Secrets From the Deed Box of John H Watson, MD (The Deed Box of John H. Watson MD)

by Ashton, Hugh

  “I have no intention of doing any such thing!” I retorted. “Do you think I would seek favours from one who has wronged you so monstrously?”

  “Calm yourself. I have no intention that you should ever actually place your financial affairs in their hands. I merely require you to engage our friend Conk-Singleton in conversation for the space of at least one hour. It is essential that you talk to Conk-Singleton and no other. Can you contrive to discuss these matters for that length of time?”

  “When do you want me to do this?”

  “As soon as is convenient. Do not waste time by going home to change,” he added, as I scanned my appearance. “You are a doctor, after all, and it is common for your profession to be awake at all hours, tending to the sick. I am sure that Conk-Singleton will excuse any irregularity in your attire.”

  I somewhat reluctantly agreed to his proposal, and set off for the City, enquiring of a policeman where the office was to be found. I was directed to an old-fashioned office on the second floor of a commercial building, where I enquired of the clerk if I might speak with Mr Conk-Singleton. The clerk appeared to be on the point of denying me entrance, when Conk-Singleton himself appeared in the doorway of one of the back offices. He started as he caught sight of me, appearing embarrassed by my presence. Nonetheless, he greeted me affably enough, though appearing more startled by my presence in his offices than might reasonably be expected.

  “Halloa! Doctor Watson. I was hardly expecting to see you here so soon. Are you here to put your business affairs in our hands, as we discussed the other day?” He spoke jocularly, but I replied with all seriousness.

  “I wish to explore this possibility, at the very least.”

  “Good, good. Excellent, in fact. Perhaps you could wait for five minutes?” he invited me. His manner now appeared brusque, almost to the point of nervousness. “Perhaps Huston will show you into our waiting-room?” he added meaningfully as he retreated into the office whence he had appeared, closing the door behind him.

  The clerk took the offered hint, and opened the door to a small, sparsely furnished room, which was apparently the room that the firm of Knight and Conk-Singleton used to accommodate those visitors who had come without appointments, or who were otherwise forced to wait. He was courteous enough, but it appeared to me that he closed the door behind him in a somewhat meaningful manner.

  There was one window in the room which faced towards the river, away from the street, and for want of any other entertainment, I amused myself by attempting to recognise as many landmarks of the City as possible. Two masterpieces of Sir Christopher Wren’s genius, the Church of St Mary Woolnoth and the Monument to the Great Fire, were both visible, as were various other churches to which I was unable to put a name. While thus engaged, I heard a door open and close, and the sounds of footsteps descending the staircase. I had previously remarked that the front door made a very distinctive sound when opened and closed, and that the porter greeted each entering visitor in a loud voice, and bade them farewell as they left, as I had passed one man leaving the building as I entered it. Even so, I heard no such sounds signalling the departure of the visitor. To my surprise, I noticed that the man who had presumably just descended the stairs had exited through the rear of the building, and was crossing the yard directly below my window. Though I could not be certain, the figure appeared to be that of Eric Morden. As I bent forward to gain a better view, the door behind me opened, and the clerk coughed discreetly.

  “Mr Conk-Singleton can see you now,” he announced.

  I thanked the clerk, and made my way to the office from which Conk-Singleton had appeared earlier.

  His earlier nervousness seemed to have vanished entirely, and he greeted me in the most affable and courteous manner.

  As requested by Holmes, I managed to protract my interview with him for approximately an hour, without committing myself to any course of action concerning my finances. I learned, though, that Conk-Singleton appeared to have intimate knowledge of the workings of many large commercial houses in the City, and he was well-connected, by his account at least, with some of the major figures in the world of national finance.

  During our conversation, which was pleasant and cordial enough, I had heard the door of what appeared to be the room adjacent to that where we were holding our discussion opening and closing to admit a visitor, at which Conk-Singleton raised his eyebrows, but offered no comment. About ten minutes after the door had opened and closed, I heard the door open and close again, and the sound of two men speaking in low tones. It was impossible for me to distinguish the words, but I fancied that I could distinguish the tones of Sherlock Holmes. Conk-Singleton likewise seemed somewhat distracted by the muffled sound of the conversation, but made no comment. At the end of our discussion as he rose to let me out, he suddenly asked me, “Have you heard anything recently from your friend Mr Holmes about the matter about which he is acting on my behalf?”

  “Why, no,” I answered. “I have not heard anything from him on that score.”

  “But he is working on the case?” he persisted.

  “As far as I am aware, he is still doing so.”

  “Ah, good. I had feared he might have been detained.” There was a subtle emphasis on the last word, which, coupled with the glimpse of Morden apparently leaving the building by the rear, led me to believe that Conk-Singleton had at least some awareness of the events that had recently befallen Holmes.

  Naturally, I was going to give no information to him on that score, any more than I had the intention of providing him with my custom with regard to my meagre portfolio of investments. As I stepped out of his office, I observed that the door of the office next to Conk-Singleton’s was open, and I saw, seated at the desk therein, a thin cadaverous-looking man, whose face with its sunken cheeks and dark deep-set eyes, exhibited all the hallmarks of villainy, in my view.

  The porter escorted me courteously to the front door of the building, and I enquired about the identity of the thin man I had seen through the door.

  “That’s Mr Knight, sir, the senior partner,” he explained to me. “A very exacting gentleman, sir, in his standards.” He refrained from making a direct comparison, but the unspoken contrast with another was implicit in his tone. I thanked him, and stepped out onto the street, where I hailed a cab for Baker Street.

  -oOo-

  When I reached Holmes’ rooms, I discovered him already there, lounging in a chair, his legs thrown over one arm of the chair, smoking his pipe and gazing fixedly at the ceiling.

  He waved a hand languidly in my direction as I entered, and I took the unspoken hint, settling myself in a chair, and lighting my own pipe. After about five minutes of companionable silence, Holmes spoke.

  “Thank you for your efforts with Conk-Singleton,” he commented. “Keeping in his office in that way was invaluable. I had a most interesting conversation with Mr Gerald Knight while you were engaged in the next room.”

  “I fancied I heard you,” I replied, “and so, too, I believe, did Conk-Singleton.”

  Holmes cocked his head quizzically. “Indeed? I am not overly concerned by that, though.”

  “And what did you learn from the senior partner? I caught sight of him as I was leaving, and I must say that I have seldom seen a more villainous-looking man of business.”

  Holmes chuckled. “He is hardly an invitation to trust, is he? I admit that I was somewhat taken aback when I entered. However, it seems to me that this is one instance where appearances may be deceptive. I have some faith in Mr Knight’s inner honesty and goodwill, despite his outward demeanour and looks.”

  “And not in Conk-Singleton’s?”

  Holmes nodded in confirmation. “My conversation with Knight was primarily conducted in order to ascertain who it was who had engaged Morden. And, as I had suspected, it was not Knight, despite Conk-Singleton’s claims, who had done so. That business was done without the knowledge of Knight, who was only informed of this engagement after the fact. And furtherm
ore, it was Knight who had suggested that I be retained on the case, after he discovered that Morden’s services had been secured, and he had instructed Conk-Singleton to dispense with Morden, and replace him with me. He was somewhat surprised, shall we say, when I informed him of Conk-Singleton’s visit with Morden the other day.”

  “And I have something to add to this,” I burst out, and told Holmes of what I had seen from the waiting-room window before I had been admitted to see Conk-Singleton.

  “Good, Watson, very good,” he remarked. “I think that our friend suspects that we are on his trail, do you not agree? Otherwise there is no call for him to use the back entrance. Another interesting point that I discovered concerns the clerk of the firm who was assaulted the other night. Michael Frignall was taken on only a matter of a few weeks ago, at the behest of Conk-Singleton. Knight has hardly set eyes on him since he joined. Apparently Conk-Singleton was constantly sending him on errands about the City, and he spent the majority of his time with the firm out of the office, it seems.”

  “You use the past tense?”

  “Yes. Frignall has been absent from his post for the past week, which period, I hardly need remind you, includes the time of the alleged assault.”

  “He is Conk-Singleton’s creature, then?”

  “We must assume so. I instructed Knight to say nothing to Conk-Singleton of the conversation that he and I had held, or even to mention my visit. I am still unsure as to Knight’s complete honesty, though I am more than inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt and to see him as the honest half of the partnership. His manner struck me as being essentially frank and open, compared to that of his partner. Of course, appearances may be deceptive, but I have no reason at present to believe otherwise.”

  “So have you come to any conclusions regarding the matter?”

  “Still none that I would regard as being definite as yet, but I am convinced that Conk-Singleton is in some way involved with the counterfeit certificates, even if he turns out not to be the prime mover behind the scheme, and that Morden is the arm used to execute many of the operations in connection with it.”

  “And to what end?”

  “There are many ways of manipulating the Exchange in such a way that the unscrupulous may profit,” replied Holmes. “For example, the price of a particular stock may be depressed artificially in order to take advantage of a contracted purchase at a lower price in the future. For men such as Conk-Singleton and Knight, there could be many ways in which they could profit by such a manipulation. There are one or two other matters to investigate before I am certain of all my facts,” Holmes added. “Let us make our way to Ealing as soon as is practicable.”

  “To Ealing?” I enquired. “It hardly seems to me to be a centre of financial activity.”

  “You might be surprised by what we can discover there,” my friend answered, smiling. He passed me a slip of pasteboard, on which were printed the words “Edward Masters” and an address in Ealing. “This is the card that Morden presented to me when he visited here. Ealing certainly has some connection with our investigations, you may be sure.”

  “You propose to beard the lion in his den, then?” I asked him.

  “I would hardly dignify Eric Morden with the title of ‘lion’, but the answer to your question is in the negative, at least as a first step. Come, Watson. Time is a-wasting, and we should be off.”

  -oOo-

  On our arrival at Ealing, Holmes made straight for a street, the name of which I recognised from the card that Morden had presented in his role as Masters, the private detective.

  “Aha!” exclaimed Holmes. “As I had surmised.” The building which was listed as the office address of Holmes’ rival was furnished with a number of brass plates outside the front door, indicating that the premises were in use by a number of different trades and businesses. The name of Edward Masters was among them. “Do you notice anything about these?” he asked me, gesturing with his stick towards the brass plates.

  “It appears to be a representative selection of various types of business and profession, such as I would expect to see here,” I replied.

  “Indeed so,” he answered. “I was, however, referring to the plates themselves, rather than to the legends upon them.”

  “None of these seems to show any signs of wear, such as would be occasioned by cleaning, though all seem to be polished recently. I would guess that all these businesses have either been established recently, or have lately moved to this building.”

  “Very good, Watson. You continue to show improvement,” said Holmes, speaking in a matter-of-fact tone with no hint of condescension. “We may also guess that this was a private residence until recently. It is not common for so many different enterprises to make their way to premises like this simultaneously. We must find out more,” pointing to a notice at the front of the building announcing a vacancy regarding one of the sets of offices within. So saying, he led the way to the offices of an agent specialising in commercial property.

  “I was considering renting an office in the South Ealing Road,” he told the clerk, naming the street which we had just quitted. “There appeared to be a vacancy at number 17.”

  The clerk shook his head. “I regret that we do not deal with that property, sir. However, if I may interest you in this one...?”

  Holmes waved aside the proffered details. “I had taken a fancy to the location of that building,” he informed the clerk. “I suppose you cannot inform me as to which agent I should apply regarding rental of premises there?”

  “I do not know for certain,” replied the other, “but you might try Duckworth and Draper at the other end of the High Street.”

  “Much obliged,” replied Holmes, putting on his hat and leaving the agency.

  At Duckworth and Draper, our enquiries met with some more success. “Yes, sir,” Holmes was informed. “There is a small set of rooms to let at the rear of the building with shared facilities. The rent would be very reasonable.”

  “Indeed so,” agreed Holmes, scanning the papers that had been passed to him. “May I enquire on whose behalf you are handling this business? In other words, who is the landlord who is letting these premises?”

  “The landlord of this building is a Mr Charles Conk-Singleton, who has a business in the City, I believe, and has recently purchased the building, which used to be a family residence. May I show you the offices now?” asked the clerk.

  “Maybe later today,” replied my friend vaguely. “I have some other business to transact.” He appeared to be on the point of leaving, and suddenly halted in his tracks. “This may seem a trifle irregular,” he remarked to the clerk, “but if I might borrow the key, I could inspect the premises for myself, and save you the trouble of having to show me around.”

  “I am sure that would be in order, sir,” answered the other. “However, please understand that I must consult my superior on the matter.”

  “Of course.”

  In a few minutes, the clerk returned. “There will be no difficulty, Mr Draper tells me, if you will provide me with your name and address.” He passed a memorandum book to Holmes, who scribbled some words within it. “Thank you, Mr Gregson.” I refrained from outright comment at this style of address, but determined to discover the truth of the matter later. “Here you are, sir. One key for the front door of the building, and one for the office at the back on the second floor. You will recognise it easily, I think, as there will be no plate on the door. At what time may I expect you to return the keys?”

  “In an hour or two at the most,” replied Holmes.

  As we left the estate agency, I could not help but ask Holmes about the name by which he had been addressed.

  “I could not risk giving my own name, nor yours,” he replied. “It would undoubtedly raise the suspicions of Charles Conk-Singleton were he to learn that I had taken an interest in the premises. I am sure that Inspector Gregson will have no objection to my borrowing his name once we apprehend the villains responsib
le for these counterfeits.” We walked a little further.

  “Holmes,” I exclaimed. “This is not the way to the South Ealing Road. Are you not going to inspect the premises?”

  “Not at present,” he chuckled. So saying, he withdrew from his pocket two small tins that had once contained tobacco, and made impressions of both keys in the clay that now filled them. “We will inspect the premises at our leisure, I think. However, I think that we will pay our call there outside the usual hours of business, and quite conceivably in company with Inspector Gregson. So you see, Watson, my furnishing of Gregson’s name to the agent is not perhaps as inappropriate as you might have at first imagined.”

  “You had suspected that Conk-Singleton owned the building?” I asked.

  “To be frank, that was a twist that had not occurred to me,” Holmes replied. “I had guessed that Conk-Singleton had helped Morden to set up his business, such as it is, but I had not suspected such direct involvement.”

  “Where are we going now?” I enquired.

  “Before we return the keys to the agent, we shall pay a call on Messrs Bilton and Sons, who are printers here in Ealing.”

  “Would they by any chance be printers of items such as share certificates?” I drew this bow at a venture, and was gratified to see Holmes’ reaction.

  “Indeed they are. Well done, indeed, Watson.”

  We arrived at the printing works, and Holmes asked to see Mr Bilton, whereupon we were shown into the presence of an elderly gentleman who received us with a grave old-fashioned courtesy. His lined face and workman-like hands told us of a life spent hard at work in his chosen trade, and his general attire and prosperous appearance displayed the fact that his labours had received their deserved reward.

  After a few minutes’ conversation in which Sherlock Holmes briefly introduced himself, he came to the point.