The Whitehall Papers: Adventures of Sherlock Holmes

by Maurice Barkley

  “My brother,” Mycroft replied, “is pursuing his investigation of this matter with, I must say, much more satisfactory results than those obtained thus far by the police.”

  “We have not authorized these people to enter the conference room,” said Franken. Apparently he was not interested in our results.

  “True,” Mycroft sighed. “If you insist, I shall obtain permission from Lord Bethnal.”

  “I most certainly do insist,” Franken hissed.

  “Sherlock,” said Mycroft, “if you and the Doctor will be so kind as to wait here for a few minutes, I will see Lord Bethnal and return promptly.”

  “Of course,” said Holmes, “Dr. Watson and I are most anxious to abide by your routine.”

  Mycroft and Mr. Franken went off to find Lord Bethnal and our guard returned to his desk and his book, leaving Sherlock and me by the great door.

  “Watson,” said Holmes, in a low voice, “move a bit, so that you interrupt the guards view of the door. Keep an eye on him and cough if he looks up.”

  I moved as requested and watched the guard. Engrossed in his book, he paid us no attention. I heard some slight movement behind me, but what Holmes was doing, I could not guess.

  “Well, Watson,” said Holmes, after another minute of silence, “I need nothing else from the conference room. Let us go and have a chat with the guard.”

  The guard put his book aside as we approached.

  “Excuse me,” said Holmes, as we arrived at the station. I wonder if I might ask you a question or two about the conference room.”

  “I guess it would be alright, sir,” he answered, “since I knows naught of what goes on in there.”

  “My interest,” said Holmes, “is in the decoration of the room. Especially that fine door. How long has it been there?”

  “Just these six months past, sir.”

  “I had heard, “said Holmes, “that the room underwent a complete redecoration about that time. Was the door part of the project?”

  “Yes sir, it was.”

  “Very good. Now, tell me, was the chandelier in the centre of the room installed at the same time?”

  “Why yes. And a fine one it is.”

  I wondered at this, as it was the first I had heard of a chandelier. How did Holmes know of it?

  “Can you tell me,” Holmes asked, leaning over the small desk, “who ordered the work done?”

  “Wasn't no one here ordered the work. A gift it was from one of them wealthy ones who're always doing such things. Can't remember the man's name though.”

  Just then Mycroft returned with Mr. Franken and Lord Bethnal in tow. “We can go in now, Sherlock. Lord Bethnal will accompany us.”

  “I'm sorry to have troubled you with this,” said Holmes. “Especially since I now think it is unnecessary to investigate further in that direction.”

  “What is this?” Franken cried. “Are you playing a joke at our expense?”

  “Not at all. I have simply seen something that directs my attention elsewhere.”

  Franken scowled. “And what might that be, Mr. Holmes?”

  “What I saw will take considerable explanation. At the present, time is short. We must act swiftly, so I must request a postponement of the tale.”

  “PAH!” Franken spat. “He's as much in the dark as the rest of us. It's nonsense. He should not have the run of the building.”

  “Mr. Franken,” said Sherlock, in a level voice, a cold light glittering from within his eyes. “Nothing to me is quite so irritating as a man who, having gained a degree of expertise in one area, presumes to be an expert in others.” Franken shrank back, but Sherlock continued, “I want you out of my way. I am a hound, hot on the trail of my quarry—moving fast. I do not wish to have you spreading pepper under my nose.”

  “Mr. Holmes,” said Lord Bethnal, wisely picking a suitable pause to interject himself into the drama, “we are up against it. You may or may not be making headway. I don't know. I do know I have sat in my office these past hours, doing and accomplishing nothing. Even if you are running blind, at least you are running. I would much rather assist you than sit behind my desk listening to the clock. There may be little to gain, but there is most certainly nothing to lose.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Sherlock. “I appreciate your attitude. I need to know from you the name, address and physical description of the janitor who cleans this corridor. I also need the same information plus any other particulars you may have about the philanthropist who provided the funds to redecorate the conference room.”

  Paul, the guard spoke from behind his desk. “Janitors name is Andy White, sir. Don't know where he lives, but I think it's somewheres over the river. Odd thing about Andy—started work here just after the redecoration and never missed work until four days ago. He didn't come in and I've not seen or heard from him since.”

  “If I was to guess at his appearance,” said Holmes, “would short, with dark hair that’s forever oiled back be far from the mark?”

  “Why that’s him exactly, sir, a regular dandy he is. But however could you know?”

  “I knew,” said Holmes, “our man must have access to the corridor on a regular basis.”

  It was certain that Andy White now lay dead in the back of the Foote & Co. store.

  Now,” said Holmes, “who can tell me about the other man.”

  “I believe I can be of help,” said Lord Bethnal. “I have in my office files, a newspaper account of the dedication.”

  We quick marched through several hallways, down a short flight of stairs and into an outer office lined with file cabinets. Lord Bethnal went directly to a set with very wide drawers, pulled one open and almost instantly plucked a folder from among a multitude of others. From the folder he took a newspaper clipping and placed it on a small table for us to read.

  “Here it is,” he said, pointing with a pencil. “His name is Nathanial I. Ramas. Sounds rather Latin.”

  Sherlock looked at Mycroft. “Have you read in the papers the accounts of the missing prisoner at the Bow Street jail?”

  “Yes, I have,” Mycroft answered.

  “The prisoners name is Samaritan,” said Sherlock.

  “I see the blunder,” Mycroft said, excitedly. “It all ties together quite neatly.”

  “What is' it?” cried Lord Bethnal.

  “Not just yet,” said Sherlock. “Please give me the other particulars from the article.”

  Lord Bethnal picked up the clipping and read through it mumbling. “Man is forty and three, has a small estate in St. John's Wood, bachelor, philanthropist, travels a great, deal. Nothing about family or source of wealth.”

  “Is there an address?”

  “Yes, here it is. Number 17 Albert Road.”

  Sherlock turned to Mycroft. “Send for Lestrade. Tell him to meet us at the Ramas estate.”

  “Please,” said the bewildered Lord Bethnal. “I beg of you, tell me what is happening.”

  “No time,” Holmes snapped. “Mycroft will tell you after he has sent for Lestrade. Come Watson, we haven't a second to lose—we may already be too late.”

  We hurried from the building, leaving the shouting and sputtering officials in the capable hands of Mycroft Holmes.

  “Look here old fellow,” I said, as our driver whipped his horse to a fast trot. “What connection do you find between Mr. Ramas and the prisoner?”

  “Mr. Ramas thought to be clever, but in this he made a great error. You must at one time or another have known a man named Nathanial. His friends may well address him as Nat, not Nathanial. Therefore, we have the name Nat I. Ramas. A simple reversal of the letters gives us a new name—Samaritan.”

  “Great Scott,” I exclaimed.” Then they are one and the same,”

  “Exactly, dear boy –a foolish bit of vanity.”

  I was full of questions, but Holmes tucked his chin in his collar and closed his eyes. When he struck that pose I knew conversation was not welcome.

  A light rain was fallin
g when we arrived at the Ramas estate in St. John's Wood. The main gates were open and unguarded. We drove without pause up a long, tree lined drive curving round to the pillared front of an old, grey stone mansion. Before we had come to a proper halt, Holmes was out and striding up the steps.

  “See here, Watson,” he called back, as I hurried to join him, “the front door stands open to the world. Have your pistol at the ready.”

  I extracted the weapon from my jacket pocket. Although I had rarely had cause to use it since Afghanistan, it felt quite at home in my hand. “The whole place looks deserted,” I said.

  “Yes,” Holmes replied,” I fear we have missed our man, but come—let us have a look round.”

  We entered to a long hallway with several doorways on both sides and a grand staircase at the end.

  “Ho! What is this?” said Holmes, pointing to a large side table on top of which sat two large wicker baskets. “Wait one moment while I examine the contents.”

  Holmes carefully opened each basket in turn. Over his shoulder I could see a vast amount of currency in one and the photographs and plates in the other.

  “Here is an envelope, Watson. Hello—it's addressed to me.”

  Holmes opened the envelope, took out a single folded sheet of paper and read aloud. “My Dear Sherlock Holmes, it was indeed my good fortune to learn, through a talkative official at Whitehall, of your interest in this matter. As you might imagine, at this time my only interest is in my freedom. To further that end, I am quitting my residence at once and leaving for you, the money and the photographs. I hope the people at Whitehall, having secured both, will be a little less interested in my capture. Most of all, I wish to reduce your incentive. I sincerely regret the death of Mr. White. The poor fellow became greedy and during the course of an argument, blows were struck on both sides. I had meant only to subdue him. With great respect, N. R.”

  “Good Heavens,” I said, “this has all happened so rapidly I have hardly had time to get my bearings. What do we do now?”

  “Our investigation is complete. There is nothing to do, but wait for Lestrade.”

  “But what about Mr. Ramas. Clues lying about this house—that sort of thing?”

  “The man known as Ramas and Samaritan no longer exists. There is no question he is now traveling with a new identity he prepared well in advance. I will of course be interested in the police investigation, but he is far too clever to have left clues here. I think we must be thankful he was willing to leave the baskets. The police and their facilities now can do the remaining work better. Our chase will have to wait for another time.”

  Lestrade and a squad of men arrived a short while later, followed almost immediately by a four wheeler containing Lord Bethnal, Mr. Franken, Commissioner Ballinger and Inspector Hayslip. A great commotion erupted when they saw the wicker baskets. Lord Bethnal and Mr. Franken picked up the negatives and prints and fairly danced about the room. Ballinger and Hayslip, much subdued, made a show of counting the stacks of money. Lestrade in the meantime was too weary to do more than stand and wait for the shouting to stop.

  “Gentlemen,” Holmes called out, “please—we have not yet finished.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Lord Bethnal, with a wide smile on his face. “Please forgive us. The relief is so great. Pray, do go on.”

  In the new silence Holmes told Lestrade of Mr. Ramas and the fact that he was Samaritan. Lestrade, agreeing the capture of the vanished criminal was surely hopeless, began anyway to make the routine investigation, beginning with the hunt for the missing prison guard. Holmes and I then departed—leaving the house and the baskets to the police and the people from Whitehall. I pressed Holmes with a flurry of questions, but he showed me a palm. He explained that since the people from Whitehall would have the same questions once they calmed down; he would rather wait and tell the tale just once.

  Just before noon, that same day, as we were resting before a familiar fire, Mrs. Hudson ushered in Lord Bethnal and Mr. Franken. Holmes beckoned them to join us by the cheery blaze and offered them cigars.

  From his chair, a peaceful look on his face, Lord Bethnal said, “We owe you a great debt, Mr. Holmes—a debt quite beyond price. Your brother, who refused to budge from his office, said you would seek no reward, but I am a rather persistent individual. Please accept this cheque for one thousand pounds.”

  “Thank you.” said Holmes, who reached out and took the proffered slip of paper. “Although my work is its own reward, I do occasionally accept payment to meet my daily needs.”

  “We are still in the dark about one or two things,” said a much friendlier Mr. Franken. “Mycroft told us of the wondrous way in which you located Andy White, but why did you not wish to see the conference room and how were the photographs taken?”

  Holmes reached down to the floor near his chair and picked up the small box. “This, gentlemen,” he said, while holding it up for our inspection, “is a rather odd little camera that was lying near the body of Andy White. It was his dying attempt to leave a clue that would lead to the man who killed him. The unique feature of this camera is that there is one lens located behind the shutter. I could not guess its significance at the time. For that reason I carried it with me to Whitehall. Perhaps you noticed I had it in my hand?” Both of our guests shook their heads. “No matter, it was a piece of good fortune when you, Mr. Franken, stopped us at the door. That delay gave me a chance to observe and admire the rather ornate glass window. As I stood there, I suddenly saw that one of the blobs of distorted glass was different from the others. It was a lens. A fine lens cast into the glass of the window. As soon as the guard was safely down the corridor, I removed the back from the camera. This exposed the ground glass viewing plate. I then placed the open rim at the front up against the lens in the window and opened the shutter. This gave me a clear, if inverted view of part of the room. The window and the camera together became a small telescope capable of taking pictures.”

  Lord Bethnal interrupted. “But the documents lay flat on the table. How could someone photograph them from the doorway?”

  “I solved that puzzle when the chandelier over the table came in to view through the camera. Going all round its center, and angled downward are several large, flat mirrors used to reflect the gaslight downward. They also reflect light the other way and among three of them, I had a complete though broken view of the table in question. Of course I could not read any papers lying there, but you can enlarge a good negative quite a bit. I imagine Mr. White took many risks to get his pictures. Since he did not know what, if anything might be on the table, he most likely used his camera daily. The exposure time is several seconds, but nothing is more invisible than a man doing a routine task. Mr. White probably delivered his prints to the missing prison guard, who in turn delivered them to Samaritan. The exact details are lost to us. Yes—a very difficult task, but there you are, he did it.”

  “Incredible,” cried Lord Bethnal. “Absolutely incredible. How can we protect ourselves from men like Samaritan?”

  “With men like Holmes,” I muttered.

  “Yes—well, we shall not forget this lesson,” Lord Bethnal said, as they rose to take their leave.

  “Before you go,” said Holmes, “are you at liberty to reveal the nature of the documents?”

  “Some are trade agreements—rather mundane,” said Lord Bethnal, “but one set details the specifications for HMS Dreadnought, the first of a class of ‘super’ battleships that will ensure the Empire rules the seas throughout the coming century. Knowing that, you can see why we were so distraught.”

  “'Government people are forever busy,” Holmes observed, after seeing them out. “Ah, well—we need them.”

  “Tell me, Holmes,” I said, “were you not pleased at their radical change of attitude at the conclusion of this adventure?”

  “Watson old friend, the close of a case brings me very little pleasure. I become as a hound without his rabbit to chase, but yes, for a while at least you will find
me pleased and satisfied. Hand me that box of cigarettes, will you? It looks to be a long afternoon.”

  THE END