I hurried back to Baker Street. As I arrived at the front door, a cab drew up and Mr Lawler stepped out. We went up the stairs together and went into the sitting room where Holmes was at the dining table awaiting breakfast.
“Mr Holmes,” said Mr Lawler airily. “I am happy to say that both Commonwealth Tobacco and Thompson’s have agreed, after long negotiations and without any admission of wrong-doing, to pay substantial fines for anti-competitive practices. The sums we have secured in fines will be sufficient to build the additional ships required for the Royal Navy. It is indeed fortunate that we have been able to resolve this matter without you needing to become involved. I would be grateful if you would return the £1,000 I gave you to defray your costs, subject of course, to the deduction of any amounts you have had to disburse during the course of your initial investigations.”
I had had no chance to brief Holmes on the stories in the newspaper and I could see that he was at a temporary loss for words at the sudden termination of the commission.
He came to however and, looking slightly dazed, put on the table the receipt book, his receipts of expenditure and the still largely intact bundle of notes. I reached for my own receipts, but Mr Lawler raised his hand, picked up the bundle, looked at it hard from sideways on, signed the receipt book and tucked the cash into a capacious pocket. He then put two creased ten pound notes onto the table, thanked us briefly for our efforts, bowed, and closed the door behind him. I did not hear him descend the stairs but after a few seconds, I opened the door leading out of our flat and saw that he was gone.
I told Holmes what I had read in the newspaper. He listened wordlessly and then crumpled up the receipt that Lawler had signed and hurled it into the middle of the grate, where it was soon consumed by the flames. To my surprise, he then took his dossier on tobacco additives and consigned it to the fire. It took a while to ignite before it flared up, crackled briefly and disappeared in smoke up the chimney. A transformation came over him and he switched from the energised, self-possessed individual I normally portray in these stories into a wordless, listless presence. He left his breakfast untasted and, for the only time during our friendship, he chain-smoked, lighting each cigarette with the still smouldering stub of the previous one. His head hung low as if he felt some abiding sense of shame. His breathing became laboured and irregular, his eyes sank into his head and his brow took on the beetling appearance I associated with a return to his drug-fuelled habits from which I had had to work so hard to wean him.
I had been unable to follow the course of events and I felt reluctant to ask Holmes about a situation in which, despite what Mr Lawler had told us, he clearly felt he had failed. We sat in silence. I passed the time leafing through the newspapers and when interest in these failed me, my attention switched to the programme from the performance of Così fan tutte, which I had brought back with me. This had notes in both German and French, but not in English. It was therefore quite time-consuming to read, as to understand the text I had to switch between the two languages to find the version that I could follow best. I had just got to the end of reading an account of the performance history of the opera when I noted that, where the German referred to the first performance in Aachen as being in 1802, the French referred to an 1802 performance in Aix-la-Chappelle. The name sounded familiar. Then I remembered that this was one of the spa towns that Gwendoline Grace had been described in Holmes’s notes as attending. I decided to return the books I had borrowed to the London Library and to raise this connundrum with Mr Lomax. He had, as usual, a ready explanation: “Aachen markets itself as a spa town under the name Aix-la Chappelle, Dr Watson. Most people seeking to take the waters want to go to France, so rebranding was the town’s strategy to lure them to Germany. Aachen is a spa town at least as ancient as the French towns, and has the hottest waters in Europe.”
Every time I investigated something about this case, it seemed to throw up some new sleight of hand: the shifting of employees between the different companies, the misleading description of the manufacturing process on Mr Bradley’s proprietory cigarettes and the use of Aachen’s French name to promote itself as a spa town. Had the pale figure in the theatre really been Mr Harden’s wife, or had it been the consumptive Mrs Grace? And what, if anything, did these things have to do with the decision of the two biggest tobacco companies to pay substantial fines for anti-competitive behaviour, the withdrawal of mentholated cigarettes, Mr Lawler’s appointment to International Tobacco, or the elevation of Mr Harden to the peerage? Was there a connection between all or any of these events, or were all these changes part of a process that predated our investigation? I had no way of knowing and, when I returned to Baker Street, I realised I had no way of finding out as Holmes remained slumped where I had left him and gave no response to any of my questions.
I stayed up with him until the clock on the local church tower chimed three o’clock in the morning. Then, unusually, it was he who fell asleep prone in his chair before I turned out the lights and retired to my room.
The Prince and the Munshi
“Somebody must be taking a wholly disproportionate interest in us,” murmured Holmes in his blandest tone one morning, “as they are making a highly professional job of abducting us.” We had taken a walk before breakfast to buy cigarettes and newspapers. At the junction of Baker Street and the Marylebone Road we found ourselves boxed in by three carriages with covered windows. Seized by twelve masked men in dark, forbidding clothing, we were forced inside. Against such odds and particularly once pistols were pressed to our temples, any effort at resistance would have been pointless. And so it was that we found ourselves rattling through London’s streets with our hands and feet fettered.
My friend had an extraordinary knowledge of London streets and he whispered to me where we were going: “Baker Street … left into the Marylebone Road … on into the Euston Road … south down Gower Street … Bloomsbury Street … into St Martin’s Lane … left into William IV Street, Agar Street, into Chandos Place and – inevitably – into Maiden Lane. Well, they didn’t make that very difficult.”
Dark shrouds were put over our heads and pistols pressed anew to our temples as we were dragged out of the carriage, across a pavement, into a building, up a flight of stairs and bundled into what appeared to be a small larder as there was a strong smell of food. We heard the twist of a key in the lock. In spite of the cuffs that bound my hands and legs, I was able to remove the shroud from my head and tried to make some sense of where I was in the darkness.
“We are in Rules, Watson,” said Holmes casually. “This is the oldest restaurant in London. It was established by Thomas Rule in 1798 and has remained a favourite locale for the most prominent members of society ever since.”
At that moment the door was unlocked and a masked face looked in.
“Perhaps we might have some breakfast?” Holmes asked the mask benignly.
There was a guffaw and we heard the masked face call “They want us to bring them breakfast!” to another of our guardians, who also burst out laughing.
The door was closed and then almost immediately re-opened as we were dragged into a large dining room.
It is my custom in my narratives to protect the identity of the many illustrious personalities whom I have, in my own small way, been able to serve as part of my work with Holmes. In many cases I have also modified some of the events I saw. In this instance, however, my story would be without meaning if I did not disclose the true identities of all the personalities involved, or forbore to give an accurate description of the events that ensued, even though this will make publication of this story impossible for many years to come.
To read more of this adventure go online at:
www.OrlandoPearson.com
About the Author
Orlando Pearson commutes into the City during the day and communes with the spirit of Sherlock Homes by night.
He is at his happiest when applying the techniques of the great Baker Street detective to everyday p
roblems such as how to get a seat on a crowded train or which queue of several to join in order to get the fastest service.
He lives with a wife and two children near the location of Wisteria Lodge.
More information at: www.orlandopearson.com
Copyright
Published by Clink Street Publishing 2015
Copyright © 2015
First edition.
The author asserts the moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior consent of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that with which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
ISBN: 978-1-910782-89-7
E-Book: 978-1-910782-90-3
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