Sherlock Holmes & The Master Engraver (Sherlock Holmes Revival) (14 page)

“Did this accomplice collect the keys, or did you deliver them? Did he leave his address?”

“No Mr Bormanstein, he collected them in person.” Holmes locked his attaché case. “Thank you Mr Hawes. I shall visit my brother; if he has not yet located the safes, I will return, you shall make me a like set of keys, and I will search the mouldering pile from top to bottom. You may yet become a wealthy man...”

Back at 221B I pondered Hawes’ all too-coincidental description:
‘...perhaps fifty-five years of age, lean, strong and muscular-looking, and he was very severe of countenance – a heavy military-style moustache, bushy eyebrows and black, glowering eyes...’
I had heard something like it elsewhere, and recently too. I hunted through the jumbled stack of old newspapers nearest Holmes’ desk, where he had been seated the day I paid my unannounced visit in November; for once I was thankful that he was a compulsive, if untidy magpie for all data and news that might one day be usefully indexed in his numerous reference binders. I could not find it. Holmes looked at me with a knowing smile.

“The item from The Telegraph you seek, concerning the two burglaries in Harrow, now sits folded beneath the Mantons atop my desk where I placed it. I did indeed question Lestrade and learned that the houses were owned by the absent partners, Messrs Perkins and Baker. That is why I was not so very surprised – indeed I was expecting the timely interruption of our Christmas luncheon by Mr Henry Petch.

“The expert search was, of course, for the vault keys at the houses of the absent Messrs Perkins and Baker as I have now established but how, I wonder, did our moustachioed friend know that they were partners and key-holders at Bacons Perkin & Petch, that there were new plates and paper stored at Fleet Street, where they resided, that they all possessed keys, or even that two partners would be travelling abroad leaving their houses largely vacant?

“However, praise where it is due, your instinct is sharpening wonderfully Watson – the moustachioed character described by Lestrade in that news item is indeed, I make no doubt of it, our man!”

At this I smiled with quiet satisfaction, replaced the cylinder in my revolver, spun it twice and looked up at my colleague. “From long experience, Holmes, I am convinced you already know considerably more than you have revealed. Certain strands of this dark affair are becoming clear to me, but I suspect you may already be in train of weaving them into a snare. Might now not be an opportune point to tell me all that you already know?” Holmes gestured expansively toward the easy-chairs before the fire. “Now is indeed as good a time as any to enjoy a cigarette while I explain the circumstances as I now see them, though my analysis is, as yet, sorely incomplete.

“At the outset, we must assume that our moustachioed desperado – let us call him Bormanstein, for want of proven identity, somehow came by extraordinarily detailed intelligence about the partners, the plates, the watermarked paper, and the firm’s closure over the festive season and more. There may be even more than one ring-leader.

“I urgently await more data from the estimable Monsieur Lépine, but from his reply to one of my earlier telegraphic enquiries, and another from the equally competent Detective Inspector O’Connor in Belfast, I have established beyond doubt that the two absent partners are indeed where they claimed they would be.

“Bormanstein first breaks in to the houses of the two absent partners in his opening foray for the keys – to no avail; they are abroad and evidently carrying their keys with them. Thus he is compelled to gain access to the sole remaining partner’s keys. Through his intelligence he somehow knows of Petch’s passion, indeed his near-obsession, with his hot-house filled with tender
Angraecum Sesquipedale
specimens and determines that therein lies a near-certain gambit to draw Petch out of the house in the depths of winter.

“Thus, the vandalism to the glass-house; thus Petch’s predictable and fretful departure next morning to find workmen; and thus the extraordinarily propitious and remarkably timed arrival of the ingenuous but genial Mr Madgwick, accompanied by his scheming sponsor Asa Bormanstein, an alias almost certainly – moments after Petch has departed, and undertaking to repair the damage at an unfeasibly low price, the which payment he cheerfully trebled to placate the outraged Madgwick!

“But for what the scheming Mr Bormanstein cunningly gained, he would readily have paid a minor Nabob’s ransom; in the event however, for a mere twenty pounds and a little light gardening, he won a perfect set of impressions to the keys to the vaults of Perkins, Bacon & Petch, engravers and printers to The Bank of England, in much the same manner as did I at my workbench using modelling clay!” Holmes frowned darkly for a long moment, and then laughed drily.

“And yet twenty pounds seems a paltry enough price for a licence to print money, does it not Watson?” Despite this explanation, there were still, for me some puzzles yet unexplained.

Holmes resumed his agitated pacing, and continued on his discourse with much the same passion as a lawyer summarising the case for the prosecution, bent on driving home his damning points of evidence. “There are now perhaps two more players to whom I would particularly direct your attention. The maid, Dulcie Hobbs, was planted like a malign weed in a flower garden. Her primary task was to locate where Petch habitually kept his keys, and her second task was to cooperate with the two stooges who knocked upon the door with their cock-and-bull story about the husband being taken ill in the street.

“And thus, when the solicitous Mrs Petch went to seek the Doctor, Hobbs performed her final, vital, treacherous task of passing the keys swiftly out to Mr Bormanstein, probably through the study window, below which I noted two clear footprints of a man standing for some minutes, and then restore them to their rightful place before Mrs Petch’s return.

“The other players in the cast I commend to your attention are the gang of roofers who evidently were upon the premises right up to December 21st, but more of that in due course. For now I await news from Wiggins and Smith who, between them, have both Hobbs’ place of work and her room under continuous observation, reporting all visitors and meetings she may have, for that is now our best – in all probability the only chain connecting us to Bormanstein.”

With this Holmes abruptly sat down at his desk and resumed work in silence on yet another of his interminable monographs, this one I recall upon the arcane matter of forensic methods and classification for the invisible impressions left by our fingers upon suitably receptive surfaces. I, meanwhile, sat and pondered these revelations.

*        *       *

CHAPTER EIGHT

The Chain is Broken

For perhaps two hours – for it was now past three o’clock in the afternoon – Holmes worked at his desk in silence, broken only by the scratching of his pen and the occasional exclamation of “Ha!” or perhaps “Hmm...” while meanwhile I recorded such notes as I could to create a usable record of our case, as best I understood matters. Outside, the thin snow had turned to sleet and coursed bleakly down the window panes.

Abruptly, the peace and calm of our rooms was rudely shattered by a frantic tugging at the downstairs bell followed by the most frenzied hammering at the street door. “Good Lord Holmes! Now this is surely a matter of the most desperate urgency!”

Holmes leaped to his feet, his brow furrowed in concern. “I am quite certain of it Watson – hear how those boots take the stair three at a time!”

I stepped to the parlour door but even before I could grasp the handle, it burst open to admit a much-distressed, panting, and grubby Wiggins, commander-in-chief of the band of street urchins Holmes affectionately regarded as his ‘Baker Street Irregulars’. Wild-eyed, he struggled to speak but was manifestly too short of breath, or too exhausted to articulate a single intelligible word for some moments; the poorly dressed urchin was clearly chilled to the bone from his long night’s vigil and his ride clinging probably to the back of a cab and, I judged, also near to collapse.

Holmes gestured urgently for me to minister to the lad; I guided him gently to a seat before the fire and placed a plaid travelling rug around his shoulders as my colleague shouted down for some hot broth and a warm cordial for the shivering urchin. Presently the boy’s teeth stopped chattering, the blue tinge left his lips, and after greedily gulping the broth and cordial, he blurted out his report.

“Mr ‘Olmes, somefink dreadful’s ’appened at the ’ouse in Chiswick! It must ’ave, ’cos there’s coppers arrived, an’ that Mr Lestrade as well!” – His voice lowered in awe – “an’ an amb’lance too!”

Holmes frowned, clearly concerned..

“Slowly, Wiggins, tell me exactly what has happened and what you saw – oh Watson, call down to the boy to have a hansom waiting! We shall be departing in moments!”

With a more kindly look he returned his attention to the boy. “Now Wiggins..?”

“Well this was the way of it Mr ’Olmes. At midnight I took over from Squinty Smith, who ’ad nothing to report ’cept that the lady come ’ome at seven o’clock and ’adn’t come out of the ’ouse since then. I found myself a cosy little crib out of the rain an’ sleet in a shed in garden of the empty ‘ouse opposite – an’ there was some old sacks to stay warm under. So I settles down wiv’ a perfick view of the front door an’ waits, but nothing much ’appens for a time – unless you count an old geezer coming out and throwing cinders on the path – ’til around ten in the evening, when a cab rolls up outside.

“Out steps a tall toff carryin’ a bag, wiv a big bruiser an’ I ’ears the toff tell the cabbie to wait. They vanishes into the ’ouse an’ dashes out about an hour later pretty sharpish on account of the sleet an’ rain comin’ down like cats an’ dogs, an’ then orf they goes towards Kew and Richmond in the cab at a rare old clip. Oh, an’ I fink the toff ’ad a key to the door Mr ’Olmes.”

At this, Holmes’ cold grey eyes narrowed menacingly – he smacked a clenched fist into his palm. “This is our man Watson, I don’t doubt it!” he cried. “Can you describe him for me Wiggins?”

“Sorry Mr ’Olmes but I only glimpsed ’im for a second an’ anyway he was wearing an Ulster wiv the collar up an’ a big muffler. But ’e was tall an’ thin an’ might ’ave ’ad a ’tache.”

“Did you by any chance note the cabbie’s number Wiggins?” The boy rolled his eyes heavenward in scorn. “Wot do you fink I am Mr ’Olmes – one of them slow-witted bleedin’ plodders from the Yard? O’ course I did – 1107 is your man!” Holmes made a note and nodded in quiet satisfaction. “Very good – continue Wiggins.”

“Well, nuffink much ’appens till about ten o’clock this morning, when suddenly I hears a lady scream from the alley-way down the side of the ’ouse, an’ what a dreadful scream it was Mr ’Olmes, it fair made yer blood run cold! I run over the High Road and down the side-alley and there’s the landlady, white as a sheet and fit to faint, staring into the basement through the window. I says ‘Missus, what’s the matter?’ an’ she chases me away before I could get a peek, but I think she must’ve seen somefink bad through the big window.

“She runs inside and I goes back to my crib to watch what occurs. Next thing, the bobbies and Mr Lestrade’s there, an’ then the amb’lance rattles up, so I grabbed on a growler quick as I could, but after that I had to jump off an’ run most of the way from Marylebone.”

Holmes patted the boy’s shoulder, with a satisfied air. “Excellent work Wiggins; you have done well– here is your reward and a little extra besides” and he handed the lad a half-sovereign “and here’s another for Squinty Smith.” The poor ragged wretch’s eyes became as large as saucers at this munificence. “Blimey, thanks Mr ’Olmes. Most ’andsome of you, most very ’andsome indeed!” He tied them inside a filthy kerchief and pocketed it. Holmes nodded. “Now be off with you and go back to your fellows.”

The grimy little lad scurried from the room with his new-won wealth and clattered down the stair. Holmes turned and fixed me with glittering eyes. “Now Watson, are you with me, for assuredly the game is well and truly afoot!” He donned his Ulster and selected a stout, lead-weighted Penang Lawyer. I smiled “Could you doubt it Holmes?” I speedily dropped a half-a-dozen cartridges in my pocket, retrieved my revolver from the table, and we departed.

For much of the journey, my companion remained quite taciturn, his chin sunk low on his chest, his eyes closed in deep thought. I left him to his reverie.

As we passed Hammersmith he spoke at last. “I fear this does not bode well Watson; I have a dreadful presentiment about what we may discover. Let us hope that the scene has not been disturbed for while my role is not to compensate for the inadequacies of the official police, there are invariably those subtle signs which, even if missed by the police or dismissed as irrelevant, are the vital traces which may combine to bring about a successful resolution. Until a thorough scientific observation has been made, their movement, or worse complete removal, can only lead the way to uncertainty and confusion.”

Presently we alighted in a thin, chill sleet at number 64 Chiswick High Road, a handsome, wide brick-built terraced property arranged over three floors. Two constables stood stamping their feet against the cold on the still-icy cinder-strewn path, talking in subdued voices at the front door while a small crowd of curious onlookers waited in the hope of seeing whatever morbid object might emerge from the house; the ambulance with doors open, quite vacant, remained with its attendants at the kerb-side. Holmes grunted in satisfaction. “That is well Watson. It would appear that whatever poor soul that requires medical attention is still within.” At this moment, Inspector Lestrade emerged from the house. He started and appeared taken aback to see Sherlock Holmes.

“Well well Mr Holmes, and you too Doctor Watson; and what brings you here? There’ll be no need of either of your services today – there’s no mystery for you to unravel in a simple suicide Mr Holmes, for that is certainly what we have here, and unless you can revive a stone-cold corpse, Doctor, no patient for you to attend either.” Proudly he declaimed “I have even discovered charred fragments of a suicide note in the hearth. You’ll see them arranged in their correct order on the table where I placed them.”