Sherlock Holmes and The Adventure of The Cold-Served Revenge

III: The Letter Written in Blue Blood

In the letter, which arrived in the afternoon mail, Mycroft insisted that Holmes come to London post-haste. It was impossible to leave that same day, so the detective asked Mrs Hudson to reserve a place on the morning train. He carelessly tossed aside the telegram, saying that he would devote the rest of the evening to examining the letters on the cheque imprint.

While my imagination and curiosity ran wild and I ruminated about what could have prompted the usually reserved Mycroft to write such a feverish telegram, Holmes withdrew and calmly studied the markings and lines of the ink print.

“Are you not even the least bit interested why he wants to see us?” I asked.

“There is doubtlessly a compelling reason, one that involves the search for my killer. I could pace nervously until tomorrow, but that would be to no purpose. I prefer to focus on matters of significance.”

He returned to his work and did not raise his head again until well into the night. I let him be and picked up a book, which I scarcely read. Instead I reviewed the events of the day. I had no doubt that Holmes would get even with the treacherous priest, but now it was imperative that we not frighten him off. One clue was the cheque and the signature of the unknown man, whose involvement in the plot we so far only suspected. Could the cheque have been payment for delivering the deadly tobacco?

Holmes finished his analysis only after midnight. Waverley[10] had just conquered Edinburgh, and his adventures had successfully helped me ward off sleep.

I knew that his work was finished when he set aside the magnifying glass, stretched out and cracked his knuckles. I hated that sound, but he did it unwittingly.

“Did you find what you expected?”

“Only partially.”

He switched off his desk lamp and brought a piece of paper covered in writing to the light of the fire. On it he had copied the lines of the ink print from the pastor’s newspaper in order to decipher the signature.

“The first thing that I discovered, under the assumption that the cheque was indeed a payment for Barlow’s services, is that the market price for my death is two thousand pounds,” said the detective. “That is a rather handsome sum for a retired beekeeper, wouldn’t you say? Some of my contemporaries do not command even a fraction of this price.”

I did not find his dark humour amusing, but he cackled with delight.

“As for the rest, the results are inconclusive.”

“You were unable to determine the name?”

“Not entirely, though I have narrowed the possibilities. The ink print is of poor quality. I dare say, however, that the man’s first name is Robert or Rupert. Do you see, the first letter R is visible, and the second letter must be either o or u.”

He showed me the paper on which he had examined and connected the lines.

“The third letter is illegible, but is clearly followed by an e. The last two letters are without doubt r and t. Alas, it is impossible to decipher more of the first name.”

Indeed, the rest was only some illegible squiggles.

“On the other hand, I am certain that the initial of his middle name is H,” Holmes continued. “The surname then starts with the letter D, the next several letters are unclear, and the last four letters are without a doubt ford.”

“At least this can lead us in the right direction.”

“Certainly. Another clue is that luxurious automobile. Perhaps I can deduct even more from the letters, though of course only trifles.”

“What else besides the man’s name can be determined?”

“My dear fellow, I see that you are unfamiliar with the field of graphology! I need hardly be surprised, however; from the empirical perspective it is considered a highly hypothetical discipline. Nevertheless, despite being reproached for its unscientific method, it has many proponents.”

“I am not qualified to judge,” I said, shaking my head. “I only have the most superficial knowledge of it.”

“Well then, you know that graphology is a branch of psychology that focuses on the study of handwriting and its relationship to human behaviour. It is based on the assumption that it is impossible to find any two people who have exactly the same handwriting. Handwriting is unique, and according to graphologists, expresses the human personality.”

As a doctor, this naturally interested me. Until then I had assumed that graphology was simply a method for determining the authenticity of signatures. I had no idea it could conceal such information.

“The size of the letters corresponds to the author’s status and self-confidence,” said Holmes, explaining that the foundations of the theory had been laid by Aristotle himself. “Larger letters belong to important authors, smaller ones to those who are cautious. Very small letters are written by people who are timid and have low self-confidence. Larger letters, about four millimetres, belong to people who have a sense of detail. They are critical, practical and realistic. Large letters are used by those who are dynamic and have a healthy sense of self-confidence; they tend to be optimistic and magnanimous. Our man has a tendency to be wasteful and one-dimensional. Overly large letters testify to a loss of self-control. But as you yourself can certainly concede, these are not very demonstrable conclusions.”

“Nevertheless, it is fascinating what just a few letters can suggest!” I said.

“Indeed,” the detective nodded. “Except that a larger sample is required for a truly precise evaluation; we would need at least a page of written text. One examines the overall structure of the written text, the pressure of the pen, the size of the letters, their width, slant, spaces between words, distance and direction of the lines and many other factors. The age and gender of the writer also play a role as does whether he is right- or left-handed. From what I have available and from our cursory meeting with this person, I can gather only very little. In my opinion, we are dealing with a maniac.”

Thus Holmes closed the investigation for the evening and went to his room. Barlow, the mysterious guest, the failed murder attempt and Mycroft’s letter would all have to wait until the morning.

The fresh wind from the Thames welcomed us to London with its embrace shortly after Big Ben struck noon. Holmes and I stood on the northern embankment in front of Westminster Palace[11] at the entrance of peers, he in his disguise and I in my best suit. After all, it was not every day that I visited Great Britain’s house of parliament, and I regarded Mycroft’s invitation as a great honour.

I had always had an odd and somewhat personal relationship to the parliament building. After the tragic fire on October 16, 1834, when most of the palace had been destroyed, my uncle had become a member of the committee in charge of its reconstruction. Only Westminster Hall, the Jewel Tower, and the crypt in the chapel of St. Stephen were spared. The committee then selected from among some hundred designs, and the foundation stone for the reconstruction of the palace in the neo-gothic style was placed in 1840, on the day when my parents met.

Mycroft’s office was in this building. Although I never learned exactly what position he occupied in the government hierarchy, it must have been very important and in some way connected with state security. Holmes once even mentioned something about the secret service.

We did not wait for him long; Mycroft met us at the entrance exactly at the agreed time. He greeted us quickly with a nod of his head, and as was his habit, did not waste time with common pleasantries. He immediately led us into the palace, where we were searched by an officer of the metropolitan police. Neither I nor Holmes protested; it had long been an obligation of every British citizen who entered the building.

The most famous attempt to disrupt the palace was the Gunpowder Plot in 1605, in which Catholic extremists attempted to detonate a charge of gunpowder during the opening ceremonies of the sitting of parliament. The conspiracy was uncovered after one of the Catholic nobles received an anonymous warning not to participate in the celebrations. The palace administration launched a search and discovered the charge and one of the conspirators, Guy Fawkes. The participants in the conspiracy were sentenced to death in Westminster Hall.

The original palace was also the site of an attempt on the life of Prime Minister Spencer Perceval in 1812. When he left the members´ lobby of the Lower House, he was attacked and shot by John Bellingham. Perceval is the only British prime minister to have been assassinated.

All of this was running through my head as the parliament staff dressed in knee breeches, stockings and coats with starched collars were graciously dismissed from Mycroft’s personal security and we walked to his office on the top floor.

We made our way though corridors lined with enormous bookshelves and paintings of famous figures, passed through rooms in which history was being written and ascended staircases, of which there were perhaps a hundred in the whole gigantic palace. Indeed, the building has more than a thousand rooms and several kilometres of hallways!

Finally we arrived in the third floor office, where Mycroft bade us sit on a comfortable leather sofa, poured us sherry and offered us cigars.

“Not for me, the last one almost killed me,” said Holmes.

Mycroft snapped shut the mahogany case and transferred his burly frame to the desk.

“Gentlemen, allow me to get straight to the matter,” he said dramatically.

Long introductions were not among his habits. He was a man of action.

“I have called you here on a matter of utmost national importance!”

“I would not expect you to rouse me from the grave for anything less,” said Holmes.

“Yes, I know that you are officially dead and are engaged in the pursuit of your killer,” said Mycroft. “It is indeed this fact that can ensure the necessary discretion in this sensitive matter, and perhaps even has something in common with your case.”

The official opened a drawer in his desk, took out a thick paper envelope and placed it on the writing pad. For a moment he played with its edges indecisively, but then he opened it, not for the first time judging from its broken seal, and took out a letter written on handmade paper and passed it across the desk to Holmes.

“This letter was waiting for me when I returned from Fulworth three days ago.”

The detective began devouring the lines, but the contents for now remained hidden from me. The only thing that I noticed with astonishment was the personal seal of King George![12]

“Was it written by who I think?” I asked.

Mycroft did not reply. He only lit a cigar and silently released clouds of pungent smoke to the ceiling while Holmes read.

“Fascinating,” said Holmes when he had finished reading the mysterious letter.

His misanthropic elder brother nodded seriously and fell to thinking.

It vexed me that I was the only one in the room who still did not know what was afoot. I coughed with embarrassment and shot an inquisitive glance at my friend.

“Excuse me, doctor,” said Mycroft, “we do not want to keep you in the dark. We first have to clarify what precisely is going on. The letter is indeed from His Majesty. It is a request to the secret service for help. He wants to find his nephew, Lord Bollinger, who recently vanished without a trace.”

“Bollinger... that name means something to me,” I said, searching my memory.

“Albert Bollinger is de facto the King’s foster nephew,” said Holmes. “He is the son of Queen Mary’s brother. We met him once briefly.”

Now I remembered meeting this man. He had then been still very young, with handsome and noble features, remotely resembling his aunt with her piercing brown eyes, oval face and pointy chin. Today he must have been over thirty. Years before I had spoken with him at a court reception, one of the few to which Holmes had accepted an invitation.

“But I still do not understand why his disappearance, though lamentable, should be investigated by the secret service and not the police,” I said. “And what makes you think it is connected with the attempt on Sherlock’s life?”

Mycroft became even gloomier and the corners of his mouth drooped.

“Lord Bollinger and his family own industrial enterprises in northern England. I need not emphasise that these include important munitions factories. After the destructive fire in Curry, the factory in Manchester has been our most vital one for half a year. Bollinger is someone whom His Majesty regularly consults regarding research and development. The King has even entrusted him with drafting secret strategic documents for protecting the country if the tension between us and Emperor Wilhelm[13] escalates into war.”

“What types of documents are they?” asked Holmes.

“Designs for new types of weapons, war machines and everything connected with them,” said Mycroft. “Then there is tactical information and deployment plans for our armed forces.”

“Now I understand why the King is so concerned with his disappearance and why you see a clear connection between our two cases,” said the detective, returning the letter.

The connection was now becoming evident to me too.

Holmes’s brother had connected Bollinger’s disappearance with the death of Italian factory owner Minutti, whose letter, sent just before his death, had apparently provoked the attempt on the detective’s life. Both men had been, and we hoped the King’s nephew still was, renowned industrialists and among the main developers and manufacturers of arms.

“Something bad is happening exceeding all borders,” said Mycroft, summing up our thoughts. “We all know how the international situation is becoming more complicated. These connected disappearances or deaths of people directly or indirectly responsible for the defensive capabilities of nations do not bode well. In our case, I would be willing to concede that Bollinger was captured by the German secret service, but Italy is neutral, at least for the time being. Germany hopes that she will become her ally and Minutti’s death does not fit. There is no logic or order, which is what terrifies me most!”

“What do you need me to do?” asked Holmes.

The official extinguished his cigar and folded his arms.

“Your task is to confirm the connection between Bollinger’s disappearance, Minutti’s death and the attack on you,” said Mycroft gravely. “You must determine who has an interest in threatening the European arms industry and if possible thwart the plot.”

“To investigate Minutti’s murder I will have to visit Italy,” said the detective. “Can I count on the government’s support?”

“I am afraid not,” said Mycroft shaking his head. “Germany could consider any official activity on the territory of its neighbour and potential ally as a provocation. If you have any problems, the Ministry will not get involved.”

“How ideal,” said Holmes, rising from the sofa.

I rose too. We were ready to depart.

“Do not be sarcastic,” his brother rebuked. “Your country does not deserve it.”

“I was not being sarcastic,” said the detective, smiling. “On the contrary, the fact that no officials or policeman will interfere greatly increases my chances of solving the case.”

“Then you accept the assignment?”

Holmes slapped his brother on his pudgy shoulder.

“Let no one say that I turned my back on my country.”

For the first time since I had known him, Mycroft smiled.

“Nobody would dare,” he said. “One does not speak ill of the dead.”