Following Holmes’s instructions, the next afternoon I visited the Fulham Road. At its east end, where it forms the boundary between Kensington and Chelsea, it is lined with the white stuccoed houses of the moderately well-to-do, but as I walked west it became dingier and Mr Walsh’s shop was in a quarter that was frankly shabby. I had timed my arrival for five, an hour before the start of the proceedings, hoping to slip in quietly and have a word with the family before the séance got under way.
But it was not to be. The door of the shop, which was closed for business on Sunday, was not locked and I pushed it open, only to be confronted by a battleship of a woman barring further progress. ‘Ah, sir,’ she said, I see that you have arrived in good time for our little soirée. Although I have not had the pleasure of meeting you before I am sure that you are one of the true believers, and I trust that you will not object to making a small contribution to our cause.’ This, I was sure, must be Mrs Elvira Staggage.
Seeing that there was no other course available, I parted with two half-crowns, though her gaze told me that she had been expecting a sovereign. ‘Have you,’ she probed, ‘already experienced events on the Higher Plane?’
I replied truthfully that I had served in India and Afghanistan, and had witnessed events for which I could find no rational explanation, and added that I was curious to explore them more — which was not quite the truth, but at least I had been sent by Holmes to do so. This mollified her to some extent and I was admitted to the inside of the shop. I had an uncomfortable feeling that she considered me what on the other side of the Atlantic is termed a ‘sucker’, a gullible person to be exploited. My own reaction was to be on my guard.
I found Mr Walsh in the kitchen at the back of the dispensary, obediently cutting slices from several large loaves of bread to which a woman almost as formidable as Mrs staggage was applying oleomargarine and fish paste with an economical hand before uniting them into sandwiches, of which a substantial stack was already prepared. There was no doubt that this was his wife Maud. Clearly they were expecting a fair number of visitors. A large vessel was heating on the range, evidently to provide them with some temperance beverage.
Two girls were setting enamel mugs and plates on trays, the younger clearly the daughter Fanny and the elder the maid Marguerite. Both had a dull and subdued look, which I attributed to the dominant influence of Mrs Walsh. Fanny took after her father, small for her age and with little apparent spark of intelligence; but it was my duty to assess and observe her, and this I did with the wary eye of an advance scout hiding behind a bush in an Afghan valley.
I was greeted by Mr Walsh, looking up from his slicing. ‘Welcome to our humble abode, Dr Watson. As you see, we are somewhat occupied in preparing for the evening’s events. But pray take a seat and make yourself comfortable.’ I perched on a hard kitchen chair in the corner, reflecting on how when Mr Walsh had visited us in Baker Street he had been plied with brandy, soda and sympathy. I also observed that Mrs Walsh, having seen that I was known to her husband, was regarding me with frank suspicion.
I made an effort to ingratiate myself with Fanny and Marguerite, but both replied in a perfunctory fashion and carried off their trays. There was little left to do but sit and wait.
Soon people began to trickle in, and I noticed that Mrs Staggage was relieving each one of the largest sum she could intimidate them into producing. Once inside, they were further exploited by being offered Mrs Walsh’s parsimonious fish paste sandwiches and cocoa — not to my mind a harmonious combination — for which further alleged donations were exacted. The congregation, if that was the right word, was as Mr Walsh had described. Most numerous were elderly women of decrepit appearance, and I was particularly struck by one bent crone dressed in rusty black relieved by a dreadful purple hat who sidled in, adroitly sidestepping both Mrs Staggage and the dubious nourishment, and settled herself in a corner cackling and wheezing.
The proceedings got under way at six on the dot, and there were no latecomers. The lamps were doused, though on an autumn evening there was still enough light in the sky for the interior of the shop to be dimly illuminated. A hymn was sung, ‘What a friend we have in Jesus’, and we were obliged to sit around the table and link hands. I was between a portly Negro and a little grey mouse of an elderly woman, but I had placed myself so that I could keep an eye on the Walshes’ daughter Fanny, who was on the other side of the ring, looking as miserable and helpless as I felt. I noticed that, although Mrs Staggage formed part of the ring, Mrs Walsh did not, and I could discern her looming in a dark corner brandishing a bread knife as an excuse for not joining the circle.
Soon Mrs Staggage began to twitch and mutter and, after a demonstration of fitting length, she spoke in the deep voice of her alleged Red Indian ‘spirit guide’ who, to judge from his accent, seemed to have been raised in southwest London: ‘I sense that this house is the abode of a troubled spirit. I will endeavour to summon it and bring it to eternal peace.’ We waited for the summoning but perhaps in vain, as the only sign of its presence was that what seemed to be a tin tray flew across the room, crashing noisily into the far wall. Evidently unsurprised, the people sat quietly, hand still linked, until there was a further crash and a picture on the wall, which I had previously noted to be a poor oleograph copy of Holman Hunt’s ‘The Light of the World’, fell off its hook on to the floor, scattering broken glass. I noticed a sulphurous reek in the air — surely not the fumes from the pit of Hell! Still the congreation remained passive until the room resounded with a huge impact apparently from upstairs, so loud that the circle broke and the participants looked around nervously, anticipating further phenomena while dust drifted own from the ciling.
I noticed three things: during all the events Fanny had remained in place and could have done nothing; Mrs Walsh remained impassively in a corner; and I had lost sight of the old woman in the purple hat.
It was clear, anyway, that the séance was over. Mrs Walsh relit the gasolier and ushered the people out, advancing towards them like a ship of the line expecting mere skiffs to scull out of her way. I too left, thankful to quit the dismal scene.
It was only eight o’clock. Walking east towards civilisation, I soon foung a hansom and was in Baker Street twenty minutes later, to be greeted by Holmes. I was astonished to see the hideous purple hat left on the table for my inspection. ‘Holmes, that old crone was you!’ I gasped. ‘I have seen you disguised before, but that grisly hag was a masterstroke.’
Holmes permitted himself a smile of satisfaction. ‘I flatter myself that I carried it off well enough,’ he admitted. ‘Yet in that motley gathering I saw others almost as abject.’
‘But now, Watson, what did you observe?’ he continued.
‘I was watching the girl,’ I replied. ‘I am sure that if there was any jiggery-pokery she had no part in it. She stayed in place through the whole charade. I know appearances can be deceptive, but I honestly believe that she is just the little mouse she seemed when we first saw her.’
‘As I thought,’ said Holmes. ‘But I had my eye on Mrs Walsh, and even in the dark I was certain that it was she who threw that tray. I saw her stoop to pick it up. By the way, did you notice a sulphurous odour?’
‘I did, and had no idea where it was coming from.’
‘After the crash from upstairs I took advantage of the confusion to steal out …’
‘I saw you go,’ I interjected.
‘Well done, Watson; but no one else did. I quickly went upstairs and found the wardrobe lying on its face in the bedroom. I also noticed a large double hook on the picture rail with a piece of thin cord hanging from it. And when I examined it I found that it had broken ends from which a strong smell of oil of vitriol could be detected. She had certainly tilted the wardrobe beyond its point of balance, restrained it with the cord, and applied the acid to the cord to dissolve it. No doubt she had made experiments to determine when it would break — not exactly, but near enough.’
‘And the falling picture: the same trick?’
‘Precisely. So we have her.’
‘But what should we do now?’ I wondered. ‘We could go back to the next of those infernal sessions and unmask her. But poor Mr Walsh, whose honesty I do not doubt for a moment, would be publicly humiliated by the conduct of his wife.’
‘Indeed,’ Holmes replied. ‘I have already sent him a letter asking him to visit us again, and we will put the facts before him and try to advise him on his next step.’
* * *
The following evening, as we were enjoying our brandy and cigars after a simple but satisying dinner of boiled silverside of beef with carrots followed by treacle pudding, we hear the sound of the front door bell and a minute later Mr Walsh was with us. We settled him in a chair and plied him with the usual comforts, as were necessary to soothe the pain of the operation we were about to perform on him.
‘Mr Walsh,’ Holmes led off, ‘we summoned you because we have established the facts of the matter.’ He brandished the dreadful purple hat, and it was clear from Walsh’s astonished reaction that he understood its significance even though he could not have guessed who could have worn it.
‘And indeed,’ Holmes went on, ‘we have established beyond any doubt that these events are not due to any supernatural agency whatever. They are simple conjuring tricks, and we know beyond any doubt who is playing them. But I fear that such a disclosure will cause you pain.’
‘Oh, please tell me,’ said Mr walsh. I pray that they are not the work of my darling Fanny, as some have suggested.’
‘Indeed not. But –‘ and he fortified Mr Walsh’s glass with a generous ration of our second best brandy — ‘I must tell you that the agent is none other than your lady wife. She was under close observation by the two of us, and there is no doubt of the matter.’
Mr Walsh subsided into his armchair and reached for his glass. All he could say after an interval was, in a small voice.’Oh dear, what can I do?’
I stepped in, trying to comfort the confounded chemist. ‘Mr Walsh, it would be a disaster for you if someone esle were to uncover the imposture. We are certainly not about to do so: it would attract the mirth and scorn of the public. So, before the fraud is unmasked, as it would inevitably be soon, it is necessary for you to confront Mrs Walsh to tell her that she has been discovered, and to point out to her the inevitable consequence of her actions.’
Mr Walsh looked terrified and gulped at his fortifying glass, but admitted, unwittingly echoing the words of Martin Luther, ‘So help me God, I can take no other course.’
We sent him on his way with words of cheer.
* * *
A few days after the following Sunday, I returned in the late afternoon to the Fulham Road and entered Mr Walsh’s shop. He greeted me from behind the counter. After the usual pleasantries I asked, ‘Did all go according to the plan?’
‘Indeed it did,’ he replied, ‘and there will be no more of this nonsense. I have you and Mr Holmes to thank for that.’ He seemed more cheerful than I had seen him before, though I could not but notice that he was sporting a black eye and there was a strip of sticking plaster over the bridge of his nose.
At that moment his daughter Fanny appeared from the back of the shop. She was still in her school uniform but had put on a white linen apron. She too looked transformed: there was a light in her eye and a spring in her step. ‘Supper will be ready in ten minutes, Daddy,’ she announced, ‘Time to shut up the shop.’
I wished them well and left.
© Tachybaptus 2026
