by C J Lutton
“No,” said Holmes. “Observe.” Unfolding his thin frame, he rose to his feet. “I first designated spots on the floor. One for each month of the year. As you can see, we have November through November. I even have the following December and a portion of January.”
“But the dates,” I persisted. “Perhaps you missed a week or two.”
“No. Again, I did not approach this task willy-nilly. If you’d care to check, these newspapers are in date order. Not a single day is missing.” He stood with his fists on his hips as he bent his head and surveyed the mess.
“Then perhaps you are missing the correct section. Perhaps the crew was foreign, and therefore, the reporters did not explore their lives. Maybe they concentrated on the cargo rather than the crew.” My voice sounded increasingly unsure, even to my own ears.
“I hope you are right. I hope that I’ve overlooked an article. Please exchange places with me. I’ll have another cup of coffee whilst you critique my efforts.
As he requested, I exchanged places with him and got down on my hands and knees so I could crawl from stack to stack. After making a circuit of the months of the years, I sat back down on my heels and delivered the gloomy news. “I cannot find a flaw in your methodology. I could spot-check the papers.”
“No,” he said, waving off my suggestion in a disheartened way. “Think of it, Watson. Two naval calamities. Two entire crews missing. Two cargoes gone. And both are English ships. We’re the dominant military force in the world, and yet there has been no national alarm. These brave men died and no one cared. Of all the crimes committed, perhaps that is the one that best resembles a mortal sin.”
I thought he’d come to terms with the missing information, but Holmes had researched, considered, and now he could announce where all of this led his thinking. “Watson? If a calamity such as this never makes the papers, we must ask ourselves why.”
I considered this. “Because it never happened?”
He sighed, sounding a wee bit exasperated. “No, no, no. Only a fool would make up the sinking of not one, but two, cargo ships! Mrs. Morel had to know I would check out her story. And yet she persisted in telling us that two ships had been destroyed. Why? Why would she make a claim that could be so easily disputed? Why make a claim about a sinking at all? The story has enough substance without all this superfluous detail. She was careful. She was deliberate. And she was well-prepared, so what was her reason for telling us? For alerting us to a pair of sinkings that never happened?”
“Maybe they did,” I said. “Maybe that is the point. These tragedies happened and for whatever reason, they were hidden. They were not brought to public attention. They were not shared with reporters. None of that.” I paused and considered this development. “There is another way to find out what you need. I suggest we avail ourselves of the ledgers at the registry office. After all, if the ships sank, their owners would have clamoured to be compensated.”
“Watson?” Holmes jumped to his feet. “There are times when I think you are a genius. Honestly, I do. Under that unassuming exterior is a keen mind. Untrained and unfocused, but keen nevertheless. I had been doggedly following one path with singularity of purpose, and as you point out…there is another possibility. Perhaps even two! Grab your coat. We’re going to the docks.”
I raced into my bedroom to bundle up. As I pulled a warm jumper over my head, I thought I heard Holmes’ whistle, but I couldn’t be sure. I finished piling on all my outerwear and joined him as he fairly hopped from one foot to another.
“There’s no time to waste!” he shouted. I followed, hot on his heels, down the stairs and out the door. The cold slapped us in the face like an angry hussy. A cabman waited at the kerb. Holmes and I piled into the conveyance. “To the docks!” my friend yelled up at the man, before slamming the door behind him.
The bitter cold made every bump along the way much more keen and painful. A sway and dip suggested someone had jumped on the back and joined us, but that is hardly surprising, as London is full of souls without a cent in their pockets who need conveyance. Hopping on and off of hansoms is a sport the young and poor learn as soon as they are tall enough to reach up and hang on! I could have sworn the cabman shouted, “Get off! Get down!” Indeed, I gave it no thought at all. What did it matter?
Soon enough we came to Wapping, a place synonymous with the lowest form of human justice, hangings designed to titillate the crowd more than to mete out deserved punishment. For here it was, at the Execution Dock, that pirates and other criminals of the seas would follow the Admiralty Marshal as he carried his silver oar, emblematic of his authority over all aspects of nautical life. The condemned were given one small kindness, a last quart of ale, supposedly to “take the edge off,” but as a medical man, I can attest the drink would hardly have made a difference to those who were hanged with a short rope. Unlike a long rope that snaps the neck and can be argued therefore to be humane, the short rope simply strangles a man, slowly, ever so slowly. His body, thus deprived of oxygen, goes into a series of spasms that onlookers nicknamed the marshal’s dance. Not even after death did the barbarity end. Three tides had to pass over the body before it could be moved. Then it was covered in tar and locked inside a metal cage, a gibbet, and displayed there in the Thames estuary.
I shudder as I think of this, and Holmes noticed, as he is wont to do. “The weather will turn soon enough, Watson, and as for today, much of our work will be indoors.”
I nodded. The Ships Registry was a large, long building with windows running the length of it. Empty wine barrels had been arranged as a sort of barricade around the front of the building. Possibly they held flowers in the summer. Their bulk was imposing but the level of security they provided was feeble. “The original building was half this size,” explained Holmes, as he grasped the door handle, “but the growth of her Majesty’s fleet has caused there to be more ships built and registered than ever before. This edifice has been added onto.”
Inside, we waited for what seemed like an unreasonable length of time at a counter that jutted out at a right angle from the wall. There was no bell to ring. Finally, a clerk hurried out of the back. He looked surprised by our presence, as though he’d never encountered a visitor before. Close up, I was able to tell the clerk wasn’t more than sixteen and scared as a rabbit that has caught the scent of a pack of hounds. Nervously, he drummed his fingers on the counter. “Yes?” He finally managed that one-word question.
“We have business with the Registrar,” said Holmes.
Shuffling off, the young man fled back the way he’d come. Moving to the left and then to the right, I could see that doorways opened onto a main hall. The clerk bypassed the first three and ducked into the fourth. A hushed whisper reached up, but was too muffled to make sense.
The clerk hurried towards us again, as a man in a loose blouse slipped out of that third room and into the first room on the right.
“Do you have an appointment?” asked the clerk. Never was a man so tortured by a simple question!
“No,” said Holmes.
That was all. Just plain no. The singular word hung out there in the air, like a sign unattached to a fingerpost.
“Um, I suspect that the Registrar is busy,” said the clerk.
“I suspect he can make time for us. I rather doubt he gets a lot of visitors on any given day.” Holmes paused and added, “Does he?”
“I wouldn’t know, sir. I started here not that long ago.” His cuffs were frayed and his sleeves too long. His vest was missing a top button. All in all, he looked like a schoolboy who was pretending to have a position with a bit of responsibility.
“I see. Well, I suggest that you go into the Registrar’s office and tell him he has two important visitors. Explain that we are here in service of a murder inquiry. Have you got that? Tell him we are impatient and have other work to attend to, so we’d like to speak with him, posthaste.”
“Right.” The clerk blinked rapidly. One could almost tell that the young man w
as digesting all of this, trying to shove a square peg into a round hole. Slowly, he turned and walked back into the office of the Registrar.
Another round of loud talking followed. At length, there was the sound of a squeaking chair moved to one side. The clerk came forwards, and announced with great formality, “Mr. Reginald Barlow-Smythe the Third is willing to make time in his busy day to meet with you. Please come this way.”
We followed the clerk into a large, brightly lit office with a huge fireplace sending hot air into the atmosphere. To one side was a mahogany table with intricate woodwork. The surface of the desk might or might not have been much used, because a desktop calendar covered most of it. Reginald Barlow-Smythe the Third, for such was how he introduced himself, was not what I had expected. The Registrar did not invite us to sit down. Nor did he stand to greet us. Instead he perched on a wheeled stool with a swiveling, backless seat. A most unusual set-up for an office worker. Barlow-Smythe glared at us. Curiously, the man did not wear a jacket. Instead, he wore a loose blouse that appeared far too large for his frame. It bagged around his shoulders and his torso. His hair gleamed with oils. His moustache was waxed and curled tightly at each end. His tiny piggy eyes were red and raw under girlish brows.
“You do not have an appointment, and I have no time for you. Present your case and begone!”
Holmes introduced himself and me. Barlow-Smythe cut my friend short. “You say your name is Holmes? Sherlock Holmes? And that is Dr. Watson? Why should I care?”
I cleared my throat. “See here! Sherlock Holmes is the world’s greatest consulting detective, and we have come to you because he is in service of a poor woman who has lost her husband, a sailor. We have exhausted all other options in tracking the man down and hope to find helpful information in your records. After all, you exist to serve the public, do you not?”
Barlow-Smythe curled his lip. “The great Sherlock Holmes? Ho! I have read the sensational accounts of your exploits as chronicled by Dr. Watson. What a load of poppycock. And again, I ask, why should I care about you and your project?”
“I do not ask you to care,” said Holmes. “I only ask you to do your job. In this case, I wish to see copies of ships’ registries.”
“Perhaps it is you who should do your job. I’ve read how you set such great store by your vaunted analytical abilities. Why would you need my help? Surely, if there is a challenge or a problem, you can solve it yourself. The great Sherlock Holmes, eh? As I said, that’s nothing more than a load of rubbish.”
Holmes shook his head with disgust. “My dear, sir. You are too easy to read by half. Yes, you have learned nothing from your trials, have you? Did it not occur to you that your uncivil manner caused the crew to turn against you?”
Barton-Smythe’s face turned scarlet. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Harrington! Harrington, get in here.”
When the clerk appeared in the doorway, Barlow-Smythe took a struggling step towards the other man. “Get rid of this man. He’s an imposter. He claims to be Sherlock Holmes, and yet he cannot support his assertion.”
“Oh, yes, I can,” said Holmes in a dry tone. “Let me tell you all about your brief career, Mr. Barlow-Smythe, shall I? You have not always worked in the Ships Registry office. No, this is a job given to you in recompense. It was a bribe to keep you quiet after you infuriated the crew of a ship you were on. Isn’t it?”
Barton-Smythe chewed the air. He sputtered but could not speak coherently. “Y-Y-You don’t know what you are talking about.”
“Yes, I do. You got into a quarrel with the crew. You also angered the captain. He refused to step in and stop the men when they gave you a checkered shirt for your troubles.”
The clerk gasped audibly. “How did you know?”
“Silence!” yelled Barlow-Smythe.
Holmes continued, “You barely escaped with your life, didn’t you? Because of your father’s influence in certain circles, he arranged to have you compensated, and so you were given the privilege of managing the registries for all of the UK. The pay is good, and best of all, you are somewhat your own master. That is essential because you are incapable of getting along with others. Is that not so? Or shall I ask your clerk? He’s fairly new here, right? You probably dismiss a clerk every other week or so.”
“Mr. Holmes, apart from your fancy parlour tricks, you are not worth a tinker’s dam,” Barton-Smythe said. “Now get out of my office. Begone!”
“Not until I have the information I need.” Holmes put a scrap of notepaper on the Registrar’s desk. “Here are your choices: help me now or defend your actions to my brother, Mycroft Holmes.”
The Registrar’s face went from florid red to linen white. For a tick, I thought he might topple over in a faint. Instead, he gripped his desk for support and collapsed onto the swivel stool. “Mycroft Holmes is your brother?”
“He is indeed,” said Sherlock Holmes. “Now quit wasting my time, Mr. Barlow-Smythe. I require any documents you have relating to those ships and those dates.”
“I-I-I have nothing to tell you,” said Mr. Barlow-Smythe, in a tone that could only be described as piteous. “I swear to you, sir. All we keep here are the original registrations. As you probably know, Lloyd’s copies these documents and compiles them in their yearly ledgers. If the ship is more than one year old, you can look it up in a Lloyd’s Book of Registries. Otherwise, you would set a daunting task for yourself, digging through all the paperwork we have, as much of it is unfiled.”
Holmes said, “Then at least do us the courtesy of allowing my confederate and I to look over your records. Perhaps your clerk can point us in the right direction.”
“Sir! The ship owners would have me keelhauled if I allowed you to make free with the information about their earnings.” Barlow-Smythe’s voice broke with fright.
“Just so. I’m asking to look at the building records, if you please.” Holmes regarded the younger man thoughtfully. “Surely no one could complain about that.”
“Harrington, get them the building records, please.”
Barton-Smythe cradled his head in his hands and rested his elbows on his desk. I could tell the man was in pain. Grave pain, I would say from the way his hands trembled. Belatedly, I realised that he had used a considerable amount of fortitude to confront us as he did. At this point, the Registrar was spent, utterly and wholly exhausted from the effort he had made to seem intimidating.
I did not know what a checkered shirt was, but I planned to ask Holmes more about it as soon as possible.
Holmes waited until Harrington was halfway down the hall and then he shouted, “Bring me the manifest for those ships, too.” Turning to watch, I saw Harrington stop, pivot towards a different direction, and take two steps before Barlow-Smythe screamed, “Not the manifest!”
Harrington corrected his course and entered a doorway to the left.
“But not the manifest. No, sir, you have no right to that,” the Registrar muttered angrily. Harrington carried a heavy book past us. “If you’ll come with me, sirs,” he said.
We took our leave of Mr. Barlow-Smythe.
Harrington set the heavy book down on a long table in a room empty of all furniture except a trio of chairs. The clerk left us alone. Holmes moved quickly to the nearest window and unlatched it. Next, he raised the sash entirely, testing to see that it would indeed, rise as it should. Once he was satisfied, he lowered the window until it was three inches or so from the casing. Brushing off his hands, Holmes came back to the table where I was standing over the book. Whipping his glass out of his pocket, Holmes flipped through pages and examined several columns with deliberation.
“Write this down, Watson,” he said. I copied down measurements for two different boats, the Celestial and the Clarissa. Curiously enough, they were built by the same builder, launched a few days apart, and their dimensions matched almost perfectly. The only difference was the gross tonnage. One ship weighed ever so slightly more than the other. Unfortunately the ledger did not sh
are the names of the owners, the names of the shipping companies, or the types of cargo the ships carried. This was highly unusual, or so it appeared to my eyes, because the other ships’ documents were thorough in all of these aspects.
“Thank you, my good sir,” said Holmes to me, closing the book.
“Mr. Harrington?” Holmes called down the hallway. As Harrington scurried towards us, Holmes lifted the book and handed it to the young man. “Thank you. I should still like to see the ships’ manifest.”
“Mr. Barlow-Smythe won’t allow it,” said Harrington.
“Right,” Holmes acceded. “Watson, would you care to join me for a brisk stroll? Sea air is so refreshing.”
As it was freezing outside, I wondered if Holmes had lost his mind. The two of us stepped out of the Registrar’s office. Holmes spoke to me under his breath, “We needs must pace up and down, Watson, for a spell.”
“To what purpose?” I asked.
“Really, Watson. You need me to explain every detail to you? No, I will not. Instead, I invite you to use your eyes and ears and report your findings back to me. If you are still confused when this little escapade is over, I shall make it all clear to you.”
We had no more than made our third circuit when the Registrar came roaring out of the office. “See, here!” Barlow-Smythe screamed. “You have no right to march up and down in front of my office. Nor to intimidate me. I gave you what you wanted!”
“Not all of it,” said Holmes in a level voice. “Really, sir. All you did was dispatch an errand boy to bring me a book with little to no information. Certainly nothing that was useful or helpful. I’m currently debating with Watson whether or not I should tell my brother.”
“How dare you bully me!” Barlow-Smythe screamed before launching into a scurrilous accounting of my friend’s flaws.
As the Registrar yelled at Holmes, I glimpsed Evans sneaking around the building. He had hunched over to make himself less noticeable as he moved from shadow to shadow. When he realised I had spotted him, he put a finger to his lips. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Evans struggle to slide up the window that Holmes had left open. After a might heave-ho, Evans succeeded and with the grace of a cat, the child threw himself over the sill and into the building.