The Problem of Threadneedle Street (The Assassination of Sherlock Holmes Book 2) (2 page)

Although it must have been several years since they had last seen each other, Gregson wasted no time on pleasantries. “There has been a robbery at the Bank of England, Mr. Holmes! I have brought Mr. Randolph Ellis Winthrop, the Bank Governor, straight away to see you.”

Holmes yawned. “Another Worthington Gang? A simple heist at the Old Lady of Threadneedle Street contains little of interest, Gregson. I am rather occupied just now, and I desire no distractions. Pray tell, how exactly did you find me?”

“You left no forwarding address at the Northumberland, but the man at the door recalled which cab you took. We tracked down the driver and he pointed out where he had let you off.”

Holmes chuckled appreciatively. “My, my, Gregson, you have made great strides indeed.”

“Mr. Holmes, I must impress upon you the seriousness of the situation,” interjected the agitated Mr. Winthrop, wiping his forehead with his handkerchief. “If word gets out, it could cause a panic, even a run on the Bank.”

“Is it that serious, Governor Winthrop?” I asked.

“Indeed it is, Doctor. You are Dr. Watson, are you not?” he guessed, despite the hurried lack of formal introductions. “Every note of paper currency in circulation is backed with the full guarantee that you could walk into the Bank of England and exchange it for its value in gold. If the public knew of the theft, we would not be able to meet our obligations. The resulting panic could bring down the government.”

“How much did they take?” I inquired.

“Over a million pounds, most of it in gold bullion.”

The mention of such a vast sum made even Holmes’ eyebrows rise in surprise. “A goodly sum, to be certain.” He then shook his head. “I am very sorry, Gregson, Mr. Winthrop, but I am presently engaged in other matters. I am certain you will find your gold soon enough. It is no simple matter to transport such weight, and the thieves can hardly unload it quickly, for such a flood of wealth into the seedy underbelly of London would surely be noted upon and whispered around the bars and dives of the East End. I am certain the clues are plenty, the trail is still warm, and that time is on your side.”

“Mr. Holmes, on behalf of the Bank’s directors, I am prepared to offer you a very generous reward. Shall we say twenty thousand pounds?”

I was astonished by this astronomical sum, but my friend merely smiled and shook his head again. “No, no, Watson may be able to list my sins, but avarice will not be found amongst them.”

“I thought you might say that, Mr. Holmes,” said Gregson, in a very amiable tone. “Fortunately, the Yard is not without resources of our own. We have already investigated the matter quite thoroughly and made a very interesting discovery.”

“Oh, yes, what is that?” asked Holmes, languidly.

“You see, the Bank of England does not let just any Tom, Dick, or Harry waltz into their main vault. Even an employee is not allowed within until he has been employed at the Bank for at least ten years. We are questioning everyone on the staff with access, but Mr. Winthrop feels that their honesty is not in doubt. And, as you likely are already aware, there is a separate public vault for the general populace to utilize for their sundry deposits. In point of fact, only a few very select private clients are ever allowed into the main vault. These individuals, who number amongst them royalty and mighty industrialists, typically feel as if the main vault is more secure than the one used by the general public when they wish to move their plate to the bank.”

“Not in this case, so it would seem,” said Holmes, leaning back in his chair with an air of resignation, for it was plain that Gregson would not depart without being heard.

“Indeed, Mr. Holmes. But, you see, in this situation, the limited number of visitors to the main vault works in our favor. We were able to obtain from Mr. Winthrop’s manager a list of every private individual who has accessed the main vault within the last two years. We could go back further, of course, but we doubt even the most patient of criminals would have waited so long.”

“A reasonable starting deduction, I suppose, as long as you are willing to abandon it should it fail to raise any subject of interest.”

“Ah, but it has, Mr. Holmes,” said Gregson. “You see, there have only been ten private clients of the Bank who have entered the main vault in the last two years.” He consulted his official notebook. “These men include the Duke of Balmoral, the Duke of Holdernesse, The Duke of Belminster, Lord Holdhurst, Lord Bellinger, Lord Backwater, Lord Singleford, Lord Southerton, and Mr. J. Neil Gibson.”

“Mighty names,” murmured Holmes.

“Exactly, Mr. Holmes. And all but one of them has been a client for more years than I care to count. But the last person only began to make deposits within the last two months. The sums were not large, but his fame was such that the staff at the Bank made an exception for this particular gentleman.”

“And his name?” Holmes asked, lazily.

“His name was Sherlock Holmes.”

§

Holmes had so often flabbergasted Gregson and I in the course of his adventures that I presume it was with some sense of triumph that Gregson spoke those words and witnessed how completely he had astonished Holmes. Holmes bolted upright and stared intently at Gregson for a moment. After a long pause, he began to laugh heartily. “That is rich, Inspector, most rich. Very well, the gauntlet has been thrown. The only honorable action is to stoop and take it up.” He stood up and glanced over at me. “Come, Watson, our trail starts in the City.”

A fine carriage was awaiting us at the curb, and once the four of us had settled in, Holmes began to question the Bank’s governor. “First of all, Mr. Winthrop, pray tell me exactly what has gone missing?” asked Holmes, cocking his eye at the man.

“It is all gold bullion, Mr. Holmes, packed in crates between layers of lead foil.”

“The four hundred troy-ounce bars?”

“Exactly.”

“Stamped?”

“Of course. Our private mark.”

“So they will have to melt them down to be usable. That is something, Gregson. How many places in London are capable of reaching the temperature necessary to melt gold?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Holmes, but will put a man on it immediately,” replied the inspector.

Holmes nodded. “In any case, it’s a heavy burden, indeed, to vanish from your vault in the course of a single night. That much gold must weigh some eighteen thousand pounds.”

“That is correct, Mr. Holmes,” said the governor, a trace of suspicion in his voice.

Holmes waved his hand dismissively. “The calculation is a simple one. And was the main vault only used for storing gold? What about bank notes or Stock Exchange securities?”

“The only securities would be in the private deposit boxes. But yes, some of the higher denomination notes, the £500 and £1000 ones, are stored in the main vault.”

“And were the deposit boxes raided?”

“No, they were untouched.”

“And the bank notes?”

“Also untouched.”

“You amaze me, Mr. Winthrop! It is most unusual for burglars to be content with a limited plunder when there was so much more within their reach. What sort of criminal carries off only the gold, the heaviest, most difficult-to-utilize commodity, and leaves behind a vast fortune in legal tender and lucrative bearer securities?”

“Perhaps they did not wish to spend the time opening the individual boxes?” hypothesized the inspector.

“Pshaw, Gregson! Banker’s safes have been forced before now. It is a simple matter for any competent cracksman, so why was it not effected in this case? It is most peculiar.” Holmes turned back to the banker. “I suppose there is no hope for insurance?”

“What insurance could possibly cover this, Mr. Holmes? There is not enough money in the nation to replace what has been taken.”

“And how is it that the theft was allowed to proceed uninterrupted? Is there not a permanent guard?”

“Of course, Mr. Holmes,” answered Winthrop. “On account of the value of the wealth that we hold there are four armed watchman, all of excellent character, who patrol day and night within the building itself.”

“So how did the villains open the vault door?”

“That’s just it, Mr. Holmes,” said Gregson, a note of pleading in his voice. “We don’t rightly know. The gold was there when Mr. Winthrop closed the vault door yesterday evening. The door could not have possibly been opened during the night, for it was constantly in full view of the guards. But when it was re-opened this morning, the gold was gone. We have inspected the walls, the floor, even the ceiling, but all are intact. It is as if the gold has vanished away by the sorcery of some genii from the Arabian Nights.”

§

Holmes had listened to this narrative with an intentness which showed me that he was keenly aroused. His face was as impassive as ever, but his lids drooped heavily and I could tell that he was in deep thought. After a moment he opened his eyes wide and glanced out of the window. “I see that we are drawing close, gentlemen. Do you remark, Watson, on the left-hand side, the small angle in the wall where our friend Mr. Hugh Boone once plied his trade? And there is the famous banking firm of Holder & Stevenson, now, I think, run by the younger Mr. Arthur Holder. Ah, we are here. The Old Lady of Threadneedle Street, at last.”

Our hansom deposited us outside the sturdy neo-classical façade of that august establishment. We quickly moved through the marble-lined main foyer of the Bank, which was conducting business as if nothing was amiss in the vault below. The employees were plainly putting on a brave show for the sake of the public confidence. Mr. Winthrop led us through a locked and guarded door, and down a set of stairs. These stopped at a long hallway, the end of which terminated at the main door of the private vault. This was secured with both an iron gate and a formidable steel monstrosity. The latter was festooned with thick bars which could sink into the surrounding frame when the door was closed and the great wheel spun. But both the gate and door currently sat ajar, revealing the forlorn vault behind it.

Several uniformed policemen milled about, but they all appeared to defer to a man in private clothes. He was about sixty years in age, tall and thin, but with broad shoulders. He had thick black hair and a smooth moustache, with peering leaden eyes deeply sunken into his head. His black suit was cut by the finest Savile Row tailors, and he wore it with the confidence of a man used to command.

“That is Mr. Philip Maurice,” said Gregson softly, in answer to our unasked question. “He is the assistant to the Commissioner of Police. As you may know, Mr. Holmes, Sir Henry is a fine policeman and an excellent choice for commissioner, but he lacks certain of the political wiles necessary to administer a force of some fifteen thousand men. Mr. Maurice aides him in this task. He is an excellent person, indeed I may tell you that it was through his good offices that I was made Chief Inspector. He has the interest of Scotland Yard very much at heart and he came to the conclusion that the C.I.D. was in need of some fresh blood at the top.”

“He is not a policeman himself?” asked Holmes.

“No, but he thinks like one.”

“Ah, I see.” Any further comment of Holmes was cut short as we approached the man, who turned and studied Holmes with a most curious expression, which certainly seemed to be more threatening than benevolent.

Mr. Maurice continued to look my friend up and down with no very pleased countenance upon his dour features. “You are Mr. Sherlock Holmes?” said he, finally.

“At your service, sir.”

“And, pray tell, Mr. Holmes, have you opened a deposit box in the vault of this bank at any point in the last year?”

“I have not, sir.”

“Then why is your name associated with just such an account?”

“I do not yet know for certain.”

“How about a theory, then?”

“It is a capital mistake to theorize before one has data. Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts.”

“We are not here to debate philosophy, Mr. Holmes, but to solve a crime of the most terrible severity, as far as the security of our country is concerned. I know your antecedents. You must have a theory; what is it?”

The corners of Holmes’ mouth turned downwards in something approaching a grimace. “Very well. Either this was an attempt to draw me from my retirement, to bring me into the case for some purpose which remains opaque at the present moment, or it was an attempt to discredit my name, to cast some doubt upon my honesty.”

“If that was their intent, I should say that they have succeeded. At the moment, you remain the most likely suspect in the eyes of Sir Henry.”

“Mr. Maurice, if I may?” interjected Mr. Winthrop. “I might be able to settle the matter, or this portion of it, in any case. According to the ledger, my day manager, Mr. Jasper Bennett, was the one who originally dealt with the man who gave his name as Sherlock Holmes. If we summon him, he could say whether or not it was the same man as the one who stands before you now.”

The adjutant nodded tightly, and the manager was swiftly produced. Mr. Bennett was a well-built, cleanly-shaven man of about five and thirty years, with a frank, honest face. He studied Holmes carefully for several moments, before he stepped back and shook his head. “It is not him. If this be the real Sherlock Holmes, then the other man was an imposter.”