by David Marcum
“This should cover the damage, shouldn’t it?” he asked, bouncing nervously on his toes. “I’m afraid I don’t know what ladies dresses cost in London.”
“This should be plenty,” Miss Hannigan said, and coquetted her lashes at him. “Perhaps you and I can meet again, once it’s mended?”
Holmes tittered, “Oh, I’d like that,” he said, fluttering his hands nervously in a manner that had me ducking my head to keep from staring. “Shall I give you my card?” He dove a hand into his pocket and then frowned. “Oh, dear, I’ve left the case at the hotel. But you can call there, at least until Tuesday. At the Northumberland. Ask for Henry. Stephen Henry.”
“Stephen Henry,” she repeated, taking his hand for a moment.
“And now I should get my friend into a cab. Oh! There’s one. Cabbie! Oh, cabbie!” Holmes dashed off to intercept a nearby growler.
I kept my head down, rubbing at my face with the hand that wasn’t pressed against my knee, and beginning to shake with both the reaction to the pain and the laughter I dare not indulge at Holmes’s antics. I didn’t know why he didn’t just confront the lady, but I was grateful enough for the opportunity to cease making a spectacle. A small crowd had gathered, and several hands helped me up into the cab, but I managed to wave and say thank you again, to the air in the general direction of the two ladies I had discommoded.
As soon as the cab turned a corner and the Strand was out of view, Holmes gave a great shout of laughter and buffeted me on the shoulder. “Well done, Watson! I didn’t know you had a career in the theater.” He tapped the roof. “Driver, wait here a moment.”
“I don’t,” I said, trying to turn up my trouser leg so I could examine the bruise that was forming over my patella. His exuberance would have been welcome were it not that I was feeling rather misused.
“What was all that in aid of, Holmes?”
“A moment, Watson.” Holmes leaned out the window and whistled. Not a minute later, Constable Hopkins had joined us, and Holmes had told the driver to go on to Baker Street. “There,” he said as he settled back against the seat. “Now we can be comfortable.”
Hopkins, perched opposite, looked at my friend with a puzzled mien. “I thought we were going to arrest her,” he said. “And now you’ve just let her go.”
“With five pounds in her purse,” I added.
Holmes shrugged. “It was the only note I had with me,” he said. “And I had not intended that she would damage her attire. Very clumsy of you, my dear fellow.”
I took the admonishment in the spirit in which it was being given and merely raised an eyebrow at my effervescent friend. “So what is the result of our encounter with Miss Hannigan, Holmes? I have a bruised patella, she has five pounds, and you... what do you have?
“This,” Holmes said, passing his hands across each other like a stage magician before pulling a glistening chain of gems out from his sleeve.
“The Cartier bracelet!” I exclaimed, the pain in my leg forgotten.
Hopkins applauded like a schoolchild at a Punch and Judy show. “Where was it?”
“In a hidden compartment in the bamboo handle of her sunshade,” Holmes said. “In other words a...”
“Parasol chamber,” I finished, groaning with the realization of how much of the day I had spent in chasing wild hares.
“Precisely.” Holmes could not have been more pleased with himself.
“How did you know?” Hopkins asked, and I echoed the sentiment.
“When Watson mentioned the umbrellas, just after you informed us that the older women of the gang were teaching ‘dressmaking and the like’, I considered how easily a dedicated seamstress could also make an umbrella. Then I remembered that amongst the respectable occupations open to unmarried females, typewriting is one of the most easily learned. I confirmed my supposition by comparing the letters on the scraps of evidence against the arrangement of keys designed by Mr. Sholes for the Remington typewriters most commonly available. The scraps were not code, as I originally thought, but finger exercises to train typewritists in using the machine without having to look at the keys. As the s and the d keys juxtapose, I assumed a simple keyboarding error. Inspector Gregson was wrong, it was indeed possible to substitute one letter for another.”
I laughed. “Brilliant, Holmes. But why not have Miss Hannigan arrested?”
He put the bracelet into my hand. “I meant to. But she seemed kind enough to a gentleman who was injured on the street, and since I was able to retrieve the jewels without raising the alarm, I thought better of it. Miss Hannigan, should she be foolish enough to use her doctored sunshade to conceal ill-gotten goods again, will be caught and sentenced for some less perilous trinket. But in the meantime, we shall make back my small investment fivefold, and still have time for a nap.”
The Strange Missive of Germaine Wilkes
by Mark Mower
London - Monday, 25th May 1891 - It will come as no surprise to many of you who have long followed the exploits of my dear friend and colleague, Sherlock Holmes, to learn that one of the most frequently asked questions I am now faced with is, “When did you first learn of Professor James Moriarty?” It is a query to which I have given much thought and some speculation in recent days, imagining that the name had first come to my attention only a month or so ago. But yesterday, while looking back over a sheaf of notes I had retained from the late summer of 1887, I was finally able to pinpoint with some uneasiness the moment when Holmes first alerted me to the existence of his arch-nemesis.
I had called in at Baker Street just before ten o’clock on a bright and sunny Saturday morning in August to find Holmes in an ebullient mood. Apart from looking somewhat tired and pallid, he appeared to be in reasonable health and was quick to jump up from his favourite armchair to greet me as I entered the upstairs room at Mrs. Hudson’s direction.
“Watson, my dear fellow! What a pleasant surprise, and such perfect timing. I am currently awaiting the arrival of Inspector MacDonald, whose earlier telegram informs me that he has a conundrum that Scotland Yard cannot solve. I trust that will serve as a sufficient inducement to get you to linger a while and share a fresh pot of tea with me. I am sure that your wife will not begrudge you a couple of hours in my company - especially now that you have purchased the birthday present she has wanted for some time.”
“Indeed Holmes, that sounds splendid,” I replied, “but I am at a loss to know how you could possibly have ascertained the nature of my earlier errand.”
I could see the glint in his eye as he realised that I was, as ever, confounded by his powers of deduction. “A simple case of pulling together the discernible clues into a workable hypothesis, my dear fellow. A couple of months ago you mentioned to me that your wife was keen to fill your newly-decorated parlour with a suitable piece of furniture. You joked about how much that was likely to cost and how much time you had already spent trying to find an ornate chair or couch that would suffice. When we were last together - less than two weeks ago - walking back to 221b, we passed Druce’s Furniture Showroom on the corner of Baker Street. I noted that your eyes dwelt a little too long on the stylish chaise longue that Mr. Druce has positioned very cannily in his window display. And armed with the knowledge that your wife’s birthday falls in early September, I had thought at the time that you were minded to buy the piece and had hesitated only because of the hefty price tag.”
“You are not wrong there,” I admitted, disappointed that my thoughts and thriftiness had been so transparent. “But how did you know that I went back today to purchase the couch?”
“A few tell-tale observations to add to what I already knew,” he continued. “As you always do, you carry your cheque book in its leather case in your inside top pocket. The case is slightly too big for the pocket and has a habit of poking out occasionally. Realising that this is a Saturday, and your bank is therefore closed,
I can only speculate that the cheque book has been used to make a significant purchase. And reflecting on the fact that Druce’s Showroom lies less than two-hundred-and-twenty yards from here, it seems reasonable to assume that you have already purchased the chaise longue and thought you would call in to see me while you were so close to your old haunt. Furthermore, your obvious smile and upbeat humour this morning suggests that the transaction has not been too damaging, by which I mean that you successful haggled with dear old Druce to give you a discount on the item in question.”
I could not hide my astonishment, but was happy to point out a minor blemish in his otherwise comprehensive account. “Holmes, you clearly do not know Druce well at all. A discount was out of the question. What I successfully negotiated was free delivery of the piece on my wife’s birthday!”
We both laughed as Holmes poured the tea and then raised an eyebrow at a further knock on the front door, before exclaiming: “Excellent, MacDonald is as punctual as ever.”
Having poured another cup and exchanged some pleasantries with the man from Scotland Yard, Holmes was keen to get on with the business at hand. The amiable detective was happy to oblige.
“Aye, it’s a puzzle alright. For some time, we’ve been aware that a gang of bank thieves has been planning some raids in the city. They are led by a one-time banknote forger called Germaine Wilkes, an American by birth. Late last night, one of my men spotted Wilkes walking through Westminster and promptly arrested him. We now have him under lock and key at the Yard, but he is proving to be most uncooperative and saying very little. At some point we will have to release him.”
I was the first to interject. “Surely, you have sufficient evidence to hold him. Was he carrying anything that could incriminate him or provide a link to his known accomplices?”
MacDonald looked crestfallen and explained that he had spent all night interrogating Wilkes without success. He then reached inside his tweed frockcoat and drew out a folded sheet of paper. “The only piece of information we managed to find on him was this,” he added, handing the opened note to my colleague. “The difficulty we have Mr. Holmes, is that we can’t make head nor tail of it. And knowing that you’re a man who’s accomplished at solving all manner of riddles, we thought it might be one for you.”
Holmes had fallen silent as he gazed intently at the page before him. His eyes rapidly scanned the missive and then he broke off, looked across at me and held out the note. “What do you make of it, Watson?”
I held in my hands a single sheet of foolscap paper, on which was printed the following:
Right 2, Left 3, 1, Right 3, 3, Left 2 - NO HIDE BIRDIE ID
Eager to make some sense of the seemingly unintelligible message before me, I thought of Holmes’s methods and began to apply the same degree of scrutiny. “It seems to me that we have two parts to this message,” I ventured. “The first few words suggest an instruction of some kind; perhaps a marching sequence, a map direction or even the coding sequence required to open up a safe or bank vault. The second part, in capital letters, may well be the substance of the communiqué, the real point that the author wishes to convey.”
Holmes was unusually enthusiastic in his response. “Bravo Watson! I concur with you completely. The message does indeed appear to have two distinct parts and it would seem logical that the first is some form of instruction or direction-marker for the reader. What else?”
Egged on, I then suggested that the form of the note seemed significant. “Why bother to have this typeset and printed when it could so easily have been handwritten?”
This time is was MacDonald who replied with some eagerness. “My thoughts exactly, Dr. Watson. And if you look at the back of the note you will see that the imprint of the type has gone through the page, which tells us that the message was hand-typed rather than printed.”
“Indeed it was,” concurred Holmes. “A fact that we can take to be highly significant, I suspect. So, do you know who sent the note, MacDonald?”
The Inspector looked bemused. “No, how could I possibly know? Wilkes has refused to say anything about the note and where it came from.”
“My dear Inspector. I thought your intelligence on Wilkes and his cohort of bank thieves might have extended as far as the knowledge that, while they are believed to be operating as a discrete gang, they have much broader connections to a large criminal network operating across London, parts of Europe, and as far as North America. It should come as no surprise that Wilkes hails from the other side of the pond. My contacts tell me that he was chosen specifically for his role by the real puppet-master in the criminal fraternity.”
MacDonald tried to hide his frustration, but realised that Holmes had the upper hand. “So, Mr. Holmes, who do you believe sent the note to Wilkes?”
Holmes looked at him directly, and addressed him without a hint of conceit: “I have no doubt whatsoever, that this message was sent by the very person who directs all of the major operations of the criminal network I have described. That person is none other than Professor James Moriarty. I have it on good authority that Wilkes had previously been Moriarty’s favoured lieutenant in a counterfeiting ring that once operated out of Cincinnati.”
“How can you be so sure Holmes? And who is this Professor - I’ve never heard you mention him before?”
Holmes turned his gaze towards me, and for a split second a look of fear passed across his face. “That is because I had hoped to spare you, indeed protect you, from the knowledge that we now have a criminal mastermind operating with relative impunity from a base in London - a man who is more than a match for any of crime agencies which exist in New York, Paris or London itself. He is cunning and formidable and exceedingly dangerous. By day, he masquerades as an academic, eminent in his field, mentoring the very brightest student minds. By night, he casts off the gown - operating under a different cloak - and directing the endeavours of a very different class of followers. Make no mistake, Watson, Moriarty is behind this, and the less you know of him, the better it will be for your sake and your wife’s.”
The casual reference to my beloved wife had the desired effect and I offered no further challenge. I could see also that MacDonald had been listening intently, taking in this new information and looking slightly awestruck at Holmes’s assertions. In the silence that followed, it was he who spoke first.
“So, where does all that leave us with this note, Mr. Holmes? Are you able to tell me what it means and whether I should continue to hold Wilkes?”
“I am sure I can crack the meaning behind this communication and set you on the right path. But I will need some time and your indulgence for a short while yet, as I need to make a short excursion into town. It is now half past ten. Could I suggest that we reconvene back here in Baker Street in two hours’ time? I will instruct Mrs. Hudson to have waiting for us a light luncheon of bread and cold ham.”
MacDonald was visibly relieved. “That sounds wonderful! I am very grateful to you, Mr. Holmes, and will take my leave. I will be back promptly at 12.30, as you suggest.”
When MacDonald had gone, I took the opportunity to try and get Holmes to talk more about the enigmatic Professor Moriarty, but all of my gentle questioning brought little by way of a response. “I can tell you nothing further at this stage Watson. I really do have to go into town. A short spell of shopping should do the trick. I should then be in a position to tell you the substance of the message from Moriarty.”
Without further explanation he was off, heading down the stairs of 221b, through the front door, and out into the street before I could even think to ask if he wanted me to join him. I resolved to await his return and find out whether he really could make sense of the strange note to Germaine Wilkes.
In Holmes’s absence, I read the headline features in The Times, keen to find out if there was anything in the press that might shed some light on Wilkes’s activities or the shadowy netw
ork of crooks that were being directed by Moriarty. The big news of the day was that a major financial fraud had been uncovered in a provincial bank in the south of England. There was also news that a cruise ship had run aground off the coast of Cornwall, with the loss of ten lives. Equally disturbing was the announcement that the previous evening a British politician had been found dead, close to Westminster Bridge. The report said that Augustus Waldringfield, the Member of Parliament for Chippenham East, had been found stabbed to death. It speculated that his death may have been linked to his much publicised opposition to the Irish Home Rule bill which had been defeated in the Lords the previous year. The article went on to say that it was well known that Waldringfield had been a fierce critic of the Fenian Brotherhood, the group thought most likely to have carried out the attack.
A little over an hour after he had departed, Holmes was back in Baker Street, clutching a large box which I imagined was the result of his mysterious shopping expedition. I was quick to express my surprise at his behaviour.
“Holmes, in all the time that I have known you, I cannot recollect another occasion on which you have left an active case in order to spend time purchasing something for yourself. Please tell me that this is some curious aberration on your part!”
“Watson, your instincts have not deserted you. This was no routine purchase, my friend.”
He began to unpack the box, revealing a black mechanical instrument, along the front of which were positioned numerous keys, marked by different letters of the alphabet and other recognisable symbols. With care, he set the instrument down on his writing desk, and stepped back to admire its appearance.
“I have here a marvel of the modern age. A Sholes and Glidden patent typewriting machine, manufactured by the American firm of E. Remington and Sons. It was first produced in 1875, and is becoming more popular on both sides of the Atlantic, replacing the need for costly typesetting, and enabling even the most humble of offices to produce their own printed stationery. The arrangement of the keys enables the typist to adopt a standard finger position in order to use the machine. With experience, practice and dexterity, I am told that a regular operative can type out at least 40 words a minute.”