‘So you might describe me,’ said Holmes, cheerfully. ‘My companion is also a dangerous ruffian. And together we are going through your house.’
Our opponent opened the door.
‘Fetch a policeman, Annie!’ said he. There was a whisk of feminine skirts down the passage, and the hall door was opened and shut.
‘Our time is limited, Watson,’ said Holmes. ‘If you try to stop us, Peters, you will most certainly get hurt. Where is that coffin which was brought into your house?’
‘What do you want with the coffin? It is in use. There is a body in it.’
‘I must see that body.’
‘Never with my consent.’
‘Then without it.’ With a quick movement Holmes pushed the fellow to one side and passed into the hall. A door half open stood immediately before us. We entered. It was the dining-room. On the table, under a half-lit chandelier, the coffin was lying. Holmes turned up the gas and raised the lid. Deep down in the recesses of the coffin lay an emaciated figure. The glare from the lights above beat down upon an aged and withered face. By no possible process of cruelty, starvation, or disease could this worn-out wreck be the still beautiful Lady Frances. Holmes’s face showed his amazement, and also his relief.
‘Thank God!’ he muttered. ‘It’s someone else.’
‘Ah, you’ve blundered badly for once, Mr Sherlock Holmes,’ said Peters, who had followed us into the room.
‘Who is this dead woman?’
‘Well, if you really must know, she is an old nurse of my wife’s, Rose Spender her name, whom we found in the Brixton Workhouse Infirmary. We brought her round here, called in Dr Horsom, of 13, Firbank Villas—mind you take the address, Mr Holmes—and had her carefully tended, as Christian folk should. On the third day she died—certificate says senile decay—but that’s only the doctor’s opinion, and, of course, you know better. We ordered her funeral to be carried out by Stimson and Co., of the Kennington Road, who will bury her at eight o’clock tomorrow morning. Can you pick any hole in that, Mr Holmes? You’ve made a silly blunder, and you may as well own up to it. I’d give something for a photograph of your gaping, staring face when you pulled aside that lid expecting to see the Lady Frances Carfax, and only found a poor old woman of ninety.’
Holmes’s expression was as impassive as ever under the jeers of his antagonist, but his clenched hands betrayed his acute annoyance.
‘I am going through your house,’ said he.
‘Are you, though!’ cried Peters, as a woman’s voice and heavy steps sounded in the passage. ‘We’ll soon see about that. This way, officers, if you please. These men have forced their way into my house, and I cannot get rid of them. Help me to put them out.’
A sergeant and a constable stood in the doorway. Holmes drew his card from his case.
‘This is my name and address. This is my friend, Dr Watson.’
‘Bless you, sir, we know you very well,’ said the sergeant, ‘but you can’t stay here without a warrant.’