The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories, Part VI

by David Marcum

  “That’s right. I kept it there.” He nodded his head toward a set of nearby shelves, along the wall behind the workbench. “I noticed it first thing.”

  “They left this,” said Sir Peter, handing an envelope to Holmes. He looked at it a moment, making one of those little Hmm’s when he saw something of interest. Then he passed it to me. It was plain and cheap, yellowed with age, but otherwise in good condition. There was no writing on the front. Inside, folded neatly, was a worn five-pound note.

  “Curious,” said Holmes. “You have a rather honest thief, at any rate. Not counting the inconvenience, does this just about cover the cost of the materials used in the oil?”

  “Why, yes, I would think so, and Earnshaw’s time as well.”

  “And you make the oil, then, Mr. Earnshaw? Not Sir Peter?”

  “Oh, no, Mr. Holmes. Not me,” answered our host. “I learned my craft at my father’s knee, and at Earnshaw’s here, too, but I’m past that sort of thing. Earnshaw is the master. He takes on all our special projects, and does research besides. He has a gift.”

  “And you say the five pounds would pay for the oil?”

  “I suppose so, if it was simply a matter of measuring and mixing the raw oil and spices. Isn’t that right, Earnshaw?”

  The older man seated behind the bench nodded. “So I would calculate. Mixing it up was not a problem. It was more a matter of comparing the recipes, the one that we kept here, and the one from the Museum.”

  “I’m something of a chemist myself,” said Holmes. “What exactly is the mixture?”

  Earnshaw seemed to puff up, reaching for a book that was squared against the back corner of the work bench. He began to flip through the leaves while speaking. “Anointing oil is a holy effort, as instructed by God. Here it is, Exodus 30, Verses 22 through 33.” And he read aloud:

  22 Then the Lord said to Moses, 23 “Take the following fine spices: 500 shekel of liquid myrrh, half as much (that is, 250 shekels) of fragrant cinnamon, 250 shekels of fragrant calamus, 24 500 shekels of cassia - all according to the sanctuary shekel - and a hin of olive oil. 25 Make these into a sacred anointing oil, a fragrant blend, the work of a perfumer. It will be the sacred anointing oil.

  He closed the book and laid it back on the bench where it had previously rested. Holmes asked, “And do you follow this biblical formula precisely?”

  Earnshaw shook his head. “I would, but we must use what has come down to us from Charles’s coronation. Oils of orange flowers, neroli, roses, and jasmine. Cinnamon, musk of civet, and ambergris. All mixed in Oil of Ben.”

  “Ah, yes. Pressed from the seeds of the Horseradish, or Ben Oil Tree, and found at the base of the Himalayas in northwest India. Not a likely place for an oil that ends up being used in such a western Christian ceremony.”

  Earnshaw scowled. “So I thought, too. But it’s the traditional way, and it’s the blessing of the Bishop that makes the difference.”

  “You certainly are knowledgeable, Mr. Holmes,” added Sir Peter. “Something of a chemist, you say?”

  “Yes. A grasp of chemistry has been useful in my line of work. Along the way, I’ve made a little study of oils. Oil of Ben is named for the Behenic Acid contained therein, although it is only one of several: Behenic, Palmitic, Stearic, and Oleic Acids. Actually, the Oleic Acid makes up the majority of the acidic content, more than double all the other acids combined. And yet, it is oddly called Oil of Ben. Did you know that many cultures in other parts of the world use Oil of Ben for cooking? But here we find it, being specified to crown English Kings. How curious!”

  He smiled, but Sir Peter and Earnshaw seemingly had no response to this chatter, although they both appeared to be impressed. “Do you mind?” asked Holmes and, without waiting for a response, he stepped nimbly around the table and to the shelves. He leaned in with his lens, giving me a chance to glance around the room. It was immaculately kept, as much as such a room could be, with neatly labeled bottles in precise rows. The floor was well swept, and even the light coming through the glass in the window and door revealed no streaks or grime.

  But what stood out most were the various religious artifacts spaced about Earnshaw’s workspace. Crucifixes of varying sizes hung along the walls. Upon one of the shelves, placed beside a couple of green-glassed jars, was a stack of religious tracts, showing what seemed to be a stylized drawing of Jesus and the woman at the well.

  “You have been very careful with the oil,” said Holmes. “There must have been none on the outside of the urn, as there is no corresponding ring upon the woodwork of the shelf.”

  “I wiped it carefully after I filled it last June,” said Earnshaw. “I don’t suppose the church had any reason to open it during the time they had it.” Then the older man fell silent, his right hand continuing to move irregularly, as he seemingly waited for us to leave so that he could return to his task.

  After examining the shelves, Holmes made his way without comment over to the back door, which he opened and closed several times before bending to look more closely at the lock. I realized that the room was quite stuffy, and wondered why no one had opened a window or ventilated the place better. Perhaps air currents played havoc when trying to mix powders.

  “Where do you go to church, Mr. Earnshaw?” I asked to break the silence.

  “St. Mary’s, off York Street. I live near there.”

  “I know it well. Holmes and I share rooms nearby in Baker Street.” I waited for him to return this conversational lob, but he let it fly by and fall unanswered.

  “After you entered this morning, Mr. Earnshaw,” interrupted Holmes, “and you noticed that the oil was missing, what did you do next?”

  “I made sure that nothing else was taken or broken - we fear vandals here, don’t we, sir?”

  “We do, Earnshaw,” replied Sir Peter.

  “I was about to call the police, but the master arrived and stopped me.”

  “I knew that this had no business being revealed in the press. It was talking to the press that got us into this mess.”

  “You refer,” I said, “to the reporter yesterday from Iskra.”

  “Yes. Foul revolutionary rag. The reporter, a Jacob Richter, came into the front of the shop, and was first thought to be a customer, despite his appearance. However, he asked for me, and when Allardt, the man up front, came in the back to find me, Richter followed him, into this very room. He identified himself and said he was writing an article about the coronation. He somehow already knew of the oil, and our old association with its manufacture. He started to ask questions about how it was made, and why such a thing was even necessary in this day and age - ”

  “It was clear,” interrupted Earnshaw gruffly, “that he didn’t believe.” He said it in such a way that his condemnation for the reporter was clear and final.

  “And you think that the Russian came back last night, broke in, and stole the oil?” queried Holmes.

  “Yes,” interrupted Sir Peter. “Obviously. That it should be stolen on the very night that he was here asking about it? Of course it was him.”

  “Why would he leave the five pound note?”

  “Who knows what is in the mind of these Godless Bolsheviks,” said Earnshaw.

  “I’ll tell you another thing,” added Sir Peter. “He knew where we kept the oil. When he first asked about it, before we could get him to leave, I’m afraid that Earnshaw gave away the game by looking right over at the shelf where the urn was standing. That reporter followed his gaze and knew immediately what he was seeing. He wanted us to open it for him, let him look at it, perhaps even touch it.”

  “Over my dead body!” muttered Earnshaw.

  “And you hustled him out at that point?”

  “We did. I summoned help, and soon he was on the street.”

  “Was he angry? Did he make any threats?”<
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  “No. More than anything, he seemed amused. Thanked us for our time and wandered away down Oxford Street.”

  Holmes glanced at the materials spread out before Earnshaw. “Are you making more oil, just in case we cannot locate the stolen batch?”

  Sir Peter gave a groan and placed a hand over his eyes. Earnshaw merely looked down at his hands, resting before the mortar, the right regularly turning this way and that. Holmes glanced at me, a smile dancing around the corners of his lips as he waited for the next twist to reveal itself. I was glad to see that he could enjoy himself. It indicated that he had a clear idea what had happened and how to resolve it, thus allowing me to smile just a bit myself.

  “We can’t make any more,” Sir Peter finally explained. “Just before you arrived, when I suggested to Earnshaw that he get started doing that very thing, he checked, and it turns out that the receipt has been stolen as well!”

  “This is really quite satisfactory,” said Holmes, rubbing his hands together. “So your earlier belief that nothing else had been taken was incorrect.”

  “Yes, it was. And frankly, Mr. Holmes, I don’t understand your attitude. This is catastrophic - not even in terms of my own business and reputation, but for the monarchy as well. Surely you were told of the importance of the holy oil? Without it, there can be no legitimate coronation.”

  “Did I not hear,” I tried again, “that a duplicate of the receipt was also kept at the British Museum? Why not consult their copy?”

  “Because, Doctor,” snapped Sir Peter, “we had already consulted it, having borrowed the volume back in June to compare with our own. It was still here. And now, it too has been taken, along with our copy.”

  “What about the old oil, used to anoint the Queen?” asked Holmes. “Can it not be salvaged at all?”

  “Show him, Earnshaw.”

  Reaching behind to a lower shelf, Earnshaw retrieved a small container, something like a highly decorated jewel case, about two by three inches in area, and a couple of inches deep. Framed in gold, it stood on four little feet with a hinged lid. He set it on the bench and flipped it open. A wash of foulness immediately filled the room. The oil, indeed, had turned.

  Sir Peter waved a hand toward it. “It has hardened beyond recovery. We used some scrapings from this into the new oil, in order to provide continuity going back to Queen Victoria, and beyond, but there is no way that this solidified brick can be revitalized.” He reached over and flipped the lid closed.

  “What about simply adding some of this to a mixture that is close to the original recipe?” I asked. “After all, this has already been blessed. That should carry it over from the part to the whole.”

  “No,” mumbled Earnshaw. “It doesn’t work that way. It must be the traditional recipe, entirely blessed, or the King cannot be crowned. When the people learn of it, they will not stand for it.”

  “I’m afraid he’s right,” added Sir Peter. “Without the recipe, we cannot make new oil for the ceremony. And even if we do, we cannot successfully address the government’s concern that the theft could cast a shadow of doubt on the coronation.”

  Holmes had clearly seen enough. With a last glance around, he abruptly thanked Sir Peter and Earnshaw, then turned to return toward the front of the shop.

  “Mr. Holmes...?” called Sir Peter.

  “We go to speak to the Russian reporter,” the detective replied. “Matters look grim. We can but try.” And with that, he was off, while I followed, glancing back in time to see Sir Peter and Earnshaw exchanging puzzled glances.

  Outside, Holmes waved over our carriage. “I suppose we have to go ahead and speak with the Russian reporter,” I sighed.

  My friend smiled. “Nice to see that you’re caught up. Yes, if only for the sake of completeness, in case someone should ask why we didn’t. I take it we are in agreement?”

  “Provisionally. I’m sure that you saw more than I did, but I think that I saw enough.”

  “Observed, rather. You have been at this for some time now. Don’t discount your abilities. It’s nice to see that you’re less timid in reaching your conclusions than in the past.”

  He glanced at the sheet given to him by Mycroft. “37a Clerkenwell Green,” he told our driver as we found our seats.

  “Clerkenwell,” I sighed. “Couldn’t it have been in Bloomsbury?” Holmes simply laughed.

  We proceeded east down Oxford Street, only varying our route once, to steer into New Oxford Street approaching High Holborn, based on Holmes’s impulsive instruction to our driver. At No. 199 High Holborn, he jumped down and went into a corner shop. Through the window, I could see him speaking to the man and woman behind the counter. I realized what he was asking, and their enthusiastic cooperation was no surprise. In a moment, the man called forth a boy of about ten from the back. He received instructions, and then Holmes wrote a short note, which he folded and handed to the little fellow. The lad then shot out the door, nodding to me with a smile as he passed back the way we had just traveled. One of the Irregulars, young Alf Peake, was now clearly on a mission.

  Resuming our journey, we turned north along Red Lion Square and into Theobalds Road, and thence into Clerkenwell Road before finally reaching our destination, a plain little confluence of streets and dark-bricked buildings.

  The less said of that unpleasant visit, the better, but it must be addressed for completeness’ sake. Along the way, Holmes and I had discussed the best way to question the reporter, Jacob Richter. It was barely possible that he was the thief. If not, the last thing we wanted to do was let him know about the theft if he had no knowledge already.

  We entered to find the man alone, writing feverishly at a rough deal table. No efforts had been made to make the place presentable. This, then, was the office of Iskra, one of the many Russian revolutionary newspapers that sprung up around London. The stench was quite ripe, and as Richter stood and walked toward us, pushing it in front of him, I realized that he personally was responsible.

  He was an odd fellow, with a high forehead. His receding hairline was so prominent, in fact, that it resembled some sort of full-face wax mask pressed back over his true visage. His eyes had a stretched and Mongol-like appearance, reflecting his peasant origins. His skull was like an inverted teardrop, bulbous at the top, and narrowing toward his chin, which sported an asymmetrical and untidy goatee. But perhaps the most striking feature about him were the angry red patches upon his cheeks that I identified as Erysipelas, no doubt exacerbated by his dissolute and unwashed lifestyle.

  An unpleasant smile lit the man’s face, and he said (in a thick accent which I will not attempt to reproduce,) “Mr. Sherlock Holmes! And his lick-spittle dog, Watson.”

  Holmes glanced at Mycroft’s list. “You are Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov, currently and illegally masquerading as Jacob Richter?”

  The smile was wiped from the man’s face. “I am Jacob Richter.”

  “Do not take us for fools, Mr. Ulyanov. You are the reporter for this... newspaper?”

  “I am a founder and editor.”

  “And you have been here in London since April, I see, associating since that time with a number of revolutionaries, including Leon Bronstein, also known as Leon Trotsky. Do you deny it?”

  “I have nothing to deny. I have done nothing wrong.”

  “Why are you interested in the upcoming coronation?”

  “Ah, I understand.” He presented a most unpleasant grin. “My visit to the chemist’s shop has come back to haunt me. And why should I not be interested? Am I not responsible for gathering news? The former Tsarina was the sister to your King’s wife. The current Tsarina is your Queen’s granddaughter. Your King’s son and the Tsar, along with the Kaiser, are all first cousins. They all claim to rule by divine right, legitimatized by your God. I am interested in the process. I shall never be able to find out specifics about
the coronation of a Tsar. But your country is much less secretive. All the parts of the whole are available for inspection, to those who are willing to do a little work and ask a few questions. I read in one of your newspapers about the use of the oil, an aspect that is common to many royal coronations. I decided to investigate.”

  “And thus you barged in to Squire’s uninvited in order to do so.”

  “So I scared the brave knight? Very sorry,” he sneered. “But there was no need for him to worry, and especially to call out the hounds.” He paused, looking us up and down. “Or in this case, the curs.”

  I started to take a step forward, but Holmes placed a restraining hand upon my arm. “No need for that, Doctor,” mocked the Russian. “You have nothing to fear concerning my interest in your king. The revolution I care about must start in my own homeland first. Only when we succeed there will its truth spread here, to all of your oppressed. In the meantime, England makes a most wonderful place to carry out our work until the time is right.”

  “You would do well to avoid taking any interest in British affairs, Mr. Ulyanov,” said Holmes. Lowering his voice, he added, “I’m sure that you understand.”

  I wasn’t sure exactly what specific threat that Holmes was implying, but his reputation seemed to be enough to educate the Russian. “You have nothing to fear from me, Englishman,” he said, the defiance in his voice substantially reduced. “I have more important work to do.”

  “Then we shall bid you farewell.” He started to turn, and then stopped to add, “It might be time for you to consider returning to the Continent, Mr. Ulyanov.”

  “My name is Jacob Richter.”

  “Indeed. You have been warned, Mr. Ulyanov.”

  Back outside, I inhaled deeply, regretting that the man’s stench would be hanging upon my clothing for a considerable while longer. “Where to now?” as I located the royal carriage, waiting just up the street. I glanced back and saw Ulyanov, as I now knew him to be, glaring out of the window toward us, where our driver was now approaching. He saw me observe him, and with a snarl, he turned and vanished back into the shop.