Holmes put on a pair of gloves and then picking up a magnifying glass, proceeded to examine the note.
We sat in silence for five minutes whilst Holmes seemed to cover every inch of the paper, front and back. Eventually he read aloud for my benefit.
“I will only read the latest and most relevant. It reads, You’ve been warned. This is your last chance. Your chocolates will no longer be safe. A box for the Earl of Farncombe will contain death. To arrange payment, place an ad in the Standard personal column this coming Saturday stating ‘thank you for my chocolates Aunt Smith’. I will reply with further instructions. Do not get the police involved or there will be serious repercussions.”
I started. “Good Lord.”
Holmes’s eyes looked at Mr Upton. “Did this box get sent?” “No. I withdrew the entire order. The Earl never knew. I supervised and delivered his order myself, telling his staff that i happened to be passing”
Holmes folded his long fingers together and stared into the fire for a long moment. “Watson, do you recall the case of Christina Edmunds?”
“Indeed I do,” I said. “The Brighton Chocolate Cream Poisoner.”
“Precisely. In the ‘70s she laced bonbons with strychnine and returned them to shops so they would be unknowingly sold. Madness and revenge were her motives. But this seems to be something else. A calculated extortion, but with an echo of her methods.”
Mr Upton looked anguished. “Mr Holmes, I am desperate. If word of this gets out, our business faces certain ruin. A whisper of poisoned chocolates and Fortnum’s will cease their orders. The Prince’s patronage would be withdrawn. This will destroy us.”
Holmes leaned forward, fingers steepled beneath his chin, and regarded him with that intense, hawk like gaze which had unnerved many a hardened criminal and overawed more than one innocent.
“A curious business indeed,” said he. “Now, Mr Upton, before we move any further, I must have a thorough understanding of your staff. The blackmailer seems to have an intimate knowledge of your customer base. However, you will understand, I am sure, that in affairs such as this, suspicion must be laid evenly, and without prejudice, until the facts absolve or convict.”
Upton nodded gravely. “Of course, Mr Holmes. There are five staff members presently employed at the shop as well as myself.”
Holmes waved a hand for him to proceed.
“The two most senior are Mrs Gordon and Mrs Smith. Both have been with the business eight years. Steady, dependable, and entirely trustworthy. I would wager my life on their characters. Mrs Gordon oversees the front of house and customer service. She has an eye for the wealthy and a tactful way with our patrons. Mrs Smith does much of the packing and manages inventory with unflinching precision. I have never once found an error in her ledgers.”
Holmes nodded. “A strong start. I presume both are of good health and regular in their habits?”
“Very much so. Mrs Gordon is widowed and lives in Kensington with her son, between you and me, she has it rough as her son is a bit on the wild side.”
Mrs Smith resides with her husband in a boarding house near Marylebone. She is the main breadwinner as her husband had an industrial accident about a year ago. I increased her hours and wages not long after to help her make ends meet. Both women are punctual and modest in manner. They do not gossip, if that is your concern.”
Holmes gave a slight smile. “Thank you for being so candid, Mr Upton. Continue, please.”
“The youngest of our staff is George Baker. Sixteen years old. He’s been apprenticed to us for six months. Bright boy. Polite. Keen to learn. Lives with his parents in Clerkenwell. His father is a cooper. George is as smart as a whip, has a good nature. He is always asking questions about the craft, temperatures, crystal structures of the fondant, techniques for tempering chocolate. I’ve high hopes for him.”
“Would he have access to your correspondence and client lists?” Holmes asked.
“No, I do not believe so. He’s never behind the desk. He spends his time either in the back kitchens or sweeping the floors.”
Holmes merely made a small sound at the back of his throat and gestured for Upton to proceed.
“Then there’s Tom Mackenzie. A Scotsman. Thirty one. Lives in lodgings in Soho. He’s been with us for two years. Excellent hand with the tempering machines, knows his ganache ratios inside out. Strong, dependable in his work but not in his punctuality.”
“Ah,” Holmes murmured. “Go on.”
“He tends to stay out late. Bit of a night owl. He drinks and I’ve heard, gambles at the track. He occasionally comes in worse for wear, but always makes up for it by working hard. There’s never been a customer complaint on anything he’s made. But it’s not unusual for him to be half an hour late of a morning.”
Lestrade grunted. “Drinking and gambling are never promising signs, Holmes.”