by Val Andrews
Sherlock Holmes and the Holborn Emporium
Val Andrews
© Val Andrews 2001
John Hall has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in the UK by Baker Street Studios Ltd, 2001.
This edition published in 2015 by Endeavour Press Ltd.
Table of Contents
Introduction
Chapter One - An Early Start
Chapter Two - The Grotto of Peril
Chapter Three - An Exchange of Experiences
Chapter Four - The Basement of Wonder
Chapter Five - The Early Riser
Chapter Six - The Wilde Quotation
Chapter Seven - The Henley Hounds
Chapter Eight - The Stockholders’ Meeting
Epilogue - A Return to Forrage’s
Extract from Sherlock Holmes at the Raffles Hotel by John Hall
Introduction
In High Holborn, quite close to Hatton Garden, stands that wondrous emporium of A.W. Forrage Ltd. A huge overgrown drapers originally, the store has grown through the years so that each and every one of its many departments upon its several floors has grown to be famous in its own right. It has been said that you can buy anything at ‘Forrage’s’, from a thimble to an elephant! Although this may no longer be quite true at the time of writing ‘Forrage’s of Holborn’ still flourishes, yet may never again quite capture its halcyon days when the twentieth century was still very young and Sherlock Holmes was still at 221B Baker Street.
Indeed it was towards the end of 1903 that my friend became involved with the famous store. In fact I speak of one of the last really noteworthy cases with which Sherlock Holmes concerned himself, prior to his retirement to keep bees upon the Sussex Downs.
To this day, whenever I pass the now rather old fashioned department store with its silver recessed letters proclaiming ‘A.W. Forrage’ I remember the particular enterprise in which we became engaged. Those of you who remember the store at its height will enjoy being reminded of what a pleasure it was to take a ‘Forage around Forrage’s’. Others will perhaps enjoy reading something of the store that was so much a part of the London scene, especially at the festive season. Yes, everyone went to Forrage’s at Christmas where everything they could possibly desire appeared to be for sale. So let me take you back to an era when the big store and the great detective were both still in their prime.
John H. Watson
Finchley, December 1923
Chapter One - An Early Start
On a morning late in the November of 1903, I created something of a record at 221B Baker Street by turning up early at the breakfast table. My friend Sherlock Holmes was evidently indulging himself in a very rare lie-in. I tried to abandon my smug feelings as I raised the lid from a dish in order to spoon some kedgeree onto my plate. But as I did so I noticed an envelope lying upon that platter. It had my name written upon it but there was no address and no stamp. My name had been written in Holmes’s unmistakable hand, but if he had something to tell me why did he not at least extend his head around my bedroom door in order to do so? I opened the envelope, unfolded the sheet of paper which I took from within and read:
221B Baker Street. 9 am
My dear Watson,
Whilst you were still in the arms of Morpheus I received a message to the effect that I should meet a client in Holborn. I suggest that when you have breakfasted you meet me in the restaurant at Forrage’s where we can partake of luncheon. May I suggest twelve-noon?
Yours sincerely,
Sherlock Holmes
I ignored his irony and decided to take him up on his invitation. In any case it had been an age since I had visited Forrage’s so I decided to go there at once in order to give myself a chance to tour a place long remembered with affection; the Christmas season was practically upon us which would, I felt, add much to the enjoyment of such an expedition. As a boy I had visited Santa Claus there in his grotto, and as a student I had purchased necessities of an academic and medical life at Forrage’s. More recently I had obtained a cabin trunk there prior to my expedition to Afghanistan, and a few years back I had bought bargain clothing in a Forrage’s sale, at a time when I had depended on a meagre army pension. But I had not crossed its friendly portals since the turn of the century; a situation that I anticipated putting to rights with pleasure.
From the opposite side of High Holborn to that upon which stood the world-famous emporium, I took in the brightly lit, enticing vista which was presented by Forrage’s display windows, prior to crossing for a closer inspection. At the Leather Lane end I saw first the ladies’ fashions displayed upon manikins which have since all but disappeared. Their wigs, false lashes and brows give them a rather charmingly eerie appearance; rather like rejected models from Madame Tussaud! They stood, sat or leaned in their series of skirts, dresses and blouses. The next window featured men’s suitings, which I felt in a more sound position to criticise. It is a sign of advancing age, dear reader, when you look into a shop window and shudder at the sight of fashions which appal you, along with horrendous accessories such as boots with pointed toes and shirts with their collars permanently attached.
More show windows followed an entrance, each with its individual example of the scene painter’s art as backing. For example, the children’s toys were displayed upon papier mâché rocks, before a backdrop depicting the inside of a cave. There were stuffed animals of great realism, as if brought straight from Regent’s Park, and mechanical marvels of engineering and clockwork. In other words there was not a Noah’s Ark, Dutch doll, Jack-in-the-box or monkey on a stick to be seen.
The music window was likewise without the wonders of my youth. Gone were the pianola rolls and music boxes, but well displayed was a contraption titled ‘The Grama-Forrage’, featuring flat discs rather than the earlier cylinders. However, there were violins, guitars and flutes, tastefully arranged around a grand piano. Bull pups and tiny spaniels cavorted in the pet department window, part of which had been transformed into a giant aquarium, so that one could see the golden orfe and such varieties actually swimming immediately behind the window glass itself. Another entrance, then beyond that the window display of the conjuring department with a display of mysterious-looking cones, cans and caddies all enamelled with cabalistic signs and the like. More impressive impedimenta of illusion included a satyr’s head with a mouth which opened and closed at intervals to reveal a playing card upon its tongue, and a large all-glass casket filled with conjurer’s paper flowers. A placard assured us that ‘A professional conjurer is present at all times to demonstrate “Forrage’s Magic”.’ Finally a window filled with bicycles, tandems, tricycles and even a motorised bicycle. All were arranged before an actual motor car in which sat a moustached and begoggled dummy, reminiscent of the famous music hall comedian, Harry Tate!
Did I say ‘finally’? Well, I remember now that I have neglected to mention windows full of mouth-watering comestibles and sweetmeats and bottles of wine displayed in a party setting with lots of streamers and confetti about.
As if all this were not enough to tempt the bypasser to enter and ‘Forage a while’ there was a placard which announced that in the basement could be seen a ‘Complete Circus’ which included a live elephant with performances ‘thrice daily’. Also of course, Santa Claus could be visited in his grotto ‘At the earth’s core’, the cost of the trip being threepence for all persons, this price including a present for each and every child.
Suddenly I realised that I had been slowly getting cold as I surveyed these windows. The entrance doors to the great big store were ent
icing, so I walked through into the warmth and wonders of Forrage’s.
It was only ten o’clock, I had two hours to explore the wonders within and wasted not a second of that time. Yet by the time I had seen the demonstration of golf clubs by ‘a well known professional’ who entreated everyone to ‘keep an eye on the ball’ and the practicalities of a patent ice cream maker, it was all but eleven, and there was so much to crowd into just one hour. For example, who could resist the chance to fondle a real live tiger cub in the pets department? A small boy in a silk hat and Eton suit screwed a monocle into his left eye and announced, ‘Bai Jove, pater, I weally would like this fella for me Cwistmas box, what?’
A faultlessly attired gentleman with a velvet-trimmed collar to his greatcoat replied, ‘Weally, Weggie, I think a wabbit might be more pwactical!’
The young swell looked as if he usually got what he wanted, so I pitied the poor tiger cub, hoping it would not finish up roaring with an aristocratic lisp.
I visited one or two more departments, but only with the swiftness of an American visiting the British Museum, for it was all but time for me to keep my appointment with Sherlock Holmes.
My friend was seated with a menu in his left hand. With his right he appeared to be conducting the three-piece miniature orchestra upon the dais.
‘My dear Watson, what will you have? I am all for a plate of gammon and spinach.’
I chose the roast beef and we shared a bottle of hock. It was hardly the right beverage to go with the beef, but its lightness recommended it, for I suspected that we might need clear heads later. Holmes explained, ‘A.W. Forrage wishes to see us in his office on the top floor at one, Watson, but we still have good time to consume our meal and observe that which we see about us. What do you make of the incomplete quartette?’
I answered his question with another. ‘Not a trio, as it appears to be?’
‘No, Watson, the arrangements which are being played have been scored for a quartette. If you listen carefully you will detect that there are certain passages where a harp should be involved. Moreover, if you observe carefully you will see the shape of a harp, draped with a blanket, behind the piano.’
A glance was enough to confirm his statement and I looked at the menu for more information. Confidently I said, ‘The Signor Pescalini Quartette: well, at least I can see that he is Italian.’
I had referred to the fiercely waxed moustache and clearly defined black side burns, arranged like twin curls. Holmes chuckled, ‘An Italian from Killarney, Watson.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘To begin with, that he is Irish is suggested by certain ethnic characteristics. If you look carefully you will see that his black hair is red at its roots, and blue eyes, large ears and pointed nose are all Irish characteristics.’
‘Do they suggest Killarney?’
My question was ironic but his answer was not. ‘Notice, Watson, the way he holds his violin with its neck turned towards his audience. He holds and bows it more like a gypsy fiddler than an Italian maestro. A fiddler with a style suggestive of the Killarney tinkers.’
I was not completely convinced until the violinist-leader signalled to his pianist and celloist to cease, and then spoke with an Italian accent that could well have been assumed. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, is there anything you would like to hear?’
There followed one of those dreadful silences so often produced by an English crowd, even in the metropolis. Then Sherlock Holmes spoke up with a clear, loud voice. ‘How about Killarney?’
At first the Signor started, then grinned broadly and started to play of Killarney’s lakes and fells, in a manner wild, which his colleagues could not follow. As we applauded, Holmes smiled in triumph.
It was at exactly five minutes before one o’clock that we reached the top floor by means of one of the lifts, operated by an old soldier minus his right arm. Fortunately he needed only his left to operate the lever on the half wheel which indicated the floor required. His throwing of another lever started what was to me a perilous means of ascension.
‘A.W.’ himself proved to be a rather fearsome-looking old gentleman, clad in a frock coat of a kind which I remembered being worn by floorwalkers in the days of my youth.
‘Mr Holmes, I was not expecting you to be accompanied; my business with you is strictly confidential.’
Holmes put a great deal of meaning into his pro-nunciation of his few words of reply. ‘As is my friend and colleague, Dr John H. Watson.’
Forrage inclined his head slightly. ‘Obviously I must accept someone in whom you yourself have trust. How do you do, Dr Watson.’
The department store ‘king’ bowed us into ‘thrones’ only slightly less opulent than his own. As I seated myself I glanced round, and noticed what a splendidly appointed office it was, with a wide span of window which gave a breathtaking view of the dome of St Paul’s. ‘A.W.’s’ gold-rimmed pince-nez and bejewelled watch chain which spanned his bulging waistcoat added to this setting for a wildly successful store owner. He brushed his grizzled moustaches with the fingers of his right hand and said, ‘I will not beat around the bush, gentlemen; I am not, despite my wealth, a spendthrift. These trappings of opulence which you see about you were not obtained through a personal desire for luxury. Rather they are part of my stock in trade, necessary to impress, but for business reasons only. Like my many departments, my Christmas grotto and the circus in my basement, they cost a fortune but help me to make an even bigger one. But then this, Mr Detective, you will have realised. Can you deduce anything else about me?’
Holmes obviously realised that he was being given some sort of test; one to which he was of course more than equal. He said, ‘I perceive, Mr Forrage, that you buy only the best but make sure that you get your value from it. You have an eye upon fashion where the cost can be controlled, you suffer from indigestion, gout and with your liver. You have many enemies.’
Forrage raised an admonishing hand. ‘Stop! You sound like the palmist in the ground-floor tea lounge. Yes, I will pay the price for what I want but I expect quality and long usage.’
Holmes smiled. ‘Modern office furnishings would need frequent replacement if they were not to appear passé; but genuine antiques keep their fashion and their value. Your clothing is also expensive, but tailored to last. When you had your breeches let out at the waist you also had permanent turn-ups added to them. So you have an eye for fashion.’
Forrage looked a trifle embarrassed. ‘How could you possibly know that I had my trousers let out at the waist, or that they were not tailored with turn-ups to start with?’
‘Mr Forrage, you cannot disguise the fact that the creases in your trousers have changed their position. This makes the alteration as obvious to me as it would be had I seen the gusset hidden by your coat tails. As for the turn-ups; this fashion was started by His Majesty King Edward, but he was still Prince of Wales at the time, and your trousers are probably seven or eight years old?’
Forrage nodded dumbly and then asked wearily, ‘I suppose the problems with my general health are just as obvious to you?’
Holmes replied, ‘That you are a hearty trencherman is obvious from the fact that your breeches have had to be enlarged. A vast intake of food usually leads to indigestion. Your high colour suggests a similar liking for wines and spirits, which in turn will usually result eventually in gout and liver problems. I feel sure that Dr Watson will bear out my words?’
I nodded and said, ‘Quite so.’
‘A.W.’ relaxed his features into a wide grin of resignation. ‘Holmes, you are honest as well as all but frighteningly observant. You were right about the enemies too.’
Holmes nodded. ‘Of course, no man can rise to such giddy heights as you have, sir, without upsetting many rivals and envious persons. Come, have I passed your test?’
‘You beat me at my own game. Let us get down to business. I am being blackmailed.’
Holmes nodded as if he had guessed as much. ‘By whom, and why do yo
u not call in the police?’
Forrage was no longer relaxed. ‘If I knew who was blackmailing me I would be engaged at this moment in breaking his neck rather than consulting a detective. As for the police, why they would be all over my beautiful store in their great hob-nailed boots, frightening children in the grotto, ladies in the fashion department, and attracting the attention of journalists who would bankrupt me if they got a whisper and made it public.’
Holmes took a proferred cigar from a silver box but waved aside the silver-mounted lighter and lit it with a vesta. I refused the offered cigar and lit an Egyptian cigar-ette.
‘It started, Mr Holmes, with a note, typed with one of those infernal machines, doubtless so as not to leave any handwriting clue. I sell those wretched typewriters, but always did think they would cause trouble of various kinds. The message was to the effect that I was to pay a large sum in order to avoid my groceries being interfered with!’
‘What was your reaction to this demand?’
‘Well, not to pay it, I assure you. I just doubled all precautions with the groceries.’
‘Did anything untoward occur?’
‘We discovered tintacks mixed with the currants. Very hard to spot, but the member of my staff who was weighing up half a pound realised how few of them seemed to supply that weight. We were able to dispose of the whole batch of currants before any of them had been sold. Of course the fiend who put the tacks in the currants could still be unaware that they were discovered.’
‘Has any subsequent threat been received?’
‘I’m coming to that . . . a few days ago I received another typed message threatening to interfere with articles in my cosmetic department. Again we thwarted the blighter by discovering caustic soda in a consignment of bath salts. But now, only hours ago, I received yet another note, typed as were the others, threatening that something might happen to children visiting Santa Claus in the grotto.’
