Free The Secret Files of Sherlock Holmes by June Thomson Page B

baize-covered door was opened and the sound of voices alerted me to the arrival of not one but several unknown visitors.
    A young man, his voice educated but slightly slurred as if its owner were the worse for drink, was exclaiming excitedly, ‘I say, stop pushing, you chaps! Give a fellow time to light the lamps!’
    The next moment, a match flared in the darkness, the lamps were lit and, through a gap in the curtains, I was able to see the newcomers. They were six young men, all in evening clothes and all in a state of mild inebriation, among whom, to my dismay, I recognised Teddy Venables, a silk scarf loose about his neck and his fair hair dishevelled. They were accompanied by four young women who, by their tawdry finery and heavily rouged faces, I took to be street-walkers of the commoner type.
    Between them, the group was making so much noise, talking and laughing loudly as they poured drinks from the bottles onthe sideboard or threw themselves down on the sofas to light cigars, that I thought it safe to whisper to Holmes that I had seen young Venables.
    From the glance which Holmes gave me, I realised that this piece of information was not unexpected.
    I was wondering how we should be able to make our eventual escape from the vault without being detected, when the nature of the activity in the room began to take on a considerably more immodest form. Not content with merely smoking and drinking, several of the young men had pulled their female companions down on to the sofas with them and had started to indulge in the type of behaviour which is normally conducted only in private behind closed doors. Heels were kicked up, revealing petticoats and ankles. Even a thigh was exposed.
    I hardly dared look at Holmes but when I ventured a sideways glance, I saw his ascetic profile bore an expression of distaste. I was about to ask in a whisper what we should do in the circumstances – whether we should turn our backs on the scene or reveal our presence – when the decision was made for us in a quite unexpected and astonishing manner.
    The green baize door was flung open and several police officers burst into the room, the lean, sallow-faced Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard at their head.
    My own surprise was nothing compared with the shock and consternation shown by the young revellers. Faced by the presence of the law, they scrambled off the sofas, hastily adjusting their attire and, under Lestrade’s orders, were soon lined up in a bedraggled formation against the far wall, some shamefaced, others, mainly the young women, brazenly defiant.
    I heard Holmes murmur, a note of amusement in his voice, ‘I never thought I should welcome Lestrade’s intervention in a case with so much relief.’
    With that, he swept aside the curtain and coolly stepped forward, much as an actor might walk to the front of a stage to receive the applause of his audience.
    Lestrade spun about, his face expressing the same astonishment which only a few moments before I had experienced at his own sudden appearance.
    ‘Mr Holmes!’ he exclaimed. ‘And Dr Watson, too! What in the name of deuce are you doing here?’
    ‘I might ask the same of you, Lestrade,’ Holmes observed drily. ‘What investigation brings you to these particular premises at this hour of the night?’
    Lestrade came forward to speak to us in a low, confidential tone.
    ‘A forgery inquiry, Mr Holmes.’
    Holmes raised a quizzical eyebrow.
    ‘Forgery, my good Inspector? What on earth gave you that idea?’
    ‘I have received reports of several young men seen entering this building late at night. As there have been a number of false banknotes circulating in the district, especially amongst the second-hand dealers in Cutlers’ Row, I thought the felons had set up their printing press here in the basement.’
    Holmes took a long glance about him, letting his gaze pass over the wall hangings and the sofas before finally coming to rest on the line of dishevelled revellers,