The Lost Casebooks of Sherlock Holmes (8 page)

Sherlock Holmes stood in morning coat and trousers, still a picture of misery and boredom. I could not repress the thought that he would probably have been happier planning the assassination of the Viceroy's court than preventing it. Life returned to his dark brooding eyes only at the appearance of the two lesser functionaries, Peirce Mahony and Frank Shackleton, who walked behind the knights. Frank Shackleton, the Dublin Herald of the Viceroy's court, had about him that whiff of dark good looks and criminality which revived Holmes's spirits. He was a young man of no obvious fortune and considerable debts. Yet he contrived to run a household in San Remo, as well as a far more expensive London home in Park Lane. Each establishment had a separate mistress.

Holmes stared at the dark curls which gathered on the back of Shackleton's head as the music drew to its conclusion with Elgar's ‘Pomp and Circumstance'. The procession halted. Cool sunlight caught the display of treasure that was borne slowly past us. I swear that my friend's thin and fastidious nostrils twitched, as though the golden horde gave off a fine and subtle perfume.

Glittering like broken flame, the Crown Jewels of the Irish kingdom shone in coloured fire on robes and tunics. The Viceroy's robe bore the Star of St Patrick. It seemed the size of a soup-plate, a shamrock of rubies and emeralds set in solid gold, bordered by Brazilian diamonds that blazed with flashes of white heat in the sun, every stone the size of a walnut. The eight points of the star were encrusted with Indian diamonds of smaller size.

Frank Shackleton bore on a black cushion the great Badge of Viceroyalty. Round its circumference was the motto
Quis separabit?
picked out in rose-tinted diamonds, looted by the British commanders from the Indian tombs of Golconda. With his dark curls and striking profile Shackleton looked every inch the part. Then the Knights of St Patrick walked by, each noble neck encompassed by a collar of finely wrought gold links, set with precious stones.

As the procession paused, emeralds, rubies, and clustered diamonds set in thick gold glowed and sparkled more richly in the shadows than in the sun. I saw Holmes's lips moving silently and mockingly for my benefit in the words that so often accompanied the music of Sir Edward Elgar, which now fairly deafened us.

‘Truth and right and freedom, Each a holy gem, Stars of solemn brightness, Weave thy diadem.'

The look of misery was gone as he gazed upon the royal treasure, not for its beauty but for its eternal appeal to human greed and criminality.

‘I think, Watson,' he said softly, as the orchestra fell silent, ‘I think we must see how all this is managed.'

The safety of such treasures was no part of our business. However, there was no difficulty in arranging that we should accompany the jewels back to Dublin Castle. Our plain black carriage arrived immediately behind the police van containing the jewel cases, as it drew up outside the Bedford Tower, safely within the upper courtyard of the castle.

Apart from Ireland's Crown Jewels, the Bedford Tower contained the Irish Office of Arms with a fine collection of bound volumes and manuscripts on matters of genealogy and heraldry. It was not, strictly speaking, a tower but a classical pavilion with a fine portico of Italianate arches before the main door. An octagonal clock-tower with a cupola dome rose above. It faced the elegant viceregal apartments across the yard with the guard-room of the Dublin garrison next to it and the headquarters of the Dublin Metropolitan Police within a few yards. On the other side of it was the arch of the castle gate, where two sentries and a policeman were on duty day and night. If they could not between them secure such treasures, I was quite sure we should never do so.

‘I think, Holmes, we might leave the matter there. Anyone might have read your face like a book just now but, surely, this is the safest place in the country for the regalia. Perhaps safer than the Tower of London itself.'

He chuckled but there was no laughter in his keen eyes.

‘All the same,' he said, ‘we must not disappoint Sir Arthur. He will die of chagrin unless we allow him to show us how well protected his treasures are.'

We got down into the sunlit courtyard and walked across to the figure of Ulster King of Arms in his Elizabethan tabard and breeches.

It will be as well if I say something of Sir Arthur Vicars, as he appeared to me then. He had held his office for fifteen years and lived much of his life at his Dublin town-house in St James's Terrace. At this time, he was still a bachelor, loyal to the English cause, and a ritualistically inclined member of the Established Church. He had a bland face and wistful air, the locks and whiskers of an Elizabethan courtier. In his manner, he was apt to be pedantic, fussy and rather old-maidish.

On that afternoon, he appeared to have stepped out of a distant costumed past as he escorted us through the Bedford Tower to his office on the first floor. There were two rooms opening off the ground-floor vestibule. The library was to the right; ahead there was the clerk's cubby-hole office, which contained a steel door, the only way to the strong-room itself. Sir Arthur ushered us into the library, its shelves lined with handsomely bound volumes of genealogy and heraldry. Against the far wall, between two windows, stood a large ‘Model A' Ratner safe, four feet wide and five feet tall. Sir Arthur walked across to it and then turned round to us.

‘As you may see, gentlemen, we are pretty well provided for here. This is where the smaller items of the regalia are kept. The safe was installed by Ratner's four years ago. It has walls of two-inch steel and double locks of seven levers each. It is proof against any lock-picking or forcing. Nothing short of dynamite would blow it open and the amount required would bring down the entire Bedford Tower. For good measure, the gateway arch is outside. On the other side of this wall, there are two sentries and a policeman on guard day and night.'

‘I congratulate you,' said Holmes with only the least trace of irony in his tone. ‘How many keys are there and who holds them?'

Sir Arthur smiled. ‘Two, Mr Holmes. One is always with me. The other is concealed in a place to which I alone have access and which is known only to me.'

‘But would it not be better still to have the safe installed in the strong-room?'

A brief look of irritation disturbed Sir Arthur's self-confidence.

‘After the strong-room was constructed, it was found that the safe was too wide to pass through the doorway. I have spoken several times to the Board of Works but nothing has been done.'

Holmes nodded and our heraldically costumed guide led us through the vestibule to the little office, which had just enough space for a chair and a desk.

‘Our messenger and general factotum is here during working hours,' Sir Arthur said, ‘William Stivey, formerly of the Royal Navy. He has been with us for six years. A conscientious worker of exemplary character.'

‘Indeed?' said Holmes politely, but he was staring at the bonded steel of the strong-room door to one side, ‘And this, I take it, is the work of Messrs Milner of Finsbury Pavement? The type is unmistakable. Double locked. Harveyed-Krupp steel plate of several inches, about half the thickness of a battleship's hull-armour and able to withstand a direct hit from a hundred-pound nickel-plated shell fired by a six-inch gun at a range of fifty yards.'

‘You are admirably informed, Mr Holmes, I must say.' Sir Arthur spoke with the displeasure of a professional who finds himself outpaced by an amateur.

‘Ah well,' said Holmes with a touch of insouciance, ‘it comes only from inspecting such doors as these after they have been broken open.'

The wind left Sir Arthur's sails at this remark, for Holmes described the very thing our guide dreaded. It seemed as much as Sir Arthur could do to unlock the heavy steel door and draw it back on its smooth hinges. We entered the strong-room. The interior was about twelve feet square, like a library alcove with shelves and cupboards housing the more valuable genealogical volumes. Its window, looking on to the castle yard, was heavily and securely barred. Though most of the jewels were in the library safe, the strong-room contained within its locked cases several of the collars of knighthood, as well as the Irish sword of state, a gilt crown and sceptre, and two silver maces.

Immediately in front of us, as the door was drawn back, was a locked steel grille. I was surprised to see that the key to this interior grille was already in its lock and asked why.

‘There is only one key,' Sir Arthur said. ‘It would not do for it to be lost. It is as safe in here as anywhere. Therefore, we leave it in the lock at all times.'

Holmes nodded at me, exchanging a significant look.

‘Besides,' said Sir Arthur quickly, ‘beyond that wall is the headquarters of the Dublin Metropolitan Police and beyond the other is the guard-room of the military garrison.'

Though Holmes had teased him a little, there was little doubt that Sir Arthur had done his job well. Whatever might happen to King Edward himself, Ireland's Crown Jewels were surely as safe as if they had been in the Bank of England or the Tower of London. The strong-room door was closed and locked. We followed our guide up the spiral staircase to the other floor. There were two rooms at this level, one for Sir Arthur and the second for his secretary.

‘And who has keys to the strong-room door?' Holmes inquired.

Sir Arthur stiffened at this renewed questioning.

‘I have one,' he said. ‘The other is with Stivey while he is on duty. It is returned to me when he leaves. While he is in his office, the strong-room is open so that the books and manuscripts may be consulted by me or my secretary. If he leaves the office, he locks the strong-room door and puts the key in a concealed drawer of his desk. We who are authorised to use it would know where to look, a stranger would not. There is a third key, which is not in use. It is kept in a drawer in the strong-room itself, oiled and wrapped.'

Holmes touched his fingers together. ‘How many members of your staff use this building?'

Sir Arthur frowned with an effort of recollection. ‘Stivey is one. My secretary George Burtchaell is another. There is Peirce Mahony as well. Stivey has the key to the strong-room while he is on duty. All three have a key to the front door. Detective Officer Kerr patrols the building from time to time when the office is closed. There is a key to the front door, which is kept in the Metropolitan Police office for his use. The only other person to use it is the cleaning woman, Mrs Farrell. She comes early in the morning and reports first to the police office.'

‘It amounts to this, then,' Holmes said quietly. ‘You, Burtchaell, Mahony, Stivey, Kerr, and Mrs Farrell have a key to the front door. You yourself have a key to the strong-room. Stivey and your staff have the use of one when the office is open. But you alone have a key to the safe in the library.'

‘Precisely, Mr Holmes,' Sir Arthur said.

‘And what of Mr Shackleton?'

‘Mr Shackleton? He has no keys. He is Dublin Herald. Sometimes his letters are sent to him here. But he does not work here any longer. Indeed, he is rarely in Dublin. He has no key of any kind, nor has he need of one.'

‘When he comes to Dublin, he is frequently a guest in your house, I believe.'

‘Whether he is or not, Mr Holmes, can surely be no concern of yours. I repeat that Mr Shackleton has no access to a key nor any need of one.'

‘Your keys to the safe and the strong-room—' Holmes began.

‘Neither Mr Shackleton nor any other person, Mr Holmes, knows where they are kept.'

Holmes appeared to be satisfied by this but he walked across to the window above the courtyard only to return to the attack.

‘I am a burglar, Sir Arthur. I approach the door of the Bedford Tower. What prevents me?'

‘The policeman on duty or the guard commander will ask you your business.'

‘And if I satisfy him that I have business?'

‘Then you will still find the door locked against you until you ring the bell and Stivey opens it. If you have business, you will be attended every moment you are in here. I promise you, you will not be left alone. After the office has closed, you would be intercepted as soon as you came near it.'

I have several times remarked that Sherlock Holmes worked for love of his art rather than for the acquirement of wealth. So it was on this occasion. The jewels of the Order of St Patrick were nothing to him. So far as he had a duty in Dublin, it was the safety of the King. The contents of the safe and the strong-room in Dublin Castle were worth as many hundreds or thousands of pounds as you might care to name. Holmes would not have given a shilling for them. Yet the cleverness with which they were guarded intrigued him, and the means by which a thief might outwit such precautions occupied him for the rest of the day.

I wearied far more quickly of the topic and said so bluntly as we drank brandy and soda in our rooms that evening.

‘I have always suspected that you have no soul, Watson,' he said jovially. ‘Can you not imagine the effect of this morning's display of those gems on every dishonest mind in the hall?'

‘I saw clearly enough that no one is likely to open those locks and doors except Sir Arthur Vicars himself.'

Holmes shook his head. ‘By the time we left the Bedford Tower, I saw quite plainly the three separate methods by which the jewels and regalia might be removed from the safe and the strong-room without their guardians being able to lift a finger to prevent it.'

‘Surely that cannot be,' said I.

He smiled. ‘Then you did not notice the fatal flaw in Sir Arthur Vicars's self-confidence, while we were in his room?'

‘Indeed I did not.'

‘Why, my dear fellow, he told us that Shackleton did not know where the keys to the safe were hidden.'

‘What of it?'

‘A man may be certain of what he himself knows. He cannot tell what another may know or may find out. To think otherwise, my dear Watson, is a capital error when one deals with a first-class rogue. Who can tell what such a scoundrel knows?'