THE WHITEHALL PAPERS
Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
Maurice Barkley
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, mechanical or electronic, without permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events or locales is entirely a coincidence.
Copyright © 2017 Maurice Barkley
To Marie
Special thanks for priceless advice,
counseling and inspiration.
Robin Pudetti
Rose and Rick Taubold
Sue Jerrems
Edited by thEditors
Other Sherlock Holmes stories by Maurice Barkley:
The Holborn Toy Shop
The Legacy of Doctor Carus
The Train From Plymouth
The Grosvenor Square Furniture Van
The Whitehall Papers
“My dear fellow, you are always welcome at our door,” said Sherlock Holmes. “It is rare indeed that you fail to present us with a stimulating problem. But here, I see that you have lost a night’s sleep. Take that chair and I will ring for coffee.”
Inspector Lestrade, looking slightly confused as well as exhausted, limped to the armchair and fell rather than sat in it.
“Thank you, Holmes,” he said, while rubbing his bloodshot eyes. “We’ve had our differences, but I know you always were...” His voice trailed off.
I feared for a moment that he had fallen asleep, but just as he closed his eyes and slumped even more, Mrs. Hudson arrived with a steaming pot. “My goodness, Dr. Watson,” she said, “is the inspector ill?”
“No,” I said, “just overly tired. Here, let me take that tray. I’ll see to the service.”
The mild commotion had roused our sleeper and the hot coffee brought him around proper. “I imagine you’ve read about the Bow Street Jail escape,” he said.
“I have,” I said, “but I don’t believe Holmes has seen the front pages. The newsboy brought round only one copy of the Telegraph. Holmes took the agony columns while I retained the balance.”
Lestrade lit a cigarette. “Be a good fellow and read the headline and some of the lead. My eyes are a bit fatigued.”
I rescued the front page from the pile and folded it to a manageable size. “Spectacular escape from Bow Street Jail,” I read aloud. “Man vanishes under watchful eyes of guards. At about three o'clock yesterday afternoon, a long-term convict at the Bow Street Jail made his bid for freedom. The convict, as yet unnamed, had the task of raking the exercise yard within the jail. When finished, the convict exited through a wrong door. As soon as the tower guard saw this he raised the alarm. In a matter of moments several officials rushed to the corridor in question. They found nothing other than a much surprised duty guard who vowed he had not seen or heard a thing.”
“That’s enough for now, Watson,” said Lestrade, while pouring a second cup. “Needless to say, Holmes, we have searched the jail twice over and have come up empty. I can’t reveal the man’s name, but he is an important prisoner. If you have the time, I would like you and the doctor to accompany me to the jail. You may find something we missed.”
“Of course we will,” said Holmes. “This looks like a delightful little puzzle and we are at loose ends at the moment.” Holmes got up and gathered several throw pillows and arranged them on the long sofa. “Listen to me, my friend,” he said. “As important as this is, you must have a good nap—just a few hours here on our sofa. We shall wake you after lunch.”
Surprisingly, Lestrade did not protest. He went to the sofa, kicked off his shoes and lay down, dropping his hat over his eyes. “I have a man waiting downstairs,” he mumbled. “Please have Mrs. Hudson give him a bite to eat.”
I took care of that errand. When I returned, Holmes was sitting at the table, sorting through the paper. He motioned me over.
“I doubt,” he said, “that our voices will disturb the inspector. We can arm ourselves with a few more details while we wait. I understand that there are three exits from the exercise yard—all on one wall. The middle door leads to the duty guard quarters and is locked at all times. Our man entered through door one, under the tower, raked the yard up to door three. Once there he stepped through and vanished. This door opens to a corridor that has a guard station just around a corner—interesting.”
“Interesting in the extreme,” I replied. “It is obvious the man is hiding somewhere in the prison. The task is to ferret him out.”
“Ah, my dear Watson, do not let the obvious lead you astray from the possible. To me, that the prisoner did escape is quite probable. My interest would be in discovering the details of the arrangements by an on-site visit.”
“But how can it be?” I asked. “If this account is at all accurate, escape would seem impossible. What do you see in this that eludes me?”
“I think,” said Holmes reflectively, “we can safely assume the newspaper account is reasonably accurate in the progression of events. What you don't see are certain alternatives...”
The bell at the front door interrupted us. We heard Mrs. Hudson's muffled voice followed by footsteps on our stairs. Without knocking, the imposing figure of Sherlock’s brother, Mycroft Holmes stepped through our doorway. This visit surprised us, for Mycroft has habits as peculiar to him as those of the famous detective. Here was a man one could almost always find at work in the Government Offices, relaxing at the unusual Diogenes Club or in his rooms on Pall Mall. I have seen Mycroft a number of times over the years at the places I have mentioned, but his appearance elsewhere was rare. My surprise, I'm sure, was very evident on my face as I stammered a greeting. Surely nothing less than a matter of capital importance could wrench him from his precious routine. Mycroft looked at our sleeping guest and then looked at Holmes with raises eyebrows.
“It is Inspector Lestrade,” said Holmes. “He is here on other business, but is exhausted from lack of sleep. He will have no memory of your visit. What a pleasure to see you, dear brother. You have a new manservant since last I saw you.”
Since Microft was alone, I knew that Holmes had seen something invisible to me.
“What? Oh yes, I see,” Mycroft replied. “George retired on pension and went to Devonshire to take up quarters with his brother. I have however, adjusted to my new man.”
“It's fortunate he is young enough to outlast your future needs,” said Sherlock, as he beckoned his brother to take a chair.
As Mycroft took his ease, I wondered at what I had just heard. It did not in the least surprise me that my companion had seen what I had not and after a time one begins to accept such things as the natural way of it. Mycroft's casual reply was the cause. I knew he was the equal and more of Sherlock in the skills of observation and deduction. His single deficiency was his reluctance to move about. He knew well that Sherlock, between the two, was the man of action. However, to pick up on those comments so swiftly and effortlessly was quite dramatic.
“Sherlock,” said Mycroft, while shifting his bulk to a more comfortable position, “I've come to you against the advice and wishes of my colleagues at Whitehall and some rather high police officials. Time is short and I have no privacy there, otherwise I would have requested your presence at my office. We are in a very bad situation and I am certain the police are about to make it worse. The problem wants our special abilities, but also men of action and mobility, which points the finger at you and Dr. Watson.”
He nodded at me, though I cou
ldn’t help but feel he mentioned my name only to be polite.
“I'll outline the problem for you, after which I hope you and the Doctor will accompany me to the Foreign Office. There we will strive to convince those authorities to stand back and let us handle the matter.”
Mycroft leaned back, lit one of his long cigars and put his fingertips together. “We are, that is to say, the Government is the object of a blackmail attempt. For our money we will receive some photographs and their negative plates. The blackmailer designed a scheme to assure us that he will not retain any prints for some future use. One would not describe those inclined towards blackmail as the most trustworthy of individuals, but we must risk it—at least that is my opinion. This is not of any long-term concern to us because the photographs are very timely and in a matter of weeks will be worthless. The contracts will have been signed and certain transfers will have happened.” He paused and drew forth a large envelope from a case at his feet. From this he extracted several photographs and passed them to Holmes and me.
“As you can see,” Mycroft continued, “these are rather poor, quality reproductions of official documents.”
“It appears,” Sherlock interjected, “the photographer pieced together a number of negative plates to make the print. It would seem for some reason he was unable to see a complete document at any one time.”
“This could be of paramount importance,” I said.
“Well, yes, Doctor,” said Mycroft. “Notice also the contents vary, but in each case the Empire would suffer serious setbacks in a variety of delicate negotiations if these fell into the hands of certain other governments. The last item I have here is a message sent to us along with the photographs. It is our one and only communication with our adversary, delivered yesterday afternoon by a commissionaire who knows nothing of the matter. He picked up the envelope at the desk of the Queen's Gate Hotel. A nondescript fellow, whom the clerk assumed to be a resident, but could not identify, left it along with payment. The trail ends there.”
Sherlock reached out with his long, thin hand and took the envelope and message from Mycroft. “Marked personal, addressed to Lord Henry Bethnal, the Foreign Office, Whitehall. By the way, did it survive the ascension to the upper reaches of the Foreign Office unopened? “
“Yes,” Mycroft replied, gesturing toward the envelope, “it was opened by his own hand.”
Sherlock returned to his examination. “Very well, this was written by a right-handed man using his left hand to disguise the printing. He used a poor quality quill and standard post office ink.”
“Yes, yes we can see that,” Mycroft interrupted while looking for an ash tray. One was just beyond his reach, so I fetched it for him.
“I do this, dear brother,” said Holmes, “to inform Dr. Watson. On occasion he writes of these escapades and for that reason he needs these details.”
“I do apologize to both of you,” Mycroft said. “In requesting your assistance, I should let your expertise rule the day. Do go on.”
“The envelope,” Holmes said, “came from the same source—very uninformative. Now let us look at the message. Common foolscap paper—same quill and Ink—same hand.” After viewing the paper on both sides, he read the contents aloud. “To the Honorable Lord Bethnal, Greetings. As a loyal and grateful citizen, I am exceedingly happy to provide you with the opportunity to recover the negative plates and all remaining prints of the material enclosed. Since it would inconvenience me to have to dispose of them on the continent, I pray you are a reasonable man and will accept my quite liberal terms. The purchase price is £100,000 in used notes of small denomination. This amount is not negotiable. You will receive this message Wednesday afternoon. At precisely 1:00 a.m. Friday, your representative will appear alone at 51Stainsby Road, Limehouse. This address is on a block of abandoned tenements, which will soon see the wrecker's bar. Your man will enter and climb to the fourth floor, which is the uppermost story of the building. He will enter apartment number 9 at the rear and place the money in a large wicker basket that he will find on a table near the rear window. He will not move the basket nor will he touch or examine anything in the room.
“When the money is in the basket and the lid secured, he will go without delay to the apartment directly across the hallway, closing all doors behind him. After waiting exactly ten minutes, he will walk down the hallway to apartment number 11 where, providing all is as agreed, he will find your material in a similar wicker basket. He will take the material from the basket, which, like the first, he must not move. At that point our transaction is complete and your man may leave by the same route he used when entering.
“I must emphasize that you follow these instructions to the letter. Any variation will be fatal to this plan. I can assure you any attempt at a trap will not succeed. There will be no second chance nor will I communicate with you again. Consider carefully the consequences of your actions.”
Sherlock laid the paper aside. “These instructions are quite complete. It demonstrates considerable planning. Tell me, Mycroft, are these photographs worth the price?”
“I would say,” said Mycroft, “that any one of them could cost the country far in excess of that amount.”
“Then I urge you to pay.” said Sherlock, firmly.” As soon as you have the merchandise in hand we can take up the trail.”
Mycroft nodded his massive head. “I was certain you would recommend this course of action and I quite agree. In fact I have said as much to Lord Bethnal, but unfortunately others have his ear. One of them said to me that the Government does not negotiate with criminals. At this moment they are hatching a scheme to trap the culprit.”
“Don't they realize,” I exclaimed, “that any man clever enough to carry a plan this far has most assuredly made equally clever arrangements to exchange his goods?”
“They should,” said Mycroft, “but I fear the lot of them are suffering from an extreme case of overconfidence in their own ability. They haven't the beginnings of an idea as to how or when the photographs were taken, or who the criminal might be. Yet off they go to the fray armed only with ignorance.”
Sherlock re-lit his cigar with a coal from the fire. “What information can you give us as to the history of the documents, their movements over the past few weeks and those who may have had access to them?”
“Easily done, Sherlock. We wrote the documents two months ago. They have never left a single well-guarded conference room in the Foreign Office. The only entry is a strong door with two locks. The guard on duty down the hallway has one key for the first lock. Lord Bethnal and five high-ranking officials have keys to the other. These six people are the only ones who have entered the room in the last half-year. On leaving the room, one of them must lock any open document in a safe, the combination of which is known only to the six officials. A chairwoman of thirty years’ service cleans the room on Fridays. While she is in the room, the safe remains locked and a guard stays with her.”
“Does the woman have a key?” Sherlock asked.
“No. The guard and one of the six officials lets her in—whoever is convenient.”
“No exceptions or alterations to this regimen?”
“None. I am privy to these documents, but I am a consultant. I do not enter the room.”
“Windows, fireplaces, dumbwaiters, vents?”
“Nothing of the sort. The room is in the centre of the building. The construction was deliberate to provide absolute security. Fresh air enters through three inch diameter pipes.”
“How long has the room been there?”
“About six years.”
“And nothing has changed?”
“Nothing I know of other than a redecoration a few months ago.”
“Was it extensive? Can you provide any details?”
“No, but perhaps the guard on duty can tell you.”
“Very good,” said Holmes, while rubbing his hands together. “Now, about the six men—any opinions?”
“Little hope there I'm
afraid. Each one is a man of long service and long acquaintance. Their loyalty is beyond question. If this involves any one of them, it can only be through ignorance. I doubt if any threat could cause them to do anything to harm the country.”
“Did you question them?”
“Yes, they were kind enough to submit to my examination. I feel sure none of them had got careless in the least.”
“Well,” said Sherlock, rising from his chair. “A knotty little problem you've brought to our hearth. Perhaps we should go to Whitehall and try our powers of persuasion on Lord Bethnal.”
“Excellent,” said Mycroft. “It is uncomfortable for me to be away from my office.”
Before we left, Sherlock wrote a short note for the still slumbering Lestrade. On the way out I located the inspector’s man, comfortably seated in Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen, enjoying her food and her company. I informed him of the situation and then hurried to join my companions.
As we settled back in our four-wheeler I said to Holmes, “Since we have a bit of a ride, perhaps you would tell me how you determined Mycroft has a new and young manservant.”
“Oh that - It's his bootlaces. Look at them.”
“I see them, but what of it? They are not new, but clean and well tied.”
“It's the lacing style. There are four common ways to lace a boot in addition to several decorative methods. Most of us learn the method of our parents and use it throughout life without a thought. From having seen them before, I knew Mycroft's bootlaces had a design favoured by the older generation of servants—bottom loop over the top, then over and under. When I saw Mycroft's boots laced bottom loop under then over and over, under and under, I concluded that his servant had left. The lacing style is one favoured by the younger generation.”
As we rattled down New Bond Street a misty rain began to fall. I closed the curtains while Sherlock and Mycroft fell into a debate over the preservative qualities of heat-treated wood.
The Whitehall Papers: Adventures of Sherlock Holmes Page 1
