Sherlock Holmes & The Master Engraver (Sherlock Holmes Revival)

by Husband, Ross

  “It is not of itself a remarkable, singular or even great ability, Watson, but perhaps I may claim for myself, it is a unique talent. My eyes observe – as do yours; my brain freely deduces, and then my usually faithful cranial partner dependably presents me with the only feasible conclusion.

  “It is the way I am made. It functions with the same logic as does a common sieve. Throw all the facts, obvious and subtle, within and agitate; the most evident, and eagerly seized upon by the slowest dullard, remain within the sieve, but the small particulates of understanding – missed by most – drift through the fine mesh of observation. For me, it is among those carelessly overlooked motes that may be found the answers.

  “And now Watson, there is little more constructive that we may achieve today. I have dispatched the boy in buttons with a note to see if we can discover the identity of the cabbie who conveyed our villains to and from the murder scene, for he may be our last link in the chain to Bormanstein, – but for now we await his return. I expect Mrs Hudson will bring us some supper shortly; meanwhile old friend, do me the kindness of handing me my violin.”

  Later I retired to my room, to the soaring strains of a Haydn violin concerto...

  * * *

  CHAPTER NINE

  The First Proof

  I arose early next morning, quite unable to remain longer abed after a horrid, restive night spent plagued with hideous visions of the agonised and livid countenance of the murdered woman in Chiswick.

  In the parlour Mrs Hudson had already made up a cheery, blazing fire and was laying a sizeable breakfast out upon the starched linen. From beneath the silver covers issued the savoury aroma of kedgeree and crisp bacon, and the fragrance of fresh coffee and hot toast filled the cosy room, lifting my low spirits but little.

  After a few minutes Holmes entered the room, fresh from his toilet. “Aha! Another early bird – my ever-dependable Watson! I feel that if we are to resume the hunt for our early worm, we should fortify ourselves – I very much hope for a lively and industrious day ahead.

  “But come, my dear fellow, you seem somewhat low this morning. For what reason?” He heaped kedgeree generously upon his plate and poured coffee for us both.

  I shrugged apologetically. “Oh, you will probably think this pretty poor stuff Holmes, but I spent a most disagreeable night of dreams, in which that poor foolish woman’s awful discoloured face was slowly rotating back and forth, her bulging eyes seemingly appealing to me for justice and vengeance; I imagine that with my medical training and my warm times in Afghanistan, you suppose me to be quite hardened to such sights; I realised this morning however, just how very deeply I was affected by the awful events that occurred in that room of horrors.

  “You, by contrast, appear to be utterly unaffected by such appalling proceedings, and coldly related the whole horrifying account as if you were describing a lunch with your brother at The Diogenes Club. I suppose I may simply conclude that I am a weaker man made of ordinary flesh, blood and emotion, though sometimes I wonder if you are not become something strangely other – a cool and calculating machine, quite indifferent to human tragedy, taking pleasure solely in your cerebral struggle with the forces of evil.” At my words Holmes became still, a fork of kedgeree halfway to his mouth.

  He set it slowly back to his plate, a sombre and deeply thoughtful look upon his angular features.

  Abruptly he assumed an altogether more kindly and benevolent aspect and he reached across the small dining table to lay a strong, sinewy hand on my shoulder. “You gravely misapprehend both yourself and, I fear, me also old friend. You are by no means the weaker man, and by a country mile too! As my only, my chosen, companion on our strange adventures you consistently demonstrate the most valuable and admirable of qualities. It is simply that they somewhat differ from mine, yet they are quite indispensable and perfectly compatible.

  “I rate your bravery, dependability, loyalty and steadfastness as being of the very highest order; indeed no man could want for higher. As to your sensitivity to the suffering of individuals, it is utterly commendable, it is the hallmark of your innate decent nature and compassion – all those fine qualities which have led you to the most caring of professions – that of medicine.”

  He paused. A mischievous twinkle danced in his eyes. “Why, Watson, even your modest attempts at chronicling our investigations together have come on quite splendidly – some are even pretty stylish, and indeed I believe one day the adventures of Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson may become classic chronicles of criminal investigation which will be studied and enjoyed for a hundred years and perhaps more!

  “Your words will likely outlive us both.”

  At this flattering but wholly improbable and ludicrous notion I laughed aloud; but still I realised that my friend, with his light-hearted but deeply sincere words, had lifted my low spirits quite immeasurably.

  Much cheered, I helped myself to a breakfast of Olympian proportions, and attacked it with a will, while Holmes looked on with an air of benign amusement.

  “Now that’s more the old trencherman I know, but still I leave one of your points unnattended; you observed, I believe, that I ‘appear to be utterly unaffected by such appalling proceedings’.

  “Your comment is important, and worthy of some punctilious debate; inasmuch as I may appear to be unaffected, you are quite correct in your observation, but to believe that I am indifferent to individual human torment would be to err gravely indeed.

  “If I seem detached and dispassionate in the matter of the foolish young woman’s terrible end it is, do you see, Watson, because I must be!

  “Were I to sublimate even the least fraction of my concentration into emotional concern for an incidental victim of Bormanstein’s evil plan, I would surely start to erode any small advantage I may possess. Remember, he has now demonstrated that he will exterminate his enemies mercilessly and without compunction, and thus it is no longer a mere game that is afoot – it is a veritable battle that has been joined! Comparisons may be odious, yet I, perhaps like our own noble Lord Wellington, may not pause even for the briefest of moments in the heat of battle merely to grieve over a single tragic death or even a thousand, and thereby risk losing my initiative!

  “And while Old Nosey may publicly have declared his men to be ‘the scum of the earth’, inwardly he cared most deeply for their welfare, and they in turn, willingly fought and died for love of him.

  “Only when the battle of Waterloo was finally won at the cost of incalculable pain, suffering and loss of human life, and the ambitious Boney vanquished for good, did the great man allow his true feelings free reign.

  “I believe I quote him more or less aright when he surveyed the battlefield and the awful results of the bloody clash between two military titans; sorrowfully he commented, ‘Next to a battle lost, the saddest thing is a battle won.’

  “You see, Watson, his butcher’s bill surpassed many thousands and mine is yet but one. And so I would beg you to reserve your judgement of me until the day we survey our own final battlefield.”

  Never before had I heard my famously private and guarded friend speak so candidly of his innermost emotions, and I was much touched and affected to be the confidant of these unusually intimate revelations.

  Then, almost as if he were embarrassed by his own candour, he abruptly turned the conversation in a more business-like direction.

  “Now, today I have great expectations, having last night instructed the boy Billy to visit the cabstand in Marylebone and enquire the identity of the cabman who carried our killers to Chiswick last night, and rather more importantly, where they later alighted. I would expect the fellow to appear at any moment.”

  At that instant we heard the distinctive sound of a hansom rumbling to a halt below our window.

  “Hulloa!” he cried, peering down into the street below. “Yes, I do believe that is he as we speak. But hold! No I speak too soon, for the cabman is still atop, whipping up and departing!”

  Footst
eps pounded raggedly up the stairs and the door crashed violently open to admit not a London cabman, but another, now-familiar figure. He looked pinched and haggard, and appeared to me to be even gaunter than when we first met him, if such were possible.

  For the second time in as many days we had received a caller close to collapse. He stood swaying in the doorway, one hand clawing weakly at his thin heaving chest, gasping hoarsely like a landed fish, eyes wide with panic, and stared clear through us with a hysterical, glassy look. His clothes were shamefully awry, his toilet sorely neglected for he had not shaved nor combed his hair since rising, and he lacked a spat on his unlaced left boot.

  Had I not known him for who he was, and recognised the evident quality of his attire, I would surely have taken him for some unfortunate, bewildered and be-whiskered tramp, clad in discarded clothes benevolently donated to him by some charitable gentleman. It was Mr Henry Petch.

  My duty as a physician was immediately evident; he required the most urgent assistance. Even as I made to aid him, he sagged to his knees, and would have collapsed quite completely had I not grasped his arms and hauled him upright. I helped him gently into the easy-chair before the fire while Holmes arranged the old plaid travelling rug around his shoulders.

  After several inhalations of Spirits of Hartshorn his breathing moderated somewhat, though still he remained unable to speak coherently. Weakly he struggled within his private pocket and laboriously retrieved an envelope which he dropped upon the table beside him, weakly indicating for Holmes to open it, before collapsing back in the chair.

  While my colleague examined the envelope I poured a stiff whisky and water for our client. Once Mr Petch was over the worst of his hysteria I returned my attention to Sherlock Holmes.

  With his powerful lens he scrutinised every inch of the outside of the envelope. “Delivered by hand I see, your name but no address, a man’s thumbprint faintly impressed in...” he sniffed the mark “...black printer’s ink I declare.” With this observation his countenance clouded. The still near-speechless Petch flapped his claw-like right hand, urgently gesturing for Holmes to explore within the envelope. Lifting the flap, Holmes removed two items. The first was a sheet of writing paper folded in half, from within which he slowly and delicately withdrew the second item. I realised I was holding my breath; and as it emerged I recognised it upon the instant.

  It was a perfect example of a pristine, uncirculated Bank of England £10 note. Undoubtedly this was the first earnest of the villains’ criminal intent. Holmes examined it carefully, and sniffed it deeply.

  At the sight of the note, held carefully aloft between the tip of Holmes’ forefinger and thumb, Petch recoiled even deeper into his chair. The room became as still as a tomb.

  Holmes seated himself beside this trembling nervous-wreck of a man that had once been the ardent seeker of beauty, the aesthete, the enthusiastic botanist and accomplished master engraver we had first encountered in the convivial Christmas-Eve setting of Rules’ Restaurant; he had degenerated beyond all recognition.

  Holmes addressed him softly but firmly. “Mr Petch, I understand your extreme distress, but I beg that you will compose yourself. This, I make no doubt, is a proof from the missing plates is it not? When did you receive it?”

  Petch nodded bitterly. “Last night; they have prostituted my art Mr Holmes; they have taken my finest work, a thing of virtue and beauty and corrupted it into a gambler’s plaque for Mammon, a plaything for Gog and Magog, a vile instrument of criminality to gratify their untrammelled avarice and depraved greed!”

  Petch stared as one hypnotised at the banknote, almost as if it possessed some force for evil of its own deep within its flimsy form. “Before me is my worst nightmare made incarnate; if they can produce one they can produce one quarter of a million! We shall all be ruined!

  “We must surely now alert the Bank Mr Holmes without further delay, before we are drowned in this base, vile counterfeit money!”

  Holmes smiled sceptically. “You may be right my dear Mr Petch, but let us hold that course in abeyance for a moment, and turn our attention to the banknote itself, and more particularly, to the message that accompanies it. To my eye the banknote appears to be quite the proper thing, and I imagine it would pass in exchange almost anywhere, which allowing your undoubted artistry, is only to be expected; I shall require to retain this for a period.” Abruptly he again sniffed it all over.

  “But the letter is for me of rather greater interest:

  ‘As you value your life consult no-one. Await my instructions.’

  “Does that not strike you as somewhat curious Watson?” Here, at last, was one of those rare but infinitely agreeable occasions when I felt passably confident that my own modest deductive method coincided precisely with that of Holmes. I apprehended my colleague’s meaning and made so bold as to address my answer both to Holmes and to Mr Petch.

  “You must own that Holmes has the right of it, Mr Petch. If the thieves’ intent were simply to print counterfeit money for their own gain, what need have they of sending you the first proof? They already have all the means to hand. This proof merely serves to demonstrate that they have co-opted a competent printer into the gang. So why trouble to alert you – why raise an alarm so early in the game? No Mr Petch, if I read my colleague aright” – I glanced at Holmes – “there is a deeper motive here, hence ‘Await my instructions.’ I would hazard a guess that there is some matter they wish to negotiate or discuss, now that they hold the advantage.”

  I glanced tentatively at Holmes and was gratified to see him smiling, in full accord. “Doctor Watson is quite accurate in his analysis Mr Petch – indeed there is little more that I can add except perhaps to advise you that in view of circumstances I anticipate shortly, I see no reason whatever why this matter need yet be broadcast beyond these walls.

  “I have some modest hopes that we shall recover your plates, paper, and any notes already printed in advance of their circulation, within...” he paused, closed his eyes and appeared to perform some brief mental calculation “...let us say a matter of a very few days.

  “I rather fancy these villains have a particular reason of their own for informing you that they can and have printed successfully, and I very much expect we may not have long to wait before we hear from them again...”

  He looked thoughtful, and then concluded with a somewhat enigmatic smile “...unless, that is, they hear from Sherlock Holmes first...”

  At this, Petch looked up sharply, a small glimmer of hope shining in his exhausted, rheumy eyes. “So soon Mr Holmes! You have made progress then?”

  “My justice takes a swift transport Mr Petch, but I will not be pressed further; I have a preference to be the bearer of fact, rather than the purveyor of speculation. For now, I await quite essential information, which I believe will dramatically advance our patriotic crusade. These matters you may with confidence leave in our hands.

  “But with the arrival of this ill-omened note, there is a more urgent matter which I fear may involve us all. We have debated the meaning of the second sentence. The first is no less significant – you note that you are cautioned: ‘As you value your life consult no-one’.

  “Watson, do me the kindness of stepping over to the window and see if the ill-looking ruffian I observed earlier is still loafing in the doorway opposite... No! Do not disturb the curtain!”

  I peered warily through the narrow gap between the gauzes, and sure enough there he was, a vicious-looking, beetle-browed mountain of a brute idling directly opposite, casting occasional shifty glances up at our window. I turned and nodded grimly at Holmes, confirming his suspicion.

  He addressed our client once more. “I do not wish to alarm you unduly Mr Petch, but we are, even as I speak under surveillance; it is not unreasonable to suppose that the bruiser standing watch over the road is reporting back to his principal, and will certainly carry news of your visit here today. Thus are we all under grave threat in this business.

  “Thes
e are risks to which the good Doctor and I are accustomed, but I fear you also now must look to your own close protection, for these villains will stop at nothing. Do you possess a personal firearm?”

  The elderly gentleman looked up at Holmes with a curious air of something between defiance and resolve. “I do indeed Mr Holmes; as a younger man, a significant part of my responsibilities was the conveyance of securities of particularly substantial face-value around London, and I routinely travelled with a fully loaded six-barrelled revolver in my pocket. I believe I can readily lay my hands upon my old 20-bore Beattie Pepperbox; like me, it may be somewhat vintage in years, but I believe together we may still offer a formidable deterrent!”

  “That is well Mr Petch” said Holmes. “Hereon I would strongly urge you keep it loaded and about you at all times.”

  Privately I had reservations at the notion of this volatile septuagenarian engraver, aesthete and orchid-grower, already in a state of considerable emotional distress, loose upon the streets of London and heavily armed with an ancient, lethal six-barrelled large-calibre revolver! However my colleague seemed satisfied enough with the arrangement, and I put the thought from my mind.

  Holmes delicately cleared his throat and addressed Petch once more. “One final matter Mr Petch; when did you last speak with your maid?”

  “I recall the occasion well; it was the day before yesterday. She bade me farewell at around six o’clock, for my wife had granted her several days free so that she might meet with her sister – I do not expect her to return for a week.”

  Sombrely Holmes replied “I regret I have bad news Mr Petch; Dulcie Hobbs will not return in a week, or a month, or even in a year for you see, she was discovered hanged in her locked rooms in Chiswick early yesterday morning.”

  “Good Heavens! There must be some dreadful mistake; she left our house in the highest of good humours, so pleased was she at the prospect of seeing her sister and mother! Why on earth would she then go to her home and commit suicide?”