The Case of Archie Stamford, the Forger

Chapter 3: Dangling Carrot

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Once more, the brass bell tinkled as they opened the door and the faded shop sign creaked on its hinges over their heads. This time Stamford guided them around the side of the print shop to an annex; its entrance shrouded by neatly trimmed shrubs to ensure privacy.

"Kinda hidden, this," John remarked to no one in particular as he looked up the peaceful and secluded tree-lined road toward the market town.

"Yeah. T'at's why I've gots me diary. Meets my appointments in town," Stamford answered over his shoulder while unlocking the well-kept, teal-colored lacquered door. "I brings 'em here. Not easy to find, otherwise. 'Igh 'edges keeps out…um…snoopers."

The lock clicked and the door opened onto a room utterly different from the broom cupboard where Stamford had engaged them earlier. Black-and-white marble paved this foyer, a potted fern provided a pop of green, both belying the shabbiness of the rest of the establishment.

Stamford switched on the lights to a posh suite with soft chairs for waiting customers. He directed Sherlock and John through a sitting room with hand-carved bookshelves toward a conference room visible through beveled-glass French doors. At the center of this well-appointed room was a polished mahogany table surrounded by high-backed, burgundy leather armchairs. In a far corner were shelves of cubicles built for scrolls alongside a large black safe.

Once inside the conference room, Stamford sidestepped toward a free-standing coat tree and removed a navy blazer from its hanger. He stood before a cheval mirror to put it on, taking time to shoot the cuffs and settle the lapels. This public preening continued as he combed through his ginger beard, licked his fingers, and used the saliva to smooth errant strands on his head. Next, Stamford dispensed three pumps of hand sanitizer from a small bottle on the conference table—counting each squirt under his breath as if it were a mantra—and massaged the fast-drying substance through his fingers.

Unaware that his silk-purse attempt to look presentable did not disguise the sow's ear reality, Stamford directed John and Sherlock with an almost courtly air as if he had not revealed his true colors moments before. "Gentlemen, please, take a seat."

"Yes. More appropriate!" Sherlock praised the printer even as he eyed the décor—elaborately framed prints of assorted artwork against a wall of subtle taupe. Among them was an old photograph of the senior family member who had established the print shop and cultivated its fine reputation since the first decade of the twentieth century. Reginald Tybalt Stamford's stern countenance bore a slight resemblance to Archie Stamford, however, one might wonder if his expression was a condemnation of his nephew's ethics.

Sherlock had kept the smug out of his smile, although John saw traces of it, when the detective said, "Yes, I believe we can do our business here."

"You say your provenance dates from t'e nineteent-t century, t'en?" Stamford asked as he pulled white cotton gloves for each of them from a drawer in the table and handed them round. "I must insist…" he told them as he donned his own pair.

"Is this necessary?" John asked Sherlock rather than Stamford, stifling his scoff behind a cough. There were times—such as now—when John desired the perverse pleasure of calling out glaring duplicity. Still, he followed Sherlock's example, certain the detective was aware of his displeasure with their odd host, even if he did not acknowledge it.

"It is, yes, when examining valuable historical documents…" Sherlock explained and pulled his gloves on, then he unzipped the folder and removed the document.

Stamford's eyes widened at the sight of the instrument of provenance inscribed in exaggerated copperplate script. He fondled an edge as Sherlock spread it open, then passed him leather-covered lead weights from the same drawer with which to secure the sheaf of papers from rolling back upon themselves. "Beautiful." The admiration in the printer's voice was genuine.

Sherlock nodded and explained. "This provenance is for an antiquity. A canvas depicting a landscape with military figures has been held by my family for more than a century. A lucky find, decidedly. Both the work and its provenance had been rolled and preserved in an old trunk in the attic of my parents' estate. Quite forgotten until my recent restoration of a disused wing…."

Sherlock's false narrative, nearly verbatim as John had heard it on the train to Farnham, sounded all too convincing as it rolled off his friend's tongue. John shivered inwardly—not for the first time—at Sherlock's ease with lying for a case.

"…an obscure work by Emile Jean Horace Vernet, a staunch Bonapartist, you may recall, if the period is familiar to you. This Vernet was an ancestor, one of several successful French painters in the family back to the late seventeenth century. If I accept the provenance found alongside it in the trunk is genuine—which is in French, it's early nineteenth century—the painting and its documentation should command a handsome price. I'm hoping, Mr. Stamford, you'll provide a reprinting that I might send round to curators and dealers…"

"So, none's got knowledge of t'is artwork and its provenance in quite some time, 'cepting you, of course, t'n?" Stamford sniffed like a dog. "You'd say a decade… or perhaps more, innit?" His behavior would have been embarrassing had it not so clearly shown the man's cupidity.

"More like a century. The painting and its provenance have been tucked away, forgotten," Sherlock baited the hook. "It has been a private keepsake within my family—but a relatively unknown work by Vernet…" Sherlock paused and let his gloved hands gesture the implications. "Not the cachet of a lost Vermeer, certainly, but select collectors and discerning clientele will be quite keen… In any event, whilst I have no immediate plans to bring the artwork to public attention, I wish to ensure that the provenance I have is 'authenticated,' should I decide to offer the item for sale. That assurance would be of great comfort to me and my successors, should I have heirs."

"Seeing aut'entic documentation of t'is quality is t'e most satisfyin' part of my work!" Stamford enthused.

John frowned in reaction to the gleam of avarice in Stamford's eyes.

"I shall produce certified copies for you," the printer continued with a yellow-toothed smile. "T'is is a delicate operation, as you can imagine, and you will 'ave to leave it 'ere…oh, no more t'an a week. "'Owever,…" Stamford gestured toward the safe as if he were selling a luxury car. "I shall, of course, ensure its safety while in my care."

Had it been John's decision, he would have planted his hands on the table and shoved back his seat shouting Not bloody likely! but Sherlock leaned back in his chair, folded his arms, and nodded several times. "Agreed. I require you to return it and all the certified reprints to me by courier."

"By w'atever means you require."

"Excellent. I will supply you the address of the trustees at the family's bank. They will secure the original and all the reprints in a safety deposit box, until such time as we need them." After a further exchange of information, Sherlock slid the provenance back in its folder, removed his cotton gloves and left both on the table. John placed his gloves alongside his friend's.

Stamford pulled off his gloves, scooped up the folder with a swift swipe of a meaty hand, and crossed to the safe. He twiddled his fingers to loosen them, then knelt, and, using his body as a shield, dialed the combination. He swung the door wide and stepped aside to display its contents to his guests. "As you see, Mr. 'Olmes, your fine specimen is not alone." Scrolls and documents were prominently labelled with the names of art dealers and museums. With reverence, he added Sherlock's folder to the collection. Then, he closed the heavy metal door, jerked the worn brass handle upward, and spun the combination dial. He gave the safe door an extra tug to ensure it was locked, stood, and dusted off his trouser knees. "T'ere you go, now. All safe, pun intended," he chuckled darkly. Even in delight, his laugh sounded sinister.

Sherlock rose and gave the printer a cordial smile. "Quite," he said and accepted the printer's extended hand to shake, prepared to leave.

John had turned to follow Sherlock whose long strides had already carried him to the annex entrance. Not as swift as his friend, John had only passed through the French doors when Stamford caught him up from behind. "No hard feelings, eh, mate?' He tapped John lightly on the shoulder and proffered his hand.

The doctor halted and turned again, his back toward Sherlock as he faced the unpleasant man. His hesitation was as noticeable as it was awkward. Then, he relented and clasped the printer's hand. "All good," he said unconvincingly.

Stamford tightened his grip and eyed his captive with a malevolent squint. The printer knew his strength, yet Holmes' "bodyguard" neither flinched with pain nor pulled away; rather, Watson met Stamford's menacing grin with a steely glare.

Strong bloke this Ian Watson, Stamford thought and pulled him incrementally closer with a yank.

"I don't like you no more'an you like me, but we're alike like t'at, see?" he whispered so only John could hear. "I don't forget w'en someon' strikes me nerves, neider. You'll see." More loudly he finished with a forced laugh. "Til next time, t'en, friend…." and released his viselike grasp.

From a distance, Sherlock heard the word "friend." It sounded like an insult.

John approached Sherlock with dark scowling eyes, meeting the detective's inquisitive arched brows with a shake of his head and lips pressed in a thin line. He bypassed Sherlock without a word.

The detective watched the ex-soldier quick-march beyond the privet enclosure toward the town. His friend's abrupt departure was telling. Sherlock swung back around toward Stamford.

"T'ank you for entrusting me with your business, Mr. 'Olmes," the burly man called from the conference room as he removed the navy blazer and hung it back up. He unbuttoned his cuffs and re-rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, prepared to resume his dirty printer's job. He acted as though nothing had happened to cause John Watson to storm out as he had done.

Sherlock restrained his curiosity and replied, "I look forward to getting this matter settled," then stepped outside. He peeped through the tall shrubs and spotted the diminishing form of his friend heading up the street.

Stamford exited as well, sorted his keys noisily, and muttered, "And do give de Blois my fondest regards, 'Olmes, if you really do know him." His taunt was unmistakable.

Sherlock's jaw hardened at Stamford's inuendo; that the printer would drop the façade of professionalism and question a client's bona fides in such a vulgar manner puzzled and troubled him. Mycroft's association with Lord Edgar was legitimate; they had been at University together. Obviously, Mycroft was not dead, but Stamford would not know that—or find any biographical content about Sherlock's sibling. The less renowned Holmes brother through whom "the conclusions" of every government department were passed and is "the central exchange" of covert information was to the outside world a best kept secret. Regardless, Stamford's remark of blatant disbelief was bad form and reflected poorly on the printer. A pathological liar will always suspect others of lying. Is Stamford unbalanced to treat a customer so rudely, Sherlock pondered, or is his rudeness another of his peculiar tests?

Within the fraction of a second it took the detective to pivot and see the printer shut and relock the teal door, Sherlock considered his options: if he let the insult slide and walked away, he would not be exhibiting behavior typical of his class at such an affront. The clever printer would smell a trap. If Sherlock reacted typically and demanded his provenance back in anger and indignation, he would have sprung his own trap prematurely. Moreover, to abort his attempt to ensnare Stamford by demanding his provenance back would be an emotional reaction. Both meant failure, and that was unacceptable.

Sherlock had a mission, a greater purpose, to catch a criminal hiding in plain sight. This could be accomplished only by outwitting his opponent with logic devoid of emotional entanglements. He'd have to to fake out the forger and feign umbrage.

"Mr. Stamford," Sherlock replied coldly, "You dishonor me with your implication. It would seem you do not want my business, after all. Unlock the door, I have no problem retrieving my property and finding another who will show me courtesy. That is the action I am prepared to take, this instant. And were you to refuse, I shall report you to the police and charge you with holding my property feloniously. You will learn how quickly an offence against the integrity of the Holmes name can bring a criminal charge. Further, I shall inform de Blois of your insolence. Are we clear?"

Stamford paled. "Forgive me, Mr. "Olmes. Me smart moutt will be me undoin'! Please, no need to involve t'e police…well, sorry. Sometimes I don't know w'ot impulse takes over. I blurt out such 'orrible t'ings. No. Please! Meant not'in' by it, for pity's sake. Accept me apologies! I will take good care of your documents…I promise! I promise! I promise…" he perseverated in decreasing volume. Wringing his hands, the suddenly stricken man hunched his shoulders and looked down. He alternately whistled and grunted as he rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet.

Unsure if Stamford was staging his behavior, Sherlock scrutinized the tremorous hands, tic-like scrunching nose, and ritualistic rocking accompanied by vocals sounds. The detective felt no pity despite seeing classic repetitive movements associated with obsessive compulsives. If this were not an act, the printer may have been speaking the truth about his rude impulses, though it did not excuse him for the insults his untreated condition caused. The annex's protective shrubs shielded the printer's distress from possible passers-by, but the detective wondered if the locals knew to steer clear of the odd and often obnoxious merchant.

"If you're indeed suffering from compulsions, Mr. Stamford, may I suggest you seek medical help with prescriptions to control them. It may explain why your print shop is in such disrepair. It would be a rare clientele, indeed, who would tolerate such discourtesy."

"Yes, yes, yes! I know! I've tried," Stamford clutched trembling hands in supplication. "Drugs fog t'e brain. Right you are, sorry, sorry. Again, Let me make amends. You'll not be disappointed by my work. Please."

Sherlock's bluff worked; cards had advantages over chess at times. Stamford seemed neutralized. This was a small victory.

"I shall…overlook, this unfortunate lapse because of the reputation of your work's quality," Sherlock infused his voice with a kindness he did not feel for the loathsome man. "But be warned, there will be no second chance for displaying such…vulgarity," Sherlock nearly hissed the final word

Stamford bowed his head in contrition.

"And….Lord Edgar will be indeed be informed of your…" Sherlock couldn't resist a final scare, "…fond regards."

Stamford sniveled his odious thanks.

Sherlock left the enclosure of privet hedges and hurried to find his friend.

John was huffing not so much from the exertion of his stride but from his suppressed rage when Sherlock caught him up. Arms behind his back, bowed head, John had been pacing on a gravel path in the local park. Under the barely budding limbs of a sycamore, the detective stood watching, waiting until his friend kerbed his temper.

"That bad, was it?" Sherlock asked when John's pacing slowed and he appeared ready for words.

"Yeah. Jee-sus! Dunno." John palmed his forehead in bewilderment. "That bloody tosser got under my skin. I ….I kept reminding myself I'm a doctor, but the soldier was getting in the way. To do no harm, I had to get the hell away quick."

"Really? You fooled me."

John searched his friend's face. "You're kidding, right?"

Sherlock gave him a slight smirk. "Had we been playing cards, you would have exposed your hand each time."

"Well, it was either retreat or face assault charges."

"Usually, I make the dramatic exit and leave you handling the social amenities, like goodbye or thanks or whatever tedious pleasantries are expected."

John nodded at the levity in his friend's remarks. It failed to improve his humor. "True," he grunted irritably. "Sorry. Wasn't much help, I guess."

"Wouldn't say that. Stamford certainly was an unexpected character and your reaction justifiable. I concede an honest man, such as yourself, will have moments when overweening deceit forces one toward a breaking point. Good on you, though…for controlling that…strong impulse. Your intelligence and, might I add, your compassion—to do no harm—saved us from unwanted police attention."

Satisfied his praise had worked at mitigating John's temper, as evidenced by his friend's half smile, Sherlock continued, "I felt inclined, as well…to eviscerate him verbally, but could ill afford to reveal my hand in advance of proof—of what I suspect—and which he needs to provide me. This case will require enormous patience, John; it will not be solved in mere days. It could take months, I fear years, but it will be worth all we must tolerate to see this foul friend of forgers behind bars."

Sherlock stroked his chin in thought, seeming reluctant to address his next topic. "Stamford's initial conduct toward you was peculiar, John… provocative, approaching psychotic. Um, …I hadn't heard fully what happened between you before you left. Am I wrong to think…he threatened you, somehow?"

John looked past Sherlock, focusing on a quaint, garden-club sign under which green spikes were pushing up through the dark soil. Had he been paying attention, he would have recognized them as daffodils, but he had not. "It was odd." He shrugged and grew introspective. "But I'm fine now. All good."

"What did he say, John?"

"Nothing important."

"Let me be the judge."

The concern in the calm eyes considering him dissolved John's resistance. He nodded twice and closed his own eyes to concentrate. Spring bird song from the branches above soothed and helped him focus. "It was something like: 'I don't like you no more than you like me, but we're alike like that, see? …I don't forget when someone hits'…no, he said…'strikes my nerves… You'll see…til next time… friend.'" John spat the last word with distaste and looked up at his friend for clarification. "What do you make of it?"

Sherlock made no immediate reply. Archie Stamford seemed a contradiction—threatening, rude, unhinged—but the detective had not quite discerned what kind of threat the printer posed to either of them. He wondered, not for the first time, if he had unwittingly exposed his friend to a danger greater than he had anticipated, this time in the likes of this Farnham printer.

"Make of it? I honestly don't know, John," Sherlock admitted, "Why he targeted you with his immediate contempt is unclear…" Sherlock's eyes shifted uneasily. "Not enough data just now to sort it…"

Despite Mycroft's frequent warning that "caring is not an advantage," Sherlock could not dismiss that he cared how the consequences of his actions might harm those close to him. John Watson was stalwart, undeterred by danger, and capable of defending himself, yet the detective had begun to feel responsible for him. The flat-mate had begun as an asset, then an ally who became a friend—the rarest commodity in Sherlock's limited experience—which gave Dr. John Watson an uncommon value to a man who had been used to working alone. This truth had knocked the wind out of the solitary detective at an unlikely moment.

Sherlock had arranged to meet the illusive "Moriarty" for the first time, face to face at the pool where Carl Powers had died. When John had stepped from behind the curtain instead, Sherlock had experienced the shock of betrayal like a jolt of electricity. In that next instant, the voltage intensified as Sherlock saw the large explosive device strapped to John's chest beneath the oversized green parker. His flat-mate was in danger of being Moriarty's latest bomb victim. With this maneuver, Moriarty had raised the stakes higher in his great game; he had seen what the detective had not until that moment: Sherlock had a friend in John Watson.

"I'll burn the heart out of you," Moriarty unleashed vehemently.

"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one," Sherlock rejoined.

"But we both know that's not quite true," Moriarty countered with a wicked smile.

That Sherlock Holmes was unprepared for the singular realization that he had acquired—no, permitted himself—an Achilles' heel was a vulnerability he needed to amend. The standoff between Moriarty and himself had been a mere skirmish. War lay ahead. With his weakness exposed, Sherlock could not allow this attachment to interfere. He would need to work harder at maintaining emotional distance, for John's welfare as much as his own.

John's exhaled laugh broke Sherlock's reverie. "So, what now?"

Sherlock looked into the middle distance for his answer. "Stamford was playing with us," he resumed, "as if he knew our business opportunity was not completely aboveboard. Whether he will take the carrot I've dangled and reprint secret versions for his own purposes remains to be seen. I've made him believe this is the only extant provenance of a valuable work—which it is not, since my family has copious documentation to prove we hold the authentic original."

"Dare I ask if your...um... family is aware of this plan?" John quirked an eyebrow.

Sherlock frowned at John's skepticism. "I have Mycroft's full cooperation in this matter… this time," he added as an afterthought. "And claiming to be the so-called 'sole heir of the Holmes' estate also has my brother's blessing. If we pass Stamford's test, he will use this document to legitimize forgeries with his accomplice—which is what I am trying to prove. I'm counting on his greed for fraudulent profit to lure him into the trap I've set. Mark my words, there will be a sudden 'discovery' of an out-of-circulation Vernet—a military landscape—which we can prove is a fake. Then we'll have him and perhaps his accomplices too, John!" Sherlock's smile brought a reciprocal smile to John's face.

"A temptation too strong to resist, then, Sherlock?"

"Time will tell."

They grinned at each other, sharing the pleasant thought of the forger behind bars, and headed back to the train station.

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Within the year, Sherlock Holmes would drop to his death—his case of the 'unknown' Vernet left unresolved—and everything would change for John Watson.

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