The Case of Archie Stamford, the Forger

Chapter 7: Masterful Twists and Turns

(still November 2023)

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"Seriously, Sherlock?" John looked up in disbelief from his laptop as Rosie giggled at her godfather and clapped in amazement. "How?" he said. "What did I say, then?"

"You reminded me," Sherlock answered with a broad smile, "that—among the many other criminals convicted on my evidence—our friendly provenance printer has been granted parole. He's been free on probation for the past two months awaiting an appeal…"

"Ahh! The Farnham Forger," John grunted in recollection. "You think he's behind this, then?"

"Not sure yet. It's a working hypothesis for now." Sherlock shook his head. "I shall have to think this through. Indeed, the Farnham Forgery case is a rather involved story—"

"—Right then! All good," Rosie interrupted. "You solved it, Uncle Sherlock!" She took one last sip of her tea and leaped from her chair. "The rest is boring … This," she waved her tablet, "is not!"

"—Oi, Rosie!" John turned toward his daughter in mild surprise. "You don't want me to read this chapter along with you?"

"No, Dad!" she shook her head vigorously, her golden plaits whipping about her face. "I can read—even the long words—much better now."

"Giving it a go without me, then?"

"Yeah. Your reading-it-aloud is slower than my reading it to myself."

"I thought you liked how I voiced the characters." John sat back in feigned disappointment.

"Yeah," she snickered at his pretend pout. "You make it funny. I love how you act everything out, too! And your Bilbo is the best! But…but I can't wait for bedtime to see what the stone trolls are about. I want to know NOW!" She kissed her father's cheek. "No worries, Dad. We'll finish this chapter together tonight."

"Go on then!" John chuckled, wiggling his fingers goodbye. As Rosie sped off, he called after her. "See, I told you my little problem would be taken care of. Especially with your godfather's help."

"Rosie's making assumptions." Sherlock dropped into the chair opposite John at the kitchen table and studied his tea mug. "Did she not hear me say it's a working hypothesis?" Frost was in his voice. "A case is not solved based upon mere conjecture." He looked back over his shoulder. "Perhaps we should call her back to explain…?"

"Sorry?" John huffed a laugh. "Geez, Sherlock! She's a kid. They move faster through life than we do. Lessons like that will come eventually. Anyway, she has unfaltering faith in your abilities to resolve this—a faith I share. That's the reason she left. Wait? No." John's eyes twinkled with mirth, seeing beyond his friend's stony expression. "You're offended she called it boring, that's it!" Insults and taunts of hardened criminals had no effect on the detective, but the godfather in Sherlock Holmes would need to grow a thicker skin against his goddaughter's cutting candor.

"Offended? Don't be an idiot, John!" Sherlock snapped, but his expression belied his words. "I don't get offended. Had she stayed for the full discussion, she would've realized her confidence is premature, if not misplaced."

"Truth is, not everyone is captivated by long-winded explanations." John chortled at his friend's defensiveness. "And our topic can't compete with a master storyteller's."

Sherlock hesitated, a frown showing between his eyebrows. "Shall I continue…for your benefit, then? Or are you…bored, too."

"Not at all, Sherlock! Continue please!" John beckoned for emphasis. "I'm not bored at all. Besides…." his grin held mischief. "I already know how The Hobbit ends. But this forger case is still a mystery to me."

Sherlock's expression softened.

"Stamford's out, then?" John prompted, quietly tickled that the ordinarily smug and annoying know-it-all required his encouragement. "I'd lost track of him once he and his forgery mates were convicted…. What happened with them, then?"

Sherlock's usual reserve returned as he resumed, "You will recall the bait I had used, my family's Vernet provenance, yes? Well, my oversight was not required for the lure to work; I had merely to set the trap with it. Rather, it was within the purview of the Holmes trustees, the arts and antiquities authorities, in conjunction with the National Fraud Strategy officials, to be on the alert for any Vernet discoveries coming to light. Once the ringleaders and Archie had taken the bait by producing an unknown Vernet—a spectacular Napoleonic military landscape, I was told, along with suspicious provenance—the trap was sprung…"

"That's when the Met called me in…three days after it broke. And that was the day of my unexpected press conference…" John saw the connection. "…which coincidentally had been used for the deepfake…."

"Precisely, John. Coincidence? What are the odds?" Sherlock paused and shifted in his chair as he redirected the discussion. "However, before we focus on Stamford, we must look to his ringleaders. Victor and Fiona Mueller had concocted an interesting backstory of which Stamford knew nothing. It would be only at their trial for forgery—the transcripts from which were detailed and illuminating—that people learned the magnitude of their trickery.

"The art world believed what about the Muellers, Sherlock, before they were arrested?"

"There were some truths…" Sherlock's enthusiasm was rising. "…woven through their deceits, enough to make her bona fides in the art world plausible. For example, Fiona Mueller, née Crofton, had been an art and antiquities dealer. She had used her sizeable inheritance to finance her interests in art collecting. Victor Mueller, had been a rising artist, gaining recognition with increasing success while she was building her own reputation for researching obscure provenances and discovering lost artworks."

"Okay." John nodded and sipped his tea.

"However, this is when the lies began. Seven years into their marriage, Fiona struck gold when—it seemed—she had 'located' an unknown Marc Chagall that passed authenticity muster and earned great attention, both for the work itself and her prowess in researching provenance. Unknown to the art world, however, that was their first forgery: Victor's skill at recreating Chagall's style and hers at falsifying documentation had worked brilliantly. This triumph whetted their appetite for acclaim and acceptance as well as greed. It cemented a covert collaboration that would secure them more victories for many years."

"Married partners in crime…committing forgeries. That's one way to stimulate a relationship." John rose to retrieve a tin of assorted butter biscuits from a cupboard. He offered Sherlock first choice before choosing his own.

"Stimulating indeed, John." Sherlock munched and absentmindedly brushed the crumbs from his lapel.

"Hmm…" John chewed the biscuit thoughtfully, unaware of the crumbs on his jumper. "There's a name for this kind of relationship… when a couple gets off on criminal acts. What's it called?" he snapped his fingers. "Wait…. got it—hybristophilia, aka Bonnie and Clyde Syndrome, heightened sexual attraction between couples who willfully commit antisocial acts."

"Astute observation, John. Although after serving time, the couple is estranged now, so perhaps their marriage lasted only so long as the crimes they had committed together fed their mutual…arousal. For better, but not for worse, it would appear, once their forgery enterprise ended. I imagine the decline of a financial dynasty would be difficult for most couples," Sherlock added as a droll afterthought. "Nevertheless," he picked up the conversational thread, "while they kept the forgery ring secret, it had been no secret to the art world how Fiona's business grew in direct relation to the decline of Victor's original works. But make no mistake, John, Victor was a wily fox, as devious and driven as Fiona and equally complicit."

Sherlock took a sip of his now tepid tea, too distracted by his account to complain. "However, as part of their deception, Victor had pivoted to teaching art in lieu of making art. While it was not uncommon for renowned artists to hold workshops and offer lessons, Mueller's attempt to teach his personal 'style' to students—in a studio privately funded by his wife—had marginal success. Over time, he developed off-putting eccentricities—sometimes he appeared too high to lecture—and drove most of his students away. A handful remained engaged, mystifyingly tolerant of their instructor's oddities. It had seemed that a comfortable life had undermined Mueller's inspiration, that his mind had been fogged by drugs, and his talent subsumed by his many indulgences."

"If it were so noticeable… that their professional and personal pursuits had become diametrically opposed, then, why would she stay with him?" John reflected.

"Such was a sticking point." Sherlock agreed with a nod and reached for another biscuit. "What did she see in him? Even the art critics who had once held Victor Mueller in high esteem, abandoned him. Some blamed Fiona for his lackluster works. One daring critic made this viewpoint public by publishing his sexist opinion in an art review: 'It's clear that powerful women emasculate their men. Take Victor Mueller as an example; Fiona Mueller's successes have deplorably impacted her husband's inspiration and productivity. One must question if Victor Mueller has become intimidated by his clever wife?'…"

"Seriously! This article was published, how long ago?" John got up to turn the kettle back on, adding, "No doubt, this thinking persists today, but it's not politically correct to state it openly …."

"In an ideal world, gender should have no bearing on accomplishment. And as you so often have occasion to remind me, John, we are far from an ideal world," Sherlock rejoined. "Despite the collectors' and critics' suspicions, Victor never publicly begrudged Fiona's rise to fame and fortune. Rather, it appeared he bowed to her expertise and expressed his sentiments lavishly, in a variety of art trade publications."

"So, you're saying Victor faked becoming a brain-fogged recluse."

"Precisely, now that we know the truth, John, the reason is fairly obvious. Creating credible fakes was time-consuming, even for a genius artist like Victor who could imitate deceased European masters that fooled the critics, collectors, and curators. It took time to mix pigments, age blank canvases, make horsehair brushes with age-appropriate glues, hammer palette knives out of old metals. Yet, like an alchemist, he imitated styles to transmute fakes into gold. From the few I've seen, his fakes could be deemed masterpieces in their own right. His mastery of sfumato hasn't been seen since the early 17th century."

"Time consuming, you say. And teaching workshops, too…?"

"This was all part of the plan. The workshops were the testing ground to recruit accomplices for his growing forgery enterprise. His lessons included instructing his students on old techniques and challenging them to copy the masters, stroke by stroke. From the lot of them, he carefully culled those who proved most skilled with the promise of riches and rewards greater than they would ever realize on their own. Once he had his team of artists, he alienated the remaining students with offensive behavior to send them off."

"So, his talent had not gone up in smoke."

"Just his reputation. It had become quite tarnished. This fooled the art critics who had once favored Victor Mueller and threw off suspicion of his ability to paint anything worthwhile, much less forgeries."

"Another cuppa, Sherlock?" John asked when the kettle had boiled.

Sherlock nodded and resumed, "As a further ruse—and to address the what-did-she-see-in-him question—Fiona had defended her husband multiple times in the media against the vitriol of clients and the press's probing questions. She would laugh it off, saying, 'Whilst his talent may not match the masters, his early works had garnered attention and accolades…'"

"…'may not match the masters'… Ha!" John crowed. "Appreciate her irony."

Sherlock grinned at John's reaction. "Appearances were deceiving. Yet, this public perception couldn't have been further from the truth: the Muellers cultivated this seemingly convincing misdirection—Victor's completely incompatible comportment to his wife's polished appearance was part of their subterfuge to shield their illicit enterprise."

"Have to admit, it was clever, Sherlock." John poured fresh mugs of steaming tea for them both.

"Not just clever, John. Ingenious!" Sherlock nearly howled with admiration, careful not to spill the hot beverage in his excitement. "Once the prosecution used the damning evidence at hand to pull back the curtain, the Muellers' chicanery was exposed!" Sherlock spoke rapidly, fired up by the brilliance of their scheme. "All the culprits were stood in the dock for forgery, eventually. That's how the public—and their marks—learned how perfectly the Muellers had plied their respective trades. For nearly two decades, they traversed the continent, never staying in any one province for long. This way, they evaded prying eyes and suspicion. They had amassed millions as they hoodwinked the art world, doubtless laughing every time a newly 'discovered' Ernst or van Dongen or Léger make its way to gallery walls or brought an exorbitant price at auction. That kept them 'in the game' long after they could have retired to a non-extradition location. I can only surmise the thrill of deceit had to have become an addiction—perhaps an aphrodisiac, given their twisted symbiosis."

John had listened in silence, leant back in his chair, arms folded across his chest. The scope of the Muellers' deception astounded and amazed him. "On the move, you say, from 'prying eyes.' So, they settled in the UK, then? Where, exactly, Sherlock?"

"A villa in Surrey Hills, close to the Farnham Print Shop."

"Extraordinary!" John exclaimed, throwing up his hands in wonderment. "And all this was brought down by the irresistible provenance from a dead detective's estate… Brilliant, Sherlock! It's brilliant!"

Sherlock half-smiled at his friend's praise. "Well, the dead detective part was not original to the scheme," he conceded, "Had I not 'died,' they would likely have not taken the bait. Still, it worked." Sherlock sounded chuffed—even proud—but not arrogant.

"So, the entire ring was disbanded, sentenced, and served time." John summarized. "It's been ten years… are any of them still incarcerated?"

"Most are not. Art forgery is not a high crime despite being a criminal offence under the Trade Descriptions Act 1968 which carries a milder sentence, or The Theft Act 1968 which has stiffer penalties, or The Fraud Act 2006 which clarifies all sorts of deception offences. The maximum penalty for forgery if convicted in the Crown Court could be ten years imprisonment, often the sentence is lighter. However, the Mueller trial became a long, drawn-out court case. It took nearly five years to hear two hundred witnesses and twenty-two experts. Eventually a settlement was reached with most of the plaintiffs. Consequently, sentences were doled out years after the ring was apprehended. The details are rather tedious to recount , so suffice it to say, the longest sentence was seven years for Fiona as the ring's masterminding. Victor got six…. With time already served awaiting trial, they've been out for years."

"And Archie Stamford got how many?"

"His case was a bit more involved. He incurred additional charges—separate from his association with the forgery ring—for illegal business practices including producing fake identities, which he denied, insisting the evidence found by the authorities was fraudulent…" Sherlock's head titled as if by stating the facts aloud to John, he heard them better. Struck by a sudden realization, he hesitated before continuing, "…Stamford was sentenced consecutively to eleven years. Out on good behavior—"

"—Good behavior! Seriously, I find that hard to believe, Sherlock," John interrupted, "given how he acted with us."

"Doubtless His majesty's prison authorities saw to his taking his meds to control his compulsive disorder…." Sherlock seemed distracted. He looked into the middle distance. "In any event, the parole board would need to finalize his early release. Failing approval, he remains at His Majesty's Pleasure for the duration. Which leads us back to the coincidence—the posting of the deepfake video… now."

"You've got your answer, Sherlock. He's got motive, opportunity and a long-held grudge against you… and me." John shrugged. "Looks like payback to me, yeah? He served time and wants revenge for his conviction by disparaging the man who ensnared him and the bodyguard who irked him…"

"Something's not right…" Sherlock closed his eyes and steepled his fingers under his chin. "Curious," he mused. "Two months free and he mastered a computer-generated deepfake so expertly? I know it's easier to do with today's software, but the quality of this synthetic video is quite good—too good, for a novice. I took the trouble to assure myself that rehabilitation in prison does not include lessons for digitally falsifying videos." He looked at John Watson meaningfully.

"Okay…" It was beginning to dawn on John that Sherlock's thoughts were headed in another direction. "You've already established that putting doubt in the minds of the parole board about your evidence against Stamford won't work to discredit you. Rather, our complaint to the authorities with proof that it's a deepfake would discredit him!"

"Yes, yes. Right, so why would Stamford try? Absent official regulations, this offense would earn a slap on the wrist, but it would make Stamford appear ridiculous to the panel and unfit for early parole. Unless …unless...I'm wrong," the detective admitted softly. "It's not about me...about us... What if it's about Stamford? And the deepfake's meant to discredit him?"

"Huh?" John's jaw dropped in surprise. "What? That's a switch. You think he's been set up?"

"It's much clearer now," Sherlock mumbled before his eyes popped open and he leapt from his chair. "Talking aloud with you, my friend, has worked as usual! Stamford may seem the obvious culprit for this video fraud, John, but it's rather too obvious. What if he is correct, that he has been framed with fraudulent documents to ensure he unjustly served a longer sentence?"

"Sorry, Sherlock. You've lost me now. Who would frame him and why?" John watched the detective pace when simultaneous notifications pinged on his computer and Sherlock's mobile.

Both men checked their messages. "The Dell sisters are sharing their provenance information from their forensic analyst," John said. "Their search revealed the edited video's source as originating from an IP address on record as belonging to …,hmm….the Farnham Print shop, registered to Archibald Stamford." John exhaled. "Well, Sherlock, that's it, then. It looks like Stamford is the culprit, after all. I guess his old computer was still working despite his time served. Shame. You nearly convinced me otherwise. So, what did you hear from your White Hats, then?"

"My hackers Irregulars agree about Stamford's IP address," Sherlock's voice remained neutral as he read the message, "except they determined that the Print Shop computer is merely a proxy for yet another source…identified as an IP address belonging to someone named Crofton, Fiona Crofton." Sherlock smiled smugly at John's shocked expression. "Evidence is always true north, pointing the way. First, a visit to Archibald Stamford. Once I verify his claim about falsified documents, a meeting with the formidable Fiona may prove enlightening. Care to join me, John?"

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