The Sherlock Holmes Megapack: 25 Modern Tales by Masters: 25 Modern Tales by Masters (58 page)

Holmes took the envelope, broke the seal, and quickly scanned the communiqué. He handed over the envelope to me so I could see the return address and he told Billy there was no reply, giving him two shillings for the prompt delivery. I saw that the letter came from a Mr Harold Upshaw, comptroller of the British East India Company, and I was eager to hear what he had to say to Holmes.

“Mr Upshaw is disturbed by the publicity his company endured this morning and wants me to call on him today to ‘set the record straight,’” Holmes quoted from the message. “I am just as eager as he to get to the bottom of the Joshua Heinz conundrum. Well, Watson, are you up for a busy afternoon?”

“By all means, let’s be on our way,” I answered, tickled that Holmes would invite me along on this caper, because I welcomed a chance to psycho-analyse the egotistical Lord Pritchard, given my longstanding fascination with the brain patterns of dishonest government personnel.

Holmes had accurately predicted the emotional state of his lordship, for when we encountered him in the cellblock, he expressed remorse for his predicament and wondered aloud if his colleagues would expel him from the House of Lords due to the shame he brought upon them.

“In here, I am treated like a common criminal,” he mourned, rubbing the stubble on his chin and cheeks.

“You are not all that common,” Holmes said with sarcasm, “but there is a means by which you may redeem yourself and improve your circumstances.”

“Tell me how. I demand to be freed at once,” Lord Pritchard stated.

“Make a clean breast of your wrongdoings, reveal the names of those who have paid you to perform, and testify against them in court,” Holmes proposed.

“But that would only ensure my censure by the Lords,” he replied.

“That is inevitable, I’m afraid,” said Holmes confidently. “Your only choice is to cooperate with the authorities.”

“That is the same argument Inspector Jones presented to me this morning, and I told him then that I would ponder the possibility,” Lord Pritchard recalled. “I have the same response for you, Holmes. After all, it is you who is responsible for my ruination.”

“On the contrary, Pritchard, you alone are responsible,” Holmes retorted. “Show some good faith and begin with what you know about Joshua Heinz of the British East India Company.”

“Oh, him. Why such interest in a minor character in a much more elaborate drama?” the prisoner queried, raising the prospect of deeper waters than Holmes had envisioned.

“I have my reasons for probing his role in your misconduct, not the least of which is the exorbitant price of cinnamon,” Holmes recited.

“The exorbitant price of cinnamon? What has that got to do with all this?” a bewildered Lord Pritchard asked irritably.

“It is just a quirk of mine,” Holmes admitted to him. “Pay no attention, but it appears you are oblivious to the repercussions of your actions, as well as the deleterious impact they wrought on households throughout the empire. More so, I am curious to know how you came to be associated with the crooked-nosed Heinz.”

“We were introduced at a party in the French ambassador’s mansion, but that is the extent into which I wish to delve at this time,” Lord Pritchard concluded. “Now leave me in solitude before I beckon the guards.”

After we left his lordship stewing in his own juices, Holmes and I reported his obstinate nature to Inspector Jones, who threw up his large hands in disgust and enlightened us about the defendant’s lawyer claiming entrapment by the police.

“He will attempt to have the charges dismissed by raising that issue,” the inspector complained.

“I wouldn’t worry,” Holmes said to reassure him. “By the time that defence is proffered, Joshua Heinz will have confessed to bribery and agreed to bear witness against Lord Pritchard.”

“If only I could share your certainty, I would feel less pessimistic—my career hangs in the balance,” said the officer ruefully, his puffy cheeks red from anxiety and his wide, grey eyes darting between the two of us.

On the way out of police headquarters, Holmes sought my impressions of Lord Pritchard’s brain patterns, and I conjectured that his remorse failed to be grounded in the heinous aspect of the offenses for which he had been jailed.

“He is only sorry that he has been caught, not because he has betrayed the trust of the population,” I theorised. “This is the typical posture of a supercilious aristocrat who is inclined toward recidivism.”

“His contempt for the public aside, Lord Pritchard will become even more mighty if Inspector Jones’s fears of an acquittal materialise,” Holmes forewarned.

Our next destination was a complex of office buildings and warehouses near the riverfront on Commercial Road, where we would come vis-à-vis with a belligerent Harold Upshaw, comptroller of the British East India Company and a staunch critic of the press, Scotland Yard, and Holmes, too.

“Where did this preposterous notion originate that Joshua Heinz represented our firm in an illegitimate plot with Lord Pritchard?” Mr Upshaw demanded to know immediately upon our arrival.

Holmes politely gave him an explanation, admirably holding his temper.

Mr Upshaw made a comment that indicated he understood, then startled us both with what else he had to say:

“We have no one employed here by the name of Joshua Heinz, nor is he our lobbyist or an agent of any kind. He falsely held himself out to be acting on our behalf. We insist on an apology that must appear in print tomorrow, or we shall file a lawsuit for defamation because of the damage to our reputation.”

“Your frustration is misdirected,” Holmes countered. “The apology you desire must come from Heinz himself and the newspapers that reported his misrepresentation as gospel. I and the police cannot be held liable for the activities of a lawbreaker and the press.”

“Then how do we find this Joshua Heinz? Where do we begin our search?” Mr Upshaw asked, reducing the heat in his demeanour to a simmer.

“Your questions are valid, but they preclude an instantaneous answer,” Holmes advised. “My investigation is not yet complete.”

“It could take days for you to reach a conclusion, and we must preserve our good name sooner,” Mr Upshaw stated anxiously.

“Then I recommend you contact the reporters and invite them here for a conference,” Holmes suggested. “They will be more than happy to keep the mystery alive.”

“And what of Joshua Heinz? Do you have a plan?” Mr Upshaw persisted.

“Yes, but my stratagems are proprietary, though the results ordinarily become general knowledge,” Holmes told him to finish the conversation.

We were off then to the Diogenes Club, where Holmes thought he would find his older brother Mycroft relaxing for the evening after leaving his desk in the British Home Secretary’s suite.

“I shall impose on him to bring me closer to nabbing the elusive, crooked-nosed culprit,” Holmes postulated as we seated ourselves in a hansom and discussed the newest wrinkle in Holmes’s quest to determine the whereabouts of Joshua Heinz.

* * * *

“Sherlock! Dr Watson! What a pleasant surprise to see you both here!” Mycroft exclaimed when he saw us in the doorway of the lounge. “It is my guess that you have reached an impasse in the House of Lords investigation and need me to help untangle yourselves.”

“You are always a step ahead of me, Mycroft, which is why our mother considered you the smarter of her two sons,” said the younger brother to the massive Mycroft. “In this case, it is not an impasse, however. It is only a logical step on which I embark, because it is your position in the prime minister’s administration that I hope to use, not your brilliance.”

“But if it weren’t for my brilliance, I wouldn’t occupy the position,” Mycroft retorted. “Now how can I be of service, Sherlock?”

Holmes explained to his sibling that Lord Pritchard, in an otherwise unproductive interview, admitted that he had met Joshua Heinz at a party in the French ambassador’s mansion.

“I want to learn when the party occurred, who attended, who arranged it, what the occasion could have been, and, most importantly, who invited Joshua Heinz and how that person contacted the man—that’s all, for the time being, anyway,” Holmes proposed.

“That’s a tall order, but I have some friends in the French embassy who likely have access to that information,” Mycroft said casually. “How soon do you need it?”

“Tomorrow afternoon would be a superb time,” Holmes suggested.

“There is some urgency to your request, then? In that case I shall make my inquiries first thing in the morning,” Mycroft told his brother. “Now join me for a brandy and you can tell me all about your adventure and how you got mixed up in this sordid affair. Your client must be someone very important.”

“My client is indeed important! It is I,” Holmes announced, and he launched into a diatribe about the high cost of cinnamon.

* * * *

That night, he prowled about our sitting-room and dining area in his mouse-coloured dressing gown, initially fishing in the coal scuttle for a partially-smoked cigar, then pacing the floor with his old briar-root pipe and wringing his bony hands behind his back. Eventually, he withdrew to his bedroom, where the lamp burned until well past midnight, and I could picture him walking back-and-forth, slowly, then rapidly, then slowly again, as I drifted off to sleep across the hallway.

In the morning, Holmes was nowhere in our apartment. Instead, I found a cryptic note next to the half-empty coffee pot, informing me that he had gone to examine the register of the St Pancras Hotel near the Palace of Westminster.

When he returned at about noon, after I had brought my notes up to date, he was in a chipper mood. He briefly consulted his Index, a compendium of crime and criminals, among other topics, and made us sandwiches with some leftover ham and horseradish in the ice chest.

“I didn’t see our quarry Joshua Heinz listed as a guest of the hotel on the days Lord Pritchard made his speeches,” Holmes apprised me while we ate, “but I did find a name of more significant interest. The establishment is luxurious, fitting the décor to which an international con artist is accustomed.” He said nothing further.

* * * *

About two hours later, the huge frame of Mycroft Holmes filled our doorway, and the boisterous brother proclaimed that the mission on which he had been sent was regarded by the French embassy staff as akin to a breach of national security.

“It was like pulling a sore tooth to get any data at all about the party and the invitees,” Mycroft related. “My friends were so tight-lipped about the subject they made me promise not to share what I learned with anyone outside the Home Office. So, I am breaking my word by giving you this copy of the guest list, Sherlock. Protect it from disclosure to any living soul, other than Dr Watson, of course. You will note that Lord’s name appears on it, but it is bereft of the name Joshua Heinz,” said Mycroft Holmes, unfolding the sheet of paper and gingerly handing it to his brother.

“I suspected as much, Mycroft,” said Sherlock Holmes, “although there is another name that I see here which intrigues me even more than that of Joshua Heinz: Baron François Maupertuis, the same name as the one in the register of the St Pancras Hotel.”

“And who might he be?” Mycroft inquired.

“Baron Maupertuis, according to my Index, is a convicted felon who operates in the spheres of politics and finance. He is the mastermind of fraudulent schemes that stretch across continents. I believe that Joshua Heinz is merely a new alias among a multitude of others he has employed to orchestrate an elaborate artifice.”

“This is a real hornet’s nest you have disturbed, little brother,” Mycroft said in reaction. “Let’s just see how many of the nasty insects you can swat before this affair is settled.”

“I am casting a wide net and will let the chips fall where they may,” Sherlock Holmes guaranteed. “Now what other details about the party did you come away with?”

“The party took place on January the tenth,” Mycroft disclosed, “and was arranged with an order from the ambassador himself that the guest list be kept hush-hush. No reporters and no officials other than Lord Pritchard were on the guest list; only stalwarts of commerce, certain bank executives, and some wealthy investors. There were no invitations by post—the attendees were all contacted by special messenger. They were selected by the ambassador alone.”

“Hmm. This case is piquant, and the more it evolves, the less likely that the sleaze ends at Lord Pritchard’s doorstep,” said the resolute younger brother.

PART 2: A GRAND CRIME THAT POLICE IN THREE COUNTRIES FAIL TO SOLVE

Chapter 1

A SHOCKING DEVELOPMENT

Sherlock Holmes wasted no time immersing himself in the data his brother Mycroft had delivered, spending the remainder of the afternoon among the London directories and reference books on the shelves in our sitting-room to further identify or locate the persons on the guest list of the party.

Meanwhile, I put the final touches on a manuscript I was preparing to submit to a publisher concerning the case of Mrs Matilda Etherege, whose husband Holmes found living as a hermit in the Broads of Langmere when the police and his family had given him up for dead.

“Watson, I have made sufficient progress in my research,” Holmes said proudly toward evening, “that I can afford a diversion until morning. There is little else I can accomplish until then, anyway, so what say you, my diligent biographer, to dinner at Roland’s Trattoria in Berkeley Square and then to a concert at Covent Garden. I have been eager to hear the soothing music of cello virtuoso Hans Josef Fabien ever since I read the reviews of his performance on opening night. Tonight is his last and I would feel deprived if we were to miss out on it.”

I concurred wholeheartedly, knowing especially that Holmes needed relaxation, and so, after freshening up, we gave our minds a respite to enjoy an evening out on the town. I should have known better than to think Holmes would permit our pleasure to interfere with business, however.

Coincidentally, we were seated at Covent Garden about twenty rows behind the orchestra when Holmes looked above us at a box leased to the National Bank of England.