The Sensible Necktie and Other Stories of Sherlock Holmes (18 page)

“Mr Holmes makes rather a plausible case to me,” said Masterman Broker severely.

“But let us not get ahead of ourselves,” Holmes remarked. “In all likeliness, the whole affair was thought up impulsively. You were with Mr Broker as he opened his letter, just as you had been in this room with your father all those years ago, and considering your delicate predicament, the plan to hide the letter with the help of the box and then snatch it when the box was left unguarded must have come to you abruptly. I knew that we had to act swiftly while you were in the City, or wherever it is you go during the days, before you came back and had an opportunity to take the letter.”

“But how on earth could you guess that this was the solution?” asked Broker.

“I never guess, Mr Broker. I realised from your narrative that the answer was to be found in the box and that Mr Falmer's behaviour was suspicious. Until I had looked into Mr Falmer and his job, I could not be certain of anything, of course. Your description of him served me well while making enquiries. Mr Falmer is well known in many of the gambling halls frequented by City clerks. When I learned the true identity of his father, the pieces of the puzzle started to fit together, and I realised that Mr Falmer had copied one of his father's old routines by pretending to stumble on the edge of the carpet, thereby hiding how he shaked the box to make the false bottom fall down and hide the letter.”

“Ingenious!” I could not help exclaiming.

“Father was most creative,” Mrs. Broker conceded.

“The question is,” Holmes resumed, “how far Mr Falmer's plans developed. Did he regret his trick immediately afterwards and decide to return the letter, or did his plan involve something more sinister, perhaps even murder? For if he meant to impersonate his brother-in-law when meeting Uncle Bertrand, he would have to make sure that Mr Broker would not be there to thwart his scheme.”

Our eyes turned in unison towards Mr Falmer, who was looking much less confident than he had when entering the room and claiming his innocence. “I can only ask you to believe me when I say that I had the idea then and there, but that I did not realise what it would entail if I were to follow it through. I have been in hell since I lost my job and was unable to pay back my gambling debts, and only a desperate man could think of a plan that would mean going behind the back of the two people in the world he loves the most. Oh, Eleanor, Masterman! As soon as I grasped the full meaning of what I had done, I promised myself that I would take out the letter and hand it back to you. In fact, that is just what I was about to do when I came in here.”

I need hardly describe to you the idyll of reconciliation that ensued. The words and gestures that passed in the last act of this drama must remain the private dominion of the principal players. I can only say that Holmes and I were escorted from Peregrine House in an atmosphere of gratitude and relief, Mr Broker promising that his brother-in-law would surely benefit from the money obtained from Uncle Betrand. We then enjoyed a leisurely stroll through Ealing as a reward for our brief but intensive day's work. We had walked along in silence for a few minutes, when my friend surprised me with an unexpected comment:

“I must say, my dear Watson, that I am indebted to you.”

“To me? How so?”

“Don't you remember me asking you about how you hide something in an empty box this morning?”

“I do, but I cannot recall my answer.”

“You said that it must be in the walls of the box, which initially put me on the right line of reasoning. I thought to myself then that if something goes missing in a box it must be, not inside the box, but
inside
the box, if you get my meaning.”

“I certainly do, Holmes, but you flatter me. I was only speculating.”

“Sometimes I think that what I do consciously, you do unconsciously. And I do not know that my method is the preferable one.”

The Adventure of the Migrating Monocle

“When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.” This maxim, which was one of the guiding principles of Sherlock Holmes' working methods, I have had occasion to reiterate in a number of the chronicles of my good friend's exploits. In no other case that came our way in the years in which Holmes was active, though, was this sentiment more put to the test than in that most improbable affair of Mr Gregory Furniss and the curious disappearance and reappearance of his monocle. For perhaps more than any other problem that came in our path, it demonstrated just how improbable that last remaining possibility can be, and that our world is, as Holmes so often stated, extraordinary enough without the addition of the supernatural.

The case was first brought to our attention by Mycroft Holmes, who summoned Holmes and me to the Diogenes Club one morning in late April, by way of a very brief telegram.

“‘Come to the Diogenes at once and lunch is on me. Wish to consult you on a matter of the utmost urgency.' Ha!” Holmes exclaimed as he read it aloud to me, before he tossed it into his empty armchair and continued pacing the room. “My dear brother seems to think I am able to drop everything and come to him whenever he calls.”

“But you have no case at present,” I replicated.

“It is the arrogance that provokes, rather than the timing. Mycroft's scope is so narrow that, to him, every concern that comes his way is ‘of the utmost urgency'. If he would step outside his comfortable club once in a while, he might feel compelled to express himself with less embroidery.”

“Nevertheless, his summons often mean rewarding cases. He has the same criteria for what makes an interesting problem as you. The last time he called, he put us on the track of that curious business of the three Japanese sailors.”

Holmes picked up the bow of his violin from the table by the window, then put it down again. “He could at least have given us some clue as to what it concerns.”

I smiled inwardly at this effervescent display of brotherly bickering, and knew full well that Mycroft avoided details in his telegram to arouse his brother's curiosity - a method that I knew would work. The two had developed a discourse of interaction that emanated from their awareness that the one could always deduce the other's intentions, thus deliberately keeping information from each other, but disclosing enough to ensure that contact never broke down. Not many minutes had passed, then, before Holmes and I were in a hansom on our way to Pall Mall, and the pleasant environment of the Diogenes Club.

Mycroft immediately escorted us into a private dining room, where we were introduced to Gregory Furniss, one of his fellow members. Furniss' appearance struck me instantly as that of the most suave and garish young swell. His dress was immaculate and expertly tailored, but had just that inkling of exaggeration in its style that bordered on vulgarity. It was little things: a plaid waistcoat, an unusually thick watch-chain, a long thin walking-stick that he leaned on to make his posture more elegant, and, to top it all, in his right eye there sat a monocle of octagonal shape. “Here is a parvenu,” I thought to myself. A man whose upward mobility had received a glowing start by membership to the Diogenes Club. But why would Mycroft Holmes be rubbing shoulders with a man like that? I glanced at Holmes as we greeted them, trying to read his reaction to Mr Furniss in his facial expression, but he did not give away anything, and as we began our meal and Furniss laid his problem before us in a delicate and humble voice, I thought that maybe his looks were deceiving.

“I wished to consult you, Mr Holmes,” he said, “on rather a delicate matter and I trust that what I will say to you will go no further than this room. It is relevant to my problem that I am currently preparing a career in politics, to try and continue the great work of my late father, whose membership at this club I was kindly allowed to inherit.”

I was surprised to hear that this was the explanation of his membership, and the fact that his flamboyant appearance was not attributable to an upstart background made me conclude that I was simply out of touch with the way young people dressed.

“My political ambitions,” he continued, “are still not widely known, but some of the more disreputable newspapers have been able to guess it based on the gossip of Whitehall, and this has made some of the old enemies of my father smell the scent of blood. I therefore suspected that someone would try to thwart my plans before they had come to fruition.”

“The political game is an ugly one, Sherlock,” added Mycroft. “Too ugly for the likes of you and me.”

Holmes nodded and turned his gaze back on Furniss.

“My suspicions were realised two days ago. This is what happened. I spent my boyhood and youth at the Norfolk country house of my family, and only a year ago, following the untimely death of my father and my decision to take up politics, did I move permanently to London. I soon understood that a serious political career required me to take part in the social life of parliamentarians and civil servants in the metropolis, fraternising in the clubs of St James's and the bars of Mayfair. In time, I took to this life, gradually immersing into the culture of both the Burlington Arcade dandies and Belgravia society. I have managed to find a way of combining the vigour of the young swell with the tradition and confidence of the political establishment in a way that I think will appeal to a new generation of voters. My entrance into this world was assisted in no small way through the close collaboration I had with my Conduit Street tailor. In spite of this success, however, my rural upbringing has always been at the back of my mind, and often are the moments when, in the privacy of my parlour, my thoughts go back to the open fields and idyllic farms of home. To ease this nostalgia, I recently took to making nocturnal walks in some of the less prosperous areas of London, where the down-to-earth character of village life is more tangible. My preferred area of relaxation is Rotherhithe, where some of the areas of wharves and low brick buildings remind me of the fishing villages on the east coast. I have found a lovely little tavern, housed in a building lying close to the river, catering to the local warehouse porters and boat proprietors, and it has become something of a ritual for me to take refuge in this place at least once a week as a counterweight to all the snobbery and camaraderie of the West End. I sit in a quiet booth in the back, away from the commotion at the counter, have a pot of ale or two and eat a hearty country meal of sausage and mash.

“Three days ago, however, on Monday, I had a strange experience at this tavern. I was scheduled to speak in the evening at a banquet held on account of the Belgian state visit. The event will mark a considerable upturn in the course of my career, but in advance, the prospect filled me with dread. Before the occasion, however, I had a few hours to myself, and in order to relieve some of the tensions, I decided to go to Rotherhithe and my favourite place of refuge from the bustle of high politics. The banquet was to commence at eight o'clock. I was at the tavern around half past six, which gave me just enough time to relax in my booth with a drink. Now, as you see, I make use of a monocle. It is an aide for the impaired vision in my right eye, but it has also become something of a recognisable trait for me, especially as I am in the habit of wearing octagonal monocles of special manufacture from the firm of Warburton on Sackville Street. I have been advised to continue wearing these characteristic glasses as a politician, as it will make me instantly recognisable, and, according to some, will make me known by the nickname of Mr Octagon.” Furniss smiled self-consciously at this. “It is neither here nor there with me, so I have become accustomed to wearing them. When I relax in my booth at the Rotherhithe tavern, however, I tend to dislodge my monocle and place it on the table in front of me. I did exactly that this Monday, and when I had finished my beer and was preparing to leave, the monocle was gone. It was no great loss, but the strange traceless disappearance annoyed me, and so I searched for it as carefully as I could on the darkened floor of the interior. But it was nowhere to be seen. I have several others, supplied to me on a regular basis by Mr Warburton, and so I did not make too much of it then and there, as by now I had to hurry so as not to be late for the banquet, at which I arrived just in the nick of time.

“The problem started the next day. My valet awoke me in the morning with a note that had just arrived for me. The person who had delivered it had been a seedy character, and he had said that the message was of great urgency. I sat up in bed, drank some water from the glass by my bedside to clear my head, and read the note. I have it with me.” Furniss produced a folded piece of paper from his inside pocket and proceeded by reciting its content. “‘Mr Furniss, if you wish to retrieve your missing monocle, you may do so by refraining from any contact with the authorities or the police and pay a sum of £50,000 to the sender of this letter. The monocle was found by the police at precisely seven o'clock on Monday night during a raid of a house of ill repute in the vicinity of Wapping. It has been confiscated by the administering superintendent together with other items found on the premises, noting the exact time of discovery. As you have no alibi for this point in time, there will be no reason to suppose any other scenario than that you were present in that house before attending the banquet at Whitehall, once the police are informed of the ownership of the monocle. Since the monocle is unique in design and manufacture, there will be no use in opposing this information. Should you wish to save your promising career from the blemish of scandal, we advise you to follow the instructions that will be sent to you shortly.' The letter is signed with a capital D.”

“Will you please give me the letter and the envelope?” asked Holmes.

“You will not be able to deduce much, Sherlock,” remarked Mycroft. “We are dealing with refined blackmailers here. The letter is carefully stripped of all useful data, as if they knew it would somehow come your way.”

“Quite right. Run-of-the-mill stationary, east London postmark, written on a cheap typewriter with a characteristic flaw in the i's. And I'll warrant that the man who delivered it was a hired hand who knows nothing of this. Have any other communiqués reached you?”

“Yes,” replied Furniss. “This morning I received this.”

He handed over an identical envelope, addressed and stamped in just the same way. Holmes read the note.

“‘Have the money ready in bank notes this Friday. We will contact you.' Hum! They are exceedingly professional and to the point. Yes, this is an experienced gang. You will notice of course that they stress the time when the monocle was found by the police. This is the strong point of their hold on you, Mr Furniss, since you have no reliable witness to testify that you were in the tavern at that time. They took advantage of the fact that you sneaked off to Rotherhithe just before the banquet, when you were in the company of hundreds of witnesses and there would be no point in trying to incriminate you. This means that they have followed your movements for some time until they were sure that your excursions to Rotherhithe would form an admirable basis for the blackmailing project. Making sure that nobody in your surroundings knew of your Rotherhithe visits would necessitate other sources of information too, but your being a public figure and a man of many contacts, I suppose this is not difficult.”

“Mr Holmes,” said Furniss, “I simply cannot understand how my monocle was removed from my booth at the tavern and transported to a brothel on the other side of the river in the matter of minutes!”

“Unless the blackmailers are bluffing?” I said.

“I have made some preliminary inquiries,” said Mycroft, “including an unofficial visit to the Wapping police station where a superintendent Croft is compiling his report of the raid as we speak. The monocle is in the possession of the police. I have seen it with my own eyes, and Croft himself swears that it was found in this seedy place at seven on Monday evening.”

“And this monocle is absolutely unique?” asked Holmes.

“Without a doubt,” said Furniss. “I have Warburton's solemn promise that the design is individual and that he would not sell that type to any other customers.”

“The man makes spectacles to many prominent people,” added Mycroft. “His word is reliable.”

“An octagonal monocle,” I said, “is unusual, but not unheard of. Can it not be a forgery?”

“I compared the specimen at the police station with one that Furniss gave me. The shape is special, every alternate side cut long and the others cut a bit shorter, with a frosted edge.”

“The drawback of trying to be distinctive,” said Holmes. “An ordinary man is more difficult to link to the scene of a crime.”

“Furniss came to me the day before yesterday asking for my help in this matter,” said Mycroft. “As I was a close friend and associate of his father's, I did not hesitate to try and do what I can for the lad. I went to the police station to verify the information of the letter, but more than that I am afraid is beyond what my busy schedule allows. I have no time to make inquiries in Rotherhithe! It is a case that I know will interest you, however, my dear brother.”

Holmes smiled at Mycroft with a suggestion of prickliness in his eye. “Mr Furniss,” he said, “is there anybody you can think of who might have the motive or capability to try and frame you like this? You mentioned some old enemies of your father?”

“Well, it is no secret that my father was a staunch liberal, and his opinions naturally instigated some debate. The one man who suffered the most damage to his career from the actions of my father was probably Sheldon Carmichael, the then MP for Burnley, whose corrupt dealings with a dishonest builder in a housing project for the poor was revealed to the public as a result of my father's investigations, ruining Carmichael both financially and politically.”