Sherlock Holmes at the Breakfast Table

by L. F. E. Coombs

  ‘You know, Watson, I am convinced that the K. Stoff company is up to no good. If they are not making an unusual type of marmalade then they must be preparing something else. We shall have to take a look inside Edgar’s factory extension. I am afraid it’s going to be another “dark lantern night” for us.’

  That evening we decided to have supper at an Italian restaurant. We had an interesting meal. Holmes was intrigued by a dish the manager recommended. The dish of strange rubbery white strips, of I know not what, included a thick white sauce into which were added pieces of ham. It was passable. For my part, I would rather have had a more familiar dish.

  ‘Delicious,’ commented Holmes as he swept up every last bit on his fork. ‘Now why call this dish carbonara? I suppose that it is derived from the Italian for carbon, although the resemblance with that mineral is singularly remote.’

  At that moment I recalled the case of the strange events in Naples that had been investigated by Holmes at the request of the Italian government. ‘Of course, Holmes, remember the Naples affair: the secret society of Naples, the Carbonari, or something like that.’

  ‘Ah, yes, I remember and I also recall the exaggerated account you published of my involvement.’

  We ate in silence until Holmes suddenly exclaimed in a loud voice that made the other diners turn their heads. ‘K. Stoff could be a contraction of Kohlenstoff, the German for carbon! The company and its strange apparatus has something to do with carbon.’

  Choosing a dark night, we made another train journey from Euston station. We hired a cab at Watford and Holmes took the precaution of giving the driver the address of one of the houses scattered along the road leading to the agricultural machinery factory. Holmes had chosen an address at random so that the cabman would not be aware of our intention to visit the factory. We paid off the cab and instructed the driver to be back there in an hour’s time. Once the cab had turned and gone back to the station, we walked the short distance to the factory. It was well secured by bars and bolts and it took some time for Holmes to effect an entrance. Inside, by the light of my carefully shielded lantern, we were able to make out a massive brick structure. Passing through the brickwork was a metal cylinder to which a pipe was connected. Another steel or iron cylinder stood vertically up through the middle of the structure. To one side was a small steam engine and its boiler. We were able to determine that it drove a hydraulic pump.

  ‘What do you make of all this?’ whispered Holmes.

  I could only reply, ‘Not much. It is most certainly an apparatus that involves liquor and hydraulics.’

  ‘A singular fact, Watson, is the absence of a chimney,’ said he, pointing toward the roof.

  ‘Yes, that is indeed strange. From my limited knowledge of things mechanical, I believe most factories usually have a large tall chimney. The only chimney here is that small one for the steam engine.’

  We searched carefully for any documents or reports that might indicate the nature of the peculiar apparatus. There was a complete absence of any. The only thing of note was a small blackboard on the side of the brick and steel structure, on which were scrawled some numbers and words and a recent date.

  ‘Now what can we make of this?’ whispered Holmes as he made a copy of the blackboard’s information. He then had another look around and said, ‘Well I’ve seen enough. It is time we were going.’

  As he said that we heard a door open and a voice saying, ‘You fool, you forgot to lock the door.’

  ‘I did not forget to lock it,’ said another.

  The gaslight was lit. Holmes seized my arm and pulled me into the shadows.

  ‘Not a sound,’ he whispered, and we carefully made our way toward the door. I was not careful enough. My foot struck something which made a noise.

  ‘Who’s there? Come out.’

  Whoever it was followed up their demand with a shot from a pistol, the bullet from which hit some metal and went buzzing past my head.

  We made for the door and then ran as fast as my weak leg would allow.

  ‘There’s the cab, Watson. Come on. Come on.’

  Further shots came from our pursuers as we tumbled into the cab. The cabman needed no encouragement to whip up his horse and away we went. At the station we left him with two sovereigns and the admonition to say nothing of what had happened.

  On our return to Baker Street we studied the note Holmes had made of the words and numbers we had seen.

  ‘The date is obvious, Watson, and the words “gals in” and “grams out” must indicate a process of some type. It could be that so many gallons of liquor produce so many grams of something. Of course, that something is a solid substance, not a liquid, otherwise the board would have referred to a liquid measure. More puzzling is the number six thousand followed by the capital letter K. Is that K for carbon?’

  Immediately I realized that the K stood for Kelvin, not for carbon.

  ‘No, Holmes, I remember from something I read recently that K refers not to carbon. I believe it refers to degrees on the recently devised Kelvin scale of temperature. Six thousand is as hot as the sun. I’m sure I am right.’

  ‘Of course you are. That is a most important clue, yet it is an enigma. Such a colossal temperature leaves many questions unanswered. Another singular fact is the large quantity of coal delivered. Far more, I imagine, than needed by the small steam engine.’

  Anxious to exercise an idea that had formed in my mind, I suggested to Holmes, ‘Could there be a connection, or is it just a coincidence, between your attention to carbon and all the coal that is being used?’

  ‘Brilliant, Watson, brilliant. Of course we have it. Coal is carbon. The temperature of the sun and the application of extreme pressure taken together are what scientists have been trying to use to form artificial diamonds. Igniting the orange liquor provides the required temperature. The extreme pressure is produced by the hydraulic equipment. Diamonds are the answer. Of course, on the face of it, they are just the concern of the world of precious gems. Although I do not pretend to understand fully the intricacies of the market, my understanding is that the cost of diamond mining, the annual output of the mines and the market value of diamonds is of great concern to many. Produce enough of them to the required quality and you make a fortune. That is until you have upset the diamond market to such a degree that the price becomes as low as that of a lump of coal. The diamond world will react quickly to stop the company’s scheme once we report on our investigation.’

  Although I am not a lawyer, I instantly realized that we had not been authorized by anyone to investigate the manufacture of artificial diamonds.

  ‘You know, Holmes, if we disclose our knowledge about the diamond-making apparatus we might be accused of illegal entry. To start with, has any law been broken? I doubt that there’s one that says “Thou shall not make diamonds”. This is a commercial matter in which we have become involved by chance.’

  Holmes said nothing for a minute or two while he thought about my assessment of our role in the affair. He then said, ‘I intend to place the facts we have gathered into Mycroft’s hands. He’ll know what to do with them. So do not concern yourself. Mycroft will not divulge the source of the information we are about to send him.’

  Holmes was able to provide our client with sufficient evidence to bring an action for nuisance against the owner of the garden laboratory. The case was not defended and we learnt later that the unsightly buildings and, presumably, the apparatus had been removed. It transpired that previously the people devoted to producing artificial diamonds had been conducting their experiments elsewhere and had had to move following complaints similar to those made by Mr Prendergast. Mycroft took over the investigation of the diamond-making factory and nothing more was said or heard about our illegal nocturnal activities.

  And that was the end of the affair, or so I assumed.

  One morning I was in that conscious, semi-conscious state that we all experience at the end of a night’s sleep: we are neither awake nor
asleep. Afterwards we are never sure whether we were dreaming or lying in bed experiencing voices and images that seemed very real.

  Whatever state of consciousness I was in, it was violently interrupted by a loud bang. For a few seconds I struggled to distinguish between a dream and reality. I leapt out of bed and rushed down into the sitting room. The bang was obviously not a dream. The room was full of smoke. As it began to clear, I became aware that what was usually a not very tidy or orderly room was in a state of complete chaos. The pictures hung askew, the carpet was strewn with glass and pieces of paper. The wallpaper was blotched and scarred. And then I realized that the crumpled heap of dark cloth in the corner was moving. It was groaning.

  ‘Holmes, are you all right? Let me help you up. Now sit down. Let me look.’

  He slumped back in his chair. His face was blackened. His dressing gown was torn and his hands and face were burnt and lacerated. Instinctively, as a doctor I set about tending his wounds. After wiping off the dirt and bits of debris, I was able to assure him that he had not suffered any serious damage.

  Meanwhile Mrs Hudson had appeared at the doorway. Her face was the colour of whitewash. ‘Do you know what happened?’ I asked.

  ‘I’ve no idea, Doctor Watson. I was about to bring up Mr Holmes’ shaving water when there was just a big bang and all the pots rattled.’

  To alleviate her shock by keeping her occupied, I asked her to fetch hot water and towels.

  After attending to his injuries I was able to assure Mrs Hudson by saying, ‘Nothing too serious. A few cuts and light burns. He’ll survive. Now help me to get him into his bed.’

  After about an hour, Holmes revived sufficiently to tell me that he had been up all night experimenting with the orange liquor. Obviously, it was far more unstable than he had anticipated.

  The Gong

  In which adherence to a habit led to murder.

  As I have often mentioned, many of my accounts of the adventures of Sherlock Holmes start at the breakfast table and the arrival of a letter. However, the case of the gong started in the mid-afternoon when Holmes was looking forward to an evening at a violin concert and my wife Mary and I had been invited to visit some friends.

  I was just about to take my leave when Holmes’ brother Mycroft entered.

  ‘Hello, Mycroft, what brings you to this part of town?’

  ‘Sherlock, your help is needed in solving the murder of a cabinet minister,’ was the somewhat abrupt reply. When he mentioned the name I was shocked. The minister was a well-liked member of the government and was held in esteem by the political world in general.

  ‘I read nothing in the papers this morning about a murder, Mycroft.’

  ‘It happened last evening about six. For a number of reasons those concerned have been told to say little about the event. We are trying to keep it from the newspapers. Now can you take on the case? If so, then it is most imperative that you travel down to the deceased’s house in Newton St Botolph this afternoon.’

  ‘I suppose I cannot refuse such an important investigation.’

  ‘Now anticipating your favourable response I have already telegraphed the inspector of police who is in charge of the case at Newton St Botolph to book two rooms at the Station Hotel. Two rooms in the event that you wanted Dr Watson to accompany you.’

  ‘You’ve a visit to friends arranged for this evening, Watson,’ said Holmes.

  ‘It was not a definite appointment. If you want me to join you I shall let Mary know and ask her to convey my apologies,’ I replied.

  ‘Good. Now, Mycroft, I anticipate that you have even looked up the times of the trains from Paddington to the west.’

  ‘Indeed I have. It is now 5.30 so you can just pack and make the 6.30. It is due into Newton St Botolph at 8.20. Rather late. Nevertheless, I am sure you will agree that the sooner you are able to examine the scene of the crime the better. I instructed the police to leave the body and everything in the room untouched. You will be met by an Inspector Doswell.’

  We sped west as fast as the Great Western could manage. At times Holmes calculated that we were progressing at fifty miles in every hour. I regretted that I had had no time at Paddington to walk forward to find out the class of locomotive. After the affair of the missing van I had begun to take an even greater interest in railways. We arrived at our destination thirty minutes late: I was not surprised because the Great Western was not noted for its adherence to the public timetable. The inspector was waiting for us on the platform. We left our bags with the hall porter at the Station Hotel. After a five-minute walk, we reached the minister’s house.

  There were many lights on in the palatial mansion. Inspector Doswell led us into a large room with a bay window. A greater part of each wall was lined with glass-fronted bookcases. The minister’s desk, in the middle of the room, faced the window. The body was slumped forward across the desk. For a minute or two Holmes stood looking around without saying anything. After a few minutes he then asked the inspector, ‘Is this the position in which the body was found and, I trust, none of the things on the desk have been disturbed, including this large potted plant?’

  ‘Nothing moved, sir, other than that plant,’ replied the inspector. ‘It was moved away by the police surgeon in order to examine the bullet wound to the chest and then replaced back in the position it is now. Everything on the table is as I found it yesterday evening.’

  ‘A long piece of string would be helpful at this stage, Inspector.’

  When the string was found, Holmes asked me to raise the victim so that he was sitting upright. I then held one end against the side of the body level with the heart. The other end was stretched out past the desk lamp, whose glass shade had been shattered, until it reached the side of a narrow door that interrupted the line of the bookcases.

  ‘I think you will agree, Inspector, that the murderer’s gun was fired from some point along this string or through the opening of this door. The door is now shut. Was it open when the minister’s body was first found?’

  ‘I’m not sure about that, Mr Holmes.’

  ‘Who came into the room immediately after the shot was heard? That is, I assume it was heard.’

  ‘Mr Waterstone, the minister’s secretary, discovered the body. He was in the next room and as the door in between was open he could not fail to hear the noise of the gun being fired. He told me that he sprang up and rushed into this room. However, I didn’t ask him about the narrow door between the bookcases.’

  Holmes went to the small door and pulled it open. ‘I see that this leads to the conservatory and is most likely the way the murderer came, and there is another door leading out into the garden.’

  We went into the conservatory. It was narrow and had benches on each side on which stood large exotic plants in pots. Against the doorpost was a large lily to which Holmes paid particular attention.

  We returned to the hotel around midnight. My sleep was frequently interrupted by the sounds of trains rushing through the station and by a locomotive that sounded as if it was having a fearsome battle with some goods wagons.

  In the morning I joined Holmes in the dining room for breakfast.

  I ventured to ask, ‘Did you sleep well?’

  ‘Excellent night’s sleep. How was yours? No, don’t tell me. From your pallid look I see that the activities of the railway conflicted with your repose.’

  After breakfast we talked to the minister’s secretary.

  ‘How long have you been with the minister?’ was Holmes’ opening question.

  ‘Just over three years.’

  ‘In that time were you aware of any particular trouble?’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Was the minister afraid of anyone? I mean of course in the physical sense rather than the political.’

  ‘As far as I knew, none. Of course he had a number of vocal opponents in the House, but then away from the debates they were among his circle of friends.’

  ‘Now, the minister’s d
aughter, could she help us?’

  At that question I became aware of a change in the secretary’s demeanour.

  ‘Obviously, my wife is very distraught and I would rather not have her questioned.’

  ‘Oh! So you married his daughter. When was that?’

  ‘A year ago. At first he was very much against a marriage. Not just to me but to anyone.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘Arthur Hastings, my predecessor, had compromised Isabella. It was very embarrassing and I would rather not discuss the matter in any detail.’

  ‘So presumably he was dismissed for making unwanted advances to the lady who is now your wife?’

  ‘Well, not just for that. I understand he was involved in dealings in the City of which her father did not approve. When I fell in love with Isabella we realized that events had made him averse to any man wanting her hand so we had to bide our time.’

  ‘Do you know what happened to Arthur Hastings?’

  ‘I regret I cannot help you. I was told that he left without saying where he was going.’

  At that moment a number of striking clocks began to chime the hour. As many of us do out of habit, Holmes took out his half-hunter, glanced at it, and replaced it in his pocket. Then he took it out again, looked at the clock on the mantelshelf and frowned.

  ‘Mr Waterstone, can you recall any unusual happenings up to the time of the tragic event?’ asked Holmes.

  ‘Well, it was a typical day. There were only two visitors in the morning and none in the afternoon. That is, until someone unexpectedly forced his way into my office followed by the parlour maid, whose protestations he had obviously ignored. He insisted on seeing the minister. I told him that no one could be seen without an appointment. At that he became abusive. His raised voice caused my father-in-law to come to the door. When he saw the man he said, “That’s all right, Simon, I will see this gentleman”. They went in and although the door was shut, I could hear that they both sounded very angry. I was unable to make out what they were arguing about. After about ten minutes the visitor stormed out of the room and before I could escort him to the front door, he had gone.’