Sherlock Holmes and the Hammerford Will

by John Hall

  ‘Mansion House!’ cried Sir James and I together.

  Holmes leaned back and laughed aloud. ‘Well done! Mansion House, of course.’

  ‘And the numbers?’ I asked.

  ‘They mean as little to me as to you, Doctor. We shall just have to ask when we get there.’ And Holmes stood up and sought his coat and hat.

  We climbed into Sir James’s carriage, and I was pleased to see that the coachman looked none the worse for yesterday’s adventures, save that he sported a spectacular black eye. We were very soon bowling along, and as we turned into Oxford Street, heading towards Holborn, I could not forbear to say, ‘A pity we didn’t have this clue the other day, when we were walking up and down hereabouts. Might have saved us some time. And shoe leather.’ Holmes did not bother to reply.

  When we reached Mansion House, Holmes sought out the hall porter, who touched his cap civilly enough, but said, ‘Beg pardon, gents, but the court’s not open to visitors until twelve.’

  ‘It was not that we were wanting,’ said Holmes with a touch of impatience, and he mentioned the name of Lord Hammerford.

  ‘Ah, yes, sir.’ The porter’s face cleared. ‘If anyone was to name that gentleman,’ he went on, reciting the next passage as if he had learned it by heart for such an occasion, ‘I was to say that the cases in the middle of gallery number two at Guildhall would repay your attention.’

  ‘And these numbers?’ Holmes showed him the figures on a piece of paper.

  The man shook his head. ‘Don’t mean a thing, sir. I’m sorry. Perhaps you’d best ask the porter or someone at the Guildhall, sir?’

  ‘You are right,’ said Holmes, handing the man a half-sovereign. ‘Gentlemen?’

  We returned to Sir James’s carriage, and were very soon stopping outside the Guildhall. As everyone knows, it is open to visitors at all reasonable hours, and we lost no time in hurrying to gallery two. The case in the centre of the room holds a display of miniature paintings, and we examined these scrupulously, but search as we might there was nothing to be made of any of them.

  ‘The porter at Mansion House was definite enough,’ muttered Holmes.

  ‘True — oh, but we have forgotten those odd numbers,’ I told him.

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Holmes sought out an attendant, and showed him the scrap of paper, mentioning Lord Hammerford’s name once again.

  The man frowned. ‘Question about the pictures, is it, sir? Best thing is to ask the keeper, sir. This way.’

  We followed him along a corridor. He halted, tapped at a door and ushered us in. The room’s occupant, a middle-aged man in a dark suit, rose as we entered. ‘Yes?’ he asked our guide.

  ‘Beg pardon, sir, but these gentlemen were asking about a — Lord Hammerford, was it, sir?’

  ‘That is correct,’ said Holmes.

  ‘I see. Thank you, Fletcher.’ Our guide bowed, and left. The keeper waved us to seats.

  Holmes introduced us, and the keeper said, ‘Your names are familiar, gentlemen. What can I tell you about Lord Hammerford?’

  ‘You knew him, then?’ asked Holmes.

  ‘Oh, yes. He was not what I might call a regular visitor, but I had the honour of some slight acquaintance with him.’

  Holmes leaned forward and placed the piece of paper on the keeper’s desk. ‘Does that mean anything at all to you, sir? I think it may relate to one of the miniatures in the gallery.’

  ‘Why, yes. There is no mystery here, Mr Holmes. In common with most galleries these days, we have more pictures than we have space to exhibit, so a proportion is kept safely out of the way of the general public. What you have there is merely what we here would call a “reserve” number, hence the “R”, and refers to one of those paintings not currently on display.’

  ‘Ah. Could you tell us which painting is meant?’

  ‘I can have it brought here,’ said the keeper, ringing the bell on his desk. When an attendant arrived, the keeper gave him the slip of paper, with the request that the picture be brought to us. ‘May I offer you a cigarette whilst we are waiting?’ asked the keeper, and we accepted his kind offer, and made some desultory conversation.

  In a short space of time the attendant returned, carrying one of the smallest paintings which I have ever seen, a true miniature, merely two inches by one and a half in size. The keeper produced a magnifying glass, but Holmes had already taken his lens from his pocket. Looking over his shoulder, I saw what to me seemed a fairly indifferent portrait of a gentleman in the costume of the fourteenth century. He sat at a table, a couple of keys in his hand, whilst through the window behind him was some sort of turret or tower.

  ‘What do you know of this picture?’ asked Holmes.

  ‘The records are all here.’ The keeper took a ledger from the shelf behind him, and glanced through it. ‘Here we are. Remarkably little information, I fear. “Artist unknown, eighteenth century”, I see.’

  ‘H’mm. And the sitter?’

  ‘Ah, that is easier. It is Mortimer, who had, you recall, formed an illicit liaison with Isabella, wife of the second Edward, and who was eventually executed by the third monarch of that name. The keys, I suppose, are to symbolize the keys of the kingdom, for Mortimer and Isabella effectively ruled for a scant couple of years, did they not, if memory serves me correctly?’

  ‘Mortimer!’ said Holmes.

  ‘And one might say that Mortimer holds the key,’ said I, laughing.

  ‘Well done, Doctor!’ But it was not Holmes who spoke. It was the mocking voice of Sir George, and I whirled round to see him standing in the open doorway, with the same attendant who had brought us here at his side.

  ‘Beg pardon, sir —’ the attendant began, but Sir George interrupted him.

  ‘No need to trouble yourself further, my good man,’ he said. ‘I’ve learned what I came here to learn.’ He gave us an ironic salute, and sped off back down the corridor.

  ‘Damnation!’ said Sir James. He stood up. ‘Your pardon, sir,’ he told the keeper, ‘but I fear we really must be off as well. Our most sincere thanks to you, sir.’

  ‘But —’ But we were already crowding out into the corridor in pursuit of Sir George.

  Ten

  ‘Mortimer all along, eh?’ I ventured as we rattled along in Sir James’s carriage in hot pursuit of Sir George’s cab. ‘When I come to think about it, that explains why the sheets of paper were folded twice; to indicate that Mortimer held two secrets, not just the one.’

  ‘Why the devil didn’t the fellow say as much at the outset, then?’ demanded Sir James with some warmth. ‘I’ll have something to say to Mortimer, and to the secretary too, about this, mark my words!’

  ‘Ah, but then it was part of the game that he should not say too much,’ Holmes pointed out. ‘Had he done so the adventure would have been over before it had properly started and we should have missed many interesting events.’

  ‘And,’ I added, ‘in point of strict, accurate fact, nobody ever asked Mortimer if he had the treasure in his keeping. I have my notebook here, and I see that Sir George asked if there might be a third set of envelopes, but that was all. None of us even thought of that! Although I see that I also put down “gnd lk CC” when I mentioned Mortimer in my notes.’

  Sir James raised an eyebrow.

  ‘ “Grinned like a Cheshire Cat”,’ I explained.

  ‘Ah. Well, I’ll give the wretch something to grin for when I see him!’

  ‘Sir James, you really must control your temper,’ said Holmes severely. ‘I cannot work with amateurs. And speaking of amateurs, Watson, fancy your bawling the solution out at the top of your voice like that, with Sir George standing at your very shoulder!’

  ‘I could hardly be expected to know that the fellow was lurking in the wings, could I, Holmes? As to that, once you had mentioned the name “Mortimer” yourself, I imagine that Sir George could work out the answer readily enough!’

  Holmes laughed. ‘We are both to blame then. But there will be time enough later for recri
minations,’ he said. ‘I can say honestly that I had thought the same as Sir George, that there might be yet another lot of envelopes,’ he went on, ‘but I must also confess it did not occur to me that there might be anything more valuable left in Mortimer’s keeping. I was judging him on appearances, believing him merely a minor character in our little drama, and that is always unwise.’

  ‘This does rather point up what I was saying earlier, though, Holmes,’ I said. ‘Old Mortimer — fine, sturdy chap, and all that — but he must be about a hundred years old! Suppose something had happened to him? What would have become of the clue then?’

  ‘It is an interesting point,’ Holmes admitted. ‘But then it would be a monstrous coincidence were Mortimer to die, let us say, just after old Lord Hammerford had died, would it not?’

  ‘But the portrait was of Mortimer!’ I protested. ‘Old Lord Hammerford could hardly know that Mortimer’s replacement would also be called Mortimer, now could he, in all conscience? True, he might find a portrait somewhere of a man with the same name as the new doorman, but that too would be a coincidence. And the new man might have an odd name, one so odd that no portait of anyone with such a name exists in any public art gallery.’

  ‘True, but then this is merely one link in the chain, and the final link at that,’ Holmes told me. ‘Were anything to happen to Mortimer, the previous Lord Hammerford need only amend the last couple of clues. He need not use the same portrait trick, need he? He could, as a last resort, merely have given the new man’s name directly in the last clue, or else used a very simple code, as before. No, there is no real difficulty about that, provided always that coincidence did not enter too greatly into the matter.’ He glanced out of the window, and added, ‘Ah! We are catching up with Sir George. He had only a short start, and his cab is neither so well driven nor provided with as good horseflesh as your carriage, Sir James.’

  He was right in this. In the crowded streets we were necessarily obliged to remain in second place, but when once we found a relatively unfrequented stretch of road Sir James’s driver was able to pull out and we soon sailed past Sir George’s cab. Sir George himself looked out at us as we passed him, and called furiously to his driver. It was, I think, a good thing that we could not hear exactly what he said, but the sense was fairly obvious.

  The positions were now reversed, and once we were back into the stream of traffic Sir George’s cab could not hope to do more than keep up with us, and even that became increasingly difficult. ‘We are well ahead,’ said Holmes after another glance through the window, ‘but we must be ready to jump out when we are somewhere near, for I suspect that Sir George will not hesitate to cover the last few yards on foot if needs be.’

  We turned into St James’s, and the streets were less crowded. Holmes glanced backwards again, and grunted in annoyance. ‘He is gaining on us,’ he said.

  We drew up all of a sudden before the door of the club, and Holmes was out of the carriage before we had fully stopped. Sir James followed more sedately, while I waited on the kerb to see what Sir George intended. Like Holmes, he was out of his cab before it had stopped, and he fairly raced across the pavement, heedless of the cabbie’s request for payment, and only slowing down when he reached me. ‘Ah, Doctor Watson,’ said he, civilly enough, but with ill-suppressed annoyance in his tone. ‘This means, I take it, that I have failed?’

  ‘By a very short head, Sir George.’

  He laughed. ‘Well, at the very least you will hardly begrudge me a look at what I have missed?’

  I hesitated, then, thinking it unworthy to suspect him of villainy at this last stage of the search, I nodded and stood aside to let him enter before me. Holmes and Sir James were standing in front of Mortimer’s counter when Sir George and I strolled into the lobby. Holmes glanced round. ‘Ah, Sir George,’ said he, ‘just pipped at the post, you see! Mortimer is just now reclaiming the Hammerford inheritance from what he is pleased to label his cubbyhole. You, I take it, wish to see what it is you have lost?’

  ‘If it’s no trouble to you.’ The words were said lightly enough, but there was no mistaking the bitter disappointment in Sir George’s voice.

  Mortimer emerged from his inner sanctum, a large parcel in his hands. It was evidently weighty, for the poor old fellow could scarcely lift it. Holmes moved forward, and took the package from him. ‘Well, gentlemen —’ he began, but that was all he got out before Sir George had snatched the parcel from his arms, and pushed Holmes aside.

  Holmes cannoned into Sir James, who in turn knocked me flying. I saw Sir George take to his heels, and remember thinking that he was a decent sprinter, handicapped as he was by the heavy package. I quickly recovered my wits sufficiently to go to assist Holmes and Sir James to their feet.

  Holmes, however, shook off my proffered arm. ‘Get after him, Watson!’ he cried. ‘We’re unhurt, and the treasure is the thing now!’

  All three of us raced out of the door, but then came to an abrupt halt at the sight of Sir George, lying in the gutter and rubbing his head. Holmes bent down and helped him to his feet. ‘One last try, Sir George? But what happened?’

  ‘We’ve all been done, I fear!’ said Sir George ruefully, but with a valiant attempt at a smile. He waved a hand down the road, and we looked where he pointed, to see what had been Sir George’s cab rattling along at a smart pace.

  ‘Quick!’ said Holmes, leaping into Sir James’s carriage. Sir George did not hesitate, but sprang up onto the driver’s seat, pushing Sir James’s startled coachman to one side, and whipping up the horses. Sir James and I had our work cut out to scramble into the carriage as it set off in pursuit of the cab with its priceless cargo.

  Whatever his other faults, Sir George was a splendid driver, but even so I do not think we would have caught up with the other cab were it not for that old enemy, traffic. I looked out of the window, to see some sort of altercation taking place on top of the cab which we were following. I take it the driver had remonstrated with the villains, and they had climbed out on to the roof of his cab, and were attempting to force him to go faster, or take some risk that was unpalatable to him, or something of that sort. Anyway, the poor driver was literally flung off the cab into the gutter, but to judge by his language as we sailed past, he was not too badly hurt.

  Thanks to Sir George, we were now gaining on them slightly, and when a large delivery van emerged from a side road right in front of the cab, causing it to slow down suddenly, Sir George was able to bring our carriage alongside and force the cab off the road, on to the pavement, and into a shop-front.

  As the startled shopkeeper emerged, Holmes and Sir George rushed to the cab and tackled the villains. I saw one of the gang leap from the cab and hare off down the street. ‘After him, Watson!’ cried Holmes, and I took to my heels in hot pursuit.

  After a dozen yards, the man I was following turned, and slowed down, as if expecting something to happen behind us. I instinctively did as he had done, looked back, and saw another of the villains standing on the roof of the cab, the famous parcel clutched in a brawny arm. He called something unintelligible to my man, and made as if to throw the parcel.

  The memory of a painful incident involving a large and uncivil Irish forward at Twickenham came irresistibly to my mind. I turned to face my man, lowered my head, and charged. He was evidently not expecting this, and went flying with a great gasp indicative of surprise, pain and anger. I turned round again, and caught the package fair and square as it flew through the air towards me.

  A languid gentleman on the pavement nearby, who had watched these proceedings with not the least hint of emotion, nodded at me and said, ‘Well caught, sir! But damned if you shouldn’t be sent off for that low punch.’

  ‘This is a criminal investigation, sir,’ I told him angrily. ‘I’ll thank you to keep your impertinent remarks to yourself !’

  Eleven

  ‘A very satisfactory conclusion, Holmes,’ I said, filling glasses for him, Sir James and myself.

  �
�It is certainly a happy ending,’ said Holmes, a touch of cynicism in his voice. ‘That should please you, Doctor, and your readers.’

  ‘And what of that?’ I asked him. ‘By the law of averages, there should be as many happy as unhappy endings.’

  Holmes shook his head. ‘Without wishing to offend our guest,’ said he, with a nod towards Sir James, ‘I am still unconvinced by this business of establishing one’s legitimacy by a test of skill.’

  ‘Oh, I thought we had dealt with all that nonsense,’ said Sir James. ‘It is surely as an intellectual challenge that you should judge our little adventure.’

  ‘In that light, of course, it was not entirely unsuccessful, or devoid of interest,’ said Holmes.

  Sir James went on, ‘As for young Lord Hammerford, I have hopes that he will grow to manhood and eventual old age quite unaware of his grandfather’s suspicions. Totally unfounded suspicions, I may add.’

  Holmes sat forward in his chair. ‘Oh? You are certain of that?’ he asked.

  Sir James nodded. ‘The august gentleman concerned has told me that there was no hint of impropriety, and that is good enough for me. As it should be for you.’

  ‘Well, it is,’ said Holmes. He sighed. ‘If ever we can dispense with these ranks and titles, how much happier we should be! Was it not Pepys who remarked that there are so many titles that plain unaffected “Mr” is itself something of a distinction?’

  ‘Henry Fearon, surely,’ said Sir James with a frown. ‘I know that Pepys made a great fuss when he was first called “Esquire”, though I would not argue as to the precise attribution.’

  ‘Surgeons, of course, insist upon “Mr”,’ I added. ‘And for a rather curious and interesting reason.’

  ‘Which is known to every schoolboy,’ said Holmes. ‘Indeed, I sometimes wonder if the story is not part of the treatment, a species of faith healing.’

  ‘Don’t dismiss faith healing too lightly, Holmes,’ I told him. ‘I remember one old fakir in Firozabad —’ I broke off as I saw the others glowering at me. ‘But that’s neither here nor there,’ I added hastily. ‘Tell me, Sir James, what is to become of the lad? Young Lord Hammerford, I mean.’