The Investigations of Sherlock Holmes

by John Heywood

  “I can’t say that I have.”

  “I found that it had been converted to a pianola.”

  “One of those new devices that plays the piano automatically, like a music-box?”

  “Exactly. In a cupboard were a number of piano rolls, one of which I took and secreted in my delivery bag. I also helped myself to a cigar from the box, and the butt of a cigar from the fireplace. I was determined to take a look at Miss Harfield’s room if I could, but I had little time, for I did not know for how much longer Miss Davies would be able to distract the maid, and furthermore I might at any point run into the house-keeper or Miss Harfield herself. I hurried up the stairs, and as I stood on the landing the door before me opened and a most distraught lady, wan and trembling, came out. She looked at me in astonishment. ‘Afternoon, Ma’am,’ I said. ‘Here to check the fitting, begging your pardon.’ I touched my forehead and without waiting for her permission entered the room she had just left. On top of a chest of drawers stood a range of phials and bottles. Above the chest, as luck would have it, was a gas lamp. As I fiddled with the lamp, my back to the lady, I managed to drop a number of the bottles into my satchel. ‘Thanking you, ma’am,’ I said as I saluted her and went back down the stairs. The poor lady - it was Miss Harfield, of course - never uttered a word. As I reached the bottom of the stairs I heard a door at the back of the house closing, and the footsteps of the maid advancing down the back hall. Just in time I got back to the parlour. When the maid entered, I pointed out that the label was badly written and that the parcel was in fact for Belford Close, not Belford Crescent. Grumbling about the office wasting my time, I made my way out, the parcel under my arm, but before I left I took the precaution of asking her not to mention the wrong delivery to her employers, as I didn’t want to lose my position.

  “My next task was to examine the roof of the Harfield house.”

  “The roof?” I wondered. “What made you want to look at the roof?”

  “The voice that the maid had heard, Watson. Where do you suppose it had come from?”

  “I hadn’t asked myself that question, but now you raise it, I can’t say the roof is the answer that springs immediately to mind. Was not the voice perhaps in the mind of the maid? Perhaps she had fallen asleep momentarily and dreamed it.”

  “It is most unlike you, Watson, to suggest a mental explanation in preference to a physical one. I fear that I lack your newly ethereal cast of mind; I took a more prosaic approach, and asked myself where the voice had come from. The most likely answer, if I may beg to differ from you, was that it had come down the chimney.”

  I felt no inclination to be browbeaten by my friend’s mocking tone.

  “Oh!” I said. “Of course. Some fellow wishing to speak to the maid, instead of ringing the bell, naturally strolled up to the roof and bellowed down the chimney at her. How dull I have been.”

  Holmes raised his eyebrows and smiled. “Touché! I underestimated the sharpness of your tongue, Watson. I must be more careful in future. It would indeed have been a rather unusual way to address the maid, but you forget, perhaps, that few chimneys serve only one fireplace. The chimney for Aggie’s fireplace also serves that of Miss Harfield, who (according to the maid, per Miss Davies) passes a good deal of the day in her room. I suspect that the evil words were intended for her ears.”

  “I suppose that’s a possibility,” I conceded, “but why would someone wish to insult the lady secretly in that way? Do you suppose some feud, some bad blood between her and this man on the roof?”

  “Why indeed? That is an excellent question, my boy, and one that lies at the heart of this enquiry. But you know my views on trying to build theories on insufficient facts. We will do better first to lay out clearly before us such facts as we have, and only then to try to account for them. So before addressing your question, I will continue with my account of such facts as I was able to discover yesterday. So, back to the roof: luckily Miss Davies’s rooms give access to a loft, whose skylight enabled me to climb onto the roof itself. Thence I crossed onto the roof of the neighbouring house, the Harfields’. Near their chimney I found unmistakeable signs of activity. There were fresh scratches in the sooty lip of the chimney itself; corners had been recently chipped off two of the slates at the foot of the stack; the dust and debris that accumulated there had been recently disturbed, although it was all too dry for anything so definite as a footprint; I found some cigar ash, and in the guttering nearby the butt of a cigar. I then crawled over to the Harfields’ skylight; it had been recently opened.”

  Holmes went over to the table and fished out from under a pile of discarded newspapers and other clutter some matchboxes. They were labelled in his neat hand. “Here,” he said, opening one of them and passing it to me, “is the cigar butt I found on the roof. This,” he continued, opening another, “is the butt from the parlour.” He passed me his magnifying lens. “Compare them. Notice particularly how the end has been cut on each.” They were indeed almost identical. “I shall smoke the fresh cigar later,” he continued, “and compare its ash with the ash I found on the roof.”

  “There seems no doubt that your conjecture about the chimney was correct. Someone was up there. You think it was the man Harfield?”

  “Either he or someone smoking one of his cigars.”

  “I am bound to agree with you, Holmes, that the business begins to take on a criminal aspect. I thought it merely bizarre at first, I admit. Did you make any headway over the organ-grinder?” I asked. “His impossible movements seem to me the most mystifying of all the strange events in Belford Crescent.”

  “I made two small discoveries, although far from constituting an advance, they merely confirm the difficulty of explaining the matter. Firstly, as I was telling you, the milkman confirmed Miss Davies’ story. That is important, for it means we can put aside any idea that the organ-grinder and his strange movements are a figment of her imagination. Secondly, I was able to establish that there was no short cut from one end of Belford Crescent to the other, no ready access from the street to the houses’ back gardens, nothing that would screen one person in the street from another; so the conundrum of his supernatural speed remains unexplained.”

  “You have no indication how it was done, or why?”

  “I have an idea, but it is not yet tested; if it turns out to be more than mere fancy, you shall know of it. For the moment, I have more practical business on hand than the airing of unsubstantiated theories. I must make some inquiries into the affairs of the Harfield household. I was hoping that you might be able to help me.”

  “I hope so too. I am less busy this week than last, now that my neighbour has returned.”

  “Excellent!” Holmes sprang to his feet and brought over a large cylinder from the table. “This is the purloined piano-roll. I take it you have no fixed objection to handling stolen goods? You see here the name of the maker: Peter Schelling, London, NW. Would you be good enough, Watson, to visit Mr Schelling, and find out what you can? You might claim to be an acquaintance of Harfield, so impressed with his mechanical piano that you are desirous of some similar device yourself. Find out what you can about Harfield and the piano rolls. In the meantime I shall see what I can find out about Mr Rupert Harfield himself, his business interests and his shadowy sister.”

  “I shall go to see this Schelling fellow tomorrow morning.” Although Holmes had satisfied my curiosity about the facts of the case, as far as he was able to, I was convinced that he understood more of what lay behind those facts than he had divulged. It was always his way to play his cards close to his chest, but I could not forebear to try him a little further. More in hope than expectation I asked him whether he thought the unusual events in Belford Crescent were connected, and if so what he thought that connection might be, what motive or purpose might lie behind them.

  “As to what happened, you know as much as I. You heard Miss Davies’
account, and of my subsequent findings I have hidden nothing from you. As to why these things happened, I suggest you ask yourself this question: what effect did the mysterious organ-grinder, the piano music, and the voice in the chimney have on those who witnessed them?”

  I could press my friend no further. With that decisiveness of attention that was such a marked aspect of his character he said no more, but took up his violin and bow. Evidently the discussion of events in Belford Crescent was over. He coaxed strange sounds from the instrument, not music, perhaps, so much as the expression of thoughts beyond the reach of speech, unearthly sounds that might as easily have originated on the moon as on this planet. It came as a relief to me when after some time he turned to something less alien, and played some pieces he knew to be amongst my favourites, some German lieder and a few folk-songs of our own country. With these familiar harmonies the afternoon drew to a close.

  The next morning I set out for the offices of Schelling with the piano-roll under my arm. The company’s premises were in a street by the Regent’s Park. The shop was large, dark, and furnished with some half-dozen pianos. A bell had tinkled in the distance as I entered, and eventually a young man appeared. I showed him the roll.

  “It belongs to an acquaintance of mine, Mr Harfield of Kentish Town,” I said. “I wonder if you might be able to tell me about this roll. I am interested in buying something similar that would play some of my own favourite pieces.”

  “May I see it? Ah, I thought so. This roll was made by us for your friend. A special order. One moment, if you please.”

  He opened the door by which he had just entered and shouted down: “Mr Ludo, an enquiry about rolls!”

  A muffled reply came up, which I could not make out. “Would you be kind enough to follow me, sir?” asked the assistant, and led me through the back of the shop and down a flight of stairs to a large low room full of pianos and parts of pianos. My guide knocked at one of several doors and a guttural voice behind it called out “Come!”

  I entered a small workshop, lit from a window at pavement level. In appearance and in smell it was something between a printer’s workshop and a cabinet-maker’s. A man of some fifty years in a cotton apron came forward. “Good morning, sir,” he said. “Ah, you have one roll of mine, I see. Is there problem?”

  “No problem at all, Mr ...”

  “My name is Knapp.”

  “The roll is quite satisfactory, Mr Knapp. I wanted to ask you if you might be able to make some similar rolls for myself. This was made for Mr Harfield.”

  Knapp took the cylinder in one hand and with the other unrolled a yard of it like a scroll, holding it upright. He peered at the many little rectangular perforations that dotted the length of paper. “This is unusual - some repeats come at wrong time, I think. Let us listen.” He rolled it back up and went through another door. “Come, sir, come!” he called, and I followed him. In the back room was an upright piano stripped of its casing. It contained not only the usual mechanisms of harp-like strings, hammers and dampers, but also a complicated arrangement of valves attached to a leather bag and of cords attached to the hammers. Knapp was fitting the end of the roll to a spool in the piano. He straightened up: “Now, we shall hear, no?”

  He threw a switch. The machinery moved into action, swifter than the eye could follow, and the music came forth. I had heard something of piano rolls, but I had for some reason expected that the mechanism would bypass the keys; it was a disconcerting sight to see them rise and fall in succession as if an invisible player was at the instrument. After only a few bars Knapp threw the switch and everything stopped. “You heard, sir? He makes mistake, then plays it again correct, and again, so then continues.” He wound the roll back manually and turned to me with his forefinger raised. “Listen!”

  He switched on again, and just as he had said, a phrase was falsely played, then corrected, played again, and the piece continued. “You understand?”

  “I think I do. The music is not played perfectly; the mistakes the pianist made are preserved.”

  “Yes! Yes! So, I remember now this man your friend.” He hurried back to the room we had just come from, picked up the roll’s case and consulted something written on it. “Here is number,” he muttered to himself, and opened a drawer in a cabinet. He flicked through the cards, pulled out the one he was searching for, and read from it:

  “HARFIELD Mr Rupert, of 57 Belford Crescent, London. Self recording, 8 August 98, 8 rolls

  “I remember this occasion. Your friend plays piano and I record eight rolls, mistakes and everything. I can make mistakes to vanish, I can cut holes for missing note, I can cover holes for note that is wrong, but this he does not want, he wants with mistakes.”

  “I dare say that is unusual.”

  “Yes, unusual, most people want it to play perfect.”

  “How interesting. Did my friend Harfield tell you why he wanted the mistakes kept in?”

  “Yes, he was telling me about his theatre, that is why he needed mistakes.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “He has theatre play where sometimes one actor must play piano, but he cannot play piano, so he pretend, and piano play itself. But Mr Harfield, he is clever, he say to himself, if it play too good, nobody believe, they know it is not real, so he play it himself here, and we keep mistakes, so it is like real when it plays on stage.”

  I seemed to have gathered all I usefully could from Mr Knapp. I asked a few more questions about piano rolls, and we agreed that ready-made rolls were cheaper and, for my purposes, better. I told him how helpful he had been - which I felt with some shame was almost the only true word I had spoken to the honest fellow - and went upstairs. There I was treated to a lecture from the assistant about the types of machinery used to play piano rolls, until I finally shook myself free of him, and, my head swimming with the details of peripheral pneumatics and isolators, I returned to Baker Street.

  I was alone there, and was pleased to be able to read up in one of the medical journals on some recent advances in anaesthetics. After an hour or so Mr Sherlock Holmes breezed into the room, flinging his hat upon the table, and himself into the bath chair. He lit a cigarette. “Well, Watson, how did you fare in your enquiries?”

  I told him what I had learnt, the news of which seemed to delight him.

  “This confirms my speculations on what lies behind these unaccountable events in Belford Crescent. I don’t suppose you thought to check on Harfield’s story of the play?”

  “I didn’t. Is it important?”

  I must confess that I was a little disappointed to hear my friend’s question. Try though I might, my researches on his behalf never seemed to satisfy him.

  “Come, Watson, don’t be downhearted. What you have found is invaluable. Since you ask me, however, I must say that it would of course be better to check on the veracity of this story about the theatre. Could you check on it later this afternoon? You would do me a great service. Of course I would do it myself, but I am fully engaged on other matters.”

  “Yes, I suppose I could do so. I am covered at the practice today by my neighbour.”

  “Excellent! I rely upon you.”

  “I hope you can, but I am not at all sure how to go about checking on Harfield’s story.”

  “A good theatrical agent will be able to help you. He will know all about what was happening on the London stage that summer. I should tell you, by the way, that Harfield does have some theatrical connections, so his story is very likely true. Now, I have other business this afternoon that will not wait.” He picked up his hat and walking-cane. “Good luck with your enquiries, Watson. I expect our paths will cross again this evening.”

  Following the advice of my friend I visited a theatrical agent, Nathaniel Rezin, in his office in the West end of London. In the little ante-chamber where I waited, the office-boy told me that
he thought it unlikely Mr Rezin would see me without an appointment; but when I gave my card with a note scribbled on it to the effect that I was acting for my friend Sherlock Holmes, I was straightaway admitted to Rezin’s office. He recognised the name of Harfield, as having been involved with the staging of some productions a few years ago, and asked me if I was proposing to become involved with Harfield in the way of business; when I answered no, he nodded, as if reassured. I then told him what, according to Knapp, Harfield had said about the piano roll, and its use on the stage. Mr Rezin looked me directly in the eye. “You are asking me if I think the piano rolls were used for the purpose you described?”

  “That is what I am asking,” I confirmed.

  “I do not think that they were,” he answered in his soft voice. “I will tell you why. In the first place, a reproducing piano is not a cheap item, and I can assure you that every theatre manager wishes to lay out as little money as he can upon his productions. In the second place, actors able to play the piano come ten a penny. In the third place, most theatres boast a piano in the pit, which would serve the purpose equally well. And in the fourth place, I recollect no production at the time you mention in which one of the characters plays a piano onstage.”

  “Well, Mr Rezin, that seems quite conclusive.”

  Again he nodded.

  “That is all I need to know,” I said, “and as you are a busy man I shall not detain you longer. It has been kind of you to give me your time.”

  That evening Holmes and I were together in our Baker Street rooms. It was late, and the shutters had long been closed and the lamps lit. Holmes seemed tired, but he revived his energies with a glass of brandy-and-water, and soon his eyes burned again with the heat of the chase. I took a glass myself, and we talked over the discoveries of the day. I repeated to him the opinion Mr Rezin had given me.