Bringing Justice to Light
One man’s tedium is another man’s glory. While I revelled in my medical studies, I completely understand how the mechanisms of the human body could bore another man to tears. I was reminded of such sympathies when I cracked open the first of the main ledgers and began reading through the neat script it contained.
The contents were distinctly dry, being records of land sales in the Boer region of South Africa. Some were for small plots of land, barely ten acres, some for great swathes of territory. There was no obvious pattern, and at first I was sure that we had made a hideous mistake. The records were not indexed so Holmes and I were forced to sift through the volumes from beginning to end, calling out a name of a purchaser or buyer in the hope that the other would have found another record involving the same party, attempting to recreate a path of ownership in search of the telltale clue that would betray the hand holding it once and for all.
To some actuary in some dusty office this might conceivably represent fascinating work, but for me, it was mind-numbingly tedious. I kept having to pause to refresh myself with the mark Holmes thought I should find replicated in these records. Holmes though, a voracious sponge for information, was far swifter when it came to absorbing the material and making sense out of it. Of course, he also has the amazing facility for “forgetting” the material deemed extraneous, so once this case concluded, no doubt all of this new information would simply vanish, knowing he could always research it afresh if by some miracle he was ever required to call upon it again.
Now and then, Holmes made notations, a look of grim satisfaction on his countenance. I dared not pause and inquire. When he was ready, he would share his newfound intelligence.
The hours ticked away. We were left to our own devices by Gregson and Lestrade, much to my relief. I was parched and my back ached, so I closed the volume before me and rose. I suggested that we take a break, but was rebuffed. He allowed that I could take my leisure, which I was tempted to do, but I did not want to appear less in his eyes, even if that is precisely what I was. I stretched, working the muscles in my shoulders slowly and thoroughly, paced three small circuits around the cramped room in three times as many strides, and then resumed my seat. I continued to read the tedious detail of land ownership in the southern regions of Africa, oblivious to what exactly was worth such secret classification thus far.
Holmes, however, seemed increasingly animated. By this time he had spread a map across one half of the table, and was marking points on it in pencil. He also had pulled various scraps of paper from his pockets, spreading them beside the ledgers. Eventually my curiosity got the better of me.
“Holmes, what are you about?”
“Is it not obvious, Watson? You have been reading the same material as me.”
“Perhaps so, but I confess I cannot imagine why this information is considered worthy of such secrecy. Surely the buying and selling of land is a matter of public record?”
Holmes smiled. “Indeed, Watson, but what if someone wanted to prevent citizens such as ourselves from seeing a pattern in such mundane matters? See here—” he drew two ledgers towards him, and opened them at pages he had marked with scraps of paper “—several small landowners sold their claims to the Rotherfield Holdings Company in 1877. Nothing unusual in that, and the land was sold for very little. But see here, Rotherfield sold the combined land holdings to Messrs. Laverick and Chappell only three weeks later, who in turn sold it, together with other parcels of land bought from smaller concerns, to either Price & Cooper Incorporated or Wicks & Hook Limited. In the course of only a month, thirty small holdings were combined into two adjacent holdings.” Here he took up his pencil and circled a great area on the map in front of him. “This sort of transaction appears to have taken place dozens of times. Several hundred square miles are all now under the control of either Price & Cooper or Wicks & Hook.
“Now, please note that against each transaction is the mark we have sought.”
He swivelled one volume towards me and with a pencil, he stabbed at the very mark drawn on the paper in my hand. Page after page, he showed me the repeated mark.
“What does it mean, Holmes?”
“One of the street Arabs did me the service of seeking out the very real estate historian you suggested we needed. His return correspondence confirmed that the mark is to designate a specific family’s holdings, used in rare circumstances. Frobisher’s family is just one such that used this back when his family worked for the East India Company, similarly acquiring real estate holdings.”
“Financed by family money,” I ventured.
“I would surmise as much, yes,” Holmes confirmed for me. “Though not in the same company as his fellows, but note those self-same marks appear next to acquisitions that have come to form the holdings of Price & Cooper or Wicks & Hook.
“Have you ever heard the name before, Watson? Surely we, as keen readers of the daily press, should at least have heard of such a monumental concern.”
“I have not.”
“Deep in these journals exist the board of directors for both concerns and would it surprise you to learn that they are identical? A trio of directors as it were.”
“Frobisher, Haldaine, and Chatterton-Smythe,” I said slowly.
Holmes nodded. “They were clever, using two corporations to obscure they were the same owners rather than competing concerns.”
“Do you mean that Chatterton-Smythe orchestrated a mass buyout of small landowners? How did he force them to part with their land so willingly? And how did he get the funds?”
“Yes, I believe it was Chatterton-Smythe who fronted the land purchases but also used the Frobisher family mark to further mask his hand in affairs. As to the funds, I suspect that is where Frobisher, with his familial wealth and military history, and Haldaine with his commercial interests across the world, come into play. And those who sold the land? That is darker business, Watson. I also suspect that those companies in the middle of the chain, such as Rotherfield Holdings, are nothing more than fabrications. Our criminals have been buying and selling to themselves, to hide the fact that they were amassing more land than any unelected body should hold.”
“So you conclude that Chatterton-Smythe managed to have these ledgers declared classified to prevent anyone from seeing what they were about? Is that possible, Holmes?”
“You know full well, Watson, that once we gather all the facts, even the seemingly impossible can be proved to be the truth.”
I scratched at my temple and shook my head in disbelief. “It seems that Frobisher and Haldaine are not the only ones who have things to explain,” I said.
I rose and knocked on the door loudly enough to be heard above the din of routine police work on the other side. After a time, a constable unlocked the door and escorted us to Gregson’s desk. The inspector had rolled up his shirtsleeves and was writing a report. When we approached, he put down his pen and looked at us.
“You two look quite the sight. Have either of you had anything to eat?”
“No, our mission was too vital to be put on hold,” Holmes said, earning him a look of mild rebuke from Gregson. “Now we have what we need, I believe, to present our case. For that, I suggest you arrange to have Edward Haldaine and William Frobisher brought to the station forthwith, Inspector. It will be far more convenient for you to arrest them here—”
“Arrest them? One of the city’s pre-eminent businessmen and a decorated war hero? Are you out of your mind, Mr. Holmes?”
“We are talking at the very least about the murder of a peer of the realm, Inspector. I am most definitely in my right mind. Once the evidence has been laid out I trust you will see it is the only course of action available to us. With our friend Alf already present to make the formal identification of Frobisher, bringing the pair here offers the most expeditious use of time.” Gregson was dumbstruck. He merely nodded, clearly trusting that Holmes wasn’t about to light the touch paper that would send his promising career up in smoke. “Once that is done, I am in no doubt you will be convinced that we need to contact Mr. Leonard Courtney, Undersecretary of State for the Colonies, and have him send urgent word to Pretoria to ensure the signing of the peace treaty with the Boers is preserved.”
At that bold statement, Gregson’s mouth literally fell open and he blinked, unable to muster a word.
One look into Holmes’s eyes more than convinced him of the sincerity and urgency of the request.
He came alive in that moment, the policeman within taking the reins. Gregson snapped his fingers, summoning a constable, who waited while the inspector wrote his orders.
“Holmes, it will be a while before both men are here,” said Gregson. “I strongly suggest you both fortify yourselves with some food and drink. If your accusations prove incorrect, your stay here will be much longer and we will not be feeding you.” He wasn’t smiling.
I pulled on Holmes’s sleeve and led him through the reception and out onto the street, where the sun had already lowered itself behind the tallest buildings, casting deep shadows. We rounded the corner and found the first restaurant we could, a small establishment where we had plates of fish from Billingsgate. I ate like a starving man, while Holmes merely picked at his haddock and pushed potatoes around his plate.
* * *
We took a slower pace back to Scotland Yard and were preoccupied with the summer heat making us drowsy so I missed the figure emerging from the doorway. Holmes, though, reacted more quickly and shoved me out of the way as I heard the whoosh of air near my ear. My eyes sought the cause of the sound and my blood ran cold when I saw one of the deadly tiger claws. The figure was off balance and Holmes managed to grab the back of his dark shirt and use the man’s momentum to hurl him into the brick of the nearest building.
This stunned the attacker, who staggered backward. He looked very much like Nayar, but not quite. His face was broader and his skin a touch darker but they were clearly of the same lineage, as with the attacker on the train, a brother or first cousin perhaps. Whoever he was, the man recovered his balance and with a snarl, swung towards Holmes, who backpedalled away from the steel claw. Once the arm was fully extended, Holmes grabbed it with both hands and drew the man forward with irresistible force, raising a knee that stiffly met the solar plexus.
The air expelled from his lungs, the Indian was stalled in his attack. He still possessed his weapon while neither of us had any such device. We were also far enough from Scotland Yard that the hope of uniformed officers interceding was unlikely. The Indian recovered quickly and stalked Holmes, ignoring me entirely, and I was most uncertain how best to intercede and improve our odds.
The Indian crouched, preparing to launch himself at Holmes when a rock struck his head, injuring him and allowing Holmes the opportunity to grab the man’s steel-clad hand and bend it backwards, forcing the fingers to open, depriving him of the dangerous leverage he previously possessed.
As Holmes forced the claw from the man’s fingers, I stole a glance at the direction the rock came from and met the eyes of Petey, handling a slingshot in his right hand, saluting me with his left, a winning grin on his face. Our youthful shadow proved providential and I swore I would not begrudge that rabble another coin. They had earned it with their timely appearance and bravery.
Holmes possessed the claw by the time I looked back at the two, still bending the wrist, threatening to break bone. The Indian tried to kick Holmes’s knee so he could break free. Instead, my companion delivered two quick jabs that appeared to take the fight out of the would-be killer.
The man fell to the ground where I straddled him in an attempt to pin him down, suddenly aware we had attracted much attention from the passers-by. Holmes was asking one to summon the police while we stood watch. The Indian lay supine and silent, hatred clouding his eyes.
“You and Nayar are related, are you not?” Holmes asked him.
“The devil with you,” was all he would say, but that seemed to confirm our suspicions. I took a closer look at his face. I realised he did not merely resemble our attacker on the train, it was him.
“Holmes, this is the same fellow who tried to do for us on the train,” I said. “How on earth did he escape custody in York?”
“A question we may be certain Gregson can find out for us,” Holmes said. By then, a policeman arrived and took custody of the man. Holmes instructed him to have the inspector join us for the interview as if he were the commanding officer.
We returned to Scotland Yard and Gregson rose upon seeing us. “Are you two fine?”
“He certainly had the worst of it,” Holmes said. “I believe this is the man who tried to kill us on the train and is related to the dead mystic Nayar. I think, if you can get him to talk, we will learn they are family.”
“How do you make that out?”
“While this one is darker, they possess the same wide-set eyes, bone structure, and nearly identical crooked teeth. The resemblance is painfully obvious, but that’s not important, it merely confirms they are linked in this and working together for the gentlemen we’ve been studying.”
“Why the attack now?”
“We need to learn how he escaped custody, but once he realised his brother was dead, desire for revenge against his killer surfaced: me. It was only a matter of time to him and now we have him and perhaps he, like Alf, can help identify the men behind all of this.”
Gregson then confirmed that both Frobisher and Haldaine had been sent for and would be presently among us. He had also ordered a constable to track down the whereabouts of the Undersecretary that evening in case his services would be required. Holmes smiled, satisfied with the efficiency and forethought.
Haldaine was the first to arrive and happened to be brought to the very same room where we had interrogated Alf earlier in the day. I rather wondered if he would have appreciated the symmetry of it, had he but known.
“Mr. Haldaine, I trust you are recovered from last night’s unpleasantness?” Gregson said by way of introduction.
“I am, yes. I take it I am here regarding that criminal?”
“In part,” Gregson admitted.
“Do you need me to identify him? I did not get a good look at him in the darkness, and then those boys intervened. I am not sure how reliable my account will be, I’m afraid.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Gregson assured him. “The man has confessed his intent.”
“Then what do you need me for? Surely you can just charge him and be done with it? The man tried to kill me,” Haldaine blustered.
“You are here, Mr. Haldaine, because we now have evidence to prove you were part of a criminal conspiracy—” Holmes himself was interrupted at that very moment by a sharp knock on the door. Without waiting for permission to enter, the door swung open, and a man in a black suit stood in the doorway. I realised I had seen him before. He was the man whom we had seen in the reception area, the man who had seemed so out of place.
“Good evening,” he said with a pleasant voice.
“This is an official interview, you have no business here,” Gregson declared, his anger at the intrusion obvious.
Before answering, the man reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a leather case. He unbound the tie and opened it, revealing a document. He silently handed this to Gregson who read it once, and then read it a second time. Without a word, he replaced it in the leather case and returned it to the man.
There was absolutely nothing remarkable about the intruder. His features were bland: a fine, thin nose, eyes a little widely set apart and ears that stuck out slightly from his head, but none of these characteristics were noteworthy. I’d forget him after a glance, which I came to realise was the desired effect.
Holmes watched the exchange and once the man had pocketed what I presumed were his credentials, he said, “You are with Her Majesty’s Government, I presume.” It was not a question.
The intruder did not answer directly. Instead he said, “I have arranged transportation. Would you all be so kind as to accompany me to Westminster?” It might have been couched as a request, but I felt sure that we had little choice in the matter. I rose, followed by Haldaine, Gregson, and finally, Holmes.
As we left through the main portion of the first floor, Haldaine stumbled at one point and Holmes gestured for me to follow his gaze. Directly before the shipping magnate was Nayar’s relative and the stumble was clearly because he recognised the figure, a silent conviction that thrilled my heart.
Two carriages, entirely nondescript in appearance, awaited us on the street. I noted that both drivers were attired all in black, both with incredibly well-polished shoes reflecting the evening lamps. I glimpsed Frobisher in one of the carriages, beside him a man nearly identical to our as-yet unidentified visitor. We climbed into the other carriage and rode in silence until we reached the Palace of Westminster.
We were taken down a set of narrow winding stairs to a level below ground, and into a room with windows that overlooked the gently lapping waters of the Thames. In the centre of the room stood a table and matching chairs. On the table lay several rolled-up maps.
Frobisher and Haldaine glared at one another, but neither made a move in the other’s direction, though the tension was obvious.
Our silent host positioned them opposite one another at the table, while he gestured for a curious Gregson to take the seat across from Haldaine. I was invited to sit to the unknown man’s right and Holmes to his left. The man himself sat with his back close to the door, a guardian to keep us from being disturbed or a warder to prevent us from attempting to leave.
“Mr. Holmes,” he said, once we had taken our seats, “if you would be so kind. Outline for everyone what it is you believe you know.”
Holmes nodded at the request and folded his hands before him.
“Very well. This is the situation as I am aware of it. The late Patrick Chatterton-Smythe used his position as a Member of Parliament to learn of new diamond seams in the Boer region of Africa.”
“How would he know of such discoveries?” Gregson asked.
“Since he is no longer available to answer that I will conjecture that he learned of it from one of the undersecretaries, perhaps someone he knew outside of government. It is not particularly relevant how he found out, merely that he did,” Holmes said.
“Representatives of Her Majesty’s Government, as well as private concerns, have been mapping the area for many years, and all potential sites are logged and reports sent back to London. He used his influence to have the documentation of the finds expunged from the official record, merely adding a coded sigil to indicate he altered records, and also to direct confederates to a private set of documents, detailing promising territories near a rock formation known as Sorrow’s Crown. He needed capital to obtain the lands and therefore sought out others—Mr. Frobisher here providing much of the aforesaid capital—to pool their resources to buy the land upon which the seams were found, seeking to keep the original owners in the dark as to the value of their property. These parcels of land were combined and passed through the hands of a number of false companies and corporations, until finally ending up in the ownership of Price & Cooper and Wicks & Hook, concerns created and controlled by Mr. Chatterton-Smythe and his confederates, Edward Haldaine and William Frobisher, the three who happen to serve on the boards of both companies.”
Haldaine began to say something in protest, but a look from the man in black silenced him.
“The plan was to then dig illegal mines on the land and extract the gems, without the knowledge of the British government or the native Boers, thereby avoiding unnecessary taxation or regulation. Mr. Haldaine’s shipping interests offered the perfect means of import, enabling them to circumvent customs.”
Frobisher and Haldaine exchanged concerned looks.
“They had not reckoned with the tenacity of one woman, Mrs. Hermione Frances Sara Wynter, whose dogged determination to find out the truth about her son has been their undoing.” Both then stared at Holmes. Gregson was silent while the still unidentified man nodded once, confirmation that Holmes was indeed on the right track.
“I am entirely uncertain as to how, but Chatterton-Smythe made a deal with Mr. Frobisher here, a decorated officer with familial shareholdings in the East India Company. Mr. Frobisher has a vast network of contacts and resources across the Empire, and yes, the funds with which to successfully mount an illegal mining operation in the region. With Chatterton-Smythe obfuscating the official records with the help of a high-placed civil servant trained at the East India College before it closed its doors in ’58, and helping speed through fraudulent companies’ charters, he created a series of false companies to hide the true owners of the land. Mr. Haldaine here was recruited to the enterprise for his shipping empire, specifically his access to vessels both legally registered and unknown to any government authority. Chatterton-Smythe also used the Frobisher family mark to annotate the land transactions as a key to his partners as to which properties were under their control.
“However, it was impossible to keep their mining activities completely secret. It seems likely that those small-scale miners and landowners who had sold their property cheap—not knowing what it was worth because the reports of new seams were never made public—began to bring claims against the fraudulent companies which had bought their land, citing unfair practice. It was at this point that the triumvirate recognised they would need some form of physical presence in South Africa. Rather than turn to London’s criminal community, they reached out through the remnants of the network that had been the East India Company to the subcontinent and found a fakir, Nayar, and his kin. I still need to ascertain the vital links, but suspect Nayar first used his ricin extract from castor beans on those claimants.”
A sudden thought exploded in my mind, a final link made between stray threads. I pushed my chair back, standing, and exclaimed, “That is exactly what happened!”
All eyes turned to me. Holmes cocked an amused eyebrow in my direction while Frobisher and Haldaine shifted uncomfortably in their chairs.
“When you asked me to read up on castor beans and their deadly extract,” I explained, “there was a report of two men, miners if I recall, who died after supposedly eating castor beans, which were found among their supplies. It was believed that the men committed suicide, for the beans are known to be poisonous if eaten whole. No, I see now that the Indians must have poisoned the men with ricin and then planted the beans in their belongings to hide their murder.”
“Well done, Watson,” Holmes said. He paused a moment before continuing his discourse. I sank back down into my seat.
“These men were not the last to be extinguished in this manner. I believe that there are likely many others whose deaths were falsely attributed to illness, and whose demises were never reported.
“This operation endured for several years,” Holmes went on, “until the Boer conflict broke out. This was no doubt welcomed by our triumvirate; war is an excellent cover for illegal activities. One might consider whether they played any part in its beginning or continuation…” At this Holmes paused, clearly thinking of yet another avenue of possible investigation. “In March, however, when the ceasefire was ordered and a treaty seemed inevitable, our men began to panic. There was vast wealth still untapped. A treaty would mean the region would be granted its independence as suzerainty to the Crown and British officials would be crawling over their lands. Our trio, fearing exposure, wanted to conclude their operations as quickly as possible, but the treaty was due to be signed in August, far too soon. As a result, they sought ways to slow down the peace process and once more called on Nayar.”
“Are you suggesting Nayar was the one who killed Disraeli?” I asked, earning me astonished looks from almost everyone in the room.
“Why kill Disraeli and not Gladstone, who was sitting PM at the time?” Gregson asked.
“While Prime Minister Gladstone wanted peace, Benjamin Disraeli saw things differently. But he was already a weak man, and could not be relied upon to oppose the treaty with any great strength. Therefore they decided to kill him. His death—they hoped—would create a national sensation. There’d be great outpourings of both grief and affection and the political machinery would inevitably slow down, perhaps delaying the signing of the treaty. It was a vain hope, but they were desperate.”
“How could an Indian get so close to Disraeli when he was already ill?” Gregson asked, genuinely distressed by the notion.
“Among the odds and ends left behind in Newcastle were clothes that upon reflection could have been used to pass Nayar off as a house servant. As you know, Inspector, servants tend to be overlooked, little seen and heard less. Nayar could easily have disguised himself, gained access and managed to slip the oil extract into his food, tea, or even medicines. No doubt with all the comings and goings of doctors and messengers and well wishers, one more servant would never have raised suspicion, especially with Disraeli’s secretary out of the country.”
Gregson uttered an oath and looked sharply at Frobisher and Haldaine. Both men refused to meet his eyes. He turned to me and I gave him silent confirmation that yes, this reached the top of government and involved a dearly loved figure. He was obviously aghast. Holmes’s voice never wavered during all this, sounding sure and strong as he ticked his way through the narrative, outlining all of our suspicions.
“Nayar appears to be more resourceful than I imagined,” said I.
“Think of it, Watson. Nayar was a performing magician, travelling around England and performing his tricks. Suppose he was one of several such magicians, all free to roam at whim. If we check with South African authorities, I suspect a confederate of his was performing there when the poor solicitor died. If true, he should be apprehended and interrogated to see how far this ring went.”
The dark-suited man withdrew a small book from his pocket and made a note, clearly receiving the message from Holmes.
“What solicitor is this?” Gregson inquired, clearly befuddled by the international intrigue.
“While all this was happening in England, work on the treaty progressed in South Africa, and Nayar was called into action, using the ricin extract to kill a solicitor by the name of Charles Lewis. Lewis was part of the Boer contingent working on the treaty, and for all we know others were also dispatched. The news of Lewis’s death only made it as far as the British papers because of his relative status in the Boer community. Who knows how many others died in these villains’ attempts to upset the peace?
“Here in London, Chatterton-Smythe grew scared, no doubt after hearing—through his connections at the Admiralty—of Dr. Watson and my investigations into goings-on in South Africa. In fact at the time we were ignorant of the scale of the affair. We were only making inquiries at the behest of a mother seeking news of her son. Nayar was sent to dispatch me to my maker, though as luck would have it, he failed. A second attempt was made by another member of his gang on a northbound train, and a third, Nayar himself once again, back here in London. It was during that encounter that the fakir met his end.
“By this time Chatterton-Smythe had become a risk his partners could not stomach, and they called upon Nayar’s underlings. They must have had at least three other individuals in their employ. I say this because they staged a death for Chatterton-Smythe that would have required several pairs of hands. Nayar’s kin was in custody during this time, indicating there is at least one other man at large. They sought to create a scandal, making it appear that a member of the House of Commons had died after murdering a woman of easy virtue.
“Mr. Haldaine here was growing concerned, but had yet to break faith with his partner in crime. Mr. Frobisher, however, no doubt the one of the three with the most capital invested in the scheme, decided to be rid of Haldaine and take the remainder of what the mines would produce for himself. A crude falling-out amongst thieves. Rather than go back to the Indians, who might betray him to Haldaine, he decided to engage local talent, a certain gentleman of the name of Alf, recruited from that well-known den of iniquity, the Lamb and Flag. He was dispatched to Barton Street with every intention of killing Haldaine, no doubt planning to disguise the murder as a robbery gone awry.”
At this Frobisher stirred in his seat, mouth opening, clearly uncertain what he wanted to say or do. Haldaine had begun examining the floor rather than appear a part of this most unusual interrogation.
“Today, I asked Inspector Gregson to bring me the documentation that Chatterton-Smythe had seen classified, as I believed it would help me unravel the web of land transactions and confirm our suspicions. It was the final piece of the puzzle.”
There was complete silence as Holmes’s narration concluded and the enormity of what had been revealed settled over the room’s occupants.
“That’s incredible,” Gregson said finally, breaking the uncomfortable quiet. “I will have to place these two men under arrest and sort this all out so they may be tried for their many crimes. I will need a medical examiner and an accountant and a barrister…”
He started to rise but Holmes gestured that he remain in place. “There is more,” said he.
Gregson’s eyes went wide with surprise. “What more could there possibly be?”
“We must not forget what brought us into this investigation in the first place: the fate of one Lieutenant Norbert Wynter.” All eyes were on Holmes. “I lack the specific information needed to be certain, but in reading carefully, there appears to be some secret and horrifying event which happened to part of the Naval Brigade from HMS Dido near a region known locally as Sorrow’s Crown earlier this year, which was covered up by someone in the government.”
“Sorrow’s Crown is one of the spots owned by this cabal,” I said.
“Yes, at the juncture of the Buffels and Slang Rivers,” Holmes confirmed.
“How did you figure that out?”
“The notations in the records, the seeming jumble of numbers I found in Haldaine’s handwriting at the East India Club. I kept assuming they were a cypher of some sort, the randomness of 33, 27, 50, 20, 59, and 10. It took me some time to realise these were coordinates, longitude and latitude for that exact spot. I finally determined their meaning when perusing the South Africa maps yesterday.”
“Anyone could have written those numbers,” Gregson said. “How do we tie a scrap of paper to Haldaine?”
“True, Inspector, but there is a distinctive loop to the threes and the seven is reversed, matching Haldaine’s hand.” Holmes withdrew one of the scraps he had gathered at the East India Club and showed it first to me, then Gregson. “It matches those ledgers, once you can compare them. That is, if we’re allowed to prove our case.”
All eyes now turned to the dark-suited man, who had merely listened without nodding once in any direction to accept or refute the claims Holmes had laid before the group. He sat still, without betraying a single emotion, until finally, Frobisher spoke up.
“Is it true?”
The man in black nodded once.