The Whole Art of Detection

by Lyndsay Faye

  When I turned round, the sight I had for days been half-dreading and half-expecting met my eyes. Holmes stood at his desk, long limbs wrapped in his oldest dressing gown, holding the polished morocco leather case I could never glimpse without experiencing the strongest urge to throw it out the window, as it contained a tiny medical syringe used exclusively for unhealthful substances. Its loathsome shape never made an appearance when Holmes was working or in good spirits; its shadow haunted me, however, every time he slipped into despondence. Upon his glancing at me, my friend’s eyes narrowed appraisingly, lending to his countenance that aloof and uncannily calculating expression which inevitably causes one to feel like a particle trapped in one of his microscope slides.

  “For heaven’s sake, my dear Holmes,” I protested, setting the bottle heavily upon our sideboard.

  “Apologies, but to what exactly are you referring, my good man?” he replied lazily.

  “I should have thought that was obvious.”

  “Come now, I am no clairvoyant—spell it out for me.”

  “I refer to the clear indication that you are about to embark upon an activity which will only chip away at the very characteristic that makes you unique.”

  “Everyone is unique, surely.”

  “Not the way you are,” I insisted, and for some reason the assertion, though admittedly ill-phrased, altogether pained me.

  “You’ve just delivered the exact dictionary definition of the word ‘unique,’ I hope you’re aware.”

  “Holmes, it’s New Year’s Eve.”

  “Watson, despite the fact you have chided me in the past for having deliberately erased facets of everyday living from my mind to make room for bicycle tire patterns and odorless fatal poisons, I assure you that I can read a calendar.”

  “You are deliberately needling me.”

  “It isn’t my fault that you’re uttering a string of obvious non sequiturs. I suppose next you’re about to observe that that is a wicker-backed armchair.”

  I took a calming breath. “Fine. May I request that you refrain from dosing yourself?”

  “Oh, come, it isn’t as if I’ve any choice in the matter!” he cried. “For weeks now, nothing has taken place in this wretched city of any appreciable interest, never mind a genuinely stimulating effect upon the faculties. These people wandering aimlessly about beyond our windows—think of the nefarious schemes, the harrowing choices, the miraculous happenstances that ought to take place hourly in a city of millions of beings crammed up against one another, and so far as I can tell from the latest editions, their imaginations extend no further than to marry each other, assault each other, or otherwise degrade each other. Where is the scope, where is the creative spark, what is the point of a proficiency like mine if it cannot be put to any use?”

  “It has been invaluable in the past and it will be again soon. You must trust in this, and have a little patience, Holmes.”

  “Patience?” he scoffed. “I am unique, you tell me, and more so than everyone else—which is a grammatical impossibility, by the way, and I have heard rumor that you dabble in published prose from time to time, but never mind—very well, I am unique. If my fate is to be caged indoors staring at household furnishings, utterly sterile news reports, and an Army pensioner reading yellow-backed novels a child would dismiss as overly sensational, allow me at least some clarification of my thought processes.”

  My jaw tensed, but I soldiered on. “Setting aside the rest, which doesn’t bear discussion, temporary clarification of your thought processes with after-effects of gradual but sure damage hardly seems to me the best method of ringing in the New Year, particularly in the case of a man who lives by his legendary wits,” I replied tartly, stung despite my familiarity with Holmes’s black humors. “But in any case, I’ll leave you to it. Apparently the respective vistas within our parlor have grown equally distasteful to the pair of us, so I shall take myself out of the picture and solve both of our problems simultaneously. A happy New Year to you.”

  As infrequently as Holmes and I quarrel, and as comprehensively as I esteem my distant and masterful friend, I was in that moment desirous of nothing more than sharing a quiet pint with a fellow creature better suited to polite conversation and seasonal cheer. It felt nothing like a retreat, but rather like a tactical decision to approach the fray from a position of greater advantage and at a more salubrious time. In fact, I was already returning my hands to my dirtied gloves, wondering whether I should patronize one of our local watering holes or hail a cab to escape the tedium of our niche of Westminster, when a commanding tenor halted me.

  “Stop.”

  I hazarded a glance back. Holmes was staring speculatively at the wine bottle, arms crossed and his head proudly tilted to one side like a sleek raven’s. Since I could not imagine what he was about to say, I waited in silence.

  “Eaker’s supply of Imperial Tokay is superior to most, but the best I ever encountered was hand-selected by a wine merchant named Vamberry. He sold remarkable vintages and indeed shipped them the world over. The highest potentates of no fewer than ten sovereign principalities consulted with him when seeking rare specimens for their private collections.”

  “Yes, doubtless the wine likewise fails to meet your high standards. Good night, Holmes.”

  “He was robbed of a beautiful set of Medieval sheet music illuminations, the pride of his life, indeed the most precious objects on earth so far as he was concerned, and he asked me to find them.”

  “How very fortunate for you, if not for him. If you’ll excuse me—”

  “Would you like to hear about it?”

  My temper had been tested so far already that I might have taken umbrage at this laughably transparent ploy to lure me into the role of captive audience, a mere prop for my friend’s considerable ego, had it not been for two things. First, I can never elicit accounts of Holmes’s cases prior to our acquaintance save when he is in a particular frame of mind, and such tales interest me extremely. When I ask to hear about them, he is as shy and elusive as a sheltered maiden, and when I least expect the miraculous to take place, he will launch into accounts of his fledgling career that are every bit as rousing as the finest adventure tales at which he so openly sneers. Whether he is truly reticent or deliberately coy I do not know, but the effect is identical: I thrill at the mere thought of those lost tales. As for the second factor, Holmes replaced the morocco case in the desk drawer and banged it shut, striding to the sideboard and pulling two wineglasses from the shelf. He dangled them by their stems, watching them catch the firelight whilst wearing an uncertain expression that looked very odd on him.

  “I should prefer not to lose your company, provided you can tolerate mine,” he said quietly.

  “Tolerating you is a skill at which I’m rather deft.” I slowly drew off my gloves again, for while my friend is often so abrasive, he is seldom so aware of the fact. The mere cognizance that he had all but driven me out of my own flat on New Year’s Eve was a sign of improvement, and I cherish such budding suggestions that spring will come as it always does. “I can at least assure you that an account of your early work would be very tolerable indeed.”

  He ventured a flicker of a smile which failed to reach his eyes. It was, once more, better than nothing. “You’re far too kind.”

  “Nonsense. You already know that I love to hear of your first cases.”

  “No, I meant that sentiment in the general rather than the specific sense. But my blushes. I did gather that you enjoyed them.”

  “They’re very engaging. That is, provided you don’t plan to reduce the anecdote to a dry mathematical diagram, or a lecture in Latin on the practical application of logical abstractions, I shall be content,” I teased, settling into my armchair.

  This time his smile, though rueful, was lingering. “A touch, a touch, I do confess it, Watson. Well, we shall see what I can do to spin a yarn for my
own biographer. Make yourself comfortable, and thaw your feet, and I’ll present to you the facts of the case.”

  Passing me a now-full glass of Tokay, Holmes curled himself into his own chair like a diffident feline. He balanced the measure of golden liquid upon his knee and peered into it as if divining a fortune. When he finally took a sip, his face cleared a little in surprise. I was, I confess, amused.

  “It may not be from this Vamberry chap’s establishment,” I ventured, savoring the complexity of the flavor coating my tongue, “but it will serve.”

  “By Jove, it certainly will.”

  “Mr. Eaker insisted that it was a superb selection.”

  “I shall pop round tomorrow and clean out his remaining stock for us.”

  “That would be admirable,” I owned, knowing an apology when I heard one. “You were telling me a tale, however.”

  “Yes, of course.” He cleared his throat, ever the showman. “After I left college, as you know, I had it firmly fixed in my mind that I should make my living solving the conundrums which so often seem indecipherable to the earnest but unimaginative men of the Metropolitan Police.”

  “And with some success from the outset.”

  “Some. Unfortunately, no one had ever heard of me, and my researches hardly fattened my bank account, so that by the time you met me—the case in question took place mere weeks before, in February of eighteen eighty-one—my financial outlook was less sanguine than a gentleman likes to contemplate. It had, in fact, reached the level of personal embarrassment.”

  “You’ll recall I was in similar straits myself.”

  “Yes,” said he, the ghost of an impish light dawning in his grey irises. “Forgive me for mentioning it, Watson, but your skills as a medico were rather wasted upon mending aged handkerchiefs.”

  “Of course you noticed that,” I sighed.

  “It was no reflection on your neatness, merely one upon your indifferent thread choice. My own stabs at frugality would have been hardly less obvious to the trained observer. In any case, a fellow who fancies his digs a private practice likes to have a small selection of spirits on hand, for himself as well as his clients, and I soon identified Mr. Uriah Vamberry as the most reasonably priced vendor in the area despite his fame. Every month or so, I would pay him a call, and after several such occasions he came to take an interest in me. I suppose I must have been a bit of a melancholy figure, callow and bookish to a fault, and old Vamberry often engaged me upon the subject of my highly eccentric lines of study.”

  “If you bothered to answer, you must have liked him.”

  “I suppose I did.” Holmes swirled his wine, pondering. “He loved music and the rare, mysterious artifacts associated with song. Whenever I spoke of my violin dabblings, he became particularly voluble—his prized possession was a Medieval musical codex in six pages, embellished in the most fantastical array of peacock greens and purples and sapphires, meticulously framed and kept in the back room away from harmful light, hung above the rarest of the distilled spirits as if crowning the collection. The inking was phenomenally detailed, and the gilt work dazzling. It notated a rondet de carole by none other than Adam de la Halle and, though dated in the fifteenth century long after his death, was of such exquisite rendering that I never set foot in the shop without devoting a few minutes of my own attention to Vamberry’s prized possession.

  “He would have intrigued you, Watson. He was a cunning little chap, stooped over as if he were perennially inhaling the essence of a rare vintage, with a pale face lined with countless fine wrinkles like a spreading network of cobwebs, and great blue eyes staring out from a pair of silver spectacles. In addition to his more exalted clients, the scholars from the British Museum all consulted him upon their wine cellars, for he’d an expert palate and fair prices, while I relied upon his expertise and good nature to supply my decanters with something more respectable than gin.

  “On one such visit—as I said, less than a month prior to being introduced to the estimable fellow who would make my name known internationally—I arrived outside his shop to find Vamberry greatly upset, pacing the pavement before his window. It was obvious that a blow of some significance had befallen him. His usually papery complexion was painted with furious spots of color, his spindly limbs trembled, and as I approached, he suddenly leaned against the brick wall.

  “ ‘Mr. Vamberry, whatever is troubling you?’ I inquired urgently.

  “ ‘I cannot credit it, I simply cannot!’ he cried without greeting me. ‘That I should be abused in such a way!’

  “ ‘But what has happened?’

  “ ‘I have been robbed, Mr. Holmes! Cruelly and shamelessly robbed!’

  “As you can well guess, Watson, my ears pricked up considerably at this news. For Vamberry had often been kind to me, unsociable as I am, and here was a chance to attempt repaying him.”

  “And to involve yourself in a crime,” I could not help but remark shrewdly.

  Sighing, Holmes passed his fingers over the bridge of his nose. “I don’t deny that motive, though I didn’t invent the other.”

  “Of course not.”

  “But I don’t begrudge your getting a bit of your own back.”

  I shook my head. “Detection is your passion, not merely your profession, and noting that is not a pejorative.”

  “Oh—I beg your pardon. I seem at odds with everything and everyone tonight.”

  “I know, and my apologies for interrupting. Pray continue.”

  “ ‘Mr. Vamberry, when did you find your codex was missing?’ I questioned. ‘Surely that is what’s been stolen, for you have never spoken so feelingly of even the rarest vintage, and the loss of a single day’s till would hardly trouble you this much.’

  “ ‘I’m not meant to be here today at all!’ he told me in a fierce whisper. ‘I wanted something a bit unusual to share with old friends this evening, and I stopped by for a bottle, and—heavens, it was horrible, my first glimpse of the back room.’

  “Obviously, Watson, my first thought was of Vamberry’s two clerks, Evers and Manente—for Vamberry’s hours were quite regular, and his shop was full of valuable wares and thus locked in the most secure manner by night. The place was a veritable fortress, with iron bars across both the ground- and the first-floor windows, a double locking mechanism on the front door, and a fenced back area with a very heavy padlock upon the rear entrance. It seemed that either one employee, or the two of them in concert, had taken advantage of a felicitous opportunity, and I hinted as much.

  “ ‘Yes, I’ve just now sent a lad to fetch a constable,’ said he, wringing his badly palsied hands. ‘My clerks are within, in my office. Both claim not to have set foot in that room today at all, having had no cause to do so. They are both clever, quick boys, just as you are, and I have been teaching them all I know of oenology—I cannot bear to think one of them has betrayed me.’

  “ ‘I may not be much experienced,’ I told him eagerly, ‘but I have often seen what is invisible to others, and I should be happy to lend you my eyes, with your permission, before the official police arrive. The sooner evidence is gathered, the better chance we have of recovering your property.’

  “Vamberry readily agreed, and we made it our business first to check all the windows and locks, which showed no sign of having been tampered with. Then we hastened to the display room where the robbery had occurred, lined floor to ceiling with the palest golden brandies, cognacs, and liqueurs. The six empty frames sat neatly stacked upon the polished wooden floor, and the sight of them caused poor Vamberry to muffle a small sound of distress. Save for the missing codex, despite my best efforts, I could see nothing out of the ordinary whatsoever, not a bottle askew nor a scratch on the shelving, which again suggested to me that the culprit was neither rushed nor unfamiliar with his surroundings. Vamberry’s establishment was always immaculately dusted, unfortunately, so I’d no help from
that quarter either.

  “But all my instincts informed me that the theft had been carefully planned. I began to fear in earnest that the codex was irretrievable, for if either clerk had removed the sheets and then made use of an accomplice posing as a customer in the other’s absence, the confederate could simply have carried the papers away in a briefcase with no one the wiser.

  “Bending to examine the floor, I grew still more discouraged, for the weather had been cold but clear and no impressions of muddied tracks were to be found. In fact, a single piece of data presented itself, and little enough to go on: it was a tiny scrap of loose cotton wool, barely more than a thread, and I pocketed this with every intention of showing it to the Yarders when they arrived.

  “Swiftly, I also searched the front room, which was where the bottles of lesser value were displayed and the register sat proudly on a mahogany counter. When I rummaged through the contents of the dustbin beneath, imagine my surprise when I discovered considerably more cotton wool, masses of it, and damp to the touch. I hadn’t the faintest notion what to make of this, but filed it away for after I had questioned my suspects.”

  I had at first been fighting twinges of lingering vexation, but was by now entirely engrossed in my companion’s story. “As you say, this all looks very dark for one of the clerks.”

  “Granted, I was determined not to disregard other possibilities, but it is foolishness rather than broad-mindedness not to examine the most obvious suspects first.”

  “How did you approach them?”

  Taking a demure sip of Tokay, his deep-set eyes regaining a hint of their natural mischievousness, Holmes answered, “I solicited their help, of course.”

  Smiling, I raised my glass. “Recruitment—the best interrogation technique known to the independent investigator.”

  “Exactly, Watson! I asked Vamberry if he could hold any arriving police at bay whilst I spoke to them briefly, each in private. He was agreeable and at once led me to the office. The senior clerk, a Mr. Aloysius Evers, had been with him for some five years, and sat quietly filling out orders for their European suppliers. Meanwhile Mr. Antonio Manente, the junior clerk of some two months’ standing who manned the stockroom, paced along one wall like a wildcat trapped in a cage. The demeanors of the two men could not have been more diametrically opposed.