The Problem of Threadneedle Street (The Assassination of Sherlock Holmes Book 2) (5 page)

Holmes looked up from this note and studied me. “Would you go in, Watson? Your appearance would inspire confidence from a man of the cloth.”

“And abandon you to face the sewers alone? I think not, Holmes.”

“Do not fear, Watson, I will take Gregson’s stoutest constable with me.”

“Very well, if you think it wise,” I reluctantly agreed.

The two of us made a strange pair as our hansom rattled its way along Fleet Street. At least the clothes that Holmes wore were clean enough for the time being, though I wondered if he would ever find a cabby willing to bring him back to Pall Mall after he spent several hours wading through those dank sewers.  St. Paul’s was perfectly situated on the way back to the Bank of England, as the Fleet turned into Ludgate Hill, therefore Holmes had the hansom drop me in the in the south churchyard.

“Remember, Watson,” said he, before the cab started up again. “You are acting as my representative in this matter. As our association continued from one century to another, you have had hundreds of opportunities to witness me apply my techniques. In your stories, you have habitually underrated your own developing abilities, and I now have little doubt that your researches will soon clear up this new problem.”

I must admit that his words gave me keen pleasure. “Thank you, Holmes. I will endeavor to do my best. Be careful down there.”

He nodded grimly and I watched for a moment as the hansom set off. It was simplicity itself to locate Dean Percival, who proved to be an amiable man of advancing years. He had flaxen hair and mutton chop whiskers. His weak blue eyes were covered by pince-nez, and he was dressed in a black ecclesiastical suit.

If Dean Percival was upset that Holmes had sent a delegate and not appeared in person, he hid it well. “I can hardly understand it, Doctor Watson. It has been almost a hundred years since the cathedral was last plundered. Upon that horrible occasion, the thieves broke open nine doors to get to the treasury. But almost everything of value was taken then, and nothing was ever recovered. So there is now little to steal, unless they try to strip the gilding from the ceilings.”

“But something was taken?” I asked.

“Oh, yes, though it’s a rather trivial matter,” said he, as he led me through a door in the southwest bell-tower and up a perfectly geometrical staircase to a portion of the cathedral which I had never before ventured. “We only reported it to Scotland Yard because we felt it was our civic duty. The cost of replacing it is negligible, even on our limited budget. I really can’t imagine why anyone would want to take it. I hope if you do catch the individuals responsible that they are not harshly punished. If only they had turned to us in their hour of need, perhaps we could have aided them and turned them towards the path of righteous light, rather than this road of illicit darkness.”

“So what was it, Dean Percival?”

“It is easier to show rather than describe. Here we are,” he swept his hand over a dusty room filled with the detritus of men who worked with their hands. “This gallery is used as a work-room for the artisans who maintain the glory of the cathedral. There are stonemasons, painters, metalworkers, and glass-polishers, of course, but the men who reported the missing items are to be found over here.” He pointed to a series of heavy tables and large wooden chests. “They are the gilders.”

“Gilders? Do you mean the men who work with gold-leaf?”

“Exactly, Doctor Watson. We have so much of it in the cathedral that some part or another is always in need of restoration.”

I turned this new information over in my brain. On the heels of the great plunder at the Bank of England, here was more vanished gold! What could the thieves possibly be planning to do with it all?  “Exactly how much gold was taken, Dean Percival?”

“Oh, no, you misunderstand me, Doctor. They didn’t take any gold at all. They took every square yard of our goldbeater’s skin.”

“Your what?” I exclaimed.

“Well, I hardly know much about the stuff myself. To be honest, I didn’t even know we had it lying around until the gilders informed me that it was missing. They tell me that it is a type of parchment made from the outer membrane of a calf’s intestine. It is used in the process of making exceptionally thin golf leaf by beating the gold between layers of the tear-resistant skin.”

My mind was racing with this new information. How did this fit into the thieves’ master plan? Were they planning on hammering out the bullion, rather than melting it down? And who were these thieves? Were they fellow countrymen, solely out for gain, no matter what the cost to the stability of England? Or were they foreign agents, out to destabilize our great nation? Was this how they planned to smuggle the gold from our shores? Surely the transport of ultra-thin layers of gold leaf would be far easier to conceal than the large bars of its current form.

I realized that the Dean was watching me expectantly as I thought through the implications of what I had just learned. “And how did the thieves abscond with it, Dean Percival?” I finally asked.

He shook his head sadly. “I am afraid that we have only ourselves to blame for it. The gold itself is locked up, of course, but we never shut our doors to the needy. I suspect that they simply walked in one night and hauled it away.”

“Do you know when?”

“The gilders reported it missing three days ago. It must have been in the handful of nights prior to this, as they mentioned that they last utilized it during the week before Hallow’s Eve. But I told this to the policeman already.”

“Gregson?”

“No, a Mr. Lestrade, I think was his name.”

“And did he search the area for clues to their identity?”

“Yes, I believe so, but he said that there was nothing unusual to be found.”

I smiled, thinking of the myriad of times that Holmes was able to discover some seemingly trivial item overlooked by the police but which, in point of fact, threw open the entire case. “You don’t mind if I also take a look around?”

“Not at all. Take your time, Doctor. But if you do find them, please recall that I have no desire to press charges. I would see the men rehabilitated.”

“And if they are past the point of no return?”

“Is there such an inexorable evil, Doctor, that cannot be cast aside by the light of good?”

“You speak of higher matters, Dean Percival, than I am used to contemplating. With Holmes, I have combatted many a terrible man in my day. And I daresay that some of them met a fate that they justly deserved.”

“It is a heavy burden to make such a judgment, Doctor. Are you capable of shouldering it? Is anyone?”

With those profound words, the Dean left me. I spent the next thirty minutes examining every aspect of the room, focusing most of my attention on the area around the chests that once contained the goldbeater’s skin. There were no obvious leavings on the floor. I had hoped for some tobacco ash, which I might collect and bring back to Holmes for identification, but it appeared that the thieves neglected to smoke during their raid. As to be expected in an area near where stonework was being done, there was much dust on the floor, and several fine footprints. But at least three days had passed. I realized that they could belong to anyone: the thieves, the gilders, Dean Percival, even Inspector Lestrade. How was I to tell which might provide a clue? I doubted if Holmes himself could decipher such an old trail. I wracked my brain to think of what strategy Holmes would employ in such a situation. And then I had it. For the goldbeater’s skin was an animal product. And as such, it must possess a distinctive smell. And there was one being in London who had the power to track it.

My first task was to obtain a sample of the skin to use to set my chaser upon its track. Fortunately, the headquarters of the Goldsmith’s Company was close by St. Paul’s, at the corner of Foster Lane and Gresham Street. It took but a few minutes of explanation, and an invoking of the name Sherlock Holmes, in order to procure a small square of the special parchment. From there, I set out to No. 3 Pinchin Lane, near the water’s edge at Lambeth. There I hoped to recruit a trusty companion to the adventure at hand.

The exterior of the shabby two-storied home of Mr. Sherman had not improved much in the one and twenty years since I first set foot upon its step. The stuffed weasel holding a hare, its remarkably-preserved shape a testament to the skill of the taxidermist, still served as a dubious decoration in the front window. I pounded upon the door for some time, before a candle glinted behind the blinds of the upper window and I heard the familiar gravelly voice yelling at me to ‘be-gone.’

“Mr. Sherman,” I called out. “I am here on behalf of Sherlock Holmes!”

Again, like the cave of Ali Baba, this magic phrase served to rapidly produce an unbarring of the door. I gazed upon Sherman, and was secretly glad that the old naturalist still drew breath, for his appearance had also deteriorated over time. His frame was still lanky and lean, with a stringy neck and stooping shoulders. His blue-tinted glasses appeared thicker than prior, and he was now nearer to ninety than eighty. But his memory remained, for he peered at me for a moment and then smiled. “Ah! It’s Dr. Watson, is it not?”

“Indeed, Mr. Sherman, and a pleasure it is to see you looking well. I am in need of your dog.”

“Toby?”

“That’s the one.”

“I am afraid that poor Toby is now sitting at the end of one of the feasting tables in Valhalla, Doctor, waiting for a tossed bone to fall.”

“I am very sorry to hear that, Mr. Sherman.”

“Of course, we’ve got Falstaff here, who is Toby’s grandson.” He indicated a handsome, lop-eared, thick-boned dog, its short coat a deep brown in color.

“He looks like a bloodhound.”

“Yes, sir, of a sort. Toby was a right mongrel, of course, part spaniel and part lurcher. His mate was a beagle, and they produced Andrew, Falstaff’s father. But Falstaff’s mother was pure bloodhound. He’s a fine tracker in his own right, to be certain.”

“Excellent. Mr. Holmes and I are in need of him to track this calf’s skin,” said I, producing the sample from the Goldsmith’s Hall. Falstaff wined eagerly at the smell of the parchment.

Sherman frowned. “Did it touch the ground with some regularity?”

“Not that I know.”

“And how long ago was this?”

“At least three days.”

Sherman shook his head. “What you ask is impossible, Doctor. Even Toby in his prime could not have done it. If the substance had been left in the roadway, like aniseed or creosote, that would be one thing. But to lay on a track from a substance in the air, after a span of three days… no, it cannot be done.”

I turned away dejected at the thought that my plan had failed and I would have little to report back to Holmes.

“Where did you want to Falstaff to track the stuff, Doctor?”

“The theft occurred at St. Paul’s.”

“Ah, the City. Odd thing, that.”

“What is odd, Mr. Sherman?”

“Well, of course, Falstaff and I go for walks round the local neighborhood. And he’s smelt that same skin around here of late.” He reached down and absently scratched the dog’s head. “I can tell by the way he whined when you produced it.”

“Are you certain?”

“Oh yes, it was at the Palace Gardens.”

“Which Palace?”

“Lambeth, of course. The Archbishop’s residence. There is a shed towards the back that recently caught Falstaff’s attention.”

I pondered this strange bit of intelligence. Mr. Sherman was pointing me towards the London abode of the Archbishop of Canterbury, the head of the entire Church of England. And yet, the goldbeater’s skin had been stolen from St. Paul’s Cathedral, the seat of the Bishop of London. Could this pair of great men be engaged in some secret struggle? It was too outlandish to consider. The most likely explanation was that the Palace had its own supply of the skin, to use for repairing the gold leaf within the ancient building. But would they really keep it in a shed in the gardens? I needed to follow up this lead before I returned to Mycroft’s and related my findings to Holmes.

I thanked Mr. Sherman profusely, and a hastily-sketched map in hand, I set off on foot for the nearby gardens. There, I located, tucked up almost against the wall of the Palace itself, a ramshackle outbuilding roughly ten feet long and eight feet deep. As there was no other likely suspect in the gardens, it could only be the shed that Sherman had described.

Approaching it, I found that the door was solidly locked and the few windows blacked out. There was no obvious method by which I might see what exactly was held inside. I stood there for a moment, deliberating what scheme I might utilize in order to gain admission, when an angry voice called out.

“Go on, you vagrant. You’ll find no shelter in here tonight,” said the man. I turned to find a squat, dark, middle-aged man, with a deeply-lined face scowling at me. He wore the soiled uniform of a groundskeeper, and was shaking a large stick at me.

I attempted to disarm him with a note of gracious pleasantry. “Hello, my good man. My name is John Watson. I assure you that I am not thinking of trying to sleep in your fine shed. I was merely wondering what you might keep inside such a structure.”