Sherlock Holmes Page 8

  She crossed to a narrow lectern that stood just to the right of the entrance, and leafed through an appointment book resting on top. “Ah, yes,” she said, her demeanour immediately softening. “A last-minute arrangement.” She smiled. “If you’d like to come with me, I shall show you to Mr. Baxter’s office. He’s expecting you.”

  I glanced at Holmes, who offered me a thin smile before following the woman. She led us into a small waiting room adjoining an office and rapped at the door, then opened it without waiting for a response.

  Baxter’s office was as opulently appointed as the rest of the building, and as the receptionist showed us in, I found myself drawn in by the décor. Four bookshelves were lined with the neat leather spines of old tomes, although from across the room I found it impossible to discern their gilded titles. A glass-fronted case held a range of oddities, including a porcelain phrenologist’s head, a trophy, and a photograph of the Giza pyramids in a silver frame. Maps of Europe were pinned to the walls, and a tall, thin man sat behind a desk, reading a newspaper.

  “Mr. Baxter, your three o’clock appointment,” said the receptionist.

  Baxter was a slender man of around forty, with long, willowy limbs, and a pale, drawn face. Neatly trimmed blonde hair was beginning to recede from his forehead. He placed the newspaper he had been reading upon the desk, and rose to meet us. “Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, welcome, welcome!” he said, exuberantly. “Please, make yourselves at home.” He beckoned us to two chairs, and as we sat, he took Holmes’s hand in his own and shook it vigorously. “I could barely believe it when my clerk informed me of your intended visit. The great Mr. Holmes! I’ve long been an admirer of your work. And, of course, thanks in no small measure to your beautifully written accounts, Dr. Watson,” he said, as if recognising his unintended slight. He proffered his hand and I took it. It was slightly cold to the touch. Holmes cast me a shrewd, sidelong glance.

  Baxter sat in the chair behind his desk and seemed to study Holmes for a moment. “But tell me, sir – I understood that you had retired?”

  Holmes’s lips curled into a smile, as he seemed to process this sudden rush of enthusiasm. “I fear a man of my profession never quite retires, Mr. Baxter, so much as stops for an indefinite period of time.”

  Baxter guffawed heartily. “A man after my own heart, what?” he said. His accent and manner marked him out as the alumnus of one of our better-known public schools. Probably Eton or Harrow, I decided.

  “Thank you for making the time to see us, Mr. Baxter,” said Holmes. “This is quite an establishment. I imagine your time is very precious.”

  “Quite so, Mr. Holmes,” he replied. “Yet, it would seem prudent to make time for such an occasion. Am I to assume you wish to question me regarding a case?” He looked hopeful, as if the very thought of being put to the question by Holmes was sort of badge of honour.

  “In a manner of speaking,” replied Holmes.

  Baxter reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a small silver cigarette case. It was clearly an antique, battered and worn, and tarnished by fingerprints. He popped the clasp and withdrew a cigarette, offering them to both Holmes and me. We politely declined. He shrugged and placed the case down upon his desk, atop a pile of loose papers, which were held in place by a small half-globe paperweight, made from polished amber and neatly engraved with a five-pointed star. It looked remarkably similar to the one I had seen at Herbert Grange’s office.

  Baxter struck a match, touched the flame against the tip of his cigarette and inhaled deeply. He allowed the smoke to billow from the corner of his mouth, along with a satisfied sigh. As he reached up to withdraw the cigarette from his lips, I noticed there was dirt encrusted beneath the fingernails of his right hand. “So, gentlemen, please tell me – in what way can this simple banker be of assistance?”

  “We are following a particular line of enquiry regarding the unfortunate death of Mr. Herbert Grange, MP,” said Holmes.

  “Ah, yes. I read the account in The Times. Such an appalling waste of life,” said Baxter. “I’m sure you’ll agree.”

  “Indeed,” replied Holmes. “May I ask, did you happen to have a personal acquaintance with Mr. Grange?”

  Baxter shook his head and took another draw on his cigarette. “I did not. I knew of the man, of course – he was quite a figure in Parliament and political circles, but I don’t believe I was ever fortunate enough to meet him myself.”

  “But some of your employees did,” prompted Holmes.

  Baxter gave a curious grin, the left side of his mouth twitching in amusement. “Ah,” he said. “So now it becomes clear. You’re here to quiz me on why I should have so many German nationals in my employ. The men whom Grange interviewed at the War Office prior to his death.”

  “Precisely,” confirmed Holmes.

  “Well,” said Grange. “It’s like this. I’m in the business of investments. People entrust their money to me, and it is my role to not only protect their interests, but to generate a healthy return. But this is no ordinary bank, Mr. Holmes. I cater to a very particular clientele, the rich elite of Europe: counts and countesses, dukes and barons, princes and merchants. Why, only this week I have entered into an arrangement with an exiled prince from Romania, a man of some infamy.”

  “So these Germans on your staff, Mr. Baxter,” said I, “they are employed to deal with your overseas customers?”

  “Precisely that, Dr. Watson,” replied Baxter. “I find it helps to have native speakers of all the major European languages in my employ. It lends a certain authenticity to proceedings, and allows my clients to feel at ease. And, of course, smoothes any transaction that might need to take place with other interested parties in those countries.”

  “And where do you make your investments, Mr. Baxter?” said Holmes.

  “Oh, here and there,” replied Baxter, with a shrug. “I’m sure you’ll understand, I cannot disclose all my secrets.”

  “Quite so,” said Holmes, reasonably. “But please, answer me this – would any of the three German men in your employ have reason to wish Herbert Grange ill?”

  Baxter looked thoughtful. “I do not believe so, Mr. Holmes,” he said. He stubbed out his cigarette in a cut-glass ashtray on his desk. “My men have been vetted most thoroughly. I select only the best. Their allegiances are eminently clear to me. I do not believe Herbert Grange could find them wanting, and therefore see no possible motive for their wishing him harm.” He cast about, as if looking for something, and then shrugged and continued. “Indeed, Mr. Grange was their ticket to remaining in this country. Without him, they faced possible imprisonment and loss of income. They needed his approval. His death could only complicate matters. It seems unlikely to me, then, that the finger of suspicion might fall on them in any way.”

  He paused for a moment, touching his index finger against his lips. “But of course! How naïve of me. I take it then, Mr. Holmes, that you believe Mr. Grange’s death to be suspicious in some way? The newspapers reported it as suicide, but perhaps you suppose he was murdered?”

  “No, Mr. Baxter,” said Holmes. “It is clear to me that Herbert Grange did, in fact, take his own life. Of that there is no question. What as yet remains unanswered is the reason why.”

  Baxter smiled. “The human mind is a wondrous thing, Mr. Holmes, but I fear even your celebrated deductive powers may struggle to comprehend the emotional intricacies that would drive a man to take such a terrible step. To my mind it has less to do with logic and fact, and everything to do with the irrational and unexplained. I’m sure, being a medical man, Dr. Watson would agree.” He glanced at me, as if seeking approval. I remained impassive.

  “You sound as if you might even believe that a man in such a position might be influenced by otherworldly forces, Mr. Baxter?” said Holmes, raising an eyebrow.

  “Perhaps so,” replied Baxter. “Although I fear it would be almost impossible to prove either way.”

  “How interesting,” said Holmes. I sensed the judgement be
hind the comment.

  There was a moment of silence while Baxter lit himself a second cigarette. “I take it, Mr. Holmes, that you wish to interview the three men in question?” The sudden change in the topic of the conversation was palpable.

  “That will not be necessary at this time,” said Holmes, much to my surprise. “Although in due course, I may yet prevail upon you to that end, if the need arises.”

  “Of course,” said Baxter. “You can count on any assistance that it is in my power to give.”

  “My thanks to you,” said Holmes. “Then perhaps if I might venture one further question?”

  “Be my guest,” said Baxter. His expression was earnest, but I couldn’t shake the feeling he was toying with us for his own amusement, drawing things out.

  “Do you happen to have a personal acquaintance with Lord Foxton, of Ravensthorpe House?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do,” said Baxter. “Although it is most definitely a case of acquaintance and not friendship.”

  “Indeed?” queried Holmes. The way Baxter had said it made it sound as if there was no love lost between the two men. I wondered what had occurred to create such a definite rift between them.

  “Oh, it’s not as if we’re at each other’s throats,” said Baxter. “We just didn’t quite hit it off, that’s all. I’ve been to one or two of his parties, although admittedly, not for some time. I find him a bit staid, if I’m honest. A little too stuck in his ways. Why do you ask? Do you believe Foxton is in some way connected to Mr. Grange’s death?”

  “Far from it, Mr. Baxter,” replied Holmes. “Forgive me, it was simply inquisitiveness on my part.”

  Baxter laughed. “An admirable trait in a consulting detective, eh?” he said. Holmes inclined his head in acknowledgement of the compliment.

  “Well, I do believe that we have taken up enough of your valuable time, Mr. Baxter,” said Holmes, rising from his seat. “My thanks to you. We shall call again if we need to speak to your men.”

  “Very good,” said Baxter. “A pleasure to meet you both. I hope you’ll forgive me if I don’t show you out.” He indicated the spread of papers on his desk. “I fear I have ledgers to balance.”

  “Good day to you, then,” I said.

  “Good day.”

  I held the door open for Holmes and we quit the bank through the waiting room, nodding our thanks to the receptionist as we crossed the foyer to the main doors.

  Once we were outside, out of earshot of the clerks, I turned to Holmes. “What did you make of the man?”

  “To my mind, Watson, Baxter is an admirable example of his kind,” said Holmes.

  “Really?” I said, somewhat incredulous.

  “Quite so,” said Holmes. “I have yet to meet a banker who is not a perfidious wretch, and Mr. Baxter, it seems, is no exception. I’d wager he counts amongst his clients some of the more notorious criminals in Europe, and that his portfolio of ‘investments’ would not stand a great deal of scrutiny in a court of law. And there is the small matter of his gambling habit. Not a laudable quality in a man who has control over other men’s money.”

  “Gambling? What on earth makes you say that?” I asked.

  “The newspaper, Watson. Open to the racing section, and yet no significant gatherings are held today. A true adherent, then. Together with the fact that his cigarette case bore the initials ‘F.W.S.’ and was therefore not his own – taken in a card game, I’d wager – I’d say that Mr. Baxter likes more than the occasional flutter.”

  “Then you feel he is worthy of further investigation?” I said.

  “I do. I cannot yet put my finger on it, Watson, but mark my words: Mr. Henry Baxter has a role to play in the proceedings yet to come.”

  “Yes. I had a sense of that too,” I said. “He seemed to be holding something back. And did you happen to notice the paperweight on his desk?” I ventured. “Almost identical to the one we saw at the War Office, on Grange’s bookcase.”

  Holmes laughed. “Yes, I wondered if you’d notice that, Watson. Excellent!”

  “You think there might be something in it?”

  “Indubitably,” said Holmes, in his usual, dismissive fashion. “Come now. Let us discover if our associate, Sir Maurice, has made the necessary arrangements for our trip to Ravensthorpe House. A party could be just the thing to revitalise the spirits, eh, Watson?”

  My heart sank. “If we must, Holmes,” I said.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Newbury had been as good as his word, and upon arriving back at the house I found a note on the mat, informing us that arrangements had been made to visit Lord Foxton’s house that very evening.

  Holmes seemed most animated by this development and immediately repaired to the second bedroom, for what undertaking I could not begin to imagine.

  We had a couple of hours to spare, however, before necessity dictated a journey across town, and so given the opportunity I reclaimed my favourite armchair and sat for a while with my notebook and pen. It was my intention to set down all that I could recall of proceedings so far. I had a notion that in detailing an account of this new adventure with Holmes, I might in some way break the deadlock I had otherwise encountered with my writing. It felt good to have the words flow once more, and before long I had lost track of time, covering page after page with my spidery, inky scrawl – I have, after all, the handwriting of a general practitioner – which I planned to later transcribe on my trusty typewriter.

  “I see, Watson, that you have once again found the use of your pen.”

  I glanced up from my work to see Holmes standing over me, looking immaculate in a formal black dinner suit. His hair was brushed neatly back from his forehead, his collar was buttoned and dressed with a bow tie, and he had even taken the time to fold a handkerchief and place it neatly in his breast pocket. It seemed most unlike Holmes.

  I frowned, and then glanced at the clock. I realised with horror that time had indeed run away with me, and that I risked making us late for our appointment. With some bluster I set down my pen and paper, and stood, stretching my tired back. “Well, I must say, Holmes – you still scrub up rather well,” I said, attempting to wipe a smear of ink from my fingers.

  Holmes inclined his head and offered me a look of wry amusement. “It seems that scrubbing will indeed be necessary in your case, Watson,” he said.

  I glanced at my hands. The ink had become deeply ingrained. “Well, give me five minutes and I’ll be with you,” I said. I hurried off to see to my ablutions, leaving Holmes laughing, loudly, in the sitting room.

  Minutes later, and feeling a little out of breath, I found Holmes in the hallway, waiting to help me on with my light overcoat. “I’ve a carriage waiting,” he announced. “We shall be perfectly on time. Fear not, Watson.”

  “Fear nothing!” I replied, a trifle brusquely, as we bundled out of the house and into the waiting hansom.

  Dusk was settling over London, and the pleasantly sedate journey across town served as a reminder of all that had changed since the last time my friend and I had taken such a conveyance together. Motorcars were not yet in abundance, but were growing in popularity, thundering along the cobbled lanes and parping riotously at any pedestrians daring enough to get in their way.

  All around us work was being carried out repairing buildings damaged in the bombing raids. London was changing – times were changing – and I had not yet decided whether there was a place in it for a curmudgeonly old soldier such as myself. Perhaps Holmes had been right after all, retiring to the country to escape the altering landscape, and perhaps with it, the terrible, creeping feeling of irrelevance that comes with age.

  I hadn’t yet managed to shake the pronounced feelings of guilt that had worried away at me all day, following the death of Carter the previous night. I knew there was little I could have done for the man – he had insisted, after all, in waiting for us outside in the automobile – but I was nevertheless troubled by those fateful last words I had exchanged with him, warning him
that he would “catch his death” out there in the cold. Today, those words felt like some unholy prophecy, a curse that I had inadvertently invoked when I’d left him out there, alone, to die.

  Holmes, as perceptive as he ever was, seemed to know what was troubling me. “There are never the right words, are there, Watson, for times such as this?”

  “What’s that, Holmes?” I said, feigning ignorance.

  “The boy,” he replied. “The driver who died last night. It troubles you.”

  I was silent for a moment, listening to the rattle of the hansom’s wheels on the cobbled road, the clop clopping of the horses’ hooves. “Does it not trouble you, Holmes? Surely you cannot mean to tell me you are not affected by the death of that boy.”

  “This war,” he said, glancing away, peering out through the window at the buildings passing by, “it eats away at you. I can see it, Watson, like a parasite that has inveigled itself in your mind. You think of little else.” He turned to look at me, his eyes piercing. “You feel your loss keenly, and for that, I am truly sorry.”

  I stared at Holmes, aghast. “Once again, you speak of Joseph,” I said. It was a rhetorical question, and Holmes did not deign to answer it. “How did you know?”

  Holmes waved a dismissive hand. “The matter is elementary.”

  I bristled. “I assure you, Holmes. The matter is far from elementary.”

  “Forgive me, Watson. I meant no offence,” he said. His tone was regretful.

  I sighed. “No. Of course you didn’t. It is I who should apologise to you, Holmes. I fear the subject is still a little raw. Thank you for your condolences.”

  We lapsed into silence, rocking gently in the carriage as we trundled on towards Lord Foxton’s house.

  * * *

  Ravensthorpe House was a rambling old mansion on the outskirts of the city, set amongst sweeping acres of lush parkland. As we crawled up the gravel driveway in our carriage, I peered out of the window, spotting a herd of deer bounding gracefully across a grassy expanse in the distance. Beyond that, a large belt of dark, wild woodland appeared to stretch away for miles.