by David Marcum
Holmes smiled and stood up. “I have nothing else of particular interest on hand at the moment, Mr. Hatley. Perhaps you would be so good as to explain further as we travel back to the scene of the crime?”
As Holmes moved over towards the coat rack, I stood and moved close to him. “It doesn’t sound very promising, Holmes,” said I, in a low voice. “I wonder if I should come?”
He turned to me with a look of astonishment upon his face. “On the contrary, Watson, this is most singular. Can you recall the last time we knew the identity of the felon, but not the nature of the crime? I wager that you would be amiss to sit this one out.”
I nodded in diffident agreement, took up my coat and hat, and followed the two men out the door. At the curb, we climbed into the brougham that Hatley had waiting, which he directed to return to Hamilton Terrace. As we made the short drive, Hatley proceeded to elaborate upon the events that had transpired at his abode.
“I am a bachelor, and have only a modest staff of servants to keep my townhouse in working order. The building is a fine one, which I inherited from my grandfather, who made a fortune around the turn of the past century in trade with the Far East. As such, I am not obligated to follow a profession myself, but instead have occupied my time with the writing of several historical works of small note. You may have perhaps seen my biography of Clive, Raj of India?[2] No? Well, it is not germane to the matter at hand, I suppose, save that the only items of significant worth in my house can be found in the library, where I spend the bulk of my days and evenings. I have a particular organization system for my notes, and therefore, when I am working on a book, the maids are forbidden from entering the room until it is complete, for fear that they will accidentally put the papers into disarray. To ensure that this rule is followed, I am of the habit of locking the door behind me when I leave.”
“Surely the butler also has a key?” I inquired.
He nodded. “Yes. However, Wooten has been with my family for many years, and his father before him. I have no doubts of his loyalty.”
“But there is someone whose loyalties you doubt?”
“Indeed, Mr. Holmes, and I will come to that in a moment. Yesterday was a typical day, and I worked upon my upcoming biography of Marlborough, Nothing Greater, until eleven o’clock at night.[3] I locked the door behind me, and went to sleep. When I awoke this morning, I took my breakfast, and then went to the library in order to re-commence writing. Imagine my surprise when I opened the door and found my papers scattered about the floor!”
Holmes leaned forward, interest plain upon his face. “Were there any signs that the door had been forced?”
“No, Mr. Holmes, the thief did not enter via the door, but rather one of the casement windows, which are large enough to admit a man. These are never opened when I am working, for fear that a gust of wind will disturb my notes. But one was open all the same, and there was a muddy boot-print upon the sill.”
“That should make identifying our man much easier,” said I. “Holmes is most skilled in tracing footsteps.”
“That is not the problem, Doctor,” said Hatley. “I only wish to know what the man took. You see, after I closed the window, I spent the next hour or so gathering up the papers and putting them back in their proper order. When this task was complete, I realized that nothing was missing from my desk.”
“Perhaps they simply wished to copy some element of your notes?” I speculated. “Were there any shreds from a pencil, or broken tips of lead?”
Hatley shook his head. “Nothing of the sort. And while I am proud of my writings, Dr. Watson, there is nothing secret about them. Anyone could come to the same conclusions if they made some trips to the London Library and did a close reading of the proper documents.”
“What else of value do you keep in the library, Mr. Hatley?” inquired Holmes.
He shrugged. “The books themselves, mainly. My grandfather accumulated a rather fine collection over the years. However, I spend most of my waking hours in the library, Mr. Holmes, and thus, I know their spines well. After another hour of searching, I am prepared to swear that no tome appears to be missing.”
Holmes smiled. “Fascinating. Your case interests me very much, Mr. Hatley.”
“But who is the thief?” I asked.
“A moment, Watson,” said Holmes, holding up his hand. “We are just now arriving upon the scene.”
Mr. Hatley’s home proved to be a detached three-story brick structure, situated upon a pleasant road lined with mature yew trees. A small drive ran along the left side of the building to a recessed coach house, its doors ajar. Holmes was the first to exit the brougham and motioned for Hatley and me to remain upon the pavement. His hands clasped behind his back, Holmes carefully stepped around the house as he studied both the windows and the ground.
He finally looked up. “I take it, Mr. Hatley, that you suspect your coachman?”
Hatley smiled and nodded. “That is correct, Mr. Holmes. How did you know that Mr. Lewis was the only member of my staff who was absent this morning when I called them together?”
Holmes waved his hand. “The casement windows that you mention illuminating the library are upon the first floor. Therefore, your burglar would have needed a method to reach them. There are no marks upon the ground to suggest the use of a ladder or stilts, but it is plain from the wheel-tracks that a coach was parked under this window for a period of time last night. Furthermore, you possess your own coach, and yet hired a brougham to take you to Baker Street. The deduction is a simple one.”
“Very good, Mr. Holmes. In fact, Mr. Lewis is the newest member of my staff. He joined us only six weeks ago, when the previous man took ill and could not continue in his position.”
“That is most suggestive, sir. And did you have any other reason to suspect Mr. Lewis’s intentions before this morning?”
Hatley shook his head. “At the time, it seemed rather innocent, but Mr. Lewis was always very interested in the exploits of my grandfather. He repetitively asked Wooten, and even myself as we drove places, to tell him stories about what my grandfather was like.”
“I thought you said that he was a merchant of some kind?” I asked. “I mean no offense, Mr. Hatley, but that is rarely an occupation known for producing fascinating tales.”
The man smiled. “Perhaps it will be clearer, Dr. Watson, if you would be so kind as to step up to the library?”
He led through the front entrance and up the stairs, where he paused in front of a door in order to draw a key from his pocket and unlock it. He swung the door open and motioned for us to enter. I found myself in a large, handsomely-appointed room. It was paneled from floor to ceiling with dark mahogany shelves which held a vast collection of leather-bound books, admixed with an impressive display of nautical tools and décor. Several paintings, each of a clipper ship abreast tall waves, interrupted the shelving. Several ledges held exquisite models of similar ships, as did assorted side tables, which were also littered with mariner’s astrolabes, compasses, and sextants. Finally, the room held four comfortable arm-chairs gathered about a marble fireplace, and a large writing desk covered in stacks of books and loose papers.
“Your grandfather was a sailor, I presume?” I ventured.
Hatley nodded. “He was a farm boy from Farnham until he ran away to Portsmouth and shipped out on the Royal Captain, an East Indiaman. After he caught a taste of the sea, there was no going back. With a degree of daring and a steady nerve, Nathanial Hatley worked his way up the chain of command until he had not only a captaincy, but was also owner of his private ship. He had a great deal of good fortune, and the Feather managed to avoid the reefs, pirates, enemies, fires, and mutinies that have sent so many other ships to vanish beneath the waves. Instead, time and time again it managed to bring home holds full of porcelain, tea, silk, pepper, and indigo. When Nathanial got too old to sail, and it was
clear that my father did not intend to follow in his footsteps, he sold the Feather, and retreated to this room.”
“Watson, your powers of observation are scintillating this morning,” said Holmes chuckling. He strode across the room’s large Isfahan carpet, over to the desk where he glanced for a moment at the papers. He then turned and knelt at the windowsill, whipping his glass from his pocket and inspecting what I presumed was the boot-print of Mr. Lewis. With his glass in hand, Holmes meandered noiselessly about the room. It was clear that he was attempting to follow the man’s tracks in hopes that they would inform us as to the prior location of the object of Lewis’ attention.
Holmes finally rose and stretched out his back with a rueful shake of his head. “It is well that you did not call in the police, Mr. Hatley, for they are like a herd of buffaloes. Once they are done with a scene, there is rarely anything left to observe. You did enough damage on your own, sir.”
“So you cannot tell what he was after?” cried our host.
“At the moment, no, I cannot. However, he spent most of his time inspecting your bookshelves. The tables were untouched.”
“But I told you, Mr. Holmes, that I am certain that no book is missing from this room!”
“In which case, there are two possibilities. The first is that he brought with him a duplicate book and swapped the two of them so you would not notice the difference.”
Hatley frowned. “What would be the reason for such a switch?”
Holmes waved his hand. “There are many reasons. Your grandfather had both great wealth and great taste. Many of these books are over a century old. Perhaps your edition was a particularly valuable one, while the one substituted is a worthless modern one wrapped in an older spine. You don’t happen to have a first folio of Shakespeare’s, do you?”
“No,” said Hatley, shaking his head. “Nothing so precious as to risk arrest and gaol. Mainly books about sailing and history.”
“Then there is the other possibility. Your grandfather may have decided that the best way to hide something was in plain sight. If he had an important piece of paper, where better to conceal it than tucked into a book?”
I gazed around the rows of shelves, estimating that there were at least two thousand volumes. “Holmes, you don’t propose looking through each one, do you?” I cried. “It would be like looking for a needle in a haystack!”
“Fortunately, we do not have to resort to such extreme measures, Watson. We may use the twin powers of observation and logic in order to narrow down the possibilities significantly. You can clearly appreciate that Mr. Lewis’s prints are particularly heavy in front of this case here. And when you peruse the hundred or so volumes it contains what do you notice, Watson?”
I shook my head. “They all look similar to me, Holmes.”
“Not so, Watson. Do you see that first volume of Gibbon’s Decline?[4] Is the spine not more worn than its companions? As if it were a much-loved book, often taken down and consulted?” Holmes climbed the ladder and pulled down the volume in question. He flipped through it and, finding nothing of note, glanced up at our host. “Was there something special about this book, Mr. Hatley?”
Hatley’s eyes widened and he nodded slowly. “It was my grandfather’s favorite. I don’t consult it often, myself, but I read it some ten years ago. And I was surprised to find a slip of chart-like paper tucked inside, plainly written in my grandfather’s hand.”
“What did it say?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Holmes. If I recall correctly, there were some letters and numbers, as well as a few peculiar lines and a circle. But it was all meaningless. I assumed it was merely something Nathanial had distractedly drawn while considering some other matter and then used as a bookmark. I couldn’t bear to discard it, in his memory, so I tucked it back into the book where I had found it.”
“Unfortunately, it has now vanished. Plainly, it was the object of Mr. Lewis’s trespass. It seems likely that he even sought employment within your staff in order to scout the location of this paper.”
Hatley shook his head. “But it wasn’t of any importance!” he protested. “How could Lewis have even known of its existence?”
“An excellent question, Mr. Hatley, but one that I am unable to answer until we ascertain the true identity of Mr. Lewis.”
“What do you mean?”
“If his object was a nefarious one, I sincerely doubt that the man used his real name when he applied for the coachman job. We might go so far as to even inquire if he was responsible for his predecessor’s illness.”
“But how are we to catch him, Holmes, if we don’t even know who he is?” I asked.
“That is a simple matter, Watson. London may be a city of six million people. However, in many ways it is still but a series of small villages. Strange folk attract notice. The Irregulars will assist us running him down. The question I find more interesting is what was on that paper which could have made it so valuable? You don’t happen to have another copy, do you, Mr. Hatley?”
“No. However...” His sentence trailed off as his brow furrowed in grave deliberation.
“What is it?” asked Holmes, sharply.
“Upon his deathbed, my grandfather whispered something to me. I haven’t thought about it for many years. He told me that if I were ever in trouble, I should look to the Feather. He had sold the ship, of course, so I assumed he was delirious. I made nothing of it at the time.”
Hatley may have dismissed it. However, by the gleam in Holmes’s eyes, I could see that he thought this story was of great interest. He turned around and surveyed the room. “Tell me, Mr. Hatley, is one of these models a replica of your grandfather’s ship?”
Hatley nodded and pointed to a three-masted ship mounted upon the fireplace mantel. Holmes strode over to it, lifted the ship down from its perch, and carried it back to the desk. He proceeded to prod at all of its various wooden parts, while Hatley and I crowded around and watched in wonderment at Holmes’s actions. Finally, Holmes pressed upon two of the tiny cannons in unison, and I heard a small clicking sound as the tiny roof of the captain’s stern cabin popped open. Holmes made a satisfied murmur and fished out a creased piece of chart paper, which he unfolded for our inspection.
“That’s the same diagram I once found in the Gibbon!” Hatley exclaimed after a moment.
I gazed in wonder upon the mysterious paper, which I reproduce here:
“Well, Watson, what do you make of it?” asked Holmes.
“I am at a loss, Holmes.”
“Come now, Watson. It is plainly a treasure map.”
Hatley staggered and had to steady himself by placing his hands upon the desk. “How can that be, Mr. Holmes?”
“You said that your grandfather had remarkable fortune. Perhaps even more than you know. At least that is how our Mr. Lewis saw it.”
“But a treasure to what, Mr. Holmes?” Hatley exclaimed.
“For that, we shall have to ask Mr. Lewis. Would you mind, sir, if we were to hold onto this map for the moment? I assure you that we shall return it in forthwith. But it may perhaps help lead us to your burglar.”
Hatley nodded his agreement and sank into his chair, plainly staggered by the implications of what had transpired in his library during the last half-day. Holmes took his leave and proceeded downstairs in order to question the butler, Wooten, about the particulars of Mr. Lewis. The butler described Lewis as being between forty and fifty years of age, medium height and complexion, with a clean-shaven face and a lack of distinguishing features. His manner was taciturn, but not unpleasant, and he was efficient at his tasks of driving about town, keeping the horses groomed, and maintaining the carriage in working order. “He had excellent references,” Wooten concluded.
“Did you check them yourself?” asked Holmes.
“No, sir.”
Holm
es shook his head. “A capital mistake. They were probably forged. I trust you will be more exacting with your next hire.
“Not much to go on, eh, Watson?” said Holmes, as a quick hansom ride took us back to our flat. But rather than turn inside, Holmes gave a sharp whistle, and within a few minutes, we were surrounded by a dozen ragged street Arabs. Their small dirty faces managed a dignity as fine as that of many gentlemen of my acquaintance as Holmes gave a series of instructions to this irregular Baker Street division of the detective police force. He then handed them a shilling each before they buzzed away down the street like a murmuration of starlings.
We had scarcely climbed the steps back up to our lodgings when Mrs. Hudson entered with a telegram for Holmes. He ripped it open and after reading it, his eyebrows rose. He handed it over to me, and I read: “Come to the Diogenes Club when convenient. - MYCROFT.”
Holmes sighed. “We best be off, Watson.”
I frowned. “What is the rush, Holmes? It says ‘when convenient’.”
“He means convenient for him, not for me.”
Within minutes, we were back in a hansom and headed to Pall Mall, to that paradoxical abode of unsociable and unclubable men. Holmes and I were welcomed inside by the doorman with the customary precaution against speaking, and he led us to the heavily-dampened walls of the Stranger’s Room. Holmes’s massive brother soon joined us, and the look upon his remarkably-similar face was grave. Contrary to his typical courtesy, Mycroft failed to shake my hand, and instead launched into the business at hand.
“Do you recall the First Anglo-Mahratta War, Sherlock?”
“Would such knowledge make a pennyworth of difference to me or my work, Mycroft? However much I wish it were otherwise, my brain-attic is not infinite, and I simply cannot afford to take in useless lumber. Especially not when I can simply pay a visit to this fine establishment and put any such questions before my brother, whose appetite for geopolitics is far vaster than mine own.”