by Geri Schear
“She was upset, of course, and I think she blames herself for being too liberal a mistress. I tried to reassure her, but the wound is still too fresh. At least Bessie is working out a treat. Mrs Prentiss tells me things have returned to normal. There have been no more disturbances.”
“Good, good,” I said impatiently. “But the people-”
“I was coming to that,” he said, giving me one of those frowns that medical professionals do so well. I half-expected a scolding about my diet. He continued:
“I remembered your advice of old and took myself off to the local pub. There I engaged in conversation with some of the gentlemen from the area. In the space of an hour, I learned that the African gentleman who moved in at the beginning of the year is, in fact, Egyptian. His name is Amun, he is married to an Englishwoman, and he works at University College London.
“Ah! He is an Egyptologist?”
“Well, I assume so. I should have asked. Sorry, Holmes.”
“I doubt the locals could have told you in any case. No matter. We can make inquiries of the university. What do we know of Amun’s wife?”
“Not much. She is a housewife. No one seems to know much about her. She is quiet and keeps to herself. Other than the fact that she married an African, they don’t seem to have anything against her.”
“And what of the other woman?”
“What other woman?”
“The widow who moved into the district. Mrs Prentiss mentioned her.”
“Oh.”
“Watson, really...”
“Ha!” he said. “I had you going there, didn’t I? Her name is Mrs Portnoy and she has two children. It is rather a tragic tale: Her husband died just a few months ago and left them in rather reduced circumstances. Around the same time, her mother passed away from a long illness. I am told she is quite a gentlewoman for all her current social standing. The locals describe her as ‘a shapely blonde.’”
“When did she move in?”
“Some time in January. She doesn’t actually live in Harrington Square proper. It’s probably a bit rich for her. She has the top floor flat at the end of Mornington Crescent where it meets the Square. I’ve been all down the Crescent, Holmes, and as far as I can tell, she and Amun are the only newcomers who have a view of the Prentiss house.”
He put his notebook back in his pocket and said, “I, uh, did all right, didn’t I, Holmes?”
“Oh, you did very well, my dear Watson. I suppose you had no opportunity to see or speak to these newcomers on your own, did you?”
“I didn’t get to speak to Mr Amun. I knocked but there was no answer. However, I did see Mrs Portnoy. I said I was a doctor who had been called to see a patient but couldn’t find the address. She was kind enough to give me a glass of water. I did not stay long. The woman is still in deep mourning and I felt my presence was intrusive.”
“Did anything about her strike you as unusual or odd?”
“No, indeed. I could see that she used to be wealthy. Her clothes were a fine quality and she wore an exquisite sapphire ring. Her husband gave it to her, she said, and she would sooner starve than give it up. I think starvation may be a real possibility. She has lost at least two stone since she first purchased her gown and her attempts to take it in were, well, not very skilled. The flat was shabby and attempts to make it look elegant somehow made it seem even poorer. It was a very sad thing to see.”
“Excellent, Watson. You never give yourself half enough credit for your observations.”
“After all these years of our friendship I hope I’ve learned something from watching you, Holmes. I’ll never be your equal, of course.”
“True. Still, you did better than most men. You have really come a long way since you tried to get information about the man who followed Miss Violet Smith on bicycle.”
“Ah, ‘The Solitary Cyclist’. I was very fond of that story, Holmes.”
“Really? You astonish me. At any rate, we need to get some rest tonight. Tomorrow we have a rendezvous at Chapel Market.”
Chapter Fifteen
Tuesday 3 May 1898
This morning after breakfast, Watson and I went to the Angel and its market on Chapel Street. Like all street markets, this one is noisy, chaotic and smells of rotting fish. Women bargain with butchers over the right cuts of meat; men haggle over items of clothing and jewellery; and children run amuck through all of it. Every nationality and every language can be encountered if one stays there long enough.
Watson and I picked our way through the cabbage leaves and the pools of spilled porter pretending an interest in all the market had to offer. We had already planned that Watson would pose as Mr McAdams, a writer from Scotland, and I as his guide around the wicked city of London. People will tell a writer things that they would never tell a detective.
As we trailed along speaking to the merchants, a waif wandered a short distance from us, always keeping our pace and never letting us get more than thirty feet away from him.
Now and then, we stopped at a stall and engaged a merchant in conversation. After my brief introduction in which I said Mr McAdams was writing a book about the rare treasures that may sometimes be found in a street market, Watson took over and asked a variety of questions that he had prepared. He nodded his head and wrote in his notebook. I cannot remember when I’ve seen him so entertained.
In this manner, we proceeded through the market and so by the time we reached the stall of Habib Bashir we had established ourselves as harmless curiosities, people any vendor in any market would accept without question. If they had any complaint at all, it was that we were not there to buy. Still, there was the hope that Mr McAdams’ book might lead to more business for them in the future and so they were, for the most part, happy to indulge us.
Bashir is a small man with delicate features and large brown eyes. His complexion is more golden than brown and he could pass for almost any ethnicity. When we first spied him, he was talking very quickly and his gesticulating arms kept time with his speech. He seemed like a parody of a musical conductor but his business was altogether more prosaic: he was trying to interest a customer in a brass figure of the Buddha. The shopper, a middle-aged gentleman with a spoiled wife and two spaniels, shook his head and left. Bashir sighed then turned to the illustrious Mr McAdams and me.
“What can I do you for, gentlemen?” said he in the most genial tones. His accent was a curious combination of the Far East and the East End.
“Good morning,” I said with equal warmth. “My name is Cuthbert Culpepper and this is my friend the esteemed writer, Mr John McAdams.”
“How’d’do?” said Bashir shaking our hands.
“Mr McAdams is writing a book about the wonders to be found in markets such as this one.”
“That is true,” said the merchant. “Very true. I’ve seen it myself I don’t know how many times. We’re not antiquarians you see. We just sell whatever crosses our path. Might be gilt or it might be gold. You never can tell.”
Watson studied the man’s collection of bric-a-brac. He said, “I’m curious about where things come from and how they end up in the market. Where does a man like you find his treasures?”
“Treasures,” Bashir said, savouring the word. “That’s it exactly, sir. That’s it. You’ve said it. Yes, we all pick up things from a number of places. I tend to go door to door. You’d be astonished to know how often ladies in fine homes have things they went to sell for a few pennies. Well, it’s money they don’t have to tell their husbands about, ain’t it?” He nudged Watson with his elbow in a ‘we’re all men of the world’ conspiratorial manner.
“Yes, quite,” Watson said, rubbing his ribs. “And is that where all your wares come from, sir?”
“Oh no, not all. Now and then, I get word about an estate sale. Sometimes someone dies and leaves no family so their things
are auctioned off. All the big houses go after the expensive items: the jewels and the furs and the artwork, but they don’t care much about the little trinkets and I can sometimes pick things up for a song.”
“Is there a regular dealer you work with?” Watson said. He delivered the line innocently enough but Bashir looked at him suspiciously.
“’ere, what you want to know that for?”
Watson blinked and looked at Bashir in some surprise as if he could not understand why the man even asked the question.
“I mean,” he said, “Do you have a relationship with certain people in your trade who might tell you when they have something of particular interest?” He said it exactly the right way. That is, he implied that Bashir himself could not tell a genuine objet d’art if it flew up in his face and bit him on his rather large nose.
“I work with several auction houses and people in the business, but I don’t need to be told when something is valuable. I have expertise of my own.”
“Ah,” said Watson as if Bashir had just said something of enormous importance. He made a note in his book. “Now, that’s what I’m looking for.” To me he said, “I told you these men were experts.” And to Bashir, “I told my friend he could depend that the gentlemen here in the market would have to have an eye to a real find. No, says he. They’re all just petty merchants.” He gave me a disdainful look.
Bashir clapped his hands with delight, all suspicion forgotten. “And you were right, sir. You were indeed right.”
“Well,” I said, defensively, “I do not think it is fair to say all the vendors here in the market have skill. Mr Semple back there...”
“Oh, Semple,” said Bashir. “Yes, there are hucksters and fools in any business. You will allow for that?”
“Yes,” I said, with a show of reluctance. “Still, I cannot see - I mean no disrespect - but I cannot see that many of the merchants here would recognise something unusual. I mean, anyone can tell a piece of Delft or an ivory carving, but if something outré crossed your path you’d never spot it.”
“Depends on what it is, don’t it?” he said. “I have a good eye and I can tell a genuine gemstone from paste. I’m well known here. Ask any of the merchants around the Angel and they’ll tell you Habib Bashir can spot a treasure a mile off.”
Again, Watson made a note. He said, casually, “Mr Ferguson back there told us he specialises in Napoleonic treasures, and Mr Sykes says he knows everything there is to know about religious icons. Do you have an area of specialty, Mr Bashir?”
“Egyptian art,” Bashir said. “Anything to do with ancient Egypt and I’m your man.”
“Indeed? What, you mean like papyruses... papyri? What’s the plural?”
Bashir gave a loud chuckle and revealed a set of perfectly even and white teeth. “Oh, I can tell a piece of papyrus from a fake. Not that you’d find a legitimate papyrus in these parts, they’re almost all fakes.”
“Well, that’s disappointing,” Watson said, laughing. “I’m afraid I don’t know much about Egyptian treasures.”
“We have them though,” said Bashir. “Mind you, you’ll find more in the British Museum than you will in Cairo these days.”
“Is that a fact?”
“Oh yes. Still, history keeps her secrets and who knows what the sand is still covering.”
Watson turned to me and said, “What was that story we heard about Egypt?”
“What story?”
“I cannot remember. Something about a coin. A magical coin. I really cannot remember.”
“Something from the Arabian Nights?” I said.
“No, no. It had something to do with a coin - or it might have been a few coins - that you couldn’t spend, or they could never get lost or something.” He scratched his head with his pen. “I think they had something to do with the Coptic Church.”
“Oh, it’s the Coins of the Fathers you’re meaning,” said Bashir.
“That’s it! That’s it exactly. What is the story, do you know?”
He recited the story of the Coptic Patriarchs as if he’d committed it to memory. It was identical to the other versions we’d heard.
“That’s it,” Watson exclaimed. “Why you are a font of information, Mr Bashir.” He lowered his voice and in a conspiratorial tone said, “I may say your exotic anecdotes are far more interesting than some of the other tales we’ve heard here today.”
“Fairy tales,” I said, playing the part of the sceptic.”No more exciting than Mother Goose.” I made a show of trying to stifle a yawn.
Watson gave me an irritated look. “Not so,” he said. “All myths and legends have some foundation in truth. Do you not agree, Mr Bashir?”
“I do, sir. I do indeed. I know for a fact that the story about the Egyptian coins is true. I’ve seen them with my own eyes.”
“You never have!”
Careful, Watson, I thought, but the merchant was far too engrossed to see anything amiss in my friend’s excessive wonder.
“One of those estate sales I told you about,” said Bashir. He looked around to make sure no one was listening. I was amused at his caution, given that he was revealing his secrets to a man who was supposedly a writer and planning to share all with the world. I suppose by now he’d forgotten Watson’s alleged task.
“Go on,” my friend urged.
“Well, I was told of the estate of a man by the name of Nicholas Fleming. Don’t know much about the gentleman except he had a big house in Holloway. Off I trot, and because of my connections, I was able to get a look at his merchandise. The man died, you see, and his heirs didn’t care two hoots for art so everything was to be sold.
“The big merchants, they were putting in their bids for the Wedgewood and the paintings. Nice stuff, most of it, though not to my taste. Anyway, I spotted a box of Egyptian treasures, all of it legitimate, on my word it was, sir. There was a small wooden box, hand carved and very old. I opened it and saw the coins. Ancient they were but still in mint condition. Made of pure copper I’d guess. They were in pristine condition. You could still see the symbol of St Mark on them. St Mark being the patron of that Church, you see.”
This certainly matched the description we had heard. Watson said, “What happened? Did you manage to get them?”
“Me, sir? No, sir.” He hooted. “They’re priceless! The sort of thing that would likely end up in a museum. What they were doing in England is anyone’s guess, but there they were.”
“So what happened to them?”
He scratched his remarkable nose. “Most of the stuff went to Brahms in Kensington, but some of the smaller pieces were to be auctioned off. I reckon that included all the Egyptian stuff and the papers, too.”
“Papers?”
“Well, the coins on their own are valuable, but there will be doubt as to whether they’re the real article what with them bouncing around the world for the last two thousand years. So the first owner, a widow woman, wrote how the Saint had given her the coins. Then, when she died, her son wrote his piece about how the coins were his inheritance... And so on. Everyone who has owned the coins has added to the document. I believe it later became no more than a list of names and the dates the coins were in their possession. It was to prove provenance... That is to say, proving how something ended up where it did and tracing back its lineage. A bit like a nobleman showing his line of ancestry.”
“Except many nobles have extremely ignoble origins,” I said.
The man hooted again. “You’ve never said a truer word, sir, and no mistake.”
We prepared to leave and I said, casually, “I do not suppose you know who the auctioneer was? It might make an interesting side-piece to your book, Mr McAdams.”
“It would indeed. An unusual angle, too, to see how the auction houses feel about these markets. Can you help us, Mr Bashir?”<
br />
The Arab frowned then reluctantly said, “Well, I suppose it won’t do no harm. Bramley and Sons it were. Up the Caledonian Road.”
To indulge the man we purchased a pair of silver (nickel) candlesticks then we said goodbye and merged into the crowd. As soon as we left, the street urchin who had been following us slipped in behind Bashir’s table and waited.
Addendum:
I spent the afternoon investigating Mr Amun. He is a refined, gentle sort of man who teaches Egyptian studies at the university. My preliminary findings reveal nothing of any import but I should like to meet the man for myself before I make up my mind.
Midnight:
This evening a little after ten o’clock, a knock came to the door followed hard on by a pair of thundering feet. A moment later, the door opened and young Billy bounced into the room.
“Watcha, Mr ’olmes. Doctor,” he said with his customary cheer.
“Ah, Billy, do you have something to report?”
“I do.” He looked so smug that I laughed.
“A shilling if it’s good,” I said.
“It’s good,” he said.
He sat cross-legged on the floor and told his tale.
“After you and the doc left the market, I took my position, just as we’d planned. That Arab, whatisname, Bashir, ’e didn’t wait long. As soon as ’e reckoned you’d gone ’e asked the chap at the next stall to keep an eye on things and ’e went into the pub.”
“He didn’t see you following him?”
“Not he! Intent on ’is business, weren’t ’e? Anyway, I follows ’im in and ’e makes a telephone call. ’e spoke to someone called ‘habibi’ and said that two gentlemen ’ad been by inquiring about the coins. ’e said ’e’d told you everything they ’ad planned and you’d be along to Mr Bramley’s for more information. The Arab asked when ’e’d get paid and then ’e nodded and repeated it, seven o’clock in the Five Crowns.”
