by Dick Gillman
As soon as these words had passed his lips, Holmes looked as though he had been struck by lightning, crying, “Stupid! Lord, how can I have been so blind? Watson, the man we found had burns on his forearms from hot moulds and splashes of metal. Both he and our thieves had refractory sand and clay on their shoes. They must have come from a bell foundry!”
“Whitechapel!” I cried.
Turning to Mycroft, Holmes took him by his sleeve. “Whatever happens, Mycroft, the exhibition must stay closed. No word of the theft or return of the bell must leave the museum. We thought, wrongly, that the Emperor was to be discredited by the theft of the bell...but no, even more fiendish plans are at work here. Consider what would happen if it were to be leaked to the World's press that the celebrated Zhou bell was, in fact, a fake. A fake that had been sent purposefully by the new Chinese emperor to embarrass Her Majesty? The Chinese would protest it's provenance but the experts here at the museum would, indeed, confirm it to be so.”
This time it was Mycroft who turned pale. “The consequences would be unthinkable! The Chinese emperor would never be trusted again, trade with the Orient would cease until he was removed!”
Holmes tapped Mycroft’s arm. “All is not yet lost. I need you to send a telegram to Whitechapel Police Station telling them to expect me and to ready half a dozen constables to be at my disposal.”
With that Holmes rushed away, hailing a Hansom even as we were descending the steps of the museum. As we clambered into the cab, Holmes shouted ‘‘Whitechapel’’ to the cabbie and we were off.
I was somewhat concerned. “How do you intend to find this bell foundry, Holmes?”
Holmes had the scent and was not going to be put off by mere geography! “Consider, Watson. Who knows everything about the streets of London?”
I thought for a moment. “The Police?”
Holmes laughed. “No, Watson! Far too parochial! Cabbies, Watson. Cabbies! They know every nook and cranny of the city, their business takes them everywhere!”
Holmes tapped on the roof of the cab and asked the cabbie to stop for a moment. The cab lurched to a halt and the cabbie descended from his perch above us.
Holmes took a sovereign from his pocket and held it in his hand. “I need to find a bell foundry in Whitechapel, a small one...one that employs Chinamen.”
The cabbies eyes, I saw, were riveted on the sovereign. “Well, sir. There is the Whitechapel Bell Foundry… but it ain't employing no Chinamen.” He rubbed his chin for a moment then his face brightened. “There's one on Raven Row! I've picked up a couple of fares from near there and there's been some Chinamen at the gates.”
Holmes tossed the cabbie the coin. “Excellent! Take us there cabbie and then drive on to Whitechapel Police Station.”
The cab clattered on for a few minutes along Whitechapel Road and then turned right into what I saw was Raven Row, a mixture of grey brick dwellings and small workshops. The driver slowed slightly as we approached a pair of large, blue painted wooden gates which bore the name, 'Raven Foundry.' As we passed, we observed a Chinaman knock on a small door set in the gate and be admitted into the foundry.
Holmes looked across at me, saying rather cryptically, “I think we have found the dragon's nest, Watson.”
I nodded. “But what is the significance of the 'five bells', Holmes? Surely this must be of some great importance if it is a man's final words?”
It was obvious by the look on his face that Holmes had had the same concern. “I thought, initially, that he might be referring to the number of bells in the original musical instrument but I dismissed that as unlikely. At present, Watson, I must confess that I have no theory as to its meaning.”
The cabbie slowly picked up the pace and within two minutes we found ourselves outside Whitechapel Police Station. The cabbie tipped his hat to Holmes and, with a flick of his whip, went on his way.
We climbed the stone steps of the police station and found, in front of us, a large raised desk which appeared to be the domain of an equally large police sergeant. Looking up from his work he eyed us rather languidly, asking, “Yes, gentlemen?”
Holmes was instantly to the point for he could not abide sloth in public servants. “Sergeant, I am Sherlock Holmes. You will have received a telegram instructing you to have ready six constables, I trust they are ready and at my disposal?”
The sergeant sprang from his chair in the fashion of a 'Jack-in-the-box'. He saluted, stammering, “Yes, sir. Mr Holmes, sir. They are ready and waiting.” He turned and bellowed over his shoulder, “Tompkins! Get out here with the rest of them!”
From a passageway behind the sergeant there was a thunder of boots as six burly constables appeared, fastening their top buttons and straightening their helmets as they ran.
“Here you are, sir. What are your instructions?” asked the sergeant, now full of attention.
Holmes’ eyes sparkled as he laid out his plans to raid the Raven Foundry. In essence, the constables were to secrete themselves in nearby doorways and Holmes and I were to knock on the foundry door, as if to ask for directions. As soon as the door was opened, we would stand aside to let the constables flood in. As we had no intelligence as to the layout of the foundry, we were obliged to make the plan as simple as possible. The constables were to detain all they came across and we would follow on their heels.
We waited, impatiently, for about thirty minutes so as to benefit from the approaching afternoon gloom. The constables loaded themselves into a police wagon and we rode with the driver. To avoid detection, we stopped some hundred yards from the foundry and, using any available gateways and alleys, we approached as stealthily as we could. A passage ran down the side of the foundry and two constables were despatched to guard the rear of the property.
Holmes and I readied ourselves. Holmes was armed with his cane and I had borrowed a weighted truncheon from the sergeant. This I placed close at hand in my overcoat pocket. At a nod from Holmes, we walked confidently out into the open and approached the foundry gates. It was only as we drew close that I observed that there was a slot in the door, at head height, to allow those within to check the identity of callers. The gates were stout and, if they didn't open the door to us, it would make the task of entry almost impossible.
Thinking quickly, I rapped on the door, shouting for help. Almost immediately, the slot opened and I was gazing into the eyes of a Chinaman. “Quickly, I'm a doctor! I need to know where the Whitechapel Foundry is. There has been an explosion.” I made a loud noise and a rather theatrical gesture of a volcano erupting.
In broken English, the Chinaman said, “It there” and through the slot, a finger pointed roughly towards the North.
Feigning ignorance, I cried again, “Where? I can't see it! Quickly! Men have been injured!” I sensed, rather than saw, the four remaining constables edge closer, two either side of the door. I shouted again, even more urgently, “Quickly man! Where? Where?”
I heard bolts being drawn and the door opened. The Chinaman stepped halfway through the door with his arm raised, again pointing to the North. Holmes swiftly grasped the extended arm and pulled the man fully out of the door and pinning him to the floor. Immediately, the constables burst through the opened door and into the foundry. Here they found three other Chinese who, after a fierce and sustained struggle, were taken into custody.
Chapter 8 - The five bells
Holmes and I stepped through the foundry door and we found ourselves in a small square yard. It was a dingy place and, in order to reveal more, we searched and found gas lamps on the walls which we duly lit. Around us were several large moulds for bells and we found a stock of copper and tin bars, stacked by a small furnace, in one corner of the yard.
An overhead, travelling crane, its chains drooping as though in sadness, had been pushed to the far end of the yard. Hunting through the moulds and some finished bells, their owners names marked in chalk upon them, revealed no clues.
Finding nothing of interest, our attention then turned
to a brick built, two storey building at the rear of the yard. On examination, the ground floor seemed to be devoted solely to storage. The upper floor, reached by somewhat rickety stairs, appeared to be an office having windows that overlooked the yard.
Holmes found an oil lamp and, on lighting it, he proceeded to investigate the piles of materials strewn on the floor of the store. It was not long before he made a curious discovery. “Hello, what’s this?”
I walked over to where he was standing, complaining loudly as I barked my shins on the piles of metal detritus. Holmes was holding the lamp close to a large, glass carboy packed in straw and protected by a basket shaped metal cage. Carefully removing the stopper, Holmes gently wafted his hand over the neck of the carboy and carefully sniffed. Recoiling sharply, he cried, “Acid!”
I was immediately concerned for my friend and reached out towards him. Holmes waved me away, his eyes still watering. “No, no. I’m quite alright, Watson. I was just not expecting anything so pungent.”
I was quite at a loss to understand why acid should be present in the foundry. “Is acid part of the process of producing the bells, Holmes?”
Holmes shook his head. “No, but it is used to help produce a patina on bronze so as to make it appear ancient! Acid, together sometimes with urine and a good amount of soil can give an object the appearance of age which will deceive anyone not expecting it to have been faked. Given its provenance, the ransomed Zhou bell was accepted at face value without question.”
I nodded but was still troubled that we had not yet found the original bell. For that matter, we had not determined the significance of the words, “five bells” and why the man uttering this had been so brutally killed.
Finding nothing of further interest in the store, we climbed the stairs to the office. This we found to be somewhat in disarray, bearing witness to the spirited struggles of the Chinese whilst resisting arrest. Holmes held up the oil lamp to give better illumination and, by this means, we located gas lights on the office wall and lit them.
Chairs had been violently tossed to one side, papers and cardboard folders had spilled from desks and shelves onto the floor. It was as though a whirlwind had briefly stopped to wreak havoc. Straightening the chairs as we went, we worked our way through the debris, looking about us as our eyes became adjusted to the glare of the gas lights.
Holmes bent down and began to tug at the corner of a piece of hessian in the far corner of the room. “Ah, this may be of interest!” said he with a tinge of triumph in his voice.
Lifting clear the hessian, Holmes reached down and then placed a small bell on one of the desks. The oil lamp was still lit and as he moved it closer to the bell, it revealed what appeared to be the twin of the one at the museum.
Holmes lifted the bell and with a twinkle of mischief in his eye said “And now, the acid test!” With the silver cap of his cane, he gently struck the bell. Immediately, the office was filled with a delicate, musical chime. Holmes dampened the vibration by touching the bell with his finger and he replaced the bell on the desk.
To my amazement, he reached down and produced three more identical bells! I was staggered! I flopped down into one the chairs, dumbfounded. For a few seconds I found myself sitting there unable to speak and then finally blurted out, “Of course! Five bells!”
“Precisely, Watson. But which is the real Zhou bell?” He teasingly left that question hanging for a few moments before striking each bell in turn. It was the fourth and final bell that produced a singularly dull tone, but, in Holmes, it produced a cry of triumph. “Ha! We have it, Watson!” Holmes looked around and discovered a length of cloth that seemingly had been used to clean the bells. Wrapping the Zhou bell carefully, we retraced our steps, passing a constable who had been tasked to guard the foundry.
Once more on Raven Row, we were fortunate only to have waited but a few minutes before being able to hail a passing cab. I clambered swiftly in followed by Holmes who nestled the wrapped bell in his lap. Although only some ten inches tall, the bell was a considerable weight. Holmes shouted up to the cabbie. “Victoria and Albert museum as swiftly as you like, cabbie. There’s a florin in it for you!” Hearing this, there was a crack of the cabbie's whip and we were both pitched backwards as the horse took off at a pace.
In but a few minutes we were again mounting the museum steps with our precious cargo shrouded from view. Walking swiftly to the Department of Asia, we requested the presence of the curator who, under the menaces of the Official Secrets Act, was the only other person to know the truth.
The bells were swiftly exchanged and Holmes dashed off a telegram to Mycroft before returning to Baker Street with the replica bell safely out of view, swathed, as it was, by Holmes’ coat.
Chapter 9 - A ringing success.
It was whilst sitting after dinner, with a pipe of tobacco, that Holmes and I began to reflect on the happenings of the day. I was still somewhat troubled regarding the significance of the four counterfeit bells. “Holmes? I am at a loss to understand why the thieves should have produced three further bells. Surely, only one would have been required to replace the real bell?”
Holmes smiled and blew out a long, steady stream of smoke. “You forget, Watson, that we are dealing here with the criminal classes. A sizeable ransom had been paid for the return of the bell and, on finding the duplicates, their importance became immediately apparent.”
Holmes took another long pull on his pipe. “The Zhou bell is unique. Had their plan succeeded, and it was revealed to the world that the bell on display in the Victoria and Albert museum was a fake, then the real bell would become a very saleable item. Not only would the thieves be paid handsomely by their masters in China for discrediting the Emperor, but they would also profit hugely from the sale of the duplicate bells, passing each one off as the real Zhou bell”
I was appalled! “But...but...who would buy it? Given the publicity, the bell could never be openly displayed for it would be instantly recognised”
Holmes again smiled. “There are collectors, Watson, who will buy artefacts solely for their own, perverse, enjoyment. They are content to buy the finest, stolen artefacts and lock them away in vaults purely to view them for their own pleasure. This, I believe, was the purpose of the duplicates. Three or perhaps even four of these collectors would be contacted and, very privately, offered the Zhou bell at a huge price. Each would believe they were buying the original and, perhaps, one of them indeed would.”
Holmes closed his eyes for a moment before speaking again. “However, an even more perverse thought occurred to me. Perhaps the real bell might be offered back to the Emperor! We shall, no doubt, learn more once Mycroft's minions have thoroughly searched the foundry.”
In truth, my mind was whirling. I was content to simply lean back in my chair and seek solace in my pipe.
The following morning we arose a little later than usual. We were still finishing breakfast when the sound of footsteps on our stairs announced to Holmes’ trained ear, that this was a visit from Mycroft. Holmes dabbed any last vestiges of his breakfast from his face with a fine, damask napkin before rising to greet his brother.
The door to our rooms flew open and in swept Mycroft with an expression I deemed to be one of subdued satisfaction. “Good morning, Sherlock, Watson. I was grateful for your telegram last night and the exhibition of the Zhou bell is to commence immediately.
Holmes was clearly pleased and invited Mycroft to sit for a moment and avail us of the information that was gleaned from the foundry. “Well, the documents we found were most illuminating. The thieves had apparently planned to sell the duplicate bells to unscrupulous, wealthy collectors, passing them off as the original.”
Holmes looked across at me and raised an eyebrow. “It is as I thought, Mycroft. What was to happen to the real bell?”
Mycroft edged forward on his chair. “Ah! This is where it becomes intriguing! We found a letter addressed to the Ambassador. It would seem that they were even intending to sell the rea
l bell back to the Chinese emperor-” Mycroft saw the thin smile on Holmes’ face. “But of course, Sherlock, this was something you had already anticipated.”
Holmes’ continued smile indicated to Mycroft that he had been forgiven...but one point still needed to be addressed. “Mycroft, that fellow we came upon in Kensington. I concluded that he worked at the foundry but have you any further information?”
I looked across at Mycroft, his face clouded a little. “Yes, that was a bad business. He was the foreman at the Raven Foundry and, from all accounts, was an honest fellow. He must have become suspicious when the duplicate bells were made and the Chinamen ensured his silence. Faced with the gallows, one of the Chinamen has turned Queen's Evidence and told all.”
Mycroft's voice then lightened. “I called upon the Chinese ambassador before coming here and was asked to wait a few moments whilst he wrote a personal letter to you.”
Mycroft reached inside his coat and withdrew a letter which he handed to Holmes. Opening it, Holmes began to read silently and a thin smile appeared upon his lips. “Listen to this, Watson."
"My dear Holmes and Dr Watson. Mycroft has brought to me news of the bell and I am eternally grateful. The intelligence Mycroft has supplied regarding these criminals will be sent by a secure Imperial cypher to the Emperor. As a token of our heartfelt gratitude, I would be honoured if you might keep your copy of the Zhou bell as a memento of our meeting at the museum. Liu"
Gleefully, I rose and retrieved the still shrouded bell from its place of safety behind the settee. Uncovering it, I placed it in a prominent position upon our mantelpiece.
Holmes chuckled. “I am unsure, Watson, whether Mrs Hudson will thank you for adding further items for her to dust!”