Sherlock Holmes & The Master Engraver (Sherlock Holmes Revival) (10 page)

Holmes smiled indulgently. “How very thoughtful of him; I’m sure that was a most welcome diversion on a cold winter’s day; no doubt much the more so knowing that all the while your fellows were tucked up in their homes by the fire or in a cosy ale-house?

“I see that on Christmas Eve, Mr Petch visited.” “Quite so Mr Watson, and a tedious quiet time I was having of it too, so it was a welcome surprise when Mr Petch turned up unexpectedly, carrying three fat pheasants, one of which he gifted to me which I thought pretty handsome of him; it seems he had left some drawings or such-like he needed to take home with him but he plainly found them because he emerged carrying a burlap bag about an hour later.

“Mind you, he did seem most troubled, not quite himself at all. Prob’ly not my place to mention it Sah, but I thought he appeared to be a bit jumpy-like, nervous and rather fretful. Not hisself at all, oh no Mr Watson Sah, not at all hisself.” Holmes appeared to take little heed of this information.

The old soldier chuckled. “But enough of my gripings; shall I be opening up the building for you now Sah?”

Before Holmes could respond there was a soft knock on the wicket gate and a deep, quiet voice spoke; “Mornin’ Sarge – Jeremiah sir.” Gunton opened the gate to admit a colossus of a man wearing a black eye-patch, at least six and a half feet tall, whose weight was perhaps two-fold that of Holmes.

The giant warily eyed Holmes and me with evident suspicion. Holmes considered him with wry amusement.

“Ah, good morning to you Private Shadwell; I can well see why you are a watchman at Perkins, Bacon & Petch.

The massive Cyclops ignored Holmes’ comment and turned to Sergeant Gunton. “Who’s this Sarge?” he asked, clearly unsettled by our irregular disruption to his familiar, uncomplicated routine. “Easy Jeremiah, you mind your manners now; this here is Mr Watson – he’s visiting us at the particular request of Mr Petch, and this is his assistant Mr Whitbread. Mr Watson is
a surveyor
” – Shadwell looked uncomprehendingly at Sergeant Gunton – “That means he’s just like an officer, Jeremiah, and Mr Whitbread is an officer too, so mind you do whatever they asks of you, just like it was an order.” Comprehension dawned on the simple giant’s face.

“Very good Sarge, just as you says – whatever they asks it is.” After the keys were handed over and Gunton had departed, Holmes swiftly consulted the plan of the buildings furnished by Henry Petch, then addressed the giant. “Very well Private Shadwell, I shall require a ladder to be placed against the wall over there, so I may first inspect the roofs. Then you may open the building including the internal doors so we can make all necessary measurements. These are most important so we shall require complete peace and quiet, with no interruptions whatsoever.”

The giant obediently trotted off and returned shortly with a heavy ladder over twenty feet in length, which he manhandled into place as if it were a child’s toy.

When Shadwell was safely ensconced out of sight in his watchman’s hut, Holmes and I scaled the ladder and stepped onto the gleaming black expanse of the newly-tarred roof. With the sketched plan in one hand, he carefully paced out certain dimensions, until he had narrowed his area of investigation down to two areas, apparently no different to my untutored eye, to any other.

He strode around with long, slow steps, looking for all the world like some giant exotic species of spindly black insect; on four occasions he lay flat and examined the surface minutely with his lens, at the conclusion of which he let out a soft grunt of satisfaction.

We descended the ladder, whereupon he proceeded to examine the windows closely, occasionally sliding the blade of his pocket-knife between frame and window – all appeared solid. Eventually we entered the building. To our right ran a long corridor leading off which, on the left, was a short corridor and beyond that, doors accessing two rooms. The interior was aged and utilitarian, dingy green and white, and smelled pungently of metal, oil, ink and paper.

We stepped into the smaller corridor to the printing room door, which was now open. Using one of his new keys, Holmes locked it, tried the door, then unlocked it and entered. We threaded our way between three large, silent presses. Holmes strode to the far end of the room, where stood a steel-barred cage the full height of the room, filled with boxes and stacks of paper.

He stood in deep thought for some minutes before this massively armoured steel cathedral, stacked high with some of the most precious paper in the land. He scrutinised the ages-worn, stained stone floor around the cage minutely, and the massive fixings of the heavy steel cage both to the floor and ceiling. It appeared to me to be inviolable. Holmes used his second new key and proved it was not so.

Some minutes later, with an air of quiet satisfaction, he emerged from the printing room and slipped a folded blank sheet of watermarked paper into his briefcase. Exiting the smaller corridor we turned to our left and entered what I assumed to be Henry Petch’s office. The room was simply but tastefully furnished with a fine old Oriental carpet on the highly-polished wood floor; the oak-panelled walls displayed an assortment of framed, coloured engravings of orchids, along with proof copies of various security documents and bank-notes. The centre of the large room was dominated by a wide twin-pedestal, brown leather-topped partner’s desk.

To its right against the wall stood a massive oaken work-bench, illuminated by a substantial frosted-glass, heavily barred window and three gas globes; on the bench sat a long rack containing a row of much-worn, gleaming steel burins; I counted thirty slots but twenty-eight burins; there were two empty places. Needle-sharp, hair-thin curls of steel and copper glittered here and there across the work-top.

But what seized Holmes’ entire attention was the huge, gleaming green enamelled, steel and brass Chubb safe embedded deep in the wall at the far right-hand corner of the room.

We stood before it in silent deliberation for some time; it was about the height of a tall man, and sufficiently wide to admit the two of us abreast; so this was the impregnable fortress that safeguarded the modest yet priceless slabs of elaborately incised base metal that had the power to raise, or to ruin, an entire economy...?

Returning to the oak workbench Holmes opened his attaché case; carefully he set out the wafer-thin rat-tailed files, a stub of candle and a box of vestas. Before the safe once more he retrieved a long, slim gleaming key from his waistcoat pocket. With all the extreme delicacy of an entomologist pinning some matchless specimen to a card, I watched him gently slide the key deep into the lock’s inner mechanism. Imperceptibly slowly, holding his breath, he turned it.

Throughout the ensuing interminable seconds I was gratified to hear four soft metallic clicks. Exhaling slowly Holmes grasped the heavy steel release lever.

He gently turned it anticlockwise and we were rewarded by the sound of well-oiled bolts retracting effortlessly into their keeps. The heavy door soundlessly swung open on its massive forged hinges to reveal steel shelves stacked with neat leather packets of differing sizes – before us lay the plates to print almost limitless supplies of many of the world’s major currencies, and the means to create bearer-bonds of infinite value.

Any one of them might be used to devastate a nation as mercilessly as would the mightiest army. Satisfied, he made to close the safe, when he paused in thought, smiled, and placed his new calling card within the vault, then relocked it and packed his attaché case along with the duplicate safe key and the unneeded candle and files. His hypothesis appeared to be taking substance...

‘...there is very little in this world that one man can devise, that another cannot discover...’

After a detailed but apparently unrewarding examination of the remaining rooms and offices, yielding little fresh intelligence, we returned to the gatehouse where we were greeted by a newly-amenable Shadwell, plainly now much-impressed by Holmes’ enhanced stature as a senior officer. With a childishly solemn face he saluted crisply. “All in order Mr Watson Sir? Any further orders?” Holmes nodded benevolently at the simple giant’s zeal to please. He eyed the burly private’s huge shoulders, brawny arms and fists like hams. “No Shadwell, you have performed your duty well today, but I may perhaps have need of your unusual attributes in the future.” The ex-soldier flushed at this unexpected praise. “I’m your man Mr Watson Sir; anything you need Sir, you just ask Private Shadwell Sir.”

Our next port of call was at number 98, Clerkenwell Road, where we speedily located the premises and house of Mr Nathan Madgwick, builder. In keeping with his trade, Madgwick’s modest house, yard and workshop appeared to be in trim repair, contrasting with the adjacent buildings which, once genteel, had now assumed an air of faded neglect.

The door opened at Holmes’ knock to reveal a short, homely woman in a pinafore with three curious young children clutching at her skirts. “Mrs Madgwick I presume – I am sorry to inconvenience you but I am so rarely in London, and I would much like to discuss a small business matter with your husband. He has been highly recommended to me by an acquaintance” and he handed her his new card.

“Might I have a brief word?” Mrs Madgwick, somewhat flustered, curtsied and darted into the small, tidy parlour taking her clutch of wide-eyed infants with her. Several moments later, after a whispered conversation within, which we were unable to overhear, Mr Nathan Madgwick appeared; of early-middle years and moderate height, a little on the corpulent side and with an open, amiably rosy countenance, he was respectably dressed in what I took to be his Sunday best – rusty black suit, fresh white collar and tie.

With a slight air of puzzlement he said “Mr Watson I believe? Sarah informs me you have a business matter you wish to discuss. Gentlemen, will you step inside and take a small noggin to celebrate the season? We can be comfortable by the fire in the parlour.”

A moment later, Holmes and I were seated before a small cheery fire in the neat cosy room, affecting to enjoy an execrably poor glass of Madeira while Mrs Madgwick shooed her inquisitive brood from the room. “Now then, gentlemen, how may I be of service? I understand I have been recommended, Mr Watson – may I enquire by whom?”

“To be candid Mr Madgwick, the works I wish to discuss are not for me, but for a good friend of mine who is casting around for a reliable workman who might refurbish his orangery.

“Quite by coincidence a business associate happened to mention to me that you had performed similar excellent work for him and at a very keen price as well.”

Madgwick smiled. “I like to think that is a trademark of all our work Mr Watson. Who, pray, was it recommended my services to you?”

“Ah yes – a Mr Henry Petch of Richmond; I am sure you will recall him. I understand you and your partner did excellent work on Mr Petch’s orchid house?” The builder’s rosy face instantly clouded over. “Am I in some sort of trouble gentlemen?”

“Why ever should you suppose that, Mr Madgwick?” said Holmes.

His Adam’s apple bobbed nervously. “Well, I knew right from the start there was something a bit peculiar about that job Mr Watson. But the fact was, what with three little ones and Christmas on the way, and being short of work, I badly needed the money.”

And then his account poured forth, as so often happened when Holmes artfully revealed a trifle of what he knew. Madgwick continued “However, as you appear to know something of the matter already, I may as well tell you the whole outlandish story. It was earlier in December I was visited by a very smart gentleman, a Mr Asa Bormanstein – he sounded English but I thought he had a very faint accent, German maybe – anyway, he said he knew where there was some profitable work to be done, glazing and the like, but it couldn’t be done except on the 19th of December – not a day before and not a day after.

“I thought this a rather odd business but he assured me it was just his way of doing things, and the pay would be generous, very generous indeed, and as I said Mr Watson, I needed the money.

“I was to have so many panes of glass of such-and-such dimensions ready-cut for very early on Thursday morning, about five o’clock, and he would call for me.”

Holmes listened closely, and made the occasional note on his legal pad. “This certainly was a most unusual commission. Can you describe Mr Bormanstein for me?” Madgwick considered awhile.

“I would say he was well set-up, perhaps of middle or late-middle years, army-style moustache, smart and athletically-built, strong-looking, well-dressed, maybe a tad taller than average. And there was one other thing – I had the distinct feeling he might have been a military man at one time; just from the way he carried himself you understand, as if he were rather more accustomed to giving orders, than asking favours.”

“Thank you. Your description is indeed precise to a point – I feel almost as if I have already encountered the gentleman myself. Please continue with your most interesting account Mr Madgwick.”

“Very well; I had old Noah fed, watered, harnessed and in the shafts, and the wagon all loaded in the yard by five o’clock as instructed. Mr Bormanstein had told me it would be a tolerable fair ride to the customer so I threw in the nose-bag as well.

“Now imagine my complete astonishment when he arrives, attired in common working man’s clothes and carrying a bag of tools and a shovel, which he held was on account that he would assist with the work, but did not require any imbursement for his time. Now how strange is that?” Holmes made no immediate reply, except to smile briefly as if satisfied with an expected outcome. “A most unusual tale Mr Madgwick; please do continue.

“There’s not much worth the telling for some considerable while now; we set off and for the entire journey it was like travelling with the Sphinx. I tried to draw him on the client, where we were headed, the nature of the works, but all he replied was ‘all in good time’ or ‘you’ll see by and by’ and such-like. We left London by the Chiswick High Road and shortly after, we passed over the bridge at Kew.