“Good afternoon gentlemen; welcome to my small kingdom of Paradise Lost. Have you come to relieve me of some other soul’s unredeemed pledge, or are you perhaps come to add some item to this world of indebtedness?”
Holmes paused. “Mr Kauffmann? Mr Julius Kauffman?” The elderly gentleman vanished momentarily from his station, and promptly reappeared inside the shop through a cunningly concealed door, secured no doubt with locks of the highest security, judging from the series of clicks and snicks as keys were turned and bolts slid back.
“I am he; how may I help you? I believe I may claim that my advances are more generous than many, my interest charges more lenient than most, and my sales of unredeemed pledges are priced to yield little more than a modest return on my outlay.”
Holmes smiled genially. “I am sure that is all true Mr Kauffmann, but our business today concerns another matter. I am Sherlock Holmes; this is my colleague Doctor Watson and we are here on an altogether different matter. It is in connection with your recent visit to The Bank to deposit your takings; you will perhaps recall some trivial irregularity concerning the ten-pound note which you presented yesterday?”
Kauffmann frowned in puzzlement. “There is no need in the slightest for concern Mr Kauffmann; The Bank has merely asked me to investigate the circumstances whereby a mis-printed proof-note came erroneously and prematurely to enter into public circulation – a careless administrative error of The Bank’s own making I feel sure, and easily resolved.
“I understand that the note in question was not tendered to you but to your assistant? Perhaps I might speak with him about the transaction concerned?” The little pawn-broker relaxed somewhat. “Mr Meyer, will you attend out here please.” The young man left his station and reappeared through the concealed door. “Meyer, this is Mr Sherlock Holmes. He is acting for The Bank in the matter of the mis-printed ten-pound note I mentioned to you. You will recall that you accepted it. Please be good enough to relate to Mr Holmes the circumstances of the transaction.” At the mention of my colleague’s name the young man’s eyes widened.
“Mr Sherlock Holmes? The Sherlock Holmes? Why, I hear of Sherlock Holmes everywhere! I’ll be honoured to assist.” He sounded his silent aitches. “It was the day before yesterday Mr Holmes; business was very slow and I was minding the shop on my own while Mr Kauffmann was out on a valuation. For the longest time I had been watching two fellows peering in the front window at the display of silver; burly, ill-looking ruffians, shabbily dressed and marked with cuts and bruises they were.
“The shorter of the two had a very large, fierce-looking dog of some sort on a chain. The larger appeared to be pointing at a particular item in the window, whereupon there seemed to be an altercation between the two, the smaller, seemingly attempting to dissuade the larger from his purpose. Eventually the bigger man had his way and entered the shop; he appeared to me to be somewhat ill at ease, rather nervous. His eyes went in different directions so you didn’t know which one to look at.”
Holmes made no sign of recognising this increasingly familiar description, or of the fact that we two had almost certainly encountered the pair ourselves only recently in the grimy Streets of Cubitt Town. Holmes remained silent.
“Anyway, he asked to examine a bracelet comprising thirty linked flat disks of silver, which I retrieved from the window case. It was a reasonably substantial item, priced at two pounds ten shillings but he seemed not in the least deterred by the cost, and further asked if we could have the bracelet engraved for him, which is something we offer through the services of a nearby man. I duly wrote down the words he required to be engraved, and he dictated a local address where it was to be delivered upon completion. It was the address of a woman; I think perhaps a sweet-heart?
“What with the additional engraving requirement, I naturally insisted on payment in full before proceeding any further with the commission. He paid with a new ten-pound note which had been sharply folded in four. Being such a large denomination of note I examined it closely though discreetly and it appeared to me to be good; I gave him his change and he departed.”
At this intelligence Holmes’ cold grey eyes blazed with excitement, like white-hot coals on a smithy’s forge. “Tell me Mr Meyer, when was the bracelet to be delivered? Do you still retain the slip upon which you recorded the details of the transaction?”
“I do Mr Holmes, excuse me one moment” and he darted back through the secret door, to reappear some moments later, flourishing a yellow flimsy which he proffered to us; Holmes snatched it and scanned it eagerly. “May I retain this Mr Meyer – it is of considerable significance; I note the bracelet was to be delivered this morning.” The young man looked uncertainly to Kauffmann for approval. The pawnbroker nodded his acquiescence, and so with suitably fulsome thanks all around and many reassurances, we departed the premises of Messrs Kauffmann Brothers. Outside on the pavement once more Holmes consulted the yellow slip with evident satisfaction.
“This is quite excellent Watson; we shall now walk a short way to Narrow Street in Limehouse. Do you recall what I told you after we visited Dulcie Hobbs’ rooms – the wisdom of the Yard – ‘if you ask whichever officer of the establishment how they take most villains, he will tell you – at the houses of the women’ and so it proves to be, time and again. It is their eternal weakness and thus it plays to our strength.” We walked south towards the river for some minutes before Holmes spoke again.
“I am not entirely taken by surprise at what we have learned from young Meyer but now in knowledge of our next destination, with hindsight, I would have wished that one of us were armed.” I patted my coat pocket. “Never fear Holmes; after our horrid discovery at 64 Chiswick High Road I privately resolved to keep my revolver loaded, close at all times, and upon my person always when out and about until this business is done.”
“Stout fellow” he murmured, and strode on. No matter what danger might lie in wait, I could not wish for anything better than to be associated with my friend in one of these strange adventures which were the ordinary condition of his existence.
Whatever odd fading vestiges of gentility might have existed here and there in Whitechapel High Street vanished rapidly as we headed south, giving way to the meanest, vilest streets I believe I have ever walked, and in this I would include the most impoverished villages I encountered in Afghanistan, many of which would put this foul place to shame.
Seemingly derelict houses leaned crazily into the ever-narrowing streets at impossible angles, more or less according to their degree of dilapidation and neglect. Only lines of grubby washing, the odd wisp of smoke from a chimney pot, and freshly-strewn garbage upon the street outside the doors betrayed the fact that these noisome hovels were inhabited by human beings.
On street corners and in dark doorways, gangs of menacing-looking ruffians muttered in low voices, turning their backs as we passed. On one occasion we were followed for a short distance by the sounds of foul oaths and coarse laughter. Unimaginably dirt-encrusted urchins played in filth, indifferently watched from doorsteps by slatternly gossiping women; I shuddered at the abominable lives eked out by these sad creatures of the under-world, and all the while the air became more noxious, heavy with the evil reek of bad water, decay, and years of accumulated human waste.
I thought I detected a strong whiff of the same decayed odour on the counterfeit notes, but it may have been my imagination, in an entire world of decay.
Treading with some care through the mire of the streets, we eventually arrived at the rotting door of number 11 Narrow Street. A stained, peeling, crudely written scrap of card nailed to the door proclaimed in childish characters the proud occupant of this dire place to be:
DAISY GOODCHILD (Miss).
Holmes wrinkled his nose in distaste; cynically he muttered “It would seem that Daisy Goodchild, despite her apparently ardent admirer, still wishes casual passers-by to know that she is yet unattached...”
He made to knock upon the grimy, sagging door with his b
are knuckles, thought better of it, and fastidiously rapped with the soiled ferrule-end of his walking cane. Within, a child mewled shrilly and was silenced with a harsh shout and what sounded like a sharp blow, after which there was silence for some moments, followed by cautious footsteps approaching the door. After a short pause the handle turned and the door creaked open a mere crack to reveal in the gloom within, a suspicious eye peering out at us... I gripped the comforting butt of the heavy piece hidden in the pocket of my Ulster. Querulously a woman spoke; “Who’s there? Sidney already paid the rent if that’s what yer come for.” Hearing a female voice I eased my grip on the revolver.
Abruptly the door started to close; Holmes’ foot moved swiftly to wedge it open. “Miss Goodchild – there you are in error! We are not come to ask for money, but to pay what you are owed. If I may explain...” The solitary eye peered out more hopefully, and slowly the door squealed fully open to reveal a not unappealing young woman, save that her other eye was quite as black-and-blue as both of Solomon Warburg’s had been after his savage attack. The sour odours of unwashed bodies, linen long overdue for laundering, stale food, tobacco and alcohol wreathed evilly out to assail us.
As the woman stepped forward I noted the silver bracelet looped around her left wrist.
Suavely Holmes continued: “Miss Goodchild I presume? I represent Kauffmann Brothers, the respected jewellers in Whitechapel where your friend recently purchased a gift for you – a Mr Sidney Belton I believe? Ah, I see it has already been delivered to you – is all to your satisfaction? It certainly looks charming if I may say so.” The creature essayed a coquettish simper, which appeared perfectly grotesque from behind the blue-black blood-engorged, discoloured eye. My friend resumed: “It appears that Mr Belton was inadvertently handed rather less change than was correct, to the amount of two pounds and fifteen shillings – a most unfortunate oversight on our part, for which I apologise. We are come to return it if you would be good enough to provide me with your friend’s address.”
Upon the instant a clever, cunning look passed across the woman’s face. “Two pounds and fifteen shillings you say Sir? A sizeable sum. Well you can hand that to me now if you please.” Holmes gave her a pained, apologetic smile. “Would that I could Miss, for it would save me valuable time of which I have very little to spare, but the fact of the matter is that the receipt is made out to Mr Sidney Belton, and it is our strict business policy that such returns may only be made to the purchaser. If you could just give me his address we can clear the matter up forthwith...” Cowed by Holmes’ authoritative tone, she yielded. “You’ll find him across the river on Jacob’s Island; number 30 Jacob Street, by the tannery, hard by Tan’s Yard.”
Gravely he thanked Miss Daisy Goodchild and we departed that vile place. The fog was once more closing in like an oppressive brown blanket falling from the murky sky; we decided to return for the night to the warmth, safety and comfort of our familiar rooms in Baker Street.
Mere days now remained until the criminals’ grave threat would be made real, and millions of pounds of counterfeit sterling currency fed like a sinister and lethal poison into the nation’s economy...
After a slower than customary journey through the thickening fog we eventually attained Baker Street somewhat after eight o’clock, where we wreaked hearty havoc upon a scratch supper of chicken broth and a cold game pie with buttered greens. Quietly Mrs Hudson entered, banked up the fire, cleared the remains of our meal and departed, uttering a small sigh of exasperation at the state of our boots which I had placed outside the parlour door for the boy to attend to.
In our customary chairs before the flickering coals once more, Holmes spread a large-scale map of South London across his knees and proceeded to examine it minutely, while I sought through the pages of Dickens’ ‘Oliver Twist’ for the passage I recalled which so vividly described our afternoon’s adventure in this seamy part of the Capital, for I found I was deeply affected by the abominable circumstances of that ghastly place, and the mean lives its denizens eked out there... I found the passage I sought:
“...crazy wooden galleries common to the backs of half a dozen houses, with holes from which to look upon the slime beneath; windows, broken and patched, with poles thrust out, on which to dry the linen that is never there; rooms so small, so filthy, so confined, that the air would seem to be too tainted even for the dirt and squalor which they shelter; wooden chambers thrusting themselves out above the mud and threatening to fall into it – as some have done; dirt-besmeared walls and decaying foundations, every repulsive lineament of poverty, every loathsome indication of filth, rot, and garbage...”
Abruptly, Holmes set aside his map and turned to me. “You are much impressed by what we saw today Watson, for I observe you are deep in the works of one of our keenest observers of the criminal classes – Dickens’ ‘Oliver Twist’ if I am not much mistaken. Let me guess, might it be the passage where Sykes meets his gruesome but well-deserved end in the poisonous mud of Folly Ditch?” I nodded.
“Indeed Holmes. I confess I am depressed and startled at observing intimately, such deprivation, such degradation, at witnessing human beings living at the lowest believable level, faring no better than beasts of the field, and in this modern technical age of wonders, electric illumination, the telegraph, medical advances unparalleled... the rookeries of Seven Dials seem almost wholesome by contrast.”
“Then tomorrow dear friend, I fear we must steel ourselves for a far more unpleasant ordeal, for we go to hunt our quarry in his lair, and it is concealed in an environ considerably more dreadful than that which you witnessed this day.” I shuddered involuntarily, and then with a start, understood the full import of Holmes’ words. I realised that he now knew full well where the criminals were located!
“How long have you known this matter Holmes?”
He stepped to the mantel, retrieved his bulging Persian slipper and favourite foul briar, arrayed them alongside the vestas and cigarette box and reseated himself, now upon the soft old Turkey carpet before the mellowing fire.
I concluded that he was preparing for an all-night sitting; ‘quite a three-pipe problem’ as he had once pronounced to me. “How long? Well, I have had suspicions from the very moment we received the second proof. They were then reinforced by several apparently small but vital factors – among them, the precise time the blackmail demand appeared on the wall at Slater’s Yard after we encountered the two thugs, particularly the odour of the third proof presented to us by Mr May, and subsequently the yellow slip so fortuitously provided by young Mr Meyer; it is lying there upon my desk.”
He sat silent for a long moment, his long arms folded, chin sunk upon his chest. He appeared to be striving to recall something.
Suddenly and to my surprise he sombrely intoned:“Thirty pieces of silver burns on the traitor’s brain; thirty pieces of silver! Oh! It is hellish gain!” I eyed him with considerable curiosity and waited; Holmes was not a natural poet. “It occurs to me, Watson, that it is close to two thousand years since the last notable betrayal for a mere thirty pieces of silver.” He passed me the yellow slip. I read it and understood;
Sold to Mr Sydney Belton: One ladies’ silver bracelet, thirty roundels and links. Overall weight four ounces – £2.15s.
Engraving: ‘To My Daisy from Her Sidney’ (4s.11d)
Cash received with thanks: £2.19s.11d
Deliver to: 11 Narrow Street (A.M.)
I looked back at Holmes. “Clearly Belton must have been so maddened by the sight of so much easy money that he secretly purloined a counterfeit note in order to indulge his romance, or perhaps to make amends for the consequences of his violence!
“Then his overweening greed has betrayed his master’s whereabouts for a paltry thirty pieces of silver! Surely Holmes, all we now need do is observe him at his lodgings and follow wherever he goes, for assuredly he must eventually lead us to the lair?”
My friend applied a match to his briar, puffed steadily for some moments, and
at length, from within a dense cloud of pungent tobacco smoke uttered in a tone of the deepest satisfaction;
“Judas Silver...”
* * *
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The Villains Are Taken!
I rose early the following morning – three days now remained until the ransom demand expired – only to discover that Holmes had breakfasted sparingly and departed at what must have been a most ungodly hour. The measureless amounts of intellectual and physical energy he continued to invest in this most demanding of investigations surely could not be sustained with tea and toast alone, yet such appeared to have been his meagre repast that bleak and foggy morning. An egg and three rashers of bacon remained cold, congealed and quite untouched upon his plate.
In something of a reflective mood, and wishing for a quiet morning, I resisted the urge to call down to Mrs Hudson for breakfast; instead I buttered a round of toast, heaped the bacon and fried egg upon it and topped it with a second slice, generously spread with mustard. Ruminatively I munched my cold sandwich beside the fire, and pondered when and how this adventure might finish. That it would end soon seemed assured, for I was certain that Holmes now knew precisely where the chase would be concluded. As to the finish, I was by no means as confident.
It was clear beyond all doubt that at the final dénouement we would be confronting the most desperate of London’s villains, who had already furnished ample proof of their casual indifference to inflicting savage violence, pitiless torture and calculated murder upon those who stood in their path. These men, and we knew not how many they numbered, would stop at nothing to achieve their end.
Idly I wandered to the window and gazed down at the street below. There was little to divert me there; a cabbie appeared to be arguing good-naturedly with his newly-alighted customer – perhaps a disagreement about the fare; three elderly women stood gossiping in a group, apparently comparing their purchases; a pair of tough looking characters idled in a doorway opposite, talking behind their hands. I observed them sneaking swift furtive swigs from a shared spirit bottle, and none too covertly either. Were they, too, spying on 221B? I noted that the fog was now little more than a heavy mist, and the gas-lights had been extinguished.
Sherlock Holmes & The Master Engraver (Sherlock Holmes Revival) Page 22
