at the sight of the straw-coloured liquid.

‘That is one half of the mystery,’ he said. ‘The other is why the wretched girl can never learn to let the water boil.’

Holmes was not in the best of humours. He had not had a case for some weeks. He was restless and bored and, if this state of things were to continue, I feared recourse to stimulants stronger than tea. But I need not have worried. The case that was about to begin did not perhaps see him at his best, but it was a case full of interest, and one that went a long way towards explaining his enmity for Professor Moriarty.

It was a dismal day in late November in the year 1890 and dusk was drawing in. I was standing by the window, watching the lamplighter make his way down Baker Street, when a hansom cab drew up and the cabbie gestured with his whip to our door.

‘Unless I am much mistaken, Holmes,’ I remarked, ‘a new client is in prospect.’

A minute or two later, the skivvy showed a lady into our drawing room. She was wearing a half-mourning costume of lavender and mauve, and couldn’t, I judged, be more than thirty. Hers was a delicate face with arched eyebrows, but what struck me first as a medical man was her extreme pallor. She took a few faltering steps into the room, and I was just in time to reach her before she fainted. Between us, Holmes and I lowered her on to a couch. Her hands were ice-cold. Holmes chafed them while I had recourse to the sal volatile.

She was soon sufficiently revived to sit up on the couch. I placed a glass of brandy close at hand.

She was composing herself to speak, when Holmes raised a hand. ‘Let me guess the reason for your visit. Though one need scarcely be a detective to perceive that you have recently arrived in England from Italy, that before your marriage to a wealthy man you were accustomed to work for your living, that you are devoted to the memory of your late husband, and that you are desperately worried about your child.’

A glance at the lady’s face told me that Holmes as usual had hit the nail on the head.

‘But, how?’ she stammered.

Holmes smiled and picked up one of her hands. ‘Brown hands on a cold November day tell their own story. You have come from the south of France or Italy. It has been unseasonably cold in the south of France, so Italy it is. You were not born to money, in spite of those fine garnets you are wearing; otherwise, you would be accustomed to protect your hands from the sun. And for a lady such as yourself to be so afflicted, there must be a husband or a child in the case. And as you are a widow – one who still wears her husband’s signet ring on a gold chain around her neck—’

She managed a shaky laugh. ‘You are quite right, Mr Holmes. Before I married Harry, I was a governess and I have never managed to accustom myself to wearing gloves in warm weather. And, alas, it is all too true that I am at my wits’ end to know what has happened to my darling boy!’

She took a sip from the glass of brandy.

‘You must know, Mr Holmes, that though my dear late husband, Harold Armstrong, was somewhat older than myself, we were the most united of couples and three years ago there was not a happier woman in the world than myself. Little Arthur was two and our baby daughter had just been born. Despite Harry’s wealth, he came from humble origins. His own efforts and his brilliance as an engineer were responsible for his founding the engineering company of Armstrong and Morley. His sudden illness and death two years ago was a grievous blow. Still, I have my children to live for, and Harry has left me a wealthy woman, Mr Holmes. Our children shall never know want.

‘That brings me to the present. My little girl is delicate and I decided to spend the winter in Italy for the sake of her health. Two weeks ago, there was an attempt to snatch my son from our garden. It was foiled by the quick thinking of his nurse, Mrs Shaughnessy, and the ferocity of our guard dog. Kidnapping is not uncommon in that part of the world. Fearful of another attempt, but unable to move my little Alicia, who was suffering from a low fever, I made a plan to get Arthur to England and out of harm’s way. Mrs Shaughnessy left secretly at night and travelled incognito with Arthur as her own child. I was to follow on as soon as Alicia could safely travel. Mrs Shaughnessy sent me a telegram on arrival to let me know that she had arrived safely and was at the Midland Grand Hotel at St Pancras.

‘Alicia was by then much improved. We set off for England and arrived back in England only today. And then—’

She seemed on the point of breaking down again, but, after a sip of brandy, she composed herself and went on. ‘We arrived at the hotel this morning to find that Mrs Shaughnessy and Arthur were not there. The staff at the hotel had seen nothing of them since the day before yesterday, when they left the hotel in a cab. Of course we informed the police. When I explained about the earlier attempt to kidnap Arthur, they sent someone from Scotland Yard. But it is clear to me, Mr Holmes, that they have no clue as to what has happened or where my son is. I have read accounts of your successes and I had the idea of coming to see you. Rufus was not so sure, but—’

‘And who is Rufus?’ Holmes asked.

‘My stepson, Mr Holmes. My husband’s son from his first marriage. Rufus is twenty and has been a great support to me. He is waiting at the hotel in case there is a ransom demand.’

‘Who is in charge of the case?’

‘Inspector Lestrade. He too is waiting at the hotel.’

‘I know Lestrade,’ Holmes replied. ‘A good man in his way, but somewhat lacking in imagination. I think our first move will be to return with you to the hotel.’

‘Then you will take the case, Mr Holmes? Oh, thank you, thank you.’ Hope shone in her eyes.

‘I will do my best, dear lady,’ Holmes said gently. ‘I cannot say more.’

I have mentioned before that Holmes was a stranger to the tender passions, but a situation like this, involving a devoted wife and mother, was just the kind to draw out all that was chivalrous in his austere nature.

I had heard of the Midland Grand Hotel as one of the most lux urious hotels in London. We stepped out of a raw, drizzly November evening into an atmosphere of warmth and bright lights and deference. A magnificent sweeping staircase led up to an opulent apartment, the ceiling of which was lavishly decorated with gold leaf. A young man was lounging by a blazing fire, and sprang to his feet as we entered. Lestrade was there too, standing by the window, looking out of place with his heavy boots and worn overcoat.

Mrs Armstrong looked at them with an appeal on her face. Both men shook their heads and her face fell.

She introduced the young man as her stepson, Mr Rufus Armstrong. He was a little too well dressed for my taste, but then I am old-fashioned and do not care to see men wearing diamond cufflinks.

‘I’m not sorry to see you, Mr Holmes,’ Lestrade said.

‘I am glad that Scotland Yard is taking the case seriously.’

‘Oh, yes,’ Lestrade said grimly, ‘when an heir to a fortune, and a child at that, goes missing, we take it seriously all right. Any little assistance you care to give us will be welcome, Mr Holmes.’

There was a sardonic twist to Holmes’s lips, but he refrained from comment. He turned to Mrs Armstrong. ‘Mrs Shaughnessy would scarcely have foiled the earlier attempt if she had been in the pay of the kidnappers. She is, I take it, beyond suspicion?’

‘Oh yes, Mr Holmes, she has been with us since Arthur was born and she is devoted to him. She would defend him with her life, I am sure of that.’

At that moment there was a knock on the door. Lestrade answered it and I glimpsed a constable outside. They conferred in low voices.

When Lestrade turned to us, he looked grave. ‘The body of a woman was found in the Regent’s Canal this afternoon.’

Mrs Armstrong gasped and her hand flew to her bosom.

‘Of course, it may not be Mrs Shaughnessy,’ he continued, ‘but if someone who knew her could come to the mortuary …’

Mrs Armstrong was about to speak, but her stepson stepped forward. ‘I can accompany the Inspector, Mother,’ he said, the name sounding incongruous on his lips, for there can have been no more than ten years between them.

Holmes nodded his approval. ‘We also will accompany you, Lestrade.’

Leaving Mrs Armstrong in the care of her maid, we departed.

I felt a sense of foreboding as we passed through the wroughtiron gates of the mortuary. A wind had got up and the bare branches of the surrounding trees swayed and rustled. If it was chilly outside, it was bitter within, as the cold struck from the tiled walls. I am not a fanciful man, but on that chill November evening it was like entering the very gates of death.

We were shown into a room by a gaunt attendant, himself of a cadaverous appearance. On a marble slab, the body of a woman lay covered with a sheet. Fearing how Mr Armstrong might react, I positioned myself at his elbow. When the attendant drew back the sheet, we saw the face of a woman of about forty, framed with a mass of dark red hair. It was a strong face, full of character, even in death.

Mr Armstrong nodded. ‘That is Mrs Shaughnessy. But whatever can have become of Arthur?’

He was very pale, but otherwise remarkably composed. Lestrade and Holmes exchanged glances and I guessed what was in their minds. Who knew what further secrets might be concealed in the murky waters of the canal?

‘We’ll do our best to find out, Mr Armstrong,’ Lestrade said. ‘Come with me. I’ll arrange for a constable to accompany you back to the hotel.’

‘With your permission, Lestrade, Watson and I will linger a little longer,’ Holmes said.

When the two men had left the room, Holmes and I examined the body. One side of the face was badly bruised. I picked up her hand. It was icy cold and the fingernails were broken. All down her arms were clusters of small bruises.

‘Mrs Shaughnessy struggled with her attacker,’ I concluded.

‘She has certainly been subjected to some rough treatment,’ Holmes agreed. ‘She may have marked her assailant. Where are her clothes?’ he asked the attendant.

‘Over here, Mr Holmes.’ On a table in the corner of the room, lay a pile of sodden garments, neatly folded, but stinking of the canal.

‘Something curious, Mr Holmes,’ the attendant went on. He showed us a small oilskin packet. ‘This was in her bodice, next to her skin, like.’

‘Have you opened it?’ Holmes asked.

‘I was waiting for the Inspector.’

Lestrade returned at that moment and we opened the packet. It contained a piece of pink and white ribbon, about three or four inches long.

Holmes examined it. ‘Not new, by any means. Cut straight across at one end, and diagonally at the other end, with a notch or zigzag in it. What do you make of it, Lestrade?’

‘Oh, some lover’s token, I expect. I can’t see much significance in that, Mr Holmes.’

‘Well, well, you may be right. You won’t mind if I take possession of it?’

Lestrade waved his consent. ‘The way I see it, is this: the gang snatched the child and the nurse tried to prevent it. They killed her – probably didn’t mean to – and dumped her body in the canal. So now it’s a hanging offence. Question is, do they still mean to demand a ransom, or have they panicked and got rid of the child?’

Holmes nodded his agreement. ‘You’ll have the canal dragged?’

‘As soon as it gets light. In the meantime, I’ll return to the hotel in case a ransom note is received.’

‘I can be better employed in Baker Street,’ Holmes said, ‘but, Watson – it may be as well for the lady to have a doctor on hand. Perhaps you’d consent to spend the night at the hotel.’

‘By all means, Holmes.’

I advised Lestrade to say nothing to Mrs Armstrong about dragging the canal, I gave her a mild sedative to help her sleep, then I myself retired to the sofa in the drawing room of the suite. For an old campaigner like myself, this was no hardship. I soon was fast asleep, and no doubt snoring into the bargain.

I was awoken by someone shaking my shoulder and opened my eyes to see Mrs Armstrong gazing down at me.

‘Dr. Watson! It’s Rufus! He’s gone.’

I struggled up on to an elbow. ‘Gone? Gone where?’

Lestrade was behind her. He cleared his throat. ‘The facts appear to be these, Dr Watson. The constable, who escorted Mr Armstrong to the hotel, says that a message was waiting for him at the desk. Mr Armstrong broke the news of Mrs Shaughnessy’s death to Mrs Armstrong, and then when Dr Watson arrived, he retired to his own quarters. But his valet found this morning that his bed has not been slept in and he is nowhere to be found.’

Mrs Armstrong wrung her hands. ‘Oh, Dr Watson, I am so afraid that he has gone out to look for Arthur and has met with some harm.’

Even in my sleep-befuddled state, one thing was clear. ‘We had better send for Holmes,’ I said.

‘No need,’ said a familiar voice from the door.

It was extraordinary, the way that the atmosphere of that room changed on an instant. Mrs Armstrong became calmer. An expression of relief, quickly masked, flitted across Lestrade’s face.

Mrs Armstrong went to Holmes. He took her hand between both of his and led her to a chair.

He turned to Lestrade. ‘I’m assuming that you have not found the note that was left at the desk.’

‘We have not,’ Lestrade said. ‘Either he burned it, or more likely took it with him when he went out.’

‘You have no idea where he may have gone, Mrs Armstrong?’ Holmes asked.

Tears were welling up in her eyes. ‘I cannot understand it, Mr Holmes. Rufus scarcely knows the city. Do you think he heard from the kidnappers and went to confront them? Oh, surely he would never be so foolish as to go without saying a word!’

‘You are quite certain he knows no one in London?’ Holmes persisted.

‘No one! Though, but no, surely …’

‘You’ve thought of someone?’

‘Harry was keen that Rufus should go into the firm, but Rufus has struggled a little with his schooling. So we engaged a mathematics tutor for him, a man eminent in his field, who lived with us for a while. Rufus liked him – and I think he lives in London.’

‘His name?’

‘Moriarty. Professor James Moriarty.’

Moriarty! The man Holmes had described to me as the Napoleon of crime, the spider at the centre of a Europe-wide web of crime and corruption. His was the last name I – or Holmes, I warrant – had expected to hear. If Holmes was as taken aback as I was, he didn’t let it show.

‘When was this, Mrs Armstrong?’

‘It must have been around four years ago. He stayed with us for six months. But I think he and Rufus have kept in touch. He lives in Kew, I believe.’

Holmes was silent for some moments and, when he spoke, it appeared to be at a tangent.

‘What were the terms of your husband’s will as regards his children, Mrs Armstrong?’

She stared at him. ‘Rufus and Arthur will inherit the company when they come of age. For Rufus that will be next year. Arthur’s share is kept in trust until he reaches his majority. I and my daughter are provided for separately.’

‘And should one son predecease the other before reaching their majority?’

‘The survivor will inherit everything. But, Mr Holmes, you can’t think … why, Rufus is devoted to little Arthur. He thinks the world of him.’

Holmes was saved from replying to this by the appearance of a nanny who told Mrs Armstrong that her daughter was upset and asking for her. Mrs Armstrong left the room and Holmes turned a grave face to Lestrade and myself.

‘This puts a very different complexion on matters.’

‘You think Mr Armstrong is implicated in the kidnapping, Mr Holmes?’ Lestrade asked.

‘I am certain of it. As it happens, I know the address of Moriarty’s house in Kew, though I doubt that we will find the beast in its lair.’

So it proved. Moriarty’s housekeeper could tell us only that her master had left the previous evening and had told her he would be away for some undefined period. No, he hadn’t told her where he was going, but it was her belief that he’d gone abroad. He could be gone days, he could be gone weeks. There was no knowing. Holmes had expected no less, yet it was still a disappointment,

We returned to Baker Street to find a message from Lestrade. The canal had been dragged but nothing had been found. Mr Armstrong had not returned to the hotel. In short, there was no news.

Holmes flung himself into a chair by the fire. ‘So we are no further forward.’

‘While there is life, there is hope,’ I remarked, pouring out the tea that Mrs Hudson had brought up.

‘But is there life, Watson, that is the question? It is true that Moriarty would not lightly dispose of so valuable a commodity as this child. But in that case why has no ransom note been received – and what has happened to Rufus Armstrong?’

Holmes reached for his pipe and stuffed it with shag. He sighed and stared gloomily into the fire, frustrated by our lack of progress. I handed him his tea and a copy of The Times. It was his habit to peruse the personal columns every day and I hoped it might prove a temporary distraction. Though he took it up with a show of reluctance, he was soon engrossed.

I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes. For a while there was no sound but the crackling of the fire and the rustling of the pages of the newspaper, and I had almost dozed off, when an exclamation from Holmes jerked my eyes open.

‘Good God, Holmes, what is it?’

‘There is to be a sale tomorrow in Paris of eighteenth-century French paintings and drawings, containing a number of works by Jean-Baptiste Greuze, Moriarty’s favourite painter. Strange that a man as cold-hearted as Moriarty should be drawn to paintings that some – myself included – regard as sentimental, even mawkish, but so it is. It is an obsession with him, his one weak spot. He will be there tomorrow, not a doubt about it. Make a long arm for the Bradshaw, Watson, and look up the times of the boat train, there’s a good fellow.’

A Channel crossing at night in November is not something I recommend and I was heartily relieved to reach Calais. As we came ashore, a change seemed to come over Holmes. I myself am unmistakably an Englishman abroad, but it was not so with Holmes. I had not realized that his French was so fluent. ‘Why, Holmes,’ I declared, ‘you could almost pass as a Frenchman.’

He smiled, but said nothing.

We reached Paris and took a cab straight to the saleroom on the Faubourg Saint Honoré.

The auction had not yet begun and a small crowd, mostly male, was engaged in viewing paintings set up on easels and portfolios of drawings.

Holmes nudged me and pointed. ‘What did I tell you? There he is!’

Moriarty was very much as Holmes had once described him to me: a thin face, grey hair swept back from a high, domed forehead. There was a strange contrast between his ascetic appearance, every inch the unworldly academic, and the voluptuous picture at which he was gazing. It was not one I should have cared to view in the company of a lady.

Moriarty was too engrossed to notice us approaching, until Holmes remarked, ‘That is a very fine Fragonard, is it not? Do you intend to bid?’

It must have been a shock to see us there, but to give him this due, Moriarty showed no sign of surprise. He merely remarked, ‘Good afternoon, Mr Holmes. And this, I assume, is your confederate, Dr Watson. As for the painting, alas, it is far beyond my modest purse – and not entirely to my taste either.’

‘Modest purse! Are you not the owner of a painting by Greuze worth well over a million francs?’

‘A gift from a friend, Mr Holmes. A gift from a wealthy friend in gratitude for services rendered.’

There was a pedantic precision about his speech that made my flesh creep.

‘You have a number of wealthy friends, have you not?’ Holmes enquired. ‘Among them Rufus Armstrong, who would be even wealthier were it not for the trifling obstacle of a younger brother?’

Moriarty moved on to the next picture. This one, I saw from the signature, was by Greuze. It showed a little girl playing with a kitten and was not much more to my taste than the last.

‘I will pay you the compliment of frankness, Mr Holmes. I do not have the child, nor do I know where he is. If I did, I would be only too happy to hand him over in exchange for an appropriate reward.’

Only a warning look from Holmes prevented me from seizing him and thrashing him there and then.

‘Rufus Armstrong is also missing,’ Holmes remarked.

‘Ah, Rufus. A hot-headed young man, and arrogant into the bargain.’

‘Do you know what has happened to him?’

‘Perhaps some accident has befallen him, Mr Holmes.’ Moriarty leaned forward to examine the picture more closely. ‘The streets of London have become so dangerous, have they not? Now look at the whiskers of that kitten: the handling of the paint just there: superlative, is it not?’ Perhaps the sentimental picture had touched his stony heart, for I saw that his eyes were moist. ‘If the streets of London can be dangerous for a young man, they are desperately so for a lost child. I hope the police are doing their utmost to find little Arthur. And now the auction is about to begin, so our interesting little chat must end. Good day to you both.’

The cabbie was waiting for us and Holmes instructed him to go to the nearest telegraph office.

‘Now that we know what happened,’ he said, ‘I had better send a telegram to Lestrade.’

I was taken aback. ‘What did happen?’ I enquired.

‘Why, did you not hear what Moriarty said?’ Holmes spoke with a touch of asperity. ‘Is it not evident that Moriarty, blackguard that he is, corrupted this young man while acting as his tutor and they hatched a plot to snatch the child? The nurse put up more of a fight than Moriarty’s thugs anticipated and the child managed to get away. Moriarty and Armstrong fell out over the failure of the plot and Armstrong, as one would expect, came off the worst.’

‘So you really think Moriarty doesn’t have Arthur?’

‘You must understand how his mind works. It is merely a matter of business with him. If he had the child, he would have demanded a ransom long before now. As it is, he has wasted no time in cutting his losses.’

‘But if Arthur managed to run away, where is he?’

‘Where indeed, Watson? Lestrade must step up the search. And it is time to get the Baker Street Irregulars on the case.’

Holmes spoke briskly, but I could tell that he was troubled. Arthur had been missing for three days now. He had disappeared into the maw of London. If he had fallen into the hands of the underworld – well, it did not bear thinking of.

‘Can Moriarty not be brought to book for his part in this?’ I asked.

‘If, as I strongly suspect, Rufus Armstrong is out of the way, Moriarty will escape justice – on this occasion. It was the poet Longfellow who wrote, “Though the mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding small”. Moriarty will get his just deserts. I shall see to that.’

We arrived at the telegraph office and Holmes disappeared inside.

He soon returned.

‘What now?’ I asked.

Holmes took out his pocket watch. ‘We have a few hours before our train departs. I wonder, Watson …’ His voice trailed off and I looked at him in surprise. It was not like Holmes to sound uncertain. ‘There is someone I should like you to meet … of course, she might not be at home, but … yes,’ he decided. He leaned out and gave the driver an address in the Place des Vosges. He flung himself back in his corner and closed his eyes, leaving me to wonder whom this mysterious ‘she’ might be.

Holmes and a woman, a Frenchwoman at that! I remembered his impeccable French and wondered even more. Surely this could not be a romantic attachment, an old flame, perhaps even an ex-mistress? Unthinkable! And yet I was thinking it. What else could account for Holmes’s diffidence?

After a while, we left behind the broad boulevards with their brilliant lights and plunged into a dark maze of little streets lined by workshops. We emerged in the Place des Vosges. In the gathering twilight, mist drifted between the linden trees and the fine old sixteenth-century facades.

We got out of the cab and Holmes rang the bell.

The door was answered by an elderly maid, whose face lit up at the sight of Holmes. The next moment, an elegant woman rushed past her and with an exclamation of ‘mon cher Sherlock!’ threw herself into Holmes’s arms. He returned her embrace, while I stood gaping.

After a few moments, he pulled away and turned to me, laughing. ‘Let me introduce you. Tante Yvette, this is my great friend, Dr Watson. Watson, this is Madame Pujol, my aunt.’

I saw now that her trim figure and modish dress had deceived me as to her age. Even so, she scarcely looked old enough to be his aunt. Later, I discovered that she was his mother’s younger sister. They were the nieces of the French artist, Horace Vernet, whom Holmes had once mentioned as an ancestor.

‘Ah, le grand Watson! Quel plaisir! One has heard so much.’ She held out a slender hand laden with rings.

There was only one thing to be done. I took her hand, bent over it and kissed it. ‘Enchanté, Madame.’

She laughed and spoke in a torrent of French, of which I made out only the world ‘galant’.

‘I thought you two would hit it off,’ Holmes remarked dryly. ‘But stick to English, tante Yvette, if you want Watson to be flattered by your compliments.’

In no time at all, we were seated round a dining table, drinking the kind of soup that is made only by a French cook.

Over the meal, Holmes told his aunt about the case. He spoke to her as an equal, omitting nothing, and explaining his chain of reasoning. She listened intently, her eyes never leaving his face, nodding approval now and then at some step he had taken. You would not at first have thought they were related, but the resemblance was there, not only in the keen intelligence that shone from her clear grey eyes, but also in the curl of her lip at the mention of Greuze.

At one point, the beaming maid took away the soup plates and brought in a dish of lamb cutlets and a bottle of good claret.

When Holmes had finished his story, Madame Pujol sat back and considered. Holmes tucked into his cutlets.

At last, ‘You have missed something, Sherlock,’ she said in her accented English.

Holmes looked up from his plate. ‘What have you spotted?’

‘The nurse took the boat train and arrived at Victoria, did she not? There are many good hotels near Victoria. Why then did she book into the Grand Midland Hotel? It is on the other side of London. No woman travelling alone with a child would choose to prolong so arduous a journey without an excellent reason. Sherlock, I have told you before, you do not take the female point of view sufficiently into account.’

A thought occurred to me. ‘You don’t think the nurse had something to do with Arthur’s disappearance?’

She smiled at me. ‘No, no. Sherlock is right there, I am sure. She gave her life for that child. All the same, “Cherchez la femme.” That is my advice. There is more to be discovered about that nurse and the circumstances of her disappearance.’

‘There is no one on whose intelligence and intuition I put more reliance, not even Mycroft,’ Holmes told me as we drove to la Gare du Nord.

Indeed, his first act on reaching Victoria after another wretched night crossing was to take a cab for the Grand Midland Hotel and question the manager. He learned that on the evening of her disappearance Mrs Shaughnessy had asked for a cab to be brought to the servants’ entrance. Clearly she had desired to leave the hotel unseen.

So began three days of the most intense frustration. Lestrade’s men questioned local cab drivers with no result. Holmes instructed the Baker Street Irregulars to find out if Mrs Shaughnessy had been seen in the streets around St Pancras. They found a chestnut seller who had seen someone fitting her description walking up Judd Street, only a few minutes from the hotel. She had been alone.

‘My theory is this,’ Holmes told Mrs Armstrong. ‘Mrs Shaughnessy feared there would be another attempt to snatch Arthur. She took him to a place where she thought that he would be safe, somewhere close at hand, for I believe she was walking back to the hotel when Moriarty’s men accosted her and tried to find out where the child was.’

Mrs Shaughnessy’s own relatives all lived in Ireland, but she had worked for a family in London for some years. This seemed to open up some possibilities, until Holmes discovered that the family was in America so she could not have lodged Arthur with them. But there the trail went cold.

Mrs Armstrong grew thinner, and the shadows beneath her eyes became more pronounced. She was supported only by the need to care for her little girl. It grieved me to see her and I know that Holmes felt keenly his failure to relieve her anguish.

On the morning of the fourth day, we had a late breakfast. Holmes was turning over his notes on the case, trying to find some chink in the darkness that had gathered around us.

He thrust the papers to one side. ‘It’s no good, Watson. There’s nothing.’

I caught sight of the ribbon that had been wrapped up in oilcloth and concealed in the bosom of the nurse.

‘We never did get to the bottom of that ribbon,’ I remarked, as Mrs Hudson came into the room with a tray of dishes.

‘We probably never shall, since Mrs Armstrong could throw no light on it.’

In his usual meticulous way, Holmes had also consulted a local haberdasher, but had learned nothing of interest. Cheap ribbons exactly like it could be purchased in any number of places.

He examined it. ‘Still, it is curious, the way this end has been cut in a jagged line. Lestrade may be right, some kind of lover’s token—’

Behind me I heard a gasp, followed immediately by a great crash.

I looked round to see kedgeree all over the carpet and Mrs Hudson standing with her hand to her heart.

‘What on earth is the matter?’ I cried.

Holmes was on his feet. There was an eager light in his eyes. ‘You don’t mean to say that you know the meaning of that ribbon, Mrs Hudson?’

She nodded. ‘I believe I do, Mr Holmes.’

We took Mrs Hudson with us and collected Mrs Armstrong from the hotel. Very soon we were drawing up outside a plain Georgian building off Brunswick Square. We asked to see Mr Brown, the warden, and were shown into an office with walls lined with ledgers.

A man of about fifty with keen eyes and mutton-chop whiskers rose from behind a desk.

‘How can I help you, ladies and gentlemen?’ he enquired.

‘I think you will recognize this,’ Holmes said. He laid the piece of ribbon on the desk.

Brown frowned. ‘Can you tell me how you came by this?’

‘It was concealed on the body of Mrs Shaughnessy.’

‘The body!’ He was visibly shocked.

‘You didn’t know that Mrs Shaughnessy was dead? It was in the newspapers.’

He shook his head. ‘I am a busy man, Mr Holmes, with many souls in my care. I rarely read the newspapers. Is this lady … ?’ He gestured to Mrs Armstrong.

‘Yes, this is his mother.’

Brown turned and took down a large and ancient ledger. He laid it open on the desk. As he turned over the pages, I saw other scraps of ribbon attached with rusty pins. What a tale of heartbreak and loss each one could have told! Near the back was a ribbon of the same design as the one we had brought with us. Brown fitted them together. They were an exact match.

‘The hospital discontinued this system in favour of a written receipt long ago,’ he said, ‘but in this instance it seemed wise to revert to it. Follow me.’

He led us down a long corridor and opened a door into a large room full of wooden tables and benches at which children were seated at a meal of bread and cheese. They were all boys, aged from about five up to around ten, all dressed alike in brown serge. Some of them looked up as we came in, but most were engrossed in their food.

A pleasant homely-looking woman came towards us.

‘Would you get Thomas Paine for us?’ Mr Brown asked. ‘Mrs Shaughnessy thought it best not to use his real name,’ he added.

‘Mama!’ It was a cry to wring the heart. A small boy started up from a table in the middle of the room.

‘Arthur! My Arthur!’ Mrs Armstrong took a few steps forward and her arms opened. Arthur came hurtling towards her and, the next moment, his arms were round her knees and she was pressing him to her.

I am not ashamed to confess that there was a lump in my throat. Holmes was strangely silent, too.

It was left to Mrs Hudson to ask Mr Brown how was it that Mrs Shaughnessy had thought to bring the little boy to the Foundling Hospital.

‘She and my wife were old friends,’ Mr Brown explained, ‘girls together in Ireland. She had reason to fear that Arthur was in imminent danger and we promised to take care of him and to surrender him only to the bearer of the token. We fully expected that she would return in a couple of days.’

‘A brilliant idea,’ Holmes admitted, ‘to hide him among paupers. It is the last place anyone would think of looking for the heir to a fortune. That nurse was a woman of genius.’

Holmes declined his fee, Mrs Armstrong insisted, and they compromised on a substantial donation to the Foundling Hospital and a handsome present for Mrs Hudson.

Holmes told her about it later that day when she brought up the tea tray.

‘That will be ample for a new gown and a bonnet or two, eh, Mrs Hudson?’

‘Indeed, Mr Holmes. Mrs Armstrong has been most generous.’

Holmes was too busy cross-referencing his index to the most infamous criminals in Europe to see the twinkle in her eye.

‘And what will you really be spending your little windfall on?’ I asked.

‘I’ve been going to the penny lectures at Morley College on Thursday evenings, Dr Watson.’

I had heard of this new venture. The lectures were given by some of the most eminent scientists and philosophers of the day and were open to the public. I had sometimes thought of going myself.

Mrs Hudson went on. ‘Now I can afford to do an extension course in German at the University of London so that I can read Mr Marx’s Das Kapital in the original.’

It is one of the very few times that I’ve seen Holmes lost for words.

After Mrs Hudson had left the room, we were both silent for a few moments.

Holmes sighed. ‘My aunt is right. I fail to take the female point of view sufficiently into account. But I ask you, Watson, how can one ever get the measure of them? It is a hopeless task.’

For me, one question still remained. I followed Mrs Hudson down to the kitchen and asked how she had come to think of the Foundling Hospital.

‘Oh, no, Dr Watson, you can’t think that I … ‘ She sighed. ‘Though if I had, I wouldn’t have been the first poor girl newly arrived in London … but no, when I was first in service, I knew a parlour maid … I went with her when she took her baby to the Foundling Hospital. She was one of the lucky ones. She married a good man, who let her go and get her baby back.’

One final note must be added. I fear that Holmes’s conjectures about the fate of Rufus Armstrong were correct. When he left the Grand Midland Hotel that night, it was as if he’d vanished off the face of the earth. He has not been seen from that day to this. Arthur inherited the whole business when he came of age and has proved worthy of his distinguished father.

The Foundling Hospital was established by philanthropic sea captain, Thomas Coram, in 1739. Residential provision ceased in 1954, but it continues its work for young people as the Thomas Coram Foundation. The Foundling Museum in Bloomsbury tells the story of the Hospital, the first UK children’s charity.