The Naval Knaves

by Craig Stephen Copland

  He said no more and jumped into his wagon, gave a wave to us, and a flick of his whip to his horse and moved off quickly.

  I remarked on his unusual appearance. “He certainly looks the fuzzy-wuzzy does he not? Like one of those fierce Beja warriors from the Sudan that Kipling wrote about. Thought rather highly of them, he did.”

  “He could indeed be that,” said Holmes. “Or he could be a promoter of pugilistic contests in America. I suppose that we shall find out when we meet him an hour from now.”

  As it was a pleasant, cool autumn morning, we elected to stroll up Lambeth Road to the pub to which Mr. Ibrahim had directed us. The Rose was situated along the embankment of the Thames and, except for the frequent blasts from the horns of the ships coming and going, it appeared to be a decent place with an agreeable view of the busy waterway. We had arrived in just under an hour and were relieved to see the workman’s horse and wagon parked in front of the establishment. A sign on the pavement advertised a full English breakfast at a cost so reasonable that it had attracted quite a crowd of working men from the area. It should have been very easy to spot Mr. Ibrahim in such a crowd, but we entered and looked around for him, and he was not to be found.

  “I do not think,” I observed, “that he could disappear into a crowd like this in the daylight.”

  Holmes walked up to the bar and chatted briefly with the publican.

  “Mr. Ibrahim is known here,” said Holmes. “He is one of the regular customers. But the publican insists that he has not entered this morning.”

  “But that is his wagon outside,” I said.

  “Then we shall have to wait at the wagon,” said Holmes.

  Similar to any workman’s wagon in London, it had a plank seat for the driver and behind that was an enclosed box of about ten feet in length and four in height. On the side was painted the name of Hasson Ibrahim and his address.

  We waited for nearly fifteen minutes. Holmes is not blessed with the virtue of patience at times like this and was becoming agitated. Without any justification that I could discern, he moved to the back of the wagon and opened the doors. For a moment, he stood in silence and then I heard a long, slow sigh. I looked inside the wagon box and there, lying on his back on the floor, was the body of Mr. Ibrahim. He had been shot through the heart.

  Holmes pulled out his police whistle and gave several loud blasts. A constable appeared almost instantly. Holmes provided him with whatever information we had on the poor fellow.

  The constable conducted a cursory examination of the dead body and announced, “His pockets are empty. He’s been robbed. It’s happened before along the river, sir. They wait for a ship to blast on its horn, and then they shoot their victims. Unless you might be standing nearby, you cannot hear the gunshot over the horn. That’s what happened here; you can be sure.”

  Soon several more police officers arrived, and again Holmes gave them such information as we could and again they concluded that the man was a victim of a robbery.

  Once the police had loaded the body into their carriage, they departed. Holmes turned and began to walk slowly along the embankment toward the Lambeth Bridge.

  “Wretched timing,” I said as we walked north. “just as we were about to chat with the fellow, someone robs and shoots him.”

  Holmes positively glared at me. “Good lord, Watson. You cannot possibly be of so very little brain that you think that is what happened.”

  “I thought it was quite obvious. That’s what the police constables thought as well, did they not?”

  “Of course, because that is what they were supposed to think and they do not know any better. But I am disappointed that after all these years you could be so dull as to not see what was obvious.”

  “Are you saying,” I asked, “that it was not robbery. You believe that it might have something to do with our meeting him?”

  Holmes did not answer. He just glared at me again as if I were a dim-witted schoolboy.

  “But how,” I asked, “did they know he was going to meet with us?”

  “He was being watched. Whoever was doing so also knew who we are and followed him. For some reason, it was imperative that he not speak to us.”

  “Then why,” I asked, “did they not try to shoot us? That would have made more sense would it not?”

  “Because they knew that you were armed.”

  “But how?”

  “Because, Watson, in every one of your blasted stories, you insist on telling the world that I ask you to bring your service revolver and you always do so. That is how.”

  I pondered that for a few minutes as we continued to walk. The possibility that I had contributed somehow to the poor man’s death was quite disturbing. Holmes, as he has done in the past, read my thoughts.

  “Please, my friend,” he said, “do not trouble yourself with feelings of remorse and guilt. It is neither your fault nor mine that the man knew too much. And in doing away with him, whoever is behind these murders has left us an irrefutable clue.”

  “Yes?”

  “If it was necessary to kill him before he could speak to me, then there is something tied to his work at the French Embassy residence that must be kept secret. Perhaps we should return there at once and look again.”

  He hailed a cab, and we returned quickly to Kensington. Upon arrival at the French residences, I introduced Holmes to Miss Bridget O’Halloran. In spite of his hurried impatience, he took a moment to be gracious to her.

  “Ah, yes, the lovely Irish lass from Galway. It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss O’Halloran.”

  The dear girl was quite flabbergasted, curtsied awkwardly, and blushed with embarrassment at being so warmly welcomed by someone as famous as Sherlock Holmes.

  “Dr. Watson informs me,” continued Holmes, “that you have provided very valuable information for our investigation and I am very grateful.”

  “Just doing my duty to try and help, sir,” she replied.

  “Excellent,” said Holmes. “But now I have to ask you to tax your memory yet again and answer one or two more questions for me.”

  The poor thing looked quite terrified. “I will do what I can, sir. I am not a very well-schooled person, sir.”

  “And since when did schooling make a person honest and reliable?” said Holmes. “Now, please concentrate and tell me something. When the workman, the fellow you referred to as the fuzzy-wuzzy was here several weeks back, where in the house did he work and what did he do?”

  “Sir, he did his work upstairs in the bedrooms. Shall I show you, Mr. Holmes, sir?”

  “Yes, my dear, please do. That would be very helpful.”

  We ascended the stairs and followed Miss Bridget into the hallway.

  “He did all his work up here, sir; a bit in each of the first three bedrooms and then quite some time in the fourth. But the doors were kept closed all the time, sir, so I cannot say what all he did, sir. I’m terribly sorry, sir.”

  “Nothing to be sorry for,” said Holmes. “You have been exceptionally helpful. And when this case has been solved, and Dr. Watson writes the story and publishes it in the Strand, all the world will know that Miss Bridget O’Halloran, of Galway, was of invaluable assistance.”

  “Oh, sir. Just knowing that I was able to help Sherlock Holmes is a dream come true. And I will soon be away from this rotten place and into a new position. It is more than I could ever pray for.”

  Holmes graciously sent her back to her responsibilities, such as they were with the captains gone. He and I peered into the first bedroom.

  “I went through this room quite thoroughly,” he said, “and found nothing amiss. But I was searching the floors, closets, wardrobes, and the furniture. I was not looking at the ceilings. And that is to where I must needs turn my attention now.”

  “Why would you want to look at the ceilings?” I asked.

  “There are scores of workmen all over London. Yet when a lady in Chelsea had an urgent problem with her ceiling, she called upon Mr. Ibrahim. It is,
therefore, reasonable to assume that he has some reputation and expertise in the repair of ceilings, and that is also likely why he, of all available workmen in London, was called to do work here.”

  We entered the first bedroom, where Holmes went around the room with his walking stick held above his head and tap-tapped the ceiling. I could see that it had been freshly painted, but otherwise it appeared to be sound. We repeated the procedure on the second and third bedrooms. Again, the paint was fresh, but otherwise, there was nothing unusual.

  On walking into the fourth bedroom, Holmes looked up and immediately turned around and re-entered the third bedroom and gazed one more time at that ceiling. He returned and looked up again at the ceiling of the fourth room.

  “Look, Watson,” he said.

  “At what?”

  “This ceiling is a full nine inches lower than the one in the bedroom beside it. Yet the floors are uniform in height throughout. This ceiling has been dropped and replaced, and I suspect it was done recently.”

  He took a few steps around the room and poked at the ceiling with his stick. There was a distinct hollow sound from it. He continued to tap all over the ceiling and then stopped at the place below where it met the far wall.

  “Watson, kindly take a look at the bottom edge of the coving. Do you see anything unusual?”

  I looked and, although it was difficult to make out, it looked as if there was a small rounded ridge running along the lower edge of the coving. I noted my observation to Holmes.

  “Precisely,” he said. “Now, excuse me for a minute. I recollect seeing that there was a ladder in the basement of this house. Please wait here whilst I go and get it.”

  He departed, returning a few minutes later, bearing an eight-foot ladder. Leaning it up against the center of the far wall he clambered up and, at the top, pulled out his glass and looked carefully at the lower edge of the coving. He then put the glass back in his pocket and used a pen knife to scrape at the small ridge.

  “There is,” he said, “a finely crafted piano hinge running the length of this wall, attaching the coving to the lath. It is made of brass but has been painted over so that it is barely visible. Somehow this entire stretch of coving must fold down.”

  “That is most peculiar,” I said.

  “And very ingenious,” he said. “Had the killers not done away with Mr. Ibrahim, I would not have been directed to look here.”

  He descended the ladder, moved it to the corner of the room, and climbed back up.

  “Ah, yes. There it is,” he said.

  “There what is?”

  “A small angle bracket straddling the corner, holding this hinged coving to the adjacent one. I believe that with my knife I shall be able to unscrew it and lower the length of coving. As I do so, Watson, could you please stand below me, and use your stick to keep the coving in place, whilst I then undo the far end and we lower the entire length of it?”

  I did so and held my stick against the coving whilst Holmes slowly and carefully undid the bracket holding it in place. Once he has removed the bracket, he quickly scampered down the ladder and moved it to the other corner of the wall. Again, he climbed up and unscrewed a bracket holding the length of coving in place.

  “Our poor Mr. Ibrahim was quite the craftsman,” said Holmes as he perched at the top of the ladder and worked. “These brackets have been countersunk into precisely cut hollows and painted over so that they are almost invisible. Now … the bracket is off. Slowly, Watson, lower your stick at the same time as I let down my end. If I am not mistaken, the entire length of the coving will fold down exposing a cavity above the ceiling.”

  Together, we lowered the coving, which fell away from the ceiling, held in place by the long piano hinge that ran the length of it. From where I stood on the floor, I could see nothing in the space that it now exposed, but Holmes exulted.

  “Ah ha! A wide, flat opening. Just the right size for holding large technical drawings. Let me move the ladder and see if I can reach inside one of them.”

  Again, he came down the ladder and now moved it back to the middle of the wall and once again climbed up. This time he was able to reach his hand around the suspended coving and into the cavity above the new ceiling. The look that took over his face announced that he had found his hidden treasure. Slowly, he extracted a wide sheet of paper and carefully handed it down to me. Even to my untrained eye, it was clear that I was looking at a detailed technical plan for a large boat. We had found the missing plans for Britain’s ships of the line.

  I excused myself for a few minutes, scribbled out two quick notes to Inspector Lestrade and Percy Phelps and called upon the eager-to-please Miss Bridget to find a page and send them off forthwith. I then returned to the fourth bedroom and assisted Holmes as he extracted page after large page of plans and handed them down to me. Eventually, there was a pile several inches high of over-sized sheets of paper on the floor of the room, every page showing the detailed plans for another portion of one of Great Britain’s latest ships.

  Percy and Lestrade both arrived in half an hour and expressed enormous relief upon seeing the plans. I could not help but remember Percy’s similar joy and relief when he uncovered his breakfast plate seven years ago.

  “Must hand it to you, Holmes,” said Lestrade. “It appears that you have done it again. I have no doubt that these could have been sold for thousands and thousands of pounds to our enemies. Even our allies would have gladly paid for them. The Americans alone would have offered a king’s ransom.”

  “Once again, Mr. Holmes,” said a beaming Percy Phelps, “you have saved my life and my career. I do not know what I can ever do to show my gratitude and repay you.”

  Within the hour, several constables had arrived, and they carefully packaged up the trove of plans and placed them inside a police carriage, for safe return to the Admiralty.

  I suggested to Holmes that I treat him to a fine dinner to celebrate the successful conclusion of the case. He seemed somewhat distracted and demurred. I decided to leave it a few days, and then call him over to join Mary and me in a quiet celebration.

  Chapter Nine

  The Big Match Day

  THE FOLLOWING SATURDAY MORNING, Percy and Annie Phelps, my wife, Mary, and I and Sherlock Holmes gathered in our home near Little Venice to acknowledge the brilliant work of our most unusual friend. We enjoyed a delectable full English breakfast that, notwithstanding the opinion of the unfortunate Mr. Ibrahim, was as fine a cuisine as could be imagined by a true son or daughter of our green and pleasant land.

  “Please. Mr. Holmes,” said Annie Phelps, “you must explain to us how it was you so brilliantly put it all together. Please, do tell us.”

  “I would refrain from calling anything brilliant when a good man and diligent craftsman such as Hassam Ibrahim ends up dead. And I believe that you now know as much as I do. It was apparent from what the two of you told me, that the Captains could not possibly have fought a duel over Princess Casamassima, or Miss Lucy, or whoever that consummate actress is. It is most likely that the Captains were not in the least interested in La Révolution but intent only on lining their own pockets, and that their fervently committed comrades eventually realized that they were merely dupes who were being deprived of their money. They then reacted, as all anarchists are prone to do, and shot those who betrayed the cause.”

  “But do you know who amongst them it was?” asked Percy.

  “No,” said Holmes, “and I shall leave that to Lestrade and his men. They have finally taken several of the members of the Club Automatiste into custody and are leaning heavily on them to inform on their comrades. Scotland Yard is quite skilled in doing such things, and I expect that they will succeed.”

  “Yes, I expect they will,” I said. “However, how was it that the Frenchies managed to steal the plans in the first place?”

  I directed this question more toward Percy than Holmes, and it was he who replied.

  “In truth, John, I do not know. The captains must
somehow have secured a key to the vault room and come in late at night and spirited the plans away. I have immediately removed the locks and had the chaps at Chubbs install the latest and best locks and combination dials available. Nothing like this must ever take place again.”

  Holmes had been quietly puffing on his pipe, and now he turned to Percy.

  “And are you quite certain that all of the plans that were stolen are now returned and secured?”

  “Oh yes. We have them all back. At least, that is, all the ones that really matter to us.”

  Holmes took the pipe from his mouth and gave a look to Percy.

  “What do you mean ‘the ones that mattered to us?’ Were they all returned or not?”

  “All of our ships of the line, and all the large merchant marine plans are back. The only ones that are still missing are the ones for the Woolwich ferries. Can you imagine that? They had access to our battleships, and all they kept were a couple of ferry boats. Frankly, we do not care if Germany or Italy or even America has those plans. They are welcome to them. They have no real value to the Admiralty.”

  “Then why, sir, “said Holmes, “would anyone want to steal them?”

  “It beats me,” said Percy. “These boats are quite new, but all they do is churn their way back and forth across the Thames, taking working chaps to the Docklands or the Royal Arsenal. On a weekday, they carry several score of passengers and, on the weekends, they are almost empty.”