The Problem of Threadneedle Street (The Assassination of Sherlock Holmes Book 2) (4 page)

“How can you be certain of his intelligence, Holmes?” I inquired.

“Come now, Watson. In the supposed Mr. Wild, we have a man with the brains to rob the most secure room in all of England, and the audacity to impersonate me. Surely this is a remarkable individual. Dangerous, yes, but surely remarkable. His intelligence is clearly second to none. As I was saying, burglary has always been an alternative profession had I cared to adopt it, and I have little doubt that I should have risen to the top.” He paused and turned to the bank manager. “Ah, Mr. Bennett, could I trouble you for a glass of water? I find that my throat gets a bit dusty down here.” The manager looked startled at such a trivial request in the midst of an exposition that touched upon a theft of such gravity, but he scurried off to do as Holmes’ commanded.

Holmes watched him go, and then returned to his explanation. “As I surveyed the room, I learned that there was no method by which the thieves could have entered either from above or from the sides. But the floor is another matter entirely. This would not be the first time I have seen a man tunnel into the floor of a bank vault.”

“Mr. Holmes!” protested Gregson. “Have you gone mad? These flagstones are cemented in place!”

“Indeed they are, Inspector,” said Holmes, with his enigmatical smile. “And I expect they have been so for many years. Ah, thank you, Mr. Bennett,” said he to the swiftly returning manager, who handed Holmes his requested glass of water. My friend took the smallest sip, and then returned to his account. “Have you ever had any reason to replace one of the flagstones, Mr. Winthrop?”

“Not that I can recall,” the man spluttered. “But, really, Mr. Holmes, how could a gang possibly pass through a base of cemented flagstones? They would have to be insubstantial!”

Holmes did not answer for a moment. He walked slowly and thoughtfully among the crates and around the room until he stopped. So absorbed was he in his thoughts, that the hand carrying the glass had carelessly spilled some of the water along behind him. “No, Mr. Winthrop, they would simply have to move one of the stones and replace it afterwards. Like this one, for example.”

He pointed down at his feet. As we stared at the small puddle of water, we realized that most of the decades-old join-lines between the flagstones absorbed the water readily. But at the spot indicated, the water refused to be absorbed, which could only denote that the cement was freshly poured.

§

After some initial consternation, Gregson summoned several study constables armed with chisels, mallets, and pry-bars. They made short work of the cement indicated by Holmes’ water-spilling expedient. Within moments, the large and heavy flagstone was lifted off to one side. A black hole yawned beneath, into which we all peered, while Holmes, kneeling at the side, leaned down into it with one of the constables’ lanterns. A finely carved shaft, complete with steel ladder, lay open to us. At the moment, however, we had no thought for how the tunnel had been mined, for our eyes were riveted upon the bottom of the shaft, where we could see the unmistakable reflection of rippling water.

“Gentlemen,” said Holmes. “I present to you the Walbrook River.”

“But that’s impossible,” stammered Winthrop, his face turning a ghastly color of green.

“No, sir, merely improbable. Did you not know that the sewers of London ran directly under your bank?”

“The sewers?” said Winthrop, weakly.

“Indeed, sir. You see below you a glimpse into our distant past, like some parting of the veils of time. It was around this very stream that the Romans built this place. They built a temple or two in this garrison town on the far edge of their empire. But they also built a wall, and it was that which gave the brook below us its name. Many centuries later, foul and rank with the rubbish and waste of the City’s teeming population, it was one of the first of London’s rivers to be vaulted over and buried far beneath our streets. And now, like the Fleet, the Tyburn, and many others, it forms part of the sewer system created in response to the Great Stink of a half-century ago.”

“I cannot believe it,” mumbled Winthrop. “All this time, a river under my bank!”

“But how could you have suspected the existence of such a tunnel, Holmes?” I inquired.

Holmes smiled broadly and his eyes shone from underneath his black brows. He was transformed when he was hot upon such a scent as this. Men who had only known the introspective logician of Baker Street or the quietly retired bee-keeper of the South Downs would have failed to recognize him. “I simply had to apply my maxim again, Watson. If they did not come through the door, the walls, or the ceiling, then they must have come through the floor.”

“But how did you know it was this stone in particular, Holmes?”

“The scratches, of course, Watson.”

I looked about in confusion. “But all of the flagstones are scratched, Holmes! It must be expected when moving around such heavy crates.”

He shook his head. “But not like these specific abrasions, Watson,” he pointed to the adjoining flagstone. “These are fresh, without time to fill in with the typical dust that permeates rooms such as this. The cuts on this particular stone must have been made very recently, when a particularly cumbersome item was moved on top of it. Such as the adjoining stone that we have just dislodged.”

“You deduced all of this from a set of fresh scratches?” said I, wonderingly.

“Not at all, Watson. It was equally likely that the scratches had been made while the crates were removed. But I knew that one of the stones must have been recently replaced, for that was the only possible explanation for the presence of what Inspector Gregson referred to as dust, but was actually a quick-drying Portland cement. And the flask of water confirmed it.”

“Water!”

“Oh yes, Watson. Why else would there be a spirit flask with no scent? The residuals of any other alcohol would have been evident. The water was used to cure the cement.”

“But the cement!” protested Gregson. “How could it have been replaced from below?”

“It couldn’t be. It was set from above,” said Holmes simply.

“That’s impossible!” spluttered Mr. Winthrop. “A man would have had to remain behind in the vault.”

“That is exactly what I suspect happened. Why else do you think that you received that peculiar note from the so-called Mr. Wild?”

“What do you mean?” asked Gregson.

“It was intended to raise an alarm. Mr. Wild did not wish for you to calmly open the vault as your normal morning routine, for he would surely have been discovered standing within. Rather, he wished for a small regiment of constables to rush blindly into the darkened room, so that one additional man, also dressed in a false constable’s uniform, could easily blend in and then safely sidle away.”

Gregson shook his head violently. “Impossible. No man has such a cool hand, to lock themselves in the main vault of the Bank of England and wait for the arrival of the police. It would be foolhardy to the point of madness.”

“And yet, Inspector, I believe that is exactly what happened. It is the only plausible theory that fits the facts.”

“But Holmes, it would have taken a man of exceptional strength standing in that shaft to hold this heavy flagstone in place while the cement set,” I noted.

“Yes, yes, but how does it advance us?” said he irritably, at the interruption to his narrative.

“Well, it may be of capital importance. Anything which will define the features of the gang will help us towards the criminal.”

He considered this for a moment. “Capital, Watson! I concur completely with your observation. At least one member of the gang is either a giant, or they have some deformity. For I have noted that weakness in one limb is often compensated for by remarkable strength in the others.”

Meanwhile, Gregson shook off the torpor that had been induced by the stunning find of Holmes, and called out to his men. “Carson! Stevens! Get down in that shaft immediately. See if you can catch up to them.”

The two constables looked somewhat reluctant to comply with these orders, and I could hardly blame them. It was not, I must confess, a very alluring prospect. They appeared much relieved when Holmes countermanded the order. “Hold a minute, Inspector. You and your men entered the vault at, say seven o’clock this morning. At that time, the shaft was already sealed. It is now almost ten o’clock. Mr. Wild and his men have at least a three or even four-hour head-start. Any man clever enough to pull off this escapade will have carefully considered his exit route and ensured that they had sufficient time to escape. They will not be caught by sheer swiftness of feet.”

“What do you suggest instead, Mr. Holmes?” asked Gregson, somewhat peevishly.

“It is hardly an easy task to haul four tons of gold anywhere far. They must be using some sort of miniature barges to float that weight down the river. Such boats cannot pass the narrower aspects of the tunnels without leaving marks. If you leave the sewer to me, I will endeavor to trace them. But I prefer to have the watercourses un-trampled by your men in hopes of preserving whatever clues happen to exist.”

From the fluctuating features scrawled upon his open face, Gregson appeared torn by this suggestion, as I suspected that his superior, Mr. Maurice, would little approve. But eventually his trust in Holmes, laid by long years of association, won out. “Have it your way, Mr. Holmes. Will you go down immediately?”

Holmes shook his head. “I think not. There is one thing that I must do first, and another hour will little alter things. Take heart, Mr. Winthrop, that it will be some time before they can melt down such a vast quantity of gold.”

§

We had barely settled into a hailed hansom, when Holmes commanded the cabby to pull up outside one of the district messenger offices. He dashed inside, leaving me inside the cab, only to reappear a few moments later. The cab set off again and Holmes leaned back in his seat, gazing vacantly out of the window. We sat in silence for a few minutes, before I could stand it no longer.

“Would you care to tell me where we are going, Holmes?” I finally asked.

“A quick trip back to Mycroft’s domicile is in order. Although I retain in my brain-attic a precise map of every tortuous byway in upper London, the world beneath our feet is a completely separate city with its own unique layout. It may surprise you, but in my prior career I had little reason to venture within its depths. I am therefore in need of some directions, not to mention a change of clothes.” He motioned towards his well-cut suit and patent leather shoes. “It will not be pleasant down there, I am afraid.”

“I was thinking, Holmes,” said I, slowly. “Could they have simply sunk the gold and planned to return for it when the coast was clear? They surely would not have thought that their shaft would be discovered so rapidly. This might explain why they did not take the bank notes or bearer securities, for they would be ruined by the water.”

“Excellent, Watson. I had considered that very possibility. If true, then we have nothing to fear. The thieves will not be able to accomplish anything with Gregson’s constables standing guard at the top of the shaft. They would be heard. However, there is one very grave objection your theory.”

“What is that?”

“Remember, Watson, that we are dealing with a man of vast cunning. He wanted that shaft to be found.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because he asked for me to be called in. Both the name used to access the vault, and the initials upon the flask, which easily could have been carried out in his pocket, were signals as clear as a Very flare. And if he knew that I would be called in, then he expected to have his method of entry discovered.”

“Then the sewer is a trap!”

“Perhaps, Watson, perhaps,” said he, nodding his head slowly. “We certainly shall not enter unarmed. You have your service revolver, I trust?”

“Of course. I have learned from the long years of our association to keep it near me night and day whenever I am involved in one of your cases.”

“Very good, Watson, then we are well prepared for whatever looms in that nether realm.”

First, however, were the unusual items that awaited us at Mycroft’s chambers. A package had been delivered for Holmes, who opened it and pulled out a thick blue overcoat, waterproofed and capable of being buttoned close over the chest. There were two versions of each uniform, the coats very long, descending almost to the knees, where they would be met by a matching pair of huge plain leather boots. These outfits were completed by a pair of fan-tailed hats.

“Pray tell, Holmes, what you have there?”

He chuckled. “Well, Mercer does not disappoint. His swiftness is to be commended. This, Watson, is the uniform of a flusherman.”

“And what exactly is a flusherman?”

“The flushermen are the brave souls who are employed by the Court of Sewers to ensure that no stoppages build up. They can be considered the spiritual descendants of the nightsoil men. They are the formal denizens of that realm, as opposed to the toshers, who unofficially scavenge what little of value can be gleaned down below.”

“And do you plan to wear that uniform?”

“No, Watson, I plan for us to wear it!” said he, laughing.

But Holmes’ plan was not to come to pass. For just as he was about to hand me one of the overcoats, a telegram arrived for him. It ran: