Holmes pointed to the card on the desk. ‘No successful shopkeeper will allow his supply of cards to run out, or dispose of those remaining. Mr Buckle’s business was unquestionably successful and that dog-eared scrap is plainly the last card in his possession. I infer that he has not been trading actively for some little while, an assumption reinforced by the olfactory evidence.’
I stared at him. ‘I do not understand.’
‘By the nature of his business, a tobacconist carries with him everywhere the aroma of the products that he sells. Inevitably, the strong smell of the coarsest shag impregnates his clothing, masking the fine perfume of more delicate blends. Yet unless my nostrils deceive me, I could detect only the subtle whiff of an Arcadian Mixture accompanying Mr Buckle into this room. That happens to be, as I recall, the brand he smokes himself. Ergo, he has not been trading for some time.’
The tobacconist shook his head in astonishment. ‘Mr Holmes, you have not lost your touch!’
‘There is one other consideration. You explained to the good Mrs Hudson that you were extremely anxious to see me. Yet, as I have mentioned, you have hardly turned up on our doorstep at the crack of dawn. From that I presume that you have spent the first part of the morning in quite a wretched state, wondering whether the problem troubling you is too embarrassingly trivial to justify calling upon me, a conclusion supported by the state of your fingernails. I recall that when we last encountered each other, they were tidily manicured. Now they are bitten almost to the quick. Yet your concern is such that, having wrestled with the dilemma, you have now resolved to seek my advice, come what may.’
‘Sir, you have it precisely!’
‘Very well, then. May I ask what brings you here?’
Our visitor’s face clouded over again. ‘I did hesitate before coming here to consult you. I thought about it several times, but you are a busy man and the matter seems inconsequential. The police have expressed sympathy, but although a crime has been committed, they have failed to apprehend the culprit and as a result I am left with nowhere else to turn.’
‘It is often an apparently minor incident which hints at the existence of the most remarkable intrigue.’ Holmes indicated a vacant chair. ‘May I beg you to take a seat and unburden yourself without delay?’
The old man passed a hand over his brow as if to calm himself before speaking. ‘Since losing my dear wife, Mr Holmes, I have devoted all my energies to my business. It is a strategem which enables me to set grief aside, at least until the small hours of the night. For all my loneliness, I am fortunate in my memories as well as in having the business to divert me. Imagine my dismay, then, when, quite out of the blue, I received this threatening message.’
He passed to Holmes a sheet of paper on which had been pasted a message composed of words cut from a newspaper or magazine: ‘Beware the burglar. Please do not fight him. To do so would be fatal.’
Holmes raised his eyebrows. ‘A curious missive. What were the circumstances of its arrival in your hands?’
‘It was pushed under the shop door one night. I found it in the morning. There was no envelope, no clue as to where it had come from.’
‘Had your shop ever been burgled before then?’
‘Never. As you know, many of the varieties that I keep for customers are rare and expensive, but for the most part they are an acquired taste. A common thief is unlikely to regard them as a prize. He might choke on certain unfamiliar brands if he smoked them himself and there is scarcely a thriving market for them in the taverns and back streets of the city. A few of the smokers’ accessories that I stock are costly, but they have never attracted the attention of any felons, let alone burglars with homicidal intent.’
‘So,’ my friend said, ‘you had advance warning of an improbable crime. How singular. What steps did you take?’
‘I found the message unsettling in the extreme, but what could I do? I thought it might be a hoax, although when I confided in a friend, he advised me to take it seriously.’
‘On what basis?’ Holmes asked.
‘In his opinion, the message must have come from a villain with a conscience who had learned of a ruthless confederate’s plan to raid my business.’
I nodded vigorously, glad to show that Holmes had not discouraged me from attempts to practise the science of deduction. ‘That does seem the only logical conclusion.’
‘My friend said that he doubted that the police would show any interest in such a vague threat, but I decided to speak to the local constable. Unfortunately, my friend’s pessimism proved correct. There was nothing the police could do to assist me. Their resources did not permit the mounting of a guard outside my shop, on the off-chance that it might have attracted a burglar’s attention. The constable offered to look in regularly, but understandably he could do no more.’
‘Did you continue to trade?’
‘At that point, yes. I shall admit to you frankly that the message made me fearful, but what else could I do? Since losing Charlotte, I seem to have lost all confidence and it is rare for me to go out at all. Yet, by an irony, on the one occasion that I was persuaded to take a drink or two at a local hostelry, I found upon my return that someone had broken into my premises.’
‘Ah!’ Holmes leaned forward in his chair. ‘Pray tell me exactly what happened.’
Josiah Buckle cleared his throat noisily. ‘I did not stay out late. It was barely ten o’clock when my companion Kilner and I came back to Maynard’s Court. Kilner, well aware of my apprehension, was kind enough to insist on accompanying me back home. How glad I am that he did. As I was about to take out the key to the door at the side of the building which leads to my private accommodation, I became aware that the lock was broken. At once I knew that the message had not been a hoax. This was the predicted crime. Yet something caused me to throw caution to the winds and although Kilner tried to hold me back, I shook him off and hurried into the house.’
The old man was breathing hard. Although he spoke of hurrying, he could not have been fit enough to move at more than a snail’s pace and he had already admitted the dread that he had felt following receipt of the anonymous note. Yet the instinct to protect his home and business had prevailed and, not knowing whether the miscreant was still inside, he had been brave enough to investigate. My heart went out to him, but upon Holmes’ features I could discern merely an intense concentration upon the unfolding facts.
‘What did you find?’
‘Nothing untoward,’ came the melancholy reply. ‘The shop was deserted and so too were my private rooms at the back and upstairs. I could find no sign, at first, that anything had been taken. I have never made a habit of acquiring elaborate possessions. Some of my stock is valuable, as I have mentioned. You will remember that I keep cigar cutters imported from America. They are ingenious mechanical contraptions which cost a pretty penny. Equally valuable are the silver vesta holders and porcelain match-holders. But Mr Holmes, not one of them had been taken.’
‘Perhaps the burglar was disturbed,’ I suggested.
‘I thought the same. Even when I discovered that something had, indeed, been stolen from me. Yet nothing of value to anyone but myself.’
‘What was it?’ Holmes demanded.
Mr Buckle dabbed at his nose with a handkerchief that had seen better days. ‘A handful of family letters that I kept in a box in the parlour. A couple were written by my dear Charlotte, prior to our marriage. But the majority – perhaps a dozen – came from my late son, George.’
‘I recall that you once mentioned him to me,’ Holmes said. ‘He was a sailor, wasn’t he?’
‘What a memory you have!’ our visitor exclaimed. ‘He was our pride and joy. A fine, upstanding lad.’
‘He was lost at sea, was he not?’ In Holmes’ voice was a note of sympathy that startled me. I had never heard him speak with such tenderness before.
‘That is correct.’ At this point, emotion overwhelmed Mr Buckle and he blew his nose with some violence. ‘He was only twen
ty years old. There was a terrible gale in the Tasman Sea. Many hands were lost, including George. That was in 1855, and I have thought about him on every day that has passed since then.’
‘He wrote to you from ports of call, did he not? I recall that you showed me one or two of his letters.’
‘You must forgive an old man his pride,’ Mr Buckle said in a muffled voice. ‘I’m a sentimental old fool, I suppose, keeping those letters. But apart from my memories, they are all that I have left of him and I like to show them to people who might be interested. He was such a lively correspondent, Mr Holmes. His last voyage took him to the other side of the world and he delighted in telling us what he got up to and all about the sights he saw.’
‘Were all his letters were stolen by this burglar?’
‘Not all of them, thank the Lord. He left a couple, together with several from Charlotte, which I kept in a drawer in my bedroom. But the theft mortified me. How I wished that the rogue had stolen something else – anything but those letters! Kilner did his best to console me, but I would have none of it. Suddenly I had the worst of all worlds. A determined burglar had for some reason made me his target, yet failed to take anything but the items I held most dear. It was a pound to a penny that he would return to steal whatever he wanted in the first place. He left no clues for the police to follow and they have confessed themselves baffled about the crime. From that day to this, I haven’t dared to open the shop – or leave the building. Had it not been for the comfort provided by the herb of grace, I should have been entirely bereft. You know yourself that nothing dispels the clouds of care in quite the same way as a cloud of aromatic smoke.’
‘Indeed. I have been remiss, Mr Buckle!’ Holmes cried, hastening to one of the tobacco pouches on the mantel-piece. ‘I beg you to forgive my manners. Will you join me in a stick of cavendish?’
For the first time a faint smile passed across our visitor’s troubled features. As if transformed by the mere sight of the tobacco, he ceased to be a bent old man and became a skilled craftsman, slicing and shredding the herb with infinite care. After rubbing it gently between his palms, he gathered it up in his fingers as if it were a pet kitten, all the while smelling it as he might a delicate flower.
‘Ah, the Nicotian joys!’ he exclaimed as he took his first puff. ‘I love my business, as you know. Even at seventy one, I had not contemplated retirement, but this affair has knocked the stuffing out of me. Kilner sought to cheer me up. He argued that the burglar, having tried and failed, would not trouble me again, but I was much less sanguine. For the past few weeks I have been a prisoner in my own home, Mr Holmes. At last this morning I concluded that I owed it to myself, and to George as well, to seek your guidance.’
‘A pretty puzzle,’ Holmes said, casting another glance at the anonymous message. ‘Tell me this, Mr Buckle. What is the name of your customer or associate who enjoys a close connection with the town of Bradford?’
Our visitor stared at Holmes in amazement. ‘Why, how on earth do you…?’
‘His name?’ Holmes insisted.
‘Well, Harry Kilner, the friend I mentioned to you, was born and bred in that part of the world. His sisters still live in Bradford, but he came to London years ago.’
‘He still retains a nostalgic attachment to his Yorkshire roots, I believe.’
‘Most certainly. He often speaks about his youth in the West Riding. I have often heard him say that he longs to return there.’
‘Then why does he not do so?’
Buckle shifted in his chair, as if discomfited by the prospect of disclosing a confidence. ‘The truth is, Mr Holmes, that Harry’s sister is a pillar of the Temperance movement and he is rather too fond of a drink. I keep telling him that good tobacco is far better than grog. Sometimes he joins me in a cheery pipe and helps me blow a cloud. But alcohol has been his downfall and since losing his regular employment, he has spent more of his time in taverns than in seeking work.’
‘What was his trade?’
‘He was a valet, but when his employer died, his heir had no wish to retain Harry’s services and the poor fellow has never found another steady job. It is sad, for he’s a decent sort, if a little impulsive. His ideas may be muddled, but he has my welfare at heart.’
‘You mentioned to him that you intended to see me this morning?’
‘I did.’
‘And he sought to discourage you from troubling me?’
Mr Buckle stared. ‘Precisely so. He said that there was no need, that I would not be bothered again by the burglar, despite his failure to steal anything of value. When I demurred, he became quite agitated and insisted that you would be too busy. But how did you know? What is your interest in Kilner?’
‘Quite simply this. Your Yorkshire friend holds the key to your little mystery.’
Two spots of colour appeared in our visitor’s cheeks. ‘What on earth makes you think so?’
‘I dare wager a modest sum that he is the author of that warning,’ Holmes said, gesturing languidly at the unsigned note.
‘What?’ Mr Buckle rose stiffly from his chair. ‘Mr Holmes, it is inconceivable!’
‘Unpalatable, perhaps,’ my friend said blandly. ‘Nevertheless, you will find that my surmise is well-founded. I have some knowledge of different newspaper typefaces and this example is distinctive. Those words have been cut from headlines appearing in The Bradford Telegraph, you may depend upon it. The blurring of the letters is a conspicuous and recurrent fault. I understand the paper to be an excellent publication, but a touch parochial in its concerns and infrequently purchased south of the West Riding. Yet the message was not sent through the post from White Rose county, but rather hand-delivered. From that it is easy to infer that the newspaper had been supplied to a Yorkshireman exiled to the capital and then cut up by your unknown correspondent.’
Mr Buckle’s face turned the colour of chalk. ‘Kilner told me that his sister sends it to him regularly, to keep in touch with local events.’
‘Indeed. That the person who warned you was someone with whom you were on good terms was self-evident. It is rare for anonymous warnings to include the word please. If Harry Kilner expected you to be burgled, and was concerned that the culprit might prove violent if confronted, that would explain his determination to take you out of harm’s way on the evening that the crime was committed.’
‘But that implies that he is in touch with the man who stole George’s letters!’
‘If not in league with him. I fancy that Mr Harry Kilner has a good deal of explaining to do. But we do not have a moment to lose, now that he is aware you are consulting someone other than the local constabulary. Watson and I must pay him a visit.’
‘I shall come too!’ our visitor exclaimed. ‘Mr Holmes, you will not take it amiss when I state my belief that you are making a dreadful mistake in pointing the finger at Kilner. The man would not hurt a fly.’
Holmes shook his head. ‘His tender heart is evidenced by the warning he sent you, but that may not be enough to save him.’
‘Save him?’
‘From the consequences of his own folly. This is dangerous work, Mr Buckle. Might I ask you for a favour?’
‘Anything!’
Holmes sprang to his feet. ‘Please return at once to your premises and set about re-opening the shop. The smokers of London should not be deprived of your wares for a day longer. Kilner was right. For you, the moment of danger has passed. For him, it is the here and now.’
In such mood, my friend was irresistible. All protests stilled, Mr Buckle consented to part from us. Within minutes, Holmes had given a cabby the command to whip his horse up and we were in a hansom, clattering frantically through the December drizzle. The address Mr Buckle had given us for Harry Kilner was unknown to me, but Holmes, with his intimate knowledge of the by-ways of London, identified it as a miserable street half a mile distant from the tobacconist’s emporium. As we travelled, I sought to draw Holmes out and gain an insight into his analysis of the mys
tery, but not for the first time he contented himself with an enigmatic response.
‘You are familiar with my addiction to logic. What do you believe was the burglar’s purpose?’
‘Hardly to steal a batch of letters that date back perhaps thirty years.’
‘Really?’
Holmes’ lip curled, but when I pressed him, he refused to say more and that set me furiously to think. Might the letters contain a secret? An idea struck me. I recalled that, in the days when George Buckle had sailed to the other side of the globe, gold was being discovered in Australia. Could there be a connection? It seemed to me a fruitful line of enquiry, but at present I was able to make little of it, save to infer that Kilner might have believed that the letters contained clues to the whereabouts of a treasure trove. A cryptogram, perhaps, that the tobacconist had failed to understand. It seemed improbable, but Holmes had already taught me that there is a world of difference between that which is impossible and that which is merely unlikely.
I was still battling the conundrum when we reached our destination. The cab drew up outside a shabby brick building which adjoined a public house on the corner called The White Swan. According to Josiah Buckle, his friend occupied a room in the basement and a flight of steep stone steps, worn deep by generations of trudging tenants, led down from the pavement. At the bottom, a heavy door stood ajar.
‘I fear we are too late,’ Holmes whispered.
He hurried down the steps and I followed close behind. At his touch, the door swung open to reveal a ghastly sight. A man lay face down on the bare-planked floor of a small and musty room. Blood was oozing from a wicked gash on his right temple. My first thought was that he was dead, but as we crossed the threshold into the musty dwelling, he seemed to make a Herculean effort of will and raised his head a fraction. I saw in the bloodshot eyes an expression of deep despair.
‘Cave,’ he said in the hoarsest whisper I have ever heard. ‘The upside down swan…’
With those words, his head sank down again. I sprang forward to check his pulse. There was nothing.
The New Mysteries of Sherlock Holmes Page 6