Moriarty

He had climbed up a staircase in the back parlour and tottered towards us, wiping his hands on a handkerchief. It was hard to determine his age — he was both old and young at the same time with a round, quite pleasant face, clean-shaven and smiling. But he had a terrible haircut. Indeed, it was as if he had been attacked by a cat. His hair was long on one side, short on the other with patches missing altogether, exposing his skull. Nor had it been washed for some time, leaving it with both a colour and a texture that was disagreeable to say the least.

He was, however, amiable enough. ‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ he exclaimed. ‘Although this cursed weather refuses to change! Have you ever known London so wet and so miserable and here we are in May! What can I do for you? One haircut? Two haircuts? You are fortunate in that I am very quiet today.’

This was true in every sense. Outside, the hurdy-gurdy player had at last chosen to take a rest.

‘We are not here for a haircut,’ Jones replied. He picked up one of the bottles and smelled the contents. ‘Do I take it you are Albert Horner?’

‘No, sir. Bless you! Mr Horner died long ago. But this was his business and I took it over.’

‘Quite recently, by the look of it,’ Jones remarked. I glanced at him, wondering how he could have come to such a conclusion for, to my eye, both the man and the shop could have been here for years. ‘The barber’s pole is old,’ Jones continued, for my benefit. ‘But I could not help noticing that the screws fastening it to the wall are new. The shelves may be dusty, but the bottles are not. That tells the same tale.’

‘You’re absolutely right!’ the barber exclaimed. ‘We’ve been here less than three months and we kept the old name. And why not? Old Mr Horner was well known and much admired. We’re already popular among the lawyers and the judges who work in this area — even if many of them insist on wearing wigs.’

‘So what is your name?’ I asked.

‘Silas Beckett, sir, at your service.’

Jones produced the advertisement. ‘We found this in a club called the Bostonian. I take it that name means nothing to you, or the man who was staying there. An American gentleman called Jonathan Pilgrim.’

‘American, sir? I don’t believe I’ve ever had an American in here.’ He gestured at me. ‘Apart from yourself.’

Beckett was no detective. It was my accent that had given me away.

‘And the name Scotchy Lavelle — have you heard it?’

‘I speak to my customers, sir. But it’s not often they tell me their name. Was he another American?’

‘And Clarence Devereux?’

‘You’re running ahead of me, sir. So many names! Can I interest you in a bottle of our hair tonic?’ He asked this almost impertinently, as if he were anxious to bring the interview to an end.

‘Do you know him?’

‘Clarence Devereux? No, sir. Perhaps you might try across the road, at the haberdasher’s. I am very sorry that I cannot be of assistance. In short, it would seem we are wasting each other’s time.’

‘That may be so, Mr Beckett, but there is just one thing you can tell me that would interest me.’ I saw Jones examining the barber carefully. ‘Are you a religious man?’

The question was so unexpected that I’m not sure who was more surprised — Beckett or I. ‘I’m sorry?’ He blinked.

‘Religious. Do you go to church?’

‘Why do you ask?’ Jones said nothing and Beckett sighed, clearly anxious to be rid of us. ‘No, sir, for my sins, I am not a regular churchgoer.’

‘It is just as I thought,’ Jones muttered. ‘You have made it quite clear that you cannot help us, Mr Beckett. I will wish you a good day.’

We left the barber’s shop and walked back up to Chancery Lane. Behind us, the hurdy-gurdy player struck up again. As soon as we turned the corner, Jones stopped and laughed. ‘We have stumbled onto something quite remarkable here, my boy. Holmes himself would have been entertained by this: a barber who cannot cut hair, a hurdy-gurdy player who cannot play, and a hair tonic that contains large quantities of benzoin. Hardly a three-pipe problem, but not without interest.’

‘But what is the meaning of it?’ I exclaimed. ‘And why did you ask Mr Beckett about his religious beliefs?’

‘Is it not obvious to you?’

‘Not at all.’

‘Well, it will be made clear soon enough. We are having dinner together tonight. Why not come to Scotland Yard at three o’clock? We can meet outside, as we did before, and then everything will be explained.’

Three o’clock.

I was there exactly on time, stepping out of my hansom on Whitehall with Big Ben chiming the hour. We had stopped on the far side of the road, which is to say, the one opposite Scotland Yard. I paid the driver. It was a bright, cloudless afternoon, though still a little chilly.

I must set down exactly what happened.