by Dick Gillman
Holmes turned to see if I was taking notes and saw that I was.
"So, last night, you all assembled at 8 p.m. and the Chinaman served the tea and everything seemed normal?"
Mr Cox thought for a moment. "Yes, sir....the Chinaman did seem to get the jitters though. I think it was because he had been clumsy and dropped one of the mugs." Mr Cox turned and spoke to his colleague. "It was your favourite mug too, wasn't it, Jim?"
One of the night watchmen nodded.
"He'd had it years, he had. Jim didn't want to drink out of anything else but the Chinaman fussed and fetched him a new one from the store cupboard, special like. Anyway, I drank my tea and after a few minutes I felt a bit odd, sleepy like and the next thing I knew I was waking up here with a bad head."
Holmes looked round and saw a tea tray in the corner of the room. Upon it were dirty mugs, a milk jug and a large, white tea pot. "Mr Cox, are those the mugs you used last night?"
Cox nodded. "Yes, sir. None of us felt much like washing up this morning and, in any case, the copper said we were to touch nothing until a detective arrived."
Holmes went over to the tray and closely examined the contents of both the cups and the milk jug. He then carefully raised the lid of the teapot and placed his nose in the opening. As I watched, he gently inhaled and, as he did so, raised an eyebrow. Carefully, he put his hand inside the pot and withdrew a drop of cold tea on his finger tip. This he placed on his tongue and I could see an expression of recognition and confirmation upon his face.
Beckoning me over to him, he spoke quietly in my ear. “Taste that, Watson, and give me your opinion.”
I put down my notebook and pencil and dipped my index finger into the residue of stewed tea inside the pot. Tasting the drop I had taken, I was at first struck by the bitterness of tannin but, beneath that, there was something more. “Laudanum!”
Holmes nodded. “Yes, it is as I thought.”
Turning back to Mr Cox, Holmes informed them that they were free to go. It must be said that they all looked greatly relieved and seemed eager to go home to sleep and cleanse their bodies of the Laudanum.
Once outside the canteen, Holmes sought out the police inspector that Mycroft had admonished. He saluted at our approach and seemed a little wary. Holmes put his forefinger to his lip, saying, “Tell me, Inspector, is there any news of the Chinaman?”
“No, Mr Holmes. There is no trace. One of the rear doors to the museum was found unlocked this morning and it appears that the home address he gave was false.”
Holmes had clearly expected little more. “If you please, Inspector, lead the way to the unlocked door.”
At the rear of the museum we were shown a glazed and barred door. Holmes took out his magnifying glass and examined the door knob. He then opened the door before going on all fours. Being early spring, the sun was still low in the sky and sunlight flooded in through the open doorway.
Putting his head in a position where he was almost touching the ground, Holmes moved to a point where the sunlight illuminated every imperfection in the flagged floor.
“There were three of them. You can plainly see the marks from their soft soled shoes. Ah, but what’s this?” Holmes took from his coat pocket a small envelope and a metal spatula and began to scrape at what appeared to be a muddy mark on the floor. Gathering a small amount of the material, Holmes sealed it in the envelope and stowed it carefully away.
For the first time that morning, I saw in Holmes an inkling of pleasure brought about by the gathering of some physical evidence which, I knew, he would minutely analyse.
Turning to the Inspector, Holmes touched his hat and bade him a “Good morning” before sweeping out of the museum.
Chapter 5 - A curious clue and a musical olive branch.
Once back in our rooms at Baker Street, Holmes removed the small envelope from his pocket before tossing his coat onto a chair. In minutes, he was engrossed with his microscope examining the sample of mud he has taken from the museum floor.
“It is most curious, Watson, that in this great metropolis of ours the soil structures we find are so varied that they can be tied to specific locations within the city. The one I obtained this morning, for example, is mainly an alluvial clay which is found predominantly east of the river.” Holmes looked up from his microscope and pursed his lips. He looked a little puzzled, saying, "…and yet, there is something more here. There is a peculiar sand present that is not native to the city and also a clay that I cannot readily identify.”
This I found quite astounding as Holmes’ knowledge of both the geography of the city and its geology was encyclopaedic. When the excavations for the new underground railway lines were being undertaken, Holmes would disappear for a day to take soil samples from the revealed strata. On his return, he would examine them with his microscope and then cross reference them with a map of the city.
Holmes held his forefinger on his lip before saying, “The man who left this soil imprint has also collected some debris from the surroundings of his lair...which is a most curious place!”
Further analysis of the sample was interrupted by a ringing of our door bell. Holmes looked up and strained his ears in an attempt to hear the conversation in the street below. He need not have bothered as a few moments later there was a knock at the door of our rooms and Mrs Hudson appeared with an envelope in her hand.
“A messenger has just brought this for you, Mr Holmes. He said that no reply was needed” and she handed the envelope to Holmes.
Holmes gave the envelope a cursory glance and opened it. Inside was a single sheet of card which he read. As he did so, the slightest of smiles appeared on his lips. “It appears we have another invitation, Watson. An olive branch from brother Mycroft, perhaps?”
Holmes held out the card towards me and I took it from him. The card invited us both to a musical evening in Airlie Gardens, Kensington. I was a little perplexed. “Is this something special, Holmes?” I asked.
“We are incredibly honoured, Watson, to be invited to a private performance of Brahms third sonata for violin and piano, in D minor...a full month before it is to be premiered in London. Not only that, it is to be performed by Fanny Davies and Joseph Joachim.”
I have to say that the two principals were known to me only by name. I had not had the privilege of seeing them perform. Holmes, I knew, had followed the career of Joseph Joachim and had been to see him play whenever he visited England. Holmes was a devotee of Brahms and I could see from his expression that he looked forward to this opportunity to hear the new piece. The music of Brahms and, of course, Vivaldi had provided a source of solace for him when he played his beloved Stradivarius.
The following day there was no further news regarding the theft of the bell and early evening found Holmes and me having a hearty meal prior to travelling to Kensington. Having finished a very satisfying plate of roast beef followed by a piece of Mrs Hudson’s excellent custard tart, we dressed formally as if for an evening at the opera. Dressed in top hat and tails together with silver mounted canes, we hailed a Hansom and headed for Kensington, W8.
Airlie Gardens had a fine view over one of the great parks and the houses were generally of Georgian style. Our cabbie pulled up in front of a very fine, double fronted mansion with an extensive front garden and semi-circular driveway. We were met at the door by a liveried footman who, on examining our invitation, escorted us along a high ceilinged hallway to a fine music room. The room was well lit and had large velvet curtains covering the front windows. The walls were covered in rich, Regency styled wallpaper whilst the ceiling was high and intricately patterned with plaster mouldings.
At one end of the room was a small raised stage upon which was a grand pianoforte. In front of this were arranged two staggered rows of gilded chairs with red velvet seat pads. We were directed to the rear row where a discreet name card indicated where we were to sit. I could not fail to notice the names of the other guests either side of us and directly in front of us. I tugged at Holm
es’ sleeve but his only response was to smile and pat me on the arm. Clearly he was amused, rather than intimidated, by the names of those who were to be our companions for the evening.
As we sat, the other invited guests came and took their places. I could only inwardly gasp as the Prime Minister and various titled gentlemen and their wives joined us for the performance.
The principals were introduced to the assembled guests by the owner of this fine mansion. I am not at liberty here to reveal his name save to say that the image of his face was a regular feature on both the front and society pages of the quality broadsheets. It was at this point that Joseph Joachim was presented with a fine Stradivarius violin and an equally fine bow. This was graciously accepted and, after a few moments of tuning, the program commenced.
Seldom have I seen Holmes in such rapture. His eyes closed and his body became totally immersed in the music, absorbing every note. At the end of the piece, Holmes was on his feet clapping, acknowledging a stunning performance by a true master.
As the guests started to move away, Holmes turned to me, saying, “Magnificent, Watson! I am hugely impatient to acquire a copy of the score.”
As if on cue, Joseph Joachim appeared at Holmes’ elbow.
“Ah, Sherlock. I am so pleased that you accepted Mycroft’s invitation and could come. I knew you would be fascinated by Johannes’ latest creation… and I have a small gift for you.”
From under his arm, Joachim produced a slim, bound volume which had printed on its cover, in German, ‘Sonata in D minor for pianoforte and violin – Johannes Brahms’. Not only that, but also upon the cover, in a strong, cursive hand was written “To Sherlock Holmes, a small token of thanks for the help and support you have given for so many years. Joseph J.”
Holmes was clearly moved by this gesture. He extended his hand and firmly shook that of Joseph Joachim, saying only, “Thank you, Maestro.”
It was clear to me that Holmes was unable to say more. He simply left the room, collected his hat, coat and cane and left. I nodded and muttered a ‘Thank you’ and followed Holmes into the street.
Chapter 6 - A murder and the bell returns!
For several minutes we walked in silence in the general direction of Baker Street. I allowed Holmes a little time to compose himself before speaking. “Shall we find a cab, Holmes? There seem to be but few at this hour.”
Holmes looked around as if seeing his surroundings for the first time. “Yes, Watson. I believe there is a cab stand some two hundred yards ahead.”
Hardly had we walked fifty paces when we heard a dreadful cry from an alleyway to our left. Looking along the alley, we could see a man prostrated on the floor with two other standing figures seeming to be beating him with clubs. Holmes sprang forward towards them, his cane grasped firmly in his hand.
“Stop, you villains!” shouted Holmes and he dealt a heavy blow to the nearest attacker.
With a strange cry, the man turned and in the light from a nearby gas lamp, I saw the contorted face of a Chinaman, his pig tail flying over his shoulder as he wheeled round. It was only when the light from the lamp caught him that I could see that it was not a club he was wielding but a small, blood-stained hatchet. I approached the second attacker who crouched at my advance and seemed ready to spring. My army training took over and I held my cane as if it were a mounted bayonet. The man was ready for a fight but, as we faced each other, I heard a chilling cry and saw from the corner of my eye a figure falling lifeless to the ground. In that instant, I knew it not to be Holmes and, on seeing this, my fellow knew when to flee. Turning on his heels, he disappeared into the night.
My attention turned to the attacker's victim. It was clear that he was mortally wounded having a savage slash to his neck causing bleeding that could not be staunched. As I leaned over him and tried, in vain, to apply pressure to the wound he seized the lapel of my overcoat in an iron grip and pulled my head close to his.
In a harsh, rasping voice as his life ebbed away, he whispered, “The Raven...five...five bells...Whitechapel” and, with a final gasp, he was gone.
Holmes bent down and gently freed the man's grasp from my lapel. I arose, my overcoat bearing witness to the savage wounds inflicted by the Chinamen. Reaching into the pocket of his waistcoat, Holmes withdrew his police whistle and gave three long blasts upon it.
Whilst we waited for assistance, Holmes looked more closely at the dead man. I saw that his attention had been drawn to the man's hands and wrists. “What do you make of these marks, Watson?”
I looked closely. Some of the marks were old and well healed but some looked quite fresh. I ran my fingers over the scar tissue and sought to get more light by striking a match. “Interesting. They look like burns. Some are at right angles to his arms and some seem to be random, it is as though he has been splashed with a hot substance.” Holmes nodded in agreement.
His attention now turned to the man's feet which, I saw, were shod in stout, work boots. Holmes once again reached into his pocket for a small envelope and obtained a sample of the mud clinging to the boots.
“I think that may be of interest, Watson.” said Holmes, placing the envelope back into his pocket for safe keeping.
A few moments later we heard the clatter of hobnail boots on the cobbled street behind us. A constable was looking around trying to locate the source of the whistle. Holmes raised his arm shouting “Over here, Constable!” and he waved again.
The constable drew his truncheon when he saw the two bodies lying in the alley but quickly replaced it when Holmes identified himself. During the fracas, Holmes had struck his attacker on the temple with his heavy, silver mounted cane. This had rendered him unconscious but he was now beginning to stir. Handcuffs were quickly applied and reaching for his whistle, the constable also gave three long blasts.
The Chinaman was now fully conscious and was regarding us with a malevolent gaze. Holmes addressed him in rapid Chinese which seemed to shock the Chinaman. However, he would say nothing and continued to simply glare at us.
Within minutes, a horse drawn police van had arrived and the Chinaman was bundled aboard. The constable said he would wait with body of the poor fellow who had been attacked and we continued onwards to find a cab. Arriving back at Baker Street we determined that there was little further that we could do that night and both retired wearily to our rooms.
The following morning I found Holmes once more hunched over his microscope. His breakfast tray lay beside him, untouched. I reached for the bell and when Mrs Hudson arrived, I asked for my own breakfast and a further cup for Holmes. Mrs Hudson gave me a resigned look and sighed. She was quite used to Holmes becoming completely engrossed in his work to the exclusion of everything else...even food.
“Is that the sample of soil you took from that fellow’s boot, Holmes?” I asked.
Holmes raised his head from his microscope and he again had a puzzled look upon his face. “Yes, Watson. It is almost identical to that of the intruders at the museum except that the ‘foreign’ sand and clay is much more apparent.”
Further discussion was interrupted by the ringing of our door bell. From his position by the window, Holmes looked down into the street below and could see that our caller was a telegram boy. A few moments later, Mrs Hudson was passing a telegram to Holmes, saying, “It’s for you, sir. It’s marked 'Urgent'.”
Holmes opened the envelope and firstly a look of surprise and then concern passed across his face. “It seems, Watson, that the Zhou bell has been returned...but only after a considerable ransom has been paid.”
I was shocked. “But I thought that the theft was intended to disgrace the Ambassador and embarrass the Emperor. Why would the thieves then extort money? Surely the theft was not for such a base purpose?”
Holmes sat back, deep in thought. “Why indeed... unless. Quickly, Watson! We must make haste and reach the museum before irreparable harm is done!”
Chapter 7 - A visit to The Raven
Within minutes of receiving the
telegram we had taken a cab and were rushing up the steps of the Victoria and Albert museum. We quickly found our way to the Department of Asia and there, resplendent on its silk cushion, sat the bell. A small knot of people that included Mycroft and the Chinese ambassador turned towards us as we approached.
I have to say that Mycroft looked exceedingly smug. Holmes bowed briefly to the Ambassador and then, taking Mycroft to one side, he quietly addressed his brother. “How much did it cost Her Majesty’s government to secure the return of the bell, Mycroft?”
Mycroft smiled. “Five thousand pounds, but it was worth every penny to maintain favourable relations with the Chinese.”
Holmes approached the bell and, once again, raised it an inch or so off its cushion and struck it softly. A mellow chime rang out from the bell and a grim smile showed on Holmes’ face.
Mycroft was incandescent! “What the devil are you doing, Sherlock?”
Holmes turned and said, quietly, “I am trying extremely hard to stop both the Chinese and Her Majesty’s government from becoming supremely embarrassed. This is not the Zhou bell.”
“Of course it is! The Ambassador confirmed it!” Mycroft fumed.
Holmes’ face was now grim. “I can assure you, Mycroft, it is not. It is a fake.”
The Chinese ambassador had seen the altercation between the two brothers and he approached us. “Gentlemen. Are you not pleased that the bell has been returned?”
Holmes moved slightly to one side and, in a quiet voice, explained to the Ambassador his concerns. The Ambassador’s complexion turned ashen. “Are you sure, Holmes?” pressed the Ambassador.
“I am certain, your Excellency. When I first saw the bell, I took the liberty of sounding it. It made a dull note, indicating, that over time, it had developed a flaw, a hairline crack so that it did not ring true.” Holmes now pointed to the bell on its cushion. “This bell is sound. It rings perfectly. In the copying process, a traditional Chinese sand and clay mould will have been made. The hairline flaw will not have been transferred and a perfect bell has been cast.”