by Andrew Lane
Frustrated, he put his hands on the desk and just leaned forward, head hanging down, trying to work out the best course of action.
‘Can I ask somethin’?’ Matty said. He had his hands in his pockets and he was staring out of the window.
‘What?’ Sherlock snapped.
‘Those three blokes – the ones who broke into your house while they were pretendin’ to be decorators at Mr Phillimore’s place . . .’
‘What about them?’ Sherlock was only giving a small part of his attention to what Matty was asking. The rest was focused on trying to work out where his brother had put the letter. Surely it was here, and not at the Diogenes Club or his flat.
‘Where do you think they are?’ Matty asked.
‘I don’t know. Why?’
‘Well, your brother took ’em away under orders, far as we can tell. They must be bein’ kept somewhere, an’ questioned.’
‘They committed a crime,’ Sherlock pointed out. ‘They’ve probably been arrested and are currently sitting in cells in a police station.’
‘Let’s hope,’ Matty said bleakly. ‘It’s not like I’ve got any great love for the Peelers, but I’d ’ate to think of those guys held somewhere secret where nobody can get in to see ’em, wiv no legal brief able to get to ’em.’
‘I’m sure that’s not the case,’ Sherlock said reassuringly, but he was concentrating on the desk, and the way his hands rested on it. There was something about the pad of green blotting paper that his hands were resting on that bothered him. It bowed slightly, as if there was something underneath it, pushing up the middle while he was holding the sides down.
He picked the blotter up and put it to one side. There, on the desk in front of him, was the letter from Jonathan Phillimore to his brother James. Sherlock scooped it up and waved it triumphantly. ‘Got it!’
‘Brilliant,’ Matty exclaimed. ‘Let’s get out of ’ere.’
‘Not so fast.’ Sherlock thought quickly. He didn’t want Mycroft to realize the letter was gone, not for a while anyway, but he didn’t think they had enough time to test it for secret writing here.
For a moment he thought about slipping the letter out of the envelope, putting it into his jacket pocket and leaving the envelope behind, perhaps with a sheet of blank paper inside, but something stopped him from doing that. Instead he reached down and pulled out the second drawer of the desk. Quickly he riffled through the empty envelopes, looking for one the same size as the letter from Jonathan Phillimore. Once he found one he pushed the drawer closed, grabbed a fountain pen with the right colour ink in it and copied James Phillimore’s address from the front of his brother’s letter to the blank envelope, imitating Jonathan Phillimore’s writing as closely as possible. He held the two envelopes up towards Matty. ‘Do they look the same?’
‘I dunno – I can’t read, remember.’
‘I don’t care if you can read or not, I want to know if they look the same.’
Matty squinted. ‘I suppose so.’
‘That’s all right then.’ Sherlock slid the fake envelope beneath the blotter and adjusted the green pad until it was exactly as he had found it. He suspected that if it was even slightly crooked or slightly misaligned with the edges of the desk, then Mycroft would spot that something was wrong. He certainly would have done.
‘Time to leave,’ he said.
Matty poked his head around the edge of the door and glanced in both directions along the corridor. ‘We’re clear,’ he said. ‘I see blokes in expensive clothes, but your bruvver ain’t one of ’em.’
They left rapidly. Sherlock waved a hand as they went through the doorway, giving the impression that they were saying goodbye to someone inside. After all, they didn’t want it to look as if they had been in an empty office.
Five steps along the corridor, Sherlock realized they had left their newspapers behind.
‘Quick!’ he hissed. ‘We need to go back!’
They grabbed their newspapers and left in the same way they had a few moments before. It wasn’t that Sherlock thought they needed the newspapers any more – it was that he knew his brother would want to know where the two piles had come from if he saw them, and he wouldn’t rest until he got an answer.
They moved in the direction opposite to the one that Mycroft had gone in, and as soon as they came to a stairway Sherlock led the way downstairs. They managed to get rid of five more newspapers before they got to the marbled entrance hall.
Once outside, in the cold afternoon air, they walked as fast as they could away from the Foreign Office building, leaving the remaining newspapers in the care of a surprised blind man with a barrel organ and a monkey on a rope.
‘Where now?’ Matty asked. ‘And will there be food? Me stomach thinks me throat’s been cut!’
‘We need somewhere with a candle,’ Sherlock said.
‘Tavern?’ Matty offered.
‘Tea room,’ Sherlock countered. ‘There’s an Aerated Bread Company tea room opposite Charing Cross Station. Let’s get something to eat and drink there.’
Charing Cross Station was only a short walk away, and within ten minutes they were sitting at a table that had a candle conveniently flickering in its centre. Sherlock waited until the waitress had taken their order for a pot of tea and some scones with jam and cream before pulling the envelope from his jacket.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Time to find out what’s really going on.’
‘Just don’t set fire to it by accident,’ Matty replied. ‘At least, not until we’ve ’ad our tea and scones. After that you can do what you want, as far as I’m concerned.’
Sherlock slipped the single-paged letter out of the envelope and sniffed it cautiously. There was indeed a slight lemony smell to it. That gave him the confidence to hold the letter over the candle flame – sufficiently far away that it would get warm but not catch fire.
‘I can’t see nothin’,’ Matty said eventually.
‘Give it time.’
He kept the letter over the flame of the candle until his fingers were almost too hot to bear, but as far as he could see no extra writing had appeared on the sheet – either between the lines that were already there or around the edge. He huffed in frustration. He couldn’t be wrong. The thought process that had led him to this point was unarguable. There had to be a secret message, because the three thugs had been after the letter, and it had to be secret writing because of the words ‘invisible’, ‘candle’ and ‘trick’, and because he hadn’t been able to identify any code in the words themselves. He huffed again. What was he missing? Did it need something else apart from heat to reveal whatever secret message was there? If so, what was it? A chemical spray of some kind? The only way to check that would be to go all the way back to Arundel and talk to James Phillimore again to see what technique he and his brother had actually used.
No – there had to be something else. Something simple.
His gaze moved around the table as he thought, not really looking at anything in particular but simply drifting as his mind whirred away. He ended up looking at the envelope, and the fact that it took him several seconds to get to the simple and obvious solution annoyed him so much that he shouted ‘I am a fool!’ so loudly that people at the next tables turned to stare.
‘What is it?’ Matty asked.
‘The secret message isn’t in the letter at all,’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s in the envelope!’
Quickly but carefully he took the envelope and pulled it apart, flattening it so that it was as close to a sheet of paper as possible. He held it over the candle with the address downward, and waited impatiently. This time he knew he was right.
Brown writing slowly appeared on the inside face of the envelope. Sherlock twisted it so that he could read the words.
James – I’m sorry but I badly need your help. Are you acquainted with a man named George Clarke? He has some official position on the construction project, although I have never been able to work out what exactly it is, and I have major co
ncerns that he is keeping something from me – something important. He seems to have his own agenda, over and above the digging of this canal. He has men who report to him, men who are not on the payroll of the project, and he often sends them off to do work which has nothing to do with digging the canal itself. I have also often found him in my office, when he expected me to be out surveying the ground, examining the maps and various engineering blueprints and comparing them with documents which he put into a briefcase the moment he saw me. Something is going on here, and I do not like it.
I have, of course, attempted to make my concerns known to my superiors, indeed to Monsieur de Lesseps himself in Port Said, but I strongly suspect that Mr Clarke is actually intercepting my letters to them. I don’t dare arrange to travel to see Monsieur de Lesseps in case someone here decides to arrange an accident for me. I have attempted to get in touch with the Suez Canal Company at its headquarters in Paris, but I suspect that Mr Clarke is preventing those letters from even leaving the country. I hope that the apparently innocent nature of this particular letter will lull him into a false sense of security, and he will let it go. If this letter reaches you, then please, if you do nothing else, reply to it with a secret message in the same way so that I know my message to you has got through. Please let me know what you can determine about George Clarke, and please talk to the Government if you can. It would help me as I decide what to do about his presence, and as I further investigate what exactly it is that he is doing on this project. I fear that it is something appalling.
Your brother,
Jonathan
‘That’s it!’ Sherlock exclaimed. ‘We have it! There is some secret plot afoot to take over, or compromise, or destroy this new canal in Egypt. Jonathan Phillimore found evidence pointing to it and tried to alert his superiors, but his letters of warning were intercepted.’
‘’Ow do you know it’s somethin’ like a take-over or sabotage? The message don’t say that.’
Sherlock nodded. ‘You’re right, but think about it. There are only so many things you can do on a big international building site. If you were involved in a financial crime – siphoning funds away from the project, for instance – you’d do it at head office, not where the actual digging work is going on. No, if this George Clarke is actually doing something illegal or undercover at the building site itself, then it has to be something to do with the engineering – and that means he has almost certainly been hired to sabotage it. That’s why he’s been looking at Jonathan Phillimore’s blueprints – he’s been looking for weaknesses, places he could do something that would break the canal, or prevent it being finished.’
‘You’re sure about that?’
‘I’m very sure. So Jonathan wrote in secret to his older brother, overcoming whatever family issues were between them, but whoever is behind this plot in Egypt discovered that he had sneaked a letter past them, and organized agents in England to track the letter down.’ He shook his head. ‘Incredible that a plot so far away could be uncovered here in England, in a tea shop.’
‘So what do we do?’ Matty asked. ‘Tell your bruvver?’
Sherlock sighed. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Mycroft already knows.’
‘You mean ’e worked out the invisible writin’ stuff like you did?’
‘No.’ Sherlock shook his head sadly. ‘Mycroft already knew. Or maybe he didn’t, but his superiors knew. Remember what he said when he first read the letter – he mentioned that the British Government is against the digging of the canal, and that they are happy with the current situation concerning shipping and trade.’ He stopped to think for a moment, and a horrible thought struck him. ‘If the British Government is truly against the project,’ be breathed, ‘then would they actually go so far as to destroy it? Could the British Government have hired this George Clarke?’
Matty frowned. ‘Why would they?’ he asked.
‘I’ve spent long enough with Mycroft, and I’ve been present at enough discussions that he’s held with other diplomats, to know that the British Government is obsessed with keeping itself on top of the pile when it comes to power and influence – especially when it comes to France, Germany and Russia. Anything that could affect that balance, that could give another country more influence, has to be stopped. Jonathan Phillimore said that the project to build this canal from Suez to Port Said is being financed and run by the French. That means when the canal is completed, and ships are able to avoid the dangerous voyage around Africa, that the French will benefit. Either they will charge captains money to use the canal, thus providing funds to the French Government directly or indirectly, or they will preferentially let their own ships use the canal.’ He raised his eyebrows as the full implications struck him. ‘If French ships can bring cargoes from China and India back quickly, while British ships have to use the long route, then the balance of economic power will immediately shift! France will become the most powerful economic entity!’
‘Don’t they deserve to?’ Matty asked. ‘I mean, they are payin’ for this canal. Presumably we could’ve paid for it, if we’d wanted to. If someone else stumps up the money, then good for them.’
Sherlock stared at him for a moment. ‘Don’t ever enter the Diplomatic Service,’ he said finally. ‘I don’t think it could survive your honesty.’
‘Not much chance of that,’ Matty replied.
‘It’s got nothing to do with fairness and everything to do with gaining maximum power and influence for minimum effort. If it’s cheaper and easier to destroy a French canal than it is to build a British canal, then that’s what they’ll do.’
Matty shook his head sorrowfully. ‘An’ your bruvver knows all about this?’
‘He didn’t.’ Sherlock thought for a moment. ‘I’m sure he didn’t. When he first read the letter at James Phillimore’s house he didn’t have any reaction to the mention of the canal, apart from some disdain at the idea. It was only after he had sent a telegram to his superiors – presumably mentioning the letter and Jonathan Phillimore in passing – that a telegram came back giving him instructions to get all the evidence out of there and take it to London. He knows now, I’m sure, but he didn’t then.’
‘And he don’t think it’s wrong?’ Matty shook his head. ‘That’s ’arsh.’
‘Look, it doesn’t matter whether he thinks it’s wrong or not. He’s got instructions. He’s got orders.’
‘That’s why I wouldn’t ever become a diplomat,’ Matty said. ‘I just don’t like followin’ orders.’ He paused. ‘And I ain’t got the qualifications.’ Another pause. ‘An’ I don’t ’ave a nice suit an’ ’at, like they do.’
Sherlock glanced at the envelope. The writing was fading away as the paper cooled down, leaving the surface blank once more.
‘What do we do?’ Matty asked.
‘Do?’ Sherlock stared at him. ‘What can we do? This is an international thing! We haven’t got any power or influence in this!’
Matty frowned. ‘Weren’t you the one who stopped the American Army from bombin’ a bunch of rebels cos you thought killin’ ’em was wrong? Weren’t you the one who stopped the Paradol Chamber from blowin’ up an American boat in China cos it would’ve started some kind of war? And now you’re worried about alertin’ people to an attempt to blow up a canal?’
‘It’s not –’ Sherlock stopped. ‘It’s just that –’ He stopped again, and took a deep breath. ‘It’s Mycroft,’ he blurted finally. ‘I can’t go against my brother!’
‘Bruvvers, fathers, sisters – if somethin’s wrong then it’s wrong.’
It was just at that moment that the waitress returned with their tea and scones. Sherlock was silent while the two of them cut the scones and spread jam and cream on them. He took a bite, hardly tasting it.
‘All right,’ he sighed. ‘What can we do?’
‘Mr Phillimore’s bruvver was tryin’ to tell ’is bosses what was goin’ on, but ’is letters didn’t get through. We could write to them ourselves.’
Sherlock sh
ook his head. ‘They wouldn’t believe us. They don’t know who we are, and we have no real evidence apart from a secret message hidden in a letter.’
‘We could send ’em the secret message.’
Sherlock tried to imagine a group of French industrialists and financiers in frock coats and top hats intently waving an envelope above a candle flame. ‘They’d just throw the thing away. They’d think it was a practical joke – or worse, some clumsy attempt to pause or stop the digging of the canal. They would probably think that we had faked it.’
‘Then we’ve got to go out there,’ Matty said.
‘I suppose we do,’ Sherlock said, still thinking about ways of getting a warning out to Egypt. His brain took a few moments to catch up with what Matty had said. ‘Go out there?’
‘Yep.’
‘To Egypt?’
‘Yep.’
‘Just the two of us?’
Matty nodded. ‘Yep.’
‘Are you mad?’
He considered for a moment. ‘Yep. Prob’ly am. Like I said: if somethin’s wrong then it’s wrong. If only you an’ I can stop it, then we ’ave to stop it.’
Sherlock gazed at him, smiled, and shook his head. ‘You are an amazing person, Matty.’ He felt a sense of purpose, even of happiness, welling up inside him. ‘Rufus Stone can’t come with us, you know – he’s working for Mycroft. We’ll be completely on our own.’
‘What about Mr Phillimore?’ Matty asked. ‘If ’e’s worried ’bout ’is bruvver then maybe ’e’d ’elp us. ’E might want to come wiv us. At the very least ’e might get the tickets for us.’
‘That’s a very good point.’ Sherlock took another bite of scone, and a sip of tea. ‘Finish your food – we’ve got a journey to make.’
