The fog, the mystery, the intrigue of 19th Century London, the incomparable team of Holmes and Watson, the brilliant deductions, the twisting plots, and the unimagined solutions - all these elements are accounted for in "The Business of Baker Street," a collection of five new Sherlock Holmes stories. Each tribute tale respects the renowned style of Arthur Conan Doyle, and every story lures the reader into the entrancing world of Sherlock Holmes.
An innocent bank clerk driven to desperation by an ominous death threat, a viciously cruel and calculating barrister, a brilliant but hopelessly drug-addicted scientist, and a heartless woman obsessed with building a personal fortune, and a man torn between the loyalties of his past and the duties of his present - all these characters move across the Baker Street stage, finding peace, or prison, or death. These are new classic Holmes's tales told with abiding respect for the grand originals that enthralled readers for more than a century.
What price a few hours of genuine escape? Enjoy the licit pleasures of the pages and descend into spheres of criminal intrigues, human failings, poignant ironies, and Sherlockian justice.
The fog, the mystery, the intrigue of 19th Century London, the incomparable team of Holmes and Watson, the brilliant deductions, the twisting plots, and the unimagined solutions - all these elements are accounted for in "The Business of Baker Street," a collection of five new Sherlock Holmes stories. Each tribute tale respects the renowned style of Arthur Conan Doyle, and every story lures the reader into the entrancing world of Sherlock Holmes.
An innocent bank clerk driven to desperation by an ominous death threat, a viciously cruel and calculating barrister, a brilliant but hopelessly drug-addicted scientist, and a heartless woman obsessed with building a personal fortune, and a man torn between the loyalties of his past and the duties of his present - all these characters move across the Baker Street stage, finding peace, or prison, or death. These are new classic Holmes's tales told with abiding respect for the grand originals that enthralled readers for more than a century.
What price a few hours of genuine escape? Enjoy the licit pleasures of the pages and descend into spheres of criminal intrigues, human failings, poignant ironies, and Sherlockian justice.
My breakfast had not been very satisfactory. It was part of the new regimen my wife had imposed upon my slowly expanding waistline.She said that a doctor should be an example of good health to his patients, and then continued to argue gently the proposition that eating toast without butter and jam was beneficial.
"Rubbish," I replied mildly, and returned to the columns of the Times.
The morning edition had its usual offerings of indictments, assaults and burglaries, all of which invariably turned my thoughts to my former roommate, the celebrated London detective, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. It had been some time since I had heard any news of my friend, although it always seemed to me that between the lines of certain newspaper crime reports the powerful influence of Holmesâs deductive methods shown through. Some two or three of the stories had what I recognized as his indelible stamp. My reading of a succession of these was sufficient to persuade me that too much time had passed since I had paid Holmes a visit. I resolved that very day to turn my steps in the direction of the detectiveâs current and my former lodgings at Baker Street.
I descended from the carriage, crossed the road, stepping up on the curb in front of the familiar dwelling. I ascended the stairs as I had so many times, with the old faint feelings of adventure swelling up slightly just under the rib cage. I entered the room unannounced as always and was surprised to find it quite empty. Having had a slow office calendar the entire week and more time than I would need to run the few errands that had been carefully ordered by my wife, I determined to wait the better part of an hour against the possibility of Holmesâs return.
It was not an altogether uncomfortably cool afternoon in early April, and though the fire had not been lit, I settled myself in the large armchair by the fender and took up a copy of a monograph that Holmes was apparently preparing. The posting address appeared on the blue card stock cover: âThe London College Forensic Review.â It was one of the science journals that regularly published Holmesâs varied research. The article was of moderate length dealing it seemed with the classification of the visible characteristics of various punctures of indigenous insects. I had hardly scanned the title when there came the footfalls of at least two persons upon the stairs. I assumed it was Holmes accompanied by someone, until I heard a very tentative knock at the door.
Considering my friendâs absence I was quite uncertain how to respond, but I finally rose and opened the door to find the young boy in Mrs. Hudsonâs employ, and a short, heavyset, middle aged gentleman standing rather sheepishly behind him.
âMr. Fowler for Mr. Holmes,â the boy announced without surprise, being accustomed to seeing me with some regularity on the answering side of the door to Holmesâs apartment.
âIâm⌠afraid⌠Mr. Holmes is not in,â I replied stammering, rather taken back by the awkwardness of my circumstances. I had no reason whatsoever to be caught short by being alone in the detectiveâs rooms, and yet it struck me quite curiously that more often than not, even in the most honest of circumstances, an honest man cannot help but be tinged by an uncomfortable feeling of guilt. I recovered from my musing quickly and squared myself formally to the visitor.
âHow do you do Mr. Fowler. I am Dr. Watson, Mr. Holmesâs associate.â
The man pulled the watch from his waistcoat pocket, raised the spectacles from his nose to read it and stood by in a manner clearly indicating his nervous agitation.Finally, after an uncomfortably long hesitation that included the careful adjustment and re-adjustment of his spectacles, he communicated that if it were not an inconvenience, he would very much prefer to wait for Mr. Holmesâs return. When he saw my hesitation he assured me hurriedly that other engagements would almost certainly prevent his waiting much past a quarter of an hour.
I ushered him into the room with what courtesy I could muster. and he sat down upon the divan. When he politely ignored my attempts at pleasantry, and it became clear that he would keep his counsel, I recovered the monograph and made show of devoting myself to the reading of it. I was certain the man had not arranged a meeting with Holmes in advance but had simply made his appearance at Baker Street in hopes of finding the detective at home. My certainty in this was beyond question. Holmes would never have knowingly absented himself from an appointment.Personally, he was a mass of disorder and unpredictability, but professionally his habits were inflexibly regular. The notion of a missed appointment was, I knew from long experience, anathema to the exacting nature and strict propriety ingrained in the man.
At first the visitor was at his ease, although formal, indeed almost severe, in his deportment. As the minutes passed, however, his equanimity flagged and his agitation slowly began to make itself known by his niggling on the divan and by the nervous attentions he paid to repositioning his spectacles.
I knew Holmes well enough to be certain that if he did not return in time to speak to this overanxious guest, the detective would question me closely regarding all the details of the visitor so that he might, as was his fashion, draw conclusions as to the gentlemanâs person, position, and circumstances. I therefore immediately turned my attention to the fellow and began a thorough, yet discreet examination of the man and his accoutrements.
He was of less than moderate height, almost perfectly rotund, with a very closely shaven face, and deep-set brown eyes behind small oval spectacles. His clothing proclaimed him a man of business I was certain; despite his obesity he was well-tailored in jacket and waistcoat, with striped, grey pants, well-turned soft leather boots and gray striped gaiters. His very white shirt, starched collar, and carefully handed cravat completed the picture of a fastidious, if not fashionable, London merchant, or perhaps a solicitor for an office of advocates down Old Bailey way.
Considering Holmesâs absence, I was determined to gather the very minutia of details as grist for my friendâs deductive mill, but search as I might, aside from the observations noted, the visitor was to me as uniformly conventional as a London street lamp.
When fifteen minutes had passed the fellow rose and with a hurried bow left the room before I could halfway accompany him to the door.
It was not ten minutes later that Holmes slowly entered the room, glanced at me casually and without any further greeting, flung himself down into the armchair with a listless smile. I had known him too long not to have noticed the signs. A drudging ennui had set itself upon him like an equatorial fever.These bouts afflicted him with regularity. Not a fortnight would pass after having applied his mind to the solution of some knotty intrigue than he would succumb to a lethargy that transformed him to his core.His friendly words could not disguise the languor of his subdued condition.
âI am glad to see you Watson,â he said tiredly, âthough I fear that your visit has come at a time doubly disappointing for you. You are an hour and a quarter past your old housekeeperâs excellent luncheon, and in the bargain, I am without at present a matter of interest upon which to engage your assistance. I am afraid, my old friend, that present circumstances make me an unworthy host.â
âWell, I have had an early lunch,â I said agreeably. And as for your prospects, they may have just improved. There was a gentleman here to see you not 10 minutes ago.â
âThat is well,â he continued without conviction, âbut I have little faith in it being a matter anything but conventional. You will remember from your own experiences that conventionality in crime is the rule. You chronicle only the exceptions, dear doctor. For every âCase of The Speckled Band,â for every âBoscombe Valley Mystery.â there are legions of conventional crimes â committed without plan, solved without thought, and brought to law with as little effort as it takes to lift a quill and write the word âconventional.â Just by the sheer weight of probability, the gentleman you speak of brings us a conventional matter. But let us not despair entirely,â he said with some little determination in his voice.He roused himself in the chair and reached for his clay pipe and pouch of shag.
âTell me of him and of his story.â
âI am afraid there is no story to tell. He came to see you, waited some little time and left. But as I knew you would inquire of me, I made a point of examining the fellow in every possible detail. If you wish I will communicate to you every particular so that you will have the man complete.â
âPray, proceed,â he said earnestly as he thumbed tobacco into the blackened clay.I began with as much specification as I could bring to bear, starting as I thought best with the gentlemanâs hat, with a thought to work my way down his person in an anatomically organized fashion from top to bottom, a method second nature to me by my years of medical training.I was just about to move rather proudly to a refined delineation the visitorâs mien, when that same tentative knock at the door I had heard earlier came again, and upon my pulling open the door, the same urchin announced again, âMr. Fowler to see Mr. Holmes.â
Holmes put aside his tobacco and crossed the room in an instant. He took his visitorâs hat and ushered him genially into a chair near the hearth. In deference to Holmesâs mood, I thought it best to open the dialogue myself. I turned to our guest and asked him how it was that he had cleared the âother engagementsâ he had told me of, and how he knew that Holmes had returned.
âIn truth,â he said with some small embarrassment, âI had no other engagements, doctor. I apologize for that small deceit, but I am so put upon by this troubled business I seem to be losing my usual civil habits.Forgive me. When I left your rooms, I lounged at the corner of Baker and Sutherland wondering what I should do. When I saw a gentleman on the flags, a tall gentleman of a serious disposition, and he turned up the steps of 221B, I knew it must be Mr. Holmes.â
âI commend you on your observation,â said Holmes, âbut tell us please the nature of your business here. And speak frankly, if you will. Dr. Watsonâs ears are a second in trust and faith to my own.â
âIt is a tale whose burden I have carried for the better part of two months. I will begin with myself by way of introduction. My name is Charles Fowler and IâŚâ
âYou may proceed directly to details other than those made obvious by your person,â said Holmes demurely. âNamely, that you are Charles Albert Fowler, that you are a clerk in the British Maritime Bank and Trust Company, that you are 43 years of age, unmarried, a Freemason, and that you are at present deeply disappointed with your barber.â
Fowlerâs mouth dropped open as stupidly as a coal chute, his eyes went wide, and his arms rose slowly up as though to ward off a blow. âHow could youâŚyou couldnât possiblyâŚ,â he stammered in disbelief.
âMy dear sir, I have merely done what you have done in your observation of me as I arrived home, though I have drawn conclusions from what I observed. The small service pin on your lapel is marked âBMBTC.â It is wrought in silver to represent twenty-five years of service, and I perceive it is quite new as it is utterly untarnished. Common knowledge informs that British banks employ clerks not sooner and seldom later than their eighteenth birthdays. The indent on your right index finger is from years of grasping the stylus, and the slight shine and thread wear on the lower, right-hand sleeve of your coat denotes the perennial labors of the clerk. Your bowler, that lies there upon the sideboard, contains your full name, next to which appears a faded though still recognizable emboss of the square and compass. And the residue on your hat brim of Lindenâs No. 3 Professional Darkening Hair Pomade, are signs that you still hope to secure the interest of some member of the fairer sex. The smudge of Lindenâs on your handkerchief proves that your barber was inexpert in his recent application of the paint. But pray continue with your tale and leave no detail untold.â
Fowler collected himself slowly as he came to realize that the facts Holmes had gathered were not sensational, but rather deductive and drawn from sources of information that were there for any eye to see. As plain and rational as it was, once its rudiments were revealed, Holmesâ penetrating method of observation and conclusion was nonetheless an utter fascination to both myself and Fowler.Finally composed, the gentleman took up again the thread of his narrative.
âThe trouble was slow in coming, Mr. Holmes. It began on the second Thursday of last month, the day the bankâs salary envelopes are handed out by the bursar. I was sitting at my desk in the corner of the office where I share space with the desk of the senior clerk, John Camberley. Between us we prepare all the ledger entries for all the trust disbursements for the BMB&T.
âWell, I opened my envelope and counted my money quickly, as the office was not fond of employees frittering away company time on personal enterprise. From between the pound notes there slipped onto my desktop a small plain white card. As you may imagine, Mr. Holmes, the bank is very regular in its habits and a card inserted into a salary envelope was very irregular indeed. Before I could think very much upon the irregularity of the thing, I read the characters childishly scrawled on the card face.
âHere is a reasonable facsimile of the card,â he said, and handed Holmes a plain white card showing the following entries:
âGBSTF
(d) 150 pounds - 3Qâ
âGive thought to Nan!â
Holmes scanned the duplicated writing summarily, then looked back at the clerk. âWould you be so kind, Mr. Fowler, as to propound upon your understanding of these entries.â
âIt is very clear, Mr. Holmes, or I should say it would be very clear to any familiar with the shorthand coding of the trust division of the BMB&T. The words on the card are in the nature of an order to create an expense of 150 pounds for the third quarter of this year as against the GBSTF, which is the Greater British Stevedores Trust Fund. I can only assume the words, âGive thought to Nanâ was a reference to John Camberleyâs afflicted sister, a very sweet young woman, though cruelly and undeservedly disturbed in the mind. You should know that the Stevedores trust is not my account, Mr. Holmes, itâs John Camberleyâs. .
âMine is a very cautious â a very exacting occupation Mr. Holmes, and I had no mind to âburn the bedpost,â as they say, but it certainly appeared to me that the note was calling for the felonious entry of a fabricated payment.
âIf you will permit the interruption of a few questions Mr. Fowler,â Holmes asked calmly. âFor one, how are you sure it was âfabricated,â and not a bona fide request in the ordinary course of business?
âPardon me, Mr. Holmes, but as you concluded, I am a clerk these five and twenty years. Orders to disburse against a fund balance are never submitted by scribbled note sir.They are ordered in triplicate, signed each by the trust branch administrator, and accompanied by sheaves upon sheaves of paper that stand in proof of the actual expended monies. No sir, this note was surely a circus side-show business all round.
âVery well, yet if you thought so,â rejoined Holmes, âwhy did you not alert the force at a local station house?â
âAs for the policeâŚ.â Fowler explained with a hesitation that bespoke the raising of a subject upon which he felt deep conviction, âif it is at all possible, Mr. Holmes, I should like to avoid any public discredit that may light upon the company. Ringing an alarm would do it a harm it does not deserve. It may be true that I am neither manager nor shareholder, yet the BMB&T has been good to me and my family. I am a bachelor as you divined, Mr. Holmes. My aging parents rely even more than myself upon the good fortune of my employment, if you see what I mean sir.â
âI do, my good man. And how did you then proceedâŚ.be particular!â
âWell, I turned with the card in my hand and said, âWhat do you make of this, Jack?â and handed him the note. It seemed to take a moment or two for the weight of the message to hit the mark, but when it did, his eyes bulged; he turned as white as cod flesh, and mumbled that the card was meant for him and that he would attend to it. He slid it into his waistcoat pocket and sat the rest of the day as restless and fidgeting as a man tied to a stove top. But as he was a fellow not much given to either good health or good nature, I thought little of it further.
âWhat you have told us thus far Mr. Fowler might well be a succession of events conveniently explained by any number of fortuitous circumstances.â
âThat is certain, Mr. Holmes, and I thought it so myself until the occurrence of two further details.Here is the first.â
The clerk handed my friend an evening edition of the London Sentinel. On the lower left portion of the fourth page a single column gave just ten lines of print to the death of ââŚ.a clerk of the BMB&T, one J. Camberley.â The two inches of tintype went on to say that the body had been pulled from the Thames just north of Baywaters Bridge at Leighton, and that considering the absence of any evidence of malice, it was anticipated that the inquest would return a finding of accidental death.
âAnd now, sir, for the second. I arrived at work Monday last to discover that I had been ascended quite unexpectedly to the senior clerkâs position. I moved my trappings into Jackâs desk with, I might add, no small feeling of regret for his unfortunate end. But lifeâs designed to go on, Mr. Holmes, and so thereâs an end of it, or so I thought. Three days later, the second Thursday of the month had come round again, and I was looking forward to my pay envelope with earnings at the new position rate, when this fell out with the pound notes.â
He handed Holmes a plain white card written on one side in what gave appearance of little more than a childish scribble. It read:
âLCMET,
(d) 200 pounds, 4Q.
Give thought to your parents, and to Camberley.â
Holmes leaned forward in his seat and faced the clerk squarely. He placed the card carefully upon the lamp stand beside him. With elbows on the chair arms, he slowly brought together the fingertips of his hands before him. âThis is a dark business,â he murmured. âMay I venture a supposition that the LCMET is the bankâs shorthand for the London City Museum Endowment Trust?â
âThat is correct, Mr. Holmes.â
âAnd might I also suppose that you now harbor a growing fear that you must choose one of two equally disagreeable paths; namely, to become a felon by committing financial malfeasance, or to face ruin and perhaps an ignominious death?â
The clerk blanched whiter than his shirtfront. He could neither respond nor contain any longer the unsettled emotion he had for several weeks struggled to keep within. He lowered his face into the palms of his hands, his frame shook in spasms, and muffled groans issued from a heart overborne with a long-controlled anguish.As a seasoned veteran of the healerâs craft I have seen my share of human suffering, yet it is still unsettling to the eye and the ear when a man, expected too often to bravely endure the âthousand shocks,â is finally overcome by them and surrenders to despair as Fowler did.
To his credit, the clerk indulged his sorrow but for a moment. He took hold of the short crystal of brandy that Holmes had poured and offered him and quaffed it gratefully. His color returned, and regaining his lost composure, he lifted his eyes to Holmes and said in a hoarse voice, âWhatâs to be done, then, Mr. HolmesâŚ., what is ever to be done?â
âPermit me but a few more inquiries,â the detective said mildly, âand after your replies are made you may place the entire burden of the matter upon me.â
âI will presume that your branch administrator is not the party responsible for calculating the contents, preparing, and distributing your wage envelopes?â
âNo, Mr. Holmes, he is not,â the clerk murmured in a voice not fully recovered from its disturbed passion. Those functions are performed exclusively by the office of the bursar. However, wage envelopes do pass through several offices and hands before actual physical delivery is accomplished. I see the direction of your thought, but determining where the introduction of the card might have been made along its journey seems quite impossible. And I cannot imagine anyone in the employ of the BMB&T who would ever conceive of such a plan as this, Mr. Holmes. It is abominable!
âAnd finally, when must you complete the financial postings for trust accounts so as to be prepared for the fourth quarter of the fiscal year?â
âNot for a fortnight yet, but each day that passes brings me closer to a desperation that is like to be the end of me, Mr. Holmes.â
Holmes placed a steadying hand upon the clerkâs shoulder as he handed him his bowler, and after the customary exchange of thanks and reassurances, Fowler departed, though for all that, nonetheless agitated than upon his arrival.
Holmes sank deeper into his armchair and resumed his tobacco, but with no jot of the lethargy that had plagued him only half an hour earlier.
âThis is a matter both dark and delicate,â he said, âand it is far from the conventionality of which we spoke earlier. And did you hear him, Watson? He could not imagine, not by any stretch of his reason, anyone of his fellows who could conceive of such a black plan of extortion. How fortunate are those as heâŚto have so trusting and so innocent a nature in regard to our species. You and I, Watson, are not so fortunate as that. In our little âadventuresâ we have seen close the features of the beast more times perhaps than men should have to bear.â
It was not uncommon for my companion to wax philosophic regarding the dimensions of his occupation, but I knew the musing would be short-lived in light of the intrigue that called now for the active application of his mind.
I was correct in this, for hardly a moment passed before he had sprung from the chair with a vault, taken up his heavy desk glass and began searching the surface of the card minutely, holding it to the lamp light, placing it to his nose, feeling the composition of the stock, every fiber of every sense focused on the small, white rectangle. This meticulous survey carried through the better part of half an hour before
Holmes turned from the task with an expression that my long acquaintance with the man quickly discerned as satisfaction. To be precise, it was hardly an expression at all, but more a subtle settling of the physiognomy, not unlike the effects of a strong stimulant administered to one who teeters on the verge of losing consciousness.
âExtortion is a crime heavily laden with cruelty, Watson. The perpetrator derives no small delight in the secret, inexorable manipulation of his victim. Of course, the end purpose is not unlike that of most crimes, namely the monetary enrichment of the criminal, but riches are not enough to satisfy the cruel nature of the extortionist.
There is a demonic aspect to extortion. Crime for mere gain can be understood, even forgiven by circumstance, but extortion is first and last a beastly business.â
âBut Holmes,â I rejoined, âif the manipulation is secretive as you have said, how can a plot of extortion ever come to light?â
âSuch plots seldom do.They bind their victims so tightly that few escape, save for the final liberation of the grave. You recall the matter of âThe Boscombe Valley Mystery,â Watson. It is true that that plot unraveled, but the victim never again knew peace of mind.
âThen I must repeat the entreaty of the clerk and ask you, âwhatâs to be done?ââ
âWe are fortunate in this one exigent, Watson â that our much troubled Mr. Fowler has broken the chain of secrecy by placing the secret into our hands. And it is an obligation that we must undertake without delay.â
Holmes scuttled into his dressing room with his customary deliberation and in a few moments returned transformed. His aspect was unaltered but his dress, from top to toe, was exchanged for that of a drearily composed London businessman. With a pair of crooked spectacles, a battered leather briefcase, and a worn topcoat that declared the extent of proud English economy, Holmes joined the legions of the cityâs âmen of business.â He crossed to his bookshelves, withdrew the yearâs copy of âDicksonâs London Mercantile,â and proceeded to transcribe onto some foolscap, certain listings from the volume.
âCould I impose upon you Watson, to man the home station until my return? I am off to do some shopping, and with a little luck, I should return with a guest.
The better part of three hours had passed before Holmes reappeared. His look was subdued, but the vigor of a new case and the call to action had completely transformed him. The sour depression that had gripped him only hours earlier was so completely gone that it would hardly be believed that the man of the morning and the man of the evening were one and the same. His business weeds seemed awkward to him now and he went to his room without ceremony and re-emerged shortly as Holmes. He sat heavily at his desk, pushed aside his monograph and looked once again at the card that Fowler had given him.
âI have been to five stationary shops in and about the neighboring streets of the BMB&T â five.The first four returned nothing, but the fifth âpaid the freight.â It has always been a curiosity of mine, Watson,â he mused, âthat the determined search we make for a particular datum seems never to yield a positive result on the first or second attempt. It is as though the sought-for result is veiled from us and we must trudge and stumble through shadows before gaining the reward. Five stationers, my friend â why do you suppose we never strike the vein on the first or second?â
âI am sure I do not know, but really Holmes,â I replied with some irritation, âtell me what you discovered.â
âIt is not very much â hardly enough to satisfy the effort. It seems the card stock note that appeared in Mr. Fowlerâs pay envelope was purchased from Shipmanâs Stationers in Leggard Road, West End, and the parcel of cards was sent by post to the offices of the BMB&T.
âThen surely the payment can be traced by store records to an exact purchaser,â I rejoined with enthusiasm.
âThat is the sticker, Watson. The order for the cards was but a small part of the regular stationary order. It was placed and payment accomplished through ordinary channels of the BMB&T account that has stood with Shipmanâs for many years. We have pursued the rabbit only to lose it in a tangle of briars.â
âAnd what of theâ guestâ you hoped to produce?â
âI fear that is yet another briar patch, my friend. Mr. Savins, the bursar of the BMB&T, is the epitome of an English man of business; very formal, very cautious, and for all but matters of business, very aloof. I barely gained entrance to his offices, even in my guise as a fellow member of the business tribe. Finally, I was forced to acknowledge my disguise and disclosed who I was de facto. When I explained that I was making discreet inquiries into the death of John Camberley, Savins recoiled, almost violently, and unless my evaluation of human speech has missed its mark, there was a palpable fear in his voice.
âWhat other signs of mens rea can you possibly need, my dear Holmes. Surely the man is involved or knows more of the matter than he is letting on.â
âYou may be quite correct, Watson. However, you may also be neglecting to give proper weight to the strong loyalties and noble allegiance of the dedicated British merchant. Such protective fidelity to their commercial obligations is the mark of many a good English businessman. Savins may be an extortionist and murderer, or he may be a selfless and dedicated employee. On occasion, we need to cast our net beyond the obvious. It occurred to me that the removing the extortionist from the comfort and security of a professional setting might allow the breadth of his darkened character to reveal itself. I have asked Savins to join us here for a simple dinner. He agreed, but did so with a reluctance that belied strong misgivings.â
âMisgivings,â I exclaimed! âHolmes, clearly you are describing the motions of a man possessing a guilty mind.If he breaks the engagement or fails to appear, it is certain he is involved in Camberleyâs demise.â
Although I offered this declaration with all possible conviction, Holmes remained quietly unmoved.It was characteristic of his nature to hold rigorously to his own notions. However, unlike so many other passionately self-possessed persons, he did this without antagonism or presumption. It was simply a matter of his unshaken trust in his keen observations and implacable deductions. His silence after my pronouncement of suspicion regarding the bursar, was characteristic of my friend. The silence was broken by a ring of the bell at the street, the pad of feet upon the stairs, and a knock upon the door.
Holmes moved swiftly to the door, opened it, and with his usual geniality he ushered the visitor into the room. He did not seem in the least surprised that the guest was not the BMB&T bursar, Mr. Savins, but a rather plainly dressed, middle-aged woman.
âGood evening Miss Keel,â Holmes said warmly as he steered her to the divan.âIt was so good of you to come.Permit me to present my associate, Dr. Watson,â at which introduction I smiled weakly, muttered her name by way of greeting and resumed my seat.
âDo I correctly presume,â continued Holmes, âthat your supervisor was unavoidably detained and has sent you as his envoy?â
Miss Keel sat bolt upright and took little notice of her surroundings as women are wont to do when they enter a room from obligation rather than personal design. She kept her eyes turned towards my friend, but never directly. She was one of those persons who made a habit of slightly averting her eyes from her conversant. Whenever her glance was drawn to Holmesâ she would look quickly down or to the side, or slightly up over the detectiveâs head. It was a disagreeable trait and did much to detract from her otherwise moderately handsome features. She was accoutered in the drab, colorless style common to women working in the world of the London office. This included a simply cut gray dress that fell modestly to the floor and ran high about the neck. All decorations to her sex were very noticeably absent, and her general deportment matched her wardrobe perfectly. Whether to her credit or to her loss, she was in voice and figure and manner, a mere business machine.
âMr. Savins is a very busy man,â she said in a temperate and efficient staccato.âThe British Maritime Bank and Trust is his highest priority. The bankâs reputation is sacred to him. In deference to his position and in his employerâs best interests, he has instructed me to tell you that there is nothing further he can contribute to your investigation.â
The content of this blunt declaration made by the bursarâs secretary turned all reasonable suspicion, I was sure, to the bursar. It was certain Savins was the culprit.
When Miss Keel concluded, I tried my utmost to catch the attention of Holmes and exchange a knowing glance, but before I could, there came a heavy knock on the door.
Without rising, and all the time smiling most intently at Miss Keel, Holmes said, âCome in Inspector â the door is open.â
With three distinctly military strides, Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard gained the center of the room. He removed his hat, and in a respectful gesture to the lady, made a slight and clumsy bow.
âAllow me to introduce Inspector Lestrade. Inspector â Miss Keel of the BMB&T,â said Holmes demurely. âI would offer you a seat, Inspector, but we are almost finished here and you should not be detained for more than a few moments. Have you sworn out the warrant of arrest?â
âYes, Mr. Holmes. Itâs all in order, sir, and signed by the magistrate,â Lestrade declared as he removed a folded blue legal back from his coat pocket.
âExcellent,â said Holmes. âAnd am I correct that under present English law, any person of lawful age who is not a party to a legal proceeding may serve a warrant upon another?â
âYes once again, sir, though itâs often a nasty business in the criminal cases.â
Holmes took the warrant and reviewed it casually. âI do not foresee any ânasty businessâ in the service of this particular criminal warrant, Inspector.â He turned to face the secretary and handed her the folded papers. âMiss Keel, would you be so kind as to make service of this warrant on Mr. Savins tomorrow morning?â
âWarrant? A warrant for what?â she exclaimed incredulously.
âIt is a warrant for the custodial arrest of Geoffrey Helm Savins under charges of
extortion and complicity in the death of John Camberley,â said Holmes with perfect composure.
It was soon apparent that the cool austerity of the woman sitting on the divan was not a mere pretense. Her posture remained erect, her face was an implacable mask, and when she finally spoke, her voice was sure and steady.She rose slowly from her seat, straightened herself to her full height and turned to the detective.
âNo....no that will be quite impossible, Mr. Holmes.â
âAnd why is thatâ the detective asked in a voice that had hardened considerably.
For the first time she turned her eyes full upon my friend. âBecause Mr. Savins is a family man with wife and children, and for those reasons he is a man of high moral character, and additionally because he is fully innocent of these goings on.â
She rose from her seat and crossed the few paces between them until she was very close to where Holmes stood. Her demeanor had little changed from its rigid control, but a shade of color had come to her face. She stood before him, and it almost seemed from her stance that she was restraining herself from striking the detective.
When her voice came to her, it was hardened, and had the righteousness and arrogance of a woman wronged.
âBachelors,â she said, slowly pronouncing every syllable of the word with a snarling vindictive anger. âThey disgust me. They should every one of them be punished for what they do to my sex. Primping their independence about with their superior airs, while the women in their circles pine their lives away with waiting and planning and dreaming. Camberley was such a man, and Fowler too. I hated them. They left me to wither, year after year, until my youth was gone, and what beauty I possessed was gone, and my dream children were gone.âHer face twisted itself into a grotesque smile. âSo, I wrote them little notes. Little âlove notesâ on little cards. I knew the prospect of committing extortion under the threat of harm to loved ones would torment them â I wanted to torment them as I had been tormented. And I watched it all...from my desk â watched them wither day after day and turn pale and despair. How can I describe it,â she said dreamily with her teeth showing through the cruel smile.âYes, ah yes, it was exquisite.â
Lestrade stepped forward, gently placed his hand on her arm, and turned the secretary quietly out of the room.
The arrest warrant had fallen from the hand of the distracted woman as she left and I retrieved it. It was a blue cover folded over several blank pages of legal bond.
âThen you knew that Savins was innocent,â I asked as Holmes fell back into his chair and casually reached for the draft of his monograph.
âI knew,â Holmes replied, âonly what the evidence provided. The note card was a treasure of information. It declared the existence of an insider at the BMB&T.The handwriting on the card was barely legible. This indicated that the victims knew the regular handwriting of the extortionist.My terse discussions with the bursar resulted in one important fact; Mr. Savinsâ handwriting appeared on virtually no documents in the clerksâ offices. Miss Keel prepared all documents for Camberley and Fowler.âWhen, after considerable effort, I was finally able to make clear the details of the matter to Lestrade, he agreed to the innocent charade of an arrest warrant.â
Holmes fired a match and lit his pipe with the familiar disinterest creeping into his voice and manner.
âAlso,â he continued languidly, âa cursory check of the accounts which Mr. Savins reluctantly provided, showed no discrepancy of funds from either of the two trust funds targeted for invasion. This led to the rather simple conclusion that pecuniary gain was not at the heart of the matter. When money is not the subject of crime, Watson, love, in its presence or its absence, usually is.â
âBut what of the ignominious death of the first clerk?â
âCamberley was apparently a fragile fellow with precious little to cling to,â said Holmes. âWhether the secretary drove him to his death or not is a matter for the courts to decide.As for Fowler, I have sent him word by evening post that the matter is very nearly resolved.â
Five great Sherlock Holmes short stories, each roughly 30 pages longâor would you prefer the longer, 200-page (on average) Holmes novels? I think making a choice is similar to choosing between One Day Internationals (ODIs) and Test matches in the world of cricket: instant reward versus the pleasure of a long detective novelâthe gradual buildup of tension, the sustained high-adrenaline phase, and the final nail-biting finish! The choice is yours. If you prefer instant gratification, please check out The Business of Baker Street â Five New Sherlock Holmes Stories by MX Publishingâit may just be the right Holmes collection you're looking to read next.
The stories in this collection feature an array of clients. In the first, it's a bank clerk blackmailed by a colleague. In the second, the client is the mother of a London MP with a considerable inheritance, who's fallen into the wily clutches of a master extortioner. A (medical) doctor who's sold his soul to murderous drug traffickers is the third. The family of a wealthy, elderly man, being honey-trapped into marriage by a beautiful, but unscrupulous young woman is the fourth. And finally, thereâs the mother of a brilliant young automobile engineer, who under mysterious circumstances, has abruptly quit his lucrative job overseasâprompting her to approach Holmes for help.
I enjoyed four out of the five stories in this book. I found the fifth rather bland. But that's according to my subjective tastes and even so, it's definitely worth reading. Among the stories I approve of, I wouldn't give equal marks to all. Holmes' jaw-dropping deductive powers are on display throughout the book, but they approach the zenith in the first one above, i.e., the story of the blackmailed bank clerk. Even as a seasoned Sherlock Holmes fan, I was astounded when Holmes instantly deduced six key facts about the clerk after quietly observing his clothing, accouterments, and demeanor.
The book has a neat layout, and the narratives are succinct. Both contribute to excellent readability. The cover is attractive. However, there are some errors in the text. Taking the positive and negative aspects together, I award it 4 stars.
I recommend this book to all Sherlock Holmes fans. It can be a splendid companion for a brief journey, to fill up waiting time, or if you would like to devote time to some quiet reading by yourself. I would also recommend it to newcomers to crime/detective fiction because you'll be able to get an introduction to the world-famous detective, Sherlock Holmes, pretty quickly and easily from it.