Post by James on Oct 4, 2012 5:02:44 GMT -5
The Theft of the Great Charter
by Inspector G. Lestrade
[/center]by Inspector G. Lestrade
I have long noticed that the life of Mr Sherlock Holmes gathered great interest within the capital. The peaking of this interest coincided with my time at Scotland Yard. Largely, I’ve refused to engage with the public that recognised my “little sallow rat-faced”, a description that I owe to the military kindness of Dr Watson. You must understand it wasn’t out of resentment towards the man. Mr Holmes was, and indeed still is, the leading genius in this country and I harbour him no ill-will. I owe him a great deal for his aid in my cases, which led me to the top of the pole within Scotland Yard. No, I kept my stories of Mr Holmes to myself due to a deep respect for the man. He is a deeply private being, disinclined to the limelight and I believe that besides his dear Watson, he would only be angered at people publishing recollections about their experiences with him.
Now, though, I think the time is right to put together just one of my many and various recollections of Mr Sherlock Holmes. I have long since left the force and have spent my years in more leisurely pursuits. Even things like gardening, however, are beginning to become tiring tasks. I’m a simple man and I do not try to trick myself into believing that I will live for much longer. Old age is the killer that will claim us all, whether we are policemen, criminals or even gifted detectives. And as I sit in my armchair, looking around at various newspapers clippings and leather bound books, I realise that the tale of how Mr Holmes and I first met has never been told. I am taken by an unnatural urge to at least ensure there is a record of that faithful first meeting that led to, I hope, a very fruitful partnership between two fighters of crime.
Our first meeting was in the year 1873; I had just received my promotion to the rank of Inspector. I understand that this may seem too early for those great followers of Dr Watson’s stories. I hope I’m not overstepping my mark when I say that Holmes’ Boswell has never been particularly strong at recalling accurate dates. More than once, over a pipe or a glass of brandy, I have even laughed with Dr Watson himself as we point out the various mistakes that are found within his narrative. He is a good and likable man like that. But, no, I am certain that the year was 1873 for I received my promotion three years earlier than Tobias Gregson.
In the spring months, there was particular excitement at the legal exhibition that was being put together by Sidney Sussex College at Cambridge. Various important legal documents were on display amongst special lectures by the leading thinkers and judges in the field. The foremost exhibition of the exhibit was the presence of the Magna Carta. Even for a layman such as myself, I realised the importance of such a bit of paper. So it was with great haste that I took a cab to the college’s library when my superiors ordered me to investigate the theft of that fine document itself.
I had never gone to university myself in my younger years. I spent several years at an honest, hard-working school for grafters from the rougher sections of London and then moved straight to the force. All of which meant that I found myself very intimidated by the towering shelves of books that swarmed around me. As soon as I stepped into the library, I found myself surrounded by giant tomes, some of which in languages that I couldn’t begin to place. Regardless, I strode confidently to the group of people that gathered in the middle of the room. It consisted of five men, two of whom were loudly arguing with each other before they heard my footsteps and ceased.
“Inspector,” a man said, rushing forward to shake my hand. He was a few inches shorter than myself and as Dr Watson’s narrative so kindly points out, that is a hard task to achieve. What was left of his wispy white hair sat disorganised atop his long, oval head. “Thank goodness, you’re here. I’m about to lose control of the situation.”
I took his hand in mind and shook it firmly, hoping to impart a sense of calmness and confidence into the excited little man. “Inspector Lestrade,” I said, offering my name. “You are?”
“Dr Marcus North, I’m dean of the college,” he answered.
“And everyone else here?” I asked, gesturing to the group that was now eyeing me carefully.
“Sir Richard Pond and Sergeant Thomas Jones, they were in charge of the Magna Carta’s safekeeping on behalf of the King’s Library,” Dr North said, indicating with his hands to the two tall commanding figures that stood together. “And here we have Mr Phillip Keating, the head librarian for this establishment, and finally, Mr Sherlock Holmes.”
It didn’t fail to come to my notice that the youngest of the group did not respond to being introduced by the Dean. However, I chose to press forward with my investigation. The group was gathered around an empty glass case, which sat upon a small finely made wooden table. A shiny, expensive padlock kept the top of the case secured from the outside world. I moved slowly over to the table, the men parting to let me through, and eyed it carefully from several different angles. It seemed in perfect condition.
“I take it this is the case that the Magna Carta was stolen from?” I said to the group. Although it was not common knowledge yet, the library was closed and therefore I could talk freely.
“That it was, sir,” the Sergeant said. “We had a new case made for the exhibition, thickest and clearest glass that money could buy. The padlock was never unlocked, there was no need to. The document is on display but it may not be touched. We left it here last night and Mr Keating is adamant that he locked all the library doors as he left. However, when we came back this morning, it was gone.”
I allowed myself a moment for the words to sink in, mulling them over in the silence that filled the library before renewing my questioning. “Were any of the windows disturbed?”
“None, sir,” Mr Keating squeaked, looking even more excited than the Dean. “All of the locks were untouched and the windows were still fastened tightly shut. Even the lock upon the case was unmoved.”
“And who had possession of the various keys?” I asked.
“I keep all the keys to the library,” Mr Keating said.
“And I had possession to the key to the case,” Sir Richard Pond said, his voice low and challenging. I considered the possibility that he already suspected the line of thinking I was following. “This was not an inside job, Inspector Lestrade. No one could have used a set of keys to pull this theft off. All of the keys are accounted for.”
It was at this point that the young man, Mr Sherlock Holmes, who had stood as still as a statue throughout our entire conversation, made his first movement. He took a step forward, his high cheek bones coming clearly into view. It is well known that university students are often thin and tall, but this man took it to a higher degree than I had ever seen before. Gaunt, his eyes were somewhat sullen as if he had spent the previous fortnight accompanied by only a candle and books within his bedroom.
“That might not be entirely true, sir,” Mr Holmes said, and I was taken with how mature his voice sounded.
“Once again,” Sergeant Jones barked, his moustache bristling above his upper lip. “I do not understand why we have invited this student to the scene.”
Clearly this had been the subject of their argument as I had arrived at the library, but the young man seemed unperturbed at his presence being questioned. He turned to me without hesitation or apprehension. “You will find, Inspector, that the thief was present in the library all night. It closes late on a Thursday, which would have given him plenty of time to come from his working class job and position himself between the shelves so that he would not be seen by Mr Keating when he committed himself to his final round before locking up.”
There was a prolonged silence after the young man’s words, which I used to great effect to attempt to undermine Mr Holmes’s theory. It wasn’t out of any jealousy to the man’s proposed narrative, but merely an exercise to decide on whether I should take the theory and investigate it further. For those of you familiar with Mr Holmes’s later work, you will not be surprised to find that I found it completely adequate. It explained clearly how the man could have gotten into the library, even if the problem of the breaking into of the case itself was left unsolved.
“And how do you know he was waiting in the stacks?” the Sergeant asked, breaking the silence at last. He was evidently not taken with the young man’s idea.
“Candle wax and dust,” Mr Holmes replied calmly. “You will find in Mr Keating’s records that the row of books on the late Norman period is particularly underused, people preferring to concentrate on romantic sentiments that can be more readily found in the Antiquities and Dark Ages. This, of course, means that a very useful layer of dust has developed upon the floor of that row. Recent footsteps are easily visible, along with dripping candle wax, which can only lead to the conclusion that a man spent a night in the row pacing up and down with only candlelight as his companion. Unfortunately, since he has paced repeatedly over his own trail, I can’t quite determine our theft’s height.”
“Amazing,” Dr Keating whispered.
“How do you know he was working class?” said I, now thoroughly absorbed in Mr Holmes’s strange mind.
“The dust upon all of the books around him is still remarkably undisturbed,” Mr Holmes explained. “While the late Norman period is hardly the most thrilling era of our nation’s history, the man, judging by the candle wax, spent several hours in this row. Even the simplest of minds grow restless when left unchallenged for such an amount of time and yet he chose not to read one of the books. Why? Because he could not read them, he had never leant his letters and therefore the books themselves would have provided him no peace of mind.”
“That’s pure conjecture,” cried the Sergeant.
“Merely deduction,” Mr Holmes retorted.
I must admit that I was readily accepting of Mr Holmes’s theory and my usually critical mind was in awed of the man’s thinking. I did, however, possess just enough mindfulness as to realise that Mr Holmes had not confronted the glass case in his remarkable theory. Apparently, I was the only one to observe such a thing, for the others all looked at the young man with wide eyes and suspended jaws.
“The case, though, Mr Holmes,” I said, meeting his cold and steely eyes. “You have not explained how the man got passed the case.”
“An elementary answer, Inspector, for the man had his own key,” Mr Holmes said.
“There was no other key,” Sir Richard Pond snapped, the dean and librarian’s eyes dropping to the floor. Mr Holmes, however, remained unmoving, his eyes locked firmly on my own. I was in no doubt that he was reading for a sign of whether I would disregard his theory out of a hand. I did not. The idea that the thief would have his key seemed no less likely than having the ability to pass through solid glass.
“If the lock has not been tampered with and the case itself is not damaged,” Mr Holmes said, evidently confident that he had not lost my support. “The only explanation left to us, however much you might not want to believe it, is that the thief possessed a key to help him with his crime.”
I asked the young man how, but he merely waved the question away with a flick of his hand. Speaking rapidly now, he told us to reopen the library for the afternoon hours and to make sure that the doors were being watched. I must confess that at the time I did not understand why such a command would be given, but Mr Holmes did not stay long to explain himself. He took one final look at the lock of the case, his nose nearly pressing against the glass, before rushing away from our group and away from the library.
I wasn’t inclined to follow Mr Holmes’s instructions after he left. After all, what grown man likes to follow the instructions of another who is still within the sticky reach of his teenage years? However, after making my own examination of the scene and upon finding the candle wax and footsteps that Mr Holmes did several hours before, I found myself with no new theories. The only idea left presented to me was to follow Mr Holmes’s instructions and to hope that he knew what he was doing. Therefore, at three in the afternoon, Mr Keating unlocked the doors and the library was reopened.
It could hardly have been called a stampede; a trickle of students and others learned men meandered into the building. The Magna Carta’s empty case had been covered by a velvet curtain so as to not alert the masses that a national treasure had been stolen. I watched all with suspicion and several times I even found myself watching Mr Keating carefully out of the corner of my eyes. All the while I waited for Mr Holmes’s reappearance. I hope you will not judge me in saying that I was still thoroughly annoyed and unimpressed that I was taking orders from a boy. How little did I know that I would be taking orders from Mr Holmes for much of the rest of my life?
“You’ll have your man soon, Inspector,” said a voice from my side.
Turning quickly, I faced the most unexpected of men beside me. Old and crooked, he looked more like a cathedral gargoyle than a human being. His salt and peppered hair was erratically branching off in different directions and much of his chin was hidden by a similarly fashioned beard. Forgetting all rules of etiquette and decorum, I stared at the man for several long moments before asking who he was.
“Do your eyes deceive you so greatly, Inspector Lestrade?” the man asked, and his costume fell away to the floor revealing the tall, towering presence of Mr Sherlock Holmes. He smiled, evidently enjoying himself as I stumbled away from him surprised. “The art of disguise is most crucial to solving a case. It has allowed me to investigate several locksmiths without questions being asked.”
“Locksmiths?” I repeated.
“I said you’ll have your man,” Mr Holmes said with a wave of his hands. It was the first occasion when I realised that the man had a weakness for the dramatic. “And now you do.”
I watched in amazement as Mr Holmes spun on his feet and grabbed the coat of the man who had just walked past us. The man cried out and struggled against Mr Holmes’s grip before the young student yanked him back with a feat of strength that was well beyond me. Looking closer, I saw that the man Mr Holmes had grabbed was unlike the various well-dressed men that had entered the library upon reopening. His clothing was dirtied, stained and frayed around the edges. He was neither clean-shaven nor bearded but rather the disrespectful middle-ground that craftsmen so often find themselves in.
Mr Holmes planted a well-placed kick into the shins of the man struggling against him, before speaking. “Francis Donalds, he works at Roofe & Donalds’s Locks. According to Mr Roofe, who I had the pleasure of speaking with today, their venture is about to capitulate under financial strain. He could hardly believe his luck when Sir Richard Pond came in with an order for the lock that we studied only hours ago. However, what he was not aware of was that his partner planned to steal the Magna Carta by making a second key. He would then sell it and his business would be secured for decades.”
“Nonsense!” Francis Donalds barked, struggling again.
“His pockets, Lestrade!”
I didn’t hesitate in following Mr Holmes’s order a second time, my hands swiftly delving into the man’s pocket. Deep within his coat’s pocket, tightly rolled like a newspaper, laid the coffee-stained parchment of the Magna Carta. I pulled it gingerly free from the clutches of its thief, aware that a small but important part of our island’s history sat within my hands.
“Naturally, he did not wish to take it with him when he left the library this morning in case he was stopped,” Mr Holmes explained, his grip still deadly tight upon the locksmith. “So he left it somewhere in the books and came back to reclaim it as soon as he could. Elementary.”
“Incredible,” I muttered, handing the document in my hands to a slack jawed Sergeant Jones who had appeared to investigate the commotion. “Well, I must take Mr Douglas to Scotland Yard. And you should travel with me, Mr Holmes. We could do with men like you on the force.”
Mr Holmes did not reply as he gave me custody of our criminal. He only laughed. Without another word, he spun upon his feet and walked out of the library. It took Mr Holmes only several hours to solve the case, reject an offer of employment, and forever become my first call for assistance.
The End
