Sherlock Holmes (4 page)

For the first time that morning,
I saw in Holmes an inkling of pleasure brought about by the
gathering of some physical evidence which, I knew, he would
minutely analyse.

Turning to the Inspector, Holmes
touched his hat and bade him a “Good morning” before sweeping out
of the museum.

Once back in our rooms at Baker
Street, Holmes removed the small envelope from his pocket before
tossing his coat onto a chair. In minutes, he was engrossed with
his microscope examining the sample of mud he has taken from the
museum floor.

“It is most curious, Watson,
that in this great metropolis of ours the soil structures we find
are so varied that they can be tied to specific locations within
the city. The one I obtained this morning, for example, is mainly
an alluvial clay which is found predominantly east of the river.”
Holmes looked up from his microscope and pursed his lips. He looked
a little puzzled, saying, "…and yet, there is something more here.
There is a peculiar sand present that is not native to the city and
also a clay that I cannot readily identify.”

This I found quite astounding as
Holmes’ knowledge of both the geography of the city and its geology
was encyclopaedic. When the excavations for the new underground
railway lines were being undertaken, Holmes would disappear for a
day to take soil samples from the revealed strata. On his return,
he would examine them with his microscope and then cross reference
them with a map of the city.

Holmes held his forefinger on
his lip before saying, “The man who left this soil imprint has also
collected some debris from the surroundings of his lair...which is
a most curious place!”

Further analysis of the sample
was interrupted by a ringing of our door bell. Holmes looked up and
strained his ears in an attempt to hear the conversation in the
street below. He need not have bothered as a few moments later
there was a knock at the door of our rooms and Mrs Hudson appeared
with an envelope in her hand.

“A messenger has just brought
this for you, Mr Holmes. He said that no reply was needed” and she
handed the envelope to Holmes.

Holmes gave the envelope a
cursory glance and opened it. Inside was a single sheet of card
which he read. As he did so, the slightest of smiles appeared on
his lips. “It appears we have another invitation, Watson. An olive
branch from brother Mycroft, perhaps?”

Holmes held out the card towards
me and I took it from him. The card invited us both to a musical
evening in Airlie Gardens, Kensington. I was a little perplexed.
“Is this something special, Holmes?” I asked.

“We are incredibly honoured,
Watson, to be invited to a private performance of Brahms third
sonata for violin and piano, in D minor...a full month before it is
to be premiered in London. Not only that, it is to be performed by
Fanny Davies and Joseph Joachim.”

I have to say that the two
principals were known to me only by name. I had not had the
privilege of seeing them perform. Holmes, I knew, had followed the
career of Joseph Joachim and had been to see him play whenever he
visited England. Holmes was a devotee of Brahms and I could see
from his expression that he looked forward to this opportunity to
hear the new piece. The music of Brahms and, of course, Vivaldi had
provided a source of solace for him when he played his beloved
Stradivarius.

The following day there was no
further news regarding the theft of the bell and early evening
found Holmes and me having a hearty meal prior to travelling to
Kensington. Having finished a very satisfying plate of roast beef
followed by a piece of Mrs Hudson’s excellent custard tart, we
dressed formally as if for an evening at the opera. Dressed in top
hat and tails together with silver mounted canes, we hailed a
Hansom and headed for Kensington, W8.

Airlie Gardens had a fine view
over one of the great parks and the houses were generally of
Georgian style. Our cabbie pulled up in front of a very fine,
double fronted mansion with an extensive front garden and
semi-circular driveway. We were met at the door by a liveried
footman who, on examining our invitation, escorted us along a high
ceilinged hallway to a fine music room. The room was well lit and
had large velvet curtains covering the front windows. The walls
were covered in rich, Regency styled wallpaper whilst the ceiling
was high and intricately patterned with plaster mouldings.

At one end of the room was a
small raised stage upon which was a grand pianoforte. In front of
this were arranged two staggered rows of gilded chairs with red
velvet seat pads. We were directed to the rear row where a discreet
name card indicated where we were to sit. I could not fail to
notice the names of the other guests either side of us and directly
in front of us. I tugged at Holmes’ sleeve but his only response
was to smile and pat me on the arm. Clearly he was amused, rather
than intimidated, by the names of those who were to be our
companions for the evening.

As we sat, the other invited
guests came and took their places. I could only inwardly gasp as
the Prime Minister and various titled gentlemen and their wives
joined us for the performance.

The principals were introduced
to the assembled guests by the owner of this fine mansion. I am not
at liberty here to reveal his name save to say that the image of
his face was a regular feature on both the front and society pages
of the quality broadsheets. It was at this point that Joseph
Joachim was presented with a fine Stradivarius violin and an
equally fine bow. This was graciously accepted and, after a few
moments of tuning, the program commenced.

Seldom have I seen Holmes in
such rapture. His eyes closed and his body became totally immersed
in the music, absorbing every note. At the end of the piece, Holmes
was on his feet clapping, acknowledging a stunning performance by a
true master.

As the guests started to move
away, Holmes turned to me, saying, “Magnificent, Watson! I am
hugely impatient to acquire a copy of the score.”

As if on cue, Joseph Joachim
appeared at Holmes’ elbow.

“Ah, Sherlock. I am so pleased
that you accepted Mycroft’s invitation and could come. I knew you
would be fascinated by Johannes’ latest creation… and I have a
small gift for you.”

From under his arm, Joachim
produced a slim, bound volume which had printed on its cover, in
German, ‘Sonata in D minor for pianoforte and violin – Johannes
Brahms’. Not only that, but also upon the cover, in a strong,
cursive hand was written “To Sherlock Holmes, a small token of
thanks for the help and support you have given for so many years.
Joseph J.”

Holmes was clearly moved by this
gesture. He extended his hand and firmly shook that of Joseph
Joachim, saying only, “Thank you, Maestro.”

It was clear to me that Holmes
was unable to say more. He simply left the room, collected his hat,
coat and cane and left. I nodded and muttered a ‘Thank you’ and
followed Holmes into the street.

For several minutes we walked in
silence in the general direction of Baker Street. I allowed Holmes
a little time to compose himself before speaking. “Shall we find a
cab, Holmes? There seem to be but few at this hour.”

Holmes looked around as if
seeing his surroundings for the first time. “Yes, Watson. I believe
there is a cab stand some two hundred yards ahead.”

Hardly had we walked fifty paces
when we heard a dreadful cry from an alleyway to our left. Looking
along the alley, we could see a man prostrated on the floor with
two other standing figures seeming to be beating him with clubs.
Holmes sprang forward towards them, his cane grasped firmly in his
hand.

“Stop, you villains!” shouted
Holmes and he dealt a heavy blow to the nearest attacker.

With a strange cry, the man
turned and in the light from a nearby gas lamp, I saw the contorted
face of a Chinaman, his pig tail flying over his shoulder as he
wheeled round. It was only when the light from the lamp caught him
that I could see that it was not a club he was wielding but a
small, blood-stained hatchet. I approached the second attacker who
crouched at my advance and seemed ready to spring. My army training
took over and I held my cane as if it were a mounted bayonet. The
man was ready for a fight but, as we faced each other, I heard a
chilling cry and saw from the corner of my eye a figure falling
lifeless to the ground. In that instant, I knew it not to be Holmes
and, on seeing this, my fellow knew when to flee. Turning on his
heels, he disappeared into the night.

My attention turned to the
attacker's victim. It was clear that he was mortally wounded having
a savage slash to his neck causing bleeding that could not be
staunched. As I leaned over him and tried, in vain, to apply
pressure to the wound he seized the lapel of my overcoat in an iron
grip and pulled my head close to his.

In a harsh, rasping voice as his
life ebbed away, he whispered, “The Raven...five...five
bells...Whitechapel” and, with a final gasp, he was gone.

Holmes bent down and gently
freed the man's grasp from my lapel. I arose, my overcoat bearing
witness to the savage wounds inflicted by the Chinamen. Reaching
into the pocket of his waistcoat, Holmes withdrew his police
whistle and gave three long blasts upon it.

Whilst we waited for assistance,
Holmes looked more closely at the dead man. I saw that his
attention had been drawn to the man's hands and wrists. “What do
you make of these marks, Watson?”

I looked closely. Some of the
marks were old and well healed but some looked quite fresh. I ran
my fingers over the scar tissue and sought to get more light by
striking a match. “Interesting. They look like burns. Some are at
right angles to his arms and some seem to be random, it is as
though he has been splashed with a hot substance.” Holmes nodded in
agreement.

His attention now turned to the
man's feet which, I saw, were shod in stout, work boots. Holmes
once again reached into his pocket for a small envelope and
obtained a sample of the mud clinging to the boots.

“I think that may be of
interest, Watson.” said Holmes, placing the envelope back into his
pocket for safe keeping.

A few moments later we heard the
clatter of hobnail boots on the cobbled street behind us. A
constable was looking around trying to locate the source of the
whistle. Holmes raised his arm shouting “Over here, Constable!” and
he waved again.

The constable drew his truncheon
when he saw the two bodies lying in the alley but quickly replaced
it when Holmes identified himself. During the fracas, Holmes had
struck his attacker on the temple with his heavy, silver mounted
cane. This had rendered him unconscious but he was now beginning to
stir. Handcuffs were quickly applied and reaching for his whistle,
the constable also gave three long blasts.

The Chinaman was now fully
conscious and was regarding us with a malevolent gaze. Holmes
addressed him in rapid Chinese which seemed to shock the Chinaman.
However, he would say nothing and continued to simply glare at
us.

Within minutes, a horse drawn
police van had arrived and the Chinaman was bundled aboard. The
constable said he would wait with body of the poor fellow who had
been attacked and we continued onwards to find a cab. Arriving back
at Baker Street we determined that there was little further that we
could do that night and both retired wearily to our rooms.

The following morning I found
Holmes once more hunched over his microscope. His breakfast tray
lay beside him, untouched. I reached for the bell and when Mrs
Hudson arrived, I asked for my own breakfast and a further cup for
Holmes. Mrs Hudson gave me a resigned look and sighed. She was
quite used to Holmes becoming completely engrossed in his work to
the exclusion of everything else...even food.

“Is that the sample of soil you
took from that fellow’s boot, Holmes?” I asked.

Holmes raised his head from his
microscope and he again had a puzzled look upon his face. “Yes,
Watson. It is almost identical to that of the intruders at the
museum except that the ‘foreign’ sand and clay is much more
apparent.”

Further discussion was
interrupted by the ringing of our door bell. From his position by
the window, Holmes looked down into the street below and could see
that our caller was a telegram boy. A few moments later, Mrs Hudson
was passing a telegram to Holmes, saying, “It’s for you, sir. It’s
marked 'Urgent'.”

Holmes opened the envelope and
firstly a look of surprise and then concern passed across his face.
“It seems, Watson, that the Zhou bell has been returned...but only
after a considerable ransom has been paid.”

I was shocked. “But I thought
that the theft was intended to disgrace the Ambassador and
embarrass the Emperor. Why would the thieves then extort money?
Surely the theft was not for such a base purpose?”

Holmes sat back, deep in
thought. “Why indeed... unless. Quickly, Watson! We must make haste
and reach the museum before irreparable harm is done!”

Within minutes of receiving the
telegram we had taken a cab and were rushing up the steps of the
Victoria and Albert museum. We quickly found our way to the
Department of Asia and there, resplendent on its silk cushion, sat
the bell. A small knot of people that included Mycroft and the
Chinese ambassador turned towards us as we approached.

I have to say that Mycroft
looked exceedingly smug. Holmes bowed briefly to the Ambassador and
then, taking Mycroft to one side, he quietly addressed his brother.
“How much did it cost Her Majesty’s government to secure the return
of the bell, Mycroft?”