by Andy Lane
"scurfs" as the argot has it, guarantee the safety and integrity of the Library in return for financial recompense.'
'And how exactly do they operate?'
'Very simply. There is only one way out of the Library - the doorway through which you entered. At no other point do its bounds come near the outside world; apart from that door we are completely sealed in. Every visitor and every member of staff who leaves is searched by the skilled pickpockets, or "fine wirers", of each gang. If anybody is caught attempting to remove a book - and they will be caught - their hands are cut off. It's a very simple deterrent!'
'Bribery?' Holmes suggested.
Ambrose shook his head. 'It was obvious to the original creators of the Library that any one set of guards could be suborned by bribery or threats.
Since time immemorial we have used two tribes, or gangs, who are in competition. Each watches the other, you see? Each would like nothing more than to catch the other one out, and so we avoid placing too much reliance on any one person or group of people.'
'An equitable arrangement,'Holmes said brusquely. 'Do these gang leaders have names?'
'They are known by the colourful sobriquets of Mr Jitter and Mack "The Knife" Yeovil'
'I know of them. Men without any notion of decency or morals: thieves and killers whose catalogues of crimes are exceeded only by their hatred of each other. I have often suspected them of being linked to the Moriarty gang.'
Ambrose smiled.
'That rivalry assures our security,' he said. 'Each man would take great pleasure in catching the other one out, or discovering a theft that the other had overlooked.'
'What about ventilation?' I asked. 'Could somebody gain access through ventilation ducts?'
'There is no ventilation.'
'But the air . . . it's fresh.'
Ambrose smiled. 'The Library has been designed to provide a natural channel for the transit of air from the doorway, around the many corridors and rooms, and out of the same doorway whilst still maintaining a constant temperature and humidity. Effectively, and without wanting to appear melodramatic, the Library breathes, just as you or I.'
'Very interesting, I am sure,' said Holmes, who could be very blinkered when he chose to be. 'But how soon would the theft have been discovered?'
'We had just completed a full inventory of the Library's stock a month back when an old and respected visitor asked to see the very books that were stolen. Thus we were able to narrow the time of the theft down considerably.'
'Most fortuitous,' Holmes said dryly. 'I will need the names and addresses of all visitors to the Library, starting a month before the theft.'
'Already prepared.' He held out another sheet of paper. Holmes took it and scanned the list. His eyes widened in surprise at one of the names. He cast a covert glance at me, and read on.
'This W C. Minor. . ' he said a few moments later. 'The name is familiar to me.'
'Ah' Ambrose said, and trailed off. 'You have hit upon one of our more unusual members. Dr Minor is the only man who is allowed to read our books outside the library.'
'I believed you to say that nobody was allowed to remove books.'
'He does not remove them. We send them to him.'
'And why is that?' Holmes snapped.
'He is aiding in the compilation of a dictionary to rival that of Dr Johnson, one that will contain every word in the English language. Our archives of arcane documents are invaluable to his researches.'
'And why can he not consult them here?'
Ambrose blinked.
'Because he is confined within the hospital for the criminally insane at Broadmoor.'
'Of course!' Holmes cried. 'I thought I knew the name. He shot an innocent man under the delusion that he was being pursued by Irishmen. I was briefly involved in the case. I presume that you have recovered all of the books that you sent him?'
'Of course.'
'Then, assuming that he is still in captivity, we can provisionally rule him out as a suspect. This last one on the list interests me, however,' he said thoughtfully. 'You have him listed only as "The Doctor", and you give no address.'
'That is how he styles himself,' Ambrose said, and smiled reminiscently.
'The Doctor has been a visitor here since before my father's time. I believe his ticket was first issued . . . oh, let me see . . . five hundred years ago.'
'Not to him personally, I hope,' Holmes said.
'I would not have thought so,' Ambrose said, offended. 'Many families treat their visitors' tickets as family heirlooms, passing them down from generation to generation. Strangely enough, it was he who asked to see the missing books, and sparked off this business.'
I could see my friend's eyebrows lift slightly at this.
'I would like to see the room from which the thefts occurred,' he said.
Ambrose nodded, levered himself from behind his desk and gestured for us to follow him out of the room. He led us another merry dance; switching back and forth along corridors, climbing stairs and descending ramps until I felt quite dizzy and had no idea where we were or even upon which floor. Eventually we stopped by a room, no different from the myriad others we had passed.
'Alternative zoology and phantasmagorical anthropology,' he announced.
I stood on the threshold as Holmes leapt into action. I had seen my friend's methods put into effect before, and so I was not surprised when he dropped to the floor and began to crawl around the room like some huge, dun-coloured beetle.
'You must be terribly well read,' I said to Ambrose in an attempt to make small talk. He looked strangely at me.
'We do not read any of the documents here,' he said.
'What, not at all?'
'No, sir. We have all taken a vow for the sake of our own safety.'
'Why on Earth would you want to do that?'
'Too much knowledge can drive a man mad,' he said strangely, and would not be drawn further.
Using a small pair of scissors, Holmes took clippings from the ornate carpet and placed them into a series of envelopes. Eventually he tired of the floor, and turned his attention to the book-lined walls. He began by moving rapidly along them with his hands clasped behind his back, sniffing at the spines. He then took out his magnifying glass and spent ten minutes examining the spine of one book in particular in almost infinite detail. It was when he reached out a bony finger to remove the book from the shelf that Ambrose's expression changed from polite disdain to shock.
'Sir!' he exclaimed, and leapt forward. Using a pair of vellum-swathed tongs which he removed from a pocket in his robes, he carefully prised the book from its perch. Holding it in one hand, he removed a pair of dove-grey gloves from a hidden pocket of his robes and presented them to Holmes.
'How remiss of me,' Ambrose said.
Holmes flicked through the volume in a cursory manner and replaced it on the shelf.
'Ludwig Prinn's De Vermiis Mysteries, German black letter edition, sixteenth century. A remarkably good copy.' He turned towards the door. 'I have seen enough,' he announced. 'I would inspect the rest of the Library.'
It took Holmes three hours to cover the entire extent of the Library of St John the Beheaded, during which time Mr Ambrose and I finished most of a bottle of sweet sherry, and I flicked through various volumes of morally suspect theology. Eventually he returned, downcast.
'He was right,' Holmes muttered. 'No concealed exits, no trapdoors, no skylights. I did, however, come across one locked room, which our host informed me was for members to entertain visitors in, should they so wish.'
'At the head of a ramp?'
'Indeed. You noticed it?'
'I saw a figure entering the room, covered from head to foot in robes of the type that monks wear. He walked strangely, as if he was deformed in some way.'
'Hmm. Well, I suppose that the Library does cater to Catholic tastes.' He smiled briefly. 'It may interest you to learn that I confirmed our host's statement to the effect that there is only one way in or
out. I would suggest that we now avail ourselves of it.'
Ambrose escorted us to the egress.
'Good luck, gentlemen,' he said. We turned, blinking in the sudden sunlight, to thank him, but he had vanished into the gloom.
''Scuse us, gents,' said a voice from the alley. Standing in front of us was an oafish figure wearing stained trousers, a shirt with neither cuffs nor collar and a trilby whose band had almost become detached from its crown.
'Rules is rules,' he said and stepped forward, revealing a smaller, rat-faced man behind him. I prepared to remonstrate with him, whilst reaching in what I hoped was a surreptitious manner for the gun in my pocket, but Holmes put his hand on my arm.
The search,' he reminded me.
The oaf stepped forward and ran his hands down the outside and inside of my topcoat, barely brushing my waistcoat.
'Five guineas in loose change and a Webley revolver,' he grinned, stepping away. I could smell the rank odour of his breath: stale ale, rancid meat and dental decay. He moved to Holmes and repeated the procedure whilst Ratface - presumably a member of the rival gang - frisked me as well.
'What's this?' The ruffian searching Holmes smiled a vicious, tight little smile. His hand came away holding a book. Ratface looked downcast, and my heart sank. It was the book that Holmes had been looking at in the Library. How could he have been so stupid?
'Well, it's been a time since a cove like you tried to smug the Library there, and you a peach, or so's they say.' A knife as big as my forearm appeared in his hand as if by magic. 'You take me for a queer diver, did you? In for a chivvin' then, aint'cha?'
I made a grab for my gun, but my arms were suddenly pinioned by Ratface, who was surprisingly strong for a man of his size. The knife man raised his blade to the level of Holmes's eyes. My friend was calm, but I could see him looking from side to side, searching for some means of escape.
'Hold 'is 'ands up where's 'e can see 'em for the last time,' said the knife man.
'Let him be,' commanded a deep, authoritative voice. The knife man stepped back, contrite, his blade vanishing into thin air. The hands holding Holmes and I also disappeared.
A owner of the voice stepped into sight from beyond the edge of my vision.
He was small, with oiled hair and a long frock coat that had seen better days, but which was still better than any other clothing I had seen in the area. His face was deeply pocked and his nose was almost eaten away by syphilis.
'Testing my security, were you?' he said. His eyes didn't seem to connect with ours; his gaze drifted across us like smoke. 'Can't say I blame you.
You'll be the jack from up West, then? Mr Sherlock Holmes?'
Holmes nodded.
'Well, Mr Holmes, you tell them that wants to know that Mr Jitter's turf is as tight as a drum, and always has been. You hear that? Always has been.'
He looked away, down the street. 'I've already taken steps to check out my men here, me and Mack Yeovil between us. I'll be watching out for you, and you watch out for me, hear? I want to know who's been doing me over.
Consider yourself hired.'
'Mr Yeovil's not gonna like this,' Ratface whined.
'I'll sort out Yeovil's hash,' Jitter snarled. 'Mack and I are together on this.
We've both been made monkeys of, an' we want to know who to see about it.'
Holmes glanced at me, then stepped forward to face Jitter.
'I will find the thief,' he said. 'Depend upon it.'
He extended his hand towards Jitter. The man looked down at it, and then, as quick as a striking snake, he grabbed the hand and raised it up in front of Holmes's face.
'You can keep this,' he snarled. 'Consider it to be payment in advance.'
Chapter 3
In which the Doctor is evasive and Watson cannot stand the heat.
We decided to eat luncheon at Kean's Chop House, only a short walk away from the Rookery. Every step I took away from those rat-infested tenements made the sky seem bluer and my heart lighter. And yet, as we passed the elaborate frontages of the buildings which lined Holborn, I knew that a part of my mind would always remember the decay that lay behind the ornate facade: the skull beneath the skin.
I tried to discuss our adventure with Holmes as we walked, but he did not want to be drawn.
'Holmes,' I asked eventually, 'what on Earth did you think you were playing at, stealing that book from the Library?'
Holmes made no reply. A waiter brought menus to our table, but I was intent upon getting a straight answer from Holmes.
'Although the cellar here is generally acceptable, I believe that a frothing pint of porter would grace a good English chop better than any wine. What do you say?'
His face was hidden behind the menu. I was convinced that he was deliberately avoiding the issue.
'I have seen you do some pretty hare-brained things in your time, Holmes, but that really does take the biscuit!'
'Wilma Norman-Neruda is playing at the St James's Hall this evening, Watson. Chopin, followed by dinner at Simpsons: what better way to spend an evening?'
'Holmes! For God's sake, man, have the decency to answer a straight question when it is put to you!'
Holmes lowered the menu and met my eyes. His face was pale.
'Forgive me, Watson. I had not meant that little contretemps to go as far as it did. I needed to test the Library's security. The story about its efficacy was just that - a story - until I could test its veracity. I have always found it to be a capital mistake to theorize until one has access to the facts.' He looked away, to the window onto the street. 'There was no danger. I had five different means of escape from his gang of ruffians worked out.'
I would have been more reassured had the menu not been trembling slightly in his hands.
The conversation moved to different topics - old cases, the recent death of the well known grande horizontale Cora Pearl in Paris, Holmes's research into the effect of employment on the shape of the ear, and whether or not I should abandon my medical practice. We left the restaurant happier than we had arrived.
Urchins were turning somersaults amongst the wheels of carts, buses and cabs as we made our way home. The golden light of late afternoon made the stonework of Oxford Street glow. The squalor of St Giles was fading away like a bad dream.
As we scaled the steps to our rooms, our page-boy rushed up to the foot of the stairs bearing a silver platter.
'You got a visitor, Mr 'Olmes,' he announced, all puffed up in his new blue uniform. 'E's up in your rooms, and 'e's a strange one!'
'Thank you, Billy,' Holmes said kindly as he took the card from the tray. He tossed a coin to the child, who had to drop the tray to catch it. The clatter as it bounced on the floor bought Mrs Hudson limping out from her lair.
Holmes and I beat a hasty retreat upstairs.
'Interesting.' Holmes passed the card across to me as we reached the landing. 'See what you make of it, Watson.'
Printed in a gothic script, it read: The Doctor; underneath, in the corner, was the word: Travelling.
Rather flippant, I thought. I flexed it between my fingers. Good quality, judging by the rigidity of the stock.
'Not a gypsy,' I ventured, 'despite the obvious connection with the word
"traveller". A man of some means.' I sniffed. 'Recently printed, I'll warrant.
The smell of fresh ink is quite pronounced.'
'Bravo, Watson.'
'Have I missed anything of importance?'
He smiled, rather cruelly, I thought.
'Practically everything, dear chap. Despite the fact that the ink is still fresh there are no traces of it on the back of the card, as there would be had it been stacked with the rest of a recently printed batch. This would suggest that it was printed singly: presumably for us. The logical conclusion would be that this person is attempting to disguise his true identity, although -' and Holmes frowned ' - the choice of nom-de-plume and the lack of address seem to suggest that he wishes us to come to that conclusion.'
He frowned, then shook his head and continued. 'The slight but noticeable rounding of the card further indicates that it has been kept in a pocket, rather than a wallet. I would suggest a waistcoat pocket: trousers would have left it too rounded and a coat not rounded enough. And, most important of all, remember that "The Doctor" was one of the names on the lift of visitors to the Library of St John the Beheaded that we were given this morning.'
'The list that you did not wish me to see.'
Holmes looked away, discomfited, and said nothing. He took the card from my hand and walked into our sitting room.
