Sherlock Holmes & The Master Engraver (Sherlock Holmes Revival) (33 page)

As matters turned out I returned to Baker Street a few minutes before nine, when I encountered Holmes seated at his desk, meticulously cleaning and loading his revolver. “Ah Watson; good to see you back; and how has your day been?”

I shrugged resignedly. “Oh, it was perhaps only slightly more absorbing than attending last week’s all-night sitting debating the proposed redrawing of several London Borough boundaries.”

“I am sorry to hear it, for I by contrast have spent a fascinating afternoon on a jigsaw puzzle – you have no idea how gratifying it is to locate and place those crucial few pieces over which for days, you have puzzled how to fit into the emerging picture! However, enough of this chatter – we must make ready to welcome our guests in a fitting manner” and he reached for his coat, hat and revolver.

“He called down for a cab, and then retrieved a gleaming new Gladstone bag which I had not previously noted, from beneath his desk; it was equipped with a heavy steel chain and a thick bracelet to lock upon one’s wrist. I presumed it contained the humiliating ransom to be paid.

“Then we are to depart Holmes?” at which he said wryly; “Surely you did not imagine that I planned a Brick-Lane booth-brawl here at Baker Street! I doubt that we would have lodgings beyond tomorrow if that were to be the case; no, Watson, I have chosen an altogether more congenial meeting place, and Mrs Hudson shall be spared considerable distress. Come; get your coat, for unless I am much mistaken that is our driver below.”

Travelling into town I quizzed Holmes as to the reason for our leaving Baker Street at a little after half-past nine for a midnight rendezvous, unless it was to be a good distance away. “Not in the slightest Watson; in fact it is not far away at all, but we are dealing with wary, experienced and dangerous men. I am certain that they will arrive before the appointed hour and keep a circumspect watch on the place for at least an hour, perhaps more, lest they be drawn into a trap. Unknown to them we and our hidden army shall be in place long before midnight, and waiting to welcome them appropriately.”

Shortly, we entered that most exclusive, most expensive acre of London – Belgrave Square, where we alighted on the north side opposite a large grand house; like many of its neighbours it was extravagantly ablaze with light. Our arrival passed quite unnoticed among the gaiety of promenaders and the myriad fares arriving and departing in this centre of London’s high-society.

As I paid off the driver, Holmes nodded briefly in the direction of two very heavily-built gentlemen, dressed for the opera or theatre, seated on an elaborate wrought-iron bench beside the garden-square directly opposite the splendid mansion. A brightly-illuminated brass plaque beside its stone pillars identified it as Eaton House.

The two muscular theatre-goers resumed their quiet conversation; Holmes took my elbow and guided us away from the mansion, then crossed the street, at which point we doubled back until we arrived at the coaching entrance beside Eaton House; after a careful glance around, we strolled casually into the dimly-illuminated coach-yard. I froze as a monstrous silhouette loomed from the shadows; instinctively I reached for my revolver.

“Easy, Watson” Holmes murmured.

Softly he said “Good evening Private Shadwell; you understand your duty tonight?” The colossal soldier’s improbably quiet voice replied “That I do Mr Holmes Sir, never fear.”

“That is well Jeremiah; then stay alert for the sign.” My companion clearly knew the lie of the land because he guided us swiftly and unerringly through the gloom of the yard to a low arch at the far side by the stables and then to the left along a path bordering wide lawns, when we arrived at what I guessed to be the tradesmen’s entrance at the rear of the house. A few paces beyond, a great wash of light issued from a long array of glass doors in the French style, all leading onto the velvet lawn and the trees beyond. Elaborate wrought-iron shutters were open, but folded back against the sandstone walls. The merest glimpse through the windows told of an exceptionally opulent interior. We were admitted by the butler – a sallow, lugubrious-looking fellow who introduced himself as Balthazar; he ushered us through into a large and magnificent inner hall where we encountered Inspector Lestrade and a burly constable – both armed – and the mighty Solomon Warburg.

After a murmured discussion concerning the detailed dispositions of the men, Holmes concluded “Remember gentlemen, the trap is now baited and set – if we are to catch our rats in the act this night it is quite vital that you do not enter the library until I sound my whistle; the Doctor and I shall be observing progress closely from within the adjoining writing room at the far side. I think it probable that no more than three will enter the house; the others will most likely be on guard by the wagon at the front entrance. “They will be... taken care of by my men in the square. Should Bormanstein set his thugs outside the study door, then take them quietly at your first opportunity. There will now be something of a delay until midnight, for I am certain the house – if it is not already being watched – will shortly come under discreet surveillance by our guests, and will remain so until the appointed hour. Are we all clear on this gentlemen?” The reply took the form of three grim, determined nods. “Then let us to our places; until midnight men, and not a sound before!”

Balthazar gravely opened the large double doors into the deserted library of this magnificent mansion – but whose was it? With the exception of our taciturn guide, we had encountered no other occupant, nor indeed, the master of the house. What brief glimpses I had seen of this splendid establishment were impressive, but upon entering the library I was astounded – it was a veritable temple in celebration of the most perfectly refined taste, the most costly of fine antiques, and the most superb objets de vertu. The walls were hung with a collection of the great masters – I counted several by Raphael, three Holbeins, a Breughel, four small Rubens and even a Titian. A large antique Tabriz silk carpet lay upon the marble floor; a log fire blazed in the grate.

There were perhaps a dozen small Leonardo Da Vinci sketches while to the side of the magnificent marble fireplace, within a thick glass case was an early Gutenberg bible. One wall was devoted to shelves of rare volumes and manuscripts – another to ebony and cut-glass showcases crammed with exquisite, eggshell-thin, translucent Japanese porcelain of unimaginable age and value.

To the rear of the room, the garden side, were fragile, intricately crafted glass-panelled doors – the French windows I had observed earlier; I noted on the right, an open door which clearly led through to the writing room referenced earlier by Holmes. Diagonally across in one corner, close to the writing-room door, sat a large, highly-polished rosewood desk upon which rested an open book; the room smelled opulently of beeswax, fine leather and costly cigars.

The overall impression was of overwhelming wealth, discreetly displayed in the finest taste.

While I gazed from the doorway at this breathtaking display of affluence, Holmes spoke quietly to the butler who then proceeded to dim the gas lights one by one, then departed closing the doors behind him. In the near darkness I watched Holmes step to the desk, and place the Gladstone bag beneath it; from here I saw his lean silhouette move to the window onto the square, where stood a small occasional table upon which rested an ornate reading lamp and a polished cedar-wood humidor; he knelt down and motioning me to follow suit, repositioned the lamp and humidor, then turned the light half-way up again. The table was now brightly illuminated, while a much softer glow spread across the desktop. The corners of the library were in deep shadow. Evidently he did not wish us to be observed from the garden or from the square.

“I believe that completes our preparations, Watson; I think we may now retire to await our visitors” and he scuttled on his hands and knees, crab-like into the darkened writing-room; I followed suit. It was similarly richly furnished. With difficulty I checked my watch in the deep gloom – it was now well after a half past eleven o’clock; minutes now remained until we confronted whoever was behind this crime. Holmes pulled the door to, leaving a crack perhaps four inches wide through which we would watch events in the dimly illuminated library. From our vantage point we could observe the desk, the small table with the brightly-lit lamp and the humidor by the window onto the square, the entrance doors on the far side of the library, and four of the six French windows to the garden.

Perhaps fifteen minutes later the front door opened and closed; after a murmured conversation in the entrance hall a tall elegantly-dressed figure entered the library. He looked somehow familiar but when he entered the pool of light at the window there was no further doubt – it was the cultured criminal, Otto Dietmar von Huntziger. I peered, astonished, at Holmes in the gloom; he shook his head, one finger to his lips; clearly, von Huntziger was a player in Holmes’ trap; I remained silent. The robber-baron opened the humidor and selected a cigar then appeared to change his mind, replaced it and strolled to the desk. He glanced down and reached for the Gladstone bag, which he briefly opened. He made no comment except to emit a low whistle; having replaced it he seated himself, and became absorbed in the book which lay open before him. Without looking in our direction he said very quietly “Good evening Mr Holmes, Doctor Watson; welcome to my modest house. I see all your arrangements are in place.”

Holmes made no answer for he knew perfectly well that von Huntziger was aware of our presence in the darkened writing-room. Von Huntziger continued in a low tone, his eyes never leaving the book “Like me, it seems you play for very high stakes Mr Holmes. I wish you good fortune... but even now I do believe I hear your guests arriving; I am fully prepared for my part.”

My companion replied “I am extremely glad to hear it, Count” and the room fell silent once more. This was the first I had heard of von Huntziger’s titled lineage. We waited in perfect silence; I heard the rumbling sound of a heavy vehicle pull up and halt outside the mansion; I stepped silently to the writing-room window that overlooked the square; a tarpaulin-covered wagon had parked, guarded by three very burly men.

I became aware that my heart-rate was increasing significantly and eased the heavy service revolver from my coat pocket. In the outer hall the butler admitted further arrivals – a moment later he led them into the library; there were three. The first was the wall-eyed brute Sidney Belton, who had spied on us at Baker Street, accosted us in Cubitt Town, and bought thirty pieces of silver for his sweet-heart; the second was his companion, the shorter bruiser, whom we had last encountered at the far end of an iron chain, restraining a monstrous mongrel hound.

After a short delay a third man entered. He was tall, lean but obviously strong and muscular, tanned and dark-complexioned with heavy military-style Mustachios; I estimated him to be of the order of fifty-five or perhaps a little more – without question it was the mysterious man in my nightmare – the same whose description we had now heard so many times. He gestured for wall-eye and the dog-handler to wait outside the library door.

Mustachios may have had the outward bearing and attire of a gentleman, but he had the countenance and aura of a criminal. With a thrill of horror I realised that I was mere feet from the man who had stolen the plates and paper, blackmailed The Bank of England, cold-bloodedly executed Dulcie Hobbs, murderously attacked Warburg, and now arrogantly attended Belgrave Square to collect his reward.

Mustachios was Asa Bormanstein!

He approached the desk; “Count Otto Dietmar von Huntziger I presume?” and he extended his hand.

“Good evening Mr Bormanstein.” Von Huntziger appeared not to notice the gesture, instead closing his book and clearing the desktop. “Please be seated. As you know, I have been wired by your, ah, colleague, Professor James Moriarty, with an intriguing offer to sell certain items; he is not unknown to me. I confess I am interested, if the items are as described.” Holmes and I peered out from our hiding place as Bormanstein stared fixedly at von Huntziger.

Coldly he replied “They are precisely as described Count – we have for sale the authentic new plates for the ten-pound note issued by The Bank of England; outside stands a wagon loaded with a significant sum of money already printed, and the correct paper sufficient to print a total of two and a half million pounds in Sterling.”

Von Huntziger laced his fingers behind his head and leaned back languidly in his chair. “I am quite sure that is so Mr Bormanstein, but we both know the authorities are scouring the country for whoever holds the plates; possession of these items is likely to be a hazardous business and the waters are already, shall we say, muddied by your activities. Also, my intelligence agents tell me that Mr Sherlock Holmes has taken a great interest in this affair; I know from experience that he is not a man be regarded lightly – he who comes within Holmes’ scrupulous purview does not rest easy in his bed and I, for one, enjoy my sleep. The risk, for me, now becomes considerably greater.”

At the mention of Holmes’ name, Bormanstein’s countenance darkened almost to the point of lividity. “You are attempting to negotiate, to bargain? This is not some Arab bazaar, von Huntziger! You speak of Holmes!” he snorted; “Holmes the amateur detective? He knows nothing! I have outwitted him at every turn; you need have no fear of him. His feeble attempt to interfere in my affairs amounted to little more than despatching a large muscular fool to snoop around my premises; I can assure you my men made a lasting impression on him!” He smirked at his own jest. “As to the police, they have arrested the old man who engraved the plates, and his watchman as accomplice; my informers tell me that Scotland Yard are certain they have their culprits.”

Von Huntziger acted his part as consummately as a seasoned thespian; “Ah, now I was not aware of that development; then the offer becomes substantially more attractive. Let us discuss the matter further.”

Disdainfully Bormanstein replied “I was not under the impression that there was anything further to discuss; Professor Moriarty has proposed a price of one hundred thousand pounds – you have accepted; I had presumed you to be a man of your word, a man of honour?” There was a short silence. Ambiguously, the robber-baron replied “I believe I am no less honourable than you, Mr Bormanstein.”