The Case of Archie Stamford, the Forger

Chapter 4: After Sherlock and John had left the Print Shop in Farnham…

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Archibald Stamford understood what was required: per his client's instructions, he was to reproduce authenticated copies of the French Vernet provenance, stamped and officially sealed, and send everything to the Holmes' family trustees.

Holmes' claim that Lord de Blois had past business with the Farnham shop and, therefore, had referred him, had been true. The Farnham print shop archives revealed that the de Blois estate had had provenances reprinted in the Stamford establishment, some documents well before Archie began his apprenticeship as a much younger man. It had all seemed legitimate. Still, as he had set up the fragile parchment under the lens of the camera-copier, took the shots, and processed the film, suspicion ate at him.

The posh boy Holmes and his bodyguard Watson had made no prior appointment when they had appeared at the shop. Their visit had been out of the ordinary because Stamford no longer drew casual "foot traffic" for provenance reprint jobs.

To revive his dwindling business, Archie Stamford had agreed to work for the husband-and-wife team, Victor and Fiona Mueller. They not only had set him up with prospective clients—"dupes," they would say with brazen glee, speaking in Stamford's presence as if he were furniture and not someone who could give them up to the local constabulary. They had gone so far as to give him standing orders to print clandestine copies of every provenance job he received, explaining there was always a possibility these documents could be useful.

Several years prior, the Muellers had unexpectedly visited the failing print shop and Archie Stamford, its hapless owner; they had introduced themselves as new neighbors, just moved from France to the British countryside where they had bought a stately home in the nearby Surrey Hills. Their names and their proximity meant nothing to Stamford, but when the conversation turned to the business that brought them—a tempting proposition about duplicating provenance—Stamford became keenly interested. The Meuller's purposes might be illicit, but he was desperate and untroubled about trading his silence and his integrity for the promise of sizeable sums.

Since doing business with the Muellers, Stamford knew the routine. Yet, the longer he worked on the Vernet provenance, the more he felt there was something fishy with Holmes' request. Unable to shake his misgivings, he had rung up Fiona to tell her.

"G-g-got'n funny feelin', iz all," he stammered with the intimidation she always caused him," …a…a.. about a n-n-n-new, um, ss-ss-s-ppec'al printing—"

"—Not now, idiot!" the woman cut him off harshly, miffed at his stupidity at using the phone. "Listen! We'll pop by tomorrow!"

When they had met at the Farnham print shop—in the elegant conference room that they had financed—to inspect the provenance in question, it was manifestly clear the Mueller's were not pleased. Fiona in particular seemed inconvenienced that a sit-down with Stamford had become necessary. He was, after all, a low-level employee making demands when she had elite clients to see.

A formidable woman in her early fifties, Fiona was the embodiment of confidence and power. She had arrived impeccably dressed in a pearl grey Frankie Shop suit, a loose-fit style that blended Parisian elegance with New York energy. A sapphire clasp pulled her long ash-blonde hair off her face, exposing silver at her temples and, despite her cosmetic treatments, the crow's feet around her eyes.

Victor's signature look had been in sharp contrast to that of his classy wife: he seemed a few years Fiona's senior, with his greyish-blond hair and white beard shrouding his pale face. Polite company would call it "casual" although "slovenly" described it better. His garish, floral-print bell-bottomed trousers were belted tightly around his protruding belly with an oversized silver buckle. Tufts of grey chest hair sprouted through his loose, long-sleeved, white-linen V-neck shirt. A knee-length, mud-brown macramé vest and string of carved wooden beads completed his 1970's escapee appearance.

"Mind me," the printer warned as he handed the billfold across the table to Fiona "'fraid there might be strings attached to this un."

Fiona ignored Stamford and opened the billfold with cotton-gloved hands then glanced at its contents. "A Vernet? I'm not familiar with him… Vic, dearest" She nudged the hippie-husband beside her. He was slouching back in the chair with his sandaled-socked feet propped on the tabletop. "Is this something you can replicate…or need we get one of the others to do it, then…?"

Vic appeared mildly interested. "Which Vernet?"

"Emile Jean Horace Vernet." Fiona read from the provenance.

"I know his style. What's the subject?"

"A military landscape."

"Hmm." Victor pondered and closed his eyes to visualize. "I see Napoleonic influences… broad sweeps …armies clashing….roiling storm clouds…, play of light and shadows."

"Good. That's settled," Fiona closed the billfold, pushed back in her chair, and folded arms across her chest. "Prepare this provenance for me but leave it here in your vault."

"What if it's not safe, then? The provenance, I mean…"

"I'll be the judge of that," Fiona snapped at Stamford before adding, "Will do a bit of digging on this Holmes chap. Do nothing until we've vetted it."

Months later, the news broke: William Sherlock Scott Holmes had plunged to his death. The Coroner's inquest returned a judgement of suicide. His career as a private investigator and his reputation for integrity were in smithereens. Stamford and his ringleaders took note of the scathing press coverage about the so-called "consulting detective."

Within a fortnight, Stamford had been summoned to the Mueller's Surrey Hill estate and ordered to bring the Vernet provenance. He immediately voiced his objection when Fiona received him in the spacious, marble entrance hall, "'E wernt William Holmes! 'E wuz Sherlock Holmes, t'e bloody detective!" he exclaimed in a hoarse whisper that echoed in the center hall.

Fiona Mueller scowled at his outburst and pressed her forefinger to her lips to silence him; it would not do to have her house staff overhear. She gestured him toward the study, pausing to close the raised-panel double doors before she retorted, "We knew. That's why we didn't move on it."

"Yo' t'ink 'e wuz on to us, t'en?"

"What does it matter, now?" Fiona scoffed. Her nose wrinkled, affronted by the print shop's pungent, chemical smells emanating from Stamford's clothes. Her distaste ripened into disgust that he hadn't changed into more appropriate attire to visit her grand home. "Holmes' dead and disgraced. Turns out he was a fake, made up most of his cases. Snooping or not, who would've believed him and whatever bogus investigation on us he might have been concocting for his own glory? Everything he touched has been discredited!"

"Yo're sure? About using t'is un?"

Fiona stared at the ink-stained oaf they had manipulated for years, deciding whether she should offer him an explanation or leave him ignorant of their plans. After a bothered sigh, she yielded and gave him just enough information to keep his curiosity at bay. "Vic and I have investigated... so far, we've learned that all other family has predeceased him... But we'll wait a bit longer. You know the drill, Archie. Any news about Holmes' art heirlooms or estate wills or testaments you hear about, you tell me at once, you understand?"

Stamford nodded. "Aw right…and t'en whot?"

"Why do you care?" She spoke as if he were a pesky insect to be squashed. "If you must know…" her voice dripped with disdain, "…we expect, if nothing surfaces within the year, to move forward on the project."

Fiona clamped her mouth shut, unwilling to share that her genius husband had already planned a splendid landscape, although it will take time to age the "late eighteenth-century" piece. If everything proceeded to plan, a valuable Vernet would be discovered within the next two years. She glared at the stupid man before her, with his vacant face waiting for an answer. She found his dullness loathsome, but his essential contributions to their operations meant he needed assurances. Fiona managed a placating smile as if sharing a deep confidence. "Listen, be patient and you will enjoy the rewards of keeping your mouth shut."

"Yeah, aw right," Archie muttered sullenly and dropped his gaze toward his scruffy shoes to avoid the woman's unnerving grin. "The fake detective's dead as a doorknob…and 'is secrets buried wid 'im…"

"Just so, Archie. Trust us." She barked a haughty laugh. "WE know what we're doing. We'll take it from here."

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