Sherlock Holmes & The Master Engraver (Sherlock Holmes Revival)

by Husband, Ross

  “I advise you to have a care where you place your feet Watson.” I glanced down, and sure enough there were several large pools of the still-hardening sticky stuff all around, already starting to form a wrinkled skin in the dry chill atmosphere of the building. I stood silent while Holmes surveyed the scene at length. After some time he turned to me. “What may we learn here Watson?”I looked carefully and minutely around the entire space and composed my observations.

  “I would say, Holmes, that the wreckage and disorder testifies to the extreme brutality of the struggle, and further, I would suggest that in view of Warburg’s obvious strength and prowess as a boxer, there were very likely more than two assailants – perhaps three or even four, two of whom we probably encountered earlier this afternoon, and were possibly the couple of heavies that the landlord saw leave the public house last night and follow Warburg, after overhearing his enquiries as to the whereabouts of Mustachios and Wall-Eye.

  “They set about him and in the ensuing desperate fight, occasioned this...” – and I indicated the shambles there before us. “In conclusion I suspect that he found the scrap of the Portals wrapper hereabouts, which suggests that the printing press, plates and paper are also probably nearby, most likely in the warehouse, which Lestrade so negligently ignored.”

  I concluded “In short, I am suggesting that the missing plates and paper may very likely be within our grasp!” There was no answer.

  I became aware that Holmes’ attention was entirely elsewhere – he appeared to be perfectly transfixed by something at the other end of the building.

  Abruptly, and now without regard to the tar-pools, he clambered over the wreckage to the far corner of the workshop and snatched a white envelope from where it was pinned to the wall.

  I had overlooked this incongruously pristine object entirely.

  With great scrupulousness he examined it and without lifting his eyes from it for a moment he replied “You are right in all of your deductions Watson, except for one – the plates, paper and press, and the criminals responsible are gone.” He pulled aside an old tarpaulin which hung across far wall.

  “How can you be certain Holmes? We have yet to examine the warehouse!” He looked around impatiently. “Of course they are gone Watson! The floor in here, the tracks on the ground outside yield a more reliable and account than any eye-witness might offer. They are without a shadow of doubt gone, and I have suspected it from the moment we entered the workshop. However, that they were here is in no doubt. “But where are they now I wonder, that is the question?” and with this he picked up an empty, shiny tin canister from a small discarded pile in the far corner and tossed it to me. It contained a pungent, syrupy black residue.

  But it was not pitch. It was something else entirely. I peered closely at the stained paper label. It was the highest-quality German black printing ink.

  After peering once more behind the tar-stained tarpaulin hanging against the far wall for some minutes, Holmes carefully picked his way back through the tangle of debris, delicately holding the envelope aloft by one corner. He held it before my eyes. “By thunder Holmes – it’s addressed to you!”

  “Indeed it is Watson; I expected it to be so the moment I espied it. I warned you that they would know we are closing with them and here is the proof.

  “It seems we were expected, but how came Lestrade to overlook this I wonder... unless it has been introduced to the scene since his departure last night?

  “I doubt not I shall solve that little conundrum soon enough – meanwhile, let us see what our unknown correspondent has to say to us.” He opened his small bone-handled, razor-sharp penknife and carefully slit along the top edge of the envelope.

  To my surprise he did not immediately examine the contents, but stepped from the workshop into the yard where, outside in the chill early-evening air, he plunged his beak-like nose within the envelope and, eyes closed, inhaled deeply several times. He grunted softly, but whether with satisfaction or disappointment I could not immediately determine.

  He turned his back toward the dull street-lamp so that its sullen glow fell weakly upon the two items he had extracted from the envelope.

  One was a ten-pound note. The second was a letter, clearly much lengthier than the note Petch had received. In a low voice, lest the Constable overheard, he read:

  Sherlock Holmes

  I know full well that you are meddling in my affairs. You have caused me considerable inconvenience. However, you now know what grave misfortunes tend to befall those who interfere in my plans – your presence here means you know of the sad accident that blighted your blundering accomplice’s attempt to spy on me. You will find a proof of that which you know we possess, indelibly marked on his corpse. You have been duly warned. Desist from your interference, and you and your scribe may just live to enjoy a long and fruitful life. I warn you not to attempt to trace me further – you will be endangering your health and wasting your time, of which commodity you now have precisely five days, within which period you will arrange with The Bank of England to deposit in a private account at the Bank Leu AG in Zurich, the sum of two hundred and fifty thousand pounds Sterling, or the equivalent in bullion. You will appreciate that this is a mere ten-percent of the amount of money we are even now manufacturing and can distribute at will. Failure to meet these terms will result in the market being flooded with perfect counterfeit notes, and the consequences will be your responsibility. The account number is recorded upon the enclosed bank-note. Upon confirmation that the money has been deposited in Zurich, you will be contacted with the whereabouts of the plates and paper, when they may be retrieved. Then our business will be concluded. I am certain that The Bank of England will see the wisdom of complying...

  Asa Bormanstein

  I was silent for some moments as I digested this astonishing intelligence. It would appear that all along the villains had never intended to pursue the risky business of circulating vast amounts of forged currency, but rather, to hold The Bank of England to ransom for a single massive payment in the sum of a quarter of a million pounds of real sterling or gold, using the crude but powerful threat of flooding the economy with a huge injection of false notes.

  Unless Holmes knew considerably more than he was revealing, a possibility I would not necessarily discount, I could envision no other route available to the Bank except to submit to this blunt demand forthwith – in effect, to be compelled to buy back their own printing plates and two and a half million pounds in false money for ten percent of its face-value, in real notes or bullion.

  My immediate thought was that the modest cost of complying – though still a perfectly staggering sum of money – seemed to me a small enough price to avert the unimaginable economic consequences of defiance. I was on the point of sharing these thoughts with Holmes, when quite unexpectedly, he strode swiftly to the gateway of the yard, where the bored, shivering PC Clarke stamped his feet on the pavement under the wan glow of the gas-light; the yellow dog had sneaked back to rummage in the rotting midden.

  For just the briefest moment, it seemed to me that the unlikely trio, dimly illuminated in the dismal pool of pallid light, composed the most improbable tableau – an emaciated yellow dog seeking sustenance, a shivering red-nosed policeman seeking warmth, and a pale, gaunt detective seeking an unknown correspondent.

  “Ah, there you are again Mr Holmes. Seen everything you need? Something of a battlefield in there eh?”

  “Indeed PC Clarke – it clearly was a most violent confrontation. Tell me Clarke, you have been on duty here since attending with Inspector Lestrade last night?”

  “Yes Mr Holmes and I’ll be powerful pleased when Wickham and Langridge show up to relieve me – indeed they’re late now” and he stamped his cold feet for emphasis. Holmes fixed the shivering policeman with a steady gaze. “That is well Constable. I take it then that no strangers have entered the yard or buildings, you have had this crime-scene under surveillance continuously?” The policeman shrugged uneasily. “W
ell, more or less Mr Holmes...”

  “Hmm... tell me more about the ‘less’ Constable.”

  The burly constable looked vaguely embarrassed.

  “Well Mr Holmes, you know... I had to answer an urgent call of... well, nature.”

  He gestured helplessly at the wide-open, privacy-denying wasteland around us. His voice took on a slight edge of unease, no doubt because of his knowledge of Holmes’ familiar relationship with his senior officer, Lestrade.

  “Honestly Mr Holmes, I was only away for a few minutes. About half after two I regret to say I was compelled to run to The Cubitt Arms to ah... answer the call and I thought there would be no harm done if after, I warmed up with a swift glass of Porter by the stove. I was back here at my post in twenty minutes, and not a second more, I swear it Mr Holmes.”

  The smallest quiver of a smile flickered momentarily over Holmes’ lips. “A perfectly reasonable explanation constable and an even more reasonable cause to desert your post momentarily. No great harm is done; indeed, without your short absence for twenty minutes, I would likely lack a most valuable clue now in my possession. I trust you will not have too much longer to wait before your colleagues arrive. And now I bid you goodnight constable.”

  It lacked a quarter of seven before we arrived at the familiar entrance of the Charing Cross Hospital. We were directed to a ward on the first floor, where we found a constable seated at the door; he leapt to his feet. “Good evening gentlemen; Mr Holmes and Doctor Watson I imagine? The Inspector told me I may expect you.” Holmes nodded with satisfaction. “Tell me Constable, has Mr Warburg received any visitors since he was admitted?”

  The policeman thought for a moment. “Apart from Inspector Lestrade, there were a couple of burly heavies...” Holmes visibly stiffened “...but they were his two lads. The Inspector said it was all quite in order. Talk about ‘like father like son’, they were gigantic as well.” Holmes relaxed.

  At this hour the ward was hushed and dimly illuminated. Warburg’s bed was instantly distinguishable among the dozen in the room, by the almighty bulk of the man under the blankets; he appeared to be sleeping calmly, propped up on several pillows, one tree trunk-like arm resting across his barrel chest, the other at his side, encased in bandages.

  The mere fact that he yet breathed was testimony to a most extraordinary constitution – rarely have I seen such dreadful injuries inflicted even after the most sadistic of beatings.

  I judged he would be a very long time healing, if indeed he survived. When the perpetrators were eventually apprehended, the charges must surely include attempted murder?

  I reached for his wrist and felt the pulse; it was improbably vigorous. “Something of a medical anomaly would you not agree, Doctor Watson?” I turned to see who addressed me. A tall silver-haired doctor peered at me over half-moon tortoise-shell spectacles and extended his hand to each of us in turn.

  “Doctor James Moffatt; Inspector Lestrade advised me of your visit gentlemen. I am pleased to meet you, but I’m afraid I must warn that regardless of his great strength, this Goliath still tires extremely quickly; I regret I may permit you no more than ten minutes.”

  Our murmured discourse must have awoken the somnolent giant for he stirred, opened his eyes, and after a few moments appeared to recognise us.

  Painfully, a smile broke across his dreadfully abused face. His eyes vanished as before, but this time within a grim patchwork of puffy black, purple and yellow bruises, sutures and abrasions, surrounding a savagely broken nose and crusted, torn lips.

  Doctor Moffatt discreetly withdrew to the far side of the ward, while a nurse considerately brought two chairs for us. Holmes leaned close to the bedside and quietly addressed the supine man.

  “My dear Mr Warburg, no-one is more heartily glad than I to see the leviathan finally wakes; do you feel sufficiently recovered to speak with us?” Warburg, with a titanic effort, levered himself up onto his good elbow; I swiftly wedged another pillow behind him whereupon he sank back gratefully with a vast sigh. Wryly he croaked “Well Mr Holmes, so much for my attempt to ascend your ladder of observation and deduction, and so much for the ‘wisdom of your Solomon.’ I felt, perhaps I might have been of assistance to you in some small measure; instead, I fear I have played the part of rosh ha-kesilim.” Holmes smiled; quietly he murmured:

  “Ah he, the Biblical Chief of the Fools. Well, I fear I must agree Warburg, you have indeed been extremely foolish, but then you have also been courageous, enterprising and resourceful; predictably you have of course impeded my investigation and yet curiously, at the same time you may, perhaps, have advanced it. Sadly, in so doing, you have paid a most dreadful price for your well-intentioned but ill-advised intervention in this affair.”

  Warburg chuckled weakly, causing him to cough and wince in pain. When the spasm subsided he said with a crooked grin “Indeed gentlemen, indeed I have, but do you... suppose...” he lapsed into a fit of painful coughing “...my handsome good looks are... lost forever?” He rolled his eyes upward as if to view his own forehead. “But then it now seems than I am worth ten pounds more than when I visited Cubitt Town!” He spoke slowly and indistinctly through battered and swollen lips. Holmes smiled and I laughed out loud, occasioning a stern glance from the nurse; that a man in Warburg’s dismal straits could, improbably, summon up a jest seemed almost beyond belief.

  “In the circumstances, you show the most remarkable fortitude my friend” said Sherlock Holmes kindly. “But you will need to rest; for now, are you strong enough briefly to tell us the bones of what occurred last night, and particularly, what you might have seen? Inspector Lestrade has already informed us of events more or less up to the moment you arrived at Slater’s Yard.”

  “Very well Mr Holmes. When I arrived at Slater’s all was quiet, and the place appeared to be deserted and in total darkness. The gates to the yard were slightly ajar, as were the doors to the large workshop. I chose this latter entry, as the main warehouse was securely locked and chained. Once inside I lit the old Irwin lantern I had brought with me; its light is poor but even so I could make out tar barrels, tools and the like stacked around the walls.

  “There was a small pile of waste-paper in one corner – when I picked a piece up, it appeared to be an outer wrapper bearing a label from Portals Paper Mill... there were three of them on the floor. I know from past experience in banking exactly what they manufacture and thought this a mighty odd item to be found in a shabby warehouse in East London. There were also empty ink cans. I decided to retain the label in the event that it might aid you in your search for, ah, your ‘friend’”.

  “That was most astute of you Warburg, and a most useful clue. Lestrade, with some considerable difficulty, later prised a fragment of it from your clenched fist while you were unconscious.”

  “I am glad it has some value.

  “Anyway, Mr Holmes, at that moment a dim glow suddenly illuminated the workshop; it appeared to emanate from behind a large tarpaulin hanging across the far wall so I immediately extinguished the Irwin and cautiously pulled back a corner of the tarpaulin, which, it transpired, concealed a pair of locked doors into the warehouse itself...”

  “...one of which has a small glazed panel inset” interjected Holmes. “I discovered them myself only an hour or two back. They were padlocked, but it appeared that they opened into a bare and empty room.”

  Warburg vainly attempted to reach for his water-glass, which I passed to him. After taking a long draught he continued his tale. “Well Mr Holmes, I assure you it was far from empty when I looked in. The glass was dirty, but I could see well enough to make out the heavy who rode in my hansom to Chiswick, along with a second taller man; his back was toward me; they appeared to be in discussion around a printing press, which the second fellow seemed to be tinkering with. He may have been the tall moustachioed man you seek.

  “Also, if it is of relevance, the press was most recognisably an old Koenig, driven by a steam engine in the adjacent outside shelter. I a
ssume, now, this is a case of forgery you are investigating.”

  “Indeed Warburg” Holmes murmured. “Please continue.”

  “The rest of the story is eloquently written all over this poor aching body Mr Holmes. As you can see, they were gifted a rather large page upon which to write, and it appears they were most determined to cover it closely! I was dealt a mighty blow upon the head from behind, which momentarily stunned me – indeed I staggered and almost was felled by the force of it; fortunately my skull is as robustly constructed as the rest of my frame.

  “I turned; in the dim gloaming from the street lamp I made out two heavily-built thugs, both of whom I had noted drinking in the alehouse earlier that evening; clearly they had followed me.”

  “You are correct” said Holmes. “The landlord himself confirmed to me that they appeared to be listening most attentively to your conversation with him; something to which you should perhaps have been more alert when nosing around foreign and dangerous parts. They followed you out only a few minutes after your departure.”

  Our battered behemoth nodded ruefully.

  “I have a lot to learn from you Mr Holmes. To resume then, one of them was swinging a heavy block and tackle on a short length of rope, no doubt the object that almost knocked me unconscious; the shorter restrained a large and vicious-looking dog on a chain. I decided upon the instant that I had a pretty fair chance of dealing with the two heavies but the dog, I judged, would prove a far more dangerous and unpredictable adversary and eliminating it from the ruck immediately became my most urgent objective.”