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

by Janacek, Craig

  My first task was to obtain a sample of the skin to use to set my chaser upon its track. Fortunately, the headquarters of the Goldsmith’s Company was close by St. Paul’s, at the corner of Foster Lane and Gresham Street. It took but a few minutes of explanation, and an invoking of the name Sherlock Holmes, in order to procure a small square of the special parchment. From there, I set out to No. 3 Pinchin Lane, near the water’s edge at Lambeth. There I hoped to recruit a trusty companion to the adventure at hand.[49]

  The exterior of the shabby two-storied home of Mr. Sherman had not improved much in the one and twenty years since I first set foot upon its step. The stuffed weasel holding a hare, its remarkably-preserved shape a testament to the skill of the taxidermist, still served as a dubious decoration in the front window. I pounded upon the door for some time, before a candle glinted behind the blinds of the upper window and I heard the familiar gravelly voice yelling at me to ‘be-gone.’

  “Mr. Sherman,” I called out. “I am here on behalf of Sherlock Holmes!”

  Again, like the cave of Ali Baba, this magic phrase served to rapidly produce an unbarring of the door. I gazed upon Sherman, and was secretly glad that the old naturalist still drew breath, for his appearance had also deteriorated over time. His frame was still lanky and lean, with a stringy neck and stooping shoulders. His blue-tinted glasses appeared thicker than prior, and he was now nearer to ninety than eighty. But his memory remained, for he peered at me for a moment and then smiled. “Ah! It’s Dr. Watson, is it not?”

  “Indeed, Mr. Sherman, and a pleasure it is to see you looking well. I am in need of your dog.”

  “Toby?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “I am afraid that poor Toby is now sitting at the end of one of the feasting tables in Valhalla, Doctor, waiting for a tossed bone to fall.”

  “I am very sorry to hear that, Mr. Sherman.”

  “Of course, we’ve got Falstaff here, who is Toby’s grandson.” He indicated a handsome, lop-eared, thick-boned dog, its short coat a deep brown in color.

  “He looks like a bloodhound.”

  “Yes, sir, of a sort. Toby was a right mongrel, of course, part spaniel and part lurcher. His mate was a beagle, and they produced Andrew, Falstaff’s father.[50] But Falstaff’s mother was pure bloodhound. He’s a fine tracker in his own right, to be certain.”

  “Excellent. Mr. Holmes and I are in need of him to track this calf’s skin,” said I, producing the sample from the Goldsmith’s Hall. Falstaff wined eagerly at the smell of the parchment.

  Sherman frowned. “Did it touch the ground with some regularity?”

  “Not that I know.”

  “And how long ago was this?”

  “At least three days.”

  Sherman shook his head. “What you ask is impossible, Doctor. Even Toby in his prime could not have done it. If the substance had been left in the roadway, like aniseed or creosote, that would be one thing. But to lay on a track from a substance in the air, after a span of three days… no, it cannot be done.”

  I turned away dejected at the thought that my plan had failed and I would have little to report back to Holmes.

  “Where did you want to Falstaff to track the stuff, Doctor?”

  “The theft occurred at St. Paul’s.”

  “Ah, the City. Odd thing, that.”

  “What is odd, Mr. Sherman?”

  “Well, of course, Falstaff and I go for walks round the local neighborhood. And he’s smelt that same skin around here of late.” He reached down and absently scratched the dog’s head. “I can tell by the way he whined when you produced it.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Oh yes, it was at the Palace Gardens.”

  “Which Palace?”

  “Lambeth, of course. The Archbishop’s residence. There is a shed towards the back that recently caught Falstaff’s attention.”

  I pondered this strange bit of intelligence. Mr. Sherman was pointing me towards the London abode of the Archbishop of Canterbury, the head of the entire Church of England. And yet, the goldbeater’s skin had been stolen from St. Paul’s Cathedral, the seat of the Bishop of London. Could this pair of great men be engaged in some secret struggle? It was too outlandish to consider. The most likely explanation was that the Palace had its own supply of the skin, to use for repairing the gold leaf within the ancient building. But would they really keep it in a shed in the gardens? I needed to follow up this lead before I returned to Mycroft’s and related my findings to Holmes.

  I thanked Mr. Sherman profusely, and a hastily-sketched map in hand, I set off on foot for the nearby gardens. There, I located, tucked up almost against the wall of the Palace itself, a ramshackle outbuilding roughly ten feet long and eight feet deep. As there was no other likely suspect in the gardens, it could only be the shed that Sherman had described.

  Approaching it, I found that the door was solidly locked and the few windows blacked out. There was no obvious method by which I might see what exactly was held inside. I stood there for a moment, deliberating what scheme I might utilize in order to gain admission, when an angry voice called out.

  “Go on, you vagrant. You’ll find no shelter in here tonight,” said the man. I turned to find a squat, dark, middle-aged man, with a deeply-lined face scowling at me. He wore the soiled uniform of a groundskeeper, and was shaking a large stick at me.

  I attempted to disarm him with a note of gracious pleasantry. “Hello, my good man. My name is John Watson. I assure you that I am not thinking of trying to sleep in your fine shed. I was merely wondering what you might keep inside such a structure.”

  “You a copper?” said he, his voice surly.

  “Not at all, Mr….”

  But the name I hoped for was not proffered. “If you ain’t a copper, I got no reason I need to talk to you. Go on, then!” He waved his stick again.

  I held up my hand in a placating fashion. “Now, now, there is no reason to get rough. It’s an innocent question. The only reason to refuse to answer it would be if you have something to hide.”

  “And if I do, what are you going to do about it?”

  “I could very easily call in the aid of Scotland Yard and obtain a warrant. We’ll have it open before nightfall.”

  He peered at me, his gaze malevolent. “You’d have to walk away from here first.”

  “Are you proposing to attack me with your stick here in this public garden? I assure you, my good man, that would be a poor choice.”

  “I will tell them I was beating off a robber.” He raised the stick again.

  “And I am no simple robber.” I pulled my service revolver from my pocket and pointed it squarely at his chest.

  In an instant, his manner changed. “There’s no need for that, Mister. Just go on, and we’ll forget all about this.”

  “Before I go, if you would be so kind as to tell me what you have in your shed.”

  “It’s a garden shed, and I be the gardener. What do you expect? Garden tools.”

  “May I see them?”

  “Get your warrant. Then I’ll show you whatever you want, Mister,” said he, his defiance returning.

  I considered the possibility of threatening him further with my revolver, but ultimately decided that such a course was unwise, for my legal standing would have been tenuous at best. I instead beat a tactical retreat back to Pall Mall. For the time being, my clue had come to nothing, but once Holmes resurfaced from the depths of London I was certain that he would know what subsequent course to pursue.

  §

  I had little time to wait before a figure appeared in Mycroft’s rooms, the likes of which had certainly never before passed his door. Holmes was covered head to toe with a substance that transformed his skin to black, and he reeked of a smell so foul that I can scarcely do it justice with mere words. Even knowing that he had intended to set out in the attire of a flusherman, I hardly recognized him. “A disguise, Holmes?”

  “Hardly that, Watson,” said he, lau
ghing. He threw himself into one of Mycroft’s upholstered armchairs, which I feared would never be the same and would perhaps require converting into firewood. “It is a tight fraternity under the streets and they know each other less by sight than by sound. But the toshers do not mix with the official workers, so in order to draw out their confidences, I have made a series of minor adjustments to the standard garb of the sewer worker. I dare say that my modifications make it an eminently more practical outfit for exploring that nether domain.”

  “And what were the results of your investigations?”

  His bushy eyebrows drew together in a scowl. “I found many miles of damp, green, fungi-lined tunnels. The water is dark and fetid, and there are places where the air is so thick with gas that an un-shuttered lantern could set off a giant eruption. The Walbrook may have once been a natural channel, but years of man’s handiwork have linked it with a dizzying array of other streams, both true and artificial. Would you believe that there is even a bit of the River Westborne in the midst of the tube station in Sloane Square?[51] I followed a fresh series of almost indistinguishable marks in the direction of Hoxton, but they ultimately led to nothing.”’ He shook his head. “It will take me days to explore every narrow tributary. Now, pray tell, Watson, what did you discover at St. Paul’s?”

  I related my findings at the cathedral, and how this had eventually led me to the gardens of Lambeth Palace. “I trust that there is nothing of consequence which I have overlooked?” I concluded with some degree of smugness that my afternoon had proved to be more profitable than his own.

  Holmes had listened with careful attention to my long report, his finger-tips pressed together. “A singularly consistent investigation you have made, my dear Watson,” said he. “I cannot at the moment recall any time when you have made more of a hash of things.”[52]

  “And what would you have done in my stead?” I cried, with some bitterness.

  “I would have been more careful to not attract the attention of the Lambeth groundskeeper, and if I had engaged him, I certainly would not have told him my real name. Could you not have been Dr. Hill Barton one last time?”[53]

  “Why is my name of importance?”

  He laughed merrily. “Come now, Doctor. Surely if my name is known far and wide, so then is the man whose words thrust that fame upon me.[54] If the groundskeeper is crooked, he now knows the game is up.”

  “So you do believe that the groundskeeper is involved? Could the gold be kept in the shed?” I asked excitedly. “We should be off at once!”

  Holmes shook his head. “There are serious objections to that theory, Watson. From your description it sounds far too small to serve such a purpose. And in any case, by the time we reached Lambeth, whatever was in that shed will have long been moved. Presuming, of course, that the groundskeeper is involved in the plot at all.”

  “But his attitude was so suspicious!” I protested.

  “And that is why you should not have hesitated to force his hand. You should never have left without finding a way to see the inside of that shed, Watson. I can think of seven methods you might have employed. Only then could we know for certain whether or not he is one of the men that we seek. He may be involved in some completely unrelated, but equally nefarious activity, or simply be a deeply suspicious and violent individual.”

  “But you agree that there is a possibility that he is involved? Is this robbery some ecclesiastical spat between the bishops?”

  “Hardly that, Watson. Even if we could admit the prospect of the Archbishop of Canterbury ordering a theft from his rival at St. Paul’s, it is inconceivable that he would plunder the Bank of England. No, if your groundskeeper is involved, he is acting as an independent agent. He would not be the first servant, embittered after years of labor at a house where a single painting may be worth more than his life’s savings, to jump at the first prospect of some easy coin. And what easier than to let some generous stranger store their items in the little-used garden shed for the span of a few days, no questions asked?”

  “That is a plausible theory.”

  “It is more than plausible. I think that I shall have a few of my irregulars follow your groundskeeper for a few days, just to see if he can lead us to any other individuals of interest.”

  “Then my investigation was not in vain.” I was proud to think that I had so far mastered his system as to apply it in a way which earned his approval.

  He shook his head again. “I am afraid, Watson, that you benefitted from no small amount of Fortune. It was most propitious that Mr. Sherman happened to walk Falstaff in a northerly direction and not the opposite.”

  “And you have never profited from Luck, Holmes?”

  “Never. I find the very concept abhorrent.”

  “What about the murder of Eduardo Lucas? Without his unhappy wife, where would those letters be? Would the Premier still be in your debt?”[55]

  “A touch, Watson – a veritable touch,” said he, laughing.

  “I say, Holmes, what if they floated the gold to the Thames, and then either up or down the river on a string of lighters? That would be simplicity itself, especially if they are using the grounds of the riverside Lambeth Palace as a sanctuary.”

  “Very good, Watson. It was in fact the very first possibility that I considered. It even occurred to Gregson, who has the men of the Thames Division combing its entire navigable length.[56] Since the solitary river folk are notoriously averse to talking to the representatives of the government, I also have several less official forces in the field.”

  “Surely your irregulars must be grown men by now? Have you recruited other poor souls to take their place? What would the Children’s Charter say?”[57]

  Holmes shook his head. “While I much applaud the efforts of the Premier and his liberal government, the reforms do not go far enough. There are still plenty of urchins left on our streets and larks in our mud.”

  “If you are so concerned for their well-being, you could simply help them.”

  “Come now, Watson. Give a man a fish.[58] When I pay my irregulars a guinea, I do more than fill their bellies for a day, I instruct them that hard work will invariably lead to greater things. Look at me.”

  I frowned. “Were your parents not country squires?”

  He snorted in derision. “A manorial lord can claim a fancy title, but also have not two farthings to rub together. My father may have given me two years at college, that is true, but it was only with many long years of hard training that I came by my especial techniques. Do you not recall the day we first met, when my purse was so under-full that I could not upon my own pay for a nice suite in Baker Street?”

  “Of course, Holmes. It’s not likely to slip my mind.”

  “Then you know of what I speak. I may have had a leg up on those poor lads, but my success I owe primarily to myself, with some assistance from my Boswell, of course. And you may be surprised to see how some of the old gang has turned out, Wiggins, for example.”

  “So, what are we to do? Just wait?”

  “Not exactly, Watson. You may sleep, if you wish. I, for one, plan to consume an unwholesome amount of shag. Perhaps by the first light of the rosy-fingered dawn, some new avenues may have occurred to me.”

  §

  The rays of faint winter’s sun were beginning to appear when I was awoken by sounds coming from the library of our host. A thick cloud of yellow smoke rolled down the hall, and made me think that either our rooms were on fire, or a window had been left open and allowed in the opalescent London reek. Instead, I found Holmes, sitting upon the floor like some strange Buddha, with crossed legs, and huge books all round him. One lay closed upon his knees, the slamming of which must have been the inciting noise. His face radiated unhappiness.

  “Have you been up all night, Holmes?”

  “I have.”

  “And are you any closer to a solution?”

  He shook his head irritably. “Data, data, Watson! I cannot make fire without wood.”
<
br />   “So what are you doing?”

  “I am taking advantage of Mycroft’s excellent selection of classical works. I have often said that the bell chimes the same note. Everything has been done before. It seems that our friend Mortlock has either consciously or unconsciously taken inspiration from the ancient past, so I decided that the most practical thing I could do now is to study the same.[59] I have just finished Herodotus, and found him to be quite instructive.”

  “So what do you plan to do now?”

  “I have seven different lines of inquiry underway. It is to be hoped that one of them will draw blood.”

  But it was not to be. All that day and the next Holmes was in a mood which I would generously call reserved, and less generous people would call miserable. He ran out and ran in, smoked incessantly, and played snatches on his violin, which had been sent up from Fulworth by his old housekeeper. He sank into reveries, devoured sandwiches at irregular hours, and hardly answered the simple questions which I put to him. It was evident to me that things were not going well with his quest.

  Inspector MacDonald stopped in to see if Holmes would assist him with a robbery at the Lane Gas Plant on Horseferry Road in Westminster, but Holmes dismissed him with an ungracious snarl. Inspector Gregson dropped by at one point with a theory that the gold was being stashed in a warehouse in Wapping.

  Holmes, however, was derisive of this idea. “You are as likely to find your bars of gold in Wapping as you are to find an honest man in the Bar of Gold.”[60]