by David Marcum
“Then, Mr. Grashon, I have to ask you what you know of this Gloser? Is he someone you know well?”
Harry cut in. He began a teasing banter aimed at Holmes, asking whether or not he was interrogating his father’s friend in the manner of a Scotland Yard detective? Naturally, Holmes was amused by that, and gave one of his favoured equivocal responses, “I ask only to expect a very limited reply.”
“Could you please be less confusing, Mr. Holmes?” Harry asked. His father was now beginning to pay some attention, and his previously vacant look was dissolving into a stare specifically at Grashon, as we all awaited his answer.
“Gloser? Why, he’s a student at Brasenose, I believe, and a keen angler. He’s been coming along with us - the Didcot Dippers - for some time now. Well, perhaps for six months.”
Holmes was getting into his stride now, and I was completely familiar with his stance and tone of voice as he moved steadily into the mode of address which usually indicated a sweeping clean of all the choking dust of a seeming mystery.
“My friends, and particularly my dear friend Dr. Donner. Are you able to comprehend me, at this very moment? I am about to explain that there has been nothing that may in the slightest degree be called supernatural in this house. The mysterious book, apparently written in by your good self, Dr. Donner, did not tumble from some other hidden world beyond our comprehension. No, not at all. It was the work of a man who wished to instill fear into the heart and mind of a man who believed that no other forms of being exist other than the one we all inhabit now - you, my friend Donner. You are that victim. The means of instilling this fear? Why, fishing wire!”
There was a mumbling, mixed with a few exclamations of puzzlement in the room. Dr. Donner asked Harry what on earth Holmes was saying.
“Fortunately Dr. Donner, your maid does not pay attention to dusting in your study. In fact, without the layer of dust on the shelves and the volumes there to the side of the hearth, I would still perhaps have been perplexed by this case. The extremely thin line made by fishing wire may be discerned vertically on the bookshelf, and then running along across the wall where it was attached to the book which fell on your knees. Yes, it was none other than a trick to torment you.” Holmes paused, looking with a frisson of pleasure at the responses he had made on the faces of the assembled company.
“If we then consider the French word gloser, we find, in the most reliable dictionaries of that language, the definition critiquer par malice. Mr. Gloser is M. Coutier, and he is receiving a visit from the local police at this moment. He fixed the wire. He was the one who brought the biscuit tin, after removing a mouse from inside! Harry, you gave an account of the vermin, of course, and its defecation! Oh yes, student pranks perhaps, but enough to wreck a sane man’s mental stability. And by the way, he is also a very expert forger of handwriting!”
There was a sudden grunt and then a shout from Dr. Donner, as his mind grasped something, “I’ve written to him! He has letters from me. We corresponded on the achievement of Erasmus!” Then, with a sudden proof that his mind was emerging into the light of reason once again, he added, “The cake? What about the cake, and my fly? Ah, yes! He would know where the college baking was done, and he somehow slipped the fly into the cake.”
“Almost explained, Dr. Donner. But we have the slit in the green feather. I think that while he was here with you at Linscombe, he planned that, and slit all the feathers in the study, and took one with him. There’s no other explanation.”
Harry was amazed and asked for more information. “You mean that Coutier was living here, in some kind of disguise, all to bring about some twisted retribution upon my father for the professional disagreement over... well, over some written words and opinions?”
Everyone had ceased their off-shoot conversations, now paying attention to Holmes. “Yes,” he explained, enjoying the summation of thought, as was always his way in these matters, “He is a contender for the Maupel Prize, and he is down as ‘Gloser’ on the listings. Obviously, he had no serious intention of being such a candidate. He was far more interested in destroying the nerves of his enemy - and I see that he almost succeeded.”
“Well, I never! You astound me, Mr. Holmes,” said Grashon, “I had often heard of you, and your reputation for enquiries of this nature, but never truly believed it all until this moment. But there is one thing to be said for this French rogue.”
Harry asked what that might be, and the reply was, “He was a very skilled angler.”
As I commented at the outset of this memoir, the offence committed by the degenerate blackguard was hard to explain and presented the legal minds with some professional niceties in their deliberations. My opinion has always been that the rogue was guilty of an assault in some ways more painful and destructive than a blow across the head. As for Sherlock Holmes, when he spoke of the case afterwards, he rejoiced in the fact that, though there was no “horrible murder” such as the penny dreadfuls would expect from the great detective’s activities, there was a cruelty exhibited which tore at the soul of a learned and gentle scholar.
Incidentally, Dr. Donner was the recipient that year of the Maupel Prize for distinguished historical research, and he was well enough to receive the award some months after his ordeal.
The Radicant Munificent Society
by Mark Mower
It was in the year 1889 that Mr. Sherlock Holmes was engaged in one of the most lucrative cases of his long and eventful career. And like so many of our colourful adventures together, it began with a light breeze, which only hinted at the gathering storm that was about to engulf us.
“That really does not bode well, Watson,” said Holmes, peering skywards through the window of the Baker Street apartment. “The wind is picking up and there is a distinct weather front closing in with very heavy rainclouds. And do you know what day it is?”
I looked up from the Daily Telegraph. “Indeed, I do. The fifteenth of July, St. Swithun’s Day. And according to English folklore, rain today will lead inexorably to inclement weather for the next forty days.”
“What a fanciful notion! When have you ever known me to pay any heed to pagan or religious superstition? The day I was referring to, is the third Monday in July, the day traditionally set aside for the annual gathering of The Radicant Munificent Society.
“Well, I’ve never heard of such an organisation,” I said gruffly.
Holmes smirked. “That may be because the society generally keeps its events and activities hidden, away from public scrutiny. It is an ancient order, dedicated primarily to clandestine meetings and underhand dealings. First set up with the patronage of King Henry I’s daughter, Matilda the Empress Maud, who led a bloody military campaign against the rule of Stephen of Blois, the king’s nephew, who assumed the throne in 1135.”
“And what does this ancient society do in these more enlightened times?”
“Their original mission was to undermine the existence of the Jewish moneylenders whom they believed were financing King Stephen’s reign. And while they shunned the use of violence, they used their considerable legal and monetary skills to perpetrate fraud, embezzlement, and counterfeiting to destabilise the fiscal affairs of the king. Theirs was a membership which grew steadily by word of mouth and personal introductions, from an initial cohort of six agents to a secret society of several hundred. The name ‘Radicant’ derives from this approach of bringing forth roots, their motto, although it was coined much later, in the mid-part of the eighteenth century, by its young president at that time, the Scottish philosopher Adam Smith.”
“And the ‘Munificent’ bit? I asked. “Surely the organisation cannot claim to be pursuing benevolent or charitable aims?”
“Again, an eighteenth century affectation. By that stage, the ‘Radicant Brotherhood’ had transformed itself into a gentlemen’s club which operated purely to further the financial interests of its memb
ers, each helping the other to rise within the ranks of their chosen legal or financial profession. But mindful of the sometimes hostile public reaction to their covert activities, Adam Smith persuaded the society to change its name and to establish a charitable wing. To that end, the Radicant Munificent Society restricted its membership to a maximum of twenty-five, and required each member to contribute to a separate endowment fund, from which money could be distributed annually to impoverished families in the East End of London. The day chosen for the distribution of their penny bundles is the third Monday in July each year. It prompts a carnival-like procession, which I suspect will be severely dampened this afternoon by the arrival of these enormous storm clouds.” With that, Holmes turned from the window and took his seat in the armchair close to the fireplace. I noted that he held within one hand what looked like a telegram.
“I see, but why is it that you take such an interest in their affairs?” I asked, still unsure why Holmes had raised the matter.
“Very straightforward, each member of the society is honour-bound to attend the ceremony in their colourful regalia and in the full glare of the press and public. It is the one opportunity that outsiders may have to see who its members are. And I fancy that I will attend this year, to see if I can get a clear view of their new president, Mr. Morley Merrill-Adams.”
“The name means nothing to me, Holmes.”
“No, but if I were to tell you that the gentleman concerned masquerades as the head of a major joint-stock bank, while at the same time operating as the chief accountant for a major ring of gem and bullion thieves, you will understand my interest. His criminal accomplices have been specifically targeting the businesses of wealthy Jewish goldsmiths and diamond dealers in the Hatton Garden area of Holborn. His rise to power within the society is a clear sign that the ancient order is refocusing its efforts on its anti-Semitic roots.”
“And is he dangerous, this Merrill-Adams?”
“That remains to be seen. We will be joined in a few moments by a Mr. Samuel Mendoza, who has asked me to look into the affairs of the Radicant Munificent Society,” said Holmes, waving the telegram as the clock on the mantelpiece gently chimed out the hour of ten o’clock. “He believes that it is planning to promulgate a campaign of anti-Jewish activity in the heart of the East End.”
No sooner had he said this, when there was a ring on the doorbell below us. We heard Mrs. Hudson answer the door and direct our guest up the stairs to the first floor room. Holmes sprang into action, opening the door at the loud knock, introducing the two of us, and beckoning for Mr. Mendoza to be seated.
Samuel Mendoza cut a striking figure. He wore an expensively-tailored dark blue frock coat with matching trousers and waistcoat, and carried within his hand a gold-topped cane. He was of average height, perhaps five feet, seven inches tall, with a handsome, lean face, chestnut brown eyes, and short, raven-coloured hair. While slight, he was powerfully built, with strong upper arms and sturdy legs. Above one eye he was sporting a distinct cut, about two inches long, which was still markedly swollen.
I watched Holmes study Mendoza carefully as our guest took a seat opposite him near the fireplace.
“The likeness is remarkable, Mr. Mendoza, and I am sure that your great-great-grandfather, Daniel, would be pleased to know that you still carry on the family tradition of boxing.”
Mendoza’s thick fingers moved instinctively towards the abrasion above his eyebrow before returning to the pocket of his waistcoat. “Is it really that obvious?” he replied, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “And how did you know he was my relative?”
“Dan Mendoza is a sporting hero of mine,” replied Holmes, with obvious enthusiasm. “A Whitechapel man of Portuguese-Jewish descent, who fought hard to become English boxing champion for the three years, from 1792. Unlike the heavyweight sloggers of his generation, Dan was a gifted pugilist and a supreme tactician. He outwitted many of his heavier rivals by his clever and defensive moves, ducking, diving, blocking, and side-stepping in what others have called the scientific style. I have a treasured copy of his 1789 book, The Art of Boxing, on the bookshelf behind you. There is no mistaking the likeness. I also possess a rare etching of the man produced at the time. He had to be one of your forebears. And given your age and the passing of years, it seemed most likely that he was your great-great-grandfather.”
“That is incredible, Mr. Holmes. Your services come highly recommended. I can already see why.”
“A mere trifle. Now, do not let me delay you in the main aim of your visit here today. Dr. Watson is a respected colleague who undertakes investigations alongside me, very much as an equal partner. You can be frank in telling us the nature of your concerns about the Radicant Munificent Society.”
I felt myself blush at Holmes’s words. I had, to that point, always viewed myself as a supportive friend, a chronicler, and, to some extent, an unofficial biographer, but his allusion to some sort of parity of esteem was indeed flattering.
Mendoza sat forward in the armchair and began his narrative. “You are correct, Mr. Holmes, in that I do still choose to box, as four generations of my family have done before me. These days it is purely a leisurely pursuit. We come from a long and distinguished line of Sephardic Jews who settled, finally, in the East End of London and have, since that time, built a very good jewellery business in Hatton Garden. My family and I worship at a synagogue in Aldgate, and I play an active role in the life of our community. A community which is now under threat from the society to which you referred.”
I thought it striking that Mendoza appeared to be reluctant to mention the name of the organisation. The deep hatred he had for it soon became apparent.
“My first knowledge of this secret society came through a chance encounter with Mr. Morley Merrill-Adams, who is now its president. Some six months ago, our family business needed assistance. Our bankers to that point, while proficient and obliging, were just not big enough to support our growing need for investment capital on a host of new ventures. We are expanding our operations at a rapid pace and needed banking advisors up to the task. We parted company with the bank on mutually friendly terms and looked around for an alternative. The name Pendleton-Lyons was suggested to us and I arranged a meeting with its head banker, Morley Merrill-Adams.
“From the moment I was introduced to him, it was clear that Merrill-Adams had an animosity towards my people. I have encountered all sorts of enmity towards Jews as I have lived and worked in this country, but rarely have I known a man of such standing and reputation to be so hostile towards our very existence. He could barely look me in the eye, and when I first shook his hand, I noted that he withdrew it quickly and then proceeded to wipe his palm with a handkerchief that he pulled from his pocket. At every point of enquiry, he announced that Pendleton-Lyons could be of no assistance. Within less than five minutes our meeting was concluded. He could apparently offer no help, and we were no closer to finding a new banker. I was frustrated, and as I rose to leave his office, he concluded by saying, ‘There is no place for your kind in this great city of ours, and I would not sully the reputation of this fine bank by taking you on as a client. The name of the Radicant Munificent Society may mean nothing to you at the present time, but rest assured, within a few months it will. Watch your back, Mr. Mendoza. And tell your family and friends to do the same.’
“As you might imagine, gentlemen, I was both shocked and enraged by this. Were it not for the restraint and control I have learnt through my boxing, qualities inherited, no doubt, from my famous ancestor, I would gladly have floored the man that instant, but held my head high and left the building without any further dialogue. Since then, we have appointed new bankers, but I have not been able to ignore the existence of the organisation he alluded to.”
Holmes’s face took on an expression of deep apprehension as he addressed our guest. “Your telegram mentioned some incidents in recent weeks which have giv
en you a particular cause for concern?”
Mendoza nodded. “Yes. Not long after my meeting with Merrill-Adams, we had bricks thrown through the windows of two of our shops, and anti-Semitic slogans chalked on the brickwork nearby. Such incidents have occurred in the past, and I was not immediately concerned. Then, threatening letters began to be posted through the letterbox of my home, and I learned later at the synagogue that other high-profile members of our community had been similarly targeted. On the back of this, in early May, we had a significant robbery at one of the premises we use to cut, polish, and store the diamonds of our trade. And it was not an isolated incident. Since then, three other raids have taken place on Jewish-owned businesses in the Hatton Garden area. While Scotland Yard has investigated, no one has yet been brought to book for any of these crimes.”
I took the opportunity to interject. “Mr. Mendoza, I can imagine that these events are particularly alarming to you and your family. In fact, they are a concern to us all. But, without seeming impertinent, I am curious to know how you can be so certain that all of the incidents were perpetrated by the Radicant Munificent Society?”
Mendoza was not in the least ruffled by my polite challenge. “A fair question, Dr. Watson. I had my suspicions, of course, when those windows were broken, one of the chalk messages said: ‘You were warned’. And with the first robbery, I was convinced that the events were indeed being orchestrated by the same people. Yet, there was little I could point to as proof. I did mention to Scotland Yard the earlier meeting with Merrill-Adams, but the inspector in charge of the investigations seemed content to play down the significance of the threat.”
Holmes looked up again keenly. “I see. And what was the name of this inspector?”
“Ridgeley.”
“Alas, a name that is unfamiliar to me, Mr. Mendoza. But please, carry on. You were about to tell us about the letter you received yesterday from your bankers, announcing that they can no longer act for your business. Furthermore, you lost your dog while out walking this morning and now believe that it has been kidnapped. And on your journey here today, you were dispossessed of a much-loved pocket watch.”