Sherlock Holmes (26 page)

Holmes looked down at the
cobbled street and then was suddenly on all fours, pointing:
“There, Watson! You can see deep grazes on the granite cobbles from
Daisy’s shoes when she stopped so abruptly.” Holmes stood and once
more looked about him. “Now, given the victim’s wound, he cannot
have travelled far. So where did our friend Konsulov appear from, I
wonder?” Turning around, Holmes’ head jerked up and then he
shouted, “This way!” and ran towards a white painted stone
archway.

Once through the arch, a street
sign, high on the wall, indicated that we were now in Montagu Row.
With a cry of triumph, Holmes pointed to a small shop front. The
Georgian bowed window and the front door were both painted black.
On a board above the shop window was a sign in fine gold lettering
that announced ‘M. & P. Konsulov – Watch and Clockmakers.’

I stood looking at the sign for
a moment. “P. Konsulov… Pavlin!” I cried.

Holmes beamed, saying, “Exactly.
I suggest that they are either brothers… or perhaps even father and
son.” I stopped in my tracks. This was a relationship that I had
not even considered. Holmes continued, “In Eastern Europe it is
quite common for a son to be apprenticed from a very early age and
become part of the family business. What better way to learn than
to sit beside your father, a skilled craftsman, and observe the
secrets of the trade?” I nodded and followed Holmes towards the
door of the shop. Mounted on the inside of the shop window was an
iron grille and from it hung a small sign that read ‘Closed’.
Holmes turned the decorative, brass doorknob but the door was
locked. Holmes looked around and instructed me to stand in front of
him so that I screened him from view. Looking over my shoulder, I
observed him reaching into his coat pocket. From it he withdrew an
item and inserted it between the doorframe and the lock. There was
a slight sound of cracking wood and then the door opened and we
hurried inside.

I was somewhat concerned at what
had just happened. “I take it that this method of entry to the shop
is not strictly legal, Holmes.”

Holmes’ face bore a thin smile.
“I think, Watson, that we could successfully argue the point that
we believed that this was the scene of a grievous crime and our
actions were justified in order to apprehend the culprit.” In truth
I was not convinced… although I did have complete faith in the
actions of my friend. Looking at the back of the shop door, I could
see that we had been most fortunate in being able to gain entry.
Upon the door were several large iron bolts that had not been used
to secure it. Holmes saw my interest and commented, “Yes, what
inference can we draw from the shoddy way that the door to a
watchmaker’s premises was secured, Watson?”

I thought for a moment before
replying, “Carelessness?”

Holmes laughed and wagged a
finger at me. “I think not. Imagine, if you will, that you are a
villain and you have just shot the owner in the back as he runs
towards the door and into the street. Has the shot been heard? Have
you the time to waste in securing the shop door with a series of
heavy iron bolts before making good your escape? No! The villain
will have left quickly, using the key to lock the door from the
outside before leaving.” Holmes paused for a few moments before
continuing, “The assailant is no fool. He knows that an unlocked
shop door would immediately draw attention, especially from a
diligent constable trying the shop doors on his beat.”

Holmes slid one of the bolts
into place to prevent us from being disturbed. With the door now
closed, we could explore the premises. I looked about me. Inside
the shop was a panelled counter, behind it were shelves that
displayed several clocks, some ticking, some not. These were,
presumably, examples of the Konsulovs’ skills. Holmes, I saw, was
again on all fours and using his glass to examine the floor behind
the door. Rising to his feet, he reached once more into his coat
and removed from it a pocketknife. This he used to steadily work at
something in the centre of the door.

“Ah, now we have it Watson.”
Holmes held up an object between his forefinger and thumb. I could
see that it was a deformed, lead bullet of quite a small calibre.
The bullet had passed through Mihail Konsulov and then been
retained by the thick oak door of the shop. Holmes stood back some
eight feet from the door and pointed to some dry stains on the
floor. “The blood trail starts here and leads to the door. I am
amazed that he lived long enough to reach Baker Street.”

We continued our search of the
shop. Holmes was examining the contents of the shop counter whilst
I had passed through a curtained doorway that led into a
watchmaker’s workshop. Before me was a chair and next to it, a
bench covered with all manner of tools. Beside this stood another
solid, oak door, firmly secured by two impressive locks. This,
seemingly, was the back-door to the shop.

The diminutive scale of the
machines that I saw astounded me. All were in miniature. It was
almost as if I had stumbled into a workshop in a large doll’s
house! There were miniature lathes, drilling machines and all
manner of tiny screwdrivers and pairs of pliers, all neatly laid
out. It was whilst I was admiring the workshop that I chanced to
look beneath the bench. Here, in a small wooden box, was something
that was familiar to me. Looking closer, I took from the box a
single brass wheel. I knew immediately what it was and that it was
identical to the ones fitted to Lestrade’s engine. Indeed, there
were other small items within the box: gear wheels, axles and other
objects that I did not recognise. It was, perhaps, a box containing
spare parts.

Holmes had completed his
examination of the front of the shop and had now entered the
workshop. In his grasp, he held a framed photograph. “It appears
that our thoughts on the relationship between the Konsulov’s was
correct.” Holmes turned the photograph towards me. It showed the
figure of a man standing next to a seated, much younger man. I
recognised immediately the older man as Mihail Konsulov. He had his
hand on the shoulder of the younger fellow whose features showed a
clear family resemblance. This person I imagined to be Pavlin
Konsulov, Mihail’s son.

Still looking at the photograph,
I asked, “Where do you imagine Pavlin Konsulov to be now?”

Holmes’ eyes narrowed. He shook
his head, saying, “That is something I am unable to answer. Perhaps
he managed to escape from the shop before his father or he may be
being held against his will. Thankfully, there is no evidence here
of any further violence.”

Holmes looked around the
workshop, picking up items and then carefully replacing them. It
was plain from his expression that he too marvelled at the
intricacy and scale of the machinery and tools. “Did you find
anything of interest, Watson?” asked Holmes, almost as a casual
question.

Feeling rather proud of myself,
I said, “Well, I found this.” From beneath the bench, I produced
the brass wheel.

Holmes took it from me and
examined it closely before saying, “I’m sorry, Watson, I fail to
see the relevance of this to the case.” He handed it back to me and
then paused. He must have observed some slight disappointment in my
expression as he then took the wheel back from me again. Holding it
in his hands, he asked, in a somewhat quizzical voice, “Tell me why
you deem it to be important?”

It felt as if the world were
suddenly crashing in on me. The pace of events had overtaken me
and, in my distraction, I had forgotten that I had not told Holmes
of the events in Lestrade’s office. I felt suddenly light-headed
and stumbled to sit on the watchmaker’s chair. Holmes was
immediately by my side and clearly concerned. I held my head in my
hands, saying, “It is my fault, Holmes! I have failed you!”

Hearing this, Holmes fell to one
knee, grasped my arm and said, “That will never happen, old friend.
Tell me all.”

Gathering myself together, I
recounted my meeting with Lestrade, beginning at the point where
Holmes had left to make his statement. I described the engine as
best I could and also how it functioned. It was when I recalled
where the engine had been found that Holmes’ face suddenly became
as granite. It was not anger at my failure to disclose these
events. It was, I believe, more the realisation of the supreme
importance of this new information.

Holmes rose and placed the
engine wheel in his coat pocket. I noted the urgency in his voice
as he moved towards the door, “Quickly Watson, there is no time to
lose. We must return to Lestrade. I need to have sight of this
engine and learn more of these Fenians.”

Pulling the shop door fast, as
best we could, we hurried out onto Dorset Street. Holmes hailed a
passing Hansom, tossed the cabbie a florin, saying, “Scotland Yard,
as quick as you like!” With that, the cab lurched and we clattered
off at a fearsome pace.

On arriving at Scotland Yard,
Holmes took the steps two at a time. I followed as best I could and
was only part way down the corridor to Lestrade’s office when
Holmes burst through his door. I could tell from the shouting that
Lestrade was not best pleased by Holmes’ dramatic entrance.
However, by the time I had arrived, red-faced and panting, some
semblance of order had been established. Holmes was now seated and
was recalling, at some speed, our recent adventures. Lestrade, I
could see, was intrigued as Holmes laid out the information and was
to be seen scribbling notes madly.

Lestrade, for his part, showed
Holmes the engine. I could see that he was clearly intrigued.
Whilst I watched, Lestrade beckoned to me. “As you were impressed
by the engine, Dr Watson, let me show you these. Special Branch
picked ‘em up when they raided the house in Rosemary Lane.”
Reaching down behind his desk, Lestrade produced two small waggons
of a scale identical to the engine. Each one had a connecting
shackle at each end, the same dimension as that of the engine. The
wheels, I noticed, were quite smooth.

I was thrilled. “They’re
wonderful!” I cried, turning over one of the waggons in my hands.
Holmes looked towards us and I immediately saw a change in his
manner.

“Have you tried linking the
waggons to the engine, Lestrade?” asked Holmes in what, I thought,
was quite a brusque tone.

Lestrade looked a little taken
aback. “Why…err… yes, Mr Holmes. I tried four waggons; I loaded
each one with a pound of sand. It pulled them a treat!”

Holmes leapt up shouting, “Four!
You have four?” Holmes waved his hands towards the engine and
waggons, “Does this collection of devices not concern you as to how
it could be used?”

Scratching his head, Lestrade
sat back and looked a little sheepish. “Well, no. Their use remains
unclear.”

I could see that Holmes was now
quietly fuming. With tremendous control, Holmes asked, “Was there
any other material recovered from the raid on the Fenians?”

Lestrade reached down beside his
desk and placed on his desk a ball of twine. I picked it up and
unwound a small section. The twine had been marked with black paint
every foot. He then began to rummage on the top of his desk and at
last found a slim, cardboard folder. “There were a few letters, the
twine of course, but nothing of great note. Then there was this… we
don’t know what to make of it, Mr Holmes.” Lestrade pulled a
foolscap piece of tracing paper from the file. It was blank except
for a single line, drawn in a blue crayon. The line started with a
letter ‘X’ and then continued straight for about four inches before
then forming a gentle curve for two inches, ending in a letter ‘T’.
Next to it was another ‘X’ and the figure ‘8’. Lestrade passed the
tracing paper to Holmes, saying, “Do you think it important?”

Holmes put his forefinger to his
lips. After a few moments he said, “On its own, it means nothing
…but, in the end, it will tell me everything. May I keep it, for
the moment?”

Again, Lestrade scratched his
head. “Well, I don’t see why not… it means nothing to us.”

Holmes stood and nodded in
thanks before asking, “Does the name O’Leary mean anything to you,
Lestrade?”

Lestrade leaned forwards in his
chair and I noticed a glint in his eye. “Would that be Sean
O’Leary, Mr Holmes? If so, watch out. He is a killer and a man we
would dearly like to get our hands on.”

Holmes smiled and then closed
Lestrade’s door. Quickly finding a cab, we left Scotland Yard
behind. Once more back in Baker Street, we were welcomed home by
Mrs Hudson who had prepared a delightful dinner of lamb chops and
spring vegetables. Feeling replete, we retired to our armchairs,
each of us, I believe, turning over the events of the day.

As I sat and smoked, several
questions began to trouble me. “Tell me, Holmes, why were you so
concerned about the waggons for the engine?”

Holmes was staring straight
ahead. “I think we must look at the events as a whole, Watson, and
all will become clear. There is only one small piece of the jigsaw
to find and put in place.” Holmes turned towards me, saying, “Let
us consider this. The Fenians over the last ten years have caused
panic and mayhem in London through a campaign of violence, largely
through the use of dynamite. A clockmaker has, I believe, been
coerced into making a device with which they can deliver dynamite.
You will recall that, in Lestrade’s experiment, he was able to
carry a load of four pounds. I think you would agree, Watson, that
some considerable damage might be caused by that quantity of
dynamite.”

I nodded and urged Holmes to
continue. “So, Watson, we have these beasts of burden. What
now?”

Holmes’ words provoked a sudden
flash of inspiration, “Mules!” I cried out.

Holmes smiled grimly,
“Precisely, Watson, but how are they to be used? You will recall
last year that the Fenians were foiled in their attempt to blow up
Westminster Abbey and Her Majesty. What other target might they
choose… a political one perhaps?”