6

On the following morning Holmes received a note, or rather a press cutting, from Lestrade. Without comment, our Scotland Yard man had forwarded a paragraph cut from the previous Thursday’s edition of the Winning Post and Sportsman’s Weekly, published for racing men by Robert Standish Siever in Pall Mall.

We are informed that the smartest mover in the village, ‘Gussie’ Howell of Southampton Row, has gone to his reward. His mortal remains were interred on Wednesday at Brompton Cemetery, attended by his creditors and the belles of Piccadilly in garters of the friskiest black silk. His elegy by the bard ‘ACS’ is currently circulating among the cognoscenti and reads as follows.

The foulest soul that lives stinks here no more,

The stench of hell is fouler than before.

A toast to his memory will be drunk by the swell mob of Romano’s in the St Leger Bar on Friday at 6pm.

“Truly dead this time,” I said.

“A pity,” said Holmes coldly, “I might have obliged him to be useful to us. After that he could have died as often and as soon as he liked.”

It was an hour or so later that we came across a final batch of papers. The letters bore dates between 1845 and 1855. There were also a number of poems, written in manuscript on octavo sheets of paper. I picked up one of these, covered in a neat and purposeful hand, devoid of the loops and curlicues of Lord Byron. It was a speech-or rather a dramatic monologue. I soon gathered that it was supposed to be spoken by the fanatic reformer Savonarola, his adieu to the council of Florence which had condemned him to be burnt.

Savonarola to the Signoria

24 May 1498

I drink the cup, returning thanks.

(The rack that turns one cripple in an hour

Draws a man’s throat to nothing with the pain.)

So let them hear me first and last,

The Florentines that keep death’s holiday…

“Robert Browning!” I said excitedly, “It can only be he. I am no expert but I would recognise the style anywhere as being his! This is surely the poem, or one of them, that was discarded from Men and Women before publication of the book in 1855.

“You are of course quite right, friend Watson,” he said rather languidly.

“I am right that we have found Browning’s lost poem?”

“No! That you are no expert.”

I was considerably put out by this and continued to read a few lines of the condemned man’s speech, which made me all the more hopeful.

Ah, sirs, if God might show some sign,

The very least, to be God’s own,

The certainty of bliss with hell beneath,

What man stands here who’d not endure my flame?

Or buy my place in pain with all he hath?

But God being not, not in that sense, I say,

Let this unworthy flesh His proxy stand…

“The tone and the style…”

“Confound the tone and the style! Any mountebank could work those up.”

Holmes was now scrutinising the neat and level lines of verse through his glass.

“Very well,” I insisted, “What of the penmanship?”

“Plausible,” he said grudgingly. “This is the work of an expert who has studied and practised the author’s writing until he can produce it flowingly. It has been written with speed to make it convincing. See how the pen has just joined the last letter of one word with the first of the next. See here, the slight connecting stroke of ‘throat’ and ‘to,’ then here again with ‘of’ and ‘bliss’. Such tricks indicate skilled counterfeiting, where the pen seems to be in motion almost before it touches the paper.”

“Precisely as it would do in a genuine document.”

“It is a forgery. You may depend upon that.”

“What of the ink?”

“It would not be iron-gall, of course, this is merely blue-black made with indigo and that alters far less.”

“Then ink and penmanship appear to stand examination?”

“One moment.”

He began to check through a bundle of these octavo manuscripts and then set several of them aside. The pages were of a size usual in correspondence. They were far less yellowed than the Byron samples.

I noticed several rough drafts of letters, the hand identical to Savonarola but with crossing out and insertion. I saw a first draft of a letter from Robert Browning to Elizabeth Barrett. It came from their courtship in 1846, while she lay a prisoner and an invalid in her father’s house. I cannot betray the secrets of that correspondence, when letters passed between them every day. I will just say that it was full of reverence for his “Dearest Ba,” as she signed herself in replies that called down heaven’s blessings upon him.

It was monstrous to think that such intimate memorials of their devotion were destined to pass under the auctioneer’s hammer, merely to gratify the greed and curiosity of the public. Who knows what had already been hoarded in sale-rooms across the world in anticipation of this? Holmes turned to me.

“I think we must have young Mr Browning here. I shall have him sent for.”

He went to inform our guardian, Angelo Fiori’s cousin, and gave instructions for Pen Browning’s immediate attendance. While we were waiting for him, Holmes took from beside him a neat black attaché case, no more than eighteen inches by ten. He unclipped it and took out the polished steel components of Monsieur Nachet’s Combined Simple and Compound Microscope. This was the most powerful instrument of its kind. Yet it could be dismantled or assembled in a few seconds thanks to a milled head on its tubular stem, by which the body of the microscope might later be detached and the dismembered instrument packed away neatly in its case.

From his bag, he also retrieved a metal right-angle set-square. I cannot count the number of times I had witnessed the scene which followed, usually at the work-table in Baker Street. Holmes, tall and gaunt, sat with his long back curved, gazing into the mysterious world of the powerful microscopic lens. One by one, he took the papers he had selected, all of them adorned by the strong neat lines of Robert Browning’s script. After scrutiny, he set each page down carefully with its lower left-hand corner in the angle of his set-square. At first he frowned and then his face cleared. When he had examined the last of them, he straightened up and turned in his chair.

“I believe we have the rascal, Watson! Empty every cupboard. Collect every book from every shelf. I believe they will tell us whatever else we need to know.”

I began to remove books by the armful and stacked them on the bare table. As I did so. Holmes took them one by one, trying each of his chosen documents against the blank fly-leaves of the volumes. Or rather, he tried them in many cases where the fly-leaf would have been-had it not been cut out! Someone had used the blank leaves as writing-paper-but might not that have been Robert Browning? Presently, Holmes put the manuscripts aside and subjected the books themselves to the lens. Each was opened and exposed to its powerful scrutiny.

He did not choose a particular page but opened each volume at random. I noticed the earliest printing of Lord Tennyson’s Morte d’Arthur in an edition of 1842, Mrs Browning’s Sonnets of 1847 and her Runaway Slave of 1849, Robert Browning’s Cleon and The Statue and the Bust both published in 1855, as well as Sir Galahad by William Morris and Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s Sister Helen, both having been issued in 1857. He looked closely at the first few but dismissed the rest with hardly a glance.