Whether or not travel expands one’s horizons, the coat of arms had indeed borne fruit. Two days later, we were thundering through the countryside of north-western Germany, heading for Bremerhaven, a port at the mouth of the river Weser.
Holmes had found the crest within a minute of flicking through one of his gazetteers. That it took him the best part of the morning, crashing through the attic, to find the book itself need never be mentioned again.
Disembarking at Bremen railway station, we checked into our hotel and asked the concierge for help locating Foerstner Automaten. The shop, a charming establishment whose window display was packed with all manner of clockwork toys, was near the town hall, not a ten-minute walk from the hotel.
We entered, a tinkling bell alerting the proprietor of our arrival. He appeared from a door behind the counter, a man in his fifties with a neat grey beard and two pairs of half-moon reading glasses, one perched on his nose and the other resting on the top of a hairless head.
“Herr Foerstner?” Holmes enquired, in perfect German.
The proprietor smiled warmly. “The same. How may I be of assistance, gentlemen?”
Holmes held out his hand. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. My colleague and I have travelled from London to meet you.”
Foerstner took the proffered hand, but looked at us in concern. “London? Why would you come all this way for me?”
Holmes threw out his arms to take in the contents of the small shop. “For the sake of all this,” he offered in explanation.
Surrounding us were dolls and animals and carousels and castles. It was a veritable Aladdin’s cave that would send any child into rapture, although I found the experience of having hundreds of glass eyes staring in my direction somewhat unsettling. I was unable to shake the feeling that they would all come alive at any moment.
“We are reporters from The Times,” Holmes continued, smiling broadly. I fought the urge to peer at my friend in order to discover his personal sign of deceit. “We are writing an article on automata, and recently had the pleasure of witnessing one of your exquisite creations. You, sir, are a true artisan.”
The flattery worked. Foerstner positively preened, his eyes sparkling. “It is kind of you to say so, but if I may enquire, which piece did you see? I do not send many of my toys overseas.”
“Which is why we had to visit,” Holmes insisted. “Yours is a rare talent that our readers will want to experience for themselves. I dare say that you’ll receive a good many orders from English enthusiasts, keen to add a Foerstner original to their collection.”
“You are very kind, but the piece?”
“Ah, yes,” said Holmes, feigning absent-mindedness. He pulled a notebook from his pocket and flicked through to a page covered in shorthand. “A lion that, once wound—”
“Sits back and jumps,” Foerstner interrupted. “Yes, yes, I was particularly proud of that one. The growl was quite difficult to perfect.”
“And yet perfect it you did. Can you talk me through the creation of the masterpiece?”
We listened as the craftsman explained his methods in minute detail, learning more about clockwork than I thought possible, or indeed wanted to know. All the time, Holmes nodded and jotted down notes. Finally, when I thought that I might be able to build one of the wretched contraptions myself, Holmes consulted another page of his notebook.
“The lion was purchased by a Miss Elsbeth Honegger.” He leant in surreptitiously. “A present for her nephew, who simply adores the beast.”
Again, Holmes’s flummery did the trick.
“Ah, a delightful woman,” Foerstner gushed. “So interested in the work. She was a pleasure to talk to.”
“I’m glad to hear it, as we should very much like a word with the good lady ourselves. Could you pass us her telephone number, or perhaps an address?”
Foerstner’s expression faltered. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”
“You don’t have them?”
“No, it’s not that. I would feel uncomfortable handing out a customer’s private details. It just isn’t done, you know?”
“I understand, but all we would require from her is a short statement about the quality of your work; what attracted her to your shop, how she was impressed by your service and so on. Everyone wants to read about a happy customer, don’t they? Especially before making a purchase themselves. You know, I have even heard that His Majesty the King collects automata for his children. Just imagine if he read the article?”
Foerstner hesitated before relenting, reaching beneath his desk for a ledger. “I’m sure she won’t mind,” he said, “if you explain why you are calling.”
His finger stopped on the relevant entry. “I’m afraid I don’t have a telephone number, but I can give you gentlemen her address.”
“That would be ideal,” Holmes said with a smile.
* * *
According to Foerstner, Elsbeth Honegger had taken lodgings at 28 Löningstraße, near the port. We made our way to the address, but as we approached the three-storey building, we spotted the lady herself pulling the front door closed behind her. Holmes clasped my arm, guiding me behind a nearby market stall.
“What are we doing?”
“Observing,” came the reply.
There was no mistaking Miss Honegger. She wore her hair in the pompadour style we had seen in the photograph owned by Mrs Sellman, and bore a startling resemblance to her sister in person, even down to her purposeful walk.
“Should we not simply approach her?” I asked.
“I would rather see where she’s heading,” said Holmes, “especially in such a hurry.”
“You would think she’d take a cab in such weather,” I said, turning up my collar. It had been raining steadily from the moment we arrived and looked to be getting worse, a storm brewing in the air. Holmes waited for the lady to continue halfway down Löningstraße before stepping out from our hiding place. We set off in gentle pursuit, Holmes refusing to open his umbrella in case it drew her attention. Pneumonia it was then!
What was that my wife had said about Holmes being the death of me?
Miss Honegger went straight to the port, breezing past the dockworkers as if she owned the place. Finally, she approached a large steam ship that was moored alongside the dock. The port was a hive of activity, dockhands loading cargo from a nearby warehouse onto the ship. She stopped to talk to them. At first, I thought she was asking for directions, but it soon became clear that she was taking them to task over their heavy-handed treatment of the cargo. Her cargo.
Holmes read the name of the freighter. “Das Rabe. Notice something odd about it, Watson?”
“I’m hardly what you would call an expert,” I admitted.
“Neither am I, but look at the main mast.”
I did as he asked. There was something odd about it.
“Looks too tall,” I said.
“As if it has been extended, and where are the sails? The secondary masts have them, but there’s no rigging on the central pole.”
“There’s something on there. Rope, is it?”
“Possibly. It is peculiar, though.”
We watched the men continue to haul crates onto the deck.
“Surely they’re not thinking of taking her out in this?” I said.
The rain had increased, fierce winds rolling in from the sea. On the dockside, Miss Honegger was holding onto her hat, struggling to remain upright in the gale. The crates being winched onto the ship swayed alarmingly, and even behind the pile of containers that we were using to conceal ourselves, rain stung our faces.
The discussion had become an argument, although the voices dropped to silence as a stern man in a sharp suit descended the gangplank. He approached Miss Honegger, standing just a little too close for comfort, clearly trying to intimidate the woman, although she held her ground. We were too far away to hear what was being said, the heated conversation muffled by the rain, but both of us were shocked when the gentleman in question seized her arm and marched her up the ramp and into the ship, a burly sailor stepping out of the way to let them gain entrance.
“Holmes—” I started, but a hand on my shoulder stopped me from breaking cover.
“We’ll be no good to her in there, especially as most of those men are armed.”
He was right. Peering through the downpour, I could just make out a gun in its holster on every docker’s belt.
“You would have us do nothing? If they are leaving…”
“I’ve not come all this way just to lose the lady again,” Holmes said. “We’re going aboard that ship.”
“And how are we going to do that? Is The Times about to publish an award-winning piece on German maritime affairs?”
“Shipshape and Bremer fashion? I doubt those fellows are as gullible as Herr Foerstner.”
“What then?”
He glanced at the open warehouse. I followed his gaze and saw more crates lined up, ready to be loaded. A couple were open, their lids loose across them.
“Those crates look big enough to hide a fellow or two, don’t you think?”
“You can’t be serious.”
“I assure you I am.”
“But how are we supposed to climb inside them without being noticed?”
Holmes nodded towards the ship. “An Englishman always keeps his eye upon the weather.”
I followed his gaze, seeing the crate on the winch rock precariously in the wind. All at once, it slipped from its bonds and tumbled to the ground, splitting open. Men came running, the foreman shouting orders. This was our chance. Complaining under my breath, I followed Holmes into the now deserted warehouse. He pulled aside one of the lids to reveal coils of cables and wires.
“What is all this for?”
“Now is not the time to ask questions,” said Holmes, glancing up at the chaos on the dockside. “Now is the time to get in the box. There should be just enough room for you.”
“How small do you think I am, and what about you? There isn’t room for both of us.”
“There’s more than one crate. Get in.”
Still grumbling, I clambered in, lying on my bed of cables. “You saw that crate fall, didn’t you?”
“I did, yes,” Holmes hissed, grabbing the lid.
“And you’re not worried that lightning will strike twice?”
“Worse things happen at sea. Besides, these crates are smaller. They will probably be carried up the ramp.”
“And if they’re not?”
“Bon voyage, Watson!”
He lowered the lid, closing me in. Panic hit me almost immediately. It was like being shut inside a coffin. Outside I could hear scuffling, and imagined Holmes entombing himself in one of the crates. Then all was silence, save for my own breathing, before voices approached. What if they lifted the lid? Worst of all, what if they hammered the crates shut for good and all? Then where would we be?
It was all I could do not to cry out as I felt the crate lift off the floor. The dockworkers swore, calling over to their mates for help.
“What has she got in here?” one of them asked, and I prayed they wouldn’t check. Instead, I was carried forward, the patter of rain on the lid telling me we had left the warehouse. There was more grunting, more swearing, and then I slid on the cables as the box tipped to the left. I imagined myself sprawling across the dock as the crate overturned, guns pointing in my face – but instead we continued, the dockhands lugging my dead weight up the ramp. The drumming of the rain stopped. I was on the ship.
I closed my eyes, willing the indignity to be over. It seemed that I swayed back and forth for ever, before, with a thud that jarred my entire body, the crate dropped to the floor. Elsbeth Honegger wouldn’t be happy about that. I can’t say I was either.
There were more boots outside now, and another thud, this time on the lid of the crate. To my horror, I realised what had happened. The idiots had piled another container on top of mine. How would I get out?
I froze, waiting for the sound of the boots to fade. Then, when I was sure I was alone, I pushed against the lid. It wouldn’t budge, the weight of the box on top too great. I was trapped. I banged my clenched fist against the side of the crate, not caring if the noise was heard. If I were discovered, I would be let out. I would also probably be shot, but that was a risk I was willing to take.
The side of the box refused to give way, and soon my hands were raw from pummelling the rough wood.
With a scrape and a clatter, something dropped to the floor outside. I froze again, my eyes searching the darkness. More boots scraped and then there was a crash, deafening within the confines of the crate.
I went to push up against the lid one last time, when it was raised, and the face of Sherlock Holmes looked down at me.
“Watson,” he snarled, “get out of there and help me.”
“What the devil happened?” I asked.
“Not now,” he said, giving me his hand. “They’re on their way back. Quickly.”
I scrambled out of the crate and took in my surroundings; we were clearly in the hold of the ship. Holmes turned and threw cables back into the overturned crate that lay on its side next to my own. He eased it back onto its base and continued refilling it. I helped as well as I could, and when everything was back where it should be, he told me to replace the lid on my crate. I did so, and we piled the other box on top.
“Were you in that one?” I whispered.
He gave no answer, but yanked me to the back of the hold, into a small curtained vestibule. I fell quiet and we listened as the men returned, slapping more crates into place.
“That’s the lot,” one of them growled in German.
“And not before time. The captain’s casting off. Come on.”
Holmes waited for them to leave before peeking out from behind the curtain. The hold was empty, save for the crates – and a pair of stowaways.
“I can’t believe you made me do that,” I hissed.
“Neither can I. You must be going soft in your old age,” replied Holmes. “You used to put up much more of a fight.”
“Don’t tempt me. So, now what?”
Holmes put his finger to his lips and slipped past the curtain, checking that the coast was clear. When he was sure, he beckoned me out.
“Now, we find Miss Honegger.”
“Where?”
“If I knew that, we would have no need to search. The ship is not a large one.”
“It’s not a small one either. What if we are spotted?”
“You have your revolver?”
I nodded, patting my coat pocket.
“And I have mine. Let us pray we don’t have cause to use them.”
There was a low resounding clang deep beneath us, and the sudden roar of engines. The entire ship reverberated, the deck vibrating beneath our feet.
“We’re on the move,” Holmes commented, throwing out an arm to steady himself.
“And already being tossed from fore to stern.”
“A storm is coming.”
“And if we need to abandon ship?”
“I’m sure there are lifeboats, Watson.”