by Ashton, Hugh
The files of the Daily Chronicle were soon opened to me at the mention of Sherlock Holmes’ name, and I pored over the printed pages, discovering several messages that appeared to be relevant to our case. I copied these down, together with the dates, and had a list of six or seven when Sherlock Holmes joined me.
“You have them, Watson?” he asked. “Well done indeed,” he exclaimed, looking over the list I presented to him. “Now to Scotland Yard.”
“Not Bloomsbury?” I asked.
“Not at present. Now we are dealing with a more reasonable colleague on the official side, I wish to make use of his cooperation.”
Lestrade greeted us in his office. Holmes explained the messages in the agony column, and the events of the morning.
“This promises well, Mr Holmes,” said the Inspector. “What would you suggest now?”
“I would ask you the same question,” replied Holmes, his eyes twinkling.
“My next action would be to reconcile the dates of these messages with the dates of robberies that have been reported in the same period. But no doubt you have other plans?”
“That is exactly what I would do myself, Inspector. Bless my soul, but if you continue in this way, I will be able to retire and keep bees in Sussex, or find some other equally preposterous and unlikely way of passing my time.”
“Very good,” replied Lestrade, calling for a clerk and giving instructions that the records of any robberies of valuables in the weeks previous to the dates of the agony column messages be fetched to him.
“And now,” when the clerk had departed, “you believe that the commode, whatever that may be, will be despatched from this house in Gilbert Place this afternoon?”
“I believe that to be the case.”
“Then we can arrest the sender and the carrier at that time.”
“Not so fast, Lestrade. I would have your men follow the carrier to his destination, then make the arrest. Two birds with one stone, and the sender will be none the wiser, still in the belief that the commode and whatever it may contain has been safely delivered, We may then leave the sender alone for the present. In any event, he appears to have deserted his post at the G— Hotel for the past few days, and we may well expect him to be occupying the rooms at Gilbert Street.”
“That makes more sense,” agreed Lestrade. “I will arrange for plain-clothes men and a hansom to watch and follow.”
“Make sure you use discretion, Lestrade. Put your best men onto this. We are dealing with professional criminals here, I believe, and we may be playing for high stakes. When do you expect the results of the search of the records that you have just ordered?”
“An hour, maybe a little more,” replied Lestrade.
“Good. In that event, Watson and I will take ourselves to Bloomsbury in advance of your men, and make discreet enquiries.”
Gilbert Place turned out to be a small side street near the Museum, and number 10 was a small bookshop, with the part of the building above the shop apparently used as residential accommodation.
We entered the shop, and Holmes enquired of the owner as to whether a Mr Troutbridge was the occupant of the rooms above the premises.
“No, sir, I think you must be mistaken there. There’s no Mr Troutbridge in the rooms above, and I’ve never heard of the name in this area.”
“Maybe I misheard the name,” admitted Holmes. “The man to whom I was introduced, and who told me he lived here was a short dark man, with a heavy beard and moustache. He told me he was from the North of England, where he has a business manufacturing cutlery, and was lodging at this address.”
“There’s no-one like that here, sir. The only man in the rooms above here is a Mr Phillimore – that’s Mr James Phillimore, and he’s a tall thin gentleman, with white hair and no beard or anything like that. I think there’s something a bit foreign about him, but we don’t see him that often, as he’s got some job with old furniture, buying and selling it, that takes him out of Town at times, and he keeps odd hours as a result. Perhaps you misheard the address, sir? Maybe you are thinking of Gilbert Street, off Oxford Street?”
“I am sure you are right,” replied Holmes, courteously lifting his hat and exiting the shop.
“Capital,” he exclaimed, rubbing his hands together. “We have Mr James Phillimore where we want him, and now we will be able to trap him at our leisure.”
“Who is Troutbridge?” I could not help but ask.
“I was not going to make the elementary mistake of asking for Phillimore by name or give any kind of description. Even if the shopkeeper is no confederate of his, it might come to Gérard’s ears that someone has been making enquiries about him. I therefore enquired after a figment of my imagination, with a physical appearance totally unlike that of Gérard. Now, let us scout the area, and discover the most suitable points for Lestrade’s myrmidons to station themselves later in the day.” We strolled casually along the length of the street, and Holmes made notes on his shirt-cuff as we walked. “Scotland Yard now, Watson.” As we turned to go, Holmes clutched at my sleeve.
“Look behind you, Watson, as discreetly as you can. It is he!”
I bent, as if to adjust my bootlace, and shifted my gaze to the building that housed the bookshop out of which we had just come. I perceived a tall, slim, elderly man leaving the house, through a door at the side of the shop. He was immaculately, even foppishly, dressed, and corresponded in all respects to the description we had been given earlier. Carrying a tightly rolled umbrella, he sauntered leisurely down the road in the direction of the Museum.
“Excellent,” exclaimed Holmes. “We now have proof, if any were needed, that Gérard and Phillimore are one and the same, and that he is currently occupying these premises.”
Lestrade expressed his delight at Holmes’ report, and his advice on the positioning of the police later that day. “Thank you for this information, Mr Holmes. And I have information for you,” he added, with some satisfaction, after he had given detailed orders to the police officers who were to watch the house and dispatched them. “In the week prior to all these announcements in the Chronicle discovered by Dr Watson here, there was a robbery involving valuable pieces of jewellery. The victims were typically those in high society, as you might expect from the nature of the stolen items. All these recent jewel robberies were made from the houses of the victims, while the family was absent.”
“So we may assume that the thief had knowledge that there would be no family at the house on those occasions.”
“That was my thought also,” replied Lestrade.
“Then we must search for a common thread, Inspector. Maybe the same servant moved between the different households, acting as a spy for the gang, or possibly even acting as the thief?”
“I am afraid we have investigated that possibility,” Lestrade answered, smiling ruefully. “The servants in the households in question seem all to have been trusted servants who had been in the employ of the families for many years. None of them left soon after the robberies, as that theory would seem to indicate. In any event, there was clear evidence that the burglaries were carried out by breaking and entering, not from within the household. Believe me, Mr Holmes, that was an idea that we, too had considered, but were forced to reject.”
Holmes shook his head. “Well, Inspector, you seem to have covered that ground pretty thoroughly. Please accept my congratulations on your efficiency. It is difficult to know, though, how a thief could come to learn of the absence of the family from the home in so many cases, unless a watch was set on the target, which would undoubtedly raise suspicion unless it were carried out skilfully. In any event, my experience with this class of criminal is that they have little patience with this sort of tactic.”
“Maybe some cab driver in the thieves’ employ?” I suggested.
This time it was Lestrade who disagreed. “These were wealthy families with their own carriages.”
“Wait!” exclaimed Holmes, clapping his hands together. “What a fool I
am. What a blind fool not to have seen this before!” Lestrade and I could merely gaze at him in wonder. “Lestrade, look through those reports again. I will wager that the families who suffered these losses spent their evenings at the G— Hotel. As the chef de cuisine there, Gérard would be in a perfect position to learn of the reservations being made for dinner several days in advance, and could lay his plans accordingly.”
“It would fit the facts,” Lestrade agreed, drawing the file of papers to him and looking through them. After a few minutes he looked up. “The destination of the owners of the jewellery on the nights of the robberies is not always recorded,” he confessed, “but in three of the cases here, they were attending a function at the G— Hotel. I think you have hit on it, Mr Holmes.”
“It would not surprise me in the least if the dead man, whom we suspect to be Jules Navier, were also involved somehow with this.”
“Ah, yes,” remarked Lestrade. “We have the Soho murder. I read your report, Doctor, and note your conclusion that the man was poisoned.”
“I have my strong suspicions there,” remarked Holmes. “While examining the room yesterday, I came across two highly suggestive pieces of evidence, which your man Lanner chose to ignore. First, we have this,” producing an envelope from his pocket. “Your fool of an associate – and I make no apology at all for using that term, Lestrade – without bothering to examine them closely, first pronounced them as being breadcrumbs. When invited to examine them more closely, he went back on that opinion, but refused to commit himself to what they might be.”
“Well, what is your opinion of these?”
“I have no opinions on the matter, Lestrade, I am merely stating the facts as I perceive them. These are without the faintest doubt, crumbs of choux pastry. A confection which is chiefly the product of skilled patissiers, the trade that we consider the dead man to have followed.”
“And the other envelope?”
“Ah, this may prove the answer to the riddle.”
“It looks like a bilberry,” I remarked.
“I agree with you,” said Holmes. “It does indeed resemble that fruit. I have every confidence, however, that it is a berry of atropa belladonna.”
“Deadly nightshade?” I enquired.
“Yes, that is one of the English names it goes by,” replied Holmes. “It resembles various edible berries, but is highly toxic. My guess is that when the autopsy is carried out, the dead man will turn out to have ingested some of the berries. As few as ten can cause death.”
“How would he come to eat them?” asked Lestrade. “I cannot imagine that he would make such an error of judgement as to mistake belladonna for some kind of fruit.”
“I cannot at this moment say,” replied Holmes. “This will, I am sure, be one of the details about which Gérard will enlighten us in due course. I am convinced that in some way this will turn out to be connected with the original problem with which I was presented – the stolen recipe for the canetons à la mode russe.”
“We have an hour to wait before the time at which that message in the Chronicle tells us that the commode is to be picked up,” said Lestrade.
“We will be ready,” said Holmes.
-oOo-
In the event, it was some two hours before Lestrade received the message that the carrier of the furniture and the occupant of the warehouse to which it was delivered were in custody, and the commode itself was likewise in the possession of the police force.
“To Whitechapel, then,” said Holmes.
We arrived at the address we had been given, which turned out to be a repository for bric-a-brac of all kinds, including some handsome pieces of furniture. The commode in question stood by itself, having obviously just been unloaded from the cart that had transported it there.
A brief conversation with the carter was enough to establish the fact that his services had been hired for the day, and that this was the first such occasion on which he had made such a delivery from Gilbert Place. After verifying and recording his identity, Lestrade was happy to let the frightened man return to his usual place of business.
The owner of the warehouse, a certain Alfred Vicks, to whom the delivery had been addressed personally, was a different matter. A small man, whose general appearance reminded me of some sort of small rodent, such as a mouse or rat, continually protested his innocence in an unconvincing whining tone following Lestrade’s formal words of arrest.
“You’ve got nothing on me, so help me Gawd,” he kept saying. “I’ll see the whole b— lot of you in court before I’m through.”
“Dear me. Such language will avail you nothing,” said Holmes. “I believe you may be correct there, though. We may well have the pleasure of seeing you in court, but I fancy that you will be in the dock, and we will be in the witness box, giving evidence against you.”
He moved to the commode and proceeded to examine it minutely, calling Lestrade and myself over after a few minutes. “Observe closely, Lestrade. The screws in this hinge are hand-cut, and are original with the rest of the piece. On this hinge, you can see clearly that the screws have been substituted with modern replicas, created by machine.”
“I see what you mean,” said Lestrade. “Your conclusions?”
“My conclusion here is that the hinge was removed, and replaced. The original screws were damaged when the hinge was removed, necessitating their replacement. The lack of patina caused by years of polishing with wax is also absent in the gap between the wood and the metal of the hinge.”
“To what end?”
“Let us see,” replied Holmes. From his pocket, he produced a folding knife of a curious design with many blades and attachments, out of which he produced a screwdriver. I was later to discover that this was a present from a Swiss client, whom he had assisted the previous month. “Ha! These screws offer no resistance, which further confirms my conjecture that they were recently inserted. And here we are,” removing the hinge and revealing under it, rather than the solid wood that might be expected, a cylindrical hole, about twice the diameter of a lead pencil, out of which protruded a length of gut fishing line. “This is what we have been seeking, I believe, Lestrade. Will you do the honours?” taking the end of the line, and offering it to the police detective.
Lestrade took the line and pulled gently, extracting a small muslin bag attached to the other end, the mouth of which was secured by a drawstring.
“I think there may be something of interest in there,” remarked Holmes, examining it. “Open it carefully, Inspector.”
From the bag, Lestrade poured into his hand a stream of small brilliantly cut gems, chiefly diamonds and rubies, which sparkled in the sun filtering through the warehouse skylight. I could not help but let out a cry of astonishment at the sight, and Lestrade himself audibly caught his breath as he gazed at the priceless spoil nestled in his palm.
“They have been removed from their settings, but I would lay odds that these are the stones from the spoil of the Floughton robbery ten days ago. If I remember from the description, the settings were of far less value than these stones, which are all of the first water and cut.”
The man Vicks had turned pale as Holmes did his work, and at the sight of the stones, he started to babble.
“It wasn’t me who blagged them,” he protested.
“You knew they were there, though, and you knew they were stolen,” Holmes said firmly.
“I knew they was in that lumber somewhere, but Phillimore never said where they were. That was for them Frogs at the other end to find out. My lay was to take the lumber, send it on a ship, and keep Phillimore’s name out of it. I reckon you’ve nibbed him already, since you’ve found the sparklers so quick?”
“We have yet to arrest Phillimore,” replied Lestrade. “You can thank Mr Holmes here for the discovery of the stones.”
“You’re a smart one, and no mistake,” Vicks said to Holmes. “We reckoned no-one would ever twig the lay.” There was no trace of mockery in his tone.
“Thank you,” said Holmes. “Compliments are always welcome, no matter what their source. By the way, you know that Navier is dead?”
“No, never ’eard of ’im. Who is ’e?” Vicks’ surprise and ignorance appeared genuine.
“Never you mind that, my lad,” said Lestrade. “It’s Bow Street for you in the morning. Take him back to the station,” he said to the uniformed constables who had accompanied us.
“While we are here,” said Holmes, “we should be looking for the other pieces, in case they are still here. We have the list written in the notebook.”
Alas, our best efforts failed to discover any of the pieces listed in the notebook, and we were forced to abandon the search. On Holmes’ recommendation, however, Lestrade gave orders that the warehouse be sealed off, pending a thorough search of the whole premises at some time in the near future.
Holmes and I returned to Baker Street, Holmes having obtained permission from Lestrade to analyse the mysterious berry that had been discovered in the room in Soho.
Once returned, he plunged into his mysterious world of retorts and reagents. After about an hour, he let out a cry of triumph. “I suspected it, but this is absolute proof of the presence of hyoscyamine, one of the poisons to be found in the berries of deadly nightshade, or belladonna.”
“But how did he administer it, and why?” I asked.
“There, I confess, I am still baffled, but I believe that we will discover the details in the immediate future.”
At that moment, there was a knock on the door, and Mrs Hudson, our landlady, handed a telegram to Holmes. He tore it open, and scanned the contents. “We have no need to make an early start tomorrow, Watson,” he reported. “Lestrade has established for the past few days that Gérard has not stirred from his house till after ten o’clock, and therefore suggests that we wait outside the Gilbert Place house from half after eight. He has a magistrate’s warrant, and is ready to arrest him at a moment’s notice. I trust that his enquiries were discreet enough not to disturb the game before the time is ripe.”