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

by Janacek, Craig

§

  After some initial consternation, Gregson summoned several study constables armed with chisels, mallets, and pry-bars. They made short work of the cement indicated by Holmes’ water-spilling expedient. Within moments, the large and heavy flagstone was lifted off to one side. A black hole yawned beneath, into which we all peered, while Holmes, kneeling at the side, leaned down into it with one of the constables’ lanterns. A finely carved shaft, complete with steel ladder, lay open to us. At the moment, however, we had no thought for how the tunnel had been mined, for our eyes were riveted upon the bottom of the shaft, where we could see the unmistakable reflection of rippling water.

  “Gentlemen,” said Holmes. “I present to you the Walbrook River.”

  “But that’s impossible,” stammered Winthrop, his face turning a ghastly color of green.

  “No, sir, merely improbable. Did you not know that the sewers of London ran directly under your bank?”

  “The sewers?” said Winthrop, weakly.

  “Indeed, sir. You see below you a glimpse into our distant past, like some parting of the veils of time. It was around this very stream that the Romans built this place. They built a temple or two in this garrison town on the far edge of their empire. But they also built a wall, and it was that which gave the brook below us its name. Many centuries later, foul and rank with the rubbish and waste of the City’s teeming population, it was one of the first of London’s rivers to be vaulted over and buried far beneath our streets. And now, like the Fleet, the Tyburn, and many others, it forms part of the sewer system created in response to the Great Stink of a half-century ago.”[43]

  “I cannot believe it,” mumbled Winthrop. “All this time, a river under my bank!”

  “But how could you have suspected the existence of such a tunnel, Holmes?” I inquired.

  Holmes smiled broadly and his eyes shone from underneath his black brows. He was transformed when he was hot upon such a scent as this. Men who had only known the introspective logician of Baker Street or the quietly retired bee-keeper of the South Downs would have failed to recognize him. “I simply had to apply my maxim again, Watson. If they did not come through the door, the walls, or the ceiling, then they must have come through the floor.”

  “But how did you know it was this stone in particular, Holmes?”

  “The scratches, of course, Watson.”

  I looked about in confusion. “But all of the flagstones are scratched, Holmes! It must be expected when moving around such heavy crates.”

  He shook his head. “But not like these specific abrasions, Watson,” he pointed to the adjoining flagstone. “These are fresh, without time to fill in with the typical dust that permeates rooms such as this. The cuts on this particular stone must have been made very recently, when a particularly cumbersome item was moved on top of it. Such as the adjoining stone that we have just dislodged.”

  “You deduced all of this from a set of fresh scratches?” said I, wonderingly.

  “Not at all, Watson. It was equally likely that the scratches had been made while the crates were removed. But I knew that one of the stones must have been recently replaced, for that was the only possible explanation for the presence of what Inspector Gregson referred to as dust, but was actually a quick-drying Portland cement.[44] And the flask of water confirmed it.”

  “Water!”

  “Oh yes, Watson. Why else would there be a spirit flask with no scent? The residuals of any other alcohol would have been evident. The water was used to cure the cement.”

  “But the cement!” protested Gregson. “How could it have been replaced from below?”

  “It couldn’t be. It was set from above,” said Holmes simply.

  “That’s impossible!” spluttered Mr. Winthrop. “A man would have had to remain behind in the vault.”

  “That is exactly what I suspect happened. Why else do you think that you received that peculiar note from the so-called Mr. Wild?”

  “What do you mean?” asked Gregson.

  “It was intended to raise an alarm. Mr. Wild did not wish for you to calmly open the vault as your normal morning routine, for he would surely have been discovered standing within. Rather, he wished for a small regiment of constables to rush blindly into the darkened room, so that one additional man, also dressed in a false constable’s uniform, could easily blend in and then safely sidle away.”

  Gregson shook his head violently. “Impossible. No man has such a cool hand, to lock themselves in the main vault of the Bank of England and wait for the arrival of the police. It would be foolhardy to the point of madness.”

  “And yet, Inspector, I believe that is exactly what happened. It is the only plausible theory that fits the facts.”

  “But Holmes, it would have taken a man of exceptional strength standing in that shaft to hold this heavy flagstone in place while the cement set,” I noted.

  “Yes, yes, but how does it advance us?” said he irritably, at the interruption to his narrative.

  “Well, it may be of capital importance. Anything which will define the features of the gang will help us towards the criminal.”

  He considered this for a moment. “Capital, Watson! I concur completely with your observation. At least one member of the gang is either a giant, or they have some deformity. For I have noted that weakness in one limb is often compensated for by remarkable strength in the others.”

  Meanwhile, Gregson shook off the torpor that had been induced by the stunning find of Holmes, and called out to his men. “Carson! Stevens! Get down in that shaft immediately. See if you can catch up to them.”

  The two constables looked somewhat reluctant to comply with these orders, and I could hardly blame them. It was not, I must confess, a very alluring prospect. They appeared much relieved when Holmes countermanded the order. “Hold a minute, Inspector. You and your men entered the vault at, say seven o’clock this morning. At that time, the shaft was already sealed. It is now almost ten o’clock. Mr. Wild and his men have at least a three or even four-hour head-start. Any man clever enough to pull off this escapade will have carefully considered his exit route and ensured that they had sufficient time to escape. They will not be caught by sheer swiftness of feet.”

  “What do you suggest instead, Mr. Holmes?” asked Gregson, somewhat peevishly.

  “It is hardly an easy task to haul four tons of gold anywhere far. They must be using some sort of miniature barges to float that weight down the river. Such boats cannot pass the narrower aspects of the tunnels without leaving marks. If you leave the sewer to me, I will endeavor to trace them. But I prefer to have the watercourses un-trampled by your men in hopes of preserving whatever clues happen to exist.”

  From the fluctuating features scrawled upon his open face, Gregson appeared torn by this suggestion, as I suspected that his superior, Mr. Maurice, would little approve. But eventually his trust in Holmes, laid by long years of association, won out. “Have it your way, Mr. Holmes. Will you go down immediately?”

  Holmes shook his head. “I think not. There is one thing that I must do first, and another hour will little alter things. Take heart, Mr. Winthrop, that it will be some time before they can melt down such a vast quantity of gold.”

  §

  We had barely settled into a hailed hansom, when Holmes commanded the cabby to pull up outside one of the district messenger offices. He dashed inside, leaving me inside the cab, only to reappear a few moments later. The cab set off again and Holmes leaned back in his seat, gazing vacantly out of the window. We sat in silence for a few minutes, before I could stand it no longer.

  “Would you care to tell me where we are going, Holmes?” I finally asked.

  “A quick trip back to Mycroft’s domicile is in order. Although I retain in my brain-attic a precise map of every tortuous byway in upper London, the world beneath our feet is a completely separate city with its own unique layout. It may surprise you, but in my prior career I had little reason to venture within its depths. I am therefore in ne
ed of some directions, not to mention a change of clothes.” He motioned towards his well-cut suit and patent leather shoes. “It will not be pleasant down there, I am afraid.”

  “I was thinking, Holmes,” said I, slowly. “Could they have simply sunk the gold and planned to return for it when the coast was clear? They surely would not have thought that their shaft would be discovered so rapidly. This might explain why they did not take the bank notes or bearer securities, for they would be ruined by the water.”

  “Excellent, Watson. I had considered that very possibility. If true, then we have nothing to fear. The thieves will not be able to accomplish anything with Gregson’s constables standing guard at the top of the shaft. They would be heard. However, there is one very grave objection your theory.”

  “What is that?”

  “Remember, Watson, that we are dealing with a man of vast cunning. He wanted that shaft to be found.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because he asked for me to be called in. Both the name used to access the vault, and the initials upon the flask, which easily could have been carried out in his pocket, were signals as clear as a Very flare.[45] And if he knew that I would be called in, then he expected to have his method of entry discovered.”

  “Then the sewer is a trap!”

  “Perhaps, Watson, perhaps,” said he, nodding his head slowly. “We certainly shall not enter unarmed. You have your service revolver, I trust?”

  “Of course. I have learned from the long years of our association to keep it near me night and day whenever I am involved in one of your cases.”

  “Very good, Watson, then we are well prepared for whatever looms in that nether realm.”

  First, however, were the unusual items that awaited us at Mycroft’s chambers. A package had been delivered for Holmes, who opened it and pulled out a thick blue overcoat, waterproofed and capable of being buttoned close over the chest. There were two versions of each uniform, the coats very long, descending almost to the knees, where they would be met by a matching pair of huge plain leather boots. These outfits were completed by a pair of fan-tailed hats.

  “Pray tell, Holmes, what you have there?”

  He chuckled. “Well, Mercer does not disappoint.[46] His swiftness is to be commended. This, Watson, is the uniform of a flusherman.”

  “And what exactly is a flusherman?”

  “The flushermen are the brave souls who are employed by the Court of Sewers to ensure that no stoppages build up. They can be considered the spiritual descendants of the nightsoil men. They are the formal denizens of that realm, as opposed to the toshers, who unofficially scavenge what little of value can be gleaned down below.”

  “And do you plan to wear that uniform?”

  “No, Watson, I plan for us to wear it!” said he, laughing.

  But Holmes’ plan was not to come to pass. For just as he was about to hand me one of the overcoats, a telegram arrived for him. It ran:

  Mr. Holmes –

  There was another recent crime which may have some bearing upon the matter of Threadneedle Street. Could you see Dean Percival at St. Paul’s?

  GREGSON

  Holmes looked up from this note and studied me. “Would you go in, Watson? Your appearance would inspire confidence from a man of the cloth.”

  “And abandon you to face the sewers alone? I think not, Holmes.”

  “Do not fear, Watson, I will take Gregson’s stoutest constable with me.”

  “Very well, if you think it wise,” I reluctantly agreed.

  The two of us made a strange pair as our hansom rattled its way along Fleet Street. At least the clothes that Holmes wore were clean enough for the time being, though I wondered if he would ever find a cabby willing to bring him back to Pall Mall after he spent several hours wading through those dank sewers. St. Paul’s was perfectly situated on the way back to the Bank of England, as the Fleet turned into Ludgate Hill, therefore Holmes had the hansom drop me in the in the south churchyard.

  “Remember, Watson,” said he, before the cab started up again. “You are acting as my representative in this matter. As our association continued from one century to another, you have had hundreds of opportunities to witness me apply my techniques. In your stories, you have habitually underrated your own developing abilities, and I now have little doubt that your researches will soon clear up this new problem.”

  I must admit that his words gave me keen pleasure. “Thank you, Holmes. I will endeavor to do my best. Be careful down there.”

  He nodded grimly and I watched for a moment as the hansom set off. It was simplicity itself to locate Dean Percival, who proved to be an amiable man of advancing years. He had flaxen hair and mutton chop whiskers. His weak blue eyes were covered by pince-nez, and he was dressed in a black ecclesiastical suit.[47]

  If Dean Percival was upset that Holmes had sent a delegate and not appeared in person, he hid it well. “I can hardly understand it, Doctor Watson. It has been almost a hundred years since the cathedral was last plundered. Upon that horrible occasion, the thieves broke open nine doors to get to the treasury. But almost everything of value was taken then, and nothing was ever recovered.[48] So there is now little to steal, unless they try to strip the gilding from the ceilings.”

  “But something was taken?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes, though it’s a rather trivial matter,” said he, as he led me through a door in the southwest bell-tower and up a perfectly geometrical staircase to a portion of the cathedral which I had never before ventured. “We only reported it to Scotland Yard because we felt it was our civic duty. The cost of replacing it is negligible, even on our limited budget. I really can’t imagine why anyone would want to take it. I hope if you do catch the individuals responsible that they are not harshly punished. If only they had turned to us in their hour of need, perhaps we could have aided them and turned them towards the path of righteous light, rather than this road of illicit darkness.”

  “So what was it, Dean Percival?”

  “It is easier to show rather than describe. Here we are,” he swept his hand over a dusty room filled with the detritus of men who worked with their hands. “This gallery is used as a work-room for the artisans who maintain the glory of the cathedral. There are stonemasons, painters, metalworkers, and glass-polishers, of course, but the men who reported the missing items are to be found over here.” He pointed to a series of heavy tables and large wooden chests. “They are the gilders.”

  “Gilders? Do you mean the men who work with gold-leaf?”

  “Exactly, Doctor Watson. We have so much of it in the cathedral that some part or another is always in need of restoration.”

  I turned this new information over in my brain. On the heels of the great plunder at the Bank of England, here was more vanished gold! What could the thieves possibly be planning to do with it all? “Exactly how much gold was taken, Dean Percival?”

  “Oh, no, you misunderstand me, Doctor. They didn’t take any gold at all. They took every square yard of our goldbeater’s skin.”

  “Your what?” I exclaimed.

  “Well, I hardly know much about the stuff myself. To be honest, I didn’t even know we had it lying around until the gilders informed me that it was missing. They tell me that it is a type of parchment made from the outer membrane of a calf’s intestine. It is used in the process of making exceptionally thin golf leaf by beating the gold between layers of the tear-resistant skin.”

  My mind was racing with this new information. How did this fit into the thieves’ master plan? Were they planning on hammering out the bullion, rather than melting it down? And who were these thieves? Were they fellow countrymen, solely out for gain, no matter what the cost to the stability of England? Or were they foreign agents, out to destabilize our great nation? Was this how they planned to smuggle the gold from our shores? Surely the transport of ultra-thin layers of gold leaf would be far easier to conceal than the large bars of its current form.

  I real
ized that the Dean was watching me expectantly as I thought through the implications of what I had just learned. “And how did the thieves abscond with it, Dean Percival?” I finally asked.

  He shook his head sadly. “I am afraid that we have only ourselves to blame for it. The gold itself is locked up, of course, but we never shut our doors to the needy. I suspect that they simply walked in one night and hauled it away.”

  “Do you know when?”

  “The gilders reported it missing three days ago. It must have been in the handful of nights prior to this, as they mentioned that they last utilized it during the week before Hallow’s Eve. But I told this to the policeman already.”

  “Gregson?”

  “No, a Mr. Lestrade, I think was his name.”

  “And did he search the area for clues to their identity?”

  “Yes, I believe so, but he said that there was nothing unusual to be found.”

  I smiled, thinking of the myriad of times that Holmes was able to discover some seemingly trivial item overlooked by the police but which, in point of fact, threw open the entire case. “You don’t mind if I also take a look around?”

  “Not at all. Take your time, Doctor. But if you do find them, please recall that I have no desire to press charges. I would see the men rehabilitated.”

  “And if they are past the point of no return?”

  “Is there such an inexorable evil, Doctor, that cannot be cast aside by the light of good?”

  “You speak of higher matters, Dean Percival, than I am used to contemplating. With Holmes, I have combatted many a terrible man in my day. And I daresay that some of them met a fate that they justly deserved.”

  “It is a heavy burden to make such a judgment, Doctor. Are you capable of shouldering it? Is anyone?”

  With those profound words, the Dean left me. I spent the next thirty minutes examining every aspect of the room, focusing most of my attention on the area around the chests that once contained the goldbeater’s skin. There were no obvious leavings on the floor. I had hoped for some tobacco ash, which I might collect and bring back to Holmes for identification, but it appeared that the thieves neglected to smoke during their raid. As to be expected in an area near where stonework was being done, there was much dust on the floor, and several fine footprints. But at least three days had passed. I realized that they could belong to anyone: the thieves, the gilders, Dean Percival, even Inspector Lestrade. How was I to tell which might provide a clue? I doubted if Holmes himself could decipher such an old trail. I wracked my brain to think of what strategy Holmes would employ in such a situation. And then I had it. For the goldbeater’s skin was an animal product. And as such, it must possess a distinctive smell. And there was one being in London who had the power to track it.