Holmes sighed.
“I rather suspect he is referring to a robbery from the British Museum,” he declared, as he filled and lit his pipe.
Lestrade’s eyes bulged with surprise.
“How the blazes do you know that?” he cried, then waved away his own question, uninterested in the answer. “Yes, numerous invaluable items have been taken. Priceless and irreplaceable relics of antiquity, apparently. There is uproar. You must come at once!”
Holmes puffed on his pipe, building the flame within.
He did not move from his armchair.
“Holmes!” I cried. “This really does sound important. We should make haste! We do not have time for you to just sit there smoking your pipe!”
“Indeed,” Holmes replied, blowing smoke. “Yet, contemplation seems like the best use of my time, given that we need to wait for you to get dressed.”
I frowned.
I had completely forgotten I was still wearing a dressing gown, and there I was, stood before a detective from Scotland Yard!
“I will be but a moment!” I cried, feeling hot embarrassment aglow in my cheeks. “I shall dress as quickly as I can!”
Holmes nodded.
“It is curious, is it not, how quickly one may become accustomed to a situation,” he mused, suckling at his pipe. “How what we once deemed impossible circumstances, which we would never enter willingly, can so swiftly and easily consume us.”
We took a four-wheeler to Bloomsbury Street, with Lestrade repeatedly urging the driver to whip the horses, despite the road being filled with early-morning wagons transporting goods to market, which kept the poor beasts at nothing more than a two-beat trot. Ms. Green had headed home, reassured by a promise from Holmes that he was attending to her case, despite the severity of this more pressing matter.
We disembarked directly outside the British Museum, made our way up the steps, passing a squad of police officers, and strode between the vast Ionic pillars that comprise the façade of the British Museum.
Inside, we found a small huddle of men, all looking distinctly distressed.
One, noting our approach, broke away to greet us. He was an exceptionally thin man, in a cream-coloured suit, with a scraggily grey beard.
“Is this him?!” cried the man. “Is this finally someone with some intelligence?”
Holmes glanced at him.
“I should think there was no shortage of intelligence here. If I am not mistaken, I see numerous highly qualified professors before me, all directing their vast intellects to solving the crime that has been committed here.”
“And yet they have not had a single useful thought between them!” The bearded man sneered. “Do you believe you can do better? Can you help us recover these priceless artefacts?”
“I can,” Holmes nodded. “I am an expert, sir, in the field of crime, just as you are in the antiquities of ancient Greece.”
I coughed.
“How could you possibly know this man is an expert in the antiquities of ancient Greece?” I asked, knowing the part I should play, as well as any theatre actor. He needed a moment to impress them, to gain their confidence, so he could set about his work without further interruption and debate.
“It is obvious. I noted the cream suit, commonly worn in hotter climates, but still worn now out of unbroken habit, implying he spent considerable time in Southern Europe or North Africa. His mannerisms, though, acquired from mixing with the local population, are purely Greek. Furthermore, when this gentleman spoke of priceless artefacts, he gestured toward a specific, empty, plinth. According to the information plaque, it once held a bust of the Goddess Athena, discovered by a Professor Ernest G. Blackwell. Which, based on his possessive gesturing, I presume is the very gentleman to whom I have been speaking.”
“Goodness me,” muttered Professor Blackwell.
Holmes clapped his hands together.
“I must have a list, gentlemen, of everything that was taken.”
“The bust of Athena, obviously!” declared Blackwell.
“A Japanese katana blade, from before the early-Edo period,” cried another.
“A mummified cat!” yelled a third.
Holmes clapped his hands again.
“I said a list, gentlemen!” He glanced around the group of agitated professors. “Surely you have at least thought to compile a catalogue of your missing objects?”
There was an embarrassed silence.
“I shall set my assistant upon the task at once!” cried Blackwell. “Miss Reilly!”
A young woman, wearing a grey dress, obediently scuttled to his side. The two immediately fell into an animated discourse, with him detailing exactly what was needed, which she dutifully noted down.
“Well, hop to it, gentlemen,” Holmes declared, as he glanced around at the remaining professors. “Each of you is responsible for a department; check what is missing, and bring the information to Agnes. You cannot expect her to do all the work!”
The professors, having been given their orders, dashed away.
Lestrade watched them depart.
“Well, that will keep them busy, while we get on with the proper detective work. Well done, Holmes.” Lestrade nodded with reluctant admiration. “But, of course, I am sure you will have already deduced something vital from it all, which I have foolishly missed. Come, have at it! What vital clue have you noticed?”
“Only the obvious,” Holmes laughed. “That all the objects mentioned were small enough to be carried by one person alone. They have not taken the Rosetta Stone or the Elgin Marbles, which have significantly more value, but which would require more than one set of hands to move. The list, once complete, should support this supposition.”
Lestrade’s eyes widened.
“Are you saying that everything was stolen by one man?”
“No, Lestrade, I said nothing of the sort. You should listen more carefully; observation is done as much by ear as by eye. However, you may rest assured, I shall have my investigation resolved by this time tomorrow.”
By the time we returned to Baker Street, the sun had slipped beneath the horizon. Our hansom cab rattled to a halt, with Holmes leaping down to the pavement before the carriage had come to a stop.
I moved to follow him, but he stopped and turned, blocking my path.
“What the blazes do you think you are doing?” he asked.
“We are on a case of national importance,” I responded. “I cannot go home now. Whatever deductions you make tonight will be of the greatest interest to my readers.”
“You have a wife and home to attend to, Watson. Your duty is there.” He declared, pushing me back into my seat.
“But the case, Holmes! It is important!”
“But it is not more important than your marriage, is it?” Holmes asked, his eyes narrowing. “Besides, the case is solved.”
I frowned.
“But we have so many cases!”
Holmes shook his head.
“I have pledged myself to only one case.”
“I count three separate cases!”
“Three?” Sherlock laughed, a mocking twinkle in his eyes. “Your maths is askew.”
“I count the business with Mister Lassiter, the disappearance of Sally Green, and the thefts from the British Museum. There, that is three cases.”
“You are mistaken, Watson. They are all just pieces of one puzzle, which I assure you will be resolved in the morning, when I shall reveal the full picture to you.”
I stared at my friend.
“I cannot go now, Holmes!” I protested. “If there are answers, I must have them!”
Holmes shook his head.
“Demain matin, Watson. You will have your answers then. If this whole business should teach you anything, it is that we must strive to break our compulsions. Habits are ea
sily acquired, but infernally difficult to break, so we must be wary which ones we allow to thrive. If I allowed you to stay here a second night, you would think nothing of staying a single night in future, and your marriage would suffer. I therefore pledge you will not sleep under my roof again, not while your wife is so close, no matter how fascinating the case. If I allowed it, I would be no friend at all, and you are very dear to me, John. I must therefore send you away. I must send you home.”
I returned to the British Museum the following morning to find numerous police officers still guarding the front entrance.
Holmes was stood just inside, looking decidedly pleased. On the plinth beside him, restored to its rightful place, was a bust of the Goddess Athena. Elsewhere, I could see other ancient objects which had not been present the previous day.
Professor Blackwell and Miss Reilly, trailed by a gaggle of professors, were dashing excitedly from exhibit to exhibit, their faces lit with joy.
Lestrade was stood by the main doors, his arms folded, managing to look both begrudgingly impressed and annoyed.
“Everything has been returned?” I asked, astonished. “How is that possible?”
Lestrade gave a little grunt.
“Inside job and a guilty conscience, would be my guess.” He eyed the roving professors suspiciously. “However, Mister Holmes seems reluctant to furnish us with an explanation.”
“No crime has been committed. What is there to account for?” Holmes responded.
“Blast it, Holmes! I need to explain all this to my superior officers. Is there nobody I can arrest?”
“Outside, Lestrade, you will find an agitated man in a blue topcoat. I would be most grateful if you would arrest him. Be aware, he will be armed.”
Lestrade blinked, shocked by the sudden revelation. To his credit, he did not waste time with questions, but turned and dashed out through the main door. I moved to follow, but Holmes blocked my path with the handle of his cane.
“Let Lestrade do his job.”
“Then let me do mine,” I retorted. “Tell me what is going on. How can I chronicle these events, if I have no clue what is happening?!”
Holmes nodded, lowering his voice to a whisper.
“I regret not bringing you into my confidence sooner, but I had to be sure of a satisfactory resolution before I risked revelation. The man outside is Mason Lassiter. It was he who masterminded the Bloomsbury pickpocket gang, for the purposes of scoping out the area around the British Museum, so that he could plan a much more audacious raid. The target was obvious, as soon as Ms. Green told us the area the gang were working.”
I shook my head.
“We have it on good authority that those scoundrels are run by Silas Ramstone.”
Holmes laughed.
“Watson, criminals rarely use their real names! They are one and the same man.”
“How can you be sure?”
“At our first meeting, we established that Mister Lassiter would do things purely for the benefit of his own ego. So, when choosing his alias, he could not resist the urge to mock his opponents, purely for his own amusement; and he made it an anagram of his own true name.”
Holmes reached into his breast pocket and produced the piece of paper from his meeting with Lillian Green, upon which he had written two names, one atop the other.
Silas Ramstone.
Mason Lassiter.
“Written down, side by side, it is easy to see that the two names contain exactly the same letters.”
I hurriedly checked the names and confirmed their symmetry.
“This made it exceedingly easy to find Sally Green. Knowing from her mother’s testimony that she admired and emulated this rogue, I knew she would seek to copy this frivolous charade. So, when searching for Sally Green, and encountering a woman of an appropriate age working within the museum named Miss Reilly, I quickly extrapolated that if they were the same person, her new forename must be Agnes. The additional i is accounted for by her middle initial; you will remember that her mother gave her full name as Sally Isobel Green. Having made my deduction, I was able to innocuously verify it, by using the name in conversation when talking to the professors.”
“So simple, Holmes!” I cried, as delighted as ever by my friend’s deductive reasoning. “So simple! Lestrade will be delighted to have another culprit in his clutches.”
Holmes looked taken aback.
“I will not have that! I accepted the task to find the girl and retrieve her from the temptations of a criminal life.”
“Nonetheless, she has committed serious crimes, Holmes.”
“She was penniless. She sought only a means to survive. She has a shrewd and able mind, and naturally seized upon the only opportunity open to her. Lassiter, impressed with her talents, deployed her here, getting her a job within the museum. It is a job she takes pride in, whereas her criminal activity left her ashamed. Lassiter was so antagonised by my confronting him at the docks that, after the robbery, he kept every member of his gang close, fearing one of them would speak out. An action which sent Ms. Green to our door. It was of course my intention, by applying such pressure, to force something loose. I did not know who would come to our door that morning, but it was probable that someone would, as every member of the gang would know someone concerned by their absence, who would seek some other recourse other than the police.”
The implication of his words was obvious.
“You have spoken with Sally. You convinced her to return everything she stole.”
Holmes nodded.
“When we interrupted Lassiter’s attempt to acquire a ship, we foiled their attempt to remove the goods from the country, so they were still stored in a neighbouring property. It was as simple for her to return them as it was to remove them.”
“You are very generous to give this girl such a second chance.”
“Not at all. It would be wasteful not to provide one. As I have said, she has a sharp mind, which is now being put to better use. She of course succumbed to crime when offered no alternative, but now she has the taste for a new habit, in the form of a regular and well-paid job, which stimulates her intelligence rather than degrades it. She has become accustomed to working here and wishes to continue; she seeks to leave her criminal habits behind.”
I nodded thoughtfully.
“I see only one flaw in this scheme.”
“I see no flaw.”
“Do you think Lassiter will let the girl go free from her old life so simply? Once caught, do you not think he may name her as a co-conspirator?”
Holmes shook his head.
“This I have anticipated. It is with this that we shall let Mister Lassiter determine his own fate, through the very nature of his character. Having found the treasures returned and his plan foiled, his bruised ego will have compelled him to come here and confront me, but he will instead find Lestrade and his officers waiting for him. If Mister Lassiter has but a tiny fragment of decency, honour, or humility in his soul, he will easily survive the encounter. If he does not, his damaged ego will be unable to contain his temper, and he will doubtless lash out against them.”
There was a sadness in Holmes’s voice as he spoke, and, as he prided himself on being an expert in the criminal character, he undoubtedly knew what would happen next.
The gunshot rang out, as loud as a church bell, the distinctive sound driving everything else into silence. I leapt forward, hurrying toward the noise, my hand reaching for my own revolver. I crashed through the doors, stepping out into the dazzling daylight.
I was too late.
A man in a blue topcoat lay dead in the street, a revolver still clasped tightly in his right hand, his eyes staring blankly upward. Lestrade was stood over him, his own revolver still smoking from the shot.
“He would not surrender, even though he was surrounded by officers,” he muttered.
“Instead, he pulled a revolver. He left me no choice.”
“He chose his own fate, long ago,” Holmes told him, as he looked down on the body. “From the day he committed his first petty crime, his fate was set, because he would let nothing dissuade him from his path.”
Lestrade reached down and drew the man’s eyelids closed.
“He said he wanted the world to know, it was Sherlock Holmes who defeated him.”
“No. This time, the credit remains yours.”
“Who was he?” Lestrade asked.
“Silas Ramstone. An unremarkable pickpocket.” Holmes lifted his eyes, to stare at the empty street. The public had fled when the shot was fired, but from the shadows of doorways and side streets, a handful of pale faces were still staring at the scene with wide-eyed horror. “Those still close by will testify to that identity, as they were his comrades in crime.”
Lestrade turned to look.
“Well, I guess I had better go and have a word with them then.”
He stepped away, with two uniformed officers falling into step beside him as they approached the cowering witnesses.
I turned to face Holmes.
“Why did you give Lestrade his fake identity?” I asked. “Why not let him know this man was Mason Lassiter?”
“The story may be told in two ways: either a criminal mastermind planned an audacious robbery of international significance, only to be undone by the renowned consulting detective Sherlock Holmes, or a common pickpocket died in the street.”
“I very much intend to chronicle the first, not the second!”
“That would undoubtedly be the more popular tale. It would make crime seem glamourous and exciting. The villain himself would have taken pride in it. Others would be lured to take their first bite of the apple; and as we have seen, one bite is never enough. Let us not encourage people to take their first step upon such a dark road.”
“Then I may not document these events for the Strand?”
“Write them up if you must. Then lock it away, until all his kith and kin have passed from this world. Let him not be celebrated as a paragon. Let the passage of time expunge any glory that might have been afforded to him by the press or public; let his history be dictated by your pen alone, when no other voice remains. Then let him be remembered only as a criminal, who died an undignified, dishonourable, and pointless death; for in truth, that is all he ever was.”
The Return of Sherlock Holmes Page 20