Sherlock Holmes and the Holborn Emporium

by Val Andrews

  A look of despair had almost begun to cross his rubicund face as he thrust three neatly typewritten messages across the table that Holmes might inspect them. My friend studied them carefully in turn, using his lens. Then he pushed them across to me.

  ‘Well, Watson, what do you make of them?’

  I laid the three squares of paper side by side upon the table and studied them at length, saying, ‘Identical pieces of paper folded neatly so that the corners exactly correspond. Your man is neat and precise. Apart from that, each of the messages was typed upon the same machine.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Why, Holmes, did you not yourself tell me that no two typewriters produce results that are exactly alike? I have read your monograph upon the subject and . . .’

  My friend interrupted. ‘You refer to slight imperfections in letters, slight lack of alignment and things of that sort. Where are the imperfections and eccentricities of alignment, or even change of density?’

  I replied, ‘There are no such imperfections at all . . . that is just it . . . they must therefore be produced on the same, rare, absolutely perfect typewriter.’

  Holmes was at his most irritating as he said, ‘Watson, you are jumping to a very interestingly incorrect conclusion. What you say about my own studies of the imperfection is true . . . but only where the machine has been in use for at least a few days. It is use itself which produces imperfection. These notes were each produced with a brand new Remington portable. In each case both the machine and the ribbon were brand new.’

  ‘You mean with three different machines and three ribbons, never in use before?’

  ‘At last, exactly, bravo!’

  ‘But why would anyone do that?’

  ‘So that we cannot trace him through his typewriter, or any other that he might use, assuming that he continues to follow this procedure.’

  Chastened, I gave the matter thought before saying, ‘So, we have a shrewd man, rather than some idiot playing practical jokes. He must be of some means if he buys a brand-new portable Remington every time he sends one of these messages. He must be demanding a very large sum.’

  It was A.W. Forrage who replied, ‘Dr Watson, two thousand pounds is not, to me, an enormous sum. But I have not dwelt seventy years upon this planet without learning that you can never, ever pay off a blackmailer. Once paid he will come back for more, again and again and again.’

  Holmes nodded. ‘I notice that he is not specific about his plans for the children in the grotto. I will undertake to investigate this matter but on one condition . . . that if at any point I decided that life and limb are actually endangered you will call in Scotland Yard?’

  Grudgingly, Forrage nodded.

  ‘For the moment, Watson and I will wander down to Santa’s grotto and see if we can discern anything of interest.’

  Although his visage had threatened apoplexy at the mention of Scotland Yard, Forrage quickly calmed, saying, ‘I realise that your hands are tied, as are mine, but if you can find a way of not involving the authorities, I will double your fee, whatever that may be!’

  Holmes said, as I expected, ‘I do not vary my charge, save where I omit it entirely. Dukes and dustmen, you know, they are all the same to me.’

  Forrage grunted, ‘Not a socialist by any chance are you?’

  Holmes glared at the store magnate. ‘No, sir, I am entirely without political affiliation, or even interest for that matter. I am fortunate in being able to write my own rules as well as follow them.’

  Chapter Two - The Grotto of Peril

  Was ‘Santa’s Grotto’ the invention of A.W. Forrage? I don’t know, but I remember as a very small child being taken to see Santa (or rather ‘Father Christmas’ as we referred to him in those days), in a local store where he had a large sack of toys or sometimes a bran tub. One just paid a penny and trotted off happily enough with a small gift. Forrage it probably was who made Santa into the star of a sort of theatrical production. Every year he changed the setting, from Iceland to China or Aladdin’s cave to Red Riding Hood’s wood. One might visit ‘Wonderland’ and be taken by Alice to the tea party to meet the March Hare, the Dormouse and the Mad Hatter. Some years the children would be transported to their imaginary destination in a fanciful mode of transport: an airship to the Alps or a mechanical sledge to Toyland. But for the Christmas season with which we were involved the theme was one of visiting the bowels of the earth, so we joined a party of Forrage patrons and their offspring, crowding into ‘The Earth Skewer’, which was one of Forrage’s lifts, disguised to seem like a contraption dreamed up by H.G. Wells or Jules Verne. The lift entrance was decorated with papier mâché rocks and the door itself painted to seem like the entrance to a vehicle of the imagination. Beside it stood an elderly, out-of-work actor who recited, over and over again, ‘This way to the centre of the earth to see Santa . . . have your threepence ready, please!’

  Inside the lift an operator dressed as an elf threw the lever and everyone gasped with amazed anticipation as red foil rattled upon the walls of the apartment as it descended very slowly to the floor below. The elf shouted as we barely moved . . . ‘Thirty thousand feet . . . seventy thousand . . . two hundred thousand . . . one million feet into the earth’s core!’

  As the doors opened again we emerged into an obstacle course of plaster rockwork, imitation red cinders and a path which we followed as red lights flashed amid at least a shillings-worth of artificial fog. These properties and effects gave a delicious series of evocative odours, size, glue, gunpowder, varnish and disinfectant.

  At length we reached a cave, inside which sat Santa himself: a stout man in a red suit trimmed with white fur, and sporting a huge white hook-on beard. He guffawed and chuckled wearily, seating unwilling children upon his ample knee as he demanded to know what they would like for Christmas. He had a sense of humour too, asking a prosperous-looking eight-year-old what he would like. The child said, ‘I want a bicycle.’

  Santa chuckled and produced a small festively wrapped packet which he handed to the child, saying, ‘Here is a nice puncture-mending outfit, just in case you get one!’

  He gave a bar of soap to a boy with a dirty neck, and a little girl who demanded a doll’s house of a certain style and colour was given a tiny replica of a house. He told her, ‘That’ll teach you not to specify too much!’

  But I noticed that the quiet, pleasant children got quite impressive-looking toys. Holmes nodded his approval. ‘Very shrewd, Watson. A perfect example of how to sell the unsaleable. Last year’s remainders, soiled goods, left-overs. Better to get threepence for them than pay someone to take them away.’

  Then quite suddenly the sounds of joy and pleasurable anticipation were surmounted by a series of dismayed shouts, surprise and even fear. Children were crying and their parents were shouting, angrily.

  ‘Ooh, Mummy, what is it?’

  ‘Shame!’

  ‘Help, there is something horrid in my present!’

  ‘Disgusting!’

  ‘Where is Mr Forrage?’

  I turned to my friend and said, ‘Not all that shrewd after all, Holmes; the recipients are far from delighted.’

  It appeared that only the last few packets that we had seen handed out contained the boxed spiders, dead mice, sneezing powder, evil-smelling liquids disguised as perfume, and chocolates filled with mustard rather than caramel. Santa was fierce in his protestations of innocence. Loudly he proclaimed that he had no control over the wrapped items. Holmes took the opportunity to nudge himself nearer to the large box from which the gifts were taken by Santa. After a quick look he turned to me and explained. ‘There is a chute from above, Watson, down which someone drops the packages. Quick, follow me, and we will take the back stairs. We must try to find out from where they are dropped, and I fancy it may be some minutes before the lift resumes its transport of the public.’

  We dashed up the stone steps, sometimes two at a time, and I was quite breathless when we reached the floor
above. Sherlock Holmes, clearly in better physical condition than I, was scarcely out of breath, and using his instinct for position and distance he soon found the place from whence he believed the packages had been dropped. Pushing his way through a door marked ‘Staff Only’ he amazed those within by putting a stop to their activities of feeding packages into the chute.

  ‘Stop! Where did you get this present batch of parcels?’

  A bewildered youth replied, ‘A boy brought them from the depository, in this box.’

  The youth indicated a cardboard container. A girl asked, ‘What is it to you . . . who do you think you are?’

  This girl had recognised that we were not of her breed, nor yet of that which normally harangued her with orders. In the manner of most repressed persons she began to vent her repression upon those who held for her no fear. I tried to calm her. ‘Dear lady, we have been asked to investigate a certain situation that is not any fault of your own.’

  She retorted, ‘Store detectives, eh . . . why didn’t you say?’

  But the youth was more co-operative and said, ‘Come to think of it I didn’t recognise the boy who brought this box, and it is different from the others.’

  Holmes examined the box and opened one of the gaily wrapped packages within it. This contained what was supposed to be a box of fancy handkerchiefs but in fact contained a folded blood-stained cloth. He said, ‘I will take the box, meanwhile I suggest that you examine one in four of the gifts before you feed them into the chute.’

  We repaired to Forrage’s office, where we found him just returned from one of his frequent forays around his store. We showed him the box and to our surprise he appeared to recognise it, saying, ‘Why, that is the box that I saw the boy deliver to the room where the toy chute is housed.’

  Holmes demanded, ‘You saw a boy handling this box? What boy, who was he?’

  Forrage replied, ‘Mr Holmes, I have hundreds of em-ployees. I cannot be expected to recognise every one of them, let alone remember their names. About twenty minutes ago I was on a regular tour of inspection. Passing the room where the toy chute is I saw that box being handed through the door by a boy of about fourteen years.’

  I dared to ask, ‘You cannot name your employee, yet you remember the appearance of an individual cardboard box?’

  ‘In this case certainly, because I know that boxes of a certain design and colour are being employed to transport the wrapped toys from the depository. We have system here, Doctor, system.’

  Holmes asked, ‘You challenged this boy?’

  ‘Certainly. I said, “Look here, boy, what are you doing with that box? It is not your job to bring it here.” In return he was insolent so I asked him, “What is your weekly wage?” He said, “Fifteen bob!” So I took fifteen shillings from my pocket, gave it to him and said, “Now get out, I never want to see you in my store again!” I paid him off, d’ye see?’

  Despite his concern, Holmes chuckled and said, ‘Yes, I do see: but Mr Forrage, if my deductions are correct this boy did not even work for you. He was probably the innocent messenger of your enemies. He was doubtless tipped to bring the box to the room where the chute is housed. I would not worry that you did not recognise him: he has little significance, being a mere pawn.’

  But Forrage was furious, ‘Not worry? Do you realise that I have allowed myself to be diddled out of fifteen shillings? He defrauded me by failing to mention that he was not a member of my staff when I handed him that money.’

  I tried to calm him. ‘Come, sir, no harm has been done, surely.’

  He expostulated, ‘No harm? It is I who have been done!’

  ‘But it was only fifteen shillings.’

  ‘A paltry sum, but I have built up this great store through shrewdness and good husbandry, not through being diddled by urchins.’

  Holmes stifled a chuckle as he began to examine the box. At length he spoke seriously about that which he saw. ‘Here, if I am not mistaken, we have a cardboard container of the style and colour used by the tradespeople of Clerkenwell Road. Off that thoroughfare lies a labyrinth of small mean streets where live and work many hundreds of immigrant workers. Many, a great many, of these are honest and diligent, yet some come from countries where large-scale extortion is the norm rather than the exception. There is nothing to give us a closer clue, save that I recognise it as being of a type and style used to pack wholesale quantities of tailoring accessories: buttons, spools of thread, waist buckles and the like. As for the packages within, they are somewhat roughly packed, covered in fancy paper of the type offered by street traders, not of the quality that one would expect at Forrage’s. The string is of a kind that could be purchased almost anywhere and in itself tells us nothing; but the knots . . . what do you make of them, Watson?’

  I looked at the knots carefully. ‘They are roughly tied . . .’

  ‘But firmly tied, Watson, these are no ordinary grannies or bows, these are seafarers’ knots, half hitch, sheepshank and the like.’

  I enquired, ‘What will be your next move?’

  ‘Oh, I will take the box back to Baker Street to study it further if I may?’

  Forrage was calm now. ‘Do with it what you will, but please do something about my problem.’

  Holmes seemed a trifle more optimistic now. ‘I will give it my urgent attention, but I would not worry too much. I imagine you have seen the last of your troubles in the grotto. Your enemy, or enemies, will now be considering the next move and which of your many departments he will give attention to next. So far these incidents, whilst irritating, have been of a comparatively harmless nature. We must act quickly, before they begin to be of a more serious nature. Fortunately he tends to warn you as to the direction of his attentions. But we cannot rely upon a continuance of this pattern.’

  We took our leave of A.W. Forrage and a cab back to Baker Street. As we travelled, Holmes asked, ‘Well, Watson, at least we were drawn in at the deep end very quickly, but what have we learned?’

  I replied, with some confidence, ‘The perpetrator could be an immigrant, residing or working in the Clerkenwell Road area. This person was possibly once a sailor and is not without means.’

  ‘What makes you deduce that?’

  ‘He has spent money upon a selection of gifts to adulterate, and papers and string with which to wrap them. He engaged a boy to deliver a box: oh, and there is the matter of three brand-new typewriters!’

  ‘Excellent, Watson, we will make a detective of you yet! But seriously, an expense shared becomes much smaller.’

  We spent an interesting hour opening and examining all of the remaining packages, and Mrs Hudson will, I feel sure, remember to this day the smells, shocks and minor explosions which occurred. I do believe that for a time the good lady believed us both to have quite lost our senses. However, when we explained to her in confidence the purpose of our experiments, her indignation took a different direction.

  ‘Do you honestly mean to tell me, Mr Holmes, that some wicked fiend has tried to play such evil tricks upon little children and at Christmas time? I trust you will arrange some punishment that will make him laugh upon the other side of his face!’

  Holmes smiled kindly at the dear soul and made no mockery of her honest concern. ‘That I will, Mrs Hudson, but first I have to catch him.’

  She threw up her hands with feeling, ‘Oh, you’ll do that, sir, you have never failed a soul in trouble yet.’

  As she hurried away to go about her housekeeping duties, Sherlock Holmes was strangely softened from his usual style as he said to me, ‘What a dear, kindly and long-suffering woman. Now, Watson, let us examine the remainder of these packets.’

  There were more obnoxious smells and sensations, but as I remarked, they were all of a kind available from a dealer in practical joker’s equipment.

  However, Holmes said, ‘Beware though, Watson, the practical joker who knows not where to stop.’

  I asked, ‘What shall you do if that happens?’

  He replied, ins
tantly, ‘I will have no alternative but to inform Scotland Yard, even if Forrage does not like the idea. Speaking of Forrage, Watson, what do you make of him?’

  I thought before I spoke, then said, ‘I suppose one would have to call him the type of man who built the British Empire; but he built an empire of his own. He is, I consider, far seeing, a trifle humourless, enterprising to the extreme, loved yet feared by his employees, and perhaps a touch ruthless?’

  Holmes nodded in agreement as he abandoned his delving into devilment and filled a calabash with Scottish mixture. When he had lit the pipe he leaned back in his chair and replied, ‘My own feelings, Watson, and you were ever a good judge of human nature, even if you err upon the kindly side. A man does not reach Forrage’s position without more than a hint of ruthlessness and had he believed that his paying two thousand pounds would have solved his problem he would have paid the blackmailer that sum. It is only his own shrewdness and the knowledge that it would not stop there that has made him involve me in his problems. Upon the morrow we will consult him again, and I fear that he will greet us with the news of another demand.’

  This proved to be true, as we could read from the expression on Forrage’s face when we next entered his grand apartment. That, and the neat white square of paper which lay upon his blotter. He greeted us with a hangdog air and once we had been seated he dispensed with other niceties, such as the handing out of cigars, and pushed the paper across the desk for our inspection. Holmes studied it carefully and then passed it to me. I saw that again the paper had been more than neatly folded and that the typing, typeface and ribbon were absolutely pristine. I read the terse message . . .

  FORRAGE . . . YOUR CONJURING DEPARTMENT WILL BE MYSTERIOUS INDEED IF YOU DO NOT LEAVE FIVE THOUSAND POUNDS WITH THE BLIND FLOWER SELLER.

  Forrage explained, ‘There is a blind woman who sells flowers from a pitch upon the opposite side of High Holborn.’