The Problem of Threadneedle Street (The Assassination of Sherlock Holmes Book 2)

by Janacek, Craig

  “And is it lined?” I asked.

  “Of course, Doctor. We spared no expense during the remodel five years ago. All six sides are lined with twelve-inch reinforced steel. It would take the most modern diamond drill at least fifteen hours to penetrate it. Needless to say, the vault is inspected more often than that, even upon weekends and Bank Holidays. Either Mr. Silvester or I look in upon it every single day of the year. Thus, anyone attempting to tunnel in would be deeply disappointed.”

  “But could they not tunnel underneath a crate held within the vault, such that you would never see anything?” I postulated.

  “Excellent, Doctor!” exclaimed Mr. Pycroft. “The same concern had occurred to me. Hence, all crates are set atop carefully constructed wooden frames about six inches high, such that almost every square foot of the vault’s floor is able to be inspected.”

  “But they could always go through the main door of the vault.”

  “That would be most difficult, Doctor. First of all, they would have to enter the main building, into which there are only two doors. The rear door can only be opened from the inside, and the front door is under constant surveillance.”

  “What about the roof?” inquired Holmes. “I note that you have a very fine glass dome, which would be child’s play for a thief to penetrate.”

  “Ah, yes, but you also may have noted, Mr. Holmes, the unique situation of our building. We border essentially no one, with streets on every side save one. And the building closest to us is far shorter. How would a thief even get on the roof? Unless you expect them to climb up six sheer stories?”

  Holmes waved his hand. “But let us say that someone did make their way into the bank, they could then disable the guards and allow a master cracksman sufficient time to open the door.”

  Mr. Pycroft shook his head again. “I am afraid that there are no guards to disable, Mr. Holmes. Instead, we use a little contraption that I like to call the ‘watchtower.’” He pointed to an unusual feature of the bank. It was a projection from high up on the front of the Bank. It was large enough to hold a seated man, and reminded me of an Egyptian oriel window. A set of stairs led up to a stoutly-built door, which could be barred from the inside. Apertures on both sides allowed a clear view both into the bank and out onto the street. “As you can see,” Pycroft explained, “the guard in the watchtower has a full view of the vault door throughout the night. He would instantly spot any man approaching it and could call the police on the installed telephone.”

  “Wires can be cut.”

  “The guard also possesses a very loud bell which can be rung in order to summon one of the constables on the street.”

  “He could be drugged with opium or some other narcotic,” opined Holmes.

  Mr. Pycroft shook his head. “First of all, the guard brings his own food. That significantly limits the access anyone would need in order to introduce some substance. Secondly, the rounding City constables check upon him every twenty minutes. Even the best cracksman in Europe could not get through that door so quickly, much less make off with anything.”

  “They could neutralize the constables as well.”

  Pycroft smiled at Holmes’ multitude of clever suggestions. “But the rounds of the constables take them through police headquarters at Bishopsgate as well. If one failed to turn up, half of London would be roused along his route in order to locate him.”

  “You really have thought of everything, Mr. Pycroft. I commend you. Ah, what have we here?” Holmes’ attention had been distracted by a portrait of an elderly and rotund gentleman. This depiction had a high level of verisimilitude, and included the man’s balding pate, which was ringed round with tufts of white hair, and the fact that the man’s formal suit strained at the cummerbund. He had clearly posed in the foyer of the very bank in which we stood, the vault at his back, his hands spread slightly open as if to welcome customers inside. My own expertise on portraiture was limited, but even I could tell that the artist had a remarkably realistic style.

  “That is Mr. Aldous Silvester, the owner of the bank,” answered Hall Pycroft.

  “It is recently painted, is it not?”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Pycroft, frowning. “How could you know that?”

  Holmes smiled. “I have very astute senses, Mr. Pycroft, and can still smell some of the turpentine-thinned paint, which can take up to three weeks to dry. Furthermore, since I do not detect any scent of varnish, I can deduce that the painting is less than a year old, for surely the master that painted this would have returned to seal his work for all of eternity.”

  “Is that important? I cannot see how it could have any possible bearing upon the case?”

  “Perhaps not,” said Holmes, “but as Watson could tell you, I consider myself something of a connoisseur of paintings, and I imagine that I have seen the work of this artist before. Do you recall his name?”

  “Let me think,” said Mr. Pycroft slowly. “He was a Frenchman, or perhaps a Belgian. Achille Pendré was his name. Mr. Silvester seemed to think that he was rather well known, with works hanging in many of the Bond Street galleries.”

  “Yes, I think that is correct. Perhaps even in some of our finer museums. In any case, I have seen enough and bid you adieu.”

  “But Mr. Holmes,” called out Hall Pycroft, “do you think we are at risk of an assault?”

  “I very much fear so, but how and when are still matters that I have yet to determine. When I do so, Mr. Pycroft, I promise you will be the first to know. Until then, I urge you to remain vigilant.”

  Holmes was silent during much the cab ride back to Pall Mall. I could tell that he was deep in thought about what we had learned at Silvester’s Bank. For my part, I was much perplexed. The precautions put into place by Mr. Pycroft seemed insurmountable. Only a great fool would attempt to penetrate them, and I had little hope that our enemy was so imprudent.

  Finally Holmes sighed and glanced over at me. “What do you make of it, Watson?”

  “I confess to being mystified, Holmes.”

  He smiled wanly. “Yes, we hold many of the threads, but enough have slipped through our fingers that the picture is not yet clear. However, our adversary is not infallible. He has constructed a plot of great intricacy, and like any complicated machine, it takes but the smallest snag to snarl it. He will make another mistake, and when he does, I will have him.”

  Little did Holmes know that his words were prophetic, for we were soon blessed by the appearance of Inspector Lestrade on the doorstep of Mycroft’s Pall Mall chambers. His small, wiry, bulldoggish features were contrite as he gazed at my companion in a slightly reverential way.

  Before the inspector could even state his case, Holmes cut him off. “Really, Lestrade, as you may have heard, I am somewhat busy today,” said Holmes brusquely. “I will get to your missing museum items in good time. It is as if some gaping maw has opened and swallowed both your treasures and Gregson’s gold.”

  “So you think the same man was involved in both crimes?” I asked.

  He nodded. “Although it is unusual, Watson, for a criminal to carry on two such feats so temporally joined, and with vastly different modus operandi, I think it highly unlikely that two such masters are at play simultaneously.”

  “I’ve heard about the Old Lady, Mr. Holmes,” interjected Lestrade, “and I know that Gregson has claimed your attentions, but something else has occurred with which I needed a bit of assistance. Even if you cannot come in person, perhaps you could suggest some starting point?”

  Holmes sighed with impatience, but motioned for Lestrade to continue. “Pray tell, what great mystery has arisen this time?”

  “Well, Mr. Holmes, it is something strange down at Runnymede.”

  “Has the Magna Carta also vanished?” asked Holmes, with no small degree of sarcasm.

  “No, Mr. Holmes, there is a dead man in the Long Mede pasture. We are uncertain of his name, for he was missing both his coat and his identity papers.”

  “I am afraid,
Lestrade,” interjected Holmes, “that the death of an unknown man can hardly take precedence over the matter at hand here in London. If you are in need of outside assistance, perhaps Barker…”

  “But Mr. Holmes, you didn’t let me finish. This is no ordinary murder. The examiner has completed his report and concluded that the man has been dead for no more than twelve to fourteen hours. However, the body was found on the pasture by Mr. John Black, one of the park wardens. Black is as old as the hills he patrols, and his honesty is above suspicion. If you will recall, Mr. Holmes, the weather was unseasonably cold last night, such that there was a dusting of snow in that part of Surrey which began around five o’clock. But Mr. Black is prepared to swear that there were no tracks in the snow anywhere near the body.”

  “You mean that he saw none.”

  “I assure you, Mr. Holmes, that I have examined the spot myself, and there were none.”

  Holmes chuckled appreciatively. “My good Lestrade, I have investigated many crimes, but I have never yet seen one which was committed by a flying creature. As long as the criminal remains upon two legs there must be some indentation, some abrasion, some trifling displacement which can be detected by the scientific searcher. I assure you that this meadow must contain some trace which could aid you.”

  Lestrade shook his head. “I know your methods, Mr. Holmes. You’ve used them to show me a thing or two in my day. There is something mighty peculiar about this Runnymede case.”

  Holmes sighed. “I suppose that we must follow-up on all crimes of a particular outré nature, Watson, no matter how unlikely they are to be connected to the cases of the Museum and the Bank.”

  “You will go down?” I asked.

  “No, my dear fellow, you will go down. This may be some trivial problem, and I cannot excuse myself from the center of London for the sake of it. Your natural acumen should be more than a match for this snowy afternoon. Leave no stone unturned.”

  §

  The pale sunlight of that late fall day was fading by the time Lestrade and I arrived at that site where the greatest of the English Charters had come into being, and where later Henry romanced Anne under a Yew Tree. After the previous night’s storm, the weather had turned somewhat for the calmer, though the temperature remained low with an exhilarating nip in the air, which set an edge to a man's energy. The dark blue sky was flecked with little fleecy white clouds drifting across from west to east. Lestrade led me to the play where the man’s body still sprawled, a pair of constables stationed nearby to ward off any accidental intruders upon the scene.

  I at once went very carefully round it to observe if there were any traces in the snow which might help me, as they had once helped Holmes prevent a great scandal. Fortunately the cold day had served to harden the crust of frost. Unlike the subtle impressions left on trampled grass or wet dirt, which often required careful examination with a lens, my reading of what had transpired on that sloping hillside was a simple one. There was a double line of tracks of a booted man, which could only belong to the groundskeeper Mr. Black. He had advanced towards the body at a run, but his return was more slow and careful. I noted that three additional prints approached the area, presumably belonging to the local constable, the medical examiner, and Lestrade himself. The local man had outdone himself, for he had carefully laid down a long piece of matting and stood upon it while looking at the body such that these new prints would not contaminate the scene.

  Turning my attention to that of the body, this proved to belong to a middle-aged man, about forty by his looks. He was laying full length on top of the snow. The back of his head appeared to have been caved in by a ferocious blow. His shirt had a well-cut look to it, though the cuffs were heavily stained with some dark substance. Pushing them up, I noted that his hands were heavily calloused and his fleshy left forearm was dotted and scarred with innumerable puncture marks. There was no sign of any bullet holes. Utilizing my training in such matters, I independently verified from the extreme rigor of his muscles that the examiner’s estimate of time of death was accurate. This confirmed that the man’s demise must have transpired after the snow had begun falling.

  A minute examination of the scene served only to make the case more complex. Immediately about him, the snow was somewhat tumbled, but everywhere else it was still smooth. I cast my eye about for any horse or vehicle which could have brought the body to that spot, but nothing of the kind was to be seen. I could confirm that Lestrade was not mistaken. There were no other prints in the snow. Either the man had died of natural causes, taken his own life, or Mr. Black himself had killed the man for reasons unknown. But the blow upon the back of his head ruled out the former two possibilities. And furthermore, how had the man come to the site of his death? There were no signs of wheels, or a horse, or of any other man, save the tracks that I had already mentioned. How did the stranger find himself there, more than a quarter of a mile from a road or a house or even a tall tree, without breaking the snow or leaving a track?

  All these details I jotted down, and felt that Holmes himself could not have been more adroit in collecting his facts. I then put myself in Holmes’ shoes. If he was on the scene, he would have considered how the murderer placed the body in this precise spot. I used my imagination, which Holmes’ had often accused me of possessing to an overactive degree, to think about how I would undertake it. And from what I saw there were only two possibilities.

  “Have you found anything of note, Doctor?” asked Lestrade when the silence had grown overlong.

  “Beside the fact that he was a user of morphia and that he worked with tarred ropes, like a sailor, no there is nothing.”

  “Yes, we noted those signs on his hands and arms as well. Anything else?”

  I am, in my advancing years, finally developing a subtle wisdom. I did not live for years with Sherlock Holmes for nothing and had learned to keep my own counsel. But I deigned to dole out a pair of clues to Lestrade.

  “I say, Inspector, what direction did the wind blow last night?”

  “The wind?” he spluttered. “What does the wind have to do with anything?”

  I shrugged. “I think the wind’s direction may be as critical as the light of the moon.”

  “But it was a cloudy night with the snowstorm,” protested Lestrade. “The moon would have been blotted out.”

  “That is what is so critical,” I replied cryptically. Already in my mind the mystery was beginning to define itself, as figures grow clearer with the lifting of a fog. But what horrible purpose, what deep design, lay behind these events, and how did they relate to the plot that revolved around my friend?

  Determining that there was nothing more to see at the location of the incident, Lestrade and I took the dog-cart back to Egham Station and there caught a train for the twenty miles back to Waterloo.

  §

  When I finished listing the details to Holmes, I then proceeded to expound upon my theory. “And so, as I see it Holmes, there are very few methods by which the body of this unfortunate man could have ended up on that snow-covered hill.”

  “Pray tell,” said he, with hooded eyelids.

  “One possibility is that his body was launched there, by something like a catapult or trebuchet.”

  Holmes broke into a whimsical laugh. “Oh, Watson, I fear you are reading far too many adventure tales. This is not the Middle Ages! Do you think one of Runnymede’s neighbors is planning a siege? I ask you now, is such a theory tenable?”

  It took all my self-control not to smile. “I said, Holmes, that this was only the first possibility. I did not say it was the most likely.”

  “And what is?”

  “The key to this mystery is that the death of this man and the theft of the goldbeater’s skin are linked. For I recalled that goldbeater’s skin has another use beyond that of making gold leaf. It is also used to line and make airtight the reservoir bag used for the inhalation of the chloroform anesthetic. If it could contain a small quantity of gas, surely it could also be em
ployed to create something much larger, something large enough to lift a group of men into the sky?”

  “An aeronautical balloon!” exclaimed Lestrade.

  “Southwest of Runnymede, from which direction the wind is most often blowing, there is, the town of Farnborough. I believe that is the location of the Army School of Ballooning, having moved there from the enclosed Aldershot site, after first being established three decades ago at Woolwich Arsenal. I would inquire there, Inspector, whether they are missing an engineer,” I concluded.

  “Brilliant, Watson!” said Holmes. “A veritable triumph! You have demonstrated that you have finally mastered my methods. It proves that it can be done. The only problem is that you are of my same age. I should have perhaps trained some younger person to do the same.” He shook his head. “Now we must hope that my magnum opus, The Whole Art of Detection, will accomplish the same.”

  “Then you agree?” I said, somewhat surprised to find that for once in our long association Holmes actually concurred with my deductions.

  “Oh, yes. Clearly this man was employed at the Ballooning School as you suggested. His salary however, could hardly match the cost of his opioid habit, so he was forced to supplement it by working for our Mr. Wild, or Mortlock, or whatever we shall call him. The villains were practicing a moon-less run last night, when the man must have heard too much, or became suspicious of their plans. He was therefore jettisoned over the fields of Runnymede.”

  “But, Mr. Holmes,” cried Lestrade, “would not the Army know if one of their balloons suddenly went missing?”

  “Not if they made their own,” I pointed out.

  Holmes looked thoughtful and remained in silence for some moments. “Well, Watson, there is this to be said for your theory. It does tie together many of our loose threads. It explains why the goldbeater’s skin was stolen and what was hidden in that Lambeth Gardens shed. It even explains the theft of Mr. Mac’s hydrogen gas. But it still does not tell us who is behind this masterful plot. I don’t suppose, Lestrade, you have any more peculiar crimes that you have yet to share with us?”