Sherlock Holmes (5 page)

Mycroft smiled. “Five thousand
pounds, but it was worth every penny to maintain favourable
relations with the Chinese.”

Holmes approached the bell and,
once again, raised it an inch or so off its cushion and struck it
softly. A mellow chime rang out from the bell and a grim smile
showed on Holmes’ face.

Mycroft was incandescent! “What
the devil are you doing, Sherlock?”

Holmes turned and said, quietly,
“I am trying extremely hard to stop both the Chinese and Her
Majesty’s government from becoming supremely embarrassed. This is
not the Zhou bell.”

“Of course it is! The Ambassador
confirmed it!” Mycroft fumed.

Holmes’ face was now grim. “I
can assure you, Mycroft, it is not. It is a fake.”

The Chinese ambassador had seen
the altercation between the two brothers and he approached us.
“Gentlemen. Are you not pleased that the bell has been
returned?”

Holmes moved slightly to one
side and, in a quiet voice, explained to the Ambassador his
concerns. The Ambassador’s complexion turned ashen. “Are you sure,
Holmes?” pressed the Ambassador.

“I am certain, your Excellency.
When I first saw the bell, I took the liberty of sounding it. It
made a dull note, indicating, that over time, it had developed a
flaw, a hairline crack so that it did not ring true.” Holmes now
pointed to the bell on its cushion. “This bell is sound. It rings
perfectly. In the copying process, a traditional Chinese sand and
clay mould will have been made. The hairline flaw will not have
been transferred and a perfect bell has been cast.”

As soon as these words had
passed his lips, Holmes looked as though he had been struck by
lightning, crying, “Stupid! Lord, how can I have been so blind?
Watson, the man we found had burns on his forearms from hot moulds
and splashes of metal. Both he and our thieves had refractory sand
and clay on their shoes. They must have come from a bell
foundry!”

“Whitechapel!” I cried.

Turning to Mycroft, Holmes took
him by his sleeve. “Whatever happens, Mycroft, the exhibition must
stay closed. No word of the theft or return of the bell must leave
the museum. We thought, wrongly, that the Emperor was to be
discredited by the theft of the bell...but no, even more fiendish
plans are at work here. Consider what would happen if it were to be
leaked to the World's press that the celebrated Zhou bell was, in
fact, a fake. A fake that had been sent purposefully by the new
Chinese emperor to embarrass Her Majesty? The Chinese would protest
it's provenance but the experts here at the museum would, indeed,
confirm it to be so.”

This time it was Mycroft who
turned pale. “The consequences would be unthinkable! The Chinese
emperor would never be trusted again, trade with the Orient would
cease until he was removed!”

Holmes tapped Mycroft’s arm.
“All is not yet lost. I need you to send a telegram to Whitechapel
Police Station telling them to expect me and to ready half a dozen
constables to be at my disposal.”

With that Holmes rushed away,
hailing a Hansom even as we were descending the steps of the
museum. As we clambered into the cab, Holmes shouted
‘‘Whitechapel’’ to the cabbie and we were off.

I was somewhat concerned. “How
do you intend to find this bell foundry, Holmes?”

Holmes had the scent and was not
going to be put off by mere geography! “Consider, Watson. Who knows
everything about the streets of London?”

I thought for a moment. “The
Police?”

Holmes laughed. “No, Watson! Far
too parochial! Cabbies, Watson. Cabbies! They know every nook and
cranny of the city, their business takes them everywhere!”

Holmes tapped on the roof of the
cab and asked the cabbie to stop for a moment. The cab lurched to a
halt and the cabbie descended from his perch above us.

Holmes took a sovereign from his
pocket and held it in his hand. “I need to find a bell foundry in
Whitechapel, a small one...one that employs Chinamen.”

The cabbies eyes, I saw, were
riveted on the sovereign. “Well, sir. There is the Whitechapel Bell
Foundry… but it ain't employing no Chinamen.” He rubbed his chin
for a moment then his face brightened. “There's one on Raven Row!
I've picked up a couple of fares from near there and there's been
some Chinamen at the gates.”

Holmes tossed the cabbie the
coin. “Excellent! Take us there cabbie and then drive on to
Whitechapel Police Station.”

The cab clattered on for a few
minutes along Whitechapel Road and then turned right into what I
saw was Raven Row, a mixture of grey brick dwellings and small
workshops. The driver slowed slightly as we approached a pair of
large, blue painted wooden gates which bore the name, 'Raven
Foundry.' As we passed, we observed a Chinaman knock on a small
door set in the gate and be admitted into the foundry.

Holmes looked across at me,
saying rather cryptically, “I think we have found the dragon's
nest, Watson.”

I nodded. “But what is the
significance of the 'five bells', Holmes? Surely this must be of
some great importance if it is a man's final words?”

It was obvious by the look on
his face that Holmes had had the same concern. “I thought,
initially, that he might be referring to the number of bells in the
original musical instrument but I dismissed that as unlikely. At
present, Watson, I must confess that I have no theory as to its
meaning.”

The cabbie slowly picked up the
pace and within two minutes we found ourselves outside Whitechapel
Police Station. The cabbie tipped his hat to Holmes and, with a
flick of his whip, went on his way.

We climbed the stone steps of
the police station and found, in front of us, a large raised desk
which appeared to be the domain of an equally large police
sergeant. Looking up from his work he eyed us rather languidly,
asking, “Yes, gentlemen?”

Holmes was instantly to the
point for he could not abide sloth in public servants. “Sergeant, I
am Sherlock Holmes. You will have received a telegram instructing
you to have ready six constables, I trust they are ready and at my
disposal?”

The sergeant sprang from his
chair in the fashion of a 'Jack-in-the-box'. He saluted,
stammering, “Yes, sir. Mr Holmes, sir. They are ready and waiting.”
He turned and bellowed over his shoulder, “Tompkins! Get out here
with the rest of them!”

From a passageway behind the
sergeant there was a thunder of boots as six burly constables
appeared, fastening their top buttons and straightening their
helmets as they ran.

“Here you are, sir. What are
your instructions?” asked the sergeant, now full of attention.

Holmes’ eyes sparkled as he laid
out his plans to raid the Raven Foundry. In essence, the constables
were to secrete themselves in nearby doorways and Holmes and I were
to knock on the foundry door, as if to ask for directions. As soon
as the door was opened, we would stand aside to let the constables
flood in. As we had no intelligence as to the layout of the
foundry, we were obliged to make the plan as simple as possible.
The constables were to detain all they came across and we would
follow on their heels.

We waited, impatiently, for
about thirty minutes so as to benefit from the approaching
afternoon gloom. The constables loaded themselves into a police
wagon and we rode with the driver. To avoid detection, we stopped
some hundred yards from the foundry and, using any available
gateways and alleys, we approached as stealthily as we could. A
passage ran down the side of the foundry and two constables were
despatched to guard the rear of the property.

Holmes and I readied ourselves.
Holmes was armed with his cane and I had borrowed a weighted
truncheon from the sergeant. This I placed close at hand in my
overcoat pocket. At a nod from Holmes, we walked confidently out
into the open and approached the foundry gates. It was only as we
drew close that I observed that there was a slot in the door, at
head height, to allow those within to check the identity of
callers. The gates were stout and, if they didn't open the door to
us, it would make the task of entry almost impossible.

Thinking quickly, I rapped on
the door, shouting for help. Almost immediately, the slot opened
and I was gazing into the eyes of a Chinaman. “Quickly, I'm a
doctor! I need to know where the Whitechapel Foundry is. There has
been an explosion.” I made a loud noise and a rather theatrical
gesture of a volcano erupting.

In broken English, the Chinaman
said, “It there” and through the slot, a finger pointed roughly
towards the North.

Feigning ignorance, I cried
again, “Where? I can't see it! Quickly! Men have been injured!” I
sensed, rather than saw, the four remaining constables edge closer,
two either side of the door. I shouted again, even more urgently,
“Quickly man! Where? Where?”

I heard bolts being drawn and
the door opened. The Chinaman stepped halfway through the door with
his arm raised, again pointing to the North. Holmes swiftly grasped
the extended arm and pulled the man fully out of the door and
pinning him to the floor. Immediately, the constables burst through
the opened door and into the foundry. Here they found three other
Chinese who, after a fierce and sustained struggle, were taken into
custody.

Holmes and I stepped through the
foundry door and we found ourselves in a small square yard. It was
a dingy place and, in order to reveal more, we searched and found
gas lamps on the walls which we duly lit. Around us were several
large moulds for bells and we found a stock of copper and tin bars,
stacked by a small furnace, in one corner of the yard.

An overhead, travelling crane,
its chains drooping as though in sadness, had been pushed to the
far end of the yard. Hunting through the moulds and some finished
bells, their owners names marked in chalk upon them, revealed no
clues.

Finding nothing of interest, our
attention then turned to a brick built, two storey building at the
rear of the yard. On examination, the ground floor seemed to be
devoted solely to storage. The upper floor, reached by somewhat
rickety stairs, appeared to be an office having windows that
overlooked the yard.

Holmes found an oil lamp and, on
lighting it, he proceeded to investigate the piles of materials
strewn on the floor of the store. It was not long before he made a
curious discovery. “Hello, what’s this?”

I walked over to where he was
standing, complaining loudly as I barked my shins on the piles of
metal detritus. Holmes was holding the lamp close to a large, glass
carboy packed in straw and protected by a basket shaped metal cage.
Carefully removing the stopper, Holmes gently wafted his hand over
the neck of the carboy and carefully sniffed. Recoiling sharply, he
cried, “Acid!”

I was immediately concerned for
my friend and reached out towards him. Holmes waved me away, his
eyes still watering. “No, no. I’m quite alright, Watson. I was just
not expecting anything so pungent.”

I was quite at a loss to
understand why acid should be present in the foundry. “Is acid part
of the process of producing the bells, Holmes?”

Holmes shook his head. “No, but
it is used to help produce a patina on bronze so as to make it
appear ancient! Acid, together sometimes with urine and a good
amount of soil can give an object the appearance of age which will
deceive anyone not expecting it to have been faked. Given its
provenance, the ransomed Zhou bell was accepted at face value
without question.”

I nodded but was still troubled
that we had not yet found the original bell. For that matter, we
had not determined the significance of the words, “five bells” and
why the man uttering this had been so brutally killed.

Finding nothing of further
interest in the store, we climbed the stairs to the office. This we
found to be somewhat in disarray, bearing witness to the spirited
struggles of the Chinese whilst resisting arrest. Holmes held up
the oil lamp to give better illumination and, by this means, we
located gas lights on the office wall and lit them.

Chairs had been violently tossed
to one side, papers and cardboard folders had spilled from desks
and shelves onto the floor. It was as though a whirlwind had
briefly stopped to wreak havoc. Straightening the chairs as we
went, we worked our way through the debris, looking about us as our
eyes became adjusted to the glare of the gas lights.

Holmes bent down and began to
tug at the corner of a piece of hessian in the far corner of the
room. “Ah, this may be of interest!” said he with a tinge of
triumph in his voice.

Lifting clear the hessian,
Holmes reached down and then placed a small bell on one of the
desks. The oil lamp was still lit and as he moved it closer to the
bell, it revealed what appeared to be the twin of the one at the
museum.

Holmes lifted the bell and with
a twinkle of mischief in his eye said “And now, the acid test!”
With the silver cap of his cane, he gently struck the bell.
Immediately, the office was filled with a delicate, musical chime.
Holmes dampened the vibration by touching the bell with his finger
and he replaced the bell on the desk.

To my amazement, he reached down
and produced three more identical bells! I was staggered! I flopped
down into one the chairs, dumbfounded. For a few seconds I found
myself sitting there unable to speak and then finally blurted out,
“Of course! Five bells!”

“Precisely, Watson. But which is
the real Zhou bell?” He teasingly left that question hanging for a
few moments before striking each bell in turn. It was the fourth
and final bell that produced a singularly dull tone, but, in
Holmes, it produced a cry of triumph. “Ha! We have it, Watson!”
Holmes looked around and discovered a length of cloth that
seemingly had been used to clean the bells. Wrapping the Zhou bell
carefully, we retraced our steps, passing a constable who had been
tasked to guard the foundry.