Now perhaps it is a matter of age, or of our preferred styles of life, but neither of us has ever made particular observance of the festive season, which in any event, either through cause or by effect, seems usually to result in something of a marked lull in the number of occasions when clients come to seek out Sherlock Holmes’ singular talents, which respite often caused him to become indolent and low.
And so it was with no small measure of surprise, approaching noon, that I observed him yawn, stretch expansively and turn from his bench with a most uncharacteristically sanguine look upon his face and startle me by exclaiming merrily “Now, Watson, do we cry ‘Humbug!’ and play a pair of wretched skinflint Scrooges, skulking in our rooms on Christmas Eve, or shall we venture out for a splendid lunch?
“It so happens that the contents of this flask will require a good four hours to complete its reaction, which I believe will afford us ample time to eat at leisure – which would be your choice, Simpson’s Divan or Rules?” I signified my preference for the latter.
And so it was that shortly after, our driver deposited us, slipping and sliding in Maiden Lane at the door of that most august of old English eating houses in Covent Garden. As one might suppose of a Christmas Eve lunch service, almost every place was taken.
As the head waiter seated us at a discreet table for two at the far right-hand corner of the Glass House I noted that most of our dining companions appeared to be prosperous well-heeled city types, bankers, stock-brokers and the like; conversations, loud or murmured, punctuated with raucous gales of mirth or forceful assertions, more or less sober, were of government bonds and the stock exchange, the economy and the state of the Empire, investments and commodities and the stability of the pound.
My companion appeared to be gazing abstractedly at some faraway point and I sensed that he was in that rare, expansive frame of mind when his inclination was most likely to expound, and so indeed it proved.
“It occurs to me, Watson, that this calling I have adopted, as Europe’s only private consulting detective, confronts me with something of a conundrum.”
“How is that, Holmes?”
“Simply, it is this; my life is wholly dedicated to the detection, pursuit and bringing to book of criminals, the logical result of which – were I to be entirely successful – would be the elimination of major crime. I speak of course, of those wicked clever men, quite devoid of moral principle – of that higher confederacy of criminal ingenuity that so challenges the greater intellect and thereby defeats the plodders of the regular force.
“Yet without the continued industriousness of our criminal brethren my very raison d’être would be extinguished like a snuffed candle. And thus it is that I am compelled to feed upon that very malignity that I seek to quell; the machinations of the superior criminal mind are my preferred meat and drink; but should I perfect my self-created science and frustrate their every effort I should surely starve. On which apt subject, my dear fellow, I do believe our lunch is here.”
We enjoyed the hearty meal in companionable quiet; I broke our silence: “I have noted you scouring the news-sheets. I presume therefore, you have no prospect of a case at present?”
Holmes smiled and steepled his fingers beneath his chin; “You are correct, of course, Watson. And yet criminals do not cease their unremitting criminality simply because the rest of the city at the festive season shivers or starves, carols or carouses.” With a mischievous smile he added “Indeed, was I so inclined and of that disposition, I would choose this precise time of the year to perpetrate a crime of the very greatest audacity!”
As Holmes finished speaking I observed Burridge, the elderly maitre d’hotel approaching our table bearing a card upon a silver salver. “I do beg your pardon Mr Holmes, but there is a gentleman of quality waiting on you in the lobby. Most perturbed he is too. It appears that your landlady advised him you were dining with us; I have told him you are in company, but he will not be put off. He insists he must see you this day, indeed this very instant, on a matter of the highest importance.”
Holmes studied the card briefly and appeared oddly satisfied, almost as if he recognised the identity of this quite unanticipated visitor, perhaps even had expected him.
“Aha Watson! It seems that merely to speak of the Devil brings him unbidden to our table! As I had very much hoped, the trio is complete – a case, unless I am very much mistaken. Pray show Mr Petch over directly.” I knew not to what trio he referred.
Burridge ushered in a tall, silver-haired, wiry and distinguished-looking gentleman – possibly exhibiting Morfans syndrome – who was enjoying, I would guess, the middle years of his seventh decade; he appeared to me to be in extremely rude health, and also in a state of some considerable agitation. His attire was perfectly sober, but unmistakably of substantial cost and quality.
He peered from Holmes to me and back again through extraordinarily thick, gold-rimmed eyeglasses. In some confusion he asked querulously “Mr Sherlock Holmes?”
“I am he, Mr Petch” said my colleague genially; “The season’s greetings to you. This is my friend, confidant and close associate, Doctor John Watson. Perhaps you wish to remove your great-coat, draw that chair to the table and tell me how I may be of service. But you appear to be somewhat agitated; will you perhaps take a calming glass? I anticipated most keenly that I might hear from you.”
Our visitor appeared puzzled by Holmes last statement, as was I; the moment passed. “The same to you, gentlemen, both, and I will take a small whisky with a little water Mr Holmes; perhaps it will settle my shattered nerves. I trust you will forgive my interrupting your lunch, but the matter is of the greatest exigency and, to be blunt, I am afraid I pressed your landlady into revealing your whereabouts.”
Holmes gestured encouragingly for him to continue, and while the waiter poured out a liberal measure of whisky with a dash of carbonated water from the gasogene for our unexpected guest, he started to pour out his story.
“Perhaps it would be as well if I begin by telling you a little of myself, and then shall I describe the dreadful events that have befallen our business, Mr Holmes?”
My colleague glanced up from our visitor’s calling card.
“That would be most helpful, as at present I can glean little more than that you are right-handed, and when you are not cultivating exotic flowers in your heated glass-house, you are an accomplished master engraver of printing plates for the production of banknotes and other valuable securities for The Bank of England; I much look forward to hearing of the matter you have come to bring to my attention. Your concern must be pressing indeed to warrant an unannounced visit, in such bitter weather, and at this season.”
Our distinguished elderly visitor stared wide-eyed at my colleague in bewilderment.
“Good Heavens Mr Holmes! That is either a baffling marvel of deduction, or a rather tasteless charlatan’s parlour trick. How and when did you learn these things? Be so good as to enlighten me.”
Holmes smiled briefly with manifest satisfaction. I waited for his inevitable summation, based as far as I could determine, solely upon the briefest of introductions, upon our unexpected visitor’s appearance and attire, and a simple calling-card. He replied “My dear Mr Petch, I have known them from the moment you presented yourself at our table. As to how I know them, it is my business to know such things. But let me set your mind at rest – you are a walking autobiography Sir! I note from your calling-card that your firm is the well-known and respected London printer of currency and bonds, though it does not advert as much in so many words; that you are a senior partner is likewise similarly evident.
“That you are a master engraver required a little more application.
“Your gold spectacles are evidently costly and new, and of an unusually strong prescription – clearly, therefore, you require to work at unusually close range to your task. Given the senior years you have attained, I assume that they are not your first pair of eyeglasses; therefore a man who renews his spectacles fr
om time to time, unless through loss or misfortune, may likely be compensating for progressively deteriorating eyesight, in your case hyperopia and possibly strabismus, caused by many years of intense and concentrated fine detail work, at extremely close distances.
“In addition, I observe a faint circular impress around your right eye, which could result from nothing other than the sustained use of a jeweller’s loupe for several hours a day.
“Add to that the most distinctive callus on the pad of your right thumb, running length-wise, and its crosswise partner on the outer edge of the first digit precisely between the first and second joints, then nothing save an engraver’s burin used habitually in your right hand serves to provide a satisfactory answer. Hendrik Goltzius’ self-portrait of his own right hand admirably illustrates the general effect. And with foreknowledge of your firm’s particular line of business, the matter resolves itself with ease.”
“And my heated glass-house?” Holmes pointed down. “A man who unwittingly walks around with a tiny orchid-bud lodged in his trouser cuff in the depths of winter could surely have acquired it only in his tropical glass-house.”
The cadaverous master engraver glanced down, retrieved the minute bloom and smiled briefly, the only occasion since he had entered the salon, then studied his right hand as if for the first time; he looked up. “Startling Mr Holmes; indeed astonishing. It appears that you have a mystical knack of being able to observe a man, shake his hand, and after the briefest conversation, divine his occupation, his history and his station in life; truly that is most extraordinary.” For the briefest instant, a look of exasperation clouded Holmes’ aquiline face. Somewhat coolly he replied “Sir, I do believe that is the first occasion I have heard my precise science of observation, analysis and deduction described as ‘a mystical knack’. I hope it may be the last.
“But should you have appetite for further magic and mystery, I shall tell you that you have very recently handled game poultry.” Petch’s eyes narrowed sceptically. “Then you will have spoken with the maitre d’hotel who surely informed you of the brace which my wife required me to collect, and which now rests in his custody on the counter in the lobby!” For answer Holmes smiled thinly, reached out a bony white hand and delicately plucked a tiny, red-gold iridescent feather from Petch’s cuff, held it high over the table and released it theatrically to float gently to the table-cloth – “Phasianus colchicus I rather fancy – the common pheasant.” The elderly engraver peered closely at it; he nodded and smiled ruefully, conceding equally the unqualified accuracy and absolute authority of Holmes’ remarkable faculties.
“I see from that rather arresting demonstration, Mr Holmes that the high recommendation I was given is well merited; you are accurate in every particular.
“I pray that when I lay our difficulty before you, you may be able to shine some light on what appears to me to be the very darkest of situations? There is all at hazard here – indeed, most likely the very stability of the entire economy of the British Empire!”
My colleague’s cold grey eyes glittered as he absorbed this grave statement and I could see that he was now as concentrated upon Mr Henry Petch as is a gun-dog upon a falling bird. I saw upon the instant that the case was entirely to his heart.
With a trembling hand, our client set down his glass upon the table and said “Mr Holmes, I will be direct. I presume I may speak candidly and in absolute confidence?”
“If you do not speak candidly, I will be unable to assist you. And unless you have come to confess your own criminality, my confidence is assured.” Petch took a long breath, like a man steeling himself for a terrible ordeal. Wary of the city-types all around he lowered his voice to an almost inaudible whisper.
“Mr Holmes, the new printing plates for The Bank of England have been stolen!
“To compound the disaster, a considerable supply of the unique security paper upon which they were to be impressed is also taken! A robbery has occurred yet there is no sign of forced entry! At this very moment, as we speak, some villain has all material and requirements to print as much money as the paper will allow, which could easily amount to more than a tenth part of all the sterling now in lawful circulation! “If it becomes public knowledge, as surely it must, that an immense quantity of unauthorised but apparently authentic money has been insinuated into general circulation, you may imagine the profound effect upon the world’s trust in the British pound! Its value will plunge in days; it will become suspect in any form of business or commerce, anywhere in England or the Empire! There may well be a run on The Bank of England!”
He took a deep, shuddering breath, and proceeded to wring his bony hands in the most extraordinary agitation. “What am I to tell the Chief Cashier and the Governor Mr Holmes?
“The implications are dreadful; nay, I do not overstate the case – ruinous!” He sat with his head in his hands, rocking to and fro, all self-possession now lost. Holmes gestured for the waiter to replenish our visitor’s glass.
“Please do not exercise yourself so, Mr Petch – all may yet not be lost. From your brief account of the circumstances I am happy to declare instantly that I shall be pleased to act on your behalf in this matter, although to be perfectly candid, I doubt if there exists another agency in all of Europe that might be able to assist you in such dire circumstances.
“You have done wisely to consult me. Have you also consulted the police?”
“I have not, Mr Holmes; I judged the matter to be far too sensitive to become a matter for uninformed public discussion. I thought it preferable first to present you with the problem.”
“Then you have been doubly wise.” He glanced circumspectly at the diners on the adjacent table, who were beginning to show an understandable but unwelcome curiosity in our highly-agitated visitor. Holmes glanced meaningfully around and very quietly said “I suggest that we retire to a more private place where we can talk freely; please finish your whisky and soda Mr Petch, perhaps lodge your game with the kitchen porter for safe-keeping, and follow on to Baker Street directly, when I assure you I shall devote my entire attention to the matter.
“I cannot at this early stage warrant a successful outcome, but I will assure you of my most strenuous efforts to retrieve your plates and paper, and apprehend the criminals behind the theft.”
I have observed many of Holmes’ prospective clients, both haughty and downcast. I have seen them fearful, importunate, and distraught, even begging, but seldom have I seen a man as completely and abjectly grateful at Holmes’ words as was Mr Petch at that instant.
His relief was quite palpable. He grasped Holmes’ hand and pumped it vigorously. “Thank you, thank you, a thousand times, thank you Mr Holmes. I have no doubt that you are very likely the only man in England who may succour us!
“I pray that you are right – perhaps all may yet not be lost.” Upon this hopeful note Holmes and I returned to Baker Street to await Mr Petch. Upon our arrival, the ever-maternal Mrs Hudson served us an afternoon tea of toasted cheese and chutney.
* * *
CHAPTER TWO
‘Angraecum Sesquipedale’
Once more before the fire at 221B, Holmes dabbed the last crumbs from his lips, drained his teacup, then stretched cat-like, eyes half closed, and gazed contentedly up at the ceiling. The coals in the grate settled, occasioning a shower of crackling sparks and a welcome, jolly blaze. We lit cigars, eagerly awaited Mr Henry Petch, and companionably pursued our own private trains of thought in silence, wherever they might lead us.
The Hampson ticked quietly and soothingly; in the distance I heard the faint strains of a familiar Christmas carol being sung most sweetly and harmoniously by children at some front door further along Baker Street.
My gaze wandered idly around the strange and – some would say – eccentric environment in which we two singletons had co-existed for some years since first we met. My eye chanced upon Holmes work-bench, where he had constructed his incomprehensible and madly jumbled array of tubes, condensers and
glass retorts, many containing their evil-looking, vile-smelling, perhaps even deadly poisonous, liquids; I then took in the bullet-pocked outline of the letters ‘VR’ patriotically emblazoned by him with his revolver in the plaster chimney-breast; surely target practice with a firearm is not to be encouraged in the confines of a London parlour!
From here my eye wandered to my unusual friend’s ‘in-tray’, the stack of correspondence yet to be attended to, skewered to the mantelshelf with a vicious seaman’s clasp-knife.
To its right hung the shabby old Persian slipper, in whose toe he stored his tobacco, alongside which rested several malodorous old dottles from the day’s pipes, which he habitually dried overnight and used for his first smoke of the following morning; on a faded tapestry-covered footstool to the right of the fireplace lay his beloved Stradivarius violin, partially covered with a chaotic and precariously piled stack of sheet music, though in truth, he rarely needed to consult it for his playing, preferring instead to improvise according to his mood.
I next took in his desk, the faded scarred green leather top of which was all but obscured by an anarchic jumble of books, a stack of blank telegraph forms, cigar and cigarette ash, several live loose revolver rounds, numerous news-sheets and scientific documents, unexplained oddities like a razor-sharp Balinese Ratmaja kris, and a fine Limoges porcelain salver covered with small lumps of assorted soils and clays.
In pride of place rested one of his most treasured possessions; the walnut-cased, matched pair of deadly accurate, exquisitely engraved Manton duelling pistols which, along with a single Louis d’Or gold coin, he had desired as his sole remuneration for his services to Admiral Lord Robert Cameron. One of these fine weapons had long ago been used by a previous Lord of the Realm in the drunken and reckless taking of his own life; and the other, or perhaps the same, had been used by Holmes to shoot down his descendant in cold blood decades after.
Sherlock Holmes & The Master Engraver (Sherlock Holmes Revival) Page 2
