In just under an hour, Holmes – refreshed, perfectly groomed and impressive in his summer city suit of impeccable linen – emerged from Baker Street, looking as though he could easily stop en route to our next destination to take tea with the Queen or confront an errant MP in Whitehall. In fact, when not lounging about Baker Street in his dressing gown, this sober, conservative elegance was his natural presentation. The transformation was both rapid and profound, but I had to remind myself that I had seen it before, and regression could be swift. With my precious box stowed in a small satchel, I hailed a cab and we made our way to Hackney.
The address was hard to find even for Holmes, who had as clear an image of the London map in his head as I had of the human skeleton. At last we narrowed it down to one building. It was missing a number on the door, and there were no signs outside.
However, it was there, on the ground floor of an ancient Tudor construction of plaster and timber, on Durham Grove near a paint factory, that locksmith Knut Lossop ran his business. We entered the shop and squinted in the dim light. The windows were small, and a few candelabra provided the only illumination.
We had stepped back in time.
The proprietor emerged from the murk and in a moment we stood before the strange, gnome-like man. Lossop faced us in the flickering light over a long counter, on which were displayed a number of locks of varying sizes, shapes and levels of complexity. He was wizened, somewhere between forty and sixty years old, but lined and greasy, with long, thin blond hair plastered to his skull and draping limply down the back of his neck. An equally desultory moustache hung down by either side of moist pink lips, but in contrast to this lacklustre presentation, a pair of rheumy, pale blue eyes focused with pinpoint intensity on whatever they found.
At this particular moment, those eyes were riveted on Sherlock Holmes, who had just said something to him in a language I could not make out.
Lossop stood very still and chewed on one side of his moustache.
‘Have I got that right, Mr Lossop?’ asked Holmes.
‘Speak only English here,’ growled this pestiferous individual.
Holmes smiled. ‘I gather, then, that your name is your own choice. Knut is common enough – it means “lock” in Norwegian, Watson – but Lossop? That sounds like an anglicization of “låse opp” – which means “unlocked”. Therefore, a kind of self-advertisement in your choice of a pseudonym.’
‘No pseudonym. Is my real name,’ said the locksmith.
‘Holmes, you speak Norwegian?’ I asked.
Holmes frowned at me and nodded curtly. ‘As you wish, Mr Lossop. I am sure there is an interesting reason for your choice to remain anonymous. Though one might easily trace you by your speciality. In any case, we bring before you a unique challenge. I am Sherlock Holmes. Ah, I see that you have heard my name before. This is my friend and colleague, Dr Watson. He received a package in the mail, containing a highly decorative silver box with an unusual lock. Both the good doctor and I have attempted to open this box—’
Lossop held out his hand, palm up, to receive the object. I noted thin, spidery fingers and long nails.
‘Give,’ he said.
‘But let me complete the thought. Watson here brought it to – who was it, Watson?’
‘Boobbyer on the Strand, and Chubb’s.’
The locksmith snorted in derision.
‘—with no luck. I have done my research. Your name, hard to come by, Mr Lossop, was at last given to me. You are in a class by yourself, apparently.’ Holmes smiled solicitously.
‘The box, please. I shall have a look.’
I took the scented soap container from my satchel, extracted the mysterious and beautiful silver box, and placed it on the counter between us.
Lossop crossed his arms in front of him and leaned towards it. He stared at the box for a full minute without touching it. Thoughts flickered across his sharp features, and a slow smile lit his pale face.
Holmes and I waited patiently. The locksmith then picked up the box, placed a jeweller’s loupe over his spectacles and examined it minutely. He hummed tunelessly, and brought a candelabrum closer, holding the box to the flickering light to scrutinize something that evidently interested him.
He put the box down with a smile.
‘Well, can you open it?’ I asked.
‘It is most probable. But not quickly.’
‘If you cannot, can you break it open?’
‘Yes, but that may well destroy the contents.’
This confirmed my fear.
He held up the box and pointed to a place on the side. I saw nothing but the swirling Celtic tracery. ‘Look closer,’ he commanded, and handed me the loupe.
I did, but could see nothing. The fine workings on the box were complicated, with lines of different depths, small pinpoint dots, and—
Holmes took the box and the loupe from my hand and, holding it up to the light, examined the area the locksmith had indicated. He handed both back to Lossop. ‘I see,’ he said.
‘Well, I don’t,’ I said with some irritation.
‘Someone tried to drill into this box, revealing that it is lined with something. I presume this material is much harder than silver, and blocked the drilling,’ said Holmes.
‘Exactly,’ said Lossop.
‘Like what?’ I asked.
‘A steel alloy, perhaps, even with tungsten?’
‘Ha!’ cried Lossop. ‘Tool steel! Nothing harder. Except diamond.’
‘Exactly,’ continued Holmes. ‘And that would explain why the box is so heavy for its size. One cannot drill into it to unlock it, Watson. Not easily, and perhaps not at all. I wonder where your family might have come upon such a box?’
‘It was commissioned,’ said Lossop. ‘I recognize the workmanship, and I know the maker. Or I think I do.’
‘Perhaps this person could help us?’ asked Holmes.
‘No. He is dead some five years. I have seen his work once before. My mentor, Andelan Schutz, showed one of his creations to me. He could not unlock it, but I did. It took me a month, however.’
‘A month!’ I exclaimed.
‘Excellent that you exceeded your mentor,’ said Holmes.
‘Is that not the purpose of having a mentor?’ murmured the man, taking the box back into his hands. Holmes’s compliment had landed well. ‘I relish the challenge.’
‘Then you will open it for us?’ I asked.
He set down the box abruptly. ‘Perhaps. If you can meet my price.’
‘We are not wealthy men,’ said Holmes.
‘I know that. You, at least, dress well, if conservatively, but you have a hungry look. You—’ he turned to me, ‘are more in fashion, but lack great means.’
Holmes had removed his chequebook.
‘Put that away,’ said the locksmith sharply.
‘Yes, do. I will pay for this,’ I said, reaching for my own, but then remembered that Holmes had locked it back in a drawer, having moved it from the one I had smashed open. That he thought to bring his own but not give me back mine gave me a moment of pique.
The locksmith held up a hand. ‘I have not yet named my price. And I doubt you will have what I require, Doctor.’
Before I could rise to the insult, Holmes replied, ‘What is your price, Mr Lossop?’ His tone made me uneasy.
Lossop smiled and stepped back from the counter. Turning to the wall behind him, on which were shelves and shelves of locks, bolts, keys, tools and parts, he pulled a key which he wore on a chain around his neck and leaned towards a keyhole under a small handle at the back, dead centre of these shelves. There was the sound of a click, and to my surprise the shelves split and rolled apart to reveal a secret wall behind them.
On this wall were hung a series of locked metal boxes of various sizes. Each had a tag hanging from it, but the tags faced the wall, and I could see from my angle that something had been written on them, but what?
‘I require a personal commitment from you. And a personal token. Something which you have in the past taken great care not to lose. Something that is very dear to you.’
Holmes was stone faced. Had he known? I, on the other hand, was puzzled in the extreme.
‘I will lock it for you in a special box which I construct for the purpose,’ Lossop continued, ‘hang it on this wall, and I guarantee there is no locksmith alive who can open it but me.’
‘But … why?’ I asked, frankly amazed. ‘And more to the point, how can you afford to live, paid in such a manner?’
‘Banks, Watson,’ said Holmes. ‘The banks pay him handsomely for custom, unassailable locks. And there are other clients, not all of whom are legitimate businesses. Am I not right, Mr Lossop?’
Lossop’s answer was the briefest smile. I shook my head, unconvinced.
‘But why—?’ I began.
‘These are trophies, Watson.’
‘What do you do with these things? Extort people?’ I could not stop myself.
‘No,’ said Lossop. ‘I … treasure them. I take them out upon occasion and ruminate on their value to the depositor. I revel in the human story. You see, I have few stories of my own. You might say I live vicariously. Oh, I see you don’t understand. They offer a kind of sustenance.’ He laughed, an unhealthy, percussive sound like a dry cough. ‘Does that make it any clearer?’
I suddenly saw this strange, oleaginous little man as a kind of enchanted toad, hiding under a rock and picking over sparkling valuables stolen from people who had wandered too near – feeding on them. I was revolted.
But I looked down at the box in my hands. I had to discover what was inside it. I had to know what my mother had left for me. I did not trust Lossop but felt I had no choice.
‘I … I don’t know what I have to give you that would serve,’ I said. ‘Something I have kept and treasure? I don’t know. Perhaps the charm off my brother’s watch? No? The watch itself?’
Lossop shook his head.
‘I believe I have … my childhood wooden soldiers, one or two … somewhere – er, a little clock, ticket stubs to the circus in 1860; my first stethoscope?’ I had a vague recollection of something like these in a trunk in the attic at 221B. Lossop stared at me. ‘I have a favourite hat?’
That laugh again. ‘Dear Doctor, you are infinitely – what is the word – ordinary.’ Lossop turned to stare at Holmes, who remained silent. ‘But you have something. I know a man with secrets when I see one. What will you give me?’
Holmes, without taking his eyes off the man, reached into the inside pocket of his coat and removed a small brown envelope.
‘You came prepared, Mr Sherlock Holmes,’ said Lossop.
‘I did indeed. I had heard of your collection.’
‘Then why ask my price?’
‘I was hoping money would suffice.’
Lossop stared at the envelope. He licked his lips.
‘But clearly not,’ said Holmes. ‘Here is … here is a photograph.’
Lossop took the envelope and opened it. It was the photograph of a beautiful young woman, a photograph that Holmes had taken in payment on a case which I had not yet published at that time. Remarkably, as it had seemed at the time so out of character, Holmes once said of the lady, ‘She had a face a man might die for.’ His feelings for this woman remained a mystery, as did much about my friend.
‘And who is this?’ asked Lossop, savouring the image like a gourmand contemplating a mound of expensive pâté.
‘An opera singer,’ said Holmes simply. ‘I am a music lover. I would like it back when you are finished with it.’
‘Music lover, eh? You know I do not give these things back.’
‘Ah, but you will to me. You will require my services one day, Mr Lossop, and perhaps soon. There are certain people in Norway, and one in London, who wish to see you dead.’
Lossop backed away from Holmes in surprise. He attempted to hide his reaction, but his face had gone white with fear.
‘I alone will be able to help you,’ Holmes continued. ‘You can confirm this, I think. And when you do ask me for this help, the return of this photograph will be my payment.’
Lossop swallowed. He reached into a drawer and pulled out a Webley, not unlike my own gun. He placed the gun on the counter, between us.
‘I can protect myself quite well, Mr Holmes,’ said he.
‘Against most, I do not doubt it,’ said Holmes. ‘But the man in London is far more than your match. I think you have already begun to realize that. He has employed you twice. Now, will you help my friend Dr Watson and unlock the box for him?’
Lossop put the gun down and looked at the box resting on the counter. He took up Holmes’s small, precious envelope and placed it in his own pocket, patting it gently. ‘I will. And I will look after this lady, do not fear.’ His broad smile revealed two or three teeth missing.
‘221B Baker Street. When you are successful, let us know,’ said Holmes.
But Lossop had picked up the box and was already engaged in the task, breathing heavily, and turning the mysterious object over and over in his skeletal hands.
As we exited into the summer sunlight, I breathed a sigh of relief in leaving this dark and decidedly strange place. I wondered who the man in London might be, who had struck such terror into the locksmith, and from whom my friend offered protection.
But that fearsome identity would remain only as a flickering shadow until several years later.