The Case of Archie Stamford, the Forger

Chapter 1: Truth from Lies

"You remember, Watson, that it was near there [Farnham] that we took Archie Stamford, the forger."

Quote references an untold case mentioned in The Adventure of the Solitary Cyclist

88**88

[Author's note: BBC Sherlock timeframe of this chapter is immediately after

The Hounds of Baskerville and months before The Reichenbach Falls.]

88**88

"Can you do without breakfast?" asked the casual voice.

John Watson had his head in the fridge, upset by what he saw, or rather, what he didn't see. Apart from several suspicious-looking unlabeled bottles, an outdated carton of milk, and old packets of mustard and duck sauce, the shelves were bare. When he heard Sherlock's question, he exhaled a soft curse. Spinning around, he kicked the door shut with his heel, his borborygmi loudly complaining for him.

The vexed doctor blinked at the lanky detective squatting in his Corbusier-style chair and hugging his knees to his chest. Sherlock was focused on his mobile, oblivious to John's distress.

They had returned from Dartmoor the previous afternoon—having solved the H.O.U.N.D. case. John had barely stepped foot in the flat when the surgery rang him about filling a shift. He dropped the holdalls at the base of the staircase to his bedroom and sped out the door, remaining at the surgery for several medical emergencies until well past midnight. When he had got back to their dark flat after two AM, his foot struck the bags where he had left them. He grunted in surprised annoyance, slung them over his shoulder, and trudged up the stairs, tumbling into bed, more weary than hungry. However, since his last substantial nourishment had been the not-so-vegan sausage breakfast at the Cross Keys Inn the morning before, John had woken not just famished but "hangry."

Whatever Sherlock had done upon their return yesterday, the detective had not gone to the shops Couldn't be arsed, then?—not once! John pursed his lips but squelched an outburst. Expecting his otherwise extraordinary flat-mate to share responsibilities of the mundane sort had long proven futile. There was no point harping about it.

The memory of a late night out with Stamford over a year ago popped into John's head. He had told Mike of his scheme at reconditioning his fellow lodger to make him more cooperative. Over a steaming plate of spaghetti and clams, John had laughed at the cleverness of his own simple plan. "Left him at the flat tonight without any leftovers in the fridge." He grinned while chewing a tasty mouthful, imagining the detective rummaging for food. "Hunger, should motivate Sherlock to go to the shops, you think?"

"You've been flat-mates…," Stamford had chuckled. "…for what…three weeks, then?" With a sparkle in his eye and a shake of his head, he had said, "Let me know how that goes," and raised his pint in salute.

In hindsight, John had been glad they hadn't wagered on it. He would have lost.

In those early days, Sherlock had proven insensible to John's hints. It was no different now. Asking him outright to share the shopping also went nowhere. The genius of deduction did not deem it necessary. Whether through self-discipline or the result of natural inclination, the detective was not subject to the expected appetites of the body. Although he could savor a good meal, then and again, it was the hunger of his insatiable mind that drove him, often, to extreme lengths. Just days ago, craving mental stimulation, he had harpooned a pig carcass to solve a case.

Nor had it helped that Mrs. Hudson ensured her "boy" wouldn't waste away. Her prepared meals sustained what Sherlock had named his "transport." The ploy—to starve Sherlock Holmes to gain cooperation with shopping—had been a disaster.

John opened kitchen cupboard after cupboard, hoping to find a bag of crisps—not a single nibble! He gave the empty coffeemaker a despairing look. "Dammit!" he snapped and slapped the worktop.

"You accused me…," Sherlock remarked from his chair by the window, "of never making coffee. Not true, by the way, as I've brewed many a pot in our flat. Still, it's true I've never served you coffee. I brewed nothing this morning, given the mistrust you expressed yesterday….," he trailed off, alluding to their conversation in Grimpon Village.

"For bloody good reason! After what you did?" John exploded, wagging his head, still vexed at being a test subject. "Not good for trust-building between friends, Sherlock!"

John stomped off his grievances around the kitchen table. "Should have known there was something suspicious about your 'apology,'" he muttered to himself, "I knew you knew I never take sugar…" still bruised by what he perceived as betrayal, he took satisfaction in the proof that Sherlock had been wrong about the sugar containing a hallucinogenic drug and huffed a mirthless laugh. "So, what's this about doing without breakfast? Like that doesn't regularly happen…"

"I ask as you're the only one here who eats on a schedule," Sherlock replied without looking up from his mobile. "Being a slave to routine can be a hindrance."

"Seriously?" John protested, too hungry to devise a barbed retort about his flat-mate's irregular eating habits. "I'm not a slave to routine. Eating's a necessity!" Then, hearing subtext not just snark in Sherlock's statement, John cocked his head. "A hindrance to what, exactly?"

"To the unexpected," Sherlock answered, unspooling his long legs and leaping out of the chair. "Care to join me on a case?"

John eyed the detective. Sherlock was texting and had yet to glance up once. "You've got another one so quickly, then?"

"When you had run off to do your… your thing...," Sherlock managed a flippant wave in John's direction, distracted by a responsive ping of an incoming text.

"Working with sick people, Sherlock," John stressed, exasperated.

Arrested by John's bothered tone, Sherlock latched curious eyes on his friend. "Good that!" he patronized blatantly, pocketing his phone. A scant smile softened his serious countenance. "Indeed, but first, we'll catch breakfast. Can't let my 'unbeatable conductor of light' go hungry." Sherlock winked good-naturedly, swiped a zippered document holder from his desk, and grabbed his great coat off the peg.

His friend's sudden good mood surprised John. He patted his ornery stomach rumbling in anticipation of food. "We are going where, then?" he asked and snatched up his jacket.

"Farnham."

**88**

On the South Western Railway direct train from London to Farnham, the sparsely occupied carriage carried the two men toward their destination. They had settled in facing seats with a table between them, conducive for chatting, but neither had spoken. With the zippered folder on his lap, Sherlock had retreated inward to think; John had taken advantage of the peaceful silence to eat. After wolfing down two egg-sausage sandwiches, he sipped his coffee and listened to the pleasant clatter of the rails. The soothing rhythm, the idyllic views from the forward-facing window, and a full stomach had done much to smooth his irritability. With his appetite sated and his spirits lightened, his whetted curiosity prompted a question for the thinker opposite him. "What's in Farnham?"

"Funny business…." The man of few words murmured as if still elsewhere in his thoughts.

"Huh! Funny Business in Farnham. Sounds like a title for a case," John huffed a laugh.

"Funny Business, Fakes, and Forgeries in Farnham," Sherlock alliterated with a distracted grunt.

John pulled back with a look of surprise and a pleased grin. "Testing a title for one of your Science of Deduction blogs or for one of mine, then?"

Sherlock's eyes lost their preoccupied look. Beneath knitted brows, he focused on John. "It bears repeating: 'Some people who aren't geniuses have an amazing ability to stimulate it in others.'"

"Yeah. You said that the other day in the churchyard. So?"

"I confess, John," the detective continued, his features neutral, "that whilst I'm very much in your debt for… stimulation… with casework, this…this…kind of… alliterative stimulation—concocting titles for romanticized fictions in your blogs—is NOT one of your better influences."

John barked a laugh, then snickered softly while looking out the train window. Beyond his reflection glided the moving landscape of tidy houses, woods, and sprawling fields.

Sherlock turned his head away from his traveling companion to hide his smile of shared amusement. It faded as his friend's laughter subsided. Once John was silent, the detective reminisced softly, "As a lad, I stayed with an aunt and uncle close to Farnham…In Hampshire,* more precisely…went on grand adventures there… with a trusted companion or two… Ah!"

John Watson twisted from the window in surprise. Sherlock rarely—to never—revealed anything of his youth. His eyes narrowed at the detective's mischievous smile.

"Not much has changed, it would seem, no?" Sherlock added as an aside, then he cleared his throat. "But to the matter at hand: to dispel the fear of forgeries—"

"—Fear, Fakes, and Forgeries: Funny Business in Farnham," John proposed with an impish grin.

Sherlock glared at his friend to discourage further nonsense and waited until John's grin dissolved before resuming. "Nothing strikes greater fear among experts in the art world than discovering a treasured work might be a forgery. Whilst fake works of art have always infiltrated the collectors' markets, a suspicious trail is leading me to a print shop in Farnham."

"—A trail? Oh. So, we're not about to meet the clients, is it? You've already got a trail! What have I've missed, then…?"

Sherlock frowned, realizing he had been sharing details with Mind-Palace John, but not In-Person John, "From the beginning, then. An hour after you left for the surgery, I had been visited by several new clients: reputable art collectors, museum curators, and dealers sharing a common complaint… In short: I accepted their case and, after investigating, am following a trail to …"

"…to a print shop in Farnham!" John finished for him. "I see." He dropped his gaze and bit his lip in disappointment.

John felt let down that he had missed the clients' visit. This reaction contrasted sharply to the first days of their flat share, when the beleaguered doctor had balked at being dragged along, without a clue about where they were going—which was often straight into danger. Night or day, it hadn't mattered to the detective, John had been pulled out of his comfort zone, pushed into the fray, and whisked away against his will.

All that had changed once Sherlock began inviting John to stay and listen to the clients. Sherlock's enthusiasm for mysteries, his uncanny ability to review the clues and decide if the case was worthy of his attention—even those occasions when he solved the case without leaving the flat—thrilled John. He had grown accustomed to—no, craved—being present. Watching Sherlock's brilliant mind at work never grew old!

Yet, expecting the detective to wait for his doctor-friend-blogger to get off shift before reviewing or accepting a case would be as absurd as John ringing up Sherlock for advice on how to treat a patient in the surgery. Most of the time, they had two separate careers—lives—which intersected only on cases.

John reminded himself of the facts. Sherlock had created a unique niche for his deductive genius—satisfying his need for stimulation—by accepting daunting challenges, solving mysteries, and bringing criminals to justice. The consulting detective had worked successfully for years—alone—before a lonely soldier, nearly destroyed by loss of purpose, had limped into his life. Quite unexpectedly, the career sleuth—who had not been obligated to involve an invalided serviceman—had begun including John since first they met.

Sherlock noted John's sudden silence and dour facial expression as they sat opposite each other. Uncertain why his friend 's enthusiastic countenance had changed, Sherlock bowed his head and spoke in a confidential tone. "John, …perhaps …my experiment…on you… to solve the H.O.U.N.D. case…was…to a slight degree…um… in hindsight…um, ah—"

"Underhanded? Disrespectful? Exploitive? Plain wrong?" John offered helpfully, his grin a twist of mockery and amusement.

Sherlock gestured dismissively rather than agree. A slight shrug followed. "You know my methods, the lengths to which I'll go to solve a case—especially when the answer is so close!" He snatched at the air and closed his fingers into a fist.

This almost apology was another in a series Sherlock had made in the past week, including the most memorable: "I don't have friends. I've just got one;" John hid his smile behind his coffee cup and warmed the tiniest bit to "Mr. Perfect's" new trend.

"However, whilst you were ministering to sick people, I secured… us…" he nodded toward John "… a proper case. Would have told you when I returned last night from my initial investigations. Decided against waking you with the news. Although that precaution may have been for naught. Witness your disgruntled behavior this morning—off-putting, decidedly. Was unexpected and curious, given I hadn't disturbed you."

"Hunger, lack of caffeine, and fatigue… affect us ordinary folk like that," John justified his sour mood. It was just as well, considering Sherlock's statement, that he hadn't expressed aloud his long-standing frustration about grocery shopping. In the scheme of things, this was a minor flaw in Sherlock's character.

Sherlock was a conundrum. On the one hand he may not "get" that "not helping out" around the flat or, more importantly, drugging a friend without consent for a so-called "perfectly safe" experiment was unacceptable behavior, yet he showed immense consideration about how he might integrate John in the work.

The muscles in John's jaw tightened. He felt a sudden swell of gratitude at the privilege the extraordinary man had granted him. Sharing in Sherlock Holmes' sometimes bizarre but nearly always exciting investigations had bonded John to his friend with a fierce loyalty. The ties felt as strong as those the ex-army captain had once held for his Band of Brothers years earlier.

Maybe stronger…if that's possible. John blinked in mild surprise at the unexpected thought. He had lost good friends to combat, others to tour transfers; upon being invalided, his association with the remaining officers had loosened over time. Working with Sherlock, however, had not only restored in John a sense of purpose and pride, but had unearthed within them both the deep roots of a close friendship, the kind that is a rarity in one's lifetime. "Just got one," the detective had admitted in the churchyard. John heard the truth in those words and knew he shared the same sentiments. And as evident at the poolside when they first encountered Moriarty, despite his complaints about living with the man, John would certainly die for him.

Sherlock scrutinized John with a sidelong glance before he shifted his focus across the aisle toward the window beyond. "Glad, then, to dispel any lingering resentments ... Since all now appears well—yes? We must focus on the specifics of this case, as it has potential…"

"Of course!" John responded, snapping out of his revere with a renewed trust in his friend. "Okay, your clients are worried about fakes and forgeries. I get it. Don't they have art experts and historians to consult? Why you?"

"It's complicated. Yes, our clients have regularly consulted art experts and historians, but the consultants' subjective opinions are based upon the art itself. Despite their best efforts, this subjectivity creates more conflicts than clarity. A more reliable method to safeguard against fake works masquerading as priceless originals is to ensure authenticity through provenance. Provenance, for the uninitiated, refers to a trail of authenticating documents and publications that include timelines of ownership since the works were created. Tracing the artwork back to its origin provides proof much like how evidence is collected, safeguarded and analyzed before it moves—."

"—through the chain of custody in forensics!" John declared, following Sherlock's allusion, "…I get it—"

"—Precisely," Sherlock interrupted, pleased by John's grasp of the analogy, "by documenting everyone who has handled the art with logs of the dates the artworks were collected or transferred, and the purpose for the transfer. Like the chain of custody, provenance provides the data to prove the artwork is authentic!"

"Correct me if I'm mistaken—what am I saying? Of course, you will—but not all fine art in the world has irrefutable provenance, right?"

"Indeed, that you are not struggling as usual, John, is most encouraging," Sherlock praised with his customary backhanded compliment.

John's brows creased at the insult but looked down at his empty coffee cup and let it pass.

"As you surmised, John, not all—no, I can correctly say, most artworks do not have such clear-cut provenance. Without proper provenance, experts have more difficulty proving whether they hold an autograph work or a copy by another hand. This causes second-guessing and instability in the antiquities markets. Fortunately, some works do stand solid without it, but ensuring authentication for all artwork without provenance is not part of this—our—case. That would be rather an enormous challenge, even for me." As if verifying the statement that such an endeavor would be too great for his skills, Sherlock closed his eyes, rested his chin on his folded his hands, and leant back in his seat—to think it through.

With his friend in his thinking pose, John's muttered, "That's a first! You admitting some challenges are too great…." The clattering rails muffled his sarcasm, so in a louder voice, he asked, "What does this have to do with this particular print shop, then?"

Sherlock's eyes sprung open; his hands returned to his sides. "I am correct! Too many variables, no existing algorithm can calculate the human uncertainty of it all," he mumbled before responding to John's question. "Ah, …our clients have regularly secured reprints of authentic provenance from this established Farnham print shop."

"Just to clarify, Sherlock," John continued, "you're not saying that all reprints of provenance—documents validating authenticity—come from this historic market town of Farnham, no?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Now that's absurd, even for you, John! No. Not all provenance reprints come from one place, much less a print shop in a civil parish in Surrey. However, the majority of reprint orders for our clients have for years been reprinted through the print shop we are visiting today."

John shrugged, "So, there's something wrong with this print shop, then?"

"That is the question and the reason for our visit. Recently, an inexplicable upswing of authentic provenance, popping up where it shouldn't, has been affixed to dubious 'masterworks.' It appears forgers are getting their hands on provenance and using it—at least temporarily—to promote and establish authenticity for their very convincing fakes."

"Aha! And these forgers are getting this provenance…" John pursed his lips, finally understanding, "…at a print shop in Farnham, perhaps?"

Sherlock paused with a knowing smile. "Perhaps! So, I've arranged for us to meet Mr. Archie Stamford—no relation to your friend Mike, I've checked—who owns and runs the shop."

John grinned, having no doubt that Sherlock had checked the Stamford ancestry records to the tenth generation. "Hmm. Interesting. You think Archie Stamford—no relation to Mike, thank goodness—is supplying provenance to help forgers peddle their fakes."

"What I think and what I hope to discover is why we are bound for Farnham." Sherlock's words picked up speed. "For generations, forgers have mastered labor-intensive techniques to fool experts. They mix their own paints, make their own brushes, use chemicals to age materials—it's not just art, it's chemistry! Their eye for the exacting details makes the works appear authentic, enough to confound critics and historians, not to mention the standard scientific analysis, which, incidentally, can only disprove but not prove the legitimacy of a work."

"Do I detect admiration in your voice?"

"And why not? Skill is always to be admired, John, even if one's nefarious ends are not. Especially, a select group of forgers who are pure geniuses at it. Certain individuals who successfully create fakes and forgeries have extraordinary abilities. Some forgeries are so extraordinarily rendered, they become works of art, themselves. It takes shrewd talent to pull it off, not just once, but multiple times. Fascinating field, really."

"Sherlock, I know I don't have to remind you that it's still a crime."

"Of course, the consequence of this confusion is mucking up the waters… long, drawn-out court cases, undermining the art world… I blame most people for being plain idiots or gullible for sordid reasons simply because they fail to observe the truth. But others—the art experts, collectors, and museum curators who should know better—have their institutions' as well as their own reputations at risk. Imagine the chaos that would descend if they were unable to be certain about their acquisitions."

"So, it's more than just the art," John summarized. "It's as much about money as it is pride."

"Maybe more. Sometimes fame or revenge motivate a forger, and sometimes it's merely a crime of opportunity. Take, for example, the famous Dutch illustrator van Meegeren. In 1945, he was charged with collusion and arrested for selling masterpieces to the Nazis. His defense? That he was a forger—with a technique so masterful that his copies of several famous artists, including Vermeer, fooled many art experts. He claimed he made and sold his fakes to exploit the Nazis for their felonious appropriation of Europe's art treasures. At the trial, a renowned expert, Dr. Abraham Bredius testified van Meegeren was a dealer, not a forger. Bredius had a vested interest in this case because he had previously deemed the copies as genuine. He would lose face—and his livelihood—if his expertise were thrown into question. During the trial, van Meegeren had to prove he was not selling genuine art to Nazi leaders to avoid execution for treason. Naturally, the punishment for committing forgery was not so dire."

"Yeah, this sounds familiar," John tapped his lips with a forefinger and squinted as if the gestures could jog his memory. "He faced trial…and had to paint—?"

Over the train's loudspeakers, the recorded announcement informing passengers that they were close to Farnham station, interrupted John.

With time running out, the impatient Sherlock intercepted his friend's lagging narrative to push through the story. "Yes! He had to prove to the courts that he committed forgery by painting a fresh 'Vermeer masterpiece' under the discerning eyes of Dutch authorities. Having spent years deliberately perfecting the styles of master artists to create false works, he knew how to mix his own paints with the pigments and oils that had been used during the periods of each artist he imitated. His use of Bakelite, a synthetic resin to mimic older mediums, was brilliant—the results were masterful!"

"Guess that art expert Bredius had egg… tempera on his face, after that," John chortled.

Sherlock ignored John's lame humor. "For committing fraud, van Meegeren was sentenced to one year in prison. Unfortunately, he died of a heart attack after serving only two months of his sentence."

Both men fell silent at the irony. John watched the hills of Surrey roll by, until a sudden thought brought them back to the present topic. "Sherlock, how do you proposed to address this printer, Archie Stamford, about your suspicions, then—point blank ask if he is supplying forgers with provenance?"

Sherlock ignored John's question. His eyes took on a faraway look. "I am curious about an antiquity held by the Holmes family: a canvas depicting a landscape with military figures. A lucky find, decidedly. It, along with its provenance, had been rolled and preserved in an old trunk in the attic of my parents' estate. Forgotten for a long time until our recent restoration of a disused wing. It purports to be an obscure work by Emile Jean Horace Vernet, a staunch Bonapartist. A relative of mine, one of several successful French painters in the family as far back as the late seventeenth century. If we can believe the provenance found alongside it in the trunk—which is in French, it's early nineteenth century—this genuine article could command a handsome price. I'm hoping Mr. Stamford will provide a reprinting that I might send round to curators and dealers…"

John frowned with skepticism, despite the convincing narrative. Sherlock lied with such facility that John often had to reconsider the facts as Sherlock presented them, or else, he would fall for the same trick as the suspects Sherlock ensnared with an untruth. The little John knew about Sherlock's forebears was based on what brother Mycroft had mentioned on occasion. That the Holmes' had an estate was a surprise to John. That said estate was undergoing restoration and an old trunk containing an obscure work by a French artist was found could be true? But…

The doctor's dubious expression made the detective's smile broader. "You're correct, John. It's a ruse—a believable lie, wrapped in a convenient truth."

John grinned in relief, chuffed that he had seen through Sherlock's 'ruse.' After nearly two years, he was getting the hang of discerning Sherlock's fictions from his lies.

"You see, while the Vernets are relatives on my grandmother's side," Sherlock explained with a twinkle in his eyes, "and earned their fame as painters, I have not found a rolled canvas. Rather, the nineteenth-century painting has been framed and on display in the Holmes' estate library for six generations. There is a worn copy of the provenance in French…which I am carrying now, although we have several others safely locked away that establish authenticity..." The detective lifted the zippered folder from his lap and waved it as proof, before placing it on the table between them. "So, I will be handing over authentic information. Still, because I suspect our printer may be involved in a forgery ring… I must provide actual bait to set the trap and test my theory." He rubbed his hands in delighted anticipation. "The game is on!"

John smiled at his friend's enthusiasm. As the train pulled into the station, however, his confidence in his ability to detect Sherlock's truth from lies crumpled like the paper coffee cup in his fist. It was unsettling how easily Sherlock could fool him.

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* Young Sherlock Holmes [series authored by Andrew Lane]

** "Can you do without breakfast?" is a direct quote from one of the ACD stories, I can't remember which, but apparently ACD's Holmes constantly whisked Watson away from his breakfast …

Author's note: This story, conceived over a year ago and half written, was delayed by my sudden illness. Fortunately, I am completely recovered and can present it to you nearly a year later. Still, it would not have been finished had I not been supported by my very constant FF friend (and Dell sister) who "held" my hand during my recovery and who encouraged me to resume once I had overcome my health hurdles. To her I am indebted and owe my thanks not only for the editing advice as a Holmesian expert that she so freely offers throughout the grueling writing process, but most of all for her friendship that crosses time and space in this fanfiction site. I am honored to share an affinity for Sherlock Holmes mysteries and the love of writing with this special individual who prefers to remain anonymous.

While I diligently review (over and over and over) Sherlock episodes for accuracy in dialog (over which I claim no rights) from the BBC show, I often verify the quotes by referring to the wonderful and brilliant transcripts by Ariane DeVere aka Callie Sullivan to whom I am indebted.