Sherlock Holmes & The Master Engraver (Sherlock Holmes Revival)

by Husband, Ross

  As I listened to this horrific account, I marvelled at the cool presence of mind that enabled him to plan his impending struggle. He continued “Having no weapon to hand, I proffered my left arm to the beast, which it immediately seized; with its jaws thus occupied I raised it off the ground and delivered my best, I may say my most famous blow, a punishing right cross, whereupon the animal fell unconscious as if pole-axed.”

  I considered the monumental strength required to lift that monstrous dog clean off the floor with one arm. Warburg ruminated for a moment.

  “I recall it had the self-same effect upon Charley Mitchell at The White Rose, but that was just a friendly bout... anyhow, when the dog went down, the two thugs set about me with a real will; I took many severe blows from the block and tackle, but as for fist-fighting, they were lowly street brawlers; indeed I believe I was close to gaining the upper hand when I was once again attacked, from behind.

  “Something sharp stabbed hard into my shoulder – apparently the surgeon removed some kind of foreign knife. The police have it now.” He pointed weakly at the dressing at the junction of his thick neck and meaty right shoulder. I noted it was exactly at the medial end of the collar-bone where it joins the sternoclavicular joint, perilously close to the external carotid artery.

  He continued “The outcry clearly had alerted the other two, whereupon I soon went down under an interminable welter of kicks and blows. I remember little more after that, gentlemen, except the lad finding me.” Ruefully he concluded “And now here I am, painfully paying for my imprudence, and richer by ten pounds which I can never, ever spend! I declare I must be the world’s first human counterfeit banknote!”

  Holmes smiled at the outlandish brand across the big man’s forehead. “Indeed, but I suppose you make take solace from the fact that ten pounds rarely lasts forever; inevitably it dwindles and is soon gone. Now tell me Warburg, for I know you to have a keen eye for detail, describe for me if you will, the far end-wall of the workshop when first you saw it.”

  Warburg screwed his eyes shut. “About twenty feet wide and ten high; brick and weather-board, being the outer wall of the warehouse, a large tarpaulin stained with pitch hanging from a beam, perhaps to conceal the doorway beyond. The three paper wrappers and several empty ink canisters in the right corner, several ladders, coils of rope and various contractors’ supplies, paint and implements against the wall to the left.” “That is all? Nothing, for example, like this, pinned prominently to the wall?”

  Slowly and painfully, Warburg opened his bruised and swollen eyes and peered at the white envelope Holmes had produced from his pocket. “There was nothing like that Mr Holmes, I will assure you. Even with the dim light of the Irwin, that envelope would have been illumined like the Trinity Buoy Wharf lighthouse! No Mr Holmes, I swear upon the Torah that your envelope was not anywhere upon the wall.”

  “That is good enough for me, Warburg, and also it happens to be the second piece of information of incalculable value that you have furnished. Now rest, my friend, for you are tired.”

  And indeed, the man’s eyes were now slowly drifting shut. We stole quietly away, and headed back to Baker Street.

  * * *

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The Chief Cashier’s Dilemma

  Breakfast next morning was necessarily a hasty affair. Today was the first of the five days before the deadline set by the criminals expired.

  Holmes had informed me the preceding evening that he expected visitors around ten, and though the table had already been cleared, the faint savoury aroma of smoked haddock lingered yet. Save for the measured tick of the clock, the room was silent, when from behind his newspaper Holmes startled me: “How is your nose this morning Watson?” Puzzled, I set down the map of Lime house, Poplar and The Isle of Dogs I had been studying with aid of his lens, much mystified by such a very peculiar enquiry.

  Drily I retorted “Well Holmes, as I am sure with your sharp eyes you will have observed, it is still here in its correct position upon my face and to my knowledge it performs its function as well as ever; it can certainly still distinguish a Fumé from a Fuissé.”

  “Capital! I may have need of its services later, after this agreeable but lingering aroma of smoked fish is gone.” I was on the point of enquiring to what this most odd exchange could possibly refer, when Mrs Hudson entered. “Your callers, Mr Holmes” and she showed in two visitors; the first, Mr Petch – again nervous and highly agitated, as seemed his permanent and understandable condition nowadays – and a second gentleman whom I did not recognise, appearing only slightly less troubled; he was faultlessly attired in frock-coat, striped trousers high-cut in the old style, and grey silk waistcoat. Carrying a gleaming top-hat, grey kid gloves and silver-mounted cane, he looked for all the world like a well-to-do city banker – and so indeed he proved to be.

  Holmes rose to welcome them. “Good morning gentlemen both; addressing the stranger he said “I am Sherlock Holmes. This is my friend and colleague, Doctor Watson, who is good enough to assist me on certain of my investigations; Watson, may I present Mr Frank May, the Chief Cashier of The Bank of England.”

  I realised on the instant, of course, that this was the ‘higher authority’ Holmes had been compelled to draw into his confidence, now that it seemed quite inevitable that Lestrade would become concerned in the matter. He addressed Holmes in a low, sepulchral voice.

  “I received your wire – bad news Mr Holmes. Very bad news. Indeed, it is the worst possible news. I have two pressing questions for you. Can you find them in time? And can they be stopped?”

  Standing somewhat behind him, Petch winced visibly at each word May intoned. Holmes indicated for our guests to be seated. “I believe I can find them Mr May, and they can indeed be stopped.”

  Succinctly he detailed the events which had occurred since Petch first presented himself at Rules on Christmas Eve; in this narration my colleague spared nothing of Dulcie Hobbs’ horrible murder, the Yard’s initial acceptance of it as, prima facie, a simple case of suicide and of the subsequent lethal attempt upon Solomon Warburg’s life in Cubitt Town. Frank May, now grim-faced and pale, was evidently most deeply shocked by the account. It showed plainly in his countenance just how unspeakably alien were these sordid and bestial doings – but Holmes’ bread and butter – to the civilised, evenly-regulated life of the second most powerful man in The Bank of England.

  “...and that is why I convoked you here today Mr May; I had planned to apprehend the criminals responsible with absolute discretion, and with no police involvement for the obvious reasons of averting public panic and financial chaos; and indeed, until one Mr Solomon Warburg’s well-intentioned but clumsy intervention, I believe you would now have had your plates, paper and any notes printed, safely back under lock and key, along with the villains. But they have panicked and moved their, ah, place of business to whereabouts at present unknown to me. And the sad murder of Mr Petch’s maid and the near-murder of Solomon Warburg have all conjoined to the point where the Yard demands to be informed. They have, however, undertaken to work chiefly under my guidance, in the interests of the economy.”

  Petch had reverted to rocking in his chair, wringing his bony hands feverishly. The Chief Cashier straightened in his seat, composed his features and addressed the great detective:

  “Very well; you will perhaps understand Mr Holmes that such unspeakable events are so far beyond my sphere of experience that I find myself completely incompetent to choose any course of action.

  “But I see clearly from the discretion you have demonstrated thus far that you have an acute understanding of the implications of two and a half millions of false money being circulated. But, Mr Holmes, these men must be stopped, whatever the cost! Perhaps you will be good enough to tell me what options you believe may be open to us.”

  “It is my firm opinion, Mr May, that you have only two. The first – and I venture to suggest, by far the most preferable – is to place your complete reliance in me, without quest
ion or reservation” Holmes stated in a level tone.

  “The second, as you will now read, is to pay a substantial ransom for the return of the stolen goods.” And with this he handed May the Slater’s Yard ransom-demand, along with the enclosed second proof. The Chief Cashier’s eyes hardened as he swiftly scanned the letter. He read it aloud a second time, more slowly, and then turned his attention to the banknote, examining it at extreme close range through the gold monocle he retrieved from his waistcoat pocket. Holmes passed May his powerful lens with the aid of which the Cashier examined every part of the note in great detail.

  Petch continued to wring his hands in deep anguish. His cheerless demeanour portrayed clearly his inner fears for surely outright ruin now stared him in the face. He and his business were disgraced, and they evidently would lose not only the irreplaceable business of The Bank of England, but of every other patron who learned of the scandal. Such a dismal conclusion, to me at least, appeared quite inescapable now that the matter must inevitably pass into the vulgar realm of the public domain.

  Mr May looked up from the banknote. Calmly he said: “Well Mr Holmes, I am sure you recognise that this is a well-nigh perfect ten pound note; the cipher and serial number are completely nonsensical of course, but will appear quite authentic to the layman; they are correctly placed and printed, and I have not the slightest doubt that any number of these... things... will pass into circulation with the greatest of ease.” He glanced at Petch, now bent over with his face sunk in his hands.

  “But then that is only to be expected of the work of the finest master engraver in the country, perhaps in all of Europe. It seems we have five days before disaster befalls us. Now do not misapprehend me Mr Holmes; I am conversant with your unparalleled reputation for solving those problems which are too obscure, or too delicate to entrust to the regular forces of law, but for this matter to become common knowledge is a risk I feel I may not take.

  “You say the villains have moved, yet you know not where.

  “If I understand the matter aright then you cannot hunt them, for you know not whom to hunt; you cannot locate them for you do not know where to look; the police cannot arrest them for they do not know whom they should arrest; and if they flee the country, the port authorities cannot seize them, for they do not know who to seize; unless I am much mistaken Mr Holmes, lacking a description, a name and a location – save for this sole reference to an anonymous private bank account – we are powerless to deny them! How can you be confident in your assertion? Should you fail to locate them within the time they have set, the consequences would be perfectly unthinkable. No, the notion is quite insupportable; I am afraid, Mr Holmes that we shall have to pay the ransom; staggering though it is, it is a mere fraction of the costs that will be occasioned if this quantity of fraudulent money circulates freely.

  “There is no other way. I shall immediately inform the Governor and we shall seek the permission of Lord Salisbury and, most likely, the Chancellor of the Exchequer too, Mr Goschen.

  “I confidently anticipate they will concur with me and authorise the transfer of two hundred and fifty thousand pounds to the account number indicated upon this despicable banknote; only thus may we be assured that the matter will be drawn to a swift and, most importantly, a discreet conclusion.” There was a prolonged silence.

  “I see” replied Holmes laconically. “Evidently, expenditure of this vast and unprecedented scale is of no great moment to The Bank!”

  “My mind is made up Mr Holmes – we must meet their demands!”

  My colleague was silent for some minutes. Sherlock Holmes was quite altered when he was deeply immersed in a problem as intractable as this was proving to be. Had one only ever encountered him as the silent thinker, the supreme master of inexorable logic, the hermit-like resident of 221B Baker Street, one might at that moment perfectly easily have failed to recognise him as one and the same man. His face was flushed and intense, brows drawn tight in dark concentration and his eyes burned out from beneath them with an unrelenting hardness. His shoulders were hunched, his thin lips compressed in a tight line.

  I was upon the point of suggesting that Mr May’s proposal, while costly, seemed likely to be the most prudent path, when I realised that Holmes’ mind was now so completely concentrated upon the matter that any comment of mine would be unheeded by him, indeed, would likely be an irritant. I remained silent.

  He looked up at the Chief Cashier. “Very well Mr May; it seems that despite your attendance here, you prefer to rely upon the counsel of your own dread, rather than the considered advice of one who may modestly claim to have resolved many far more delicate and intractable problems than this, Gordian though the knot may be.

  “Should you doubt my credentials, I am sure enquiries could be made.”

  May stared levelly at Holmes. In a low, toneless voice he replied “Oh they have been Mr Holmes, believe me they already have been...”

  Holmes closed his eyes and frowning darkly, he squeezed his temples between the slim white fingers and thumb of his left hand, like a pianist spanning an octave. Abruptly he looked up at the Chief Cashier, shrugged resignedly, smiled amiably enough and returning to his natural manner said “Very well Mr May; by all means proceed, a perfectly splendid notion! I may take it, then, that our business here is done? That is well, for I have several other pressing matters to attend, for clients who generally prefer to act upon my counsel.” He paused and then added, as if as an afterthought:

  “However, I most strongly advise that you should authorise a far greater sum of at least, say, half a million pounds, perhaps even more, and pretty briskly too, for you will have need of it. That advice is with my compliments.”

  “But Holmes” I interjected, “the demand is only for a quarter of a million pounds!” He glanced at me, somewhat coolly and addressed his audience. “Gentlemen, if you truly believe that the payment of this ransom will be the end of the matter, and that you may expect a tidily wrapped, prompt delivery of the stolen items to Threadneedle Street, perhaps accompanied by a gracious letter of thanks, then you are entirely deluding yourselves!” He stood and commenced pacing agitatedly to and fro, his hands clasped behind his back.

  “Understand me in this Mr May, an extortion of this vast scale is never a singular event, but rather the commencement of an insidious – possibly endless – process and I guarantee you Sir, that if this payment is made, there will undoubtedly be a further demand and no return of your plates or paper! Trust me in this matter Mr May, for I have some deep experience of the breed. They will not cease their demands until the object of their hold over the victim is retrieved or nullified – or they are arrested. Only then are they rendered impotent.

  “These are not men of honour; you may just as well, with precisely the same pointless consequence, beneficently gift the money to the first impoverished beggar whom next you encounter, for assuredly you will achieve nothing more by it – save to place The Bank in abject thrall until such time as you are compelled at great expense, to withdraw all ten pound white notes now in circulation.

  “And even so, your adversaries may well yet circulate the fraudulent notes at a greater rate than you can recall the authentic ones, while remaining continuously on the run!

  “And finally, do not lose sight of the fact that a young woman has been most brutally murdered and but for his quite astonishing constitution, Mr Solomon Warburg would, of a certainty, be her cold companion in death upon the mortuary slab!”

  At the conclusion of these hard, plain words the august Mr Frank May, Chief Cashier of The Bank of England appeared to be struggling in a churning maelstrom of indecision; he looked exactly what he had become – a man of high business affairs, entirely accustomed to wielding great authority – but now quite powerless to do anything but to yield to evil circumstance far beyond his control, and to accept Holmes’ counsel.

  Abruptly Frank May stood and drew himself to his full height. Grimly he said “Very well Mr Holmes. If what you say is corre
ct, it would appear that The Bank has no option but to place its entire confidence, and that of the British economy, in your abilities. I pray that they may be adequate to the need.

  “Do you believe you can apprehend the perpetrators in five days? Do you have even the faintest notion where they may now be?” All turned toward the lean detective.

  His eyes were closed in concentrated thought, one thin pale finger to his pursed lips in the rigid, frozen posture I knew so well – it generally signalled the fact that he comprehended rather more than did his audience and, indeed, than he was yet prepared to reveal. He looked up, a tiny flicker of a smile on his lips. “In answer to your two questions Mr May, then yes, I am confident I will resolve your dilemma within the time allotted.

  “As to your second, no I do not yet know precisely where they are, but I know something of almost equal value...” Petch and May looked hopefully at Holmes.

  “I am confident I know where they are not!” And upon this somewhat cryptic note he stood once more, a clear portent that the conference was at an end.

  * * *

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The Smell of Money

  After the door closed behind our guests, Holmes sank back in his chair and was silent for many minutes. I knew better than to press him at this critical juncture, for certainly he would divulge such thoughts as he felt ready to share at the moment of his choosing. I returned to my study of the map of the Isle of Dogs and its environs, striving to find some clue, perhaps some other noisome, out-of-the-way place where the villains might have gone to ground in order to continue with their wicked work.

  It struck me that the speedy overnight removal of a heavy printing press and a large quantity of security paper was a not inconsiderable undertaking, even with several burly men and, I surmised, certainly a heavy wagon and strong horses. Surely they would not flee further than necessary? But looking at the map once more, I realised just what a vast warren of rookeries this place was – even within a span of just a few miles it embraced Rotherhithe and the Redriff Marsh, Stepney, Limehouse and Poplar, Greenwich and Plaistow with its great wasteland of Abbey Marsh, and southward, Peckham, Bermondsey and Deptford; it certainly seemed to me that to find a needle in an entire field of haystacks, in an entire country of hay-fields would pose a somewhat lesser challenge. And based on what subtle clue, I pondered, was Holmes so confident as to state that he would locate the press, the thieves and the priceless plates and paper within the allotted five days, perhaps even less?