Becoming Holmes (6 page)

“Who serves on that committee?”

“A small roster of respectable financial figures.”

“Chaired by whom?”

“The Governor of the Bank of England, Sir Ramsay Stonefield.”

“Could he reach his hand down as far as the position that our little Grimsby holds and see to it that a certain someone had it?”

“I don’t see why he would.”

“But
could
he?”

“I suppose, but again,
why
would he?”

“Yes, why would he?” says Sherlock, deep in thought. Then he shakes himself awake and takes his brother by the hand. His eyes are brighter than they have been for almost a year. “You have been most helpful. I wish you good day, sir, and hope to have some news for you before long.”

Mycroft smiles. “You have little to go on from what I can see, Sherlock, mostly an inchoate theory, but I wish you
well. I must admit, this problem of yours amuses me. I shall betray nothing of my knowledge to one Ronald Loveland, since he may ask about you. In fact, I shall put him off your scent entirely. I shall tell him that I have browbeaten you unmercifully for confronting him and you are going home at this very instant with your tail between your legs, which is a falsehood in every detail, since you, sir, are chuffed and heading
east
, I deduce. All the best to you!”

The brothers part and don’t look back – Mycroft up the steps to the Treasury building and his office, and Sherlock back along Whitehall to Trafalgar Square and then east to the Old City and the Bank of England’s magnificent headquarters on Threadneedle Street.

I must discover what got him that job, and then the rest will unfold
.

At that very moment, Grimsby is summoning a boy to his desk. He is writing him a note to be delivered to an educational institute a good distance from London. It begins with the words, “Sherlock Holmes …”

5
THE GOVERNOR

S
herlock, of course, has already formed a plan. He will arrive at the great bank about half an hour before it opens. That will be perfect. He isn’t tutoring at school today, so he can do as he pleases. He moves quickly. When he reaches Fleet Street, passing by the offices of famous newspapers, all with black Dickens headlines displayed in their windows, pedestrian and carriage traffic has picked up considerably. The air smells of horse manure and burning coal, human sweat and urine. Wagons and hansom cabs and omnibuses jam the street, reins jingling, wheels grinding on cobblestones, thousands of hoof beats clacking, pedestrians somehow finding their way through a flowing crowd of vehicles, while drivers shout at their steeds. Up the hill ahead sits St. Paul’s Cathedral, where he once secretly met Irene during the Whitechapel murder case. He dashes that memory from his mind, concentrating on making his way through the river of people. It is a weekday, and London is about to truly hum. Partway up Ludgate Hill, he passes the remnants of the London Wall and enters the Old City. This is where the Romans lived and England now operates its financial institutions. Sherlock
straightens his second-hand frock coat, runs his hand through his black hair to make sure it is in place, and swings north to Cheapside. From here he soon sees the Lord Mayor’s home at the intersection of three ancient City streets. These arteries are narrow and tight with wonderful old buildings towering along the little foot pavements, built during another time when people were smaller, transportation slower, and vehicles far fewer in number.

And there on the north side near the Stock Exchange sits the building he is seeking, the Old Lady of Threadneedle Street. It is three stories high, interminably long and fronted with pillars, taking up an entire block. Inside these walls, in its elegant rooms and under its impressive domes, grinds the engine of the Empire’s finances. The Bank of England is the most important bank in the world, setting the standard for the nation and the pace for all other countries too. The value of the pound, it is said, is based upon the amount of gold in its vaults.

Sherlock’s mission is not to speak to the Governor or even have someone do that for him. That is not remotely possible. He merely wants to see him. From that, other things can unfold.
One must start with something, anything, and build from there
. Observation, both his father and Sigerson Bell have taught him, is the alpha and the omega of confronting a problem. But one must do it thoroughly and correctly.

He knows that he is in pursuit of a secret. The employment of Grimsby at Her Majesty’s Treasury has come from one, perhaps from a series. He is sure of it. It is a move begun in the shadows. Holmes has deduced that the insertion of an
unqualified unknown into a position of some power, however elementary,
had
to have come through one of two men: the Chancellor of the Exchequer or the Governor of the Bank of England. The former, Mr. Robert Lowe, as Mycroft has informed him, is not the sort to be bribed or used, no matter the circumstances.
But what of the Governor?

Holmes is here to use his already consummate powers of observation, born of his genetics and honed by his father and his brilliant (though decidedly eccentric) apothecary master, to find clues evolving from mere glances, seconds of observation. Over the past three years, he has been training his talents to a fine edge. He senses that the time has come, as Malefactor’s lieutenant stands just a man or two away from influence in police and financial affairs, to use all of the skills and the knowledge he now has at his command. He hopes that they are enough because, almost overnight, a pivotal moment has arrived.

But secrets must be cleverly approached: by cover of crowds, distance, or disguise.

Big Ben had chimed eight just as he reached Fleet Street, so he is guessing it is nearing half past the hour. He walks to the front of the majestic building and up to the oval opening within which are set the mammoth front doors. It is guarded by liveried men. A crowd has formed. It is too early for customers to be queuing. These people are waiting for something else, for someone else. Sherlock surveys them. They are all men. He concentrates: they are all businessmen too. He observes their clothing, the expressions on their faces. They are dressed to impress, many
uncomfortable in Sunday clothes they seldom wear, hair over-groomed, top hats too high and rented for the day. He zeroes in on their eyes, their lips. He sees the latter moving slightly, rehearsing lines like actors. Sherlock turns to the street. Hansom cabs and carriages were lining the front of the building as the boy approached, but now he sees a half-dozen Bobbies moving vehicles from the area directly in front of the doors.

Sherlock smiles. He has timed it perfectly. He knows what is about to happen. He must wait here for as long as it takes. The Governor of the Bank of England is about to arrive for the day. The great man will descend from his carriage in this very spot cleared by the police and will be deluged by requests for help from these businessmen. He will respond to none. But Sherlock Holmes, now moving into position, will see him, up close, even if just for a fleeting moment. He hopes that is all his developing powers will need.

It happens as he suspected.

Just as the minute arm on the big clock, which he can see inside the front doors of the bank, reaches six, Sir Ramsay Stonefield appears. But at first, that is all that goes according to plan. The very moment the ornate carriage arrives, the crowd of supplicants moves forward like hounds attempting to tree a fox. The Bobbies strain to hold them back, and Sherlock is caught in the midst of the mob, barely able to see his target. They shout out their needs.

“Sir Ramsay, I have a business plan!”

“I simply need a modest loan!”

“Sir Ramsay, my relations are well placed!”

But the Governor of the Bank of England magnificently ignores them. Every one-in-a-million opportunity falls on deaf ears. His liveried footman, dressed in red family colors and white stockings, leaps down from the back of their shining black conveyance and opens the door. The man himself descends from the carriage looking glum, as if he is already disgruntled with his day. He places his incredibly tall stovepipe top hat upon his head, runs his fingers down his golden chain to extricate his pocket watch from his pin-striped waistcoat, glances at it, and then snaps it shut.

“Spot on, James!” he announces to his driver. “Now clear these citizens from my path!” He waves his walking stick at the Bobbies and then the crowd.

Glimpsing him between heads and armpits and waving hats, Sherlock observes what he can. First, the accent:
London born, Mayfair or Knightsbridge, Oxford educated, Balliol College
. Clothes:
Savile Row tailor, ostentatious without boasting
. Age:
fifty-five or -six but looking ten years older
. Attitude:
Fastidious, meticulous, concerned about being on time and on schedule
. Expression:
Sad, preoccupied
. Sir Ramsay turns back to the carriage as if he has forgotten something. He asks his footman to open the door again. Sherlock can see a woman inside, about the great man’s age. Stonefield appears, for a moment, as if he might kiss her, but stops. He waves. She weakly waves back. And then, in a walk (and one’s gait speaks volumes) that is intended to be brisk but takes much effort to be so, he goes up the steps and indoors.

Sherlock has learned a great deal. But the appearance of the Governor’s wife, obviously Lady Stonefield from the
cut and material of her clothing, and curiously with him on his morning trip to work, has the potential to tell him much more. As the others race after the Governor, the boy rushes the other way, to the carriage, and purposely stumbles so as to land, face against the glass, just before the carriage departs. He sees the Governor’s wife, all alone, an expression of extreme sadness upon her face. Under her black bonnet, she stares out the other window, looking like the loneliest woman in the world.

“Get away from there, you swine!” calls the footman from the carriage’s runners behind, about to leap down and manhandle Sherlock Holmes. The driver turns at the same instant and looks as though he wants to use his whip on the boy.

“I beg your pardon, sirs!” cries Sherlock and jumps back. The carriage wheels away.

But Holmes is smiling.
The Governor indeed has a secret
. And he shares it with his wife. It is of an intensely personal nature. There is no bitterness about it. They are together in their sadness;
together in a secret?

He also deduces that the Governor, so concerned about time and schedule, who has arrived exactly one half hour before the bank opens, will be met by this same carriage at exactly one half hour past closing time.

I know his schedule
.

The boy makes his way west, back toward Denmark Street and the apothecary shop. He can put in a full day of work and still get back here by half past four.

They are hiding something. I shall track them, and it!

6
THE GOVERNOR’S SECRET

T
here is a great deal to do at the apothecary shop these days, since the master’s stamina has been failing so much. Lately, the old man has even taken to napping during business hours, very unlike him. But still, Sherlock can’t bring himself to do all the cleaning, the tidying, the cataloguing of medicines and alkaloids that should be done this late morning and early afternoon. In fact, he spends a great deal of his time simply polishing the three statues of Hermes and staring off into the distance. Bell, trying to stifle his cough as always when his apprentice is around, doesn’t mind this lack of industry, for he knows the boy’s brain is finally engaged in something that fascinates him.