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acdholmesfest2014-11-25 09:21 am
spacemutineer.livejournal.com) wrote in acdholmesfest2014-11-25 09:21 am
Fic for truly_bohemian: The Adventure of the Bishopsgate Jewel Case; G
Title: The Adventure of the Bishopsgate Jewel Case
Recipient:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
truly_bohemian
Author:inamac
Characters: Holmes, Watson, Athelney Jones
Rating: Gen
Warnings: None
Word Count: 3000
Summary: An afternoon stroll along a London thoroughfare leads to the uncovering of a four-hundred year old mystery.
Acknowledgements: My thanks to our Mod for patience when I was late finishing this, and to my partner and beta for keeping my nose to the grindstone (or the laptop). And totruly_bohemian for a request for casefic (I regret I could not meet your other suggestions).
AN: Researching Victorian Bishopsgate was fascinating, and very sad. Not one of the buildings which survived the Great Fire and past which Holmes and Watson might have strolled in 1886 is now standing. The seventeenth century timber frontage of Sir Paul Pinder's House, then an inn, has been preserved in the Victoria and Albert museum. Liverpool Street Station now stands on the site.
"I think you must recollect me, Mr Athelney Jones," said Holmes, quietly.
"Why, of course I do!" he wheezed. "It's Mr Sherlock Holmes. The theorist. Remember you! I'll never forget how you lectured us all on causes and inferences and effects in the Bishopsgate jewel case."
The Sign Of Four, Ch 6
Despite the proximity of the Metropolitan station to our lodgings, and the constant flow of omnibuses and cabs past our door, the majority of Holmes' excursions around London, like those of our fellow Londoners, were on foot.
Unless engaged upon a case, he seldom had an object in mind for his strolls, using the opportunity to examine minutely the details of his environment, the buildings, the bollards and lamp posts, the cobbles and flagstones and mud of the road surfaces. Put Holmes down anywhere within a mile of Baker Street and he could identify his location exactly. Even (as he had demonstrated on one memorable occasion), blindfolded and within the confines of a cab.
I seldom had the opportunity to accompany him on these walks, as my practice was a busy one, but on one unseasonably warm day in late September of 1886, having attended a lunchtime violin recital in the City, and having no pressing business afterwards, we found ourselves walking the length of Bishopsgate.
Holmes, having exhausted his analysis of the performance we had just heard, paused beneath the ancient carved eaves of The Sir Paul Pindar's Head tavern and turned his attention to the thoroughfare on which we now found ourselves.
"It is a sign of the hubris of our times, Watson, that this road, which was laid out by the Romans, and named for a City gate under the arches of which Chaucer must have passed, these houses, where Shakespeare lived and Wren supped, which survived Plague and Fire, are now falling before the hammers and axes of the developers. Such is progress."
"London was ever thus," I countered. "Marmoream se relinquere, quam latericum accepisset as Augustus said of Rome."
Holmes smiled. "Whereas we have found London wood and are making it iron," he said. He nodded a greeting to Constable Keane, a police officer who had been involved in one of his recent investigations who was patrolling a beat along Bishopsgate Without and had paused under the eaves of Old Cosby Hall where King Richard III and Thomas Moore once lived. We strolled on and were passing a site where workmen were demolishing an old row of wooden-gabled Elizabethan houses. Again Holmes paused to watch the busy scene. The sound of falling debris was counterpointed by the thud of a steam engine and the rumble of wheelbarrows. Dust rose in waves as each timber with its burden of wattle and plaster came down. The noise was dreadful and I was about to press my companion to move away from the commotion when there came the sudden sound of a high pitched scream, followed by a cessation of all the noise of demolition.
"Hello", I said, "That sounds as though there has been an accident. I had better go down and see whether a doctor can help."
Holmes looked thoughtful. "That was not the sound of a man in pain," he said, "but rather one of surprise and horror. We had better both go down and see what assistance we can give."
It was by no means the first time that I had found myself summoned in haste to a building site to attend to an injured man. Accordingly we passed through the wooden gate that gave access to the area. The houses that had stood there had been reduced to shells of walls delineating the old basements, and were below the level of the road. We scrambled down a slope of old stone stairs that had been left to give access to the demolition workers and crossed the space to where the majority of the men were clustered around a newly opened hole in the floor of the building. One man, white-faced with shock, was sitting on an upturned bucket, attended by two of his colleagues.
"I am a doctor," I said. "Doctor John Watson. I heard the cry and thought I might be of some assistance. Has this man suffered some injury?"
"It's not a doctor we need," said one of the standing men, "It's a ruddy policemen. There's been a murder! There's a body down in that old basement."
"There was a constable patrolling on the corner of Rose Alley as we passed," said Holmes. "I recommend that one of you alerts him and suggests that a runner is sent to Scotland Yard. Tell the Inspector in charge that a body has been found on the Bishopsgate site."
The foreman, a burly Irishman who was clearly annoyed by this halt to his work, sent one of his men immediately off on this errand and set the remainder back to work elsewhere on the site. They went with a poor grace, reluctant to resume work when there was an opportunity to skive off for a while. It was not long before I heard the blast of the policeman's whistle from the far end of the street.
Having ascertained that the startled workman had sustained no more injury than shock, and required no more medicine than a pull from my hip flask, I left him to the care of his fellows and walked curiously across to the site of the discovery.
The building that had once stood here had been of an ecclesiastical nature, for the tiles which remained on the floor through which the pickaxes of the workmen had driven a ragged hole were of red clay with an inset white pattern in the Medieval style known as encaustic. The designs alternated a floral-ended cross with a pointed Bishop's mitre or diadem. The cellar thus exposed below was of stone with ribs of vaulting supporting the floor above. The pickaxe had dislodged one of the decorative bosses, which lay in pieces on the floor below, but it was not this which had occasioned the workman's horrified cry, but the sight revealed by the destruction. A shaft of Autumnal sunlight, penetrating the vault for perhaps the first time in four hundred years, illuminated a heavy oak table bearing a large decorated box, over which was slumped the body of a figure covered by the remnants of a once-splendidly embroidered cloak. One side of the skull had been crushed, though whether by the falling masonry or an ancient attack it was impossible to tell without closer inspection.
While I had been giving my attention to the badly shaken man whose actions had uncovered this grisly sight someone had lowered a ladder into the hole and I arrived just as Holmes was descending. I watched from above with the other men as he proceeded to carry out one of his meticulous examinations of the scene, taking care to disturb as little as possible until the police should arrive.
"Is it," one of the men asked, "murder?"
"If it is," said Holmes, dryly, bending over to examine the corpse with his glass, "the killer has answered to his Maker's judgement long since. This is little more than a skeleton."
"Nevertheless," I pointed out, "the coroner will have to hold an inquest into the matter."
"And into the contents of that chest, Watson. Unless I am very much mistaken it appears that our late prelate was protecting, or perhaps stealing, some Church plate. It is a pretty problem in law, for, although the treasure has been certainly been found under the earth, there will undoubtedly be some question as to whether it has been deliberately hidden."
Holmes examination had taken some time, and now we were joined by two constables and a flustered Police Inspector. We had met Athelney Jones before, he was a grudging admirer of Holmes' results, if not of his methods.
"I trust you've disturbed nothing, Mr Holmes. You've lectured my men on that often enough."
"Nothing but dust, Inspector. I doubt that anything here has been disturbed for centuries. There is no crime for investigation."
"I'll be the judge of that. You'd better come up and let my men take charge. The mortuary hearse will be here shortly."
"Of course." Holmes made for the ladder, then halted. "You had better secure that box as well. I suspect the contents may have some value."
"Another of your famous deductions, is it? Well, we'll see to it. I do not think that your further assistance will be required Mr Holmes," he turned and bowed to me, "Doctor Watson."
It was a dismissal, and it would have been foolish for us to have remained. In any case, having seen all that was of interest Holmes was already making his way up to the exit, brushing dust off his coat as he went.
For the next few days I was busy with my practice. Holmes made a number of visits to Scotland Yard, at Athelney Jones' request, and attended the coroner’s enquiry into the finding of the body. His initial conclusions were confirmed, the unfortunate wretch had died too long ago for any case of foul play to be answerable, and he was consigned to an unmarked grave in the nearest churchyard. The box, and its contents, were also passed from police custody to the ownership of the Church.
It was almost a fortnight later, and we had just completed our breakfast, when the bell announced the arrival of one of the most distinguished visitors ever to grace the drawing room of 221B. I opened the door to admit Inspector Athelney Jones. He was accompanied by no less a person than the Archbishop of Canterbury.
I was astonished, but Holmes, as usual, took the intrusion in his stride. "Welcome Your Grace. I confess that I did not anticipate that you would take a personal interest in this matter."
The inspector looked baffled. "You expected us?" he asked.
"You have been good enough to consult me on the finding of the Bishopsgate Treasure, as the press call it. I anticipated that the matter would not be entirely ended with the interment of the body. The treasure itself has some points of interest and I expected that might be consulted further on the matter."
"Your reputation goes before you," said the Archbishop. "You are quite correct."
Holmes smiled. I could see that he was enjoying both the discomfiture of the Inspector and the approval of the Archbishop. "Perhaps you would give me your view of the case. The press is sensational but rarely accurate in reporting these things."
"That is very true." The Archbishop settled himself into my easy chair by the fire. "You are aware that the coroner found that the body in the crypt was that of an unknown priest who had met his death some time before the Dissolution, and had died with a casket containing a valuable jewelled reliquary in his arms?"
"Indeed. I understand that the treasure has been deemed to be the property of the Church and has accordingly been passed to your keeping, the workmen who found it having received a small payment as reward."
"That is the case. Inspector Athelney Jones had it delivered it to me this morning. That was when I discovered the loss. I have it here. Perhaps you would like to inspect it."
The Archbishop gestured to the Inspector, who had been carrying a box wrapped in brown paper. He set it on our breakfast table and Holmes rose to unfasten the string and reveal the contents.
I had seen little of it when it had been discovered, covered as it had been by the dust of demolition and decay. Now it was clean and bright. It was a long, narrow box with a pyramid-shaped lid, painted with religious scenes on each side, set within gilded frames. It reminded me of the medieval psalters I had seen in the British Library. The lid opened to reveal a fantastically jewelled object, like a cross between a picture frame and a goblet, with a central globe of clear crystal set into a circle of jewel-encrusted gold. As Holmes lifted it out the room seemed to fill with light.
"It is a very fine piece of workmanship," he said.
"There is no finer reliquary in Europe," the Archbishop agreed. "And no others have survived in England. But upon inspection you can see that the reliquary is not intact. The inscription makes it clear that the central globe should contain the fingerbone of Our Lady, but, as you see, it is empty."
"But it was intact when taken from the cellar?"
Athelney Jones stood to attention, disgruntled to have his efficiency questioned. "I saw it myself, Mr Holmes. Having opened the box when found to ascertain the contents. There was a little bit of stuff, no bigger than a butterbean inside that glass thing."
Holmes turned the thing over. "There is a very simple catch," he said. It would have been the work of a moment to open it."
"But who would do such a thing? A worthless bit of bone. They'd have been better to pry off one of the jewels."
Holmes concealed his amusement at Athelney Jones' outburst, but the Archbishop was less polite.
"There are many who would prize such a thing above jewels," he said. "A man died protecting that 'worthless bit of bone'."
"Maybe," said Jones, "But the fact is that there's been some jiggery pokery, and we'd be obliged if Mr Holmes would advise on the matter." His dour expression suggested that he would not be surprised to find that Holmes himself had purloined the relic, having had the opportunity to do so.
"It seems to me," said Holmes, steepling his fingers in his characteristic posture of exposition, "that you should look for the culprit amongst those who would value such a thing. Our Roman Catholic citizens. Have you questioned the workmen on the building site?"
The Inspector gave a dismissive snort. "Gone," he said. "Their job's done. They took their cash quick enough, and scattered to the wind. Most have gone back home to Ireland."
Holmes spread his hands. "Then I can make no further suggestions. I imagine that the relic is on its way to some Irish church where it may receive the veneration that our English rites would deny it." His eyes met the Archbishop's. "Would that be so bad a fate? As you say, four hundred years ago a man died to keep that treasure from the grasp of King Henry's priests. We have the worldly gold, should we pursue the spiritual treasure?"
The Archbishop nodded. "A philosophical argument. You will not investigate further then?"
"I don't know about philosophy," growled Jones, "But I'm obliged for your suggestion Mr Holmes. We'll get after those Irish navvies."
"Then I have done all I can. I leave you in the Inspector's capable hands, your Grace. And I thank you for allowing me to see this very remarkable treasure."
The Archbishop rose and shook Holmes' hand. "Thank you for allowing me to meet a remarkable detective."
When they had gone, taking the box and its contents with them, I could not resist questioning Holmes.
"Do you really think that those workmen could have opened the casket and taken the relic without the police being aware of it?"
"I know that they did not," said he. "But it gives Athelney Jones a wild goose to chase, and I doubt that even if he finds the men he would be able to make a case against them. It keeps his mind away from a solution closer to home."
"What do you mean?"
"Observation and deduction, Watson. Do you recall the events of that day? None of the workmen came near to handle the casket. It was Athelney Jones' own men who removed the body and its treasure. A man would have had ample opportunity to open the casket and the reliquary under cover of so much official activity."
You suspect Athelney Jones himself!" I was astonished.
Holmes laughed. "Jones is a good Welsh chapel boy," he said. "He would have nothing to do with such Popish superstition. But Constable Keane would have undoubtedly recognised the spiritual value of the relic and might rightly have concluded that the object would not be afforded proper reverence in this country. And who, he would have reasoned, would notice? Or care if a little piece of valueless bone was missing when the material value of the container was so much greater?"
"It was still theft," I protested, "And by an officer of the law."
"I wonder," Holmes was pensive, "whether the return of an object to its rightful owner can be regarded as theft. The thing has undoubtedly been sent to a church in Ireland. I don't doubt that a little investigation would discover its whereabouts, but I am not inclined to exert myself. Let Athelney Jones make his enquiries."
He resumed his seat at the table, took up a slice of toast and began to butter it. For him, the adventure of the Bishopsgate Jewel Case was over.
Fin
Recipient:
truly_bohemianAuthor:
inamacCharacters: Holmes, Watson, Athelney Jones
Rating: Gen
Warnings: None
Word Count: 3000
Summary: An afternoon stroll along a London thoroughfare leads to the uncovering of a four-hundred year old mystery.
Acknowledgements: My thanks to our Mod for patience when I was late finishing this, and to my partner and beta for keeping my nose to the grindstone (or the laptop). And to
truly_bohemian for a request for casefic (I regret I could not meet your other suggestions).AN: Researching Victorian Bishopsgate was fascinating, and very sad. Not one of the buildings which survived the Great Fire and past which Holmes and Watson might have strolled in 1886 is now standing. The seventeenth century timber frontage of Sir Paul Pinder's House, then an inn, has been preserved in the Victoria and Albert museum. Liverpool Street Station now stands on the site.
"I think you must recollect me, Mr Athelney Jones," said Holmes, quietly.
"Why, of course I do!" he wheezed. "It's Mr Sherlock Holmes. The theorist. Remember you! I'll never forget how you lectured us all on causes and inferences and effects in the Bishopsgate jewel case."
The Sign Of Four, Ch 6
Despite the proximity of the Metropolitan station to our lodgings, and the constant flow of omnibuses and cabs past our door, the majority of Holmes' excursions around London, like those of our fellow Londoners, were on foot.
Unless engaged upon a case, he seldom had an object in mind for his strolls, using the opportunity to examine minutely the details of his environment, the buildings, the bollards and lamp posts, the cobbles and flagstones and mud of the road surfaces. Put Holmes down anywhere within a mile of Baker Street and he could identify his location exactly. Even (as he had demonstrated on one memorable occasion), blindfolded and within the confines of a cab.
I seldom had the opportunity to accompany him on these walks, as my practice was a busy one, but on one unseasonably warm day in late September of 1886, having attended a lunchtime violin recital in the City, and having no pressing business afterwards, we found ourselves walking the length of Bishopsgate.
Holmes, having exhausted his analysis of the performance we had just heard, paused beneath the ancient carved eaves of The Sir Paul Pindar's Head tavern and turned his attention to the thoroughfare on which we now found ourselves.
"It is a sign of the hubris of our times, Watson, that this road, which was laid out by the Romans, and named for a City gate under the arches of which Chaucer must have passed, these houses, where Shakespeare lived and Wren supped, which survived Plague and Fire, are now falling before the hammers and axes of the developers. Such is progress."
"London was ever thus," I countered. "Marmoream se relinquere, quam latericum accepisset as Augustus said of Rome."
Holmes smiled. "Whereas we have found London wood and are making it iron," he said. He nodded a greeting to Constable Keane, a police officer who had been involved in one of his recent investigations who was patrolling a beat along Bishopsgate Without and had paused under the eaves of Old Cosby Hall where King Richard III and Thomas Moore once lived. We strolled on and were passing a site where workmen were demolishing an old row of wooden-gabled Elizabethan houses. Again Holmes paused to watch the busy scene. The sound of falling debris was counterpointed by the thud of a steam engine and the rumble of wheelbarrows. Dust rose in waves as each timber with its burden of wattle and plaster came down. The noise was dreadful and I was about to press my companion to move away from the commotion when there came the sudden sound of a high pitched scream, followed by a cessation of all the noise of demolition.
"Hello", I said, "That sounds as though there has been an accident. I had better go down and see whether a doctor can help."
Holmes looked thoughtful. "That was not the sound of a man in pain," he said, "but rather one of surprise and horror. We had better both go down and see what assistance we can give."
It was by no means the first time that I had found myself summoned in haste to a building site to attend to an injured man. Accordingly we passed through the wooden gate that gave access to the area. The houses that had stood there had been reduced to shells of walls delineating the old basements, and were below the level of the road. We scrambled down a slope of old stone stairs that had been left to give access to the demolition workers and crossed the space to where the majority of the men were clustered around a newly opened hole in the floor of the building. One man, white-faced with shock, was sitting on an upturned bucket, attended by two of his colleagues.
"I am a doctor," I said. "Doctor John Watson. I heard the cry and thought I might be of some assistance. Has this man suffered some injury?"
"It's not a doctor we need," said one of the standing men, "It's a ruddy policemen. There's been a murder! There's a body down in that old basement."
"There was a constable patrolling on the corner of Rose Alley as we passed," said Holmes. "I recommend that one of you alerts him and suggests that a runner is sent to Scotland Yard. Tell the Inspector in charge that a body has been found on the Bishopsgate site."
The foreman, a burly Irishman who was clearly annoyed by this halt to his work, sent one of his men immediately off on this errand and set the remainder back to work elsewhere on the site. They went with a poor grace, reluctant to resume work when there was an opportunity to skive off for a while. It was not long before I heard the blast of the policeman's whistle from the far end of the street.
Having ascertained that the startled workman had sustained no more injury than shock, and required no more medicine than a pull from my hip flask, I left him to the care of his fellows and walked curiously across to the site of the discovery.
The building that had once stood here had been of an ecclesiastical nature, for the tiles which remained on the floor through which the pickaxes of the workmen had driven a ragged hole were of red clay with an inset white pattern in the Medieval style known as encaustic. The designs alternated a floral-ended cross with a pointed Bishop's mitre or diadem. The cellar thus exposed below was of stone with ribs of vaulting supporting the floor above. The pickaxe had dislodged one of the decorative bosses, which lay in pieces on the floor below, but it was not this which had occasioned the workman's horrified cry, but the sight revealed by the destruction. A shaft of Autumnal sunlight, penetrating the vault for perhaps the first time in four hundred years, illuminated a heavy oak table bearing a large decorated box, over which was slumped the body of a figure covered by the remnants of a once-splendidly embroidered cloak. One side of the skull had been crushed, though whether by the falling masonry or an ancient attack it was impossible to tell without closer inspection.
While I had been giving my attention to the badly shaken man whose actions had uncovered this grisly sight someone had lowered a ladder into the hole and I arrived just as Holmes was descending. I watched from above with the other men as he proceeded to carry out one of his meticulous examinations of the scene, taking care to disturb as little as possible until the police should arrive.
"Is it," one of the men asked, "murder?"
"If it is," said Holmes, dryly, bending over to examine the corpse with his glass, "the killer has answered to his Maker's judgement long since. This is little more than a skeleton."
"Nevertheless," I pointed out, "the coroner will have to hold an inquest into the matter."
"And into the contents of that chest, Watson. Unless I am very much mistaken it appears that our late prelate was protecting, or perhaps stealing, some Church plate. It is a pretty problem in law, for, although the treasure has been certainly been found under the earth, there will undoubtedly be some question as to whether it has been deliberately hidden."
Holmes examination had taken some time, and now we were joined by two constables and a flustered Police Inspector. We had met Athelney Jones before, he was a grudging admirer of Holmes' results, if not of his methods.
"I trust you've disturbed nothing, Mr Holmes. You've lectured my men on that often enough."
"Nothing but dust, Inspector. I doubt that anything here has been disturbed for centuries. There is no crime for investigation."
"I'll be the judge of that. You'd better come up and let my men take charge. The mortuary hearse will be here shortly."
"Of course." Holmes made for the ladder, then halted. "You had better secure that box as well. I suspect the contents may have some value."
"Another of your famous deductions, is it? Well, we'll see to it. I do not think that your further assistance will be required Mr Holmes," he turned and bowed to me, "Doctor Watson."
It was a dismissal, and it would have been foolish for us to have remained. In any case, having seen all that was of interest Holmes was already making his way up to the exit, brushing dust off his coat as he went.
For the next few days I was busy with my practice. Holmes made a number of visits to Scotland Yard, at Athelney Jones' request, and attended the coroner’s enquiry into the finding of the body. His initial conclusions were confirmed, the unfortunate wretch had died too long ago for any case of foul play to be answerable, and he was consigned to an unmarked grave in the nearest churchyard. The box, and its contents, were also passed from police custody to the ownership of the Church.
It was almost a fortnight later, and we had just completed our breakfast, when the bell announced the arrival of one of the most distinguished visitors ever to grace the drawing room of 221B. I opened the door to admit Inspector Athelney Jones. He was accompanied by no less a person than the Archbishop of Canterbury.
I was astonished, but Holmes, as usual, took the intrusion in his stride. "Welcome Your Grace. I confess that I did not anticipate that you would take a personal interest in this matter."
The inspector looked baffled. "You expected us?" he asked.
"You have been good enough to consult me on the finding of the Bishopsgate Treasure, as the press call it. I anticipated that the matter would not be entirely ended with the interment of the body. The treasure itself has some points of interest and I expected that might be consulted further on the matter."
"Your reputation goes before you," said the Archbishop. "You are quite correct."
Holmes smiled. I could see that he was enjoying both the discomfiture of the Inspector and the approval of the Archbishop. "Perhaps you would give me your view of the case. The press is sensational but rarely accurate in reporting these things."
"That is very true." The Archbishop settled himself into my easy chair by the fire. "You are aware that the coroner found that the body in the crypt was that of an unknown priest who had met his death some time before the Dissolution, and had died with a casket containing a valuable jewelled reliquary in his arms?"
"Indeed. I understand that the treasure has been deemed to be the property of the Church and has accordingly been passed to your keeping, the workmen who found it having received a small payment as reward."
"That is the case. Inspector Athelney Jones had it delivered it to me this morning. That was when I discovered the loss. I have it here. Perhaps you would like to inspect it."
The Archbishop gestured to the Inspector, who had been carrying a box wrapped in brown paper. He set it on our breakfast table and Holmes rose to unfasten the string and reveal the contents.
I had seen little of it when it had been discovered, covered as it had been by the dust of demolition and decay. Now it was clean and bright. It was a long, narrow box with a pyramid-shaped lid, painted with religious scenes on each side, set within gilded frames. It reminded me of the medieval psalters I had seen in the British Library. The lid opened to reveal a fantastically jewelled object, like a cross between a picture frame and a goblet, with a central globe of clear crystal set into a circle of jewel-encrusted gold. As Holmes lifted it out the room seemed to fill with light.
"It is a very fine piece of workmanship," he said.
"There is no finer reliquary in Europe," the Archbishop agreed. "And no others have survived in England. But upon inspection you can see that the reliquary is not intact. The inscription makes it clear that the central globe should contain the fingerbone of Our Lady, but, as you see, it is empty."
"But it was intact when taken from the cellar?"
Athelney Jones stood to attention, disgruntled to have his efficiency questioned. "I saw it myself, Mr Holmes. Having opened the box when found to ascertain the contents. There was a little bit of stuff, no bigger than a butterbean inside that glass thing."
Holmes turned the thing over. "There is a very simple catch," he said. It would have been the work of a moment to open it."
"But who would do such a thing? A worthless bit of bone. They'd have been better to pry off one of the jewels."
Holmes concealed his amusement at Athelney Jones' outburst, but the Archbishop was less polite.
"There are many who would prize such a thing above jewels," he said. "A man died protecting that 'worthless bit of bone'."
"Maybe," said Jones, "But the fact is that there's been some jiggery pokery, and we'd be obliged if Mr Holmes would advise on the matter." His dour expression suggested that he would not be surprised to find that Holmes himself had purloined the relic, having had the opportunity to do so.
"It seems to me," said Holmes, steepling his fingers in his characteristic posture of exposition, "that you should look for the culprit amongst those who would value such a thing. Our Roman Catholic citizens. Have you questioned the workmen on the building site?"
The Inspector gave a dismissive snort. "Gone," he said. "Their job's done. They took their cash quick enough, and scattered to the wind. Most have gone back home to Ireland."
Holmes spread his hands. "Then I can make no further suggestions. I imagine that the relic is on its way to some Irish church where it may receive the veneration that our English rites would deny it." His eyes met the Archbishop's. "Would that be so bad a fate? As you say, four hundred years ago a man died to keep that treasure from the grasp of King Henry's priests. We have the worldly gold, should we pursue the spiritual treasure?"
The Archbishop nodded. "A philosophical argument. You will not investigate further then?"
"I don't know about philosophy," growled Jones, "But I'm obliged for your suggestion Mr Holmes. We'll get after those Irish navvies."
"Then I have done all I can. I leave you in the Inspector's capable hands, your Grace. And I thank you for allowing me to see this very remarkable treasure."
The Archbishop rose and shook Holmes' hand. "Thank you for allowing me to meet a remarkable detective."
When they had gone, taking the box and its contents with them, I could not resist questioning Holmes.
"Do you really think that those workmen could have opened the casket and taken the relic without the police being aware of it?"
"I know that they did not," said he. "But it gives Athelney Jones a wild goose to chase, and I doubt that even if he finds the men he would be able to make a case against them. It keeps his mind away from a solution closer to home."
"What do you mean?"
"Observation and deduction, Watson. Do you recall the events of that day? None of the workmen came near to handle the casket. It was Athelney Jones' own men who removed the body and its treasure. A man would have had ample opportunity to open the casket and the reliquary under cover of so much official activity."
You suspect Athelney Jones himself!" I was astonished.
Holmes laughed. "Jones is a good Welsh chapel boy," he said. "He would have nothing to do with such Popish superstition. But Constable Keane would have undoubtedly recognised the spiritual value of the relic and might rightly have concluded that the object would not be afforded proper reverence in this country. And who, he would have reasoned, would notice? Or care if a little piece of valueless bone was missing when the material value of the container was so much greater?"
"It was still theft," I protested, "And by an officer of the law."
"I wonder," Holmes was pensive, "whether the return of an object to its rightful owner can be regarded as theft. The thing has undoubtedly been sent to a church in Ireland. I don't doubt that a little investigation would discover its whereabouts, but I am not inclined to exert myself. Let Athelney Jones make his enquiries."
He resumed his seat at the table, took up a slice of toast and began to butter it. For him, the adventure of the Bishopsgate Jewel Case was over.
Fin
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