by David Marcum
The fellow chuckled at my retort, and the radiant smile returned once more. “Etiquette has never been one of my strong suits, Mr. Mickleburgh. Once again, you must forgive this forthright approach. My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I am a chemist and detective of sorts. I have been asked to investigate a delicate incident involving a foreign diplomat. I understand that you are the British Museum’s resident expert on ancient weapons, so it is to you that I naturally defer. I have an excellent working knowledge of modern firearms, knives, garrottes, poisons, and other killing paraphernalia, but I would not profess to know a great deal about the weaponry of the Middle Ages.”
He paused at that point, as if seeking some sort of confirmation from me. I responded accordingly. “Well yes, I am something of an expert in that field, although my academic role extends more widely, to all aspects of criminal justice in the medieval period. I would be more than willing to help you, but could I suggest that we step inside, out of the cold, and resume this conversation over a hot beverage?”
“An excellent idea,” said Holmes, stamping his feet and doing his best to dislodge as much of the snow that was clinging to his ankle boots as he could. I followed his lead and then unlocked the door. Having led my visitor down through a maze of corridors to the small windowless office I occupied at the rear of the annex, I beckoned for Holmes to take a seat close to the coal fire which had already been lit by one of the museum’s night porters. Within ten minutes, our hands were cupped around two hot cups of steaming tea I had prepared, using a small black kettle hung within the open fire grate.
Our renewed conversation proved to be both absorbing and enlightening. Holmes was fascinated by the rare collection of leather-bound books I had assembled on crime and punishment in the Tudor period and which adorned every inch of shelf space within my cramped quarters. He also marvelled at the small display of pole cleavers which sat in one corner, as I explained the differences between the voulge, spetum, sovnya, glaive, and bardiche weapons which he handled with enthusiasm. It was then that he turned to the nature of his enquiry, removing carefully from an inside pouch of his long jacket a heavily wrapped package, which he then unfurled before me. Inside lay what I instantly recognised as a rondel dagger, some eight or nine inches in length.
“Mr. Mickleburgh. Since leaving behind my university studies, I have pursued a financially precarious vocation as an independent investigator; what I alone refer to as a consulting detective. And while I maintain good contacts with the official metropolitan force, and have occasionally been asked to assist Scotland Yard on some of its more obscure investigations, I operate autonomously - outside of any official jurisdiction - and choose carefully each and every client for whom I work. This approach does not always endear me to those who seek my help, but I have a growing reputation as a man who can solve any manner of crime, riddle, puzzle, or conundrum. I make it my business to observe things that others overlook, and to solve every case presented to me on the basis of clear science and rational deduction. But I cannot operate without appropriate data and, when my own knowledge is found wanting, I recognise the absolute necessity of seeking out others with expertise.” He paused and took a small sip from his tea, maintaining his intense stare, before continuing.
“I recently undertook a short and successful assignment for Lord Haverstock, whom you may know as a trustee of the British Museum. When I asked him yesterday evening if he knew of an expert in medieval weaponry, it was your name that he first suggested. And when I learned later that you resided on Montague Street, it seemed as if you were, all ways round, the perfect man to consult. So, anything you can now tell me about the item on your lap would be very much appreciated.”
A mixture of thoughts and emotions flooded through me - surprise that Lord Haverstock, whom I had met but twice in my career, should remember me; pride that my academic reputation actually meant something to someone; and humility that this clearly able and articulate young man should seek my help. I was determined to assist him in any way that I could.
“Mr. Holmes, you will recognise, of course, that this is a replica weapon. Only a few original examples, from the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, are known to exist. It is called a rondel dagger, the word ‘rondel’ meaning circular or round, and denoting its octagonal hand guard and the spherical pommel at the end of the grip. This weapon is well under a foot long; an original dagger would have been anywhere between twelve and twenty inches in length. The blade is made of steel and set within a very ornate ivory handle. That again sets it apart - the tang of an earlier dagger would almost certainly have been carved from wood or bone.”
“Excellent!” exclaimed Holmes, “And to what purpose would such a dagger have been used?”
“The nature of the long and tapered blade made this weapon ideal for thrusting and puncturing, much like the later stiletto knife. By the fifteenth century, it had become the favoured side-arm of medieval knights, who would use it in hand-to-hand combat. A rondel dagger could be forced between the joints of a suit of armour or used with deadly effect to penetrate chain mail. However, most of the highly-decorated rondels which we see preserved in collections today would have been commissioned purely for ceremonial purposes. Beyond the medieval battlefield, the rondel emerged as a fashionable item, displayed at the waist of wealthy middle-class merchants and artisans across Europe. The inlaid decoration on this ivory handle hint at that earlier ritualistic function, and I can say with some confidence that this dagger has been produced as one of a limited batch for a small and secretive band of men.”
I could see that my conclusion had piqued Holmes’s interest. “Indeed, Mr. Mickleburgh. And would I be right in suggesting that this select society is known as the Bosworth Order?”
“You would, although I know little about the organisation beyond its adoption of this type of dagger. I have seen only one before, which belonged to the father of a student with whom I briefly shared a room at Cambridge. Lester Devlin invited me to his palatial home in Huntingdon one weekend and - knowing my keen interest in medieval weaponry - made a great fuss of showing me, rather covertly, into his father’s study. Housed within a secure glass cabinet was a display of three rondel daggers, one identical to this. While the other two weapons looked to be genuine fourteenth century pieces, the smaller rondel was clearly a much later reproduction. As I said as much, Devlin’s father entered the study and with some annoyance announced that I was absolutely correct. Before being shepherded away, Hugh Devlin casually let it slip that there were only eight such daggers in existence and each belonged to members of the Bosworth Order. When I later quizzed Lester about the connection, he knew little beyond the fact that the order was a secret society to which his father had been a member. The dagger was apparently given to those initiated into the order. Beyond that, I can tell you no more, Mr. Holmes.”
“My dear fellow, your academic reputation is clearly deserved, and the additional information you have provided about the connection to the Devlin family is invaluable.”
“Then, could I ask, Mr. Holmes, how you already knew that the dagger was used by the Bosworth Order?”
Holmes’s powerful gaze dropped momentarily towards the floor. When he raised his head, a look of some concern had crept across his pallid features. “I see no reason why I should not take you into my trust, Mr. Mickleburgh, but you must agree to treat the matters I relay as highly confidential. Can I depend upon your discretion?”
I gave him every assurance that I could be trusted and sat back to listen to his disclosure. It was a most remarkable tale.
“Yesterday lunchtime, I received a telegram from my brother Mycroft, who works for the British Government. He asked me to attend a hastily convened meeting at the Foreign and Commonwealth Office in Whitehall. When I arrived, I was told that a foreign diplomat had been murdered at his home in Stoke Newington the previous night, the body found the following morning by the dead man’s butler. Due to the na
ture of the crime, the ministers and civil servants present had determined that a private and discreet inquiry would be preferable to a general investigation by Scotland Yard. On Mycroft’s recommendation, I was asked to carry out that inquiry. I requested only that the scene of the crime be left as the butler had found it.
“Within two hours, I had travelled by train from Liverpool Street Station to Stoke Newington and found myself within a two-wheeled trap approaching the small Tudor mansion of the late Edward Flanders, agent-general of the crown colony of New South Wales in Australia. In the fading light of the afternoon, I first explored the grounds around the house and then examined each of the downstairs rooms of the property, before asking Mr. Peters, the butler, to show me the corpse. The body lay where it had been found, on the carpet of the ground-floor bed chamber where Flanders normally slept. He lay on his back, his feet pointing towards the French windows, which provided access to the garden of the estate and a point of entry for the killer. The rondel dagger had been thrust into his chest, and he had fallen back to die where he lay. He was dressed in flannel pyjamas, a long red dressing gown, and black carpet slippers. On the floor to his right was an iron poker. I spent twenty minutes examining the body and searching the room, and then explained to the butler that Whitehall had made arrangements for a coroner to be notified and the body to be taken away later that day.”
I could not help but interject. “Do you believe the poker was first used to stun the man, before the dagger was deployed?”
“No,” replied Holmes. “It was Flanders who had been carrying the poker, no doubt armed for the encounter with our assailant. He had been expecting the intrusion, you see.”
“I’m not sure I do, Mr. Holmes. Are you saying that he was disturbed during the night, arose from his bed, and went over to challenge whoever it was trying to enter the house through the French windows?”
“Not quite. There is no fireplace in the downstairs bed chamber. It was clear to me that Flanders had been sleeping in an upstairs room at the time. On hearing a noise downstairs, he had put on the dressing gown and slippers and armed himself with the poker. Mr. Peters later confirmed that Flanders had been sleeping upstairs for the previous three nights, but had given no explanation for his sudden reluctance to use the downstairs bed chamber.”
“But if he was expecting an intruder, why did he not confide in Peters and ask him to be more vigilant in checking the security of the ground floor?”
“A key question and an excellent line of enquiry - why indeed? Well, I found the answer within an unlocked desk drawer. Flanders’s study adjoins the downstairs bed chamber, and having searched the main bureau within it, I found a short, handwritten note, apparently sent a week earlier. It read simply: ‘Your membership has been revoked. Expect a visit. Ensure you are alone. Important matters to be discussed.’ A rubber stamp had been used to complete the communiqué. Beneath a crest bearing the arms of King Richard III, were the words ‘Bosworth Order’.”
“Why do you think the killer waited a few nights before seeking out Flanders?” I then asked.
“Fear of observation, I suspect. If, like me, the killer had to travel from town on the Stoke Newington and Edmonton Line, he would have been keen to make the journey without attracting unwanted attention. The weather conditions provided the perfect cover. You may remember, two nights ago, that the coal fog we have endured for some weeks now was particularly dense and extended well beyond the central London area, drifting north of the Thames in huge waves of choking smog. It provided a perfect cloak of anonymity.”
“And did you discover any further clues to the identity of the killer, Mr. Holmes?”
“Only that he wore gloves and carried a heavy bludgeon, in addition to the dagger. He is a strong and agile right-handed man, whose height is around five feet, seven inches, and he speaks with a West Highland accent. I also believe he may be partially deaf.”
“So, you have detained the suspect already?”
“No. But I have every confidence that I shall do so, very soon.”
I looked at him, confused. “Then I do not understand how you can know so much about the man.”
His response was delivered with no hint of conceit: “Facts, Mr. Mickleburgh - easily discernible facts. There were no prints or marks on the grip of the dagger, suggesting gloves. The weapon had been driven upwards and into the left side of Flanders’ sternum with considerable force and some speed. So much so, that - although armed with an iron poker and anticipating possible violence - the victim had been unable to deflect or respond to the lunge of the dagger. This also tells us that the attacker came to kill rather than talk, despite the wording of the note. Flanders was a tall man, well over six feet in height. The weapon’s point of entry suggested an assailant somewhat shorter and right-handed.
“The killer had gained entry to the locked chamber with no great skill or finesse, smashing a small pane of the French windows in a single blow, to then reach inside and unlock the doors. I suspect this was the sound which first roused Flanders. The punched hole in the glass bore the distinct hallmarks of the round end of a heavy wooden bludgeon. As for his accent, the clue came from the rose bushes which adorn the south-facing wall of the manor house, close to the French windows. Our man had strayed a little too close to the prickly branches, leaving tell-tale strands of cloth clinging to the thorns. I have made it my business to recognise all the main variants of tweed and tartan cloth, and recognised the weft and weave in this case to be the distinct green and black sett of the ‘Black Watch’ tartan, worn by the Clan Campbell and other West Highland families. While it is possible that the fellow was dressed in tartan trousers, I think it more likely that he wore a kilt, which would more easily explain the snagging on the roses.”
I stood in awe of the man’s uncanny abilities, but could not resist a final enquiry. “And the assertion that he’s partially deaf?”
“Oh yes, a detail I overlooked. More of a punt; but when I approached the manor house yesterday afternoon, I could hear a distinct barking from three or four dogs kennelled at the back of the house. Peters explained later that these are the gun dogs which Flanders kept for his weekend shooting parties. It was clear that the beasts had been alerted by the approach of the trap along the gravel path, and they continued to bark as I walked around the outside of the house searching for clues. I am sure that they would have responded equally as noisily hearing our intruder skulking around the estate. Most would-be assassins might have been put off by any such commotion, but our man appeared to carry on regardless.”
I have met many intelligent, articulate, and distinguished characters in my academic career, but can say with all honesty that Sherlock Holmes eclipsed them all. And I realised in that moment that I wanted to work alongside him in the future, offering whatever assistance I could in tackling the cases and conundrums he faced. My challenge was how best to broach the matter. In the event, I opted for a short-term proposal: “Mr. Holmes, I appreciate your candour in sharing with me the details of this case and your findings to date. It strikes me that I could still prove useful to you in getting to the heart of this affair. I am due some leave from my researches and could easily arrange to take some time away from the Museum, if you would permit me to be an unpaid, yet willing, assistant.”
Holmes raised himself from the armchair and stood for a few seconds looking deeply into the flames of the fire. His eyes were deep-set and for the first time I noticed the dark rings above his cheek line. When he finally glanced over and addressed me, a distinct grin lit up his otherwise expressionless face. “That is a very kind offer which, ordinarily, I would have declined. In this case, I do believe that you could prove useful with my continuing inquiry. If your leave can be arranged in the next ten minutes, you could indeed accompany me to my next port of call.”
“And where might that be?” I enquired.
“Whitehall - my brother Mycroft is expecti
ng to hear how the case is progressing.
It was a simple matter to arrange to take three days away from the Museum. I wrote a short note to Dr. Spencer, the curator in charge of my department, and placed it in an envelope on his desk. The elderly gentleman was rarely at the Museum in any case, as he suffered periodically from bouts of both gout and rheumatism. I was certain that my short absence would not concern him.
When Holmes and I emerged from the Museum, we found that there had been no further deposits of snow, and the skies had cleared sufficiently to allow for a hint of warmth from the winter sun. The streets around us were bathed in light, and the pavements were bustling with all manner of visitors, tradesmen, and loiterers. With the lingering nip in the air, I turned up the collar on my frock coat and followed Holmes as he set off down Great Russell Street. Discounting the use of a cab, he suggested that we walk the mile and a half from Bloomsbury, through High Holborn, and along the Charing Cross Road to Whitehall.
It was close to nine-thirty as we approached the grand white façade of the government building that Mycroft Holmes occupied. On our walk, his brother had been reticent to share any further details about the man beyond saying that Mycroft was “... a key player within the mechanism of government,” and “... a conduit for vital information and intelligence across all of the Whitehall departments.” I got the distinct impression that, while there was a grudging respect on both sides, theirs was peculiarly brotherly relationship with evident sibling rivalry.
I found Mycroft to be both welcoming and urbane in his plush civil service office, bedecked with oak panelling and luxurious leather armchairs. He seemed enthusiastic when told that I was assisting his brother. While a little more thickset than Sherlock, and some three or four inches shorter in height, there was no mistaking the familial look. His conversation was direct, witty, and effortless, and after exchanging a few pleasantries and inviting us to join him for a small glass of sherry, he asked what progress had been made on the case.
