Chapter Six: Blind Justice - Part Two
London, 2nd June, 1890
Holmes attended carefully as Helen, seated beside him on the couch in 221b Baker Street, read to him from the latest file taken from those stacked upon the table before them, the police reports of the Yard's suspects dry but thorough. If anything, though, he seemed to listen even more vigilantly when she was done with the particulars of each man in question, his blind and covered eyes turning in her direction with his head cocked slightly to one side.
For once done with the 'dry filling' of the report as he called it, if he had not dismissed the man out of hand as incapable of being their thief, then Helen, as per his explicit instructions and to the best of her ability, described in detail every last aspect of the face and head in front of her, be it photograph or artist's rendering, until he was satisfied.
This she did happily for him though with great curiosity and wondering all the while as to the reason for this instruction. Given her inquisitive nature, it was with admirable restraint that she managed to stave off the inevitable question that bubbled away while she read.
"Sherlock," she finally addressed him after he had once again dismissed another possible suspect when they were but half way through his details. "Why precisely does it matter what the shape of their heads is? I understand you are trying to form a portrait of the individual in your mind...but to dismiss them before you hear their entire background?"
Raising his head from where it rested upon his chest and removing himself from his contemplation, he turned his freshly bandaged face once more in her direction, Watson having treated and dressed the burns beneath before his departure.
"I have already read their files and for the most part, committed their backgrounds to memory," he replied, a small smile on his face at her finally breaking her silence. "But police records are notoriously one dimensional, and while these files tell me of their criminal activities, what they have either been suspected of or caught in the act of doing, it does not tell me of their personalities or capabilities. Our man is more than just the sum of a report and far more than he appears to be. I need to find some sense of that.
"It is believed by some that oft times one can learn what one needs to know about another from outward characteristics. The slope of the brow, curve of the cranium…the topology of the skull itself if given the chance to examine it," he said. "In a similar fashion, there is a school of thought that says one can tell as much from facial characteristics and quirks as an entire diary full of self-confession. More perhaps...as a skilled reader can tell not only what they may or may not have done, but what they might be capable of. While it is merely an experiment, I admit, these sciences -- phrenology and physiognomy -- may well be able to point me in directions mere police forms cannot."
"And a person's skull can truly tell you this?" she enquired, her tone unsure. "I understand the mannerisms, of course. But to know a person simply from the way their heads are constructed?" She shook her head and closed the file, placing it on the pile of those done. "I believe I have heard mention of phrenology...but I've not heard anything about it."
"Phrenology is the physiological hypothesis advocated by the German physician Franz Gall that mental faculties and traits of character are shown upon the surface of the skull." He smiled a little as he slipped into his lecture mode. "The geography of the mind if you will. Physiognomy is an older concept that has developed from an absolute in the middle ages into a science of sorts...in which rough statistical correlations between physical features and character traits are established. Namely that our physical make up and appearance are affected by our character traits, and vice versa. "
"They are not absolutes, as I say," he added, his head turning to the window as he noted the selling cry of the newspaper boy at the end of the street was louder and more vivid than usual. "But the man we are looking for is apparently able to move in both high society...and the poorest of gin houses, with absolute equanimity. I am searching for some clue to his appearance that might let me see who amongst these men might be possible of such ease of transposition. Something in his face or cranial structure that might tell me who he is." He turned his attention back to her. "Every face tells a story, they say. And here, they say, each differing part of your head and eyes is a paragraph, a line, an exclamation point, or period...each one telling you a little more about yourself."
Her hand reached up and touched her face almost in reflex as he said that, and then she hastily lowered it, a touch embarrassed at the gesture and her subsequent curious enquiry coming forth just a little hurried as a result. "And you can...tell a man's story with this science, Sherlock?"
He inhaled a little as he pondered this, taking note as he did so of the lingering smell of cabbage from last night's meal, the scent of boot black on his shoes that Mrs. Hudson had polished for him, and, unsurprisingly given her proximity, Helen's subtle perfume. "I believe it might aid in the telling of his propensities...in what they might excel at and what they have a greater tendency towards," he said finally.
"Fascinating," she replied, her tone reflecting that particular sentiment, while she wondered inwardly what her face might tell.
"Indeed," said he in full agreement as he moved to point to a spot on the side of his head, only to find the swathe of bandages blocking his aim. Disgruntled at his lesson being impeded, he merely moved his hand from his own head towards hers. "Lean your head forward. It will be easier for me to indicate on you than on myself, he instructed, his hand paused in mid-air, waiting for her, and his studious expression making it clear there was no hint of any impropriety in his intended thought or action.
With a most interested countenance of her own, she laid the file upon her lap back with its fellows on the small table next to them and moved a little closer to him on the couch. Taking his searching hand, she guided it to her head, the long braided loop around her chignon brushing his fingers in the process and informing him of her hairstyle that day.
"Here..." He touched the back of her head with two fingers, pressing against her scalp softly. "There..." He indicated the central spot two-thirds of the way up her cranium. "Where I'm pressing, that is the area assigned to concentrativeness...or intelligence if you will. Yours has an impressive width..." He inclined his head a little in compliment as he assessed it. "For a woman."
"Of course," she returned, amusement lacing her voice.
His fingers moved to either side of the spot upon Helen's head he had touched initially, and he chuckled to himself, completely unconcerned by how the sight of a man brushing his fingers through a woman's hair in this manner might seem to some improper or imprudent. Having little time as he did for those societal conventions that impeded his work or his ability to discern information or, as in this case, impart it to others, the only thing that occurred to him beyond that point was how much his heightened senses made the touch of her hair an almost visual experience.
"A penny for your thoughts?" she asked him, curious as to the source of his amusement.
"These areas..." he pointed out, touching either side of that spot once more, "both of which are extremely well developed on you…are assigned to adhesiveness." His smile grew. "Persistence. Stubbornness, if you will."
"Ah..." she breathed, her head dipping a little under his touch as she sighed softly, her own amusement joining his. "I see."
"It is quite interesting what touches directly upon intellect in terms of phrenology. Persistence on either side..." He touched those spots once more gently. "And then above...what phrenologists call inhabitiveness." The pads of his fingers slipped over her head to the curve above the plane he had first alighted on. "Which is also a form of persistence, although it deals with willingness to stay where one is -- love of home and country -- a counterpoint to wanderlust if you will," he added, finding some of the tenseness that had informed his consciousness those past few days easing a little as the lesson continued. "It is a good balance to have, I believe," he pronounced. "Showing neither flightiness nor stagnation...good for the intellect."
Though he would never admit it outwardly at that point, he had found the past few days without sight worrisome and highly disconcerting. Quite apart from the concern for his future and the horror and injury to his pride of being reliant on others for an extended period of time, dwelling in darkness both night and day had left him feeling isolated in a way that even a man such as he, who never cared too much for company, found deeply unsettling.
In the tranquillity of this impromptu tutorial, Helen's presence, her connection to him through touch, was a decided comfort, given the uncertainty and separation he was experiencing.
"And of course...intellect is nothing without persistence, for which you are well equipped." He smiled again and let his fingers travel down her cranium to explain the lower sections.
Helen endeavoured diligently to lie to herself -- to tell herself that the feel of his fingers caressing her scientifically was not remotely...pleasurable. While in fact, the electric tingles had been buzzing and shooting through her as soon as he had touched her. And though his words had her paying somewhat rapt attention, for the subject was fascinating, it was hard for her to control or keep her mind on the topic...and not let her thoughts slip to the pure enjoyment of his touch.
As he explained further sections of her skull to her and what they might mean, Holmes could not help but notice how his senses trained ever further upon her, and how engrossing it was to catalogue the myriad little things that allowed him to build up a picture of her in his mind. Something in the back of that mind warned him as to the dangerous path this need for connection was taking him, but though he might deny it vehemently, he was unbalanced, the loss of his sight leaving him emotionally vulnerable…and open to the power of his senses.
The need, for once, outweighed the logic.
"This…" he said quietly, ever more engrossed in the subject of his study as his fingers meticulously circled an oval spot above the nape of her neck, "this spot deals with philoprogenitiveness. It is quite developed here. It indicates fertility and love of children. And this…" His touch delved under the loop of braided hair at the nape of her neck, brushing the base of her skull. "This is amativeness."
Her eyebrows shot up and she inhaled slowly, her cheeks flushing in embarrassment at the topics of fertility and, most latterly, love. "I see..." Her voice was hesitant, her breath quickening a little and her mind unable to light upon a response that did not seem foolish or indecorous. She knew she should pull away now, that already this was having an effect upon her that she should not allow to continue. But…if she did so, she would seem emotional and unscientific for allowing such things to affect her. "I had no idea my skull could tell you...well, that kind of information," she replied her voice quieter. "Please...continue. This is really quite fascinating."
He could not help but note how her breathing had quickened and how the fragrance she wore seemed to increase in strength as she did so, to the point where he found it quite the heady bouquet indeed. For the first time, her proximity to him started to become apparent.
Hesitating a moment more, a flicker of an idea to end this blinked within him also. But with this heightened need for connection and having let himself succumb so far to both the inordinate pull of touch and scent, and with her strawberry jam fragranced breath filling his darkened world, the idea of stopping seemed at that moment quite out of the question -- his mind subservient to his sentiment. And so he nodded, his hand moving up over the central part of her skull slowly. "Here..." he touched the very top of the back of her head, "is your self esteem." His lip curled a little as he attempted to ignore the growing heat within him. "Mine, I believe, is quite well developed."
Her smile grew again at that, his ego well known to her and others he was close to. "Very healthy," she agreed.
"This..." his fingers slowly wandered over the curve of her head, "is firmness...and this, " he brushed the very crown of her, his words soft and lending an odd weight and profoundness to what followed, "veneration. Worship," he expounded. His voice was quiet and deep as his bandaged eyes turned directly to her for the first time, as though he were trying to peer his way into the darkness, his senses feeling her in front of him. "Respect...reverence." His so far unused hand silently rose up to touch her cheek.
"Is mine...all right?" she asked softly, her breath catching as his fingers brushed her skin.
"I would say...yes..." he murmured, his fingers brushing her silken hair absently as he spoke. "A little reduced perhaps, indicating a modicum of disrespect at times...for authority..." Her breath tickled his wrist where he touched her cheek. "And for convention."
His words echoed in his head. Yet he hardly needed to hear them to know the conventions they were flouting as of this moment, all under the now flimsy excuse of learning. But her skin in the darkness was wondrously soft and smooth, and her breath not only warmed him but made him feel alive and connected with the world once more.
Her cheek leaned into his hand, her heartbeat rapid and loud in her ears and yet, his words carried over it easily. Her eyes shifted to meet his but on finding just bandages, dipped to take in what she could of his face -- the faint stubble on his chin, the way his lips parted just a little and his nostrils flared with each inhale...it was intoxicating.
"Benevolence..." His hand on her head moved down slowly as his thumb stroked her cheek in time with his words. "Comparison...eventuality, " he listed as his fingers slipped to her forehead, his voice deepening. Feeling her tense and quiver softly beneath his touch, and galvanised by the effect on them both...and by how intense everything felt to him, he allowed his fingertips to slip down the centre of her brow gently. "Individuality..." he rumbled before the pads of his fingers slowly moved over her eyes, her eyelashes tickling him as her eyelids fluttered shut and sending ripples through him that were quite, to his mind, absurdly strong.
His hand slipped to cup her other cheek, his imagination picturing her owlish eyes gazing up at him, and amidst the sensation of feeling disembodied and removed, only this link to her became real. His thumbs brushing down her nose, he envisioned her in his mind's eye...before his fingers touched her lips and felt her breath on them, the heat sparking a memory of a time before and to wonder…
And then he moved, leaning forward slowly, his nose brushing and slipping down hers...his heart thudding against his ribcage as he inhaled her breath with his own...
The sudden rattle of the tea tray outside the door echoed through the couple like an alarm, dragging them back from the precipice over which they hung. "Would anyone care for a spot of tea?" Mrs. Hudson's voice intruded almost in time with her opening of the door.
Holmes sat back swiftly, his hands in his lap as his head turned in the direction of the door. "Yes," he said quickly, disguising the swiftness of his breath with a rapid response. "I believe we have earned a break. And Miss Thurlow is no doubt tired of hearing me talk."
Helen's eyes immediately dropped to her lap as she struggled to control her breathing and clear the fuzz from her mind. Pushing a strand of hair from her face, she rose quickly to her feet and hurried over to where the landlady was backing into the room as she held the large tray. "Can I aid you with that, Mrs. Hudson?" she enquired.
Holmes listened to the two women fuss over who should do what before he turned his attention away, frowning at his actions...and more...at the strong and sincere ripple of regret that was running through him. Not because of his actions, but because he had not been allowed to complete them.
Reaching out, he found and grasped the files of descriptions and tapped them loudly. "Helen," he said firmly, "I believe there is nothing more to learn from these. Once tea is done and we finish these few remaining reports, we shall wait for Watson's return and focus ourselves to another line of enquiry. One which I hope will serve us better. It is time, I feel, that I introduce you to the cold, clinical art of code breaking."
Sussex, 1911
The day following Inspector Lestrade's visit with the files was spent in tandem with Miss Thurlow and Watson going through the reports of those henchmen taken at the Moncrieff's home two nights previous. Their contact, a Mr. Bootle was, unfortunately, precisely as the Inspector had said he was. Nothing about him, from the artist's rendering to the detailed statement notes, made the man stand out, save the white hair of his age. Which given the details that followed could even have been premature, for his age had been estimated anywhere between forty and seventy by those he had solicited.
One said he was short and stooped, the other tall. Robust in one description, frail in another. It was as if the two captured men, who had never worked together before that night, had met a similar but entirely different man. Which was certainly not outside the realm of possibility. I, however, had a different probability in mind.
Furnishing Watson with a supply of ten shilling notes from my wallet, I asked the doctor to remove himself to the Seven Dials to investigate the Horse & Dragon and its environs to seek what more of this Mr. Bootle he could find. In the meantime, my special 'secretary' and I turned to the files of suspects Scotland Yard had compiled.
I had, of course, been through them thoroughly before ever laying the trap at the Moncrieff's. But in the aftermath of my encounter with our thief, I hoped that their descriptions might jog a memory, something that might have gone unnoticed in my struggle with him.
In addition, the thief's knowledge of the passageway in that house gave me insight into his singular ability to be able to garner detail from, and no doubt move about in, high circles as well as low. A chameleonic quality certainly, and one that led me to strongly suspect that our Mr. Bootle and our thief were, white hair not withstanding, one and the same. After all…what better way to throw the police off the scent than to provide one man, but two differing aspects?
I was left, therefore, with the impression of a man with intellect, drive, and quite the adaptive and creative ability. And so in seating ourselves upon the couch with the files laid open before us to sift through, I decided to apply a little of a technique I had been studying at that time, Phrenology. A technique I have long since discarded as far too flawed to be of use, but which at the time seemed worthy of exploration. Sitting back, I asked Miss Thurlow, who was seated beside me, to not only read the record placed upon the page but also to describe, to the best of her ability and in as much detail as she could, their facial features and cranial aspects as rendered in the photographs and police artist's drawings.
However, as I say, the technique is flawed and little of note came from it, and so we broke a short time later to take up an older and what I hoped would be a more fruitful line of enquiry -- the advertisements I had previously used to discover the secret auction method used by our thief and the art of code breaking by which I discerned it.
While I embarked upon the task of instructing Miss Thurlow in the rudiments of ciphers, Watson proved himself to be an excellent set of eyes and ears upon the streets of London. The thoroughness of his report upon the Horse & Dragon and its surrounds was evidence indeed that his time with me had taught him much about the importance of detail and the observation of it.
Sadly however, it occurred to me that while he was in my company I should have taught him a little more about the art of blending into such surrounds. For the denizens of the Dial's public house were in every way as low of character and tight of lip as I imagined they would be. Naturally, the moment a man as eminent of character and rectitude entered their environs, those lips became as secure as the lock upon Mrs. Hudson's biscuit cabinet.
No one, unsurprisingly, had so much as heard of this Mr. Bootle, never mind clapped eyes upon him…even for the sum of a guinea. Amongst men and women who would normally snap your hand off at the wrist for a fifth of that sum, such refusal meant that whoever this man was, he or those he worked with packed considerable clout, as they say.
Watson's report was exceedingly thorough, and from the reactions he described, it became evident that while no one in the place had heard of Bootle, they all knew him right enough. And nor was he the only one in search of information about the man. For as soon as he had quaffed his watered down ale and left the stinking confines of the
Dial's inn, he was accosted by two men outside a second pub on the corner of the junction near The Horse & Dragon.
The men were, it was revealed, undercover police officers, who wished to know his reasons for seeking this Mr. Bootle. Once he identified himself to them, they took him off the street into the smaller public house by name of The Rose.
While there, they explained to him that the search was in full swing, that great exception had been taken to the injury to me by a good many officers, and that The Rose was a convenient point indeed for the observation of The Horse & Dragon, as a great many off duty officers frequented it. All this, he was told he should report to me so that I might rest easy in my sick bed. For they were fully convinced, Lestrade having been as good as his word, that I was ill indeed and commiserated heartily with him upon my state.
I must admit to toying with the idea of transforming Watson into a denizen of the Dials or Whitechapel…but as artistic as his bent is in terms of literature, I could not see him sufficiently mastering all that he would need to pass safely there without discovery, and I was loathe to send my friend out without that expertise.
I had Watson once again go through the descriptions we had on the vague chance he might have seen one of them upon his tour of duty. On that coming to naught, he returned them the following day to Lestrade and received in return the latest police report on the investigation, which unsurprisingly showed them to be at as much of an impasse as we were ourselves.
Even the doctor's encounter with Chief Inspector Girard, nursing his bandaged hand from his encounter with the wall of his office, led to nothing of any use whatsoever. Girard, after having enquired upon my health, was loathe to admit it, said Watson, but without Bootle, the link to the man behind all this was lost to us. All the Yard could do was prosecute the two hired men as accomplices to attempted theft, as both denied involvement on the British Museum raid and death, and both had solid alibis to back them.
In order to find our man, Watson said on returning to Baker Street, Girard felt we had to find someone further up the chain of information. Though precisely how to do that he was at a loss, and despite his annoyance at my leaving him out of the loop regarding the trap at Moncrieff's estate, he conveyed his wishes to my friend that I might once again be involved upon the case. Which, of course, unbeknownst to him, I was…and in doing so, attempting to find just such a source of high information as he might wish.
Having discovered over a month and a half ago in the advertisement pages of The Evening Standard the coded message for the Auction of the Raphael painting stolen from Lord Bolton, I had kept a regular eye upon the papers ever since in an effort to discern further messages. A task which caused much exasperation in my landlady, who was forever picking up the discarded journals in which I had found nothing.
I had been too late in my discovery of the original code, and the examination of the premises of the supposed tailor shop in Camden, which in fact was nothing but an abandoned room, had resulted in little of note. But that auction had taken place in January, and there were now two items -- the Ebony Snake and the Abydos Sceptre at large. I had scoured the papers thoroughly every day up until my accident with the pistol and was convinced that I had missed nothing and that there had been no further auctions by this method to this point. This was most likely due to the death of Jack Halliwell and the reluctance of some buyers to take a chance on goods associated with a murder.
I was also convinced, however, that my much reported accident would change that, and that our man, and his buyers, would take full advantage of my being laid low to thumb their collective noses at all other investigations and invite his well-heeled cohorts to purchase his ill gotten gains.
Had I been sighted, it would have only taken me a day at the most to go through all of the major metropolitan and national newspapers advertisement pages for those days I had been rendered out of commission. But as it was, I had little choice but to rely on another's eyes, intelligence, and powers of discernment.
With Watson fielding questions from the press, going back and forth between the police and others to receive reports and deliver messages as well as marshalling the Irregulars to be more eyes and ears for us on the street, and attempting to keep his own practice afloat, I could not press him into further service. And so it was to Miss Thurlow that I turned.
Women, I have noted, do have a tremendous capacity for observation. Their brains, not so focused as a man's, seem capable of taking in several things at once, which of course lends to their flightiness. Miss Thurlow had also long ago impressed me as being quick of wit and learning for a member of her sex, and she did not disappoint me.
The original code had been a simple one, and while I did not expect to see the exact same format again, neither did I expect to find anything much more sophisticated, and so I taught her a fundamental routine with which to run through each advertisement. Something she would do with the use of a blackboard to allow her to outwardly visualise what I normally did within my head.
I spent a full day in explaining to her the basics of steganography, or the science of sending concealed messages, and once I felt she was sufficiently grounded in the process, we began. And over the next two days, we worked steadily through the newspapers that had built up in number while I had been malingering.
Each day that passed saw us work longer and longer hours, my intent on finding a new thread -- a hook that we could bait to catch our thief -- growing more and more determined, until finally the respectable hours I had placed upon Miss Thurlow had dissipated entirely. Mrs. Hudson, as was only proper I suppose, raised something of a fuss that first night when the clock had struck nine o'clock and the single young lady was still remaining in this bachelor's rooms.
But our attention was given only to the work we had undertaken, and knowing my ways as she did and undoubtedly humouring me due to my condition, my landlady resorted to chaperoning us with occasional visits and numerous pots of tea or coffee as our hours grew later and later. On the third evening, the clock struck once, indicating to me the half hour and that it was eleven thirty, and still we worked on, for every day brought a new batch of papers to keep our task ongoing.
"Very well, Helen," said I from the confines of my chair. "Let us try the next column of The Times." My hand gestured towards the blackboard that stood beyond the table in the room.
My energy and brightness was undiminished despite the late hour and the fact that we had been working virtually all day, since nine o'clock that morning to be precise, and only stopping briefly for lunch at one, tea at four, and a light supper at eight. The pile of papers we had gone through was considerable that evening, and despite Miss Thurlow's occasional efforts to tidy up, I could tell by the rustle and crackle of paper whenever someone moved that much of it now lined a great deal of the furniture and floor.
It was that rustling I heard as my assistant picked up the latest in the stack and headed over to the blackboard with a weary exhale. I admit at this juncture that I did indeed utilise Miss Thurlow's presence to the full, and received admonishments from both Mrs. Hudson and Watson for doing so. But to Miss Thurlow's credit, she voiced neither complaint nor desire to leave and instead remained by my side, indulging my driven nature. Therefore, I had no reason to believe she wished to leave, and why should she? There is little as thrilling as the unravelling of a puzzle.
On reaching the blackboard, she addressed me as she folded out the newspaper to begin. "Are there any particular ones you wish me to concentrate on, Sherlock?"
"No..." I said as lightly as if the hour was early. "Let us begin in order and work our way down. We need to be vigilant and cover them all with equal scrutiny." Turning a little more in her direction, I resettled myself for comfort, intending to continue my own ongoing ruminations while she worked at the board, before I enquired, "What is the area under advertisement in this column?"
"Art and Photography," she replied after a moment. "There is a man taking photographic portraits of various sizes...and a gallery wishing to buy daguerreotypes and art of all types…restoration work and purchasing." Following that, she began, as was our rote, to read the two articles as clearly and concisely as she could.
DAGUERREOTYPE OR PHOTOGRAPHIC PORTRAITS
PORTRAITS by Mr. CLAUDET'S INSTANTANEOUS PROCESS under the Patronage of her Majesty, are taken daily at the ADELAIDE GALLERY, STRAND. The Sitting generally occupies less than One Second, by which faithful and pleasing Likenesses are obtained, with backgrounds, the patented invention of Mr. Claudet, representing Landscapes, the Interior of a Library, &c. &c.
Price of a Single Portrait, usual size, One Guinea. Portraits and Groups are also taken on Plates of an enlarged size, and for Lockets or Broaches as small as may be required.
MAPLETHORPE'S GALLERY, CAMDEN
Sell Your valuables and Art; early style Daguerreotypes sought for as much as Five guineas. Eradicate your Debts! Accepted articles will be exchanged for Cash in hand.
Restore your Artworks. Restoration Experts from all over the kingdom are in our employ, place your valuables in the safekeeping of our outstanding Handlers.
Trading connections have been established with many notable galleries throughout the World. Old masters; Latest sensations; be assured whether your fine taste runs to the New or Old, or merely to the enhancement of your décor, we shall seek the perfect Item for your collection. Titian, Constable, Uccello, Altdorfer, whatever your desires we shall undertake them upon your behalf.
OPEN WEEKDAYS TILL 6, WEEKENDS TILL 4.
I considered them, finding the range of the artists cited in the latter advertisement impressive -- medieval till modern being quite the range. After a moment, I nodded. "Very well, Helen...let us begin as before with the substitution cipher regimen, with the most common letter as usual being 'e,' and working through them sentence by sentence. Failing that providing us with anything, we shall try a simple transposition cipher." Sitting back, I returned to my private contemplation.
There was a momentary pause of a length that gave me a pause. On the verge of asking whether she might be in need of a rest or perhaps wished to end our work for the evening, I found my question was pre-empted by the rustle of her skirts and the sound of chalk meeting the blackboard.
As she had done over the previous two days, Miss Thurlow took the first of these advertisements and worked through the schedule she had perfected via instruction and practice. However, neither varying the letters and words in diverse ways in the substitution ciphers nor moving them around and reworking their order or line up in transposition provided anything but another mess of undecipherable language…as well as leaving my assistant's head, I was informed subsequent to the case, feeling as if it were packed with cotton wool.
My own irritation, naturally, grew as nothing new was produced. "Very well, Helen..." I said with a sigh, "it is unlikely, but try the simple visual steganographic technique I gave you to begin with. Seek out any unusual patterns in the print you might see." The words came as the clock struck midnight, and as the last of the chimes faded, footsteps were once more heard upon the stairs. A few ticks of the second hand of the clock later, Mrs. Hudson entered the room with a huff and, I have no doubt, a frown at the pair of us, her tea tray rattling, and from the smell, filled with fresh toast and muffins.
"Mr. Holmes!" the elder woman berated me lightly as she carried her load to the table, the sound of the silver coffeepot and milk jug clinking evident to me as she moved. "Have you any idea what time it is?"
"Midnight precisely," I replied with friendly composure.
"Midnight!" she agreed in exceptionally vehement tones. "And still here you sit, working! Which is quite bad enough when taken on its own merits, but worse still when you keep poor Miss Thurlow not only here...which is quite scandalous enough should it be known...but still upon her feet and scratching at this infernal blackboard of yours!"
A wise man who dwells under a roof with a woman of any age learns when to pick his 'battles,' and as I sat forward and rose to make my way across to the table, I evinced an air of a man who knew better than to argue on this subject...or at least, argue too much. "Very well, Mrs. Hudson...let us just finish these two upon the 'hellish' thing and I shall free Miss Thurlow from my dominion."
From over beside the blackboard, where chalk moving across slate still sounded, my assistant came to my aid. "It's all right, Mrs. Hudson. I am well really. Or at least I will be after a cup of the delicious smelling coffee."
"See, Mrs. Hudson?" I proclaimed with a slight smile upon my face as my hands fell upon a chair. "All that is required is some refreshment."
Mrs. Hudson's huff was a good deal louder and more disbelieving than the first. "All that is required is for Miss Thurlow to be on her way to the comfort of her bed in her hotel and you to be resting in yours, Mr. Holmes!" she pronounced.
Our light sparring continued for a few moments more, and just as Mrs. Hudson was regrouping with familiar ammunition of my recovery and my extra need for rest, my ears picked up the sound of a woman's quiet murmuring.
"That's odd..." said Miss Thurlow in low tones, "the k in kingdom is lowercased..." Before I even thought to respond, Mrs. Hudson came to the end of her latest point and demanded a reply from me. I am glad to say that as I turned from politeness to reply to her, my assistant did not attribute the irreverent blunder to a simple error of the newstype, remembering instead what it was I had been repeating ad nauseum over the past few days -- what seems to be nothing may, in fact, be everything.
There had been a great number of nothings that had proven to be just that by this stage, and it must have been tempting in the extreme for her to consider that it might be so again and simply to move on, but to her great credit she momentarily halted her work upon the first advertisement and concentrated her efforts upon the second.
The chalk moved once more upon the blackboard, this time eschewing the formal schedule we had worked on to begin upon the latter, her instincts, as I had asked of her, being brought to bear. And in doing so, she began to write out the first letter in each of the capitalised words in the body of the message.
S...Y...A...D...F...E...D...A...C...R...A...R...E...H...T...W...O...L...N...O...I...T...C...U...A.
It was of course to her eyes nothing as she stared at her final result. Gibberish. Rubbish...once again. I heard nothing save a heavy sigh and the rustle of skirts that indicated her turning in frustration from the board towards us and the welcome refreshment upon the table.
A clink of a teacup and spoon came from the vicinity of the tray as I finished my assurances to my landlady that I would retire when I felt the need to do so, and then I heard a gasp of "Heaven's name...of course!"
"Helen?" My head turned immediately in inquiry.
A spoon dropped to the table with a clatter followed by the more delicate disposal of the china, and in a rush of skirts, the soft sound of the blackboard being cleaned preceded the crunch of newspaper and the chalk moving frantically across the slate once more.
Needless to say, I found all this action without response to my query a little aggravating and could only frown as I cocked my head at the rushed sounds emanating from beyond the table. "Helen...what is it?" I demanded even as the following letters were being spelt out unbeknownst to me on the board.
A...U...C...T...I...O...N...L...O...W...T...H...E...R...A...R...C...A...D...E...F...D...A...Y...S
"The code!" she replied, her voice tinged with excitement. "No wonder it looked like utter nonsense. It would unless you applied the last element." She turned to my mystified self and my landlady. "He's taken a page right from Leonardo, Sherlock! Da Vinci, you will naturally recall, used to write all his journals in such a way...they look like nonsense unless you apply a..."
"Reflection!" I finished in a delighted cry as I began to scramble my way blindly around the table in haste.
"Mr. Holmes!" Mrs. Hudson cried out in alarm at my carelessness of movement. "Do be careful!"
"Bother that!" I reached out for Helen, searching for her hand and concerned only with what she had discovered. "Read it to me!"
Taking my hand, she led me before the board. "AUCTION, LOWTHER ARCADE F DAYS," she read and then queried, "F days? Four days? Five days?"
"What does it stand for in the advertisement?" I asked her, my hand raising hers to pat it in appreciation, encouragement, and no little animation.
"Five," she answered upon looking through the paper once more. "Though the article refers to five guineas."
I shook my head. "I would say the chances are excellent that the meaning is the same in code as in the paper. As long as five days would be required merely to have word of the auction to infiltrate to all interested parties...and then for bids to come in from various parts."
I turned my head to her. "But Lowther Arcade is a large place. We cannot go blindly...if you'll pardon the expression...in there without knowing precisely where the drop off point for the bids are. If we or the police charge in there without any indication of where we are going, we will lose the element of surprise and any chance of catching a fish in this net. Is there anything else that might give us a clue as to location? Any other numbers in the advertisement?"
Her voice now more alert than I had heard it in hours, she read through the advertisement again. "Only that they are open on weekdays till six and weekends till four."
"Six and four...hardly two drop off points…it would be too confusing and twice as observable for unusual activity. Sixty-four?" I hedged. "Or perhaps...given your reflective discovery...the number of the site might be forty-six?
"No matter..." I answered myself a moment later with a broad smile. "No matter at all! It can be easily discerned by Watson and on his informing them of the correct location…by the police. Mrs. Hudson!" I turned a little in her general direction. "First thing in the morning, would you be so good as to fetch the doctor from his surgery? I know he starts at seven...but we have little time to lose. He must go to Lowther Arcade and find out what is located at both sixty-four and forty-six in that place."
"Of course, Mr. Holmes," she agreed hastily. "But now...pleased as I am that you have made your discovery, whatever it is, I must insist both you and Miss Thurlow rest and eat...and that Miss Thurlow be released to get some sleep." She moved towards the door. "Well earned, I am sure you will agree."
The door clicked behind her as she went to fetch a cab to stand ready for my assistant, and I nodded a little at the sound.
"Well earned, indeed," I agreed sincerely. "Excellent work, Helen. A fine, fine, application of concentration, reasoning, and observation leading to a most important deduction indeed. You have learned quickly and very well."
"Thank you, Sherlock. I'm simply pleased I was able to help," she answered demurely, though I could tell her smile was wide at my words, her voice mirthful at her own work and my praise. "I am sure though you would have reached the same conclusion much more rapidly than I."
"Undoubtedly." I smiled before raising her hand and kissing her chalk dusted knuckles lightly. "But I'd hazard to say...not by much."
A gentle squeeze of my fingers was her response before I straightened.
"And now, my dear," I pronounced, filling the temporary silence as I gestured towards the table, an eagerness to my smile that I assure you would've been reflected in my eyes had they been visible. "We refresh ourselves and plot how best to cast our new net!"
"Well?" said I, looking up through my bandages as I heard Watson enter the room upon his return from the police the next day.
"It is all in hand, Holmes, all in hand!" came his pleased tone. "Inspector Lestrade was only too eager to be off once I had explained the situation. If he brings in a man before Girard gets wind of it, then he will be quite the man about the Yard himself! He has a full day for it as Girard will be with the Home Office for most of the day before returning home directly, his wife being quite ill with consumption, I believe. Lestrade has a decided window of opportunity for fame and glory, and knows it." He chuckled, the creak of the couch opposite me indicating my friend's seating himself beside my 'secretary.' "And number forty-six was indeed our mark! Unlike Camden which contains no such gallery, forty-six Lowther Arcade is marked Maplethorpe Gallery. But on passing it by two or three times…in the most casual manner, of course…"
"Of course." I inclined my head with a slight smile at the broad one in his voice.
"I perceived the sign to be freshly painted and only newly hung, the brass nails which affixed it above the shop frontage as shiny as you like. Not a light was on within and the doors were firmly closed and barred. Hardly good business!" The doctor almost chuckled. "The only egress to the place…" he finished with aplomb as he sat back, "is one letterbox -- perfect for the posting of letters…or silent auction bids posing as such."
"Excellent, Watson, excellent," I commended him before musing, "I don't suppose Lestrade, however, will have the patience to remain in hiding and see if he can grab the grand prize of our man himself, or his errand boy, when he comes to collect the bids."
"Do you think I should have told him to do so?" asked Watson a little tentatively.
"No…" I shook my head. "No…I fear our man may be too smart for our Inspector and perhaps too wary to appear in person after recent events, despite his rampant self-importance."
"Self-importance, Sherlock?" asked Miss Thurlow. "What makes you say that?"
"I would have thought that obvious by now. While you have been working away upon our code breaking, I have been giving a lot of thought to the make up of our perpetrator. This one area, his choice of high profile targets, his brazen use of the major Metropolitan papers to advertise his plunder, waving his achievements right under society's nose -- it is as if he is daring us to discover him…acknowledge him."
"You feel he wishes to be caught?" Watson enquired in surprise, garnering a smile from me.
"No, Watson, only to be recognized…accredited…" I stood and made my way slowly to a chair by the table. "This is a man who wishes to make a name for himself and for others to see the depths of his talents," I explained as I sat down. "And on the subject of being seen…" I turned my head back to the duo upon the couch. "If I am not much mistaken, my friend, I believe the time has come for you to see what I may see."
The ripple of tension that slipped through the room then was palpable before Watson inhaled deeply and rose from his seat to take on the mantle of physician to me once more. "Of course," he said with a determined cheeriness and optimism. "Just let me fetch my bag and we shall get straight to returning things to normal, eh?"
The removal of bandages and swabs from my eyes began auspiciously, with the burns and swelling having responded exceedingly well to treatment. Both Watson's and Mrs. Hudson's attentions had borne a good deal of fruit. The skin was red and sore still but had healed remarkably thus far…but I had never opened my eyes during their ministrations, having been told to keep the light from them for the full five days as ordered.
Upon gradually opening eyelids that felt like tender lead weights, I informed them after a few long moments that there had been no improvement.
The news was met with silence of a momentary sort, the stricken kind that is immediately followed by a loud burst of forced philosophical utterances such as, "Ah well, not to worry, it is early days yet, my dear chap," and "Yes, let us give it a little more time…besides, we are doing very well as we are, I think!"
I need hardly say, of course, that I knew both of them were deeply worried, the catch in Miss Thurlow's voice as she went to inform Mrs. Hudson clearly registering with me even now.
In the aftermath of this event, Watson provided me, upon my request, with a pair of dark glasses often issued to blind men to remove the discomfort given others by their often staring eyes. Afterwards, I asked him to remove himself to the environs of Scotland Yard to see what might have come of our baited trap and asked Mrs. Hudson to have one of the boys run an errand for me.
The afternoon wore on slowly as I waited impatiently for news back from Watson, Miss Thurlow doing her best to engage me by reading a little from a novel she had brought with her -- A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens, chosen for the express purpose of rectifying a comment I had made to her almost two years ago about never having read any of his works. Her recall of this incident only confirmed to me that, when it comes to trivialities, women share with elephants a memory of some magnitude and longevity.
Around the late afternoon, while she read to me, the doorbell jangled below and Mrs. Hudson, who had been labouring in the kitchen and her work having been hampered by the continuous difficulties with the oven, was heard to answer it.
Muffled conversation following the door being closed indicated that whoever it was had been granted access, a sound of jangling iron leaving us both of the opinion that it must be a workman at last come to help her.
Mrs. Hudson's retreating voice, however, was immediately followed by the sound of running footsteps up the stairs and a startled cry by my landlady.
Miss Thurlow rose almost immediately to her feet. "Perhaps I should see what is the matter," she stated, crossing rapidly towards the door.
Rising to my own feet, I took a step, my hand reaching out in a vain gesture of halting her. "Helen...take care..."
Before I had even ceased to speak, the door swung open rapidly and a man later described to me by Miss Thurlow as moustachioed, thickset, dressed in tweeds with a flat cap, and bright inquisitive eyes came face to face with her. A cockney accent floated over her head towards me. "Afternoon, Miss..."
Normally, Miss Thurlow was never at a loss for words. In fact, in general I had found that when taken unawares, words tumbled from her lips in such a fashion as to shame Victoria Falls itself. However, so startled was she by the manner of this man's arrival and the chirpy polite style of his greeting that her lips remained frozen until she finally managed to bluster, "Sir! What is the meaning of this? These are private rooms!"
"Yes, yes..." He nodded quickly, his voice so distracted that it could mean only that his attention was fixed elsewhere…on someone else. "Right you are, Miss." A strangled outcry of feminine outrage reached my ears a moment later when, as I stood there blind to what was going on, hands moved around Miss Thurlow's waist and grasped her firmly. Once again, afterwards in great detail and livid to boot, Miss Thurlow described to me how the intruder picked her up and set her aside in one swift motion before he moved into the room. "Mr. Holmes, a pleasure to see you up and around."
"How dare you, sir! Remove yourself at once!" Miss Thurlow berated him, her words followed by her quickly moving feet to locate herself once more in his way.
"Who are you, sir?" said I.
"Phelps, Mr. Holmes. Reginald Phelps, the Gazette..." came the reply as the reporter stepped around his diminutive blockade once more. "And you, sir, are a 'ard man to get to see!" Moving forward, I felt a brush of air across my skin as he brazenly waved his hand in front of my face. "Something I see you're 'aving a smidge of trouble with yourself, sir," he tutted reproachfully. "And 'ere I thought to find you on your death bed." A smile touched his voice. "You should remember to 'ave your nurse 'ere draw your curtains at an earlier hour. Your sil'ouette, Mr. Holmes, is a…singular one."
"Sir!" came Miss Thurlow's voice, even more irate as she tried to move between us yet again. "Leave! Now, or I shall summon the police if Mrs. Hudson hasn't already!"
"Now, now, miss...never you worry your pretty little 'ead about your patient. I only want to ask him a few questions. Chiefly about 'is deceiving the public the way he 'as," said Phelps. "So...this was your accident, was it Mr. Holmes? Shame…a real shame." There was a pause before he spoke again, his next question indicating he had taken in the room, the newspapers scattered about, and worst of all the blackboard with its deciphered message still emblazoned upon it. "Not that it seems it's gone 'n stopped you in your work, now 'as it? Seems as you 'ave been busy, Mr. Holmes. Lowther Arcade, eh?" His voice grew a deal less chirpy and far, far graver. "Won't nothing ever get you off the scent? Even in this state…don't you know how vulnerable you are? All it took was a little determination to get in 'ere, and me just a 'umble journalist. Don't you think villains might find it all too easy?"
"Mr. Phelps..." I replied tightly, "you have discovered all you are going to. I suggest you leave now or you will discover a good deal more about the true state of my health."
From downstairs came the sound of Mrs. Hudson's voice returning with one of the officers posted on the street by Lestrade.
Miss Thurlow's voice was thick with fury. "Sir! You will leave...now," she stated. "You have no right to be here, and rest assured I will be filing a complaint with your editor."
Mr. Phelps's tone lightened once more as the police officer's footsteps on the stairs grew more audible. "Pleasure making your acquaintance, Miss...?" he enquired after her name cheekily.
"All right you..." came Officer Murphy's voice a moment later, "that's quite enough of that. You're coming with me...trespassing on private property."
"Freedom of the press, officer..." protested Phelps without the slightest amount of care in his voice, amusement seeming far more his attitude. "Public 'ave a right to know, don't y'know."
"Aye..." Murphy snorted. "Tell it to the beak."
"Don't forget to buy the Gazette, Mr. Holmes!" called back Phelps as he was led away. "You can add it to your scrapbook collection!"
"What...cheek!" Miss Thurlow exclaimed with severe irritation as she returned from following both men to the door, Mrs. Hudson in her wake.
"The gall of the man!" Mrs. Hudson agreed. "Coming in here as bold as brass, pretending to be Mr. Oliver's workman! What is the world coming to? Who was he? Are you and Mr. Holmes quite all right?"
"A reporter," said the younger woman, obviously trying to control her temper before making her way back to me. "Are you all right, Sherlock?" she enquired, laying a hand on my arm.
"It seems the world shall know of my impairment before morning," I said quietly, a wry half smile upon my face that did not speak of amusement. "And that I work still upon this case...with some success."
"I could go down to his paper...ask the editor to withhold the story..." Miss Thurlow suggested.
"No..." I shook my head. "No. I doubt there is anything you could do to stop them running such a story, save perhaps to purchase the newspaper. And though I know you could..." my smile grew a little as my head turned in her direction, "that is rather too extravagant a gesture. Thank you, Helen, but what is done is done. And I'm rather afraid there is nothing to be done but see where this leads us."
Authors' Notes: Thank you so much again for all your kind reads and/or reviews! We're thrilled you are continuing to read the story. :D We apologise it wasn't up sooner, but alas Darth Real Life is being a bit of a pain at the moment and left us both racing around to catch up. I'm crossing my fingers that I'll have chapter seven ready in a week, but our Snape story is needing an update too. (flails) I must say we are loving the new ability here to reply to reviews and answer questions, just remember, you have to be logged in when you review for it to work. So, if you want an answer to any question, please check to see if you are logged in. Thanks! Right...I have a stack load of editing to do and work on my desk. Till next week! -- Aeryn (of aerynfire)