The Naval Knaves

by Craig Stephen Copland

  Holmes paused here momentarily. “It might be good to have Forbes put one of the Yard’s women on her and see if she has been keeping bad company. What about the others?”

  “We haven’t seen the engineers for several weeks. They only come when they are delivering an additional set of plans for a new ship. They could not possibly have removed a hundred sets of plans in only two or three visits. They would have to walk past all of the secretaries and typists in broad daylight with a cartload of large schematic drawings.”

  “But could they have come at night?” asked Holmes.

  “Sir, they’re union men.”

  “Right, so they never work into the evening,” said Holmes.

  “Never, sir.”

  “Who else is on the list?”

  “Only one left is my secretary, Charles Gorot.”

  “Ah, yes. I remember meeting him. Is he trustworthy?”

  Here I had to speak up.

  “Holmes,” I said. “Mr. Gorot is a Huguenot. His people are quite loyal to the Crown even if their heritage is French.”

  “Ah, yes, of course,” said Holmes. “Those Huguenot people are the sort who think a riotous time is to be had by adding an extra sugar to their tea after mid-week Bible study.”

  “Exactly,” I agreed. During the reception at the Langham, I had had a few minutes to chat directly with Mr. Gorot and was impressed, as I had been seven years ago, with his irreproachable moral rectitude.

  “Quite so,” said Holmes. “Then we should depart and pay a visit to the Admiralty. Do either of you have obligations on the home front? Wives expecting you for dinner?”

  “I am free,” said Percy. “Annie came into town for supper with me, but knowing that I would be delayed, I told Charles to go and meet her and keep her from becoming too impatient until I was able to join them.”

  I, on the other hand, was not free. I had promised Mary that I would be home by six o’clock and it was already just past that hour. I begged off and promised to be available to assist Holmes if he sent for me over the weekend.

  We parted. Holmes and Percy took a cab south on Baker Street toward Whitehall. I pressed Shank’s pony into service and hurried back to my home by Little Venice, all the while wondering what Holmes would discover in a fortified vault room in the Admiralty.

  Chapter Three

  The Protective Confession

  I REMAINED AROUND MY HOUSE throughout the weekend, half hoping that I would receive a summons from Holmes, but naught appeared. The newspapers continued to report on the incident at Greenwich, but they had not been informed of the finding of the plans of the interior of the Observatory in Martain Bourdin’s pocket, and thus there were no sensational speculations. Once the papers had run out of things to say about the hapless bomber, they began offering stories about incompetent French spies. In the local pub, the talk had moved quickly from fear of bomb tossers to laughter and ridicule at the ineptitude of Frenchmen who blew their own guts away. Soon there was a score of jokes that all began with the line, “Did you hear about the Frenchie who …”

  I was aware that what was taking place was no laughing matter and needed some resolve to focus my concentration on my patients on the following Monday. But shortly after, when I returned to my home and had enjoyed a pleasant dinner with Mary, a note arrived for me. It read:

  Lestrade coming by at 7. Claims to have broken the case. If available, please come to record. S.H.

  I quickly downed my last cup of tea and hurried on over to 221B Baker Street. A police carriage arrived at the same time as I did and Inspectors Lestrade and Forbes both emerged from it. Together we climbed up to meet Holmes.

  Lestrade, utterly smug, was looking like the cat that swallowed the canary.

  “Well now, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” he said when we had been seated. “Whilst you were doing all your scientific deducing and hypothesizing and theorizing, we working policemen were doing dogged, basic investigating and it paid off.”

  “Splendid,” said Holmes. “And pray tell me what you did, and what you found.”

  “We did all those things that a hard-working policeman has to do. We just went out and checked out everything we could about everybody who could possibly have been stealing documents from the Admiralty. It was our checking their bank accounts that broke the case for us.”

  “Really, and what did you find?”

  “There is no end of things you can find, Holmes, when you just do solid looking.”

  Lestrade was obviously enjoying his moment of triumph and eager to draw it out as long as possible. Holmes smiled at him patiently and played along.

  “You don’t say,” said Holmes. “Please, tell me more. I am all attention.”

  “Our first suspicion was on those Frenchies. And their bank accounts told us more than we would ever have guessed. Do you know how much those cheese-eaters get from the Quay d’Orsay every month?”

  “No. I have no idea.”

  “Two hundred and twenty-five pounds a month. Every month! That’s more than a senior police inspector is paid in six months. It’s outrageous, if you ask me.”

  “Terribly so,” said Holmes.

  “Ha, but we knew right away that whilst that may be enough to live well in London, it was not enough to be used to pay someone to sell them the plans. You would agree with that, right, Holmes?”

  “Perhaps. Pray continue.”

  “Well we just kept looking, and it surprised us, as I am sure it will you when we found someone who had been making large deposits every week over and above his billet payment. Would you like to guess who it might be, Holmes?”

  “You have me on that one, so best you just tell me.”

  “Charles Gorot,” said Lestrade.

  I was stunned, and even Holmes was temporarily speechless.

  “That is a surprise,” said Holmes. “But was there anything to prove that the funds were coming from treasonous acts? He may have a perfectly justifiable reason for them.”

  “I would say that there was something quite conclusive. I would say that it would even be considered conclusive by Sherlock Holmes. Would you care to guess what it was?”

  “I confess, Inspector, that I am at a loss.”

  “How about … his confession?”

  That was also unexpected. Holmes and I both were stunned. Mr. Gorot, the handsome but austere Huguenot, was the last person we would ever have suspected of such perfidy.

  “His bank account said it all,” said Lestrade. “I believe it is Mr. Sherlock Holmes who has claimed that a man may lie to the police, to a judge, to his lawyer, to his wife, and even to himself, but he cannot lie to his bank book.”

  “I do recall saying that,” said Holmes.

  “His bank records showed that beginning about three months ago he began to make some extra deposits. Every Monday, there they were. First, they started small but then they grew and grew. For the past month, he’s been putting in over five hundred pounds every week. Five hundred! Well on his way to becoming a rich young man; a rich young traitor is what he was becoming.”

  “And pray tell, Inspector, could you explain just how you secured his confession?”

  “Weren’t difficult at all. Now, I admit, I had right away suspected those two Frenchies, and never gave a thought to the secretary; him being such a devout Nonconformist believer and all. But we did a routine check of everyone’s bank records and saw his deposits. So, when his turn came up for an interview with Inspector Forbes here, he just asked him right out to explain where the money came from. And didn’t young Mr. Gorot turn white as a ghost. That’s right, isn’t it, Forbes?”

  “White as a ghost, yes sir, that’s what he did. Whiter, if you ask me. And then he says, ‘Please excuse me for a moment,’ and up he gets and walks away from us. We were sitting in a room in the Admiralty, and he goes back into his office, he does. And we’re waiting for him, and he doesn’t come back out, which is highly irregular, it is. So, we follows him to his office, and there he is behind his desk,
pacing back and forth. He hears us and turns to us, standing up straight and tall, and says, clear as a bell, “I wish to make a full confession of my crime in stealing the plans from the Admiralty vault and selling them.’ That’s what he said and that’s how it happened, Mr. Holmes. So that part of the case is closed, and closed it was by regular hard-working investigating by police officers, it was. Just like Inspector Lestrade says.”

  “Might you be so kind,” said Holmes, “as to inform me as to any reasons he gave?”

  “For the benefit of the Republic of France. He’s French. That’s what he said. His personal profit, too, you can bet.”

  “If you are saying that two hundred years ago, his people emigrated from France under duress and came to England, then I am aware of that.”

  “I am only telling you what he told me, Holmes. He has his Frenchness in his blood. He said that deep in his soul, in his spirit, he knew that he was compelled to assist La République. So, when the opportunity came along to help himself as well as his native country — his words, not mine, mind you — he had no choice but to serve. That’s what he said, isn’t it, Inspector Forbes.”

  “Indeed, it is.”

  The two inspectors were both looking as proud as peacocks as they delivered this news.

  “And to whom,” asked Holmes, “did he sell the plans?”

  “We do not know that yet,” said Lestrade, “but we will soon. He says that he met with a foreign agent over in Southwark. They would meet once a week in a big basement, one that had a ramp down to it, and where cabbies stored their cabs when they weren’t using them. It was dark down there, and he said the fellow stood behind a pillar and would not let his face be seen and he talked in a disguised voice, as if he were speaking from deep back in his throat. And Gorot claims he has no idea as to his identity, but he had a French accent and said he was an agent of the president. Whoever he is, we’ll find him. I have men out now, and we are rounding up all our informers in Southwark. It won’t be long until we find the fellow. And once again, Mr. Holmes, we’ll find him using dogged police work and wearing out our shoe leather.”

  “My congratulations,” said Holmes, “on solving the case so far, and my best wishes for success on the remainder.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Holmes,” said Inspector Forbes, and Lestrade grunted something to the same effect.

  Once the two inspectors had departed from the room, I turned to Holmes.

  “Must say, Holmes. I did not see that one coming. I would have guessed the Frenchies as well, or maybe the Liberals from Westminster, but never Charles.”

  “Nor would I,” said Holmes. “Nor would I.”

  He then went silent and closed his eyes, but as I watched him, I could see that he was moving his head slowly from side to side, then dropping it a fraction and moving it sideways yet again. He kept this up for several minutes as if tracing a grid in his mind. When he opened his eyes, they were bright and unblinking. He turned slowly to me.

  “I fear the police will become rather frustrated looking for their basement. There is not a single basement used for cabs and carriages in all of Southwark.”

  “Why then, would Gorot make it up?” I asked. “That makes no sense at all. His confession will send him off to prison for at least ten years. Adding lies to it will not look good in front of a judge. Why not tell the whole truth?”

  “He must,” said Holmes, “be protecting someone.”

  “But who?”

  “That, my dear doctor, is what I intend to discover.”

  For the next three days, I heard nothing from Holmes. The incident at Greenwich had now vanished from the pages of the press and had been replaced by the news that a couple of ambitious chaps, Simon Marks and Thomas Spencer, announced the opening in Manchester of a “modern” store selling a multitude of different goods. The press experts in business and commerce predicted that it would be a flash-in-the-pan and fail.

  On the Thursday of that week, I came back to my home after a day of seeing patients in the hospital and my medical office and enjoyed a lovely dinner hour with my wife. After dinner had been finished and cleared away, we chatted briefly about the reception last week, the Hottentotten problem in the southwest Cape, and the latest news from America. We had gone on nicely for about ten minutes when she abruptly changed the subject.

  “Darling,” she said, “I need to ask you to do me a favor.”

  “Anything, my precious. What can I do for the love of my life?”

  “It’s about Annie.”

  “What about Annie? You saw her today for lunch, did you not?”

  “I did, darling, and I am hoping that you could do something to help her.”

  “What can I do to help?”

  “Could you,” she asked, “arrange a meeting between her and Sherlock Holmes?”

  “Most certainly. Shall I try to arrange it for Saturday, so that Percy does not have to miss time from the Admiralty? He is frightfully busy with this French treaty matter.”

  Mary smiled at me for a moment. “No, darling. It is to be between Annie and Sherlock only. Percy cannot know about it.”

  I was staggered by what she said.

  “Mary, dearest. Are you asking me to aid and abet a woman to deceive her husband? To do something behind his back and deliberately withhold it from him? Why … why that is unthinkable.”

  I was aghast.

  “John, darling, it is all for Percy’s good. It will all come to light when you hear what she has to say to Sherlock. Annie would prefer that you and I be present to bear witness. Please, John, do trust me on this matter. All I can tell you is that what she is doing is awfully brave and Sherlock Holmes is the only one she can turn to.”

  I was not at all at ease about this, but I had learned over the years, as most husbands do, that a wife’s solemn requests are a thing to heed, so I sent a note off to Holmes requesting a meeting at his earliest convenience. He replied immediately saying that he would be free tomorrow afternoon and would be more than happy to meet with the three of us.

  Chapter Four

  Down a Slippery Slope

  MARY AND I TOOK A CAB over to Baker Street the following afternoon and had the driver wait until Mrs. Phelps arrived from Waterloo Station. When she did, she departed her cab and entered ours so that the three of us could have a few minutes together before entering 221B. I confess that I was somewhat surprised by her appearance. Just the previous week, I had chatted with her at the reception at the Langham, and she was resplendent in a gown and jewelry. Today, she looked for all the world like the daughter of a Northumberland merchant and quite prepared to do serious business. She was plain in both face and dress and her countenance, which had shone so brightly last week, was markedly pale.

  Neither she nor Mary disclosed anything about what she was going to say to Holmes. All we did was to assure her that this formidable man, who she had met seven years earlier and obediently followed his instructions, was not terrifying, but could be a congenial gentleman and usually was.

  Holmes welcomed us warmly into the front room of 221B and, although I knew it pained him to do so, chatted briefly about the weather and the great horse manure debate, the latest outrage in the press after some professor had proven that at the present rate and growth of production, in fifty years every street in London would be buried under nine feet of manure. We all forced ourselves to chuckle at the prospect before Holmes turned to Mrs. Phelps and took command of the interview.

  “My dear lady,” he began, “seven years ago you were the lovely young fiancée of Percy Phelps, nursing him through that terrible time of crisis. He would never be where he is today had it not been for your loving care. And we would never have discovered the stolen naval treaty had it not been for your very astute following of my instructions. You have my admiration and respect on both counts.”

  Tactfully, Holmes made no mention of her naivete in not suspecting that it was her brother, Joseph, who had so betrayed his sister and his future brother-in-law. He had f
led, most likely to America, and had been heard from no more.

  “No doubt,” Holmes went on, “you are here concerning the current issue of the thefts that have taken place at the Admiralty.”

  “Yes, sir, that is why I am here.”

  “And no doubt, it also relates directly to the news you heard from your husband that his trusted secretary, Charles Gorot, was the culprit.”

  “Yes, sir, that is correct.”

  “And you are privy to some highly sensitive information that proves his innocence. Is that correct?”

  Annie Phelps face took on that same look of wonder that I had seen on so many faces of young women who had come to seek the help of Sherlock Holmes and were stunned by his foreknowledge and insight into their situations.

  “Why, yes sir it is. How did you know that?”

  I gave a bit of a cough and glared at Holmes. He was making the poor young woman feel even more ill at ease than she obviously already was. He read the rebuke on my face.

  “Really, Mrs. Phelps, it is nothing if not inevitable. The only recent development in this case has been Mr. Gorot’s confession — his so-called confession as far as I am concerned — and that must be what brought you here. That you are in possession of some highly sensitive information is proclaimed by your keeping this meeting secret from your husband. And I have never believed for one minute that Charles Gorot’s confession and explanation made any sense.”

  “Why not?” I interrupted and asked.

  “Good heavens, Watson, the man may be intensely religious to the point of believing in the literal truth of talking snakes and Balaam’s ass, floating axe heads, and the temporary halting of the Copernican solar system, but that does not mean that he has so far dismissed his faculties of reason as to believe for one minute that it is worth spending a minute of your life in prison for such an idiotic cause and helping France recover its long-lost glory. The man may be a devout zealot, but he is not that stupid. And his story about the basement in Southwark was a clear fabrication. So, please, Mrs. Phelps, continue. Kindly tell me how you came to hold this knowledge. Would I be correct in assuming that it came directly to you from Mr. Gorot, or perhaps indirectly? Which was it?”