Sherlock Holmes - Gods of War Read online

  “It wasn’t my job to open up this morning,” Searle told us. “On weekdays it is, but on Saturdays the duty falls to Tremlett, the new hire. Tremlett’s supposed to be at the shop at eight o’clock sharp and have everything in place by nine. This morning, however, I arrived at five to nine and the place was still locked. Imagine my horror when I entered and found everything just as you see it, and the safes ransacked. Mr Barraclough lives in the Lower Meads, not five minutes’ walk away, so I ran to alert him.”

  “And I hastened back with Searle,” said Barraclough, “only to see for myself, to my utter dismay, what had happened.”

  “Naturally one of you went to this Tremlett fellow’s home immediately,” Holmes said.

  “That I did,” said Searle. “He lodges at a guesthouse in the Seaside area. His landlady let me in, but said she hadn’t heard him come in last night. I checked his rooms. There was no sign that he had slept there.”

  “Interesting. Any idea where he might have been?”

  “Well, I know for a fact that he went out drinking yesterday evening after work, for I was with him for a while. We have become friendly, he and I. We went to the Lamb Inn up in Old Town and supped a pint or two there, until some acquaintances of his joined us at our table and I made my excuses and left. The others were of the same age as him, and seemed bent on a night of roistering. I don’t have the stamina for that sort of carry-on any more, being somewhat older and also the father of two infants, twin girls, who shatter my and Mrs Searle’s sleep at all hours with their caterwauling. If only we could afford a wet-nurse, not to mention a nanny…”

  “You believe Tremlett is still sleeping off the effects of drink somewhere? It would certainly account for why he hasn’t reported for work.”

  “That would be one explanation,” Searle said.

  “Another being that he is behind the theft? He has absconded, taking a king’s ransom in jewels with him?”

  “That’s not for me to speculate, Mr Holmes. My main and abiding concern is this.”

  Searle gestured at the safes. There were three of them, large ones standing in a row like cast-iron sentries, their bases fastened firmly to the floor with bolts. The doors stood ajar, and the interiors were barren save for a scattering of trinkets which even I, no expert when it comes to finery, could tell were of average quality and no great value. The gemstones were small and shone with little of the lustre of their larger brethren. The gold articles that I saw – tie clips, cufflinks, fob chains – were low-carat, many of them dull and reddish owing to the large proportion of copper in the alloy.

  “If Tremlett is responsible,” growled Barraclough, “I’ll… I’ll… I don’t know what I’ll do.” He seemed to have some idea, though, judging by the way his hands clutched an imaginary neck. “I’ve shown that boy nothing but kindness. He had no qualifications for this trade, yet I took him on, I pay him tolerably well, I’m training him up, sharing with him my years of expertise – and this is how he rewards me.”

  “Let us not jump to any conclusions,” said Holmes. “Tremlett may well be guilty of theft. He may equally be guilty of nothing more than a young man’s propensity to drink heavily with no regard for the effects on his constitution or on his vocational commitments. Either way, we must examine facts – the evidence – before we start pointing the finger of blame.”

  So saying, Holmes knelt to study the safes. His knee joints creaked as they bent, and I was perversely pleased to hear this audible manifestation of physical frailty, however minor. He produced a magnifying glass, another sign that age was taking its toll, for his eyesight had once been the keenest of any man I knew. He inspected each safe painstakingly and thoroughly, going over every square inch of metalwork and mechanism.

  “Half-inch body plates, machine-fitted,” he murmured. “Porpoise-action clutch bolts. Fondu cement infill. Handsome constructions, these. Best peters in the land.”

  Then, straightening up with a soft, suppressed grunt, he said, “I can find no indication of forced entry. No scratch marks within the keyhole or on the lock plates suggestive of the use of a screwdriver or lockpicks. Nothing to point towards anything other than the appropriate keys being used to open the safes. Tremlett, I take it, has those?”

  “As do I,” said Barraclough, “and Searle too. We each keep our own set. It’s a mark of how much I’ve come to trust the lad, that he has full access to both the premises and the safes. And to think that he has betrayed me.”

  “He’s a good man, Mr Barraclough,” said Searle, “but even the best of us can succumb to temptation. Especially when we’re young and callow.”

  “Again, a rush to judgement before a full and fair survey of the data has been made,” said Holmes with some asperity. “Thus far we have only supposition to go on with regard to Tremlett’s involvement in the theft. I would like to think the young fellow is innocent until it can be proved beyond all reasonable doubt that he is not.”

  “But his absence…” Searle began.

  “Is incriminating on the face of it, but far from conclusive. You haven’t called the police yet?”

  “No,” said Barraclough. “I hoped by hiring you, Mr Holmes, I might obviate the need. When police are brought in, privacy is not always guaranteed. Members of the constabulary have an unfortunate tendency towards loose talk, most often when there’s beer before them and journalists within earshot. You, sir, on the other hand, seem to me a man of discretion, at least if the published accounts of your exploits are to be believed.”

  “And they are,” said I. “Every word.”

  “If possible,” the jeweller continued, “I would like to keep this affair out of the press, at least until my stolen stock is back where it should be and the thief has been apprehended.”

  “This cellar is itself fully secure?” Holmes asked.

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “I mean there is no method of ingress available other than that door and the staircase leading down here from the rear of the shop?”

  “None. But have we not established that keys were used? Why would the culprit require any other access? I thought this a straightforward enough case, at least as far as the how of it is concerned, if not so much the who.”

  “I am simply pursuing all possible avenues of enquiry,” said my friend. “There may be more to the crime than meets the eye. My habit is always to examine the broader picture and look for further details, if only to eliminate them should they prove irrelevant. There is this small window, for instance.”

  He positioned himself below a tiny, narrow oblong window, set just beneath the cellar ceiling. Illumination crept in via a lightwell above.

  “There is a back yard behind the shop, am I right?”

  “A small one.”

  “And the lightwell is covered by a grating?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Is the window ever opened?”

  “Sometimes, for ventilation. The cellar is apt to get damp.”

  “Yes, I observed some rust on the safe corners. When was the window last used?”

  “I don’t recall. Searle?”

  “I don’t recall either,” said Searle. “Certainly in spring, and more recently than that, I imagine. It was a terribly wet summer.”

  “You’re not trying to tell us someone came in through that window, are you, Mr Holmes?” said Barraclough. “Preposterous! The thing’s no wider than a handspan. I doubt even a child could wriggle through. And the lightwell is no less narrow and descends vertically. For anyone to contort himself like that, bend through ninety degrees in such close confines – it would be a physical impossibility.”

  “Besides,” said Searle, “I thought this was an ‘inside job’. Now you’re of the opinion that it’s common opportunistic burglary?”

  “Not opportunistic, nor common,” said Holmes. “This has the hallmarks of something that was planned, and with some precision. The window has been opened not long ago. One can tell by the disturbance of the cobwebs adhering to it.”<
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  He unlatched the little window and swung it inward. Standing on tiptoe and craning his neck, he peered up into the lightwell, which rose some three feet to ground level.

  “The dust on the surfaces of the shaft has been disturbed too,” he said. “As though by the passage of a body or some other object.”

  “But the window catch lies on the inside,” said Barraclough. “The thief could not have opened it without smashing a pane, even supposing he managed to squeeze himself down into the lightwell in the first place, which I sincerely doubt.”

  “Not if he had an accomplice on your staff. It would be child’s play to leave the latch undone at locking-up time, allowing the window to be pushed open from the outside. Who would notice a tiny discrepancy like that?”

  “So whoever was down here contrived to leave the window openable for someone else to gain access later. That would mean… Was it you who was last out of the cellar yesterday evening, Searle, or was it Tremlett? I can’t remember.”

  “It was Jeremy, I believe, sir. That is – Tremlett. We both shut the safes together, but I left the room before he did.”

  “Damn it. The evidence against the lad continues to mount,” said Barraclough. “He is clearly in cahoots with another. What about those rowdies he met at the Lamb? Any of them strike you as shifty, Searle? The criminal type?”

  “They were a mixed bunch certainly,” said Searle. “Come to think of it, one or two of them did seem a little less than respectable.”

  I evinced surprise. “In a town like Eastbourne? Renowned for its gentility?”

  “Indeed, sir. The fact is you get all sorts here. Rough-and-ready fishermen. Labourers, bricklayers, navvies – the town is expanding and there’s a constant stream of work for them. It’s possible that Tremlett has fallen in with a bad lot. One of them must have put him up to this, intimidated him, or blackmailed him with some indiscretion from his past.”

  “It is to your credit, Searle,” said his employer, “that you continue to give the benefit of the doubt to that miscreant. I, for my part, wish to see Tremlett clapped in irons and left to rot in jail.”

  “As I said, I count him a friend. A kind of protégé, indeed, much as he is to you.”

  “Does that not make his abuse of your benevolence all the more galling?”

  “I try to think well of all men.”

  “Then, my good fellow, you are more of a saint than I shall ever be.”

  “If I may,” said Holmes, “I would like to go outside and inspect the grating. I have a strong suspicion I will find that it has been levered out from its setting, doubtless with a jemmy, and subsequently replaced. After that, Dr Watson and I will make a short detour to another part of town before returning with, if all goes well, your stolen jewels, Mr Barraclough, and also with the co-perpetrator of the robbery, who should be able to furnish us once and for all with confirmation or otherwise of Tremlett’s involvement.”

  Barraclough brightened. “Really, Mr Holmes? Capital!”

  “I would appreciate it if you and Mr Searle would do us the favour of staying put in the meantime.”

  “Of course. Hurry back.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  SHADES IN THE FOREST OF THE MIND

  The grating had indeed been jemmied out and then put back. Holmes ascertained this to his satisfaction by study of the moss which grew in the groove surrounding it.

  “Note how easily I can uproot it,” he said, plucking out a clump of furry green plant matter with his thumb and forefinger. “The villain took the precaution of stuffing the moss back into place after he had completed his work and lowered the grating, which was cunning of him. At a glance, one might not notice. However, well-established moss would not normally come free without some effort on my part. I would have to dig it out, whereas here it is as loosely anchored as ripe cotton in its boll.”

  “But that still does not explain how someone could slither down the lightwell and into the cellar, Holmes,” I said. “I could barely fit my arm down there, without a hope of reaching the window. Unless some other method was used in the theft…”

  “Such as?” Holmes gave me a sly, inquisitive look.

  “Well, how about a fishing rod? Or some similar such device? Something that could be insinuated into the aperture and manipulated from out here. Something that could be telescoped outward until it extended to the safe doors.”

  “And how would this ingenious contraption of yours unlock the safes, Watson? How would it retrieve the jewels?”

  “A hook on the end? A pincer? I don’t know.” I pondered further. “What about a monkey, then?”

  “What ever put that thought in your head? Are you perhaps thinking of the orang-utan that committed those extraordinary murders in Paris some years back?”

  “The Rue Morgue case? The one your esteemed Auguste Dupin solved? I had forgotten about that, but yes. Obviously we’re talking about a far smaller primate in this instance, perhaps a marmoset or a capuchin monkey. One of those would have sufficient agility and intelligence, not to mention dexterity.”

  “Esteemed?” Trust Holmes to alight on that single remark, among all the other salient points I had raised. “I hardly admired Monsieur Dupin, Watson. He had a few professional qualities that I, in the early stages of my career, found inspirational and worth emulating, but his personality – oh dear! On the one occasion our paths crossed he came across as a shallow, pompous and vain little man, so full of himself he would hardly let anyone else get a word in edgewise. He was very old then, so I allowed him some latitude out of respect for his age. But still, a tiresome individual. He was forever scanning one’s face, searching it for subliminal clues, for insights into one’s innermost thought processes.”

  “You didn’t care for someone subjecting you to the kind of scrutiny you routinely visit on others?”

  “You may mock, Watson, but my methods are far subtler and neater than Dupin’s ever were. The man was deplorably prone to supposition and flights of fancy. There was not nearly enough logic in his workings, his ratiocination based as much on intuition as on impartial observation. But we digress.” He dismissed the subject of Dupin with a flap of the hand, as though swatting aside a fly. “A capuchin monkey, you say. Clearly this would be a creature so well-trained that it can open safes with a key and select Barraclough’s finer wares while rejecting the inferior. I picture it with a jeweller’s loupe screwed into one eye socket, holding gemstones up to the light to gauge their clarity and brilliance.”

  “Now you’re the one who’s mocking, Holmes. But my conjecture is not unsound. Without question it is more credible than your notion that a man was able to insert himself into the lightwell. Unless…”

  “Unless?”

  “Unless he was a small man. A midget. Even smaller than that Andaman islander, Tonga. The chap who nearly killed you with a poison dart during the Pondicherry Lodge affair. Accomplice to the ex-soldier who double-crossed my Mary’s father…”

  I broke off. I had called her “my Mary”, but she had not in fact been mine for quite some time. For only a handful of years did I and Mary Watson, née Morstan, live together as man and wife before callous fate made me a widower, and though I had since remarried and been more than content with my current spouse for a little over a decade, yet, for all that, Mary remained my first and perhaps my only true love. There were times when I could not help but think of her as alive, still as amiably handsome as when she first entered our rooms at 221B Baker Street and presented to us the riddle of her father’s disappearance. She now lay buried in Brompton Cemetery, along with the stillborn infant whose torturous arrival took the life from her, yet forever in my heart there is the sound of her sweet voice, the generous understanding with which she viewed my relationship with Holmes, the worry that she fought so hard to disguise every time I raced off to join my friend on yet another dangerous investigation…

  Holmes nodded sombrely, knowing what a pang I felt whenever the forests of my mind were revisited by the shad
e of Mary. “I grant you that a person of Tonga’s stature might, just might, have pulled off such a feat. At the very least he would be able to get his body into the lightwell, and possibly even his head – but through the window too? The body is pliable but not the skull. The skull is of fixed solidity. It cannot be compressed into spaces smaller than itself, at least not without permanent and in all likelihood fatal injury. Then there is the matter of the right-angled turn at the foot of the shaft. No normal human being, whatever their dimensions, could pull off that manoeuvre. The mechanics of physiology do not allow it.”

  “But you maintain, all the same, that someone somehow managed to?”

  “I do.”

  “Well then, who? How? What sort of man?”

  “You hold the answer – the key to the answer, at any rate – in your pocket, Watson.”

  The only objects I had in my pockets were my wallet, my house key, a handkerchief, a train ticket stub and a small hip-flask of whisky – the last purely for medicinal purposes, it goes without saying.

  “I don’t follow you,” I said.

  “The handbill, Watson,” said Holmes. “The one you so heedlessly thrust into your jacket on Terminus Road.”

  I took the piece of paper out, unfolded it, smoothed the creases and studied the wording. MCMAHON’S TRAVELLING THREE-RING EXTRAVAGANZA, it said in an ornately patterned font, alongside photogravure images of a striped Big Top and various acrobats and wild animals. PLUS MENAGERIE AND FREAK SHOW.

  “A… circus performer?”

  “Let us go,” said Holmes briskly. “McMahon’s has pitched camp to the east of town at Gilbert’s Recreation Ground. At a fair lick we can be there in under half an hour.”

  Scarcely had we travelled a hundred paces, however, when Holmes slapped his forehead.

  “Oh, how careless of me!” he ejaculated. “I’ve left my magnifying glass back at Barraclough’s. Wait there, Watson. I shan’t be a moment.”