Sherlock Holmes and the Holborn Emporium

by Val Andrews

  Of course it all made perfect sense. Lady Grundy-Smythe was perhaps five feet and three; the other ladies present being all of five feet and seven or even more. He was right too about the french chalk and the dress glove; it was all ‘elementary’, but only when Sherlock Holmes had explained it.

  I marvelled that Holmes, ever the perfectionist, had taken such pains to change back into his evening clothes from those that he must have used to ride. But more, he had made sure to trail a paper streamer over one shoulder as if he had indeed been at the centre of festivities. Yet I well knew that he had not, and was anxious to hear of his adventures. However, I knew of old that Sherlock Holmes would not be rushed into the revelations that he could present. At last, however, having finished filling his pipe and lighting it from a brand from the fire, he began his narration.

  ‘Having attired myself suitably, I went to the stables and asked the groom to prepare me a mount. When he made to bring forth a jaunty gelding which might have tripped from excitement, let alone accident, I reproved him, saying, “Pray find me a solid mount such as you might ride across wild country and find dependable and with more common sense than temperament.” He said, “Ah, then if appearance does not matter, I’ll bring out old Plodder.” I liked the name, and the mount itself, it being a short-legged fellow, more like a large pony than a small horse. I reckoned that he had some Exmoor in him and was a steady as a rock.

  ‘My plan was to take him round the jumps which I knew would figure in the hunt, but intended to give him his head so that he would take them at his own speed and could refuse them should he decide to do so.’

  I threw in an observation at this point. ‘You endow the horse in your mind with more intellect than do the scientists, who place it well down the scale. I have heard of a jockey walking the course before a race, but not in partnership with a horse.’

  ‘Your scientific colleagues may be right concerning the thoroughbred, Watson, but your Exmoor, Dartmoor or fells pony is a different creature, from a wild background where one slip upon a moor may mean death through falling from a crag or drowning in a bog. Anyway, I trusted Plodder and he took me over the jumps, slowly and carefully. He had obviously followed the course before, yet took nothing for granted. The first few jumps were easy for him, as also was a copse through which he showed no hesitation. But then when we came to the spaced out, higher stiles and leaps he became wary as I had trusted him to. Eventually he refused a jump which took the form of a gate fixed between two trees. I encouraged him, even speaking sharply, but he still refused the jump. I dismounted and examined the gate which proved firm and unremarkable. Then I walked around to its far side and discovered that there was a large puddle of water. Probing with a stick revealed that there were potholes and irregularities beneath the muddy water which would surely prove treacherous to any horse attempting to land its front feet therein. Certain unsaddling and possibly even serious injury for both rider and mount.’

  I was aghast. ‘Shall you at once inform Forrage?’

  He waved this suggestion aside. ‘No need, Watson, for I have made the jump safe by pulling strong saplings over the defects to make a safe landing for any horse. I showed the pony what I had done and then took him over it safely. The remainder of the jumps presented no problems. Then the tracks across open country were obviously a safe ride. I shall tell no one of my findings, and reactions to the safe clearance of the dangerous jump by the leading rider should be interesting. Watson, I wish you to keep up tomorrow and observe any show of surprise.’

  ‘You are determined not to ride yourself then still?’

  ‘Quite so, but I will watch through binoculars from a copse towards the end of the course, in case our adversary has some other surprise in store.’

  Despite the lateness of the hour we continued to sit by the huge fire until it had burned down and we had exhausted the logs that had been left. We discussed at length for the first time all possibilities and suspects that could thus far have presented themselves to us. The reader might suppose from my presentation of the facts that we had no actual suspects in mind, but this was not so for I had suspected perhaps a dozen persons in their turn. Holmes had probably considered less than that number as suspicious through the process of logical elimination. But at this point I will admit that I had suspected all of the department managers with whom we had come into contact, and all of Forrage’s fellow shareholders.

  When I mentioned them to Holmes he said, ‘Watson, you suspect all of these people without any really substantial evidence. You have suspected them in turn because they all have one thing in common: a guarded, and in some cases disguised, hatred for Forrage himself. Yet they cannot all be guilty save through a monster of a conspiracy. Remember this, Watson, they share a rather general feeling experienced by all who are close to or employed by Forrage. He is popular only with the general public who know him only as the provider of inexpensive glories and Yuletide cheer. He is not a man easy to tolerate, let alone like. So your suspects will have to possess more than a mere dislike.’

  I cut my mental list of suspected persons to those whom I felt had opportunity, as he felt that aversion was not enough. I said, ‘The manager of the stationery and office accessories has access to a battery of brand-new Remingtons. Enough that he could have typed those notes upon a fresh one each time.’

  Holmes nodded. ‘I had, of course, considered that, also the fact that a brand-new ribbon would have to be fitted to the machine used and the old one disposed of. I have not entirely dismissed him from my mind.’

  I considered. ‘How about the manager of the conjuring department?’

  ‘I have no reason to suspect him save the very nature of his profession, Watson.’

  ‘The livestock manager could have introduced those ferocious little fish himself.’

  Holmes shrugged, ‘Perhaps the music administrator also arranged for those steel blades to be inserted between the keys of the piano, just after he had finished typing the threat in the business supplies section? No, Watson, I have carefully considered all of these possibilities and soon came to the conclusion that I was on the wrong track. These people are obvious suspects, yet we are dealing with a wily adversary.’

  By now the fire was low enough to make the room chilly. No logs remained and I had not the cruelty in my heart to ring the bell which might bring a pyjama-clad footman. Instead I said, ‘Well, Holmes, perhaps the morrow will furnish you with fresh food for thought.’

  Chapter Seven - The Henley Hounds

  It was a fine late November morning, cold but dry, that dawned on the Saturday. Privately I thought it a trifle early in the season for anything in the nature of a great run, but at Henley Grange all efforts were being made to ensure the success of the hunt. Ostlers and grooms were busy with their equine charges, making them presentable and ensuring that they were in top condition for the chase.

  It was a traditional enough scene outside the Fox and Hounds as we sat outside that ancient hostelry, accepting glasses of sloe gin or brandy from the buxom barmaid.

  Or most of us did; somewhat reluctantly I refused the proffered tray, thinking it as well to keep a clear head. I nudged my horse away from the crowd, and took a look at the country round about. It was thickly wooded in places, no chance of a gallop there, but still there were plenty of fields and meadows — and plenty of fences and gates! Even granted that old Dobbin, or Plodder, or whatever he was called, had hunted the country for many years and knew all the most likely runs, Holmes must have had his work cut out to check each and every possible jump! I smiled at the thought, and then frowned as a more serious thought occurred to me. Suppose Holmes had not checked every jump? Suppose our mysterious enemy had sabotaged not one, but two or more, of the fences and gates? I had not thought to bring my medical bag along with me, but I did take the precaution of asking the barmaid to fill my flask, which might perhaps be needed after all.

  As I was tucking the flask safely into my boot, Forrage rode up to me. ‘No sign of Holmes,
I see? I had hoped he might be on hand to prevent any — unpleasantness.’ There was an odd note in his voice, which I half-believed was trepidation, if not actual fear. The notes and the incidents must, I reflected, have undermined even Forrage’s iron will.

  I made some non-committal remark as to Holmes having his own methods, and Forrage grunted as if to intimate that he was far from satisfied, but could do nothing at the moment. He nodded curtly, and urged his horse back to the field.

  I had, in my innocence, expected that Forrage himself would lead the hunt, but the master was one Sir Hubert Carding, who was, I learned, the chairman of the board of directors of Forrage’s. Sir Hubert certainly looked the part in his red coat and beaver hat. I suspected then, and I still think now, that Forrage had an accurate idea of his own abilities, and did not wish to make a spectacle of himself before the county, preferring to wait until he had acquired sufficient expertise before he ventured to take over the mastership. Be all that as it may, Forrage deferred to Sir Hubert very properly.

  The huntsman blew his horn, and we set off. A few villagers had turned out to watch, and they cheered in a half-hearted fashion as we went past. I felt that it was more from a sense of obligation to Forrage, as their landlord or employer, than from any real enthusiasm; Forrage certainly inspired a kind of respect, perhaps even fear, in his underlings, but no real affection, thought I.

  I have said that I thought it early for success, and so it proved. We found quickly, but the hounds lost the scent after a few moments, and the huntsman led us off to draw elsewhere. As I sat watching the hounds snuffling around, I became aware that, not too far away, was a curious sort of jump, a rickety old gate fixed between two old trees, evidently that jump which, on the previous evening, Holmes had found wanting and had repaired. I looked around, to see if I could spot Holmes, but if he were there he was well concealed, too well for me to see him.

  There was a shout from someone or other, and I glanced round to spot the familiar streak of red-brown chasing away on the far side of the gate. Forrage himself was nearest the jump, and he was the first to go over it. And I must say that he took it in fine style, chasing after Charlie like a good ’un. Before I had properly realised what had happened, away went Charlie, away went Forrage, away went the rest of the field. I myself brought up the rear, reflecting that I had erred in not taking note of who amongst my fellow huntsmen showed any surprise that Forrage had not broken his neck. Still, I had not expected the sudden burst of activity — and if Holmes had been there, as he had said he would be, then he himself could have taken note! If I had been remiss, then so too had Holmes.

  As before, the hounds lost the scent, and old Charlie lived to fight another day. I was not sorry — no true sportsman ever is, despite the sardonic mutterings of Oscar Wilde and his fellows, none of whom have ever actually followed the hunt, other than from an armchair!

  We drew a few more coverts, with no success. The afternoon was drawing on, and the sun was now sinking behind a great bank of cloud. Sir Hubert conferred with his huntsman and his whips, and the proceedings came to an end.

  As I changed before dinner, Holmes appeared suddenly and silently. He was clad in an old tweed suit, and carried a pair of field glasses. ‘Ah, Watson. I trust you have a good appetite after the thrill of the chase?’

  ‘I always do, Holmes! It was a grand day out, mind, as you would have seen had you carried out your intention and observed the day’s sport.’

  ‘I did, Watson.’

  ‘Oh? I never saw you.’

  Holmes smiled. ‘That is what I intended, dear fellow. Nonetheless, I was there.’ He frowned.

  ‘And what did you see?’

  ‘I confess that I did not see what I expected. Or, rather, I saw that which I did not expect to see.’

  ‘And what was that?’ I asked, puzzled

  ‘I saw our host take the jump first.’

  ‘Oh?’ I was more puzzled than ever. ‘And why should — oh!’

  Holmes nodded. ‘Yes, a short interview after dinner with Mr Forrage is very definitely indicated, Watson, so keep yourself in readiness for that. Meantime, I must change, for the hour is later than one might think.’ And not another word could I get out of him, despite all my questions.

  I had my dinner, being quite literally as hungry as a hunter, though I could not begin to tell you just what the menu might have been, so eager was I to get more information from Holmes. I do recall that I drank only sparingly of our host’s excellent wines, being mindful of Holmes’s injunction to remain alert for the interview with Forrage.

  When the meal was over and people were beginning to say goodnight, Holmes sought out Forrage, who ushered us into his private study. Our host seemed more than keen to express his own sentiments. ‘Turned up, have you?’ he began. ‘Better late than never, I suppose! In the event, your services were not needed, for nothing untoward occurred. Still, you were not to know that. You ought to have been there, keeping an eye on things.’

  ‘Oh, but I was,’ said Holmes. ‘I was ensconced in a hedgerow in a corner of what I believe is called the Four Acre field. You know it?’

  Forrage looked puzzled, but nodded. ‘And what of it?’

  ‘You took the gate there in fine fashion, once the “view halloo” was given.’

  ‘Again, what of that?’

  ‘Did the jump not trouble you?’

  Forrage looked more puzzled than ever. ‘The landing was a bit soft, springy, now you mention it. But —’

  ‘Would it interest you to know that there had been some meddling with the far side of that jump? That someone had dug a concealed pitfall that was intended to unseat any rider going over it? Unseat him, if not worse? I myself repaired the damage as best I could with brushwood, and that undoubtedly accounts for the softness that you noted on landing.’

  For a long moment, Forrage said nothing, but the colour drained from his countenance. Then he gasped, ‘But —!’ and put a hand to his chest, as if he were in pain.

  I stood up, thinking that my professional services might be urgently required.

  Forrage waved me away, stood up, and helped himself to whisky, a generous measure of the spirit with the merest splash of soda. He gulped it down in one, then remembered his manners and waved a hand at the decanter. ‘Can I —?’

  ‘Thank you, no,’ said Holmes. As Forrage poured a second drink for himself, Holmes went on, ‘This business has gone on long enough, I think you will agree, sir.’

  ‘Oh, yes, indeed! More than long enough, I quite agree,’ said Forrage. ‘Holmes — Mr Holmes — you must help me! This note — these notes, that is to say, you must find out who wrote it — them.’

  ‘As you say. It is, of course, the latest note which is the real, the only, puzzle,’ said Holmes with a thin smile. ‘We must each do our part. I will undertake to do mine, Mr Forrage — and you?’

  Forrage nodded, wordlessly. He gulped as if for air once or twice, then managed, ‘It will be as you say. There will be no — that is, I — that is, it will be as you say.’

  Holmes stood up, ignored the hand which Forrage offered him, and said, ‘Do you have the latest note?’

  ‘Why, yes.’ Forrage opened a drawer of his desk, produced the note and handed it to Holmes.

  ‘Thank you. Come, Watson, we have much to discuss.’

  I stammered out a ‘Good night’ to the still distraught Forrage, and followed Holmes upstairs, determined not to let him rest until he had shared whatever he knew with me.

  ‘Well, Watson,’ said Holmes, taking out his cigar case and offering it to me. ‘What is your reading of the matter thus far?’

  ‘Forrage was certainly taken aback when you told him that he himself had been in danger of his life.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘And now I think about it, when he spoke of that latest note to me earlier, he did sound — different.’

  ‘Different?’ said Holmes, with a frown.

  ‘Yes, different. He seemed genuinely worried by i
t, puzzled by it. And he had not seemed so with the earlier notes.’ I thought a moment. ‘Holmes?’

  ‘Yes, Doctor?’

  ‘Those earlier notes?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I have a suspicion — no! It is too silly. But then again — look here, Holmes, did Forrage himself write those other notes?’

  Holmes nodded. ‘He did. Well done, Watson. He most likely used the new typewriting machines in his own store.’

  ‘Of course he did. I learned the other day that he is in the habit of spending an hour or so alone in the store each evening after it closes.’

  ‘Well done again, Watson! I had missed that, but it confirms things nicely.’

  ‘But would the typewriter ribbons not show they had been used?’

  ‘Oh, that is easy enough. He keeps a special ribbon for the purpose, most likely locked away in his safe. He winds it on each time to use a fresh section, so that the notes are all pristine. Will that serve?’

  ‘It will.’ I put a hand to my head, to try to stop its spinning round. ‘And the other things, the razor blades in the goldfish bowls, the piranhas in the piano? All Forrage’s own handiwork?’

  Holmes nodded again. ‘His, or that of his agents.’

  ‘But why? In the name of Heaven, why? The pianist might have been disfigured for life! And the elephant — that poor woman might have been crushed to death. Why, Holmes? What is at the back of it all?’

  ‘To drive the share price down, of course.’

  ‘But that would not benefit him! He is a major shareholder! Why, it is his own store!’

  Holmes smiled. ‘In name only, Watson. True, Forrage owns a large block of the shares, but he is by no means the only shareholder, or even a major shareholder. It must be galling for him to see his own name up on the shop front, to know that he himself built the store up more or less from a coster’s barrow, and yet he is compelled to consult men whose only claim is that they have money to buy the shares! To consult them? Nay, to defer to them. Galling, and more than galling. True, his own holding is worth considerably less, thanks to the fall in the price of the shares, but he sustains a real loss only if he sells those shares. And he does not — or did not, rather — intend to sell. He intended to buy, to increase his holding at low cost, until he became the controlling shareholder, until he need not consult anyone or defer to anyone. My contacts tell me that someone has been buying the shares using agents, nominees. I have no doubt that Forrage is hiding behind those nominees, Watson. However, as you say, this latest business has unsettled him, and I think there will be no more from that quarter, at any rate.’