There was a note inside the envelope, which Lestrade handed to Holmes, who then handed it to me. I read it and returned it to Holmes, who immediately began to examine it using his powerful magnifying glass.
It was typed and ran as follows:
Should you ever wish to see your daughter alive again you must pay us £8,842 by tomorrow evening. Confirm that you will do so by a notice in the agony column of The Telegraph. Designate for May-Bel. Then await further instructions.
“Speak up, Holmes,” said Lestrade. “I did not call you over here to sit and cogitate. Before you ask, I can tell you that the sum demanded corresponds exactly to the balance in the Atherley account at Holder and Stevenson.”
“Such a curious coincidence,” said Holmes. “You have, I am sure, some standard procedures for responding to kidnappers. We need time and some way to force continuing communication. A notice stating that the terms are agreeable but that two days are needed to secure the funds would be a normal place to start.”
“Out of the question.” This response came not from Lestrade but from the girl’s father.
All of us turned and looked at Mr. Atherley.
“Really, sir,” said Lestrade, “what Mr. Holmes has said is indeed our standard practice. Right now, time is not on our side and we need to negotiate for more of it. Saying that the demands will be met and then stalling is the only way we have of making sure that your daughter remains alive. An outright refusal is likely to bring unpleasant results. Unless, of course, you are in a position to pay the ransom.”
Now Mr. Holder spoke. “Sufficient funds are immediately available. I cannot avoid my responsibility in this matter and the Bank shall accept whatever financial burden we have to bear.”
“Sir,” said Lestrade. “That is very honorable of you. However, we advise you not to follow that course. Doing so will not bring an end to crimes like this. It will only prove to these criminals that their scheme has worked and they will do it again and again. No child will be safe afterward. So again, I suggest that we find a way to extend the deadline.”
Mr. Atherley spoke again in a sharp tone. “There will not be one farthing of ransom paid, and there will be no negotiations.”
I looked at the man in surprise. He was not looking at any of us when he spoke. His gaze was elevated and fixed at some point on his wall, part way between Queen Victoria and the horn of the Black Rhino.
“Pardon me, Mr. Atherley,” said Lestrade. “We are not asking you to give into their demands, only to agree to negotiate for time so that we have some chance of rescuing your daughter.”
“I said there will be no negotiations.”
“I am sorry sir,” said Lestrade quite forcefully. “I must ask you to explain yourself. We have had to handle similar situations in the past and I can assure you that negotiating for more time has proven to be an absolutely necessary response.”
Again, the reply was addressed to the Queen and the Rhino. “The British Empire did not become the great force for good in the world by negotiating with criminals. There is never a necessary response other than standing your ground and fighting. If the enemy wins the first round, then you regroup and engage him again and again until he is demolished. That, gentlemen, is why there will be no negotiations.”
“Jack,” came the imploring voice of the girl’s mother. “She’s our only child. The bank will pay the money.”
“Silence, Cecilia,” barked the father. “Every unit has to be willing to take casualties. Ours is no exceptions. Fortunately, Bernardo’s is chock full of bright young adoptable lads, so children can always be replaced. The honor of and respect for the British Empire cannot.”
Here Holmes could no longer hold his tongue. “For heaven’s sake man, you are not the British Empire. You are merely one family and you have one child and she cannot be replaced. The British Empire is not about to collapse because you use your common sense.”
Mr. Atherley glared at Holmes, who coolly returned his stare.
“I will not,” exploded Atherley, “be lectured to by a detective-for-hire. Mr. Holmes, you are dismissed from this case and dismissed from this house.”
“No,” came the loud, immediate response from Lestrade, “he is not. He is assisting in this case at the request of Scotland Yard. This is now a police matter and you, sir, have no authority. Furthermore, if he is requested by Scotland Yard to examine every minute aspect of your existence then he will, by law, do that, and you, sir, will cooperate. That, sir, is an order.”
The tension in the room was palpable and I made a note in my mind to remember this occasion when Lestrade stood up for Holmes. Atherley clenched his fists and seemed about to burst with rage. Forcing the words through his teeth, he said, “We will see about that.”
Lestrade turned to Holmes. “Perhaps we could continue our conversation on the front steps.” He turned and the four of us, including Mr. Holder, moved toward the door.
“Inspector,” came a request from Mrs. Atherley. “May I speak with you?” She rose and started to follow us out.
“Cecilia!” shouted Mr. Atherley, “get back here. This instant!”
The lady stopped, closed her eyes, took a slow breath, turned her head back toward her husband, and quietly but firmly replied. “Mister Atherley, go to hell.” She resumed her exit from her home.
“Gentlemen,” she said. “My family has more than sufficient funds to serve as the basis of negotiations and payment with whoever is holding my daughter. Please, I beg you, use your best judgment and do everything you possibly can to find her … and spare no expense.” She turned back toward her door and took another deep breath.
“Mrs. Atherley,” said Holmes in soothing tones that he knew so well how to employ. “Would it be helpful to you if a police officer remained posted at your home? I believe Inspector Lestrade could look after that for you. Is that not correct, Inspector?”
Lestrade gave a hint of a smile back at Holmes. “That would be quite in order. I could demand that he be posted in the parlor if the lady does not object.”
“That, gentlemen, would be very helpful. Thank you for your thoughtfulness.”
Lestrade walked her back to her door and sent one of his officers in with her before returning to chat with Holmes. He was shaking his head as he walked.
“Sometimes … sometimes …” he mused, “I wonder if protecting our citizens from their own stupidity is worth it. Sorry about that, Holmes. However, … your thoughts? Can you use your skills in unraveling the matter? Anything?”
“A few observations, but pray tell me, Mr. Holder, is there any reason why this client should have been singled out? Lord and Lady Hairball I can understand, but why these people?”
“None,” replied Holder. “Their wealth is significant but not exceptional. The husband has been very demanding concerning the secrecy of his accounts, but the only reason I could ever see is that he does not want it known that whatever money he has came from his wife and not from his own efforts. Beyond that, nothing.”
“Did you,” asked Lestrade of Holmes, “see anything in the note?”
Holmes nodded back at him. “The quality of paper was quite good; the type only available at a high-end shop. So, it was not likely sent by a lower-class type of criminal. Every typewriter has a distinctive font and this one was from a recent Remington model. The letters were all dark and without any parts not fully filled, indicating a fresh new ribbon. On the bottom of the back was a small black smudge that I at first thought must have come from the ribbon but on closer glance was from grease, of the type used to lubricate an engine. There was also a very faint scent of perfume, Guerlain’s L’Heure Bleue, I believe, suggesting that a woman’s hand had at least touched the paper and envelope. Beyond that, I cannot honestly say that I noticed anything.”
“Not a bad start … for an amateur detective,” said Lestrade, his head ever so slightly cocked. “I will have our office place a notice in the Telegraph’s agony column along the lines you suggested. Beyond
that, I can only say that I will keep you informed and I expect the same in return.”
“Understood and agreed,” replied Holmes.
Chapter Seven
An Everyday Burglary
in Southwark
UPON RETURNING TO BAKER STREET, Holmes said to me, “My dear doctor, thank you for your support and company. I am aware that you have patients to attend to in a few hours and I suggest you get some sleep.”
“And will you, my friend, do the same?”
“Perhaps … but not likely.”
I took myself off to bed and did manage to catch a few hours of sleep, interrupted only briefly just before six o’clock by the sound of a motorcycle just below our front window. I could tell it was Holmes starting up. I heard it drive south on Baker Street and fade in the distance.
At the end of the day, I came back and dined alone on a pleasant piece of pork tenderloin that Mrs. Hudson had dutifully prepared. Just before my retiring to my bedroom for the night, Holmes reappeared. I could tell by the speed at which he ascended the stairs and his energetic entry that he was hot on a trail.
“Wonderful, Watson. I was hoping you would still be up.”
“I can tell you are on to something, Holmes. So, out with it.”
“My good doctor, I am in need of your cooperation.”
“I shall be delighted.”
“You don’t mind breaking the law?”
“Not in the least.”
“Nor running a chance of arrest?”
“Not in a good cause.”
“Oh, the cause is excellent!”
“Then I am your man.”
“I was sure that I might rely on you. You will need some dark clothing and a torch. Best bring your service revolver as well. And your stethoscope, if you don’t mind.”
“And where are we off to?” I asked.
“Southwark.”
“And to do what?”
“A very common unimaginative everyday burglary. Nothing more.”
“Give me two minutes.”
He insisted on my accompanying him on his expedition, which I was eager to do. I dressed as requested and stuffed a torch into one pocket and my gun into another. We found a cab on Baker Street and took it as far as the Elephant and Castle. Holmes gave me some information as we rode.
“I spent tea time and the early evening at my motorcycle club. I kept looking for one of the chaps bearing the skull and emerald badge inside his riding jacket. I noticed one of them and then followed him all the way here after he left Fitzrovia. There is converted garage behind Hayles Street that our Beryl Anarchists are using as their own clubhouse and I fully expect that we will find some excellent data concerning them when we make ourselves at home there.”
We got out and continued on foot. As we entered the lane, Holmes grabbed my wrist and I stopped moving.
“Ah yes,” he said. “It looks like that last one of them is leaving and locking up. He will get on his machine and be gone in a moment.” We waited until a man on a motorcycle had departed at the far end of the lane, and we quietly walked toward the garage. A hand-painted sign over the front door read Welcome to Ladysmith.
“This will not take long,” said Holmes as he squatted down in front of the keyhole. Within a few seconds, he opened the door and we entered. The place had a strong and unpleasant odor to it; a sort of mixture of mildew, stale beer, fish and chip wrappings, and unwashed men. There was some light coming through the window and in the front room I could see several large sofas, all in various states of disrepair, with the upholstery worn and the padding protruding. In the back room were a desk and chairs, as one might see in an office of a very poor enterprise. There was a typewriter on the desk. In the poor light, I could still see that it was a Remington.
“Please, Watson, draw the curtains before turning on your torch. This will take us a bit longer.”
I did as requested and, for the next few minutes, Holmes opened drawers and files and inspected their contents. He selected a number of documents and placed them inside his satchel.
“These will all be useful to Lestrade – membership lists, meeting minutes and the like, but not what I was hoping to find.”
“Holmes, you might want to take a look in the corner.”
He glanced in the direction I was indicating with my torch. I had spotted a small safe, about two feet in height, with a combination lock dial on the front.
“How very observant, Watson. Thank you. And your stethoscope, if I may?”
For the next ten minutes, I held the torch, shielding the light so that it was restricted to a small beam focused on the dial. Holmes spun the dial several times and then held the medical instrument to the metal plate beside it as he slowly and gingerly turned the dial first one way and then the next. On three occasions he thought he had it, and attempted to lower the handle, but to no avail. He muttered a few mild expletives indicating his frustration but eventually the levered handle gave way and the door swung open.
“Ha. Those boys at Chubb are intent on making me work for my fee. Oh, do you see what I see?”
I could not, as the safe door had opened in my direction and I could not see through steel plate. “No Holmes, I cannot see what you see. What is in there?”
He placed both hands into the safe and brought out a stack of about a dozen files and handed them to me. He repeated the task until I was holding a foot-tall stack of files.
“Watson, our client will be relieved. I will wager a fiver that these are his purloined files.”
“A bet I will decline to place,” said I. “Well done, Holmes.”
“Yes, we have found our hidden treasure. Come now, let us get back to Baker Street where we can inspect our mother lode.”
Before rising to his feet, Holmes stretched his arm all the way to the back of the safe and brought out a canvas sack. I could tell by the shape and sound that it was full of small metallic objects. He handed it to me and I undid the drawstring. Using my torch, I looked inside and saw, at least, a score of medallions, all in the shape of a human skull and all enhanced by a bright emerald beryl in the middle of the forehead. I looked at one closely and shuddered. It struck me as a symbol of unspeakable evil.
“What,” I asked, whispering, “are you going to do with these?”
“If the emeralds are genuine, then they are quite valuable,” he replied.
“Then taking them,” I replied, “would amount to larceny.”
“Only,” said Holmes, “if they are reported as stolen. So, we shall be guilty of nothing except failing to adhere to honor among thieves.”
He stuffed the sack into his now bulging satchel.
We walked quietly back to the Elephant and Castle and hailed a cab. As we were approaching 221B Baker Street, I chanced to look out and saw that there was a light in the window of our front room.
“Holmes,” I said, “did you, perchance, leave the light in the front room on as we departed?” I asked this knowing that he most certainly did not, as he was inclined by habit to penny pinching and hated the waste of the recently installed electricity.
“You know I did not,” he replied, but the words had a vacant tone to them as he was leaning forward so that he too could observe our window.
I further noticed when we reached our door that a police car was parked immediately in front of it. I had an uneasy feeling. A police car at your door after ten o’clock in the evening does not augur well.
As we entered our staircase, Mrs. Hudson appeared at the top. She said nothing but just nodded toward the front room. Her face conveyed deep distress. Sitting in our room, was Inspector Lestrade and, opposite him, a portly man who was leaning forward with his face buried in his hands. By his size and the quality and cut of his clothes, it was our client, Mr. Holder.
Lestrade turned to us as we entered. “Here. I brought copies for both of you. Read the afternoon edition first.” He handed each of us a section from the afternoon and the evening editions of the Telegraph. They were both op
ened and folded back to the agony columns. Items had been circled in pen. The first one, in the afternoon edition, ran:
Dear Mommy and Daddy May-Bel:
Funds must be sent or they will make me a very unhappy girl. I know you have enough, so please send if you do not want me to be miserable. Your loving daughter, A.A.
In the evening edition, there were two items circled. The first, which I gathered had been placed by Scotland Yard, ran:
Dear May-Bel: Prepared to meet demands but more time is required to assemble all funds without raising concerns amongst those who you do want to be concerned. Will comply within seventy-two hours. Mommy and Daddy May-Bell.
We had not expected the message sent under the name of the daughter, but the note prepared by the Yard was as I would have anticipated. Further down the page, a second note caused my eyes to widen and my mouth to drop open in disbelief. It ran:
Attention May-Bel cowards and traitors. Disregard all other messages. No payments. No negotiations. Not now. Never. And go to hell. Father and only authorized contact, May-Bel.
“That imbecile!” cried Holmes. “That pig-headed, stiff-necked imbecile. How can he possibly be so stupid? Has he no sense whatsoever of the consequences for his daughter. Lestrade, can you get a message into the first morning edition countermanding this fool? There should be time if you move immediately.”
Lestrade looked up at Holmes and quietly shook his head. In a voice just above a whisper, he said, “Too late. It’s too late to alter the matter now.”
“Oh no,” said Holmes. “Oh, dear God, no.” He slowly sat down and quietly inquired. “What happened?”
Sherlock Holmes Never Dies - Collection Three: New Sherlock Holmes Mysteries - Second Edition (Boxed Sets Book 3) Page 24
