The Curious Cardboard Boxes

I had seen less of my friend Sherlock Holmes in the recent weeks following my marriage – although less is certainly a relative term. Even as I settled into my new domesticity, as well as working long hours to build up the Paddington practice that I’d recently purchased from old Mr. Farquhar, it seemed that I remained quite involved in Holmes’s investigations. In recent weeks he had requested my assistance in various quarters of London and the countryside, including a visit to Herefordshire in connection with the vicious McCarthy killing. More recently we had looked into the matter of the three-sided coin, and the subsequent terror-filled entrapment of Miss Sarah Wentlow. Another time, Mr. Farquhar himself had turned up at my door, having learned of my association with Holmes, and in dire need of help in disentangling himself from a grasping and conniving nephew. And soon after that, we had dashed up to Birmingham to clear away the mess in which young Hall Pycroft found himself.

I was passing through Baker Street several days later and decided to stop in for a few minutes and see what was on Holmes’s docket. There had been some talk that he might be called to the north to look into a dispute between two landholders with conflicting charters – “Nothing that would interest you, Watson,” he’d said – but I found him at home, in conference with our old friend, Kirbishaw, the lawyer. I believe that they had known each other since some case from Holmes’s Montague Street days, although neither had as yet shared the circumstances of their first meeting. I began to excuse my interruption, but Holmes waved me in, calling at the same time down to Mrs. Hudson for more tea.

“Kirbishaw is just explaining a little law to me about Mr. Pycroft’s status,” Holmes indicated, preparing a cigar. Kirbishaw and I had both refused. “I believe that his position is once again secure after his misguided fiasco.”

Kirbishaw nodded. He was a heavy-set man, probably in his late-fifties at that point, although his love of rich foods and wine had aged him up a bit. He was always quite jolly, however, and a good companion with whom to while away an hour or two in pleasant conversation.

“Nothing that unusual about it, actually,” said Kirbishaw. “There was something similar in one of the City banks – now long defunct – back in the sixties.”

Mrs. Hudson arrived then and, after Kirbishaw took a sip of his fresh tea, he continued. “Something a bit more interesting came my way earlier today. Thought I’d mention it to you – to see if you’re interested.”

Holmes didn’t literally sit up in the way that a hound is suddenly alert when catching the scent, but he didn’t fool me. I had known him for too long.

“Indeed,” he said laconically. “Pray – share with us.”

Kirbishaw shook his head. “I can’t tell it as well as the verger – it’s his story, you see, and he shared it when our paths crossed this morning. If he’s free tomorrow, can you drop by my chambers and meet with him?”

Holmes confirmed that he could and, when it was arranged that I could be there as well, our conversation turned in other directions.

And so it was that on the following afternoon, Holmes picked me up in a cab and we made our way across the city to the Inner Temple. I had hoped to finally see Kirbishaw’s chambers in King’s Bench Walk for myself, having heard about them before from Holmes, but it was not to be. Holmes explained that he’d had a message from the lawyer that it was more convenient for the verger to meet with us at Temple Church, where he carried out his service.

I had been in the church the previous year, when Holmes and I were summoned by Inspector Youghal of the Yard to get to the bottom of the affair of the shifting of stones in the church’s cellar. But at that time, we hadn’t been introduced to the verger, Clement Mason. He was about Kirbishaw’s age, but where the lawyer was well-fed and settled, Mason was tall and thin. Yet there was nothing delicate him. Instead of being stick-like and fragile, he gave the impression of being weathered and toughened, with a whip-like energy about him. In truth, he suggested to me what Holmes himself would look like at that age.

With him was a man in his mid-thirties, closer to Holmes’s and my own age, introduced as Mason’s nephew, Aaron Todd. I didn’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to recognize that the fellow was a cabbie.

The verger ushered us through the majestic Round Church and past the knights’ effigies, and so on until we were ensconced in a small but cozy office. The smell of old books and tobacco was quite comforting and, after tea was poured, the verger began.

“Thank you for joining us today, gentlemen,” he said. “When I related this curious affair to Kirbishaw yesterday, as we passed the time while strolling in the Temple Gardens, it was fresh on my mind, and he felt that something like this, Mr. Holmes, would be right up your alley.

“Yet,” he continued, “it’s really my nephew’s story first. Aaron?”

The younger man cleared his throat. “Well, sirs, as you probably know, cabbies like to keep to a certain patch, unless directed to go further. I stick to Clerkenwell, stretching as far as St. Pancras and Euston at times on a normal day. I have my routes, and I know those of the other cabbies, like they know mine. We’re not in competition, strictly – there’s enough to go around for all of us – but we do have our regulars too, and we don’t poach.

“One of my friends, another driver named Claude Wells, has a regular job that he does for a man that lives in Hardwick Street, near the corner with Garnault Mews. But Claude was hurt a couple of weeks ago – a wheel ran over his foot pretty badly – and he can’t drive for a while. Rather than lose that job, he asked me to take it over temporarily. So I went around to the house and introduced myself on the next day that Claude was to drive for him. The man, a Mr. Montfield, seemed a little suspicious, but I convinced him that Claude had sent me. Then, he handed me a cardboard box, about a foot long on each side, sealed up and tied, and addressed to the Weights and Measures Office on Roseberry Avenue. He counted out some coins and told me to take the box and leave it in the lobby, making sure that I didn’t speak to anyone there, inside or out. This was square with what Claude had already explained to me, so I didn’t think too much about it.

“Claude had said that he’d been doing things like this for Mr. Montfield for the better part of a year – picking up similar-sized boxes and leaving them in different businesses and buildings all over that part of London. He’s always careful to get away before anyone asks a question. At first he was a bit leery of it all – thinking that the man might be boxing up some sort of infernal devices to be left where they could cause mischief – but he never heard of any problems connected with it. No fires broke out, nor any explosions, and so he didn’t object when the work stayed steady – twice a week, like clockwork.

“I stopped in to see Claude that night, and told him where I’d been sent. He nodded and said that he’d been there a few times as well. Then he asked me if I’d seen the watching man. I asked him what he meant, and why he hadn’t mentioned it before. He explained that not long after he’d started, he’d seen a man standing across Hardwick Street, in a doorway, watching him intently. If the man hadn’t been focused on him so strongly, he might never have been noticed. But he was, and once Claude saw him that first time, he noticed him again – not every time, mind you, and not every week, but often enough, and in the same place – enough so that he became suspicious. Sometimes the man followed him in another cab.

“After two or three months, Claude finally asked Mr. Montfield about it, although he’d held off before then because he didn’t want to do anything to disrupt this steady task. Mr. Montfield’s only response was to smile and nod, as if this made sense to him, and pleased him.

“While Claude has been healing, I’ve carried on for several more trips, going to the Corporation Buildings off Crawford Passage, and St. Peter’s Chapel near the Clerkenwell Road, and once all the way to a lawyer’s office in the Raymond Buildings. I saw the watching man a couple of other times, always in the same place. Then, two trips ago, on Tuesday when I was going to Ridler’s Hotel in Holborn, I realized that I was being followed – another cab was sticking to me like glue, like Claude had said. On a corner, I could see that the passenger was this same man. It made me wonder how many times that I’d been followed before and hadn’t realized it.

“I knew that cabbie somewhat – a shifty fellow named Akins – and cornered him the next day in the cabmen’s shelter. It turns out that he has something of the same arrangement – every week or so, on a Tuesday or Thursday, or sometimes both, this man hires him to wait around the corner while he slips into Hardwick Street to watch Mr. Montfield’s house. Then, after Claude – and now me – picks up the package, this man runs back and jumps into Akins’ cab, and they follow to wherever it’s addressed that day. From what he said, it’s been going on for nearly as long as the packages have been being sent.

“Claude will be well enough to return to work in a week or so, but I’d planned to keep doing this until he’s back, rather jealous of the easy work. And then, yesterday, Mr. Montfield handed me a box addressed here, to Temple Church. I know that I’m supposed to slip in and out without speaking to anyone, and just leave it tucked against a wall somewhere, but I thought that as long as I was here, I might take a minute and say hello to my uncle. I did, and after we spoke for a few minutes, I explained why I was here, and – well, my uncle can tell the next part better.”

Mason, the verger, cleared his throat. “I was amazed, frankly, to see that my own nephew was delivering these packages, as they have been such a mystery over the last year. They are always the same size, as Aaron said – about a cubic foot – and simply addressed to Temple Church, in plain handwritten script. The first one that we found caused some confusion, but no great concern. But when they continued to irregularly arrive, it became something of an amusement, and then an irritant.”

“And what is in these mysterious boxes?” asked Holmes – a question uppermost in my own mind as well.

The verger turned in his chair, leaned forward, and then made some effort to lift a box from the floor behind him. “See for yourself. We’ve disposed of the others, but this one brought by Aaron yesterday morning is typical.”

Holmes and I stood up while Kirbishaw simply leaned back and sipped his tea, watching with a smile. Instead of directly opening the box, Holmes peered at it closely, walking to different sides of the verger’s desk in order to see the entire thing. Then, pulling his lens from his pocket, he studied the address – simply Temple Church as described. Finally he leaned forward and smelled the box before opening it.

To say that it was disappointing would be an understatement – for it appeared to be filled with old copies of The Times, folded awkwardly to take up the entire space.

“Is there anything else underneath?” I asked.

The verger shook his head. “Just the newspapers. That is the way of it every time. A box full of someone else’s trash.”

Holmes began pulling the various issues out, looking at them closely. “Hmm. Multiple copies of the same issue, neatly folded and seemingly never read. The date is only four days ago. These have apparently been purchased directly from a vendor. I wonder – is the date significant?” He looked up at the verger. “Did the previous boxes also contain clean copies of The Times, only a few days old?”

Mason nodded. “Usually, although once the box contained copies of The Star. However, those were also unread copies, only a few days old.”

“And the other boxes?” Holmes asked Aaron Todd. “Did they seem to be the same weight as this one?”

“They did. Same size box, too, exactly as Claude described.”

“It’s a standard cardboard box,” muttered Holmes. “It doesn’t seem to have been previously used. There is no evidence of a prior shipping label, and the sides are relatively clean and unscuffed.” He looked back at Mason. “There was a string?”

The verger pulled open his desk drawer and the handed a twine tangle to Holmes. I could see that it had been cut, preserving the knot – a fact that I thought would please Holmes. Yet he shook his head. “A very common and amateur knot. It can tell us nothing.”

“But wait – ” interjected Kirbishaw. “I can add my own brick in this wall. You see, when I heard Mr. Mason’s story, something about it – specifically the name ‘Montfield’ – sounded familiar. After my visit to Baker Street yesterday, I asked a few of my colleagues, and learned a most curious story.

“You may have heard of Lucius Montfield, the American millionaire. He grew up in New Hampshire, the younger son of a munitions manufacturer. Instead of joining the family business, he became a doctor, and after their Civil War, when the family had greatly increased their wealth, he became disgusted with their role in the war against the Confederate traitors, and how little mercy was being shown to the South during the Reconstruction. He came to England and bought the house on Hardwick Street – a rather frugal house for a man of his means, for he had inherited a sizeable amount of his father’s fortune. His wife had died years before, so it was just him and his two sons – twins, yet as different in temperament as can be.

“I have all this from his Montfield’s attorney, Marchmont, who shared as much as he could without violating a confidence. Montfield lived a retiring life and kept to himself, sometimes venturing out to a concert, but more often staying in. In truth, it seems as if he was changed somehow by the war, becoming withdrawn as he aged. This had a curious and opposite effect on his sons, as they become rather generous, assisting charities when they are able, and lending their efforts to good works. Yet strangely they only feel enmity towards one another, to their father’s despair, right up to when he died.

“No one knows how it started, this feeling between the brothers, and often these things cannot be explained. But if one of them, Peter for instance, favored a certain charitable cause, the other, Jonathan, would actively turn his attentions a different way. While this is essentially harmless in and of itself, and certainly benefitted the respective charities, their bickering vexed their father to no end. When he sickened suddenly and neared death a year ago, he called them both to his bedside and told them something – whatever it was Marchmont would not reveal, and quite right too! – and since Lucius Montfield’s passing soon after, they have carried out a most bizarre series of activities.

“Peter, the elder, was allowed to remain in the Hardwick Street house until such time as some requirement is fulfilled – Marchmont wouldn’t tell me exactly what that is. Since then, Peter, living on a most meagre allowance, has refused to leave the premises, presumably searching for something inside and using the butler, in the family’s service since the twins were very small, to run errands and have most of the dealings with the outside world. Meanwhile, Jonathan, cut off from any income until the condition has been fulfilled, has taken a job at a nearby hotel, but he spends much of his free time loitering and hiding in the street, watching the house – Lord knows for what!” Kirbishaw leaned back. “How this relates to these mysterious and useless packages delivered all over London for nearly a year is beyond me, and Marchmont didn’t seem to have any ideas either, even if he could have answered more of my questions.”

We were silent as Kirbishaw’s narrative wound down to silence. I think that we could each think of questions of our own, but they would have booted no useful response, as none of us knew the answers. Finally, it was Holmes who effectively ended the conference. “I’ll look into it,” he said, “and report as to what I discover.” He took a moment to verify with Kirbishaw where Jonathan Montfield was employed, and then stood, nodded, and left in that abrupt way of his when he is finished and ready to turn his attentions elsewhere.

I tendered my goodbyes as well and followed, joining him as we walked up Inner Temple Lane to Fleet Street. “What do you intend?” I asked in the quiet of the lane, just before we reached the bustle of the thoroughfare.

“I believe that I shall cultivate the acquaintance of Mr. Jonathan Montfield, as his brother Peter – ensconced as he is in the Hardwick Street house, might be much harder to meet by accident.” He hailed a hansom. “Return home, Watson, and I shall be by tonight or tomorrow. Sadly, today is Friday, so it will be several days before the next performance by Peter Montfield and his cab-conveyed packages. But perhaps that it is a blessing, allowing me to gather as many facts as possible before next week.”

Then, seeing that I had secured the cab, he touched the brim of his fore-and-aft cap, which he wears throughout the year, city or country, turned, and vanished into the throng.

As I returned home, I pondered what we had heard, and wondered what Holmes might discover from the younger twin, who spent his free moments spying on his former home, now in the hands of his brother. I suspected that Holmes was making his way to one of his hidey-holes throughout the city where he stored clothing and other accoutrements and appurtenances to aid in his disguised transformations.

My wife had listened to my tale with great interest during dinner, and was as intrigued as I when Holmes arrived not long after. I was rather surprised that he was there so soon, and also that he was dressed as himself, rather than in the guise of a groom or defrocked clergyman, or any of the other dozens of identities that he was wont to assume during an investigation. He noted my reaction, and, after Mary had excused herself, he began to explain.

“I did consider taking on some other personality, so as to win Jonathan Montfield’s confidence,” he said, “but after quickly visiting the hotel where he works, and asking a few well-placed questions that established the good-natured character of the fellow, I decided that the direct approach might be best. He was willing to talk with me when his labors ended for the day, and we met in a nearby pub. I truthfully explained how I came to be interested in the matter, and offered my services to clear up whatever stands between him and his brother.

“He shook his head ruefully. ‘It is a shame that the two of us cannot get along. We could accomplish so much pulling in tandem. But no matter our best intentions, we soon fall to fighting, and not long after that hateful words are being hurled at one another.’

“He went on to explain how bad it had become in the year or so before his father’s death, and to what degree it had pained the old man. He’d tried several times to heal the breach between his sons, but to no avail, and finally at his deathbed, he’d called his sons together, where he showed them a sheet of paper.

“‘This,’ he explained, ‘contains the riddle to receiving my inheritance. You must each solve it. Peter, as the oldest, will keep possession of the house until the solution is presented to my lawyer, Marchmont.’ He carefully tore the paper long-ways down the middle, giving one side to Peter and the other to Jonathan. Then, taking both their hands, he looked from one to the other and said, ‘I love you both. God bless you, and God bless the United States! E pluribus unum!’ And so saying, he lapsed into a coma from which he was never to awaken, and died the next day.

“They’d each met separately with Marchmont, and he seemed to know what it was about. He enforced that Jonathan should move out, without an allowance, until such time as the riddle was solved. In the meantime, Peter stayed in the Hardwick Street house, but subsisting on only the stingiest of funds, until he could present a solution.

“Jonathan had studied his own half of the sheet, and had made a few efforts at a solution, but when he presented them to Marchmont, he was informed that he was incorrect. He had the sense that the same had happened for Peter. In the meantime, he kept watch on the house to see if Peter was looking for the inheritance, as he’d intimated a belief that the solution was hidden within the building. It wasn’t long before Jonathan saw that his brother was sending out the mysterious packages. He has no idea what is in them, but he’s certain that it has something to do with the inheritance. He’s able to watch the house on Tuesdays and Thursdays only, in relation to his scheduled employment, and doesn’t seem to realize that these are also the only days in which the packages are sent – which seems to imply that brother Peter is only doing this on days that he knows that Jonathan will be watching.”

“How curious,” I said. By this point we were sitting before the fire, each enjoying a pipe. “But this riddle?” I asked. “What did you make of that?”

“Ah, yes,” he said, pulling a folded strip from his pocket and handing it to me. “He lent me the original,” Holmes explained. As described, it was a strip of paper, torn top to bottom from a larger sheet. The writing on it was rather feeble, as if done by a dying man. Jonathan’s was the right side of the paper, and the words consisted of only a few lines along the ragged left edge:

Carefully watch

to find my fortune.

Your Brother

someone who will

be

your enemy

untrustworthy. Your ally is

always there to

be your guide.

Take this sheet, and

lay it before my lawyer, and

when he sees it,

will you obtain

my legacy.

I handed it back. “I hope that Lucius Montfield was an adequate doctor. He was certainly no poet.”

Holmes smiled. “I think that he tried something when he was near death, hoping that it would work, and did the best that he could.”

“What does it mean?” I asked. “Is it a cipher? Should we count every third word, as in the matter of that old escaped convict who remained hidden for so long in Norfolk?”

“By no means. This is easily settled. I’ve arranged for Kirbishaw and the two brothers to meet tomorrow morning at Marchmont’s office – if that’s convenient, of course.”

I wouldn’t have missed it for the world, and said so.

The following morning found us at Marchmont’s office at Gray’s Inn. He had done some legal work for me before, and I had last seen him the previous year during those terrible events connected with The Eye of Heka. He greeted us and led the way back to an inner office with a large table. Kirbishaw was already seated there, along with Jonathan Montfield, a pleasant looking fellow who rose to shake my hand, and then Holmes’s. We were getting settled when the door opened and a man who looked very much like Jonathan entered, a suspicious look upon his face. This, then, was older brother Peter. He apparently knew why we were there. He was friendly enough to all but his brother Jonathan, to whom he did not speak or acknowledge.

“Let us begin,” said Holmes, pulling out Jonathan’s half of the sheet. After identifying it, he read the curious message aloud before laying it in the center of the table, asking, “What do you suppose that it means?”

Marchmont was silently watching with a gleam in his eye. Kirbishaw, having heard the lines for the first time, looked puzzled. “It’s a warning – advising Jonathan that his brother is untrustworthy. But his seems counter to what we heard about their father wishing to unify them. And the second part refers to some ally who will serve as a guide. And finally, the sheet advises that it be laid before ‘my lawyer’ – Marchmont, I assume – to obtain the legacy.” He looked at Marchmont. “Well, there it is. Does that satisfy the requirement?”

“No,” said Marchmont firmly. “It does not.”

“I’ve brought it to him before,” added Jonathan, “but it did no good.”

“Is there some code involved?” asked Kirbishaw. “If so, I don’t see what it could tell us.”

Holmes smiled and shook his head. “Watson asked the same question. No, when considering all the facts, the meaning is quite clear.” He turned to the older brother. “Did you bring your sheet, as requested?”

I had been watching Peter Montfield as he heard the lines on his brother’s sheet. His face had become more and more puzzled, and without a word, he pulled a similar document from his pocket, the left side of the torn sheet, and handed it to Holmes, who unrolled it and read aloud:

Search diligently

to find the treasure

Trust

the man that is

always

your ally, and not

your brother. He is not

someone who will

be your strength;

Take this paper, yes

present it to my lawyer

Only then

will you receive

my fortune

“Why, it’s the same!” said Jonathan.

“Not quite,” said Holmes, “although it follows essentially the same format – ‘Search diligently’ versus ‘Carefully watch’. A warning about the brother and a recommendation to trust an ally. Present the paper to the lawyer. Did you also present this to Mr. Marchmont?”

Peter Montfield nodded. “It did no good. He told me to keep thinking.”

Holmes nodded. “Can you tell us why you were sending packages all over London?” He then looked at the rest of us. “I’ve already told Mr. Peter Montfield, as part of my invitation here this morning, how we learned of this matter, based on the cab-driver’s testimony.”

Peter lowered his eyes before sheepishly replying, “It was simply to discourage Jonathan, and to fool him into thinking that I was making progress at finding father’s legacy. I knew that he was working at a nearby hotel, and when I noticed him watching the house – ”

“ – To see if you were tearing it part looking for treasure!” interjected Jonathan.

Peter nodded. “I decided to give you something to watch, to make you think that I was actually accomplishing something, even as I tried to puzzle out Father’s last message. I had Beeton – he’s our old butler – keep a steady supply of boxes and newspapers in the house, and I arranged to have them carried all over London.” He smiled, but there was no animosity in it. “It was amusing to watch you follow the cabs as they carried away boxes of useless newspapers.”

Jonathan smiled too, as if the joke wasn’t lost on him.

“And yet,” Holmes said, “in a year, neither of you has solved the riddle.” He looked at Jonathan. “Could you repeat for me again your father’s last words?”

“He said that he loved us, and he blessed us, and the United States as well. He was always a great patriot, and it broke his heart to see how the country turned after the War.”

“No, what did he say exactly?”

“Well, it was, ‘I love you both. God bless you, and God bless the United States! E pluribus unum!’”

“Exactly. And what does that final phrase mean to you?”

“I’m not sure,” replied Jonathan. “We didn’t study Latin. It’s something of an American motto, I believe.”

Holmes turned to the elder brother. “Do you agree?”

“Yes. Father often said it when he discussed his experiences during the War, and the reunification of the States.”

Holmes then asked Marchmont, “Would you care to translate for us?”

The lawyer shook his head. “I cannot.”

“Cannot, or will not?”

“It’s all the same,” said Marchmont with a smile.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” growled Kirbishaw. “Let’s put an end to this silliness. It means ‘Out of many, one’.”

Holmes tossed Peter Montfield’s sheet on the table. “I see that you’re caught up as well, Kirbishaw. Would you care to do the honors?”

“Gladly,” he replied, rising and leaning forward, placing the two sheets together so that Peter’s left-hand portion lined up once again with Jonathan’s right-hand segment. “Out of many, one,” said Kirbishaw. Around the table, the rest of us – less Marchmont – stood as well, leaning forward to read:

Search diligently – Carefully watch

to find the treasure – to find my fortune.

Trust – Your Brother

the man that is – someone who will

always – be

your ally, and not – your enemy

your brother. He is not – untrustworthy. Your ally is

someone who will – always there to

be your strength; be your guide.

Take this paper, yes – Take this sheet, and

present it to my lawyer – lay it before my lawyer, and

Only then – when he sees it,

will you receive – will you obtain

my fortune – my legacy.

Holmes faced Marchmont. “Does that fulfill the requirement?”

“I’m not sure that Lucius meant for an outsider to intervene before the boys could learn their lesson – ” Marchmont said, but with a smile.

“Does it?” interrupted Kirbishaw, also smiling. “They’re here together, and the meaning of the sheet is revealed.

Marchmont nodded. “It does.” But then he looked sternly from Peter to Jonathan. “But I hope that you understand what your father was trying to teach you, even if you didn’t exactly work it out on your own. Together you will be one another’s strength and guide. Forget these silly differences of personality. Work together, and fill one’s weaknesses with the other’s strengths, and you can achieve some really good things.”

And so it proved. The wealth left by their father was far greater than either had realized, and the two young men learned to value their differences as they went on to do a great deal of good for the fortunate citizens of London.

As we left Marchmont’s office that morning, not yet realizing how well the brothers would be able to reconcile, I started to ask what Holmes had gotten from this. He’d had no real client, after all. But when I saw the newfound reunion between the two brothers, laughing at their activities over the past year in the matter of the cardboard boxes, and Holmes as he watched them, I realized that he meant it when he sometimes averred that the work is its own reward.