Secrets From the Deed Box of John H Watson, MD (The Deed Box of John H. Watson MD)

by Ashton, Hugh

  “Edward Masters,” replied the other, withdrawing a business card and presenting it to Holmes, who read it and raised his eyebrows.

  “It would appear, Mr Masters, that you and I are in the same line of business,” he remarked, returning the courtesy and handing one of his own cards to the man who, now I was able to observe him more closely, appeared to have a shifty look about him, seemingly avoiding Holmes’ eye.

  “I would say so,” replied the other. “I am regularly employed by Knight and Conk-Singleton in the event that there is any business that smacks of illegality.”

  “I understand,” said Holmes reflectively. “Pray take a seat, both of you. Mr Conk-Singleton, when you came to me a few days ago to request my services, was Mr Masters already engaged by you in regard to this matter?” The large man nodded silently, smiling. His air of geniality seemed unchanged. “I am accustomed to being the only hound on the trail,” continued Holmes, “unless it is a matter of cooperation with the official police force. Meaning no disrespect to you, Mr Masters, but I cannot proceed further with the case unless I am to pursue it alone.”

  “I understand your meaning,” said the large man. “You place me in a difficult position, however, given that my partner, Gerald Knight, has already engaged Mr Masters to investigate this matter on behalf of the firm.” He mopped his brow with a large handkerchief drawn from an inside pocket. Though the room was not excessively warm, he was perspiring heavily, while breathing hard, and his face was flushed. Whether these symptoms were the result of embarrassment, exertion, or were due to some other cause, it was impossible for me to determine with any degree of certainty, but they seemed to indicate some constitutional dysfunction.

  “If you are referring to the deposit that you advanced me for my expenses, then you need not worry yourself over the matter,” replied Holmes. “I will return the cheque for the full amount – two hundred guineas, was it not? – in full.” He opened a drawer in his bureau and extended an envelope to the other. I noticed Masters’ eyes grow wide as Holmes mentioned the sum of money.

  A little to my surprise, Conk-Singleton waved the money away. “That was not the object to which I was referring,” he said. “The meaning I intended to impart is the fact that Mr Masters here has been of great service to our firm on a number of occasions and we are accustomed to working with him. We would like to maintain this arrangement as far as possible, and would therefore suggest that he would lead the investigation, and you would act as his junior, if I may use an analogy from the law-courts.”

  “That would be totally unacceptable,” replied Holmes resolutely. “If you wish to retain my services, then you must dispense with those of Mr Masters here. Who knows what damage he may do to my investigations by pursuing an independent line of enquiry completely antithetical to my methods? No, sir. You must make a decision as to which of the two of us you will employ on this case. For my part, I am indifferent as to whatever decision you make. I have other clients who will no doubt wish to engage my services in the near future.”

  “Really,” exclaimed the broker, “this is all extremely embarrassing for me. If I had known this situation would ever arise... There is no compromise possible?”

  “For my part, there is none,” answered Holmes.

  All this time, I had been watching the face of the other detective, which had assumed an expression of increasing hostility during the exchange.

  At length, the big man sighed, and turned to his companion. “I am sorry, Masters, but I have determined to engage Mr Holmes in this matter. I will speak to Mr Knight about the issue and all will be settled in good order. You may rest assured that Knight and Conk-Singleton will certainly be retaining your services in the future with regard to other business, and all expenses you have incurred so far in this affair will naturally be repaid to you on the presentation of your account.”

  “I see,” was the other’s response, delivered in a cold unemotional tone. “So it is to be Mr Sherlock Holmes who will receive the fees promised to me, as well as the fame and publicity? Yes, Mr Conk-Singleton, be sure that my account will be forthcoming to you. A good day to you. And to you and you,” he added to Holmes and myself. He let himself out of the door, closing it behind him.

  “I am sorry about this,” our visitor said to Holmes. “I had no idea that he would take it in this way. Nor did I expect you to wish to take sole credit.”

  “I must admit that I am not entirely surprised by his reaction. As to my taking sole credit—” He paused and cocked his ear. “Mr Conk-Singleton, I fear I am neglecting my duties as a host. Would you care for tea?”

  “Why, indeed—” replied the other, but Holmes had stepped swiftly and noiselessly to the door and flung it open, to reveal Masters, who had obviously been standing with his ear pressed to the keyhole, as evidenced by his falling into the room before recovering his balance, and looking about him with an amazed expression on his face.

  “Off with you!” ordered Holmes. “I will refrain from comment on your actions, and leave Mr Conk-Singleton to draw his own conclusions.” Conk-Singleton, for his part, wore an expression of almost comical surprise on his face as Masters turned away and started to descend the stairs. Holmes re-closed the door, and crossed to the window, where he remained for a few minutes. “He has truly departed now,” he remarked, turning back to face us. “I mentioned tea,” he added, ringing the bell for Mrs Hudson as if there had been no interruption of any kind. “Now, Mr Conk-Singleton,” he continued, “please understand that it is not a matter of vanity or cupidity on my part that caused my request. I apologise for having placed you in an awkward position just now, but I think this last development may in a way provide some justification.”

  The other nodded. “Indeed it may. I am surprised at him stooping to such a trick.”

  “It is not the morality of listening at keyholes,” continued Holmes, “as this, after all, is one of the stocks in trade of detectives of a lower level of ability than myself, such as Masters would appear to be. However, the noise of his breathing as he stooped to listen, and the sound of his hat falling on the floor – you failed to remark those sounds, Watson? ah, well – provided sufficient evidence to my mind that my decision not to work with such a bungler was the correct one. Mrs Hudson,” he broke off as our landlady appeared in answer to the bell. “Tea for Mr Conk-Singleton, Doctor Watson and myself, if you would be so kind, Mrs Hudson, and if there is anything left of that delicious seed-cake that you baked yesterday, it would be most welcome.” She departed on her errand.

  “There is another aspect to the matter,” Holmes went on. “This is obviously not something that I wished to bring up in front of him, but when I last saw that man, he was using a name other than that of Edward Masters.”

  “You have met him before?” asked Conk-Singleton. “In a professional capacity?” Holmes nodded his assent. “In which case, would it not be natural for him to employ an alias to avoid recognition by those villains on whose trail he was set? I can hardly see that in itself as a reason to cease an association with him.”

  “There would certainly be some truth in that assumption,” agreed Holmes, but knowing him and his moods as I did, I felt that his words lacked a certain conviction, and I determined to ask him more after our visitor had departed.

  “But to return to our business,” went on Conk-Singleton. “Have you advanced any further since our last meeting?”

  “If you are asking whether I have any more definite suspicions as to the identity of the culprit, I fear my answer must be in the negative,” Holmes answered him. “Ah, the tea and the seed-cake. Excellent, Mrs Hudson, thank you.” The business of distributing the refreshments fell to my lot, as Holmes continued. “As to the counterfeits themselves, it would appear that these are presently restricted to the stock issue of three companies alone. These are the Imperial & Colonial Preferred A certificates, of which you are already aware, of course, as well as the shares of the Eastern Union Railway, and those of the Cobden Alkali Manufacto
ry.”

  “Bless me!” exclaimed Conk-Singleton. “These are all shares in which our firm has dealt extensively over the past few months.” The broker took out his handkerchief once more and fanned himself with it.

  “Not your firm alone,” remarked Holmes. “Watson, I believe your broker has also dealt in the I & C Preferred A stocks?”

  “Indeed he has done so on my behalf.”

  “The name of your broker?” enquired Conk-Singleton. On my informing him, he smiled broadly. “An excellent firm,” he announced. “I would rate them almost as highly as our own, but if you ever decided you were in need of a change, Doctor, be assured that you will find a warm welcome at Knight and Conk-Singleton in the event of your crossing our threshold and putting your business our way.”

  “Furthermore,” Holmes went on, “it is obvious to me that these counterfeit certificates are being produced in this country, and are not, as you assumed in our earlier meeting, originating from overseas. Whether the perpetrator does or does not share our nationality I have, of course, no way of knowing, but you may regard it as an established fact that the actual operation is being carried out in this country. There are too many clues as regards the paper and other physical properties of the counterfeits for it to be otherwise.”

  “And to what end is all this taking place?” I could not restrain myself from asking.

  “That, Watson, is a question best answered by Mr Conk-Singleton, since he spends his days dealing with these things.” He turned to our visitor, who seemed a little embarrassed by the attention.

  “It is perhaps difficult to explain to a layman,” Conk-Singleton said to me. “Believe me, this is a complex and delicate business in which we are engaged, and there are, perhaps, too many ways in which an unscrupulous rogue could profit from this sort of business. But when I come to consider it some more, maybe there is no definite profit that could be made from these actions. The mere disruption of the markets caused by the lack of trust is sufficient reason for us to engage Mr Holmes’ services. There is no more to report?” he turned back to Holmes.

  “I have nothing on which I wish to make an announcement at present,” he replied. “I expect results from my enquiries in the near future, though.”

  The other appeared disappointed. “I had expected, from your reputation, and also from the fee I have already remitted to you, that you would have some opinions on the matter by this time. Believe me, this is more than a mere abstract puzzle to my partners and me. This is a matter of more than slight concern to us, and I was convinced that you would have some more information to offer me by this time.” His heavy jowls shook as he wagged his head. “Do remember that there will be an additional reward should you discover the perpetrator of these deeds.”

  “I prefer,” said Holmes, obviously a little irritated by this reaction, “to have all my facts in front of me before expressing an opinion. Detection is more of a precise science than some of the business activities carried out in the City, I believe.”

  Conk-Singleton took the hit without flinching. “Very good, Mr Holmes. I shall expect a report in a few days, mark you.” He rose from his seat. “My thanks to your housekeeper for her cake, which, as you claimed, was excellent. I trust that your future findings and opinions will prove to be of equal excellence.” So saying, he let himself out of our door, and we heard the sound of his heavy footsteps descending the stairs.

  “Well, Watson,” said Holmes to me, following the departure of our visitor, “And what would you make of that, pray?”

  “What a rogue!” I exclaimed.

  “To which of our visitors do you refer?” asked Holmes, laughing.

  “I mean the detective Masters, who sets himself up as your competitor.”

  “Maybe you have hit upon the correct term for him, “agreed Holmes. “I believe that possibly he failed to recognise me, but I certainly remember him well. We have indeed met professionally, as I mentioned, but we were then on opposite sides of the law. His true name, as I am sure you surmised, is not Edward Masters. I was once of assistance to Inspector Bradstreet in assuring his arrest and conviction when he was using the name of Edgar Madingley. I find it a little strange that he should have wanted to renew my acquaintance by coming here, though. My name is hardly unknown to the criminal classes of this country, and I would have assumed that he would recognise it on Conk-Singleton’s proposal that he pay a visit to me.”

  “On what charges was he convicted?” I asked. “It is interesting that the poacher should have turned gamekeeper, so to speak.”

  “I fear that the poacher is still a poacher,” was my friend’s reply. “The world of detection in this country is a small one, and I am aware of all the competent practitioners of the science currently in London. And Mr Masters or Madingley, or whatever he chooses to call himself at this time, is not among their number. He was convicted, under a third name, that of Eric Morden, which I believe to be his real name, on charges of uttering fraudulent cheques and sentenced to eighteen months’ imprisonment. That was nearly three years ago, and he has had time since then to re-establish himself in some way, since he is now obviously in the good graces of Mr Charles Conk-Singleton and Mr Gerald Knight. I wonder though, Watson, Birds of a feather, would you guess?”

  “I cannot be certain. I am, however, unsure exactly why I say this,” I replied, “but I have no intention of moving my investments into the hands of Knight and Conk-Singleton. Something about Mr Conk-Singleton has failed to fill me with trust, despite his seeming friendliness and good nature.”

  “Your instincts are often in perfect working order, fear not, Watson. Apart from any other consideration, recall the response he gave to your question regarding the possible use of the counterfeit certificates.”

  I racked my brains to recall the answer I had been given. “I cannot recall that he gave any definite information.”

  “In a sense, you are correct,” said Holmes. “But if we are to be strictly accurate, he provided you with three answers – each one of which contradicted the other two. First he told us that it was too complex for those of us not engaged in his trade to understand. Then he told us that there were too many ways in which the counterfeits could be used. Lastly he changed his tale yet again to tell us that the counterfeits were of no possible use to a criminal. Would you say that these were the responses of an honest man?”

  “I would say there was something very strange about them, now that you mention it.”

  “Indeed. And furthermore, maybe you noted his boots?”

  “I did. They were speckled with mud and leaves. One of which, I perceive, he has left here on the carpet.” I bent to pick up the object, and was about to toss it on the fire when Holmes stayed my arm.

  “I wish to examine that,” he informed me, taking the leaf from my hand, and placing it on the table by the window where he proceeded to examine it with a high-powered lens. “As I thought. Do you recognise this leaf, Watson?”

  “I confess that botany is hardly one of my special interests,” I replied. “I take it that this is somewhat out of the ordinary?”

  “That it is,” replied Holmes. “This would appear to be the leaf of a eucalyptus tree, which is not a native of this country. The climate of the City of London would hardly appear to be one conducive to its flourishing. And the soil from his boots, if you will have the goodness to place that small deposit by the hearthrug on a sheet of paper, Watson?” I collected the sample as requested, whereupon Holmes subjected it to the same intense scrutiny as he had earlier given to the leaf. “The provenance of this grey clay is slightly more difficult to ascertain, but I think we can be certain that this did not come from the City any more than did the leaf.”

  “And the conclusions you draw from this?”

  “As with the counterfeit share certificate, there is nothing of a definite nature to be learned as yet. I would merely remark that it is strange that a senior partner in a brokerage such as Knight and Conk-Singleton would be roaming the suburbs – for
I can recall no location in the centre of this city where a tree such as this grows – on a business day such as this.”

  -oOo-

  It was a bright clear afternoon on the day following these events that one of the most extraordinary incidents to take place in the course of my friendship with Sherlock Holmes occurred. I had once again called on Holmes, and he and I were walking in the park, enjoying the fresh air, and the song of the birds. Holmes, as was his wont on such occasions, appeared to be noticing everything going on around him, while apparently merely strolling idly. As we turned towards the Serpentine, I had occasion to remark a strange occurrence.

  “Holmes, “I remarked to my companion. “Do not look now, but it appears to me that we are being followed by the man in the dark overcoat wearing a bowler hat.”

  Without turning his head, Holmes answered me. “Have you only just remarked him, Watson? He has been following us since we left Baker Street, and he, or one of his companions, has been standing outside my window since this morning.”

  “Who is he then?” I asked. “Is this not a matter of some concern to you?”

  “I believe he is one of Gregson’s or Lestrade’s minions,” answered Holmes, “and I freely confess to you that I am unsure as to his reasons for following me.”

  As it turned out, we were not long in doubt. We had stopped to view the wildfowl congregating on the surface of the water, when our follower caught up with us and addressed himself to my friend. “I take it that you are Mr Sherlock Holmes?” he enquired.

  “Yes” replied Holmes.

  “In which case, sir, I am sorry to inform you that I have a warrant for your arrest,” displaying a piece of paper bearing an official heading.

  “But this is outrageous! “I exclaimed angrily. “On what charge?”

  “Assault and battery occasioning grievous bodily harm,” replied the plain-clothes man. “The offence was committed last night upon the person of a certain Michael Frignall.”