by David Marcum
“Why, these are excellent!” exclaimed Holmes. “Would that all my clients possessed your skill and your foresight. This M. Malmaison - of what height and build?”
“Ah, I would seem to have forgotten to inform you of those points. He was about five feet or even a little under in height, and somewhat corpulent in build. His short stature should make him quite easy to locate, in my opinion.”
“Quite possibly. And the address you were given in Brussels?”
“Rue de Flandres, No. 27.”
“And the address of Hillbrook & Co.?”
“I address my correspondence to their offices on Parrock Street. No. 4 on the second floor. I confess to never having met their principals, but have conducted my business with them chiefly through letters, though I have met their clerk, Kendall, on a couple of occasions.”
“Thank you, Captain. Where can I contact you if necessary?”
“I would prefer not to say at present. May I call upon you again this time next week, and you can then report any progress.”
“That is satisfactory,” Holmes told him. “I bid you a very good day, and I hope to have some answers for you by this time next week.”
As the door closed behind our visitor, Holmes started to laugh softly. “This is most gratifying, Watson,” he remarked, rubbing his hands together. “I was beginning to despair of the English criminal, who has been showing a shocking lack of originality of late in his operations. A little housebreaking, some clumsy forgeries, and minor embezzlement have been my bread-and-butter for too long. It will be good to sink my teeth into something more substantial. I believe it is time for me to pay a visit to the docks in search of our friend’s shipmates.”
“You believe they are alive, then, and that the captain was not mistaken? How could they have survived?”
“I am sure he was not mistaken. As to the manner of their survival, I have a theory, but it needs to be verified. But I must change my attire if I am to make a visit to Limehouse.” So saying, he entered his bed-room.
Knowing Sherlock Holmes as I did, I fully expected him to emerge in the guise of a rough-spoken mariner, and I was therefore amazed when he appeared, dressed in the style of a man of business, albeit one who was somehow indefinably not on the side of respectability.
“You propose going to Limehouse in that garb?” I enquired incredulously.
For answer, Sherlock Holmes merely nodded before donning his hat and stepping out of the door.
As I awaited his return, I considered what we had been told. Assuming that he was not mistaken, how could Captain Winslow have observed the two crewmen in London, when all the reports were that no survivors from the barque had been seen? I ruled out the possibility that the two men had been rescued by the same trawler that had acted as the saviour of Winslow, on the grounds that he would have seen them during his time on the boat. Nor, I reflected, was it likely that the Eastbourne lifeboat would have remained silent, had they plucked these two wretches from the jaws of death.
Furthermore, I pondered, it was a remarkable coincidence that the only two survivors of the wreck, other than the captain - that is, if Winslow’s words were to be believed - were those whom he had not personally selected as members of his crew.
I fell to reading and re-reading the newspaper accounts of the disaster, which had been clipped and placed in one of Holmes’s voluminous scrap-books.
I had fallen into a semi-reverie when Holmes returned, a smile on his face.
“I placed my worm on the hook, Watson,” he told me with an air of satisfaction, “cast it into the water, and I have caught two fine fat fish, with the confident expectation of landing another in the near future.”
“You discovered the two men, then?”
“Indeed I did, and a more unscrupulous pair of rogues you could never meet in a month of Sundays. Ready to cut throats or worse for the price of a bottle of rum. It will be a pleasure to see them in the dock.”
“On what charge?”
“Conspiracy to murder, and murder,” he answered me. “But before that happens, we must pay a visit to Gravesend and reel in the big fish of which I spoke. You are with me?”
“Always,” I replied.
“Good man. I feel we will not need the services of your revolver today, but it would be as well to equip yourself with a stout stick. I trust it will not prove necessary for you to use it, but it is always as well to be prepared.”
Accordingly, the next morning we set off to the town of Gravesend, and made our way from the station to the offices of the firm of which we had been informed by Captain Winslow.
Holmes seemed in fine fettle as we strode the streets, humming to himself a tuneless melody which I eventually recognised as the theme from a Bach fugue. When we reached the address we had been given by Captain Winslow, Holmes remarked the polished brass plate at the entrance, proclaiming the existence of “Hillbrook & Co., Ltd., Shipping Agents”.
“Well-worn, you will observe,” he remarked, pointing to it with his stick. “But lately removed to these premises, I feel. From what Winslow has told us, I feel that they may have come down in the world.”
I noted the screws affixing the plate to the wall, which were markedly newer than the plate itself, and the telltale signs of another plate having previously occupied the space.
“Let us enter,” Sherlock Holmes said to me, and fairly bounded up the stairs to the offices, where an elderly clerk sat at a desk in the outer office, hunched over some papers.
“Do you gentlemen have an appointment here?” he asked us, looking up and regarding us with some displeasure.
“Alas, no,” replied Holmes. “The truth is that I am looking for a shipping agent with whom I might do some, shall we say, ‘discreet’ business, and I was recommended to this firm.”
“Indeed, sir?” replied the clerk, in a tone of voice that held more than a note of disapproval. “Might I ask who made this recommendation?”
“I am afraid that he specifically requested that he not be named in this connection,” Holmes told him. “However, he was most insistent that Mr. Hillbrook would be of assistance to me.”
“I am sorry to inform you, sir, that Mr. Hillbrook is unable to be of any assistance whatsoever to you in this business,” answered the other, with a faint smile.
“Indeed? May I enquire why that is so?”
“Because, sir, Mr. Hillbrook passed away some three years ago. The firm is now managed by his son-in-law, Mr. Nathaniel Jessop.”
Sherlock Holmes allowed his surprise to show on his face. “Well, well,” he exclaimed. “I would never have believed my friend to have been so mistaken. Why, as we were walking through the City two weeks ago, he pointed out a gentleman whom he identified as Mr. Hillbrook of this firm.”
“It would appear, sir, that he was mistaken.”
“If so, it was a strange mistake to make. The gentleman in question was quite short of stature, perhaps five feet or even a little less in height, and not of slender build, shall we say. Clean-shaven, and with neatly trimmed blond hair.”
“You have just described Mr. Jessop, sir. Perhaps you confused the name of this firm with the name of the current principal?”
“No doubt that is the case,” said Holmes, shaking his head ruefully. “An elementary mistake. Perhaps Mr. Jessop would be available for consultation?” he enquired, hopefully.
“He is not presently in the office, I am afraid, sir. However, he is expected to be here at two this afternoon, if you would care to call then. Alternatively, one of our other managers might be of assistance.”
“I am afraid that is impossible. I must speak to the senior manager, or to no-one, and must return to Town within the morning. I will write to Mr. Jessop this evening and request an appointment.”
“Perhaps I could arrange such an appointment now, sir?�
� suggested the clerk, “and save you the trouble of writing a letter?”
“Admirable,” Holmes answered him. “Would tomorrow morning at ten be convenient?”
The other passed his finger down a ledger, and looked up. “Perfectly satisfactory. We may expect to see you tomorrow at ten o’clock, then, Mr. - ?”
“Jones,” replied Sherlock Holmes. “Mr. Smith here will be with me.”
If the clerk realised that the names he was being given were aliases, he did not show it, but merely inscribed the details of the meeting in the book, his face immobile.
“I bid you a very good day, then,” said Holmes, tipping his hat to the clerk.
We walked down the street in silence until we reached the station, whereupon Holmes turned to me.
“I was not expecting to be able to land my catch so easily,” he told me. “We must to London, and then I must return to the docks to meet my little fishes. And tomorrow will see some interesting developments, I am sure.”
As he had told me, on our return to Baker Street, Holmes donned the attire he had worn for his previous day’s adventure, and returned, his eyes glittering with excitement. “It is all better than I had expected,” he told me. “Champagne at this stage of the proceedings would be a little premature, but I think we can make merry at the opera tonight. What say you to a little Rossini?”
It seemed that Sherlock Holmes had not a care in the world as he sat in his seat, seemingly entranced by the doings of Figaro and Count Almaviva. No-one who observed the languid figure in immaculate evening dress, idly beating time to the music, would ever have guessed that they were in the presence of the greatest mind ever to be dedicated to the detection and apprehension of malefactors. We finished the evening at a small restaurant in Soho, and the meal ended on a sombre note, as we raised our glasses.
“To the officers and men of the Sophy Anderson,” proclaimed Holmes. “May they rest in peace.”
“Amen to that,” I replied, and drank.
The next morning saw us once again on the platform of Gravesend Station, but to my surprise, we did not immediately set off for the offices of the shipping company.
“We are awaiting friends,” said Holmes. “I expect them by the next train.”
Sure enough, when the next train pulled in, two men of ruffianly appearance detached themselves from the crowd, and made their way towards us. I had no difficulty in recognising them as the two crewmen who had, according to Captain Winslow, been placed on his ship by the shipping agents.
“Do not be alarmed, Watson,” Holmes confided to me in a low voice. “This pair of beauties is on our side - for the present.”
We must have made a curious sight as we walked the streets of the town. Holmes, carrying his Gladstone bag, and flanked by a dastardly scoundrel on each side, led the way, with myself in the tail of the group.
On our arrival at the offices of Hillbrook & Co., the clerk appeared visibly surprised.
“Are these two men with you, sir?” he asked, indicating Porter and Sweethowe. “To see Mr. Jessop?” he added, with evident distaste.
“That is correct,” Holmes answered equably.
“I will see if Mr. Jessop is available,” said the clerk. He vanished through a door behind him, and we were able to hear voices, one of which was the clerk’s, and the other, a deeper voice, seemed to be raised in anger.
The clerk returned. “Mr. Jessop regrets that he will not, after all, be able to meet you,” he told us, apologetically.
“I think he is mistaken,” said Holmes, pushing past the clerk, and followed by the two seamen and myself. “You have done your part. No blame currently attaches to you,” he told the hapless clerk, who stood, seemingly paralysed, as Holmes opened the door and entered the inner office.
Jessop sat behind his desk. A florid face, red with anger, was topped by a head of sandy hair.
“How dare you?” he shouted at Holmes. “I gave explicit orders that you were not to be admitted.” His gaze fell upon the two seamen, and he gave a visible start. “And... and who are these two?” he asked.
“Oh, I think you know them well enough,” answered Holmes.
“Don’t know him, though,” grumbled Porter.
“Oh, I think you do,” Holmes told him. “Mr. Jessop, may we try a little experiment?” He opened his Gladstone bag, and from it produced a dark wig. “Would you please put this on?”
“What manner of tomfoolery is this?” cried Jessop. His face, which had been scarlet when we entered, now seemed drained of blood, and his eyes darted nervously about the room, as if seeking some means of escape.
“No tomfoolery,” said Holmes. “Watson, would you please assist Mr. Jessop?”
I thereupon held Jessop fast while Holmes adjusted the wig on his head. The change in his appearance was striking. “And now,” said Holmes, producing a bushy false moustache, and holding it over the upper lip of the protesting Jessop.
The effect on the two mariners was nothing short of miraculous.
“Well, if it ain’t the beggar who set us up on the Sophy!” exclaimed Sweethowe with a foul oath.
“Blimey, Dick, you’re right!” said Porter, who turned to the now terrified Jessop. “You owe us some money, matey. We did what you told us to do, and went to meet you after, like you said, but you never turned up, did you? That’s one-hundred pound each coming to us.”
“Make that one-hundred-and-twenty. We got wet, didn’t we, Jim?”
“That we did,” said Porter. “I think you can manage another twenty for each of us, can’t you, Monsewer?”
It was now obvious to me that Jessop and the mysterious M. Malmaison were one and the same person. Not only had he persuaded Captain Winslow to accept the mysterious cargo, but he had been responsible for putting these two ruffians aboard, for whatever nefarious purpose he had in mind.
“I... I don’t have the money here at present,” stammered Jessop, who by now was visibly shaking with fear.
“We can wait an hour or so,” said Sweethowe, ostentatiously taking out a large sailor’s jack-knife and using its point to clean his fingernails.
“It might be a little longer than that,” whimpered Jessop.
“Like how long?” enquired Sweethowe.
Jessop suddenly lifted his head, and a spark of defiance danced in his eyes. “Maybe never,” he answered, with more than a little bravado. “After all, if the police were to know about the part you played in this little game...”
These were almost his last words. Sherlock Holmes’s arm shot out to arrest Sweethowe’s hand holding the knife, but he was too late. The blade entered Jessop’s chest, and he sank senseless to the floor. Holmes had by this time seized Sweethowe’s wrist in a grip of iron, and the knife clattered to the ground.
Porter started forward to free his comrade, but I stepped forward, my right hand still concealed in my coat pocket. “Move one step, Porter, and you are a dead man,” I told him. “I am an excellent shot with a revolver - and I do not think you wish me to prove those words with deeds. Stand back, I say, and place your hands above your head,” I commanded, and I was gratified to see him move to the wall, plainly terrified. “Now you, Sweethowe,” I ordered, and he followed his companion’s actions.
“Admirably done, Watson,” said Sherlock Holmes, and raised to his lips his ever-present police-whistle on which he blew three short blasts. To my surprise, Inspector Lestrade entered a minute later, followed by two constables.
“Take this one,” said Holmes, indicating Sweethowe, “on a charge of attempted murder, and the other on a charge of conspiracy to murder. That will do for a start. We will discuss the other charges later.”
“And this one?” asked Lestrade, indicating the fallen Jessop, from whose mouth blood was now issuing.
“He needs an ambulance,” I said. By this time, Sw
eethowe and Porter now being guarded by the two constables, I was bending over him, administering what little aid I could to the obviously dying man.
“I will attend to that,” said Lestrade. “Take these two to the station,” he told the constables, and we were soon left alone with Jessop.
Sherlock Holmes stooped, and put his face close to that of Jessop. “Tell me, was it dynamite?”
Jessop’s eyes flickered briefly, as he considered the question, and then he nodded feebly. “It was dynamite. Four hundred pounds.” There was a rattle, all too familiar to me, and Jessop was no more.
“A pity,” said Holmes, standing. “But he has gone to face a higher Justice.”
“I do not understand,” I complained.
“All will become clear when we are returned to Baker Street,” he told me.
Once there and settled comfortably in our chairs, Sherlock Holmes began his explanation.
“It was clear to me, from the newspaper reports, and from Captain Winslow’s account, that the Sophy Anderson had been destroyed by an explosion of some sort, sufficient to rend the ship to splinters, and to tear its crew to bloody shreds. Winslow, by his account the only man at the stern, was thrown clear, and survived through a freak, as is not uncommon in these cases. The Sophy Anderson was, as all reports had it, a sailing-ship with no auxiliary power, and we could therefore discount any such catastrophe as a boiler explosion.
“The explosion had to be caused by some explosive agent. It could have been some secret naval device that had somehow run amok and destroyed the ship, but having made discreet enquiries, I am assured on the highest authority that though such a weapon currently exists, the Royal Navy is not to blame in this case. Consider, though, we were told by Winslow that the cargo included guns and ammunition, carried and placed on board by men who were not members of his crew, and this was carefully located, with instructions that it be not moved. To my mind, that suggested two things. Firstly, that the crates contained something other than had been told to Winslow. This much was patently obvious. Secondly, that their location was of prime importance.”