Sherlock Holmes (10 page)

Holmes sat forward in his chair. “Quite so,
Mr Birchwood. We seek to commission an envelope to celebrate the
forthcoming connection of the London to Paris telephone line on the
1st of April, next year. We have come now, ahead of time, so that
you might develop some samples of the artwork to be put before the
selection committee.”

“Splendid! Let me show you some of the proofs
we have created for similar international commissions." George
Birchwood stood and pulled a large volume from a bookcase beside
his desk. In doing so, he inadvertently pulled out several smaller
folders whose loose pages spilled out as they fell to the floor.
“Apologies, gentlemen. Stephen, if you would be so kind as to
replace those?”

George Birchwood proceeded to display to us
the company’s wares. Holmes and I were attentive to the samples he
provided but, throughout this, I could see Holmes’ eyes flick to
observe Stephen Birchwood.

After twenty minutes or so had passed, we had
finished our business with George Birchwood with him agreeing to
forward his artwork proofs to us in the coming weeks.

We were escorted to the steps of the building
by Stephen Birchwood and, as we were just about to descend into the
street, Holmes turned, asking, “I wonder if I could ask a favour of
you, Mr Birchwood? I do so admire your carnation. Would you be so
kind as to write down the name of that particular variety so that I
might inform my friend?”

Holmes turned to me and asked, “Your pad and
pencil, please, Potts.”

“Certainly, Mr Billings.” I replied and
proffered the said items.

Stephen Birchwood took the notebook and
pencil, saying, “It is one that I grew myself in my glasshouse from
a plant I had imported from Louis van Houtte, a contact of mine in
Ghent. It has the name Dianthus sinensis heddewigii.”

Stephen Birchwood wrote the name of the
variety into my notebook but, as he returned it to me, it was as
though a dark cloud passed briefly across his face. He recovered
quickly and smiled once again.

Holmes smiled in return. "Thank you, I am
much obliged. Good-day."

With that, we
descended the few steps to the street and flagged down a passing
Hansom.
Once inside the cab, Holmes was
immediately animated. “What a fool I have been! Watson. I fear that
he has seen through our deception!” exclaimed Holmes.

I was, indeed, perplexed. “But why? We were
most careful in all our dealings with the Birchwood’s.”

“Up until the very end, Watson. Then I made a
fatal error! I should have offered Stephen Birchwood my own
notebook but, in keeping with our roles, I asked you, as my
secretary, to provide yours.” Holmes now struck the frame of the
cab with his cane in frustration.

Somewhat puzzled, I said, “I did notice his
expression change when he returned the notebook… but the reason
escapes me.”

“The notebook, Watson. It is your own
personal one, is it not?”

“Why, yes. It was a gift from my dear sister
for my last birthday” said I.

“Yes, and being the doting creature that she
is, she had your initials impressed into the leather cover,
JHW.”

“Good Lord, Holmes! My name was supposed to
be Potts! It's my fault!” I cried.

Holmes calmed himself. “All will not be lost
if we strike quickly. We must firstly contact Mycroft to stop the
payment of the ransom and then contact Inspector Lestrade. He needs
to stop all deliveries from Birchwood's and seize their despatch
records. For our part, we will need the assistance of two
constables. I fear if we leave it any later than this afternoon,
the bird will have flown and more poison will have been despatched.
After our visit, I am indeed fearful that Stephen Birchwood will
wish to take his revenge for our impertinence."

Holmes
knocked on the roof of the cab with his cane and shouted up to the
cabbie to take us to the nearest telegraph office. Once
t
he telegrams had been sent, we set off
with Holmes directing the cab towards Hammersmith.

“Hammersmith, Holmes?” I queried.

“Yes, Watson. From my enquiries in the City,
Mr Stephen Birchwood does indeed live at an address in Hammersmith.
A location which is convenient for Hammersmith and Chiswick station
which lies between the two. If I remember correctly, the
Hammersmith & City line connects to Bishopsgate, which may
prove to be significant. In my telegram to Lestrade, I asked him to
arrange for the two constables to meet us at Birchwood's house and
for them to be discreet in not showing their presence."

As we progressed towards Hammersmith, I asked
Holmes why he was so certain that Stephen Birchwood was the
poisoner. Holmes sat back in the cab, resting his forefinger on his
upper lip, before saying, “Let us examine the facts and relate them
to the man we met today. We deduced from the handwriting of the
original note that the writer was a confident, middle aged man. A
cat owner and one who was meticulous, bordering on obsessive. Now…
we saw how immaculately Stephen Birchwood dressed and also how this
compared to his brother's appearance. You recall the incident with
the cat and his obsession to remove the hair from his jacket? It
fits well with our thoughts… but there is also something you may
not have observed.” Holmes’ eyes narrowed slightly as he continued,
“When George Birchwood dislodged the folders, Stephen was asked to
pick them up and replace them. It was the way that he did it that
was so intriguing. The way that he squared off each and every sheet
and how he arranged the folders in precise height order on the
shelf. Quite, quite fascinating!”

“Yes... I couldn't help but feel we were on
the right track when he mentioned the nicotine.” I said.

Holmes nodded. “Ah, it helps to flatter a
man's ego. As a gardener, he had a legitimate reason for purchasing
the poison and then, of course, we have a sample of his hand
writing." Holmes took from his jacket pocket the original
letter.

“My notebook! I had quite forgotten.” said I
and delved into my own pocket to retrieve it.

Holmes leaned over to place the two side by
side. “I do not believe, Watson, that there is a jury in
Christendom that would not agree that these hands were one and the
same. That leaves the motive. What, precisely, has driven this man
to seek restitution from the government? I think this may be
something that we must ask him ourselves."

Holmes had given the cabbie the address in
Hammersmith but, as we approached, he told him to pull up a hundred
or so yards short. Stepping down, Holmes tossed a florin to the
cabbie and asked him to wait.

Looking about me, I saw that the houses here
were modest. All were set back a little way from the road, Georgian
in style and with red brick facades and stone lintels and sills. It
was now early afternoon and since leaving the city, the skies had
darkened and a fine, steady drizzle had begun to fall. Being
December, the days had shortened significantly and the gathering
gloom aided our stealthy approach towards the address.

Just before we reached the house, two burly
constables appeared from the shadows of the driveway and saluted.
Holmes told one of the constables to approach the front of the
house and, on Holmes’ signal, knock on the front door. The other
constable was to assist us by preventing anyone leaving via the
rear garden. The two constables nodded, saluted smartly and split
up, one to each side of the house.

“We have sent in the terrier, Watson. Let us
see if we can flush out our quarry” said Holmes, his eyes bright
with anticipation.

From our position, we could see that the gas
lamps were lit on the ground floor of the house. A figure could be
seen moving hurriedly between the rooms. As we drew near to one of
the large, bay windows, we could see Stephen Birchwood gathering
papers and placing them in a Gladstone bag. He must have fled his
office as soon as we had left and raced to Hammersmith to get here
before us. Holmes now raised his cane as a signal. The constable at
the front of the house approached the front door and knocked
loudly.

From our position to the side of the bay, we
saw Birchwood rush to the window, pushing aside a net curtain to
see who was at the door. We were now so close that we could see his
look of panic as the constable knocked again. “Quickly, Watson. To
the rear!” Holmes whispered.

We ran around the side of the house and found
ourselves surveying a walled garden with a rectangular lawn and a
large glasshouse leaning against the rear wall. Access from the
house was by a French window and Holmes indicated that we should
stand one either side of it. Hardly had we gotten into position
when the doors were flung open and Stephen Birchwood appeared,
dressed in a cape and carrying a Gladstone bag.

“Not so fast, if you please, Mr Birchwood!”
cried Holmes and sprang forward.

Birchwood turned, his face a snarl. “You! I
knew you were not clerks!” he screamed.

“Quite so, but we were not sure you were a
murderer until you condemned yourself out of your own mouth!”
replied Holmes.

“Murder?” Laughed Birchwood, “I call it
justice! My father died from worry. He was not bailed out by rich
financiers. No help came from them or the government but yes, save
the banks! Oh yes, save the banks!” he ranted.

Holmes’ voice was rock steady. “Your father
was looking for a quick return on his capital. As a result, he made
very unwise investments which failed through no fault of the
government and yet you hold the government accountable? How so?"
questioned Holmes.

Birchwood’s eyes were wild, his voice rising
in pitch as he shouted, “They gave him nothing! He scrimped and
saved, as did we all. The business almost collapsed. My father
deserved more and I was going to get back what should have
rightfully been his!”

“Rightfully you say? Your father made his own
decisions, controlled his own destiny. That is more than can be
said for those poor wretches that died in agony by your hand!”

It was clear that Birchwood was becoming more
and more agitated. He snarled at Holmes, screaming, "Liar!"
Suddenly, he started to fumble with the catch of his Gladstone,
thrusting his hand inside the bag.

“I think not!” cried Holmes, striking
Birchwood sharply on the wrist with his cane as he tried to draw a
pistol from the bag. Birchwood yelped loudly with pain and dropped
both the pistol and the bag. Holding his wrist, he looked around
wildly. Through the gloom, he saw the two constables approaching
across the lawn with truncheons drawn.

With a wild, animal cry, Birchwood ran to the
rear of the lawn and crouched by the side of the glasshouse. Next
to him, the downpipe of a neighbouring property jutted out and,
looking back at us and the advancing constables, he sprang at it
and started to climb. We all paused, seeming to be rooted to the
spot, and then charged forward. By the time we had reached the
downpipe, Birchwood was almost at head height. One of the
constables reached out and caught one of Birchwood's legs, only to
be rewarded with a savage kick fully to the face. The constable
cried out and fell to the ground, unconscious, his face covered in
blood. Birchwood climbed ever higher.

“There is no escape, Birchwood!” shouted
Holmes. Birchwood was almost a full twenty feet above the ground
when he swung round to face Holmes. But, as he did so, his injured
wrist gave way. His feet scrabbled frantically on the wet metal of
the downpipe but to no avail. His body swung wildly to one side
before losing his grip completely on the wet pipe, sending him
crashing through the roof of the glasshouse. There was one brief
scream as he fell then silence, save for the sound of falling
panes.

We approached the collapsed glasshouse and,
despite the failing light, it soon became clear that Birchwood was
dead. One of the glazing bars from the roof had pierced him and
could be seen protruding from the centre of his chest. He lay
amongst the shards of shattered glass, one of which had neatly
sliced through both his carotid and jugular.

I looked towards Holmes and seldom had I seen
him so angered. Crossing the lawn to my friend, I caught his arm.
Holmes turned to me, white with rage. “Curse the man! Watson. He
has cheated the gallows! Perhaps, during his days in the condemned
cell, he may have suffered just a taste of the torment that his
victims suffered.” With that, Holmes turned on his heel and walked
away.

It took several days for Holmes to return to
his old self and it was a full week before we heard any more of the
case. We were sitting in our rooms in Baker Street one evening,
smoking an after dinner pipe when in swept Mycroft looking
triumphant.

“Sherlock! I bring heartfelt thanks from the
Prime Minister and the whole cabinet. They are forever in your debt
as are many others of our countrymen who might not be alive but for
your efforts."

Holmes simply smiled and nodded. “I am glad
to have been of some small service… but tell me Mycroft, what
intelligence did you glean from the papers in Birchwood's
Gladstone?”

Mycroft beamed and sat before us.
“Everything! Sherlock. Everything! Customer's names, dates of the
despatch of the poisoned envelopes and the planned dates for future
deliveries. The full horror only became apparent when we discovered
that even after the payment, he intended to continue the blackmail!
Hundred's more would have perished. The horror is unthinkable! You
caught him just in time for he had already planned his escape. In
his notes he had detailed his journey and was to take the train
from Hammersmith to Bishopsgate and then on to Harwich. From there,
he would take a ferry to the Hook of Holland and then, by train, to
Ghent.”

Mycroft now turned and looked directly at
Holmes. “Now, Sherlock. The Prime Minister has visited Her Majesty
and he has asked me to offer you a baronetcy. Would you consider
accepting?”