“It is a possibility which I favour, and it would certainly aid us in our identification of the real Wergeld, but, of course, it is equally possible that they met each when they were both already overseas,” Holmes replied.
“And from where did you divine the year 1848?” I asked.
“From Wergeld himself. It is the year he supposedly ‘settled in the east’. The year itself is more than likely to be true, even if the location is a deliberate lie,” Holmes explained. “This is a man of rare intelligence, he knows that the best lies always include some truthful details, it makes them far easier to remember.”
Holmes then clapped his hands. “But now it is time for contemplation and refreshment. Inspector, will you join us for a breakfast at Baker Street? I can assure you that Mrs Hudson lays on a fine spread, which it appears you are sadly in need of. Besides, important information may have arrived in our absence.”
Our return to Baker Street was considerably more civilised than our departure from St Pancras, and within an hour we were feasting on eggs and hot bacon washed down with strong coffee, courtesy of the inimitable Mrs Hudson. Once finished, Holmes and myself filled our pipes, while Gregson was treated to one of Holmes’ Petit Upmanns.
The sweet smoke from my mixed Cavendish, allied with the crisp, intense scent of Gregson’s Havana, managed to overpower Holmes’ acrid black smog, for once giving the apartment a pleasant air, with curls and wisps of smoke picked out by the sunlight now streaming through the large windows.
“I have a question, Holmes.” Gregson broke the silence, and the spell, by leaning forward and disturbing the gently swirling smoke. “What made you think that Wergeld would be heading south?”
“A fine and valid question, Inspector. I based this pronouncement upon something I had observed back at the Hall. You may remember the austerity of the decor, but what stood out to me was a small, but very noticeable, collection of African artefacts. There were seventeen small statues and four masks, all of West African origin. I learned more of their provenance earlier today, when I sketched a few examples from memory and presented them to an expert at the British Museum. This, along with what I had deduced from Wergeld’s statement, gave a more precise direction to my subsequent investigations and narrowed the search for Harrison’s mysterious travels down to a manageable area and timespan. West Africa, sometime between 1845 and 1850. Still a monumental task, but one I am hoping will shortly bear fruit. Once I have this information, I can move on to the final witness, confident that I have enough evidence to make them capitulate and give up the rest of the story. For, make no mistake gentlemen, there is much more to this tale than just a squalid, heartless murder.”
I looked towards Gregson and he appeared just as surprised as was I at these revelations. Holmes had clearly been busy here in the capital. We smoked on in silence for a while until fatigue hit hard and I excused myself and retired to my rooms for a much-needed sleep. Gregson curled up on the couch under one of Holmes’ enigmatic, unexplained, but beautifully embroidered oriental blankets - “a gift from an old client, from a rare case in which all parties prospered.”
Just after ten o’clock, we were woken by the arrival of a telegram. Holmes was, of course, first to react and already had the paper in his hands by the time I entered the sitting room. Gregson sat upright, bleary-eyed, but expectant.
“Ha!” announced Holmes, “It is just as I thought.” He handed me the telegram.
“1848, August, Borundia,” I read aloud. “Just three words, but they do seem to confirm your theory old man. The date and the destination. Borundia, the small West African state. Hallo? Wait a minute.” I paused to think. “The date, of course. It looks like you might have been right Holmes, 1848. That is the year Wergeld gave for his supposed resettlement in the east. It looks like they may well have travelled together after all.”
“More detailed information will arrive shortly, I insisted that any discovery be sent immediately by telegram the moment it was found. We will soon have the exact dates that Harrison left England and arrived in Africa, along with the ship’s name and, most importantly, its complete roster. We will know the real names of everyone who was aboard that ship, including, I now firmly believe, Mr Jude Wergeld.”
Chapter Eight - The Ambassador
The ship’s manifest arrived half an hour after the telegram. Wiggins handed the sheaf of paper over to Holmes who simultaneously slipped several coins and, rather unexpectedly, two notes into his dirty young palm as reward.
“Usual share rules, the notes are for the agents,” Holmes instructed, seriously, before addressing the papers. “Good work deserves good reward, don’t you think?” he declared.
“Yes, of course, but I cannot promise that we can cover such expenses, Mr Holmes,” replied Gregson, sheepishly.
“Do not worry, Inspector, the work is its own reward, I rarely profit from my investigations,” Holmes replied, his eyes fixed on the pages before him. I sighed and nodded in agreement, there was little chance of us ever prospering financially, mainly due to Holmes’ unique way of charging or, rather, rarely charging his clients.
“It looks like we are in luck, gentlemen. The vessel was the packet ship, ‘Africa Gem’, the only regular mail and supply ship from London to Argentville, the capital of Borundia. A reliable and sturdy ship, by all accounts, but one with a passenger capacity of just thirty, ten in cabins with the remainder in steerage. Harrison is recorded as having travelled below decks, so I think we can assume Wergeld did likewise.”
“So we have nineteen names to investigate,” I stated.
“Fourteen,” Holmes corrected, as he read further. “Five were women, and even better, Watson, we also have the ages of all the passengers. Two were under sixteen and can be discounted as being too young. One was just eighteen, so also very unlikely to have been Wergeld. Of the remaining men, six were thirty or over. My highest estimation of Wergeld’s age is sixty, a thirty-year-old back then would be sixty-six now, so we can also reasonably discount these. That leaves just five names.”
I could feel the intrigue and tension grow as Holmes whittled his way through the list. “A twenty year old would be now fifty-six, so we should prioritise the younger of the five remaining men, those closest to their early-twenties. That leaves just two names.”
“Ha! Fortune is indeed shining upon us, Watson, for the final two names are Csaba Kovács and Thomas Shiner. Did Wergeld strike you as being particularly Hungarian? No, of course not, so we now finally have a name to investigate, one that may well be our quarry. Inspector, tell your men to stop searching for Jude Wergeld, we are now looking for a Mr Thomas Shiner.”
“But where do we start, Holmes?” I asked. “Surely we know even less about this Shiner character than we did about Wergeld.”
“Gregson, you must send a wire to the embassy in Borundia - ask them to search their records and interview their staff for any information regarding Mr Shiner.” Holmes then turned to address me.
“You see, Watson, we have now gained three distinct advantages that we did not have previously. Firstly, tracking down information on a real man is far simpler than one whose very name is spurious. Secondly, Shiner does not know that we have discovered his true identity. This may give him a sense of impunity, making him feel relaxed and therefore slowing his flight. And thus, thirdly, I believe he will have, by now, reverted to using his real name. He believes it gives him anonymity and is, of course, an identity he no longer needs to fake. Not having to continually remember his false identity dramatically reduces the chances of him slipping up, making a mistake and revealing himself.”
“And if this Thomas Shiner turns out not to be Wergeld?” I asked.
“Then we start again with a new theory. We should shortly be able to ascertain whether or not Shiner is in the country. If he has remained in Africa then, of course, this line of investigation would be spent. If he did indeed travel back to
England in time to be present at the events of the past few weeks then he must surely be our man.”
“Borundia is a small country,” Holmes continued, “A French possession, I believe, is it not, Watson? Geography is more your territory.”
“Yes, it is one of the smaller West African states and has been a part of France for at least two hundred years. I do not think it has ever been British, a fact that should aid us immensely, Holmes,” I added brightly. “There cannot be too many Englishmen in the country and those that are there will surely tend to gravitate together in clubs and communities just as they do elsewhere.”
“Very good, Watson, this should hopefully speed up the reply to Gregson’s inquiries. What else do you know of the place?”
“Very little. The capital, and only sizeable town, is Argentville, on the L’Argenté River. I would imagine then that silver plays some part in the economy,” I concluded.
Holmes ignored my attempt at sarcasm. “I must return to the city to pursue a lead that grows ever more interesting. Inspector, please report back here the moment you receive any new information. Watson will be here until at least lunchtime. Good morning, gentlemen.”
Holmes had retrieved his hat, coat and cane and was through the door before I could protest. Gregson shrugged, smiled and bid me farewell. I sighed and settled down with my pipe to await further instructions. Within five minutes, I was sleeping soundly in my familiar chair, my freshly filled pipe lying unlit on the floor beside me.
The doorbell failed to wake me and only the hard rapping on the apartment door roused me from a deep sleep. The telegram was placed hurriedly into my hand and the boy seemed to vanish mere seconds after I had dropped him a shilling. I yawned and called down to Mrs Hudson for some coffee to try to revive my senses. The mantel clock informed me that it was nearly midday. I then, finally, examined the message.
It was from Gregson, “Ex Amb C J-B has info. TS well-known in B. Left Apr 1884 for Eng.” The meaning was clear, at least the second part. Shiner had been in Borundia up until April this year, at which point he had returned to England. Holmes was right, he must be our man. The first half would take a little research, the former ambassador to Borundia was obviously the man to talk to, I just needed to look him up in Holmes’ reference books.
It took less than ten minutes to identify Sir Christopher Janus-Bennedict, formerly Her Majesty’s Ambassador to Borundia. From studying the short biography, it seems that there was an untold story, perhaps a scandal, behind his record of public service. Starting off in the Far East, he had quickly worked his way up to the lofty position of Ambassador to Sweden before being suddenly sent to Borundia, without explanation. Quite a fall from grace, and one from which he clearly never recovered, as he remained there for nearly twenty years, finally retiring from public life in 1880, some four years ago.
I left a note on the table for Holmes and replied to Gregson’s telegram, telling him of my plans, in case he encountered Holmes independently. Feeling much more useful than I had before, merely acting as Holmes messaging service, I left Baker Street, hailed a cab and set off for the leafy north London suburbs and the home of the former British ambassador to Borundia.
After just over a half hour, I reached the house I was seeking. Built from sturdy red brick, and of fine proportions, the former ambassador’s house was slightly conspicuous in the neighbourhood as it was considerably larger than those that surrounded it. Set amongst modest but very well kept gardens, it appeared the very model of a fine middle-class English house. I walked up the drive, the familiar and reassuring crunch of yellow gravel beneath my boots, and knocked upon the deep burgundy stained door.
A tall gentleman of about fifty years swung open the door. He was spare, balding and his large nose rather gave him the appearance of an elderly stork. By his manner and attire, I Immediately took him to be the butler.
“Good afternoon sir, how may I help you?” he enquired, staring down his long nose.
I introduced myself and explained that I had been sent by Inspector Gregson of the Metropolitan police on a matter of extreme urgency. The butler waited a few moments, then his head seemed to wobble slightly as he finally appeared to make up his mind. He gestured inside.
“Please come in sir, you can wait in the sitting room. I shall inform Sir Christopher of your presence.” He led me inside the hall, which was festooned with all kinds of paintings, prints, textiles and artefacts, all of which appeared to be of African origin.
These items were almost universally bright and colourful, giving the hall an exciting, joyful atmosphere. The sitting room was, if possible, even brighter. Brilliant, red-painted walls had been covered with all forms of African paraphernalia. Paintings, masks, and coloured wall hangings seemed to cover every available inch of wall. I tentatively took a seat upon a familiar looking leather couch.
After several minutes, the door opened and in walked a figure that widened my eyes and made my jaw drop. Sir Christopher, as I imagined it had to be, held his arms wide open and bellowed a greeting in what I assumed to be a local West African dialect, “Jamm nga yendoo!”
Momentarily shocked, I simply blinked, open-mouthed, in return. Sir Christopher wore a one-piece kaftan, extravagantly embroidered and coloured with bright, geometric patterns. He was a little over five feet in height, with a surprisingly thick head of white hair. His face was deeply lined from years in the unforgiving African sun, but his blue eyes shone brightly with energy and his demeanour was one of a man many years younger than his sixty-nine years.
“Doctor Watson, please forgive me, I get so few visitors these days and I have always enjoyed a rather theatrical entrance,” he grinned widely. “You say you are on a mission of great importance, please let me know how I can be of help?”
He sat down upon a rather garish chair directly opposite, one which appeared to have been tailored from zebra skin.
I explained the situation as simply as I could, emphasising the link to Borundia. After about ten minutes, I had shared all that I knew.
“First, please follow me.” Sir Christopher suddenly rose and walked out of the room. I jumped to my feet and followed him swiftly through the hall and back towards the kitchen. He strolled confidently inside and stopped to observe the scene. A cook, two maids and a single unoccupied man were present in the kitchen. All were African, and all stopped and turned to watch us as we entered.
“Good day to you all, please carry on as usual,” he signalled to his staff. “Kutu and Adama are general maids, Mandiki is the most wonderful cook I have ever encountered. Banta here is my Jack-of-all-trades, gardener, builder, plumber and confidant. A better group of help, no man could ever dream of.” He raised his hands to encompass all of those before him.
“And yet, I have a problem, Doctor. One which, I am sure, the famed Mr Sherlock Holmes could solve in an instant or maybe his esteemed assistant could help me?”
Sir Christopher’s tone had changed, subtly. It seemed that he was now demanding proof of Holmes’ abilities and, by association, my own, before he would agree to help us.
“Sir, I am here on a matter of extreme urgency. A murder has been committed and we believe that you could be of material assistance to us in the investigation,” I replied, firmly. “Furthermore, we do not perform upon request, ours is a serious business, sir.”
“I do apologise, Doctor, I merely wished to see for myself the magic that you perform to solve the impossible.” Sir Christopher blushed and appeared crestfallen.
“Well, I suppose it would not hurt to at least hear of your problem,” I replied, realising that I had to keep this unpredictable character on my side. I silently swore that his knowledge had better be worth this charade. I knew for certain that Holmes would have refused to perform like this and would still somehow have left with all of the information that he required.
“Oh thank you, Doctor. Well, you see, the pro
blem is really very simple. I am a lover of cheese and have been so long out in Africa, where it has been impossible to obtain anything other than the local bland goat or sheep variety. Now I am back home, I can indulge in the flavours of a hundred cheeses, all freshly imported from the surrounding counties. However, my enjoyment has been tainted by the loss of almost a quarter of my stock.”
He paused, and then continued in a whisper. “Someone here, one of my servants, is stealing my cheese, and in large quantities. I dread to accuse any of my staff, but I know, deep down, that one of them must be the responsible party.”
He looked at me with such a pitying face that I almost left the house there and then. The man was unstable and child-like, possibly suffering from a degenerative illness of the mind, yet I still believed he might have information of use to us.
I took a deep breath and looked around the room. I thought about Holmes and the techniques he would employ in a situation such as this. Observe, do not simply see. I looked carefully at each servant in the room and at their surroundings, then back at them again. Nothing, just normal people in normal clothes, I resigned myself to failure and the knowledge that I would never have even a fraction of the abilities of Sherlock Holmes. I turned towards Sir Christopher to announce my failure when something struck me, very faintly.
I smiled and suggested that we return to the sitting room. After we both sat down, Sir Christopher asked, “I can tell from your expression that you have an answer for me.” He clapped his hands and beamed at me like an expectant child on Christmas morning.
“Oh please, Doctor, forgive my manners, you must have a drink before the great ‘denouement’.” He pronounced it in an utterly affected way, but I now had no choice but to play along.
I accepted the proffered brandy, which proved to be far finer than I had expected. Sir Christopher seemed to wink as I nodded in appreciation of the fine amber liquid. I was beginning to suspect that I was in fact watching an elaborate and deliberate act put on for reasons I had yet to ascertain. Again, I knew that Holmes would have seen straight through this charade, but I could work only with the modest abilities with which I had been gifted.
Sherlock Holmes and The Adventure of The Pigtail Twist Page 13