by Ron Weighell
‘You see, Watson, the Irregulars really cannot be beaten in such matters. Did you give the driver my note?’
‘I did Mr ’Olmes. ’E’s ’ere outside now.’
‘Tell him to come up, Watson. Here is your sovereign, Medwin, and a bonus for the rest. Very good work.’
The driver entered, preceded by a full ‘bay window’ and the biggest moustache I have ever seen. It seemed to mask half his face. A pug nose and a very battered billycock completed the comic effect. He looked bemused, but was comforted by ‘something to keep out the cold’ and the promise that his journey would be made worthwhile. Comic his appearance may have been, but his eyes and memory were sharp enough.
‘I remember the fare in question, sir. Did consider it a bit odd that he made me wait behind the trees. Put it down to them being forig gentlemen.’
‘They spoke with an accent, then?’
‘No sir, but one of them spoke English too well. Like it was learned out of a book. He didn’t know the money either.’
‘Very well observed. Did you hear them speak to each other?’
‘Not clearly sir, but when they had their heads together, the big one nodded like he understood well enough.’
‘Quite so. And where did you take these two foreign gentlemen when they emerged from Burleigh Square?’
‘Garrison Street. I remember laughing to myself at the way he said it. Don’t remember the number, but I could show you.’
And that he did. The house in Garrison Street proved to be number eleven, a large boarding house with a front garden as trim and orderly as could be. Our knock roused a dog to barking within the house.
‘Mature bulldog,’ muttered Holmes, matter of factly.
The door was opened by a stern, shirtsleeved little man who was struggling to keep control of a bulldog. Holmes allowed himself a raised eyebrow and introduced us.
My accounts of our adventures had never met with Holmes’s approval, but on this occasion even he had to acknowledge that they literally opened doors. The landlord, whose name was Bryant, had never missed one of my stories, and was more than happy to assist us in any way he could. The two men were Italians, he was sure, and had left only a few hours earlier. We were welcome to see the room in which they had stayed.
‘You have done very well for yourself here, Mr Bryant, said Holmes, as we mounted the stairs. ‘It must have taken much careful saving on a non-commissioned officer’s pay. Especially as your injury forced you to retire before your time.’
‘Very true, sir, as my wife was . . . how could you know that, sir?’
‘Your tunic, with its sergeant’s stripes, is hanging behind the half-open kitchen door. You have the bearing of a career military man, and are too young to have retired by choice. That limp would have excluded you from service, so must have happened after you joined up; but the wear on the edge of your boot leads me to conclude that you have been disabled some while.’
Bryant was clearly delighted to be the subject of my friend’s deductions.
‘Correct, Mr Holmes, in every particular. Here we are.’
The bulldog stood at the threshold of the room, growling in his throat.
‘Old Jasper didn’t like the two gentlemen much.’
‘He is a sound judge of character,’ observed Holmes, who then added quietly to me, ‘or at least he has a sharp nose for human blood.’
‘Enough said, sir. At any rate, he chivvied them out the house when they left. The big one had to drag him all the way down the hall, hanging on to his suitcase. Tore it too.’
‘Is that so? I should like to see where that happened in a moment. First let us look at the room where they stayed.’
It was a clean, well appointed room, but it had been left in some disarray. Holmes stood for some seconds on the threshold, fingertips together, lips pursed. By the time he allowed us to enter, he had already arrived at a number of conclusions.
‘There is little to learn here, but we must work with what we have. The smaller man used this bed. No skill was needed to arrive at that conclusion: only one bed has been slept in, and the sheets are not even disturbed near the foot. If the bigger man had slept in it, his legs would have hung over the end! That seems odd. Why did the big man not sleep in the other bed? Remember the tale of the footprints. Because he is a servant, and one of his functions is that of a bodyguard. He stood, or lay, between his master and the door. Let us see . . . lay, I think, because there are traces of that mysterious ash over almost seven feet of carpet running parallel to the threshold.
‘The smaller gentleman was a cigar smoker, finest Havana, and wore an expensive cologne. He used the better chair, and the antimacassar has hair oil on it. Very expensive and, like his taste in stick ferrules, a little exotic. The giant seems to smoke something very odd indeed. I cannot place that ash at all. I may have based my monograph on incomplete data. However, the master paced the room a lot, flicking his cigar ash.
‘They kept a fire going, and, just before leaving, burnt some paper, most of which has succumbed to the flames. One small fragment remains, bearing a figure of a salamander writhing in fire, and a few decipherable letters. “Ar . . . in ... Ve . . .” A motto of some sort, possibly? Serviceable, utilitarian notepaper, not at all the kind that our dapper gentleman would use for his own correspondence, or suffer to bear his crest and motto. Company notepaper, without a doubt. That tells us little; it could be a small company that cannot afford good paper, or a very large one whose communications are so numerous that paper constitutes a vast expense. Tracing them would be impossible. Still with your permission, Mr Bryant, I will keep this fragment. Now, let us see the place where the estimable Jasper made his fond farewells.’
‘You should have seen him, Mr Holmes,’ said Bryant enthusiastically, as we descended the stairs. ‘He had such a grip on that case that the big feller couldn’t shake him off. Dragged him the full length of the hall!’
Following the path of this comical event, Holmes retrieved a small fragment of leather.
‘Was this the colour of the suitcase? We may have our first real piece of luck. Mr Bryant, may we borrow Jasper for an hour or two? He may still be game to pursue his hated enemies.’
‘It would be an honour, Mr Holmes. And Dr Watson, when you write about this case, I hope you’ll spare my blushes.’
We allowed the dog to sniff the fragment. As we set off, with Jasper tugging on his lead, Holmes said, ‘I have a good idea where they were heading, Watson, but it will be as well to have it confirmed by a sensitive nose! How far that will take us remains to be seen.’
Jasper led us northwards, following the cab route, to Victoria Station. It took little time to establish that the very distinctive pair had embarked for Dover, and beyond that, Calais and the continent.
‘This is most frustrating, Watson! I have my suspicions as to their destination, but I cannot be certain. Mycroft could have settled things, but he seems to have let us down. There is really nothing we can do but return Jasper to his home, with an edible reward, and wait at Baker Street.’
It proved a distinctly edgy wait. Holmes subjected the sample of ash to further examination, but cast it aside impatiently, complaining that there was not enough for a proper test of its components.
‘But it is not tobacco ash, Watson. Of that I am convinced.’
Then the pacing began. Even this could not relieve his frustrations. He had picked up his revolver, and was aiming at the wall, when Mrs Hudson knocked and entered with a small package in her hand.
‘This came some while ago, Mr Holmes, but I quite forgot to bring it up.’
Holmes leapt up and took the package.
‘Mrs Hudson! How often must I tell you that such matters must be dealt with at once. They are of the utmost importance!’
‘I’m sorry, I sure, Mr Holmes, but I was trying to get the chemical stains out of the table cloth—again!’
Holmes shook his head in exasperation as she departed and tore open the package. It contained
the ferrule and a letter from Mycroft.
‘Now let us see. “Slope and extent of wear on edge are indications of sprightly walker with medium stride . . .” yes, obviously! “Attentive, diligent servants in his house.” Self evident in the extreme!’
‘I do not see how,’ I interjected.
‘“The ferrule has been kept to a high degree of polish with deposits of metal cleaner evident on the inside edge worked in by repeated polishing over a long period.” All this is laughably obvious, and not at all what I asked for. Mycroft is simply showing off!
‘Ah! This is much more like it! Listen to this, Watson. “The workmanship and maker’s mark identify its creator as Rosselino, the finest walking stick maker in Europe. His work is not imported or sold in England due the highly curious nature of the carved handles.”’
Here Holmes gave a small chuckle of pleasure.
‘“Noted for his swordsticks, the blades of which are forged by Rosselino himself, and which are as perfectly balanced as the finest duelling sword . . . Exclusive . . . sells only to eminent, selected customers, recommended by word of mouth.”’
Holmes threw back his head and laughed.
‘Listen to this, Watson. Mycroft adds that “They are so exclusive that I myself have only three.” Well, well. Rosellino, it seems, demands that his customers come to him, and sells only from his premises in . . . quite so.’
With that, he threw the letter into the fire and strode off to his bedroom.
‘You must pack, Watson. And bring your revolver, for you will definitely have need of it.’
‘But where are we going, Holmes?’ I asked.
‘To the “star beloved Elysium of the sea” Watson: The Most Serene Principality of Venice!’
These were the days before the blasting of the Simplon tunnel opened a direct route to Venice, so the journey was a little more taxing than it would later become. We caught an express to Dover, crossed to Calais, and made our way by the Rome express as far as Florence, and thence, via Bolognia, to Venice.
I took the opportunity to catch up on some sleep, but Holmes seemed to remain awake through much of the journey, smoking incessantly, his attention divided between the passing countryside and a small volume of Renaissance Studies.
As we neared Florence, he became talkative. It seemed the journey, and our next place of arrival, had stirred old memories.
‘I spent some time in Florence during my period of exile,’ he said suddenly, ‘but it was not my first visit. My family brought me here on a European tour when I was—oh, eight or nine. It was the scene of two formative experiences for me; one pleasant, one less so.
‘This was perhaps five years before I entered the fencing salon of Alphonse Bencin, a luminary of the French school of Fence. Mycroft was seven years older than me, fifteen or sixteen, and wanted to learn the art. At that time in Florence the doyen of the Italian school was Bertini, and when Mycroft took lessons I went with him, and picked up what I could.
‘Mycroft proved an adept pupil. Indeed, I must admit that were it not for the effects of his indolent nature, he could still outstrip me on the piste. Bertini set me to “free play” with a young student only a few years older than I, by the name of Mentoni. He took the greatest delight in subjecting me to gruelling fights in which I received countless bruises. He would insist that we use epées, though he knew well enough that it was the heaviest of the three weapons, and difficult for an untrained stripling like me.
‘I learned the basic lessons of combat in a hard school, Watson. I never got the better of him with epée, but by the end of our stay I could get through a day with no more than a handful of new wounds to show for it.
‘One day the Master had us fence at foil, and with the opportunity to wield a lighter weapon that favoured accuracy, I was able to give a good account of myself. The Master praised me and offered me a place, which my parents would not allow me to accept, at the salon.
‘I can see now that Mentoni was crazy with jealousy. On the day before we left Florence, he contrived to give me one last “lesson” at the epée. He had a move for which he was already feared in competition. He would draw a high attack by second intention, and as it came in, slip below the oncoming blade by dropping to his haunches, head down and extending his sword arm up in one swift movement. It was always aimed for the throat. Even with a protective flat end on the sword, it would almost punch the Adam’s apple out through the back of the neck.
‘The move was considered unsportsmanlike and highly dangerous, so the hit was not always permitted to stand, but that did not matter. Few opponents could continue after suffering the blow. Mentoni drew me in and performed his hated trick. I could not speak for a month. It was his parting gift to me.’
Holmes sat for a moment, staring grimly into space; then he laughed.
‘The happier memory is my discovery of the art treasures of Florence. I will never forget my first visit to the Piazza della Signoria. I stood in front of the Perseus of Cellini for hours, and returned many times. I often saw myself as that youth with the drawn sword, and the severed head of the gorgon as that of my young adversary! Perhaps it was that glorious image of good triumphing over evil that helped me to my chosen profession?’
Our eventual arrival in Venice was chaotic. It was Carnival time. Hordes of arriving visitors were mingling with masked revellers on the Grand Canal outside the station, and the air was thick with cries of ‘Poppe! Poppe!’ to the gondoliers, and the answering shouts of ‘Eccomi, signor,’ and ‘Pronto signore’.
A fog was on Venice, and our gondola cut a swathe through heavy banks of mist as we were taken to our hotel. Holmes crouched as far forward as he could get, peering before him into the swirling veils of greyness.
‘Fog and masks everywhere!’ he muttered. ‘I hope that we can find our way.’
The gondolier called in surprisingly good English. ‘I know the way, signor.’
Holmes smiled grimly. ‘I am glad that someone does.”
If we thought the greatest obstacles to our investigations would be the crowds and the fog, we had reckoned without the very structure of Venice itself. Thinking that it would be as well to start with a visit to Rosselino’s, we obtained directions from the hotel and set off, but found ourselves lost in a maze of tiny calli, lanes, and corti, small courtyards. The locals seemed to have no more idea of their way around than the visitors. As every route seemed a mass of dog-legs, none of them ninety degrees, it was impossible to keep to a direction. Luckily Holmes had brought with him a walking stick with a compass in the top, and by this we steered our way.
We came at length to a ‘Calle de Magazen’ where Rosellino’s shop was situated. Despite the crowds, no one, it seemed, was buying walking sticks. The shop looked deserted. A bell jangled as we entered, and the echoes of it died somewhere far back. Holmes admired the magnificent array of sticks on the walls. No one came.
‘Signor Rosselino.’ I called. There was no reply.
‘He may be in his workshop,’ said Holmes. ‘It will be at the back of the shop. Mycroft’s name should help as an introduction.’
Behind the counter, a door stood partially open. Inside was the workshop, with sticks in various stages of completion. On benches, a variety of exquisite carvings waited to be affixed to shafts of polished woods. The subjects were, without exception, grotesque or obscene. At the far side of the workshop, a dignified old gentleman in a leather apron and a flamboyant shirt of deep red silk sat asleep in an armchair.
As Holmes tapped the sleeping figure on the shoulder, the head rolled and all but fell off, hanging by the merest shred of skin. What I had taken for a deep red shirt of silk was the sheen of newly shed blood.
‘Signor Rosellino will create no more elegantly risqué weapons for the gentlemen of the cultured world,’ said Holmes. ‘And, sadly for us, he will tell us nothing of his customers.’
‘Killed by the same means?’ I asked.
‘No, Watson. A much cruder implement, wielded with power
but no finesse.’
A loud crash and the sound of voices raised in anger came from outside the window close by. On the narrow canal outside, a gondola had collided with a small, two-oared sandalo. The bow of the smaller vessel was split and denuded of paint by the impact of the gondola’s prow, and an angry exchange was taking place. We might have thought nothing of it, but for the fact that the smaller vessel was rowed by a veritable giant of a man. Holmes gripped my shoulder.
‘Our old friend was so intent on escape that he was not looking where he was going.’
‘We must follow,’ I cried.
‘By what means? He is not damaged enough to sink. See, he is on his way already. By the time we find our way round the building he will be out of sight.’
‘The damaged sandalo should be easy to identify, if it was not a stolen one.’
‘It was not stolen, Watson. Did you not see the fine painting that decorated the stem? A pretty salamander writhing in flames. Finding it would be a tall order without the Venetian equivalent of the Baker Street Irregulars! However, I think we can take a leaf out of young Medwin’s book and let the sandalo come to us!’
The next morning I found a note telling me that Holmes had gone out early, and would not be long. I emerged into the weak sunlight of another misty day to find our gondolier, Paulo, in conversation with an elderly artist struggling under a burden of canvasses and easel. There was no sign of my friend, so I returned to the hotel foyer, where I was accosted by the artist, who explained in broken English that he wished to purchase the gondolier’s services in order to paint some scenes not accessible from land. I explained as best I could that we had already agreed to pay Paulo in advance, which seemed to amuse the old man mightily.
‘Then, as I will be unable to earn my living as an artist, I may as well go back to being a consulting detective!’
‘Holmes, you look every inch the elderly gentleman artist! And these sketches are very good.’