49. THE CASE OF SAMMY SPENCER

A dishevelled vagrant appears on Baker Street

Sammy Spencer must be the most ill-informed and ineffective burglar under the sun! I mean, what kind of thief would consider breaking into 221b Baker Street and dream of robbing Sherlock Holmes in broad daylight whilst he was playing a misery-inducing fugue on his best violin and contemplating the world outside as he glanced randomly through the bay window onto the street below our first floor room.

“We are about to be robbed,” he told me, and I looked up curiously. I had never before contemplated the possibility that anyone, not even a moron with suicidal tendencies, would dream of invading Holmes’ territory with malevolent intent.

“We are?” I asked, perplexed.

“There is a scruffy individual, wrapped unseasonably in a greatcoat even though the sun is burning a hole in the road outside, lurking on the pavement opposite and he is showing more than the smallest curiosity when he stares at our building as though he were trying to commit its architecture to memory, which he clearly isn’t because nobody with so much dirt behind his ears would be remotely interested in such esoteric delights as the construction of Baker Street,”

“You can really see his ears, Holmes?” I asked.

“Quite clearly,” he murmured. “Tell me, Watson, why would anyone want to be wearing a thick tweed greatcoat in temperatures like those we are being subjected to today?”

“Maybe he was a military man?” I suggested, “returned from conflict overseas and separated from his luggage in the way that travellers abroad often are, ergo he has little to wear other than his greatcoat.”

“You have a point, Watson, though I see things differently. A military man would have standards. He would, for instance, polish his shoes from time to time, he would attend to the cut of his hair and he would pay at least a modicum of attention to personal hygiene, particularly, as I’ve already alluded, to his ears. In other words even though he may have been left with nothing of note to wear he would look vaguely human. This man does not.”

I moved to look at the object of Holmes’ curiosity while he put his violin down and frowned.

“Keep back from the window. I don’t want him to suspect that he’s been noticed. I want to see what he’s up to,” he said.

The fellow lurking on the opposite pavement certainly didn’t look the sort to be spending much time on Baker Street with its atmosphere of gentility and commerce.

“He does look like a suspicious rogue,” I commented.

“He’s quite clearly on his uppers,” agreed Holmes, “and I am curious to see why he is paying particular attention to our quarters. See … he is looking up furtively as though he was making a mental sketch of the possibilities being offered by the building’s structure. Ah, now what is he about?”

“He’s crossing the road, coming our way,” I whispered, though why I whispered in our own front room is beyond me.

“And have you ever seen such an obvious attempt at sneaking?” asked Holmes, clearly amused. “If I hadn’t noticed him during his lurking phase I’d be most unlikely to fail during this sneaking episode. Come, let us go down. Mrs Hudson may be out of her depth with such a rogue as that may be.”

We climbed down to the ground floor as Mrs Hudson went to open the door, which had been rattled by, no doubt, our scruffy visitor.

“Phew, you smell!” she exclaimed as a whiff of unwashed flesh and, sadly, dried urine flooded through the open door.

“You think as you’re better than me?” he rasped at her, “Saying as I smell when I have no control over whether I stinks or not? I’ve come for ya silver an’ you’d better have some, or else!”

Mrs Hudson was never a feeble or easily dominated woman and was perfectly capable of dealing with felons like the one who had presented himself at our door. “Or else what?” she asked calmly.

“Or else you’ll get a headache after meeting with this fella!” he growled, producing a length of lead pipe from beneath the fragrant folds of his filthy greatcoat. “And I knows how to deal ‘eadaches out,” he added.

I was about to leap forwards in the defence of Mrs Hudson, but Holmes held me back. “Wait a moment, Watson,” he hissed.

“And what makes you think that a simple widow woman like me has any silver?” demanded an authoritative sounding Mrs Hudson. “And how do you know that my man or husband or whoever you think I share my accommodation with isn’t ready to defend me against the likes of you?” she added.

“I’ve bin watching, see,” he said, gruffly, ignoring passers by on the street who must have noticed that something was awry at 221b but were loath to interfere. “I know as there’s rooms where two gents live, an’ I asks you, what kind of two men lives together like that? There’s summat wrong with two gents like that, I promise you. They’s up to no good, but that’s no affair o’ mine as long as I gets their silver afore they come back from whatever dive they’ve gorn to.”

That was enough for Holmes. He knew that there are some gentlemen who, for reasons more of their natures than because they mean offence to anyone, choose to share accommodation and he also knew that for myself and him it was merely a matter of convenience, my lovely Mary having passed away and me requiring stability in my life when I wasn’t off at my weekly surgery doling out medical advice to mainly elderly ladies who sought comforting assurances rather than relief from pain. Anyway, Holmes leapt down the last two steps and pushed past Mrs Hudson, with me at his shoulder, willing to have a go at the wretch who had forced his way into our lives.

“So what does Sammy Spencer want with me?” he asked, and there was the ring of steel in his voice. “I seem to recall that last time we met things went none-too-well for you and, to put it bluntly, you were fortunate to escape the rope! Have you returned for a second round that you will sadly lose?”

“Sh … sherlock Holmes!” he gasped. “I never knowed you lived ‘ere or, I swear it, I wouldn’t’ve troubled you.”

Holmes fixed him with eyes that glinted with ice. “Sammy Spencer, last time we met you were accused of murder, but somehow managed to wriggle out of the charge on account of the fact that the man you murdered was already very dead when you took your blade to him,” he said. “So it couldn’t have been murder by you, though you no doubt intended to pierce the fellow in his heart and maybe would have made the world a better place by so doing. The man was the lowest, a Fagin of a money-lender with a cruel heart. But I see you’ve progressed from what some might see as a social service to threatening ladies alone in their homes, and with lead pipe that would, if you used the one in your hand for what you intended it for, certainly lead you back to the noose!”

“I’m skint, Mr Holmes,” he whined, dropping his length of pipe to the ground and kicking it away from himself in order for it to be disassociated from him. “I ain’t had a morsel to eat, not all day yes’day and not t’day, and I reckoned as this were a fair place t’ pick up a crust or two.”

“Then you must seek the workhouse, for that’s why it’s there,” I put in, disliking this man for both his paltry excuse for poverty and the scent he gave off.

“Why you...” he growled, his face a mask of venomous hatred as he looked at me. “You might be Mr Holmes’ best man, but you’ve no right to speak to me about workhouses!”

“Spencer,” said Holmes, his voice filled with immense and laudable dignity bearing in mind the manner of man he was speaking to, “Spencer, on this one occasion and on no other in the future I will give you a shilling coin, no more and, fortunately for you, no less, in return for your lead pipe and on the understanding that you spend some of it on breakfast and the rest at the bath-house where, for a single penny you can remove the filth and disease from your flesh. Then you will present yourself, as my friend and colleague Dr Watson mooted, at the workhouse where employment and ready meals will be found for you. And if it is your desire you will work your way up from that institution, putting everything inside your addled brain to work until you have gained respectability and a proper place in society. Now go!”

And Holmes picked up the lead pipe and offered a shining coin to Sammy Spencer, who grabbed it greedily.

“And, Spencer, if I ever see you again you will return the shilling to me,” growled Holmes, “or forfeit your life!”

“You won’t see me again, Mr Holmes,” he whined, and ran off, hobbling on boots so worn his feet must have been two big blisters.

“That was very generous, Sherlock,” approved Mrs Hudson.

“Well,” said Holmes, “he’s not had the best of luck in life. Maybe a lowly fresh start will help him … who can tell?”

© Peter Rogerson 25.09.17