Sherlock Holmes

by Dick Gillman

  Just before we reached the house, two burly constables appeared from the shadows of the driveway and saluted. Holmes told one of the constables to approach the front of the house and, on Holmes’ signal, knock on the front door. The other constable was to assist us by preventing anyone leaving via the rear garden. The two constables nodded, saluted smartly and split up, one to each side of the house.

  “We have sent in the terrier, Watson. Let us see if we can flush out our quarry” said Holmes, his eyes bright with anticipation.

  From our position, we could see that the gas lamps were lit on the ground floor of the house. A figure could be seen moving hurriedly between the rooms. As we drew near to one of the large, bay windows, we could see Stephen Birchwood gathering papers and placing them in a Gladstone bag. He must have fled his office as soon as we had left and raced to Hammersmith to get here before us. Holmes now raised his cane as a signal. The constable at the front of the house approached the front door and knocked loudly.

  From our position to the side of the bay, we saw Birchwood rush to the window, pushing aside a net curtain to see who was at the door. We were now so close that we could see his look of panic as the constable knocked again. “Quickly, Watson. To the rear!” Holmes whispered.

  We ran around the side of the house and found ourselves surveying a walled garden with a rectangular lawn and a large glasshouse leaning against the rear wall. Access from the house was by a French window and Holmes indicated that we should stand one either side of it. Hardly had we gotten into position when the doors were flung open and Stephen Birchwood appeared, dressed in a cape and carrying a Gladstone bag.

  “Not so fast, if you please, Mr Birchwood!” cried Holmes and sprang forward.

  Birchwood turned, his face a snarl. “You! I knew you were not clerks!” he screamed.

  “Quite so, but we were not sure you were a murderer until you condemned yourself out of your own mouth!” replied Holmes.

  “Murder?” Laughed Birchwood, “I call it justice! My father died from worry. He was not bailed out by rich financiers. No help came from them or the government but yes, save the banks! Oh yes, save the banks!” he ranted.

  Holmes’ voice was rock steady. “Your father was looking for a quick return on his capital. As a result, he made very unwise investments which failed through no fault of the government and yet you hold the government accountable? How so?" questioned Holmes.

  Birchwood’s eyes were wild, his voice rising in pitch as he shouted, “They gave him nothing! He scrimped and saved, as did we all. The business almost collapsed. My father deserved more and I was going to get back what should have rightfully been his!”

  “Rightfully you say? Your father made his own decisions, controlled his own destiny. That is more than can be said for those poor wretches that died in agony by your hand!”

  It was clear that Birchwood was becoming more and more agitated. He snarled at Holmes, screaming, "Liar!" Suddenly, he started to fumble with the catch of his Gladstone, thrusting his hand inside the bag.

  “I think not!” cried Holmes, striking Birchwood sharply on the wrist with his cane as he tried to draw a pistol from the bag. Birchwood yelped loudly with pain and dropped both the pistol and the bag. Holding his wrist, he looked around wildly. Through the gloom, he saw the two constables approaching across the lawn with truncheons drawn.

  With a wild, animal cry, Birchwood ran to the rear of the lawn and crouched by the side of the glasshouse. Next to him, the downpipe of a neighbouring property jutted out and, looking back at us and the advancing constables, he sprang at it and started to climb. We all paused, seeming to be rooted to the spot, and then charged forward. By the time we had reached the downpipe, Birchwood was almost at head height. One of the constables reached out and caught one of Birchwood's legs, only to be rewarded with a savage kick fully to the face. The constable cried out and fell to the ground, unconscious, his face covered in blood. Birchwood climbed ever higher.

  “There is no escape, Birchwood!” shouted Holmes. Birchwood was almost a full twenty feet above the ground when he swung round to face Holmes. But, as he did so, his injured wrist gave way. His feet scrabbled frantically on the wet metal of the downpipe but to no avail. His body swung wildly to one side before losing his grip completely on the wet pipe, sending him crashing through the roof of the glasshouse. There was one brief scream as he fell then silence, save for the sound of falling panes.

  We approached the collapsed glasshouse and, despite the failing light, it soon became clear that Birchwood was dead. One of the glazing bars from the roof had pierced him and could be seen protruding from the centre of his chest. He lay amongst the shards of shattered glass, one of which had neatly sliced through both his carotid and jugular.

  I looked towards Holmes and seldom had I seen him so angered. Crossing the lawn to my friend, I caught his arm. Holmes turned to me, white with rage. “Curse the man! Watson. He has cheated the gallows! Perhaps, during his days in the condemned cell, he may have suffered just a taste of the torment that his victims suffered.” With that, Holmes turned on his heel and walked away.

  It took several days for Holmes to return to his old self and it was a full week before we heard any more of the case. We were sitting in our rooms in Baker Street one evening, smoking an after dinner pipe when in swept Mycroft looking triumphant.

  “Sherlock! I bring heartfelt thanks from the Prime Minister and the whole cabinet. They are forever in your debt as are many others of our countrymen who might not be alive but for your efforts."

  Holmes simply smiled and nodded. “I am glad to have been of some small service… but tell me Mycroft, what intelligence did you glean from the papers in Birchwood's Gladstone?”

  Mycroft beamed and sat before us. “Everything! Sherlock. Everything! Customer's names, dates of the despatch of the poisoned envelopes and the planned dates for future deliveries. The full horror only became apparent when we discovered that even after the payment, he intended to continue the blackmail! Hundred's more would have perished. The horror is unthinkable! You caught him just in time for he had already planned his escape. In his notes he had detailed his journey and was to take the train from Hammersmith to Bishopsgate and then on to Harwich. From there, he would take a ferry to the Hook of Holland and then, by train, to Ghent.”

  Mycroft now turned and looked directly at Holmes. “Now, Sherlock. The Prime Minister has visited Her Majesty and he has asked me to offer you a baronetcy. Would you consider accepting?”

  Holmes smiled. “Thank him for me… but no. If I were to accept then I would not be able to come and go as I please nor could I continue with my work here.” With that, Holmes once again picked up his beloved Stradivarius and became lost in the strains of Vivaldi.

  ~~~***~~~

  The Cagliari Affair

  Chapter 1 - A letter from Italy.

  It was a dark, February evening in 1894 when Holmes returned tired and wet to our rooms in Baker Street. In recent weeks, Holmes had solved the case of The Bishop's Tie Pin. He had also convinced brother Mycroft to exert a little pressure on the government so that the bishop could discretely retire without the threat of a scandal.

  Homes threw off his Macintosh and slumped into his favourite chair, drew up his legs and reached for his Meerschaum and the Persian slipper in which he kept his tobacco. I did not disturb him during this time, but let him relax. Like all great minds, he needed time to slowly return to the mundane matter of simply living. Perhaps, now, he would at least have an appetite. Mrs Hudson had taken me to one side on several occasions in recent weeks as Holmes had eaten so little and she was concerned for his health. She had often taken away her serving tray with Holmes’ meal untouched.

  After several minutes, our sitting room had become somewhat hazy with tobacco smoke and I could see that a calm had settled upon Holmes. So much so that he was now using his pipe stem as a baton to conduct some piece of music which he was playing in his head.

  "You know, Watson,
I am forever intrigued by the intricacies of Vivaldi's work." On saying this, he began to reach for his beloved Stradivarius. As he reached out, he stopped as his hand passed over the small silver tray upon which Mrs Hudson brought up our mail. "Hello, what's this?"

  On the tray were a couple of letters which had lain untouched since the afternoon post arrived at about 2 p.m. Holmes gathered up the two letters and selected the lower one. His eyes gleamed as he took in every detail of the envelope, turning it over, holding it to his nose and then up towards the flickering gas light by the fireplace. With a twinkle in his eye and a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth, he tossed the envelope towards me. "What do you make of that, Watson?"

  I was used to Holmes’ humour and was not at all offended when he offered me a challenge. I knew it was not him thumbing his nose at me by showing off his superior powers of observation and deduction...although...he did get some pleasure from watching me struggle as I tried to apply his own methods in my amateurish way.

  I caught the envelope and examined it in the same way as I had seen Holmes do. As I did this, I swear that I could hear a slight chuckle coming from his direction. "Well, the envelope seems to be of a quality paper, it has been stamped correctly and franked in Belgravia. The handwriting is well formed, neat and precise and written in black ink. The envelope has what I think to be the faint smell of perfume."

  At this, Holmes roared with laughter. "Capital, Watson! Capital! Anything else?"

  I knew I was being teased but it was, as always, done in a kindly, good humoured way. "No… I think I have covered everything."

  Again a laugh came from Holmes. "Yes, yes, everything… and yet nothing."

  Whilst this I knew was in jest, I still did not like to have my feathers ruffled so. "You can detect more?" I asked, a little huffily, as I tossed the letter back to him.

  "Well, let's see. The envelope is, as you say, of good quality but not, I think, English in origin. The colour of the envelope and the fibres in the paper tend to lead me more towards central, perhaps southern Europe. The quality of the envelope and the fact that it was posted in Belgravia lends a certain weight to this. Belgravia is home to a number of European embassies and consulates. The hand that wrote this was definitely a man's and from the weight and power of the strokes, a powerful and important man. Again my suggestion of European origin is supported by the form of the figure 'one' in our address of 221b. This figure '1' has that curious shape which includes the very long serif that may be mistaken by an Englishman as being the figure seven.”

  He paused to recap. “So, we have a letter from Europe, written by an important, powerful man, possibly originating from an embassy. Did you feel the embossing on the enclosure through the envelope?" asked Holmes.

  "I fear not, but pray continue if there is more to be gleaned before opening it." said I, with a little edge to my voice.

  Holmes smiled. "Ah, Watson. It is wrong of me to tease you so, let us continue. The embossed heading of the enclosure leads me to believe that it is indeed the emblem of a nation and what of the smell that you detected? I think it is not perfume but a little more masculine a fragrance, cologne perhaps? Now, with which nationalities would you perhaps associate important gentlemen anointing themselves with cologne? Surely those nations reputed to be the romantics of Europe."

  I thought for a moment. "The French." said I.

  "Possibly, but remember the paper of the envelope. I believe we might look perhaps a little further south and east?"

  "Italian!" I cried.

  "Splendid, Watson. Let us see if we have deduced correctly." Holmes carefully slid a finger under the gummed flap and eased it away from the body of the envelope. He unfolded the single sheet of paper within and quickly scanned the content. "Ah, we are correct. It is indeed a letter from the Italian embassy, from the desk of the ambassador himself. He is inviting us to the embassy tomorrow evening and says that he has taken the liberty of summoning brother Mycroft.”

  I was a little puzzled. "If Mycroft is to be there, it must be an important affair of state. Why would they want to involve you, Holmes?"

  Holmes gave a thin lipped smile and raised a finger, saying, "Sometimes, Watson, there are occasions where even Her Britannic Majesty's most discreet officials cannot be seen to be involved. We are to travel incognito and enter the embassy through a private courtyard at the rear. The ambassador is expecting us at 8 p.m."

  Chapter 2 - A visit to an old friend.

  Little happened the following day. Holmes spent the time researching the thoroughfares around the embassy and also the backgrounds of the diplomats serving at the embassy. I spent my time catching up on some interesting new articles in 'The Lancet'. I find my practice to be busy at this time of year and a day away from my surgery was something not to be wasted.

  After dinner, we dressed warmly with heavy coats and mufflers. We had heeded the request of the ambassador and were unrecognisable in our winter clothes. There was little traffic in Baker Street but after a minute or two we were able to hail a Hansom. Holmes directed the driver to a small side street close to the embassy. It was a cold evening and, as we descended from the Hansom, we could see great plumes of condensation from the horse's nostrils. Holmes tossed the driver a shilling and the cab clattered away into the night.

  Holmes’ time studying the area around the embassy had been well spent as he seemed to guide us intuitively to the small courtyard at the rear. A single gas light flickered above a doorway almost hidden in the corner of the courtyard; Holmes tapped sharply on the door with his cane. We waited only a few moments and I was surprised when the door did not open but a small slot at eye level slid back. All we could see was a pair of eyes, a broad forehead and a patch of jet black hair. “Si?” was all that was said by the face behind the door.

  Holmes stood back from the door and into the pool of light from the gas lamp. “Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson to see the Ambassador.” The slot in the door was quickly shut and the sound of heavy bolts being pulled was clearly heard before the door swung open.

  The brightness of the light that flooded out from the interior of the building made us blink for a moment before we took in the form of a burly servant in full livery almost filling the doorway. The servant bowed slightly, stepped back and ushered us inside saying in English, with a strong Italian accent, “Please signori, enter.”

  Holmes responded with a quiet, “Grazie.”

  The servant replied, “Prego.” before closing the door quickly behind us and shooting the bolts, saying, “This way, please.”

  We followed him and were led along a passageway with rooms off to the side. I assumed that this passageway would normally have been used by tradesmen visiting the kitchen but after about ten yards, a door was opened and we entered directly into the embassy proper.

  The atrium we stood in was double height with massive, half fluted white columns supporting a domed white ceiling with gold and red stenciled motifs. The floor was of exquisite Italian marble in different colours which formed intricate patterns. The servant led us to an equally fine marble staircase with an intricate wrought iron balustrade and mahogany hand rail. At the top of the staircase we entered an ante-room and from there into the office of the ambassador, His Excellency, Count Ernesto Salvatore Emilio di Cagliari.

  The ambassador's office was superbly decorated with opulent furniture in the renaissance style and with heavy, embroidered curtains at the windows. At each corner of the room was a white, half fluted column topped with gold acanthus leaves which supported a fine, stenciled ceiling. The room was illuminated by a large gilt hexagonal lantern complimented by ornate gilded gas lamps on the walls. To one side of the office was a fireplace of carved, white Italian marble. Above it was a large mirror in a swept gilt frame and in the grate, a hearty log fire blazed. From behind an ornate, gilt desk near the centre of the end wall, a tall elegant man with iron grey hair rose and walked towards us, his hand outstretched. He was dressed in a dark, formal three piece suit with
a diagonal, pale blue, silk sash that reached from shoulder to waist. On the jacket breast pocket was a large gold star with enamel work inset with gem stones, a clear sign of his noble birth and a symbol of his status.

  Holmes reached out and took the ambassador's hand. "Good evening, Excellency."

  The ambassador reached out his other hand and grasped Holmes’ forearm saying, "Oh please, Sherlock. We are old friends and you must again call me Ernesto." and gave a hearty laugh. I could see from Holmes’ expression that he was pleased to renew his acquaintance with the Count. For myself, I was staggered. Holmes had never mentioned this friendship and I had barely recovered my senses when I was introduced.

  Holmes turned to me, saying, "Let me introduce my friend and colleague, Dr John Watson."

  The ambassador almost leapt forward in his eagerness to shake my hand. "Ah, Dr Watson! I have heard so many good things about you from Sherlock. He and I have kept in contact over the years since we first met in Cagliari. He tells me that he is always grateful for your help and friendship." I almost blushed at this praise and mumbled some thanks as I shook the ambassador's hand.

  I was saved from further embarrassment by the arrival of Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft, of course, already knew the ambassador through official channels and the introductions were merely a nod in our direction.

  Three chairs had been arranged in an arc in front of the ambassador's desk. We all waited to sit whilst the ambassador moved around the desk to take his place and face us. I could see that the ambassador's demeanour had changed somewhat. It seemed like the act of sitting down behind his desk was a catalyst for serious business. After a few moments the ambassador looked towards us and breathed out heavily, as though mentally searching for the place from whence to start.

  "Gentlemen, at the end of the week we are to have an official visit from a very important member of the Italian Royal family. This person is coming here, to the embassy, to be the guest of honour at a reception I am holding to commemorate his visit.” The ambassador leant forward in his chair as if to give more importance to what he was now about to say. “In fact, this person is already here at the embassy and is visiting London incognito before any of his official engagements. His Maj...” The ambassador stopped himself and his face flushed with colour at his error. “His private visit was to have been a complete secret. Only a few trusted people knew of it and yet this week our agents in London have sent a worrying report to police Inspector Frosali here at the embassy. He has passed the information on to me and a copy has been sent to the Minister of the Interior in Italy."