5. A Laboratory Metal

He was Summoned

“American boots, strong, military-style, thick-soled American boots,” said Mycroft. “They are well looked after, and oiled regularly. That is not his hat. It belongs to the cabby with the white streak in his hair.”

Holmes smiled and handed him the contents of the envelope he had received from Lestrade. Mycroft took the items one by one.

“A steamer ticket envelope, with no ticket inside. A White Star Line receipt for a hundred dollars dated the seventeenth of last month. On the back is his list of expenses:

$25 from Chicago to New York by railway, including meals.

$12 for baggage. That is a significant amount; perhaps he includes gratuities.

$10 for his hotel for the night of the seventeenth. He stayed one night in New York at a reasonable hotel at that price. He boarded his ship to Liverpool on the eighteenth, saloon class and on a crack ship.”

Mycroft unfolded another sheet of paper. “Here we have a note of further expenses on the notepaper of Astor House, a businessman’s hotel on Broadway:

$2.50 expenses for the nights of the twenty-second and twenty-third of last month with no notation for meals. What was he doing at an hotel in New York when his ship had sailed for Liverpool five days previously? And then:

$16 for miscellaneous on-board expenses; a fair sum.”

“The receipts are initialled JW,” Holmes added. “That fits with the name ‘Walsh’ burned into the thick soles of his boots.”

“Yes, I think we have him,” said Mycroft, rubbing his hands together and smiling at his brother. “Mr Walsh was of Irish extraction, from County Mayo in all likelihood. He lived in Chicago, but he did not work in the meat-packing industry for which that city is so famed; he was a fireman.” He glanced across at Holmes. I, and every person within earshot, followed his gaze.

Holmes considered. “The tattoo on his wrist,” he said, after a pause. “I could not make it out at first. Yes, a fireman. That explains the boots and the locker key engraved EC 42-1 on his key ring. He was a senior fireman.”

Mycroft nodded. “The tattoo on his left wrist, although blurred, is conclusively the crest of the Chicago Fire Department. You are right, Sherlock, he was a senior man. His hands are not calloused; the scars are old ones. He has not done heavy work for ten years or more. He was a probably the battalion chief, in charge of Engine Company 42. He was no more than forty; he was therefore either very skilled or very well connected in that most nepotistic of cities and professions. The burn scars on his left cheek are old. Can we allow ourselves to speculate that they date from the Great Chicago Fire of ‘71?”

Holmes coughed.

“Perhaps not,” said Mycroft with a mischievous smile. “It is mere conjecture.”

He waved the envelope and papers. “Our man travelled from Chicago to New York by train, arriving on the seventeenth of last month. He immediately bought a steamer ticket to Britain for a ship leaving the following day. He stayed the night in a pleasant hotel, boarded his ship the following morning and looked forward to a comfortable passage at this time of year.”

Mycroft had a rapt audience; even the police constables that guarded the entrance to the alley had their ears cocked.

“It was not to be,” said Mycroft sententiously. “Two days out from New York -”

“Britannic!” cried Inspector Lestrade. “She collided in fog with the, oh, let me think now: the Celtic, of course, White Star Line. It was in the Illustrated London News. My wife read it to me over breakfast a month or - oh, I do beg your pardon.”

Mycroft looked down his long nose at the Inspector for a lingering moment. “It was not to be. As this loquacious person has said, the Britannic, our fire chief’s ship, collided with an outbound ship of the same line, the Celtic. Both ships were damaged, but able to manoeuvre. The Britannic returned to New York, setting down her passengers on the twenty-second.”

“Less a half-dozen or so dead,” said Holmes.

Mycroft shrugged. “All steerage. Our man was put up at Astor House, a business hotel, by White Star until he was given a berth on another steamer. His expenses were therefore negligible: two dollars and change.”

A closed carriage stopped at the end of the lane. We removed our hats as Lestrade directed two policemen to pick up the body and place it in the back. The Coroner took his place beside the driver and they clattered away.

“He was a stalwart fellow, as you would expect given his occupation and position,” Mycroft continued. “The collision did not deter him from his purpose. He sailed on the next available steamer to Liverpool.”

“The steamer, City of Rome,” said Holmes smugly. “I checked the Shipping News at the Travellers Club. After landing, he took a train to London and reconnoitred Pall Mall for several days. He wore his American-cut suit and homburg, read the New York Times and acted the American visitor here for the Queen’s Jubilee.”

“Was he the man with the costermonger slouch?” Churchill asked with an impertinent grin. “Was he the fellow waiting for the Clapham omnibus?”

The brothers avoided each other’s gaze. “He was in collusion with an unlicensed hansom driver who wore this black bowler low over his brow,” Mycroft continued. “He had a white streak in his hair; it is now dyed black. He carries a non-regulation whip. The cab has recently had its wheel spokes painted dark green and the rims show traces of paint. The cab is in a private mews, probably somewhere nearby. The horse is a fine bay, not a cab horse.”

“Anything else, Mr Holmes, sirs?” asked Lestrade with an attempt at a comic leer.

“No, well one thing; no, two things,” offered Mycroft. “The cab driver is the dead man’s brother. He is Mr P Walsh and he probably lived until recently in France. And our deceased fireman was not by nature a meticulous man.”

“The list of expenses,” I exclaimed. “That surely argues for a punctilious character.”

“On the back of an envelope, Doctor?” Mycroft replied. “I think not. He took pains to note his expenses, because he expected them to be refunded. He did not come to Britain on his own occasions.”

“He came to do an important job, or jobs,” said Holmes. “He was summoned.”

Forty Years in India

“Robbers, dacoits, rooftops, pshaw,” said Colonel Delacy pounding the table and smiling at us.

“There’s more to this than meets the eye, gentlemen; that’s forty years on the sub-continent talking to you now. Look to the zenana: the women of the court.”

Holmes, Mycroft, Churchill and I had adjourned to the Red Lion at the Marlborough Street end of Pall Mall for lunch. To my astonishment, Holmes had invited Colonel Delacy to be one of our party.

“The women have nothing to do but sit around all day and plot,” the Colonel continued. “They used to bring up the royal princes in their quarters, the zenana. They were incensed when we opened Rajkumar College at Rajkot for princes of the Kathiawar and Gujarat. We took the little beggars away from the influence of their mothers, you see. That cut the women off from power and diminished their influence. Oh, they spat and clawed, but we rammed the school through. Before the College opened, the princelings of Kathiawar learned nothing but the feminine vices: perfumes, jewels, extravagance and intrigue. Rajkumar makes little Englishmen of them. The masters teach them to wash behind their ears, play with a straight bat, mangle Homer and Virgil, and above all to know their place.”

“How extensive is the state of Gondal,” I asked.

“Gondal is a third-class state, nine guns, about the size of Dorset: four towns and a hundred and seventy-five villages as I recall. The number varied as villages changed hands in martial spats or were mortgaged to pay gambling debts. We ran it until the young prince reached his majority. He’s done well in the last few years; he’s kept things together.”

Our order of chops and mashed potato arrived with a bottle of Beaune. “Damme,” exclaimed the Colonel. “One bottle of inferior red for three of us, not counting the boy who gulped a pint of sweet sherry last night and wolfed half the Dundee cake. Damn near with the wine, these detective swine.”

Holmes sighed, called over a waiter and ordered another bottle.

“I spent forty years in India in war and peace,” the Colonel continued in a more friendly tone. “I have seen intrigues grafted on deceptions, multiplied by conspiracies, and I know my business: Mr Mycroft Holmes will vouch for that. Something is not right; the plot is absurdly complex for the theft of a half-lakh string of mouldy emeralds.”

“What of the older prince, the Thakore of Limdi? He did not seem particularly concerned at his friend’s loss,” I asked.

“Jaswantsinhji? He is an annoying sprat. Rajkumar College has a reputation for producing the type: as have our public schools for that matter. Jaswantsinhji is jealous of the younger prince and he has reason. Thakore Bhagwatsinhji of Gondal has all the makings of a highflyer. You heard about the horses, Holmes?”

“Yes,” said Mycroft. “An astute move. When the first rumours of trouble between Britain and Russia reached Gondal, Bhagwatsinhji sent the Queen a telegram offering to provide horses for our army: local chargers of very high quality. What is more, he didn’t just promise the horses, he sent them to Bombay with commendable, almost indecent alacrity. That reached the ear of the Queen, along with his plans for medical study in Edinburgh, schools for girls, hospitals, lower taxes and railways galore. Her Majesty was impressed. He got an invitation to the Jubilee, a knighthood and a KC in this new Indian Empire order.

“If he breaks ground on his girls’ schools there is a possibility that Her Majesty might insist on a greater mark of Imperial favour,” Mycroft said, with a knowing look at the Colonel.

“First-class statehood for Gondal and an eleven-gun salute for the Thakore,” I said.

“That is a state secret,” Mycroft said crossly.

The Colonel chuckled. “The boy was the Queen’s guest at Holyroodhouse Palace. You know how partial she is to almond-eyed young Indian boys. Look at that idiot Duleep Singh she fawned over a few years ago.”

“I say, Colonel,” I protested.

“I expect she gave young Bhagwatsinhji a discreet hint over tea and crumpets,” he continued, ignoring me. “Imagine, the Thakore of Gondal arrives back home in Kathiawar with his palace band tootling the state anthem and his little army banging out a first-class salute of eleven slow guns. He’d be cock of the walk: a maharajah. His wives - four is it? - could lord it over the ladies of lesser princes, and he would shoot up the precedence list like a monkey up a mango tree. His political minder would get his half-colonelcy, which would please his appalling memsahib. His chum, the Thakore of Limdi would be livid. He claims that his dynasty dates back to the fifteen-hundreds; Gondal is a mere upstart at mid-seventeenth.”

“So, Limdi could be involved in the plot,” I said. “Perhaps he coveted the jewels.”

“All this trouble for a few mangy emeralds worth, what, a few thousand pounds!” exclaimed the Colonel. “Ha, it would be as if I paid a gang of dacoits to burgle your house because I ached to possess your pearl tiepin, Doctor. No, mark my words, this is a zenana plot, with the connivance of the local chiefs.”

“The power structure in the princely states is fragile,” said Mycroft. “The princes are encouraged by the Raj to emulate the modernising schemes that we have introduced: railways, schools, hospitals and so on. The lesser chiefs are bypassed by more centralised forms of control. They are losing sources of revenue. The situation is ripe for mischief making. And the shadow of the Russian bear is in the North. What would the Russians not pay for India?”

“I may be an old buffer,” said the Colonel as our apple pie and custard and fruit plate was served. “But I see a prince taking time by the forelock; he is making a modern state. It is a kind of litmus test for the Raj. Will it work? More importantly, what rewards will he get? If Gondal is raised to the first class, his nine-gun co-princes will be in equal parts beside themselves with rage and green with envy that a princeling with the demeaning ambition to be a doctor is a first-class prince!”

He screwed his monocle into his eye and regarded the apple pie. “The emeralds may not be valuable, but we cannot underestimate the effect of the theft. The necklace is worn on all religious and state occasions. The people of Gondal will be outraged at its loss, particularly on a trip abroad. The more superstitious of his people - and they are all deeply superstitious - fear that he has lost caste, or karma, or at least luck by crossing the ocean. If he had loyal and discreet advisers, I’d say fake the bloody emeralds in paste. That pie is not fresh; apple pie should steam. It is no use relying on the custard to warm it up; dreadful goo that is too. My major domo makes an apple pie that hisses with steam. Pass the fruit bowl.”

“I am afraid that paste will not answer,” said Holmes. “The thieves made provision against that possibility. If the emeralds were discovered to be counterfeit, I fear that the rage of the Gondal people would be much augmented. If no-one except Churchill is having pie, shall we smoke our cigars in the garden?”

“What is the Irish connection in the affair?” Colonel Delacy asked as we stood under the shade of a plane tree in the pub garden. “Is this a criminal enterprise or is there a political aspect?”

“I have no idea,” said Holmes.

The Ideal of Dundee Cakes

“I understand the tattoo and the papers,” I said as we settled back in our sitting room in Baker Street. “But how did Mycroft know that the dead man was of Irish extraction? And how did you know that the cabby was his brother, and had lived in France?”

I mixed two whiskies and sodas, and added the last of our American ice.

“It was perfectly simple,” said Holmes. “I did not bother to state the obvious. The bowler hat is perhaps three-years old and of a rakish, youthful, curled-brim style that was the vogue in Paris at that time. The name P Walsh is printed on the hat lining. There were few sweat marks. The few hairs adhering to the lining are black and bone-white, without the traces of grey that you would expect in a hat worn by an elderly man. We could discount the possibility that it was Walsh senior, the father. It belongs to the brother of our corpse, the cab driver who has tried to cover the white streak in his hair with black dye.

“As for his nationality, he had a silver shamrock on his key ring with an inscription in the Irish language. Mycroft guessed that it was the motto of the County Mayo. I checked and he was lucky. It was a guess, Watson, based on the frequency of the name Walsh in that county. I reprimanded him for his statistical audacity.”

“He was right, Holmes.”

“That is no excuse. I saw no deductive basis for his conclusion; it was on a par with his Chicago fire of whenever nonsense. Firemen get burned; it is a consequence of the job. You cannot date a burn.”

“But -”

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” said Churchill. “Before you have your afternoon tiff, should I give you the testimony of the night watchman?”

He flapped his notebook at us.

Holmes sniffed. “A cretin. I do not expect that he will add anything material to the case. He says that not a sausage occurred in the alley last night - ha! Whence then came the body?”

Churchill checked his notes. “Mr Noakes shared a cigar and a swig or two of brandy with the night porters of the Reform and Travellers - the Carlton porter is too snooty to join them - at two-thirty this morning. There was no body. That puts the burglary at between then and dawn.”

Holmes shrugged agreement.

“At about four in the morning last Saturday, Mr Noakes came upon the gas men digging the trench in Carlton Gardens. He describes three men. A pale-faced younger man with the voice of a toff and a heavy gold watch chain was in charge, but he did a share of the digging. That aroused Mr Noakes’ suspicions. The other men were very alike, one older wearing a bowler, the other younger bareheaded. Both avoided answering Noakes’ questions, leaving the talking to the pale man.”

“Noakes saw all this in the dark,” said Holmes. “There are no gaslights in Carlton Gardens.”

“He has cat’s eyes,” said Churchill.

“They meant to make their attempt from the alley, Holmes,” I exclaimed. “They intended to shin up their ladder to the roof of the Reform Club, and down into the Travellers. The trench was a blind to give credence to their identity as gas men. Noakes was suspicious, and he called a policeman. That spoiled their game. The robbers rethought their plan and decided to attack through Colonel Delacy’s flat. They spiked the Dundee cakes with opium and had them delivered to Delacy, to the other occupants of his building and to the Travellers Club. They attacked early the next morning. What devils!”

“Devils?” said Holmes. “Ha! A mediocre plan and that poorly executed.”

“Colonel Delacy and your brother slept through the robbery,” I countered. “We do not know whether Mr Melas was affected, but he was not disturbed. The pageboy and his mother may also have been drugged in some way. It seems to me that the plan -”

“The boy was bought,” said Holmes dismissively. “The cake ploy was feeble. They posed as gas men; why not fake a dangerous gas leak in the building -”

“I say, Holmes,” I said, jumping to my feet. “I think that you might give some credit -”

“Gentlemen,” said Churchill quietly. “Would you like to see what I found?” He slowly pulled something shiny out of his jacket pocket and slipped it onto the table.

I looked down at a lump of what looked like a silvery metallic substance, about six inches long and mounded or carved into an L shape like a shelf bracket.

Holmes bounded to the table and pounced on the object. He pulled out his magnifying glass and glared through it.

“I spotted a glim of silver in the grass from the rooftop,” said Churchill. “While everyone was busy with the dead man, I whipped over there and snagged it from under a tree in Carlton Gardens.”

Holmes lifted the object and weighed it in his palm. “It is as insubstantial as air, Watson.” He passed the lump of metal to me.

“Extraordinary, Holmes. It gleams like silver, but it weighs far, far less. Look, it has fractured: both edges are sheered. It was once a square, no, a rectangle like a small picture frame. I wonder where the other piece is.”

Holmes turned to Churchill. “You found this on the Reform Club side of the Gardens?”

Churchill nodded. “I searched and searched; there weren’t any more bits.”

“I say, Holmes,” I said. “This is evidence. We have to inform Lestrade. It was probably an offence to remove it.”

“Well done, Churchill,” said Holmes. “Watson, give the boy a humbug. Come, now we have not one, but two calls to make this afternoon.”

“What have we learned?” asked Holmes as our four-wheeler threaded through the backstreets of Mayfair to avoid the main shopping avenues. “What do we know now, that we did not know yesterday?”

“They never look up,” said Churchill.

“And you should never look down,” I said.

Holmes ignored our quips. “Someone went to great trouble and expense, and some danger, to steal a necklace of second-rate emeralds from the leader of a third-rated state in India. It makes no sense. If this,” he held up the lump of metal, “is what I suspect it to be, the robbers spent thousands of pounds to gain not much more.”

“They have undermined one of our strongest supporters in India,” I said. “If the emeralds are not recovered, the Prince of Gondal will be in a pretty pickle.”

“A thousand square miles of dust and a few horses,” said Holmes with a dismissive pout. “Gondal is not the Punjab. If Gondal made trouble, we would send in a detachment of police: a corporal’s command.”

“You exaggerate. What about the Colonel? He is certain that the women of the Prince’s zenana are involved,” I said. “Perhaps the aunt who dislikes female education is planning a coup.”

Holmes waved his finger in negation. “How would this aunt in Gondal arrange a burglary by Irish Americans in the City of Westminster? It beggars belief that she, or any of the Thakore’s followers, would have connections with thieves in Chicago and London. Did they advertise in the American papers? ‘Expert cat burglars required for interesting employment abroad, Irish with experience of heights and ladders preferred’. I think not.”

“What about that other prince?” asked Churchill. “He is rather a cad.”

“He was gaudier and less prepossessing than his younger friend,” said Holmes. “His whiskers ape the German Crown-Prince. But, one should not judge a man by his whiskers: look at Watson.”

“Look at the Emperor of Austria-Hungary,” I countered sharply. I tried to put aside my irritation at the Thakore of Limdi’s lack of manners, and judge the possibility of his involvement from an objective viewpoint. Clearly, the same objections that made it unlikely that Gondal’s aunt was behind the matter applied equally to the Prince of Limdi. How would such a person make a connection with the underworld in London and Chicago?

We trotted on in silence for a while.

A fine primrose-yellow tricycle came up beside us at Piccadilly Circus. A lady in a yellow coat and dainty straw hat sat in front, and a gentleman in bicycling attire and cap was up behind. The lady had the bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked look of one who took frequent exercise. As she concentrated on keeping her line, the tip of her tongue peeped out of her mouth in so fetching a way that I wanted to laugh aloud. I tipped my hat to her and earned a fierce scowl from her passenger and knowing looks between Holmes and Churchill.

I felt that I had to voice a concern that had been growing in me since we had taken up the emeralds case.

“I say, old man,” I said. “Are we not remiss in following this trail when our whole strength should be arrayed against the potential regicides? Should we not be entirely focussed on the threat to Her Majesty? The procession is in but three days.”

“My dear friend,” said Holmes with a cheery grin. “We will pick up the threads of that investigation in France. We are in currently in Piccadilly, and here is Fortnum and Mason’s emporium.”

“Her Majesty graciously condescended to purchase a large number of cakes for presentation to Court officials, members of Parliament, foreign dignitaries and certain other notables,” the tall, elegant, spade-bearded and frock-coated floor manager of Fortnum and Mason’s said loftily.

“Our Dundee is not only an excellent cake in itself; it has the Fortnum and Mason imprimatur of quality: it is the ideal of Dundee cakes.”

We stood by the balustrade of the circular staircase looking down three floors into the main hall below us. A tall ice sculpture of Britannia surrounded by summer flowers sat on a circular table directly below us. It gave at the least the impression of coolness. The shop was thronged with lady shoppers in pairs and small groups. Sweating salesmen in frock coats darted through the silks and crinolines, bowing, escorting customers and taking orders.

“Do you have a list of persons to whom Her Majesty extended her favour with regard to your excellent Dundee cake?” asked Holmes.

“A list? Not as such, no. We did not think it appropriate for reasons of delicacy. Those not on the list might feel - you catch my drift? Our clientele is a varied one. We even cater to foreign persons of distinction. It would have been invidious to particularise.”

“How do you know to whom to send the cakes?” I asked.

“We receive the cards that are to accompany the cakes from the Palace. The address, name and title of the receiver are on the envelope. We rely on their protocol department, the heralds at the College of Arms in most cases, to give us the correct title. It is of the utmost importance that no mistake is made. One can place some trust in the Scandinavian, Spanish and Austrian patents of nobility. The Portuguese and Russian versions of our Debrett’s Peerage are accessible to those blessed with the appropriate linguistic capabilities. The Germans are a mongrel breed; we rely on the Almanach de Gotha as far as that goes. The French nobility is in some disarray since their tribulations at the end of the last century. And then there are the Americans.”

He spread his hands expressively.

I put a minatory hand on Churchill’s shoulder as I recalled that he, like Charles Stuart Parnell, had an American mother.

“In cases where the customer does not have an account with us, we rely on the address and title sent from the Palace,” the floor manager continued. “We group the addresses by district and make the delivery with our vans. Our delivery department would have records of those addresses.”

“I see,” said Holmes. “And these cakes are sold to the public as well as to the Palace?”

“Yes. Her Majesty was insistent on that point. Everyone may enjoy the cake if they can pay the requisite price. They are our best Jubilee items, along with our Jubilee wines, Queen Victoria bon-bons and chocolate guardsmen.”

“Do you have records of bulk orders of the Dundee cakes?”

The manager smiled a condescending smile. “We do. Many companies have made large purchases, sometimes several large purchases. They include embassies, clubs, private and public firms, even patriotic associations of men of the labouring classes. The Association of Constables of the City Police requested a batch, and we were pleased to comply with their request. A club of working men in Leeds ordered a gross, and we were happy to take the order. We accepted an order from the staff at the Bedlam Lunatic Asylum; that order was fulfilled without the Jubilee tin that features the Queen resplendent, naturally.”

“Naturally,” said Holmes.

“We have been selling the cakes since the beginning of the year. Our suppliers can hardly keep up with demand.” He frowned. “May I ask what this is in connection with?”

“Poisoning,” said Holmes casually. “Adulteration of your Jubilee cakes with opiates.”

The manager staggered to the wall, his face ashen.

“A number of people have been affected,” Holmes added. “Those poisoned include two Indian princes - guests of Her Majesty here for the Jubilee - a general of Indian infantry, a senior adviser to the Government and a prominent physician.”

“And the nephew of the Duke of Marlborough,” said Churchill in a sombre tone, shaking his head.

“It is important,” said Holmes, “that we track -”

“Important, sir? Important?” the manager cried. “Have you any idea what - do you have the slightest notion what might occur if this were to come to the attention of the Press?” He mopped his brow with his handkerchief. “We abhor the prospect of public scrutiny.”

Holmes considered. “I think we might be able to keep things quiet if you could request your staff to go through your records and see whether you delivered Dundee cakes to the following addressees in Pall Mall.”

He handed the stricken employee a note.

“And we might need to test a sample or two,” said Churchill mournfully.

“That jolted the poor man,” I said as we left Fortnum’s and stood on the scorching pavement. “I thought I would need my sal volatile.”

“It was worth a try,” said Holmes, shaking his head, “but we are no further along. The cakes were undoubtedly bought from the retail shop, the opium was added, and they were delivered by hand, probably by public commissionaires. I do not think that Fortnum employees were involved at all.”

Churchill grinned and held up two hefty bags containing Dundee cakes, chocolate guardsmen, Jubilee bon-bons and six bottles of 1884 vintage Jubilee Champagne.

Holmes hailed a cab. “To Mears and Stainbank at 34, Whitechapel Road.”

The Bell Makers of Whitechapel

We clattered to a halt outside the entrance to the ancient and famous Mears and Stainbank Bell Foundry, the company that had cast church and other bells for centuries.

We passed through the glazed entrance doors into a neat office where a man sat behind a large desk reading the afternoon paper, and a boy slept on a chair by the window. Through an arched doorway, we could see a long, high-ceilinged workshop cluttered with huge bell-shaped forms and beams of heavy timber. A waft of searing air laden with sawdust, and tainted with a tang of hot metal and smoke blew through the doorway and made me cough and splutter into my handkerchief. The man closed the door and I breathed more easily. The office windows were open, but the temperature was Saharan.

“How can I help you, gentlemen?” the man said, holding out his hand. “I am the foundry manager, William Wariskitt.”

A long, deep, sonorous chime thundered through the room; my teeth vibrated in tune with it. The boy slept on.

“E,” said Holmes instantly. “A bell of considerable size, judging by the volume of sound.”

“Nineteen hundredweight,” said Mr Wariskitt, blinking at him.

“Ah, then it is sixth in a peal of eight, with the treble and tenor tuned to C and the tenor weighing, let me see, about thirty-eight hundredweight.” Holmes gave Churchill and I a triumphant look. We looked blankly back at him.

“Are you thinking of ordering a peal?” asked Mr Wariskitt.

“I am Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective, and these are my unmusical colleagues, Doctor Watson and Winston Churchill.”

We shook hands. Holmes nodded to Churchill; he laid the lump of silvery metal on the desk.

“My goodness, sir,” Mr Wariskitt said. “I last saw an ingot at the Great Exhibition in 1851, when I was a nipper. They had armed guards. May I?”

Holmes nodded. Mr Wariskitt picked the metal up and weighed it in his hand.

“Incredible.”

He called out to the boy. “Wake up, you sleepy hound. Get Tom out here quick as you like.”

The boy darted inside the factory.

“Well, gentlemen,” Mr Wariskitt said reflectively as he turned the lump of metal in the light streaming from a window. “In ‘84, the Americans used this material for the capstone of the monumental column to their late president, Mr Washington; out of a kind of homage, I suppose. It was a cone just under nine inches high, the largest piece cast at the time. I understand it took at least two goes to get it right.”

The boy returned, followed by an elderly man in a leather apron.

“Here you go, Tom,” said Mr Wariskitt, winking at us. “Close your eyes and hold out your hands.” He carefully placed the lump of metal on to the old man’s hands. “Have a gander.”

The old man opened his eyes and blinked down at the shiny material over his pince-nez. He grinned a huge, gap-toothed smile.

“Aluminium. Gawd bless me, it’s a bleeding great, huge lump of aluminium.”

He turned and went back through the office door holding the block of metal high. The foundry workers crowded around the old man as he paraded the metal through the workshop. I nodded to Churchill to follow him and keep an eye on our treasure.

“When the Yanks put a hundred-ounce cone of aluminium on top of their Washington Monument, the metal was a dollar an ounce, more than double that with casting cost.” said Mr Wariskitt. “It’s not a lot less now.”

He shouted through the door. “All right, Old Tom, give it here. And back to work the rest of you.”

Tom came through the door followed by Churchill and the boy. He put the aluminium reverently down on the manager’s desk.

“You are sure that it is aluminium?” asked Holmes.

Mr Wariskitt picked it up again. “It is cast aluminium - badly cast, or perhaps the metal was impure. It is not ornamental: it is a structural piece. What is it, gentlemen? Who would make anything structural out of aluminium? It is a precious metal, a laboratory metal, sirs; aluminium is not produced industrially. Or is it?”

“That,” said Holmes, lowering himself into a seat opposite the manager, “is what we wish to know. It is a police matter.”

Mr Wariskitt looked doubtful.

“There are Imperial connections,” said Holmes. “The Palace may be involved.”

I coughed. Apart from the Dundee cakes, I could see no connection between the emerald robbery and the Palace.

“Sorry about the dust,” said Mr Wariskitt. He turned again to the boy. “Get young Geoff in here, then make the tea.”

A keen-looking young man in a white apron responded immediately to the boy’s call. He pounced on the aluminium with an intense interest.

“Draft that, son,” said Mr Wariskitt. “It’s sheered. Have a go at the missing bit and we’ll see what we will see.”

The young man slipped out holding the lump of aluminium like his firstborn.

Mr Wariskitt sat back as the boy handed around mismatched cups of tea and plates of gritty biscuits. “Aluminium is new to us. We know bell metal and iron. We thoroughly understand copper and tin. Steel will not answer for bells, though it will be the metal of the next century; steamships may be steel constructed, but not bells; we have tried and failed.”

“Your company made Big Ben, sir, as I recollect,” I said.

“We did, Doctor. Or rather, we remade him. And then that interfering bugger Dennison (pardon my French) hit him with an outsize hammer - though told not to do so direct to his face - and cracked him.”

He sipped his tea. “Old Tom’s never been the same since Ben cracked. He worked for the company that made the first great bell that split. Then he came to us and remade him and he cracked again. He is still distressed by Ben’s tone.”

“Could you make a bell out of aluminium, sir?” asked Churchill.

“You could make one out of wood, but it would just go clop. A glass bell would work, or a China one; you’d not want to bang ‘em too hard. You could make a bell out of any metal, but would it last? Steel doesn’t. We’ve not tried aluminium - question of cost. Ah here’s Geoff.”

The young man unrolled a drawing across the manager’s table and weighted it with the chunk of aluminium.

“It’s clear that the piece is half a bracket,” he said. “You can see where something is supposed to slide through here. I would say you have a ship’s mast, or a flagpole. Given the cost of the metal, I believe we may ignore more mundane uses, except -”

He stopped and looked doubtfully at us.

“Go on, lad,” said Mr Wariskitt.

“Aluminium costs about the same as silver, sir, so I may be talking nonsense, but people do funny things. They say that Napoleon had a gold-plated necessary pot.” He laughed. “If this were steel, I’d say it was part of a ladder.”

“An aluminium ladder!” cried Mr Wariskitt, laughing with him.

The young man nodded. “I can think of only one company that might have access to enough aluminium to make a ladder, and the casting expertise to do the work. That is a company that deals mainly in wrought and puddle-iron structures: Eiffel et Cie of Paris.”