Augusta decided to try her luck at Alexander Miller’s former flat. Number 15, Baker Street.
The address was at the lower end of Baker Street, close to Portman Square. The street was lined with tall, brown-brick Georgian buildings with large sash windows. The ground storeys were occupied by everyday shops and tradespeople. It wasn’t a fashionable street, like some in the West End, but it was fairly smart and respectable.
‘Excuse me,’ said a bespectacled man with a camera. ‘Can you tell me where I might find number 221b?’
‘Sherlock Holmes’s address, you mean?’
‘Yes!’
‘I’m afraid it doesn’t exist.’
His face fell. ‘So that’s why I can’t find it.’
‘Yes. The address is fictional. You do realise Sherlock Holmes is fictional too?’
‘Of course! But I didn’t realise Conan Doyle made up the address.’ He glanced around sadly. ‘Do you know which house he based it on?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ said Augusta. ‘Perhaps you could look around and decide for yourself which one it could have been?’
The man gave a grunt and walked away.
Augusta found number 15. It was a hairdresser’s shop with four floors above it. Little brass plaques next to a door at the side of the shop had the surnames of the building occupants on them. Augusta was pleased to see the name Stanton. This was the surname of Alexander Miller’s sister and her husband.
There was no Miller on the other plaques. Did this mean Alexander’s sister and husband had moved into Alexander Miller’s flat?
Inside the building, Augusta climbed three flights of stairs to a smart green door with the name Stanton on it. She took in a breath, knocked, and waited.
A lady about the same age as Augusta opened the door. She had sharp, regular features and wavy hair streaked with steel grey. There was a hint of wariness about her.
‘My name is Augusta Peel. I’m a private investigator,’ she said. ‘I also own a second-hand bookshop.’ She smiled, aware the two statements didn’t match very well. ‘Am I speaking with Jane Stanton?’
An eyebrow raised at the mention of her name. ‘Yes. What do you want?’
‘I found a letter which discussed your brother’s disappearance.’
‘Alexander?’ Her face softened. ‘I suppose you had better come in. But this can’t take long, I’m afraid. I have to go out shortly.’
Augusta followed her into a flat which was more spacious than she had been expecting. They passed doors of various rooms as Jane Stanton led her to a sitting room with two large windows overlooking Baker Street. It was a clean, tidy room with modern furniture. Mrs Stanton was clearly someone who avoided trinkets and ornaments. She gestured for Augusta to take a seat on a brown leather sofa. Then she sat in an armchair, her back stiff and straight. She wore a cream silk blouse with pearls and a long maroon skirt.
Augusta took in a breath and tried to put herself at ease.
‘So what’s this letter you mention?’ asked Mrs Stanton.
‘I found it in a book I was repairing for my bookshop. It was written by John Gibson and he sent it to his sister Louisa Bradshaw. Do you know the names?’
‘I can recall John. Alexander talked about him from time to time.’
‘When I read the letter, I wondered if Alexander Miller was ever found again.’
Mrs Stanton’s lips pursed. ‘He wasn’t.’
‘So you never found out what happened to him?’
‘No.’
Augusta said nothing, hoping Mrs Stanton would fill the silence. She fingered the string of pearls around her neck and eventually continued. ‘It was as if Alexander had disappeared into thin air. Some harm must have come to him, but I don’t know what or when. The police weren’t much help. I reported him missing a few days after he vanished, but they told me there wasn’t a lot they could do. They said he could be just about anywhere. I think they made some inquiries with local doctors and hospitals to find out if he had been injured and found somewhere. But they did little else. They even suggested he’d met a young lady and gone off with her. They were no help at all. And then I received a letter which was supposedly from him.’
‘Supposedly?’
‘I say that because it didn’t seem like he’d written it. It was typewritten and said he’d moved to the north of England to start a new life and didn’t want to be contacted.’
‘Did your brother usually write his letters on a typewriter?’
‘No. My brother didn’t write letters to me very often, but they were always handwritten.’
‘So you don’t believe the letter came from him?’
‘No. I think someone else wrote it. The wording of the letter didn’t sound like the way he spoke.’
‘Did you show the letter to the police?’
‘Yes, but they didn’t do much with it.’
‘The person who wrote that letter must have known what had happened to your brother.’
‘Yes, they must have done.’
‘And therefore something criminal must have occurred. I can’t believe the police did nothing about it.’
