by Jack Tunney
One enterprising cab man had found an answer to the abundant snow cover. This was by means of a small passenger sleigh, which suddenly appeared before us. Holmes flagged it down. As sensation in my feet had fled, I required no urging to convince me to climb aboard.
Teeth chattering, I gave the driver a Arlington Street address a short distance from the mill on Wenlock Road, which was our true destination. As the sleigh pulled away, Holmes and I made liberal use of the coarse woolen blanket on the bench seat.
Twenty minutes later, after seeing the sleigh on its way, we used Shepherd's Walk to cross the canal to get to Wenlock. We could smell the wood before we caught sight of the mill. An impressive brick structure loomed out of the stygian darkness of the moonless night and the bollard out front confirmed we had reached our destination.
Not wanting to leave evidence of our presence, we kept to the shadows and entered by way of the main yard. Judging from the churned up snow beneath our feet, the staff undoubtedly used this approach to enter and exit. The traces of our own steps were lost amongst those left by these men earlier that day.
There was the fear of encountering a night watchman however. More so with the cold weather, as those without means were in need of warmth. The sawmill, of course, had firewood in abundance – much too tempting for the needy and desperate to pass up when the cold ate through their rags.
Still, we gained the main entrance of the closed business without being seen. Holmes had his betty out and the lock yielded to his ministrations.
Inside was cavernous, inky blackness. Sawdust assailed our nostrils while masking our steps as we moved past the reception area and entered the shop floor. A foreman's office was immediately to our left. A narrow staircase along the right wall looked promising, as it led to what appeared to be an office of managerial dimensions.
Yet Holmes proceeded to the smaller office closest to us. The door was not locked. Inside was a cluttered work area with a scarred pine desk. There was barely room to turn around in the close confines. A series of hanging clipboards behind the battered desk seemed to be what he sought.
He snatched each one up in turn, softly rustling the forms upon them. His eyes flicked with machine-like precision over the contents of these sheets until a form on the third clipboard made him hesitate. I threw my gaze over my shoulder in search of the watchman, then stepped to my friend's side to see what had drawn his attention.
They were shipping orders for the previous day, the 22nd.
Holmes jabbed his finger down on the address on one of the orders. Four tarred crates of some three feet in height to be delivered to the Bald-faced Stag. Although this confirmed my friend's suspicion of a deeper connection between the owner of the mill and Tanner existed, I failed to fathom meaning beyond this. He did not elaborate as his finger descended to the date the order for the crates had been placed – the 19th of December.
Holmes indicated our time in the foreman's office was up and we exited. Next was the larger office, and Holmes paused at the base of the stairs. A quick flash of a watchman's torch startled me as it flashed along the keen edge of a stilled saw blade.
No sound accompanied the arc of light and we hesitated to skin our eyes trying to find the source of the light. Anxious seconds elapsed, yet still there was no sound. The watchman was, perhaps, in another section of the plant and his light had merely carried to us. We stealthily ascended.
A second judicious use of the lock pick and we were in the lavishly furnished office of solid oak panelling. A desk formed a veritable island in the middle of the large room. One wall was taken up with file cabinets.
Opposite was a large plate glass window allowing the occupant to gaze down on to the shop floor. This presented a problem, as our hand torches had to be applied against the gloom if we were going to see anything. Should a watchman glimpse our lights and come to investigate, we would be as helpless as hatchlings in their nest.
Holmes was at the desk, easing unlocked drawers open. These yielded the sundries one would expect in any office and did not hold our interest. A side table was piled high with order forms for filing.
With Christmas almost upon us, the demands for wood was high for bandstands, furniture, toys and so on. This did not bode well as the forms added to the sea of paper we needed to sift through as quickly as possible.
With his light honed to little more than a pin-prick on the sheets in the desk drawer, Holmes handled them quickly. The orders we ignored.
A heavy tread ten minutes later on the shop floor froze us where we stood. We had locked the door behind us and held our breath in the hope the watchman was only making general rounds and would not check the office. The steps receded and we breathed once more.
"Holmes, we may well be here until dawn. This won't do."
"Quite right," came the whispered reply. "Perhaps this will speed things along."
Holmes stepped to one side and reveal a small safe inset in one corner of the desk. He could not hide the glint of eagerness in his eyes as he bent to work on the combination dial.
Fingers moving deftly, Holmes turned the dial with precision, his concentration complete as he felt his way. I was not in the least surprised when the lock’s drive pin shortly picked up the interior wheels and the fence fell. A jerk on the handle and the safe swung open.
Papers filled the low shelves inside and Holmes riffled them appraisingly. Until a black leather portfolio with the company name embossed with gold drew his attention. Holmes appeared vulpine in the way he hunched over the thing.
He raised a sheet from one interior sleeve. "Look at this."
It was dated the week prior and concerned an offer for the purchase of the mill. Other than that, I noticed nothing of significance.
"The name on the buyer." His angled the masthead on the sheet into the lamp's faint glow.
"John Midge," I read. "What of it?"
"The name means nothing to you?"
I shook my head. "It is significant then?"
"It rings like Christmas bells so far as we are concerned. We tempt fate. Back to searching."
A wall of file cabinets presented the daunting task of sifting through thier contents, which proved unnecessary as they were locked. A waist-high cabinet to one side was not, however, and I opened it to discover supplies of ink, paper and pen nibs. In the act of closing the door, a stack of frames to one side of the middle shelf drew my attention with their incongruity.
They proved to be a half-dozen framed photographs. Substantial dust on the top portion of the frame told me they must have only recently been taken down and stowed in the cabinet.
Two were photos of the plant with gentlemen posed before it. The image was captured from too far away and no faces were discernible. A third was of the shop floor where workers posed around a massive tree trunk, for what purpose I could not guess. The fourth almost made me cry out. Hastily returning the others to the shelf, I carried this one to Holmes.
"This mill changed hands only recently," said Holmes when I was within earshot. "Here is a document with figures pertaining to the sale upon it. It is imperative we confirm the previous owner's identity."
"I have done it," said I, extending the photograph to Holmes.
The photograph featured a man seated at the very desk we crouched beside. The man was dressed in the finest tweed, a cigar in one fist. The name had been printed below the photograph with the year 1880 next to it.
The man in the photograph was Nigel Mathews, our first murder victim.
Holmes clutched my arm and hissed into my ear. "Bravo, Watson."
"I am confused. The mill is a thriving concern if the orders we saw downstairs are any indication. What would possess Nigel Mathews to sell?"
"The only logical answer is he needed money quickly." Holmes replaced the document then returned the portfolio to the same. "We shall not repeat the past. Let us away before that watchman reappears."
We reached the street without incident and put several blocks between ourselves and
the mill before hunting about for a ride back to Baker Street. Holmes had withdrawn into himself, as he was wont to do whenever his capacious intellect wrestled with a case and he moved with a somnambulant air.
Though I was bursting with questions, I was also numb with cold and realized that finding a coach – no open cab on such a night – was the ultimate priority. We climbed into one on the north side of the canal just as the first snowflakes began to fall.
TENTH SCRATCH
Whether it was the injury or our nocturnal sojourn I cannot say, but I awoke late the next morning. Voices from the sitting room drew my attention and I stepped out to find Holmes and Lestrade deep in discussion.
"Come to wish us a merry Christmas, then?" asked I of the inspector.
"Would that this was the reason for my visit, I should thank the lord in Heaven," replied Lestrade. "Mr. Holmes sent for me, doctor, and has been bending my ear this last half hour."
He thrust a hand into his coat pocket and withdrew my pistol. I accepted it gladly.
"Your frolic in the snowdrifts occurred within fifty paces of the police station there and one of the constables picked it up. You were fortunate the sergeant had the men out that morning to push the snow around the station into piles. Otherwise cold cobbles would have broken your fall, not a feather bed six feet high. When news of the accident reached me along with the identities of the two unconscious victims being ferried to Charing Cross, matching the weapon to its owner was simplicity itself. Do try to hang onto it this time."
"Your feats of deduction will be sung for a thousand years," said Holmes, wryly. "Pray, have you caught the men who tried to kill us?"
Lestrade lost his good humour. "Not so easy a task. You claim they were Tanner's men and I have no reason to doubt you. That said, I don't need to remind you evidence is required beyond mere testimony."
"They must have fled quickly enough if the arriving constables saw nothing of them," said I. "Surely someone saw an electric motor carriage in full flight."
"That they tried to kill the pair of you is not in dispute," said Lestrade. "Witnesses confirm the presence of an electric carriage and the vehicle seems to be the extent of their recollections, as it is all they remember."
"The man I shot?"
"Local bludger for hire. No direct connection to Tanner."
"What of the man whose hand I trimmed?" asked Holmes.
"Constables found a dead man in an alley off High Street," replied Lestrade. "Fingers lopped and face bashed beyond recognition. The body of Fred Mathews was also found last night, beaten and bloody. It was down as robbery with assault, only now I know different. Tanner is becoming sloppy, yet he keeps his mess at arm's length and we've no direct evidence against him. We'll need a different pot to boil him in, I'm afraid."
"As to that, Lestrade, the day's work is before us and the hours are fleeting," said Holmes. "I thank you for coming and here's wishing for a speedy solution to this affair."
Lestrade's brow clouded. "I do not like what is in the offing, sir. I must make that plain. I am also aware to prevent it from coming off, I should have to bring you in. As Tanner is on the top of my Christmas list, I will yield to your judgment even though I cannot in good conscience sanction it. You are running a terrible risk, Mr. Holmes. God keep you."
We shook hands all around, exchanging greetings of the season though there was little joy in it. Rather it had taken on a singularly funereal air by the time Lestrade turned his steps for the door. I found myself anxious for his departure so I might interrogate Holmes on the matter.
Lestrade's tread faded on the stairwell. "All right, Holmes, what's it all about?"
Holmes steepled his fingers and regarded me frankly. "I have told Lestrade of our discoveries at the mill. He was not amused by our conduct, but he was grateful for the counterfeit notes I turned over to him. I have this morning received a letter from Brophy containing a list of names to which I have added several more before passing it on to Lestrade. The list contains the names of men who were at the exhibition bout between McMurdo and myself. The Yard will follow up on that angle."
"Are you saying you've solved it?"
"My lines are in the correct ponds. We will need more than nibbles to land the big fish."
"Spare me your riddles man."
The barest hint of a smile pulled at his bloodless lips. "As you wish. We have some time before we must head out to the docks. However, I must insist you breakfast while we discuss the case. I did not speak falsely, time is a factor. What troubles you?"
I sat down and helped myself to toast and sausages. "The docks? How on earth do they come into play? Wait! Do you mean to say our pending trip is predicated on the old sailor's knots in the rope used for the ring?"
"Not entirely," replied Holmes. "This is a tenuous connection on its own merit, but coupled with other factors, it must be born out."
"What other factors?"
"John Midge for a start."
The name Holmes had uncovered on the offer for the purchase of the mill lurked in the back of my mind. I had passed some time over the course of the night ruminating on where I had heard it before. "The meaning of that names continues to elude me."
"Jonathan Latimer Midge," elaborated Holmes. "Does that not aid your memory?"
I had it. "The murdered businessman from the paper the other day."
"Yes. Bludgeoned to death by Nigel Mathews."
"How the devil do you make that connection?"
"The counterfeit notes."
"Tanner's notes?"
Realization dawned on my friend's face. "So that is what is gumming up your reasoning. As the notes were found in Tanner's coat, you believe they belonged to him. I suppose, indirectly, you are not far wrong."
"You have lost me, Holmes."
"I have not been clear, forgive me. We have established that Nigel Mathews sold his sawmill to Jonathan Midge. I submit he did so with the condition the amount of the purchase be turned over in cash, payable immediately. Midge tried to cross Mathews and paid over the amount in counterfeit notes. In whole or in part is of no consequence."
"How did Mathews determine the notes were fake?"
"I can think of at least six ways," replied Holmes. "However, we shall never know for certain how the discovery was made as Mathews has taken the truth to his grave. Upon discovering the deception, Mathews went to the home of Midge, tied him to a chair, and over the course of the ensuing beating, information poured from Midge as he begged for his life."
"Good lord! What could have possessed him? Why not just haul Midge before a magistrate?"
"Because Mathews needed the cash desperately and time was against him."
"What was the money to gain him?"
"He had long hoped to buy up the debt hanging over his father's head," replied Holmes. "I had a suspicion of this debt when Mathews Sr. first came to us. His talk of working his way up – laudable, yes, but the man had had little formal education, almost none in the avenues of business, and pugilists are notorious for squandering money. He alluded to a dark period in the firm's existence after taking over from the previous proprietor and a miraculous recovery he put down to his own cunning. I was all but certain he’d had a shady benefactor – one who had acted to seize control of the firm and place Arthur Mathews in thrall. Remember I pointed out on our trip to see Brophy that Mathews lied about existing connections to Camden Town. And could offer no reason for Nigel Mathews to go there. This suspicion of mine has only been strengthened as we continued our investigation and was confirmed by Lestrade just this morning. His associates have been delving into the death of Nigel Mathews and are, uncharacteristically, leaving no stone unturned. Arthur Mathews is all but bankrupt while his business flourishes."
"Why buy up the debt?"
"Fred's reference to his father's tardiness in turning his attention to family tragedies was the first indication of the family secret – the boys hated their father. This was confirmed yesterday by Arthur Mathews himself, saying t
he boys blamed him for the death of their mother. He said their hatred is unfounded. Perhaps it is, but has no bearing on the case. The boys believed it and sought to punish him by becoming his masters. Thwarted in this by Jonathan Midge, Nigel Mathews went on a rampage, which, ultimately, led to his brother's death as well as his own."
"And who was it that held this sword of Damocles over the head of Mathews?"
"The proprietor of the Bald-faced Stag."
"So Midge was acting as a go-between without Mathews' knowledge?"
"Precisely. Mathews learned this from Midge, then went to the pub to confront the true swindler."
"Yes, it is all plain to me now you have laid it out," said I. "I fail, however, to see what motivated Mathews to take such drastic action. And why not just stand aside and let Arthur Mathews be squeezed dry?"
"I have ideas along those lines. Our trip to the docks will provide the proof we need."
"I do not see a connection between counterfeiting and the docks."
"The sawmill Nigel Mathews owned built Tanner's ring. The ropes used were maritime cast-offs. Arthur Mathews runs a shipping concern and is in debt. What more needs to be said?"
"A great deal more, Holmes!"
"To that end, we must undertake our journey. You heard Lestrade comment as to the sloppiness of recent events and his comment has merit. The police would hardly have experienced the frustration associated with breaking up the gang if Tanner and the rest were as slip-shod as they have been of late. The attempt on our lives is but another example of this. I sense haste at work here, so we must discover why they have changed their mode of operating. My deductions to this point have been proved out for the most part. There remains this final piece to be established before we can move to the next stage. If it pans out, we will have a great deal of work ahead of us today. Have some more sausage, Watson, and let's be off!"