Secret Archives of Sherlock Holmes, The, The (8 page)

‘A “lay”, my dear fellow, refers to the particular method used to deceive or defraud. In this case, it would be a “gagging lay”, which could bring in an extra bounty on top of the original “gag” because the cadger now knows the address of the victim, which he can then sell on to a “screever”, who in turn makes money from the innocent citizen.’

‘Oh, Holmes! How despicable! Is there nothing we can do? I hate the thought of a bounder like that preying on the members of the Kandahar.’

‘Well, I suppose I could speak to Lestrade about him. He may already be known to the police. But better still, I could approach Sammy Knox, an old acquaintance of mine, who used to be a “shofulman”, and before you ask, Watson, that is someone who passes on counterfeit money; banknotes, in Knox’s case. He used to buy them from a pair of brothers, the Jacksons, who were experts in producing false banknotes, or “gammy soft”, as they are known in the trade. They owned a small
but apparently respectable printing firm in New Cross producing visiting cards, invitations, that sort of thing. Sammy, who was a keen gambler on the horses, used to pass on the “soft” at the various race meetings, not just on the course itself, but at various public houses which flourished in the neighbourhood. If anyone knew about any unlawful business involving money it would be Sammy.’

‘Is he still a – what was the word? – a “shofulman”?’ I asked, fascinated by my old friend’s knowledge of the sporting underworld.

‘Officially, no,’ he replied. ‘He was arrested a couple of times and had spent time in “stir”, but when I last met him he was adamant he had given up his old, bad ways, although I rather doubt it. Leopards and spots, Watson, if you take my meaning.’

‘Should I warn Thurston and the other members of the Kandahar about Carruthers? He seems a thoroughly bad lot.’

‘Heavens, no! That would send him running for cover. Give me time to find out where Sammy Knox is living these days and to ask for his help in the matter before we speak to Thurston and the club members, even Lestrade. Now we have the man in our sights, it would be a pity to lose him through hasty action. As the old saying goes: “Softly, softly catchee monkee”.’

I do not know how Holmes set about finding out Knox’s whereabouts but within four days he had evidently been
successful, for on the Tuesday afternoon I was invited by Holmes to a rendezvous at the Crooked Billet in Castle Street, off Holborn, to meet Sammy Knox.

It was a discreet public house partitioned off by wooden panels into separate cubicles like loose boxes or narrow railway compartments. The one Holmes had chosen faced the door and I felt, as we took our seats on one of the settles, that my old friend was familiar with the place and had used it before for similar meetings. We had not long to wait, for, soon after our own arrival, the door opened and a man entered: Knox, I assumed, from the way Holmes immediately sat up in readiness to greet him.

He was not at all what I had been expecting from Holmes’ account of him. He was a small, slightly built man and, seen from a distance, looked very boyish, with a youthful flush to his cheeks, his billycock
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hat tilted at a jaunty angle and his checked suit a little too loud to be considered in good taste. A flower in his buttonhole and a yellow waistcoat marked him out to be a ‘sporting’ gentleman, typical of the sort you can see at any racecourse during the season.
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It was only when he drew closer that I realised that he was, in fact, quite elderly, for his face was a network of tiny wrinkles, like
the craquelure one sees in the varnished surface of an old master, while the boyish flush to his cheeks was caused by the dozens of broken veins under the skin.

He seemed pleased to see Holmes, for he shook his hand warmly, and greeted me with a gentlemanly courtesy which I found quite disarming.

‘’Ow are things with you, Mr ’Aitch?’ he inquired of my old friend. ‘And you, too, sir?’ he added with a little bow in my direction.

But Holmes clearly wanted these preliminaries over and done with so that he and Sammy Knox could get down to business as soon as possible and he plunged straight in.

‘Now, Sammy, the reason I wanted to meet you here is very important. You know a great deal about the underworld. Have you ever met a certain gentleman who calls himself Carruthers and claims to be an army officer – a colonel, no less?’

‘I might,’ Sammy conceded cautiously. ‘What does ’e look like?’

Holmes glanced across at me, clearly expecting I would supply the answer and I strained my memory to recall as vivid an image of Carruthers as I could, as well as the words to describe it.

‘Tall; very upright, military bearing; well spoken; sandy-haired; claims to have served in Afghanistan.’

I kept my eyes on Sammy Knox’s face, looking for the slightest sign that he had recognised my description,
but his features remained impassive until I finished my account when he said in a voice of quiet authority, ‘Barty Cheeseman,’ and then fell silent.

What happened next occurred so quickly that I was unaware of it until it was all over. Holmes held out his right hand, the fingers tightly closed, and at the same time extended his index finger and drummed it gently on the table.

‘Tell me,’ he said softly, ‘and tell it straight, if you please, Sammy. My friend is not very familiar with “cant”.’
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Sammy glanced across at me with an amused expression and then decided to accept whatever terms Holmes was offering.

‘Right!’ he said. ‘Straight it shall be, Mr ’Aitch. First of all, about Barty Cheeseman. ’E used to be in the army – batman to a major, by all accounts, which is ’ow he learned ’is manners and ’ow to speak proper. ’Is favourite “lay” is smashing – passing false money, to you and me. ’E prefers to work alone and in the best cribs;
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no backstreet publics for ’im. It’s the fancy ’otels and clubs and he offers, say, a finny – sorry, Mr ’Aitch – a five-pound note to pay for drinks and a meal; so ’e
gets them free and the change into the bargain. Or ’e’ll go into a baccy shop and buy the best cigars. Or if it’s bigger swag ’e’s got ’is eyes on, like a gold watch or a swanky ring for ’is dolly bird, then ’e’ll pay by cheque, ’aving discovered ’e ’asn’t got ’is wallet on ’im – left it at the ’otel, is ’is usual blab. Rather than lose the sale, the shopkeeper will accept the fakement. S’matter of fact, that’s one of Cheesey’s specialities, passing a stiff – a cheque or bill of exchange, either a dud or a stolen one.’

‘Is it indeed?’ Holmes asked and I could tell by the way his shoulders stiffened that the information had caught his attention. He gave a quick sideways glance in my direction, the significance of which I failed to grasp at the time, although I was a little puzzled at first by my old friend’s apparent carelessness as he posed the following questions. His manner was a little too offhand to be entirely genuine. However, I had known him long enough to realise that he was at his most engaged when he seemed the most indifferent. Unaware of this quality in Holmes, Sammy Knox replied to his queries with the pleased self-satisfaction of a man who thinks he knows all the answers.

‘How would Cheeseman have set about acquiring someone’s cheque book?’ Holmes inquired. ‘I assume he would simply pick the man’s pocket?’

Sammy grinned broadly at Holmes’ innocence.

‘Nah, guv’nor! Cheesey’s not a dip. He ain’t got the
skill. ’E might pick a pocket if a coat was ’anging up somewhere ’andy or lying across the back of a chair. That’s more ’is line of business.’

‘Oh, I see!’ Holmes declared, as if light had suddenly burst upon him. ‘So then he would fill in the cheque and present it at the man’s bank?’

Again that knowing smile spread over Sammy’s face.

‘’E might do, but ’e wouldn’t last very long as a knapper
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if ’e did.’

‘So what would he do?’

‘’E’d take a few of the stiffs from the back of the book so the man ’oo owned it wouldn’t fink anyfin’ was wrong until later, and then pass ’em on at some other bank, not the one named on the cheques. Or ’e might sell ’em on. There’s plenty of coves’oo deal in stolen stiffs. Is that the lot, Mr ’Aitch, or is there somefin’ else you’d like to know?’ Sammy concluded. ‘Only I’ve got a pretty little dolly waitin’ for me at my crib. Lovely, she is!’

On Holmes replying that there was nothing more, Sammy Knox rose to his feet, shook hands all round and, with a sleight of hand that would not have shamed a professional magician, he scooped up the piece of crumpled paper lying on the table and transferred it to his pocket. Then, raising his billycock hat not without a certain grace, he left the bar.

‘What was in the paper?’ I asked as the door closed behind him.

Holmes laughed.

‘A couple of what Sammy would call “thickers”,’ he replied. ‘Pound notes to you and me, Watson. But worth every penny. Thanks to Sammy, I now know how we can “nab” Colonel Carruthers, alias Cheeseman, and see him safely in “stir”. And that is the last time today I shall make use of “cant”, fascinating though it is as an alternative language.’

‘How will you set about arresting him?’ I asked, agog with curiosity.

‘Guests are allowed at the Kandahar, are they not?’ he asked with an offhand air.

‘Yes, they are,’ I replied.

‘And there is a back door to the club?’

‘I have no idea,’ I said, quite bewildered by this time.

‘Then that must be ascertained before we proceed any further. I must also speak to the manager and alert Lestrade, for I shall need their assistance, along with a couple of constables. I shall call on Lestrade this morning and make a start on my little strategy.’

Holmes and I parted company on the return journey, I to make my way back to Baker Street, Holmes presumably to Scotland Yard to call on Lestrade and to lay before him whatever plan he had in mind for the arrest of Carruthers, alias Cheeseman, an event I was looking forward to with
eager anticipation, for I felt the man had not only taken advantage of Thurston and the Kandahar Club but had also, in some manner which I could not quite rationalise, besmirched the reputation of the British army in India and the gallant colleagues in my regiment who, from the most senior officers down to the humblest private, had fought, and in many cases had died, for the reputation of our country and the Berkshires in particular.

The interview with Lestrade must have gone well, for not long before luncheon Holmes returned, looking pleased.

‘Lestrade is very keen to lay Carruthers by the heels,’ he announced, settling himself in his armchair and lighting his pipe. ‘The colonel has been a thorn in his flesh ever since the Fitzgibbon case last summer.’

‘The Fitzgibbon scandal!’ I exclaimed. ‘Was Carruthers involved in that?’

‘Apparently so; or so Lestrade believes, although there was not enough evidence to take the case to court.’

‘Good heavens!’ I murmured, too shocked to make any further comment.

‘Indeed!’ Holmes agreed wryly.

At the time, it had been the main topic in the more sensational newspapers. Although he was not mentioned by name, to avoid the risk of the editor being sued for libel, it was clear to anyone who had even the most rudimentary knowledge of the comings and goings of the aristocracy that the ‘beautiful daughter of a
distinguished member of the House of Lords’ was none other than Lady Vanessa Fitzgibbon, daughter of Lord Wellesley Fitzgibbon, whose secret engagement to a dashing Guards officer, Montagu Orme-Wiston, hinted at in the society pages of the
Daily Echo
and the
Morning Star
for the past three months, had been broken off and that Lady Vanessa and her mother had departed for a prolonged visit to the Seychelles.

‘So,’ Holmes continued, ‘Lestrade believes that the arrest of the colonel would be a considerable feather in his inspector’s hat.’ In an apparent non sequitur he added, ‘You have a cheque book, Watson?’

‘Not at the moment. If you remember, Holmes, you confiscated it three days ago and locked it up in your desk.’

‘Of course! I had completely forgotten about that little incident. But if you agree to my plan, I shall release it back into your possession immediately.’

‘What is your plan?’ I asked, wondering what part my cheque book would play in it.

‘We shall present ourselves at the Kandahar …’

‘
We
?
’ I interposed. ‘You mean I shall be there as well?’

‘Lestrade and I will be your guests for lunch followed by a game of billiards.’

‘When exactly?’

‘On Friday.’

‘But Carruthers will be there! If you remember, he changed his day for lunching at the club from Wednesday to Friday – on purpose, I believe, to avoid having to meet me.’

‘Then it will be a happy reunion for both of you,’ Holmes remarked with a chuckle of amusement which I did not share.

‘I do not think—’ I began in protest.

‘Just as well, my dear fellow. Better to leave any mental effort to me. I am more practised in that field than you are. And now,’ he continued, striding to the door, ‘I must call briefly on Lestrade again to put the finishing touches to my plan. If I were a cricketing man, which I am not, I would enlarge on the metaphor by saying that in the game I am proposing, Lestrade shall act as longstop, you shall be the wicketkeeper and I shall be the bowler who delivers what I believe is known as a “googly”.’

‘And Carruthers?’ I asked.

‘Oh, he will be the batsman who is bowled out for a duck!’ Holmes declared and, laughing loudly, he went running down the stairs.

Holmes and I started off together for the Kandahar on the following Friday to set in motion Holmes’ ‘little game of cricket’, as he insisted on calling it. He was in one of his excitable moods and was clearly relishing the thought of the coming adventure and its consequences which, if all went well, would result in the downfall of Colonel Carruthers.

Before we went inside the club, he insisted that we made a quick reconnoitre of the back of the building
to check that Lestrade had made sure the rear exit was covered; not that he thought the inspector was unreliable but, like a general before a battle, he needed to confirm for himself that everything was arranged according to plan, a meticulous attention to detail which extended to his own appearance, for he insisted on wearing a small black moustache in case Carruthers might have seen likenesses of him in the illustrated papers and would recognise him.