Lestrade nodded. “The ‘possessions’ are far-flung, and should the supply lines between them and their mother-country be severed they could easily fall to another power. Northgate amused himself merely, although the basis on which he worked was genuine. He had war-office maps of the area—not exactly illegal, but they should not have been in his possession. And although he drew up an entire campaign, that was not what created the mischief. Northgate has many prominent friends, and to amuse himself he placed a number of them as the supposed leaders of a preemptive strike against the invading country, in charge of guerilla and other unofficial forces. He moved fleets into position…”
“In what way?” Holmes questioned.
“He drew up telegrams to be sent, even adding times and dates when they were to be transmitted. His entire plan, in fact, had not only the names of real men, a number in appropriate positions already, and others not impossibly so, but he added dates to everything, and as I have said, his instructions to various Fleet Commanders were written as telegrams, apparently ready to be sent.”
“What dates?” I asked quietly, beginning to see some of the possible impending dangers.
Lestrade groaned. “In five months, in the spring of 1904. The worst of this is that, as I say, Northgate has many friends both in the government and in the various services, and he has discussed all the possibilities of his campaign with them and received their suggestions. When word of his ‘hobby’ came to my ears. I went to his house and talked to him about it. I thought it dangerous. He thought it amusing. Yes, he had drawn up such a campaign. He planned to fight a battle with lead soldiers and dice against two friends, beginning on the date he had chosen as the start of this ‘war.’ I borrowed the papers and had them studied by a military expert who said that not only did they appear to be a possibly successful campaign, but also they gave a strong appearance of verisimilitude. Had I not told him of their provenance, he said, he might have believed them genuine.”
He looked sour at that. “It bothered me. I could not exactly explain why, but I felt that the papers were dangerous, so I quietly put a man into Northgate’s house here in the city. Detective Len Rogers is an up-and-coming man and a protégé of Harrison’s. Len is young yet, but his dad was a constable for many years and rose to become a sergeant. That watch the cat found? Harrison tells me that Rogers’s father bought it to mark his tenth year as a policeman. Just before he retired, he risked his life to protect a young lady, and her family presented him with a silver one. So he passed on that brass watch to Len when the lad joined the force, giving him a better chain as a twenty-first birthday present.”
Even as Holmes had deduced, I reflected.
“He acted as a footman?” Holmes offered. “And he purchased a pair or two of Alfred Jessup gloves for the role. What was he able to tell you?”
“Nothing, Mr. Holmes. He made reports every third day, and he had seen and heard nothing that caused him any alarm.”
Miss Emily raised her head and looked him in the eye. “And those were the papers that were stolen? Do you think whoever took them thinks that they are real, or would they sell them knowing them to be false but hoping to make money?”
Lestrade smiled wryly at her. “Excellent questions. Well, Mr. Holmes?”
Holmes steepled his fingers and contemplated us over them. “I think that it matters little. The question is, if those papers reach… the power in question, will they believe them genuine? I fear they will.”
Harrison spoke quietly. “Sir, could our government not approach that power? Tell them what happened and assure them that the papers were merely the pastime of a dilettante, a man whose hobby is playing with toy soldiers and enacting mock battles against elderly friends?”
“Would that we could, lad. You do not know the power in question. They are always ready to see a slight, and even readier to believe someone is poised to attack. The expert said honestly that had he not known from where the papers came, he would have thought them genuine. Do you not think that if the power buys them at some cost, they too will be predisposed to accept them? Yes, we could go to them now and say that the papers were false, yet they would still purchase them if they could to see why we were agitated, and finding them all too convincing, they would disbelieve us the more readily.”
We stared at each other glumly. I had fought in one war and wished for no other. Holmes stirred. “What of Northgate? Did you know that he was missing?”
“I still do not know,” Lestrade averred.
In reply Holmes spread out the bloodied handkerchief, showing the entwined initials. “H. J. C. N,” he read. “Horace Justyn Calthrope Northgate.”
“He may have lent the handkerchief to my man.”
“I think you would do well to assume the worst,” was all Holmes said.
Lestrade stood. “Northgate has many friends and a lot of influence. You are likely right and I should not waste time. Harrison, go to the hospital and see how Len is doing. Much may depend on what he can tell us. If they say it will be hours or longer before he can account to us, then rejoin me. If, however, they think that he may be able to speak soon, stay with him. In either case, go by the local station and have them put a constable on his door. Two if need be. Tell them Detective Rogers is not to be left alone for a minute, nor is anyone to enter his room save those identified by other medical staff.”
Holmes eyed him approvingly. “That is sensible. He may be the only person who knows who abducted his temporary employer and where the man may be now. Meanwhile, Watson and I shall make our own inquiries.”
Lestrade and Harrison took their leave and Miss Emily turned to us. “Do you think I should keep Mandalay in for a few days?”
“I do. He is a sensible cat, but he will not be popular with Brand’s friends if they discover how he betrayed them. Still, he has done well, and if Lord Northgate survives, he will no doubt give Mandalay more salmon.”
I may add that as we departed the suite Miss Emily, feeling her cat had indeed done well, gave him the remainder of the salmon, to his extreme and vocal pleasure.
We began our own inquiries the next day. It was my task to drop into a number of the more respectable hotels in the area, and in their public bars to drink a glass of something mild while casting an eye over the patrons. I was not looking for Persimmon Brand, but a man of somewhat higher caliber named Western.
“He is in a similar line of work to Brand’s occupation of fencing,” Holmes informed me. “He was born a gentleman, but came down in the world. He has a minor grudge against Brand, but he won’t speak for that.”
“Then why will he?”
“Because you will tell him that Brand is dabbling in government secrets that may injure the Monarchy and the reputation of the country,” Holmes replied. “Western was, in a way, cheated of his hereditary rights, and for that he has had to make his own way, but whatever Frederick Western may be now, he comes of a line of men who served their country. Men draw lines, Watson; they say to themselves that they may do this and that, but these are venial sins, done to make a living. They frown on actions they see as beyond that point, thus do they feel themselves still superior. Tell Western something of what has happened, using no names but that of Brand. Western will tell you what he knows and may agree to be helpful, since in that way he both harms an old enemy and convinces himself that he is not truly a criminal.”
It took me into the second day, but I found Frederick Western in the bar of The Royal Prince in Wapping. He was a man with moderate pretensions to good looks and wearing some smartness of dress. I thought him to be in his early to mid thirties and a little under six feet in height, while his figure was that of a man whose excesses did not run to either drink or gluttony. I allowed myself to drift towards him, agreed with a remark that he made to someone who seemed to be a casual acquaintance, and when he looked favorably on me, I offered him a drink.
“Thank you, sir.”
I nodded and introduced myself. “Doctor John Watson.”
“Frederick Western, of the Northampton Westerns.”
His voice was well bred, though slightly overlaid with more recent and less polite accents, so that I saw what Holmes had meant. Here was a man who had fallen to making a living by nefarious means, but had never forgotten his roots. Holmes had also told me somewhat of the family.
So I smiled in recognition. “Ah, you mean the Pentwood estate? I had heard that all that had gone, not entailed, and sold up to strangers. A pity, a valiant family and very well regarded before the direct line died.”
He stared. “You know of them then?”
I merely nodded, not pointing out that I could hardly have said what I had if I had not known of them.
Western smiled, an expression of great charm, and I saw that the warmth was genuine. He was pleased to discover someone who knew his family name and spoke well of them; from then on I had a friend. We shared drinks, talk, I mentioned my war service, and eventually I invited him to have dinner with me, taking him to a small but pleasant eating-house that Holmes had recommended. Once we were eating dessert I allowed him to draw from me why I was in the area.
“I would say nothing, but the word of a Western of Pentwood must always be acceptable.” He assured me that he would say nothing of what I told him, no matter what it might be, and we shook on that. I leaned back in my chair, called for a moderately good brandy, and began.
“I am looking to find out all that I may about a man currently in London. He is a danger to the Monarchy and either a spy himself or in their pay. He is an Englishman and therefore a traitor.”
Western looked disgusted. “Any Englishman who turns against his country should be shot,” he said briefly.
I thought his disgust, too, to be genuine and was heartened. Persuading him to assist me might not be as difficult as I had feared.
“It’s like this. A certain man of a noble family has a hobby…” I explained that hobby and what had come of it, Western listening intently. “So a friend and I have been asked to find this Persimmon Brand. Frankly, Mr. Western, I cannot understand what possessed the man to turn on his own country. He is providing aid to foreigners and,” I lowered my voice, “if it continues, there may be war.”
Western’s gaze met mine. “War?”
“Yes, there are agents of a certain power in London. If these foolish papers were to be sold to them…” I broke off, giving him a significant look, and he nodded pensively, showing for the first time a sharp intelligence that gleamed through the bland attitude.
“I see, yes, they would take them as genuine. That’s the way they would be presented and sold. And if all you say of the papers is true, the powers in another country might well decide that a preemptive strike would be safest.”
I allowed a glimpse of my admiration to show. “You have it, Mr. Western. That’s what is feared. I need to find this scoundrel, a man named Persimmon Brand. He’s involved; we do not know exactly how or how deeply his involvement runs, but there’s no doubt that he is mixed up in it. Brand was identified at the place where a police officer and the man who created the papers were incarcerated. A witness says that Brand received a note that suggested it came from a fellow conspirator.”
Western showed no response at the name, although according to Holmes he knew the man.
“Persimmon Brand, you say. Well, I do have friends and acquaintances all though London and particularly in this area. Let me speak quietly to them, Dr. Watson. If we meet again for lunch tomorrow it may be that I can tell you something of Brand, perhaps even where he lodges.”
We parted on excellent terms and I returned rejoicing, to find Holmes enjoying a whisky and soda stretched out in his favorite armchair. He turned to study me as I entered. “Ah, you have been successful, I think.”
“I have. I found Western early this afternoon. He may be able to find Brand and will meet me tomorrow with the information.” I paused and contemplated Holmes. “It occurred to me, Holmes. Why did you send me to find Brand in such a roundabout manner? Surely you could have discovered the man’s whereabouts yourself?”
“Yes, but word would then have got about that it was I who sought him. If Western looks for him none will remark it, for it is well known that they are not friends, and if word gets back to Brand that an old enemy looks for him he will not take fright in the same way as he would if he knew himself hunted by the authorities. So far as he is aware, nothing is known of his involvement with the kidnapping of Lord Northgate or Constable Rogers. He may hear Western is seeking him and assume that it is to do with that old grudge. He will be wary, but of Western and his friends, not of us.”
“But, Holmes, how can he not know that the address where he was only hours earlier has been raided by the police?” I poured myself a whisky and sat before the fire.
“The sailors, Watson. Lestrade put it about that they were deserters and that the police took the opportunity to assist the Navy while also searching for anything that would allow them to arrest Jeb Siddons for a violent robbery that recently took place. One young constable let it slip casually in his local bar that they did find a man in the shed at that address, that he was unconscious and in a bad way, and that he has since died, unidentified and without speaking.”
I admired the scheme. “That is clever. Brand will be off his guard. But tell me, Holmes. I mentioned the Pentwood estate and Western seized upon me. He appeared utterly delighted that someone knew of the place. Earlier you said that Western was, in a way, cheated of his rights. How did that come about?”
Holmes reflected a moment. “Western is the son of Sir James Western, who was younger grandson to the owner of the estate. Our Western’s grandfather died before his elder brother. It was custom in the family that a small estate on the edge of the main one devolved upon the cadet line. When Frederick Western’s great-grandfather died, however, he had just suffered major financial losses, as two merchant ships he owned vanished at sea. Unfortunately they carried so much of his portable wealth that Pentwood had to be sold. He was over ninety years old, and it had been hinted that he was becoming senile or he would not have risked so much. He suffered a stroke when news of the ships came in, lay gravely ill for many months, then died without, so far as was generally known, regaining consciousness.”
“And his will?”
“There was no mention that the lesser estate should go to Frederick. Frederick’s own grandfather had lived there, but he too died before the great-grandfather, and his father was a wastrel and a gambler. For that reason it was supposed that the old man was waiting until Frederick should come of age, when the estate might safely be entrusted to him. Frederick was twenty-one when Lord Pentwood died and he instigated a suit claiming that a letter existed saying that the smaller estate should come to him. He said that he had met his great-grandfather’s lawyer and that the man had told him this was so.”
“And the lawyer denied that?”
“The lawyer was killed the same day.”
I blinked. “That seems unlikely, Holmes.”
“So others thought. It was openly said about town that Frederick might have killed the man so his claim could not be gainsaid.”
I eyed my friend shrewdly. “And…”
“Western did not kill him. The man had been drinking, probably with his old client and friend, and on his return to town he walked out into the street without looking and was knocked down and killed by a brewery dray. One of the servants at Pentwood later admitted that His Lordship had come around, sent urgently for his lawyer, and that they had been closeted together for several hours. The lawsuit is still in existence, but may be wound up against Western quite soon.”
I understood. “And without the letter, that claim was all hearsay, and nothing to further Western’s case.”
“Exactly. He went to the bad very promptly, however; it may have been a weakness already in the man’s character.”
“Or it may merely have been a young man’s despair at the loss of his home, and grief, too, if he was fond of hi
s great-grandfather,” I pointed out.
Holmes made no rely to that but turned to a different subject. “I spent time with Lord Northgate’s friends. They are most distressed that their innocent hobby should have endangered the realm, but they could make no suggestions as to how the papers were stolen. They could, however, tell me where they had been kept. Northgate has a safe hidden under the floor between the joists in the room where his soldiers are laid out on a great table. I say a safe, but it is more a steel box, in that it has only an ordinary lock on it. But they swear that no one else knew of it, and that it contained only the campaign papers, which would be of no use or value to anyone else.”
“They were wrong about that, weren’t they?” I said a little sourly. Someone had been careless. A man must have hobbies, yes, but they should not be of the kind that could bring such calamity upon England as these looked like to do.
“Quite so, Watson. You strike to the heart of the matter. The main questions there are, who knew of the papers, who knew what and where they were and that they could indeed be worth money, and who took them?”
I sipped my whisky and considered that. “It would almost have to be a servant who took them. Any time his friends were there in that room Northgate would have been with them. Even if he stepped out briefly, of those remaining, is one likely to tear up the floor, open a safe, and steal the contents before the others?” I answered that myself. “No. But servants are often alone in a room, and being a servant does not make a man unobservant.”
“Or a woman, Watson. It requires no strength to raise a short length of floorboard or turn a key, and papers are not so heavy.”
I groaned. “In short, we are looking for Lord Northgate, his papers, Persimmon Brand, an agent behind him, and a disloyal, dishonest servant who may have been suborned by either.”
“Yes,” Holmes said, and there was a short silence while I wondered where we went from here. Fortunately Holmes was at less of a loss. “So, Watson, tomorrow you will meet again with Western. Once we have Brand’s address he may be taken and when questioned, he should put us on the trail of the agent.”
Sherlock Holmes in Something the Cat Dragged In Page 3
