Sherlock Holmes (17 page)

“Thank you,” I said, hauling myself up with some difficulty. I am not, by any means, as lithe as I used to be. Once settled, however, I reflected on the fact that I felt safer up there on the box than I had in any motorcar in which I’d so far had the misfortune to travel.

Smythe flicked the horse’s reins, and at a slow, steady gait we trotted away in the direction of the bank.

* * *

Upon arrival at the bank we did not approach the main entrance, but rather a small loading yard at the rear. Here, two further horses were tied up beside a water trough, along with another wooden cart. The place seemed dank and carried the unfortunate aromas of urine and manure.

One of the clerks, a wiry young fellow with sandy hair and thin – rather ridiculous – whiskers, was standing out in the yard smoking a cigarette, evidently taking a break from his duties. He was slouching against a wall, but straightened up and dropped his cigarette, crushing it underfoot, when he saw that Smythe and Reggie had a customer in tow.

“Good afternoon,” he said, in a polite but affected accent. He approached the cart as we drew to a stop, and offered me his hand in assistance. I took it gratefully, jumping down onto the straw-covered flagstones below. “My name’s Mr. Scriver,” he said. “How can I be of assistance?”

“I’m here to make a deposit,” I replied. “My colleague arranged it over the telephone. This trunk here,” I pointed to the box in the back of the cart, “I’d like for it to be placed in your vault.”

“Very good, sir,” said the clerk. “May I ask – do you have an account with us?”

“I do,” I said, a little dubious as to how Holmes could have managed to make such an arrangement. I wouldn’t put it past him to have impersonated me, and not for the first time.

“Excellent. Then if you would like to follow me,” he said. He pushed open a rear door, ushering me into the bank. “You two, bring the box,” he called behind him.

The door opened into a large, relatively empty space, within which there were stacked five or six wooden pallets, heaped high with boxes. They were unmarked, and I had no opportunity to ascertain what they contained as I was led away.

“There’s just a little paperwork to see to Mr…?”

“Dr. Watson. John Watson,” I said.

“Dr. Watson,” finished the clerk. “It shouldn’t take more than a moment. My desk is just through here.” He showed me through another side door, which led to the familiar lobby of the bank proper.

We settled the paperwork quickly – a simple matter of terms and conditions – and then I made a down payment on the storage. Holmes had been thorough, but not thorough enough to arrange for the prepayment of his little exercise. Once again, I cursed him for saddling me with this damnable business.

“I should like to see the trunk safely secured in the vault,” I told the clerk, “if it is not too much trouble?”

The man’s shoulders sagged slightly, as if in recognition that it was, in fact, more trouble than he wished to admit to, but the forced smile on his face told a different story. “Of course, Dr. Watson. That’s no trouble whatsoever. We’ll see to it immediately.” He pushed his chair back so that it scraped on the marble floor, and stood. “If you’d be kind enough to remain here for a few moments, I’ll just check with the manager and retrieve the keys.”

“Very well,” I said. I watched him scurry off in search of his superior.

Five minutes later the clerk returned bearing a hoop of jangling keys. “Right, Dr. Watson. Everything is arranged. If you’d care to come with me?”

“Excellent,” I said, getting to my feet. “Lead on.”

He showed me back to the unloading area, where Smythe and Reggie had carried the trunk in from outside and were awaiting further instructions. “This way, gentlemen,” said the clerk.

The two men bearing the trunk followed the clerk through a door and down a long, sloping passageway, which terminated in a small chamber, at what I took to be the basement level. I trailed behind, watching inquisitively, anticipating that Holmes might question me on the matter later.

The chamber consisted of plain, whitewashed brick and stood empty, save for a large, steel door, which I assumed to be the entrance to the vault. The clerk produced a hoop of jangling keys from his belt and began sorting through them, selecting the correct one. Duly found, he inserted it into the lock, rotated the wheel that served as a handle, and heaved the door open with a grunt of exertion.

It yawned wide to reveal what transpired to be a fairly mundane-looking inner room, full of tall wooden cabinets filled with lockable drawers, a handful of crates, and a large, brass Buddha, sitting squat on a shelf. I’d always imagined bank vaults to be filled with countless treasures – oil paintings by Old Masters and bars of gold bullion – but alas, in this instance, I was gravely disappointed.

“Go ahead,” said the clerk, and the two labourers carried the trunk inside the vault and placed it neatly against the back wall.

“Now, Dr. Watson, I fear there is one final matter to attend to,” he went on. “It is company policy to properly inspect any goods placed within our vault. It is important for us to ensure, you understand, that no one of a rebellious or criminal nature is able to place contraband – or, Heaven forbid, even explosives – under our noses.” He smirked, as if the very idea was ludicrous, and he was simply doing his job. “Might you open the trunk for me?”

“Of course,” I said. I stepped forward, unbuckled the strap, and opened the lid. It banged noisily against the rear wall. Inside were the reams of paper I had examined earlier. “For a writer such as myself, such manuscript pages are valuable beyond words,” I said. “And I fear what might happen to them if there should be a bomb raid. For that matter, a single incendiary could destroy years of work!”

The clerk peered over my shoulder, rifled through the upper layers of paper, and nodded in apparent satisfaction. “A most sensible course of action,” he said. “I can assure you they will come to no harm here.”

I pulled the lid shut. “Then it seems our work here is concluded,” I said. “My thanks to you.”

“Excellent,” said the clerk. He beckoned for me to leave the vault, and I did so, feeling distinctly uncomfortable. He closed the door behind me, turning the handle so that the deadbolts slid into place. “Would you care for me to arrange transport home for you, Dr. Watson?” he said, as he showed me through to the main lobby once again.

“No, thank you,” I said. “I have an appointment in town later this evening, and I think I’ll pass the time by paying a little visit to my club.”

The clerk smiled. “Well, then I hope, Dr. Watson, that we shall see you again in the near future.”

“You can count on it,” I replied, unaware of just how prophetic my words would turn out to be.

Dinner at my club proved to be a lonesome affair, which served only to underline my present feelings of reclusion.

Admittedly, it was early, but the place was close to empty, with only a handful of solitary figures haunting the saloon bar, idling away a few hours with a newspaper and a drink. Long gone were the days when I could arrive here to find the place swarming with my fellow medical practitioners and strike up a conversation with any number of regulars whom I had grown to know. In those days, my fame had served me well, too – people were aware of my relationship with Holmes, of the accounts of our adventures I had penned for the delectation of the public – and I rarely found myself wanting for a dinner companion.

Now, things were quite different. Even old Brownlow, a general practitioner who had been a friend for countless years and who had been a relative fixture at the place, had stopped coming since the outbreak of war. It seemed that Kaiser Wilhelm had us all on the run, scurrying away to hide in our homes and bury our heads.

Consequently, I ate my Beef Wellington in rather a hurry, feeling a trifle embarrassed at finding myself dining alone. Afterwards, I sat by the fire in the saloon with a tot of whisky, and contemplated the progress of our investigation so far.

I hadn’t yet got a true sense of what was going on, with how Herbert Grange’s suicide might have been influenced by external forces. I understood Holmes’s reasoning, of course – Grange did not, on the surface, appear to be the sort of man who might have readily committed suicide, and everything we had learned about him, his state of mind and his circumstances, right up until the morning of his death, seemed contrary to his actions.

On top of all that, of course, were the paperweights. It was simply too much of a coincidence that Grange, Baxter and Underwood should all have the same unusual paperweight in their possession, particularly given its odd markings. That hinted at the connection between these different players.

Clearly, there was some further connection between Underwood and Baxter, too – subterfuge of some description, carried out in secrecy and unbeknownst to Lord Foxton – but that in and of itself was not entirely incriminating. Not, at least, until we knew the true nature of their clandestine meetings.

To my mind, the entire investigation hinged on the veracity of Underwood’s experiments, and whether his interpretation of the results could be believed. If he truly
had
found a way to take a measurement of a person’s soul, might he also have found a way to use that insight as a tool, a weapon, even – a means to influence their behaviour? Could that have been the method by which he affected Grange’s suicide?

The thought of it seemed outlandish beyond words. Even Newbury, a known dabbler in rituals and an expert in occult matters, had seemed to think Underwood’s success was dubious. Yet I could see no other way to explain the connection between the parties. Unless, of course, we’d missed something, and Grange’s death was, in fact, a straightforward matter of suicide. Perhaps the relationship between Baxter and Underwood was not a conspiratorial one, at least in the political sense, but was conducted in secret for more…
personal
reasons.

It seemed unlikely to me, however, that both Holmes and Mycroft would see conspiracy where there was none to be had. I trusted Holmes’s instincts implicitly. If he saw murder, or at least intent to incite suicide, then it was there to be found.

I pondered on this for a while, warming my feet by the fire and sinking a second whisky. I might almost have drifted off, comfortable in the armchair, until, dozing, I heard the clock chime half past six, and realised with a start that I was due to meet Holmes within fifteen minutes.

Hurriedly, I collected my coat, hat and walking stick from the club’s valet, hailed a passing carriage and made haste back to Tidwell Bank.

* * *

I arrived just a few moments late, around ten minutes to seven, to find the street deserted. I hopped down from the footplate, paid the driver and watched as he trundled away, the carriage bouncing over the cobbles as it creaked off.

I’d been expecting Holmes to appear out of nowhere upon my arrival, to berate me for my lateness, but there was no sign of him. I paced up and down before the bank for a few moments, my cane ticking against the paving slabs with every step. “Holmes?” I said, in a hissed whisper. “Are you there?”

There was no reply. I supposed he must have been held up.

As I waited, my mind began to turn things over, running through likely scenarios. I hoped he hadn’t decided to confront Baxter already, without taking any sort of assistance. He’d been most precise about the time of our meeting in his note. Perhaps if he didn’t materialise I would have to return to Baxter’s house in search of him. Or worse – had my late arrival meant that I had missed him, and somehow thrown out his plans? I didn’t dare consider the latter – so many times during our adventures together had the denouement of his investigation rested upon my prompt arrival upon a scene. I decided to wait in the doorway of the bank for a further five minutes before making any decision about a further course of action.

I peered in through the glass panel in the door. Inside, the lights were off, just as they had been the previous evening, and there was no evidence of current occupation. I turned my back, glancing up and down the street while leaning heavily upon my cane. There was still no sign of Holmes. I sighed. It was unlike him to be late for a rendezvous. I was beginning to think the worst.

I waited for a few moments longer, feeling a little foolish standing there in the doorway. I checked my pocket watch. It was almost seven o’clock. Holmes was a full fifteen minutes late. It struck me that, if Baxter and Underwood were to repeat their clandestine meeting of the previous evening, in a few moments I might find myself in a rather precarious position.

I had no reasonable cover story, no excuse for why I should be loitering outside the bank at such an hour. The same would be true if a police constable were to wander past on his beat, too – it was not typical for gentlemen to arrange to meet one another in the sheltered doorway of a rather upmarket bank after hours.

Just as I was about to give up and head off in search of a cab to take me back to Ealing, the gentle tapping of fingertips on glass startled me. Once again, I glanced around the front of the building, but there was still no sign of Holmes, or anyone else, for that matter. Surely I hadn’t imagined it?

No – there it was again a moment later. This time I realised the sound had come from behind me. Surprised, I turned on the spot to see a shadowy figure standing
inside
the bank, standing on the other side of the door and tapping on the glass panel to get my attention.

I peered closer, and was amazed to see my suspicion confirmed. The man on the other side of the glass was none other than Sherlock Holmes.

“How the devil?” I started, but Holmes put his finger to his lips, shaking his head and urging me to remain silent. Then, with a flourish, he produced a ring of keys from his pocket, selected one, and opened the door. I stared at him, flabbergasted.

“Well?” I whispered.

“Come on in, Watson,” he said by way of response. “Quickly now.”

Feeling decidedly uncomfortable, I did as he suggested and stepped quickly into the darkened foyer of the bank. Holmes closed the door behind me and locked it again, slipping the keys back into his pocket.