Both the Cleveland Road Scandal and the trial of Mrs. Francis Maybrick were historical events that were driven by the social climate of the day. Both are now believed to have resulted in terrible miscarriages of justice.
The character, Lord Backwater of Crosshaltern, is a tribute to my favorite Canadian historian. Much of the vocabulary given to him was copied from his recent columns and publications.
The Adventure of the
Beryl Anarchists
Note to readers: A beryl is a type of gemstone. The green beryl is better known today as an emerald.
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Chapter One
Only Mad Dogs and
Englishmen
“HOLMES,” SAID I AS I STOOD ONE MORNING in our bow-window looking into the street, “here is a chap not long for this world if he keeps marching along Baker Street in this heat. He will have a stroke before passing our door if he does not slow down.”
My friend rose lazily from his armchair and stood with his hands in the pockets of his dressing-gown, looking over my shoulder. It was yet another blistering afternoon in the dog days of early August. The summer of 1912 was one of the hottest on record. For four weeks we had suffered temperatures in excess of eighty degrees, and all of England had gone without a drop of rain. Sensible people stayed indoors with the shades drawn and turned on their recently acquired mechanical fans. No one marched down the street dressed in full business attire unless they were deranged, or desperate.
The eccentric fellow that had caught my attention did not appear to be an escapee from Bed’lam. He was dressed in a somber yet rich style, a black frock-coat, neat brown gaiters, and well-cut pearl-grey trousers. Yet his actions were in absurd contrast to the dignity of his dress and features, for he was running hard, with occasional little springs, such as a weary man gives who is little accustomed to set any tax upon his legs. As he ran, he held his hat in one hand and a large handkerchief in the other, which he used to wipe the sweat off his face and the back of his neck.
“So, what do you think, Holmes? He is not, I will wager, a retired sergeant of Marines,” I said, making reference to one of my earliest conversations with Holmes, now nearly a quarter century in the past. “He looks more like a banker to me, and not a very happy one.”
“An excellent observation, my friend,” replied Holmes. “It is good to see that in twenty-five years your powers of observation are showing some signs of improvement. Given the quality and cut of his clothing, I would agree that he is most likely a banker, and a highly successful one. He is on foot so he must have mixed with the great unwashed and taken the Underground rather than a cab, a sign of pressing urgency. He is of the same vintage as you and me, having seen his fiftieth birthday pass several years ago, but at least two stone heavier than you and three more than I. He has been living well, or, at least, he was up until this morning, when disaster overtook him, and he is now on his way to our door to seek my assistance.”
“Holmes,” I remonstrated. “You are becoming more obsessed with yourself with every passing year. A fiver says he walks on by and into the pub on the corner for a clandestine meeting with an accomplice.”
“You are on.”
You would think that after twenty-five years I might have learned not to make foolish bets.
Less than a minute later the banker crossed over Baker Street, walked directly to our door and rang loudly and repeatedly on the bell.
I listened as our young page, Billy, scampered to the door, and then nimbly hopped up the stairs.
“Mr. Alexander Holder,” he announced, and handed the calling card to Holmes. Then I heard another set of steps. The first ten were quick and heavy. Then they stopped for several seconds. The last seven were slow and labored. Into our doorway came a large man, his rich and impeccable attire completely disheveled and soaked with sweat. His face was florid, his breathing all desperate huffs and puffs. He turned his body toward the door frame and leaned against it, supporting himself for fear of fainting. I jumped up out of my chair and grasped him by the elbow and upper arm.
“Please sir,” I said, “Come sit down. Please, remove your suit coat. You must let your body cool down.”
He let me help him out of his jacket and then dropped heavily onto the sofa. Holmes had stood up and turned our mechanical fan so that it was blowing a strong stream of air directly on to him. While I sat beside the fellow, Holmes quickly stepped into our kitchen and returned forthwith bearing a large glass of water into which he had added several pieces of ice from the icebox. He gave it to our visitor, who nodded and slowly drank it whilst rocking his body back and forth. His eyes were closed. His face was awash with rivulets of sweat, mingled with tears. During my years of observing clients of Sherlock Holmes enter the front room of 221B Baker Street, I had never seen a man so utterly distraught.
Holmes excused himself again and, this time, returned with a small towel that he had soaked in water and wrapped around a handful of ice cubes. I took it from him and applied it to the man’s forehead and scalp and back of the neck. He sat like an immovable statue for a while before taking the towel from my hand and continuing to hold against his face and head.
Five full minutes after entering our room he lifted his head, opened his eyes, and spoke to us.
“Thank you, gentlemen. You are being most kind. I would have been almost happy to have died of heat stroke. At least, it would not have been the coward’s way out of taking my own life. I came close to doing that before coming here.”
“We are here to be of assistance,” said Holmes. “I offer no guarantees, but I can assure you that many men have sat where you are now sitting, having had similar thoughts before coming here. All of them are still alive and most are reasonably happy. So please compose yourself and explain as succinctly as possible what has so grievously befallen you.”
The man closed his eyes again and took a slow deep breath. “My name, as you know is Alexander Holder. You most likely know who I am.”
“I do,” said Holmes. “Your private bank is one of the most respected and successful firms in London, and your clientele restricted to the upper crust of the upper crust; the biggest, noblest, most exalted names in England. You are a very admired and trusted man, sir, a man whose character has never borne a stain. Your arrival at this address tells me that your life has been crushed.”
“Aye, sir. It has. Yesterday at this time I thought of myself as one of the most fortunate men on the face of God’s good earth. Three hours ago, I was holding a revolver against my temple and ready to blow out my brains.”
“That,” said Holmes, “is now in the past. Please sir, your story.”
“Together with my partner, Redvers Stevenson, I own and manage our private banking establishment. Over the past twenty years, through diligent management and scrupulous practices, we have become trusted by many of the wealthiest citizens in England, not only to safeguard their funds but to manage all aspects of their financial affairs. No new client even bothers to make an appointment unless he, or sometimes she, has at least fifty thousand pounds to entrust to our care.
“My partner looks after our primary office on Threadneedle Street, just a few doors east of the Old Lady herself. Our secondary office, the Mayfair-Belgravia branch, which we call the May-Bel office, is on Knightsbridge Road, and provides services exclusively for the wealthy and renowned of the bluest of the bluebloods, and the elite of the leaders in the church, the military, the universities, and the world of commerce. All told, we have been entrusted with the care of several hundred million pounds.”
“Have you been robbed?” asked Holmes.
“Worse. Much worse.”
I could not imagine that a bank that held that much money could be robbed,
or if it could, then what could possibly be worse, but my knowledge of the world of commerce was painfully lacking.
“Swindled? Defrauded?” continued Holmes. “Surely you are insured. Lloyds must collect an enormous monthly premium from you.”
“If only it were that simple, sir, I would not be here.”
“Then please, sir, I am all attention.”
“As a detective, Mr. Holmes, you are aware that a man can, if he so chooses lie convincingly to his wife, or to his closest friends in his club, or to the police, or even to a judge and jury. But he cannot lie to his bank book.”
“Entirely correct.”
“A bank’s records must, of necessity, show the origin of funds transferred in and those transferred out. All of our clients expect that these records will be kept confidential, although for the great majority of our clients there would be no more than an annoying invasion of their privacy if all of their transactions were to be made public. They are entirely above board and of unquestioned integrity. However, there are some of our clients, about fifty of them, that being no more than one percent of the list, for whom the records must, at all costs, remain secret. In their files are records of payments made by professors to students, and students to professors; by bishops to young women, and young men; by noblemen to married and unmarried women, as well as to young bachelors; by foreign governments, many of which are not on friendly terms with Great Britain, to esteemed men in government and in the military; to directors and titans of industry by their competitors. The list goes on sir. I leave it to your imagination to add to it.
“The contents of these files are so sensitive that I have never kept them at the bank itself. They have, for the past two decades, been kept in my home in Belgravia. I have protected them with the most advanced locks on my doors and windows, and in the strongest of safes equipped with the most recent combination locks.”
“Ah,” said Holmes, “and these files were stolen. Is that why you are here?” He was attempting to restrain his instinctive action of rubbing his hands together in barely disguised glee.
“Exactly sir. I had added a few notes to the files yesterday. When I opened the safe this morning, they were all gone.”
“And did you inform the police? What did the boys over at Scotland Yard have to say?”
“They said that they would try to have someone come around in a couple of days. But as there was no cash or securities or gems taken, and as no one had been assaulted, they could not give it a high priority. They explained that they had no choice but to concern themselves with murders, and assaults, and real robberies where more than pieces of paper were removed. They could not understand that I was ruined.”
“Forgive me, but I do not either. No funds were removed. Surely you have other records confirming the bank balances of these clients. These were not put at risk. Should the information in the files be made public, some people, who deserve nothing better, would be shamed. Wherein is the disaster?”
“The world of confidential private banking,” replied the banker, “operates not only on the expectation of a good return on investment, but on the assurance of complete privacy and trust. We are relied upon to be discreet and to refrain from all gossip upon the affairs of our clients. If it became known that I could not be trusted with the secrets of even one percent of my clients, then the other ninety-nine percent would withdraw their funds and find some other bank to whom they could be entrusted. Within a fortnight, our coffers would be emptied. My income and that of my partner would vanish. I would pass the remainder of my life as a pauper, with nothing to pass on to my children.”
“Which for you,” acknowledged Holmes, “would be an unspeakable tragedy. But wherein is the crime? There is no law that requires investors to leave their funds in the care of a banker whose security has failed. Common sense would tell them to find a replacement as soon as possible. Their funds have not been damaged, only their reputations.”
Mr. Holder dropped his head onto his chest and sighed. “You are correct, sir. I would reap only my own inevitable misfortune. But what cannot be ignored is the opportunity it would present for unscrupulous people to engage in blackmail and extortion on a monumental scale. Millions of pounds would have to be paid to avoid the destruction of many marriages, the disinheriting of children, charges of breach of trust, and trials for high treason. All hell is about to break loose. The thieves will have a field day. It is not just about my life having been destroyed, it is about an enormous wave of crime that is about to sweep the country. The repercussions will continue for years. I will be a pariah until I die. Can you understand why I was prepared to blow my brains out?”
“Of course, but that possible course of action has passed and you did not follow it, so I have no more interest in hearing about it. Now I have to focus my thoughts on a crime that has taken place, and the preventing of ones that are, as you rightly suggest, about to happen. So kindly accommodate my questions with regards to those matters.”
The distressed banker looked at Holmes in disbelief. A few minutes ago, Holmes had been gently attending to the man’s needs with cold water and ice. Now he had transformed himself into a heartless calculating machine. I reached over and placed my hand on the poor fellow’s forearm. “Please, sir. If he seems insensitive, it is only because his mind is already at work on your case. Just try to answer his questions.”
The man nodded and looked back at Holmes.
“When did you discover the theft?” queried Holmes.
“This morning, at half-past eight o’clock. I opened my safe just before leaving for the bank.”
“And then what did you do?”
“I was struck with terror and panic. I immediately made a search throughout my office and my house.”
“Ah yes, a normal but stupid action when in panic. Fifty files do not up and move themselves from the office to the loo or elsewhere. Then what?”
“I hailed a cab and went straightaway to Scotland Yard.”
“Where, after learning that only files were stolen, they made you wait for over an hour to speak to an inspector.”
“Yes, sir. It was closer to two hours.”
“And then,” asked Holmes, “with whom did you finally get to speak? Gregson? Anderson? Lestrade?”
“Inspector Lestrade.”
“Who has been in that job so long that now he will not deign to soil his hands with anything less than a multiple murder, and never east of Aldgate. I assume he told you that you could just wait for several days or else you could knock on my door.”
“He did exactly that. He gave me this note.”
From his trousers, Mr. Holder withdrew a crumpled note, made worse by soaking inside a sweaty pocket. I took it from him. It read:
S. Holmes. “Detective” 221B Baker St. Near tube station. Recommended for chasing lost flies.
“I assumed that he meant lost files,” said the banker.
Holmes smiled. “I would be inclined to doubt that. But no matter. Did anyone else enter your office?”
“No. I locked the door as I departed and told the maid on no uncertain terms not to enter.”
“Excellent. Then even though it is still beastly hot outside, we must make our way over to your home immediately, while any possible evidence is still fresh. I suggest that you loosen your collar, sir, and carry your suit jacket over your arm. Forgive me if I work in my shirtsleeves. My good doctor, are you available to accompany us?”
Holmes and I both excused ourselves for a few minutes to dress in as light attire as we could find and still look respectable and followed our client slowly down the stairs. I hailed a cab and we made our way to Belgravia.
Chapter Two
Not Safe
THE HOLDER HOME WAS AN ELEGANT three-story row house on a Mews in one of the poshest neighborhoods in London. Immediately after entering, Holmes asked Alexander Holder to take us to his office and unlock the door. The office was spacious, with a high ceiling and walls either lined with books or covered wit
h paintings. The only windows were high on the walls and were long narrow rectangles, no more than six inches wide but nearly three feet in length. Holmes requested that we wait in the hallway while he inspected the room. He dropped to his knees, pulled out his powerful glass from his pocket and examined the carpet between the door and the large safe that sat in the corner of the room, and then the safe itself. He bade us enter and gestured to us to be seated around the small conference table.
“Do you lock the doors and windows of your home?” he asked.
“Without fail. They are never left unlocked.”
“Who has keys to the house and to this room?”
“Only the maid and my man-servant. Both have been with me for over a decade. Their honesty and loyalty have been beyond question. And the members of my family.”
“Were the windows and the door to this office locked when you retired last evening?”
“Most certainly. I personally locked the office door and checked the doors. I do so out of habit every evening before retiring,” replied the beleaguered banker.
“The safe is open,” he said. “I assume that you left it in that condition this morning.”
“I did.”
“Who, Mr. Holder, other than you, knew the combination to the safe?”
“My partner, Redvers Stevenson,” he said. Then for several seconds he paused. He hung his head and quietly added, “And my two sons.”
“Indeed. Then more questions are necessary,” said Holmes. “Please tell me about your sons,” said Holmes.
The banker, now seated, folded his arms across his chest, sloped his body toward the window, and spoke to his gaitered shoes. “I have two sons ... twins … Arthur and Eric. They are no longer boys. They are now thirty-two years old. Their mother died when they were thirteen. It hit them very hard, as it did all of us. I could not bear to see them sad and I made up for it, foolishly perhaps, by granting their every wish. I spoiled them. But they were reasonably bright boys and loved their adventures. They could have attended Cambridge, but it was not to their liking and both enrolled in Sandhurst. I was proud of them although I did not let on. I had served in the BEF and thought that a few years in the military was a splendid opportunity for any young Englishman. They did rather well and upon graduation joined the Northumberland Fusiliers, expecting all the glamor and adulation that goes with being an officer. They had a bit of a brutal wake-up call when they were shipped off to South Africa to fight the Boers. They engaged in some direct combat, and both received a few ribbons and honors, but then Lord Roberts departed and Kitchener arrived. They saw no more fighting. All they did until the end of the war was guard the concentration camps.
Sherlock Holmes Never Dies - Collection Three: New Sherlock Holmes Mysteries - Second Edition (Boxed Sets Book 3) Page 18
