Stam ... I mean Stanford's
"... After you left I sent down to Stamford's for the Ordnance map of this portion of the moor, and my spirit has hovered over it all day. …" -- The Hound of the Baskervilles Chapter 3.
"E. Stanford, 26 Cockspur Street, Charing Cross. Agent for Ordnance Survey Maps."
-Listed in Karl Baedeker's London and Its Environs : Handbook for Travellers (1896)
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"It's a very nice display," I said to the brisk little man who was arranging maps and travel books in the case outside the Baldwin Room, "but do you think any one will notice it?"
"I don't see why not." Mr. Stanford took a step back, frowning, scrutinizing the effect. "Holmes and Doyle traveled extensively, and these maps and books show the lay of their land. People will surely be interested."
He moved a Baedeker's Great Britain (1887) a touch to the left, so that the light would catch the gilded letters, and beamed. "I think we've displayed the wares to advantage, don't you?"
In the case with the Baedeker's was a reprint of the Bradshaw's August 1887 Railway Guide, Findlay Muirhead's Blue Guide to Switzerland (1930), two reprints of Ordnance Survey maps – one of the Marylebone area of London and one of the Devonshire moors – and several books about London.
"I wish we could get more in. It's amazing what both your collections – nay, all your collections – have to offer; but I've thousands of choice items back in my store." He gave me a stern look, as if I was responsible for the paucity of display space. "And they are originals."
"Mr. Stanford. We are grateful that you consented to set up this display and deliver a lecture about Sherlock Holmes using your maps. The library had to consider the insurance … and we had the reproductions … ."
The little man shook his head pityingly. "My dear girl, there is nothing so thrilling as unfolding the very map Holmes brooded over to solve the mystery of the Hound."
"And you have that map?"
"My proudest possession," he declared. "Holmes gave it to me himself upon his retirement. It's framed up high on the back wall of my shop, so folks can glimpse it through the windows."
"And go inside to buy your other maps and guidebooks?"
Stanford's eyes twinkled. "Of course. They can't resist buying a map from the Great Detective's bespoke agent – especially you Americans."
"North Americans, please, Sir."
"Whatever," he replied dismissively. He took out his handkerchief and daintily rubbed a smudge off the glass case. Then he stood back and beamed at it. "This is going to be a great display. The best you'll see. People will say they never learned so much in one place." He heaved a sigh. "If only we had more space to show everything we have!"
He jabbed his finger at the books on the cart beside me. "Here's Philip Weller on the Hound of the Baskervilles: Hunting the Dartmoor Legend. A handsome volume. Wonderful picture of the Hound on the cover. It would've been just right, but we can't fit it in. There's the Phillimore book on Devon's history from your closed stacks – and I daresay there's more like it there. Good books – brim full of information – but your public won't know you have them because they're not showcased." He tisked and tutted me. "How can you offer your wares if the public can't see them? We've the map of the moors in this case from your map collection and a Toronto City Directory showing a list of Boot and Shoe Makers but there's not enough room for everything. We could've tied everything about 'The Hound of the Baskervilles" together in this display if you had ordered a larger case."
He shook his head at the treasures he could not crowd in and heaved another lugubrious sigh. "You won't get customers if you don't show your stock."
I sighed back. "I'm not the 'Powers that Be', Mr. Stamford. This is the case they allot to our displays. And our users are not called 'customers'. They're 'patrons'."
"If you wish them to use your services, they are 'customers'. And I am not Stamford. I am Stanford."
"You're "Stamford" in The Hound of the Baskervilles."
What a tirade ensued from the little man! "Misprint! Misprint! Will I ever be free of that misprint? Over a hundred years of fools pointing it out to me when it was Doctor Watson's error. Have I not taken him to task for it?"
"I'm sure you have," I said meekly. I looked around for a colleague. A librarian. My department head. Anyone to cage this tiny tiger I roused.
"I am a respected cartographer. Edward Stanford is known the world over. I am in Baedeker. My shop is still open. Stanford's 12-14 Longacre, Westminster. WC2E. Google my name. Stanford's London finds me all the time."
"Mr. Stanford, I'm sorry! I did not mean to offend you. Really! I'm sure you're greatly respected. You're certainly world famous."
He pouted. "Under a misprint."
"Under your right name. And I'm grateful - I really am - that you consented to help me with my display."
Mr. Stanford glared me over. Then he shook himself and took a steadying breath.
"You're very welcome. Please forgive my unjustafied ire; but take a lesson, you and your fellow scriblers. Proofread before you publish."