Sherlock Holmes Page 13

  Foxton nodded thoughtfully. “Well, as I explained, Doctor, Baxter is a manipulative man. It would not surprise me to discover he was blackmailing poor Herbert, or something to that effect.”

  I took another sip of my tea, taking it all in. The sheer contempt in which Foxton held Baxter told a story all of its own.

  “You knew Grange, didn’t you?” I asked.

  “I did. He was a regular visitor here,” replied Foxton. “A brave man, a force for good, pushing against the tide to fight for much-needed reform. Seaton was very fond of him. Grange’s visits were some of the only times he could be encouraged out of those rooms of his. More than once I had to prise Grange away to introduce him to other guests.”

  “How interesting,” I said. “Tell me, is Seaton here today? I should very much like to speak to him again.”

  “Alas, Dr. Watson, he’s gone into town. Although I imagine he’ll be back this afternoon. You’re most welcome to stay and make yourself comfortable here with a good book.” He smiled, throwing his arms wide to encompass the bookcases all around us.

  “My thanks to you, Lord Foxton, but I fear I have a prior engagement this afternoon,” I said. This was a half-truth, but I wished to return to Ealing to find Holmes and apprise him of what I had learned.

  “Well, I will certainly make a point of telling him you called,” said Foxton, “and you are most welcome to return to Ravensthorpe at any point that is convenient to you. Yourself and Mr. Holmes, of course.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “For your hospitality, and for your frankness. You may rest assured that I will treat everything you have told me with the strictest confidence.”

  Foxton inclined his head. “I only hope I’ve been of some use.”

  “Oh, I’m sure of it,” I said. I stood, and Foxton started to rise, but I held out my hand. “Please, don’t disturb yourself. I can find my own way out.”

  Foxton nodded and held out his hand. I shook it firmly. “Good day to you, Lord Foxton.”

  “Good day, Dr. Watson.”

  Brown was industriously polishing silver in the entrance hall when I emerged from the passageway, and upon seeing me, downed his polish and rags and wordlessly loped off to fetch my coat. He returned a few moments later wearing a beaming smile. “I trust you got what you came for, Dr. Watson,” he said, helping me on with my garment.

  “Indeed I did. My thanks to you, Brown.”

  He nodded and returned to his work.

  Feeling contemplative, and keen to get back to Holmes and outline all that I had heard, I hurried out to my waiting carriage.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I returned home to find my sitting room in utter disarray.

  The furniture had been completely rearranged, pushed back into the corners of the room to create a large space in the centre. A neat stack of notebooks had been overturned and now lay in a disorganised heap. A chair stood atop my desk, upon which my papers had been scattered haphazardly, and an inkwell upset. Dark blue ink dripped monotonously onto a large, stained area of carpet.

  In the middle of the room was a new centrepiece, sitting proudly in the space that had been cleared: a large, oak travelling trunk.

  Holmes, of course, was nowhere to be seen.

  “Holmes!” I bellowed, incandescent with rage. “Holmes, are you here?”

  There was no response.

  I stormed from the sitting room to the kitchen, and then upstairs to the guest room. There was no sign of him. Furious, my fists bunched, I stomped back to the sitting room to examine the offending trunk.

  It was old and battered, faded from years of use. The banding was wrought in black iron, and it was tied securely with a leather buckle.

  Upon its gnarled surface was a folded note, tacked in place with a drawing pin. I tore it free, unfolded it and held it up to the light, mumbling to myself in consternation.

  Watson,

  I have arranged with a clerk from Tidwell Bank for this trunk to be collected at precisely three o’clock this afternoon. It is to be transported directly to the bank and placed in their vault as a matter of the utmost urgency. To ensure these instructions are carried out to the letter, a new account has today been established in your name. It is paramount that you escort the object to the said establishment and ensure it is deposited securely before the day is out. Do not leave until you have seen the trunk placed in the vault with your own eyes.

  Following this, make arrangements to meet me outside of the bank at precisely quarter to seven this evening. I trust you will not delay.

  Yours,

  Holmes.

  “Hmph!” I said. “Typical Holmes.” Where in God’s name had he happened upon such a decrepit old thing, and what was in it?

  Despite my being perturbed at Holmes’s presumptuousness, my interest was piqued. Whatever this was, it clearly had to be related to our investigation of Baxter. Why else should he make the arrangements to have the trunk deposited in Tidwell Bank, of all places?

  Keen to know precisely what I was dealing with – and struck by my innate sense of inquisitiveness – I unbuckled the leather straps and folded back the lid. It creaked on dry hinges.

  Inside was a mountain of old, yellowed papers. I grabbed a handful and leafed through them, scanning a few lines on each page. They were brittle and covered in Holmes’s scratchy handwriting, and appeared to be his notes on our old cases. I was half tempted to sit down and begin reading – I couldn’t help but wonder whether Holmes’s perception of events tallied with my own recollections and published accounts.

  If it hadn’t been for my suspicion that our investigation might hinge on the deposit of these papers at Tidwell Bank, I should have offered to store them for him in my own house. As it was, I knew that any failure on my part to follow Holmes’s instructions to the letter might jeopardise our success.

  I replaced the papers, closed the lid and secured the buckle.

  * * *

  The two men arrived from the bank promptly at three, as Holmes had outlined in his note. They were not, however, the clerks I had been expecting, but rather removal men in filthy blue overalls. Clearly, these fellows were employed by the bank to do the heavy lifting. By the look of them, I couldn’t help wondering what, in Henry Baxter’s case, “heavy lifting” might mean.

  The chap who came to the door had a pugilist’s face; battered and scarred, with a nose that had been broken numerous times and a fuzz of close-cropped blonde hair. He seemed to me to represent every cliché of a cockney strong-arm.

  “Afternoon, guv’nor,” he said, as I opened the door. “Dr. Watson, is it?”

  “That is I,” I said, perhaps a little imperiously.

  “We’ve come to collect your shipment for Tidwell Bank. Large trunk, if I understand right?”

  “That’s right,” I said. “You’d better come in.”

  Reluctantly, I showed the two men into my home, cursing Holmes beneath my breath. I’d taken a few moments to tidy the sitting room following his rather hasty rearrangement, but it was still an awful mess. “This is the trunk in question,” I said. “It needs to be placed securely in the bank’s vault.”

  The man nodded. “Oi, Reggie,” he called to his colleague, who was lurking in the hallway. “Come on, give us a hand.”

  The other man entered the room, and for a minute they stood about, sizing up the trunk. “Right-o, Reggie,” said the first man, “let’s get this on the cart.”

  Standing at either end of the trunk they each took one of the rope handles, and on the count of three, heaved it up to knee height.

  “Blimey! What’ve you got in here?” gasped the one known as Reggie.

  “Papers,” I said, trying not to laugh at the expressions on their faces. “Lots of them.”

  “Whatever you say, boss,” said the first man, and together they shuffled out of the sitting room, down the hall, and along the garden path toward their waiting horse and cart.

  “I’ll just fetch my coat,” I called after them.


  “Oh, there’s no need,” said the first man, glancing over his shoulder. “We’ll see it right for you. Straight into the vault, yes?”

  I considered Holmes’s note, his precise instructions. “Thank you,” I said, “but all the same, I wish to see it placed in the vault myself.”

  “Very well, guv’nor, very well,” he replied, obviously of the opinion that I was wasting both my time and his.

  I dashed back inside and quickly collected my coat and keys, then locked the house behind me, fumbling a little with the lock in my haste. By the time I was ready to leave they had managed to manhandle the trunk up onto the cart and secure it in place with several ropes.

  “I’m afraid it’s not the comfiest of rides,” said Smythe, whose name I had managed to determine by listening to the two men talk as they’d struggled with the trunk. “Up here with us,” he said, indicating the box at the front of the cart. “You can sit beside Reggie.”

  “Thank you,” I said, hauling myself up with some difficulty. I am not, by any means, as lithe as I used to be. Once settled, however, I reflected on the fact that I felt safer up there on the box than I had in any motorcar in which I’d so far had the misfortune to travel.

  Smythe flicked the horse’s reins, and at a slow, steady gait we trotted away in the direction of the bank.

  * * *

  Upon arrival at the bank we did not approach the main entrance, but rather a small loading yard at the rear. Here, two further horses were tied up beside a water trough, along with another wooden cart. The place seemed dank and carried the unfortunate aromas of urine and manure.

  One of the clerks, a wiry young fellow with sandy hair and thin – rather ridiculous – whiskers, was standing out in the yard smoking a cigarette, evidently taking a break from his duties. He was slouching against a wall, but straightened up and dropped his cigarette, crushing it underfoot, when he saw that Smythe and Reggie had a customer in tow.

  “Good afternoon,” he said, in a polite but affected accent. He approached the cart as we drew to a stop, and offered me his hand in assistance. I took it gratefully, jumping down onto the straw-covered flagstones below. “My name’s Mr. Scriver,” he said. “How can I be of assistance?”

  “I’m here to make a deposit,” I replied. “My colleague arranged it over the telephone. This trunk here,” I pointed to the box in the back of the cart, “I’d like for it to be placed in your vault.”

  “Very good, sir,” said the clerk. “May I ask – do you have an account with us?”

  “I do,” I said, a little dubious as to how Holmes could have managed to make such an arrangement. I wouldn’t put it past him to have impersonated me, and not for the first time.

  “Excellent. Then if you would like to follow me,” he said. He pushed open a rear door, ushering me into the bank. “You two, bring the box,” he called behind him.

  The door opened into a large, relatively empty space, within which there were stacked five or six wooden pallets, heaped high with boxes. They were unmarked, and I had no opportunity to ascertain what they contained as I was led away.

  “There’s just a little paperwork to see to Mr…?”

  “Dr. Watson. John Watson,” I said.

  “Dr. Watson,” finished the clerk. “It shouldn’t take more than a moment. My desk is just through here.” He showed me through another side door, which led to the familiar lobby of the bank proper.

  We settled the paperwork quickly – a simple matter of terms and conditions – and then I made a down payment on the storage. Holmes had been thorough, but not thorough enough to arrange for the prepayment of his little exercise. Once again, I cursed him for saddling me with this damnable business.

  “I should like to see the trunk safely secured in the vault,” I told the clerk, “if it is not too much trouble?”

  The man’s shoulders sagged slightly, as if in recognition that it was, in fact, more trouble than he wished to admit to, but the forced smile on his face told a different story. “Of course, Dr. Watson. That’s no trouble whatsoever. We’ll see to it immediately.” He pushed his chair back so that it scraped on the marble floor, and stood. “If you’d be kind enough to remain here for a few moments, I’ll just check with the manager and retrieve the keys.”

  “Very well,” I said. I watched him scurry off in search of his superior.

  Five minutes later the clerk returned bearing a hoop of jangling keys. “Right, Dr. Watson. Everything is arranged. If you’d care to come with me?”

  “Excellent,” I said, getting to my feet. “Lead on.”

  He showed me back to the unloading area, where Smythe and Reggie had carried the trunk in from outside and were awaiting further instructions. “This way, gentlemen,” said the clerk.

  The two men bearing the trunk followed the clerk through a door and down a long, sloping passageway, which terminated in a small chamber, at what I took to be the basement level. I trailed behind, watching inquisitively, anticipating that Holmes might question me on the matter later.

  The chamber consisted of plain, whitewashed brick and stood empty, save for a large, steel door, which I assumed to be the entrance to the vault. The clerk produced a hoop of jangling keys from his belt and began sorting through them, selecting the correct one. Duly found, he inserted it into the lock, rotated the wheel that served as a handle, and heaved the door open with a grunt of exertion.

  It yawned wide to reveal what transpired to be a fairly mundane-looking inner room, full of tall wooden cabinets filled with lockable drawers, a handful of crates, and a large, brass Buddha, sitting squat on a shelf. I’d always imagined bank vaults to be filled with countless treasures – oil paintings by Old Masters and bars of gold bullion – but alas, in this instance, I was gravely disappointed.

  “Go ahead,” said the clerk, and the two labourers carried the trunk inside the vault and placed it neatly against the back wall.

  “Now, Dr. Watson, I fear there is one final matter to attend to,” he went on. “It is company policy to properly inspect any goods placed within our vault. It is important for us to ensure, you understand, that no one of a rebellious or criminal nature is able to place contraband – or, Heaven forbid, even explosives – under our noses.” He smirked, as if the very idea was ludicrous, and he was simply doing his job. “Might you open the trunk for me?”

  “Of course,” I said. I stepped forward, unbuckled the strap, and opened the lid. It banged noisily against the rear wall. Inside were the reams of paper I had examined earlier. “For a writer such as myself, such manuscript pages are valuable beyond words,” I said. “And I fear what might happen to them if there should be a bomb raid. For that matter, a single incendiary could destroy years of work!”

  The clerk peered over my shoulder, rifled through the upper layers of paper, and nodded in apparent satisfaction. “A most sensible course of action,” he said. “I can assure you they will come to no harm here.”

  I pulled the lid shut. “Then it seems our work here is concluded,” I said. “My thanks to you.”

  “Excellent,” said the clerk. He beckoned for me to leave the vault, and I did so, feeling distinctly uncomfortable. He closed the door behind me, turning the handle so that the deadbolts slid into place. “Would you care for me to arrange transport home for you, Dr. Watson?” he said, as he showed me through to the main lobby once again.

  “No, thank you,” I said. “I have an appointment in town later this evening, and I think I’ll pass the time by paying a little visit to my club.”

  The clerk smiled. “Well, then I hope, Dr. Watson, that we shall see you again in the near future.”

  “You can count on it,” I replied, unaware of just how prophetic my words would turn out to be.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Dinner at my club proved to be a lonesome affair, which served only to underline my present feelings of reclusion.

  Admittedly, it was early, but the place was close to empty, with only a handful of solitary figures haunting the salo
on bar, idling away a few hours with a newspaper and a drink. Long gone were the days when I could arrive here to find the place swarming with my fellow medical practitioners and strike up a conversation with any number of regulars whom I had grown to know. In those days, my fame had served me well, too – people were aware of my relationship with Holmes, of the accounts of our adventures I had penned for the delectation of the public – and I rarely found myself wanting for a dinner companion.

  Now, things were quite different. Even old Brownlow, a general practitioner who had been a friend for countless years and who had been a relative fixture at the place, had stopped coming since the outbreak of war. It seemed that Kaiser Wilhelm had us all on the run, scurrying away to hide in our homes and bury our heads.

  Consequently, I ate my Beef Wellington in rather a hurry, feeling a trifle embarrassed at finding myself dining alone. Afterwards, I sat by the fire in the saloon with a tot of whisky, and contemplated the progress of our investigation so far.

  I hadn’t yet got a true sense of what was going on, with how Herbert Grange’s suicide might have been influenced by external forces. I understood Holmes’s reasoning, of course – Grange did not, on the surface, appear to be the sort of man who might have readily committed suicide, and everything we had learned about him, his state of mind and his circumstances, right up until the morning of his death, seemed contrary to his actions.

  On top of all that, of course, were the paperweights. It was simply too much of a coincidence that Grange, Baxter and Underwood should all have the same unusual paperweight in their possession, particularly given its odd markings. That hinted at the connection between these different players.

  Clearly, there was some further connection between Underwood and Baxter, too – subterfuge of some description, carried out in secrecy and unbeknownst to Lord Foxton – but that in and of itself was not entirely incriminating. Not, at least, until we knew the true nature of their clandestine meetings.