Holmes inclined his head. “Lead the way, Mr Upton. I am but an observer today, but an exact one, I trust.”
We were ushered inside, the doorbell chiming a genteel note. The interior was of polished wood and brass, with counters gleaming and every surface filled with orderly arrays of boxes, tins, and jars. A faint fragrance of cocoa and vanilla hung in the air, mingled with the sharper scent of peppermint. Customers came and went, mostly ladies in furs, accompanied by attentive servants bearing their parcels.
Holmes and I were introduced as Mr Jones and Mr Mortimer, employees of the Government who were inspecting suppliers to the various governmental offices and social events.
Upton led us first behind the counter. “Allow me to introduce Mrs Gordon,” he said.
A woman of middle years rose from behind a ledger. She had a pleasant, if careworn face, and greeted us with a modest curtsy. “Mrs Gordon has been with us for fifteen years,” said Upton. “She knows every patron of note in London by name and half in the shires besides.”
Holmes gave her a courteous bow. “I should imagine, madam, that your memory for faces is as valuable to your employer as the chocolates themselves.”
She smiled faintly. “I do my best, Sir. The clientele like to be remembered.”
Holmes asked her a few questions concerning the manner in which orders were taken, how accounts were recorded, and whether she had ever been requested to forward parcels without names attached. To all of these she gave calm, practical answers, showing a quiet competence. I could not but note the ease with which she spoke of titled clients, as though accustomed to dealing with persons of rank and fortune.
Next Upton called Mrs Smith, who emerged from a side room carrying a tray of ribboned boxes. She was of sturdy frame, with a grave expression, her dark dress neat but plain. Upton praised her unerring accuracy in accounts and inventories. Holmes glanced briefly at her hands, broad, capable, and faintly stained from the handling of wrappers and ink. She answered Holmes’s questions with a precise brevity, and returned quickly to her work, as if time were too valuable to waste.
We were then introduced to George Baker, a fair haired lad of sixteen, who blushed scarlet when Mr Upton commended him as his work as an apprentice. The boy had an honest, open countenance. Holmes asked him how long he had been with the firm, what his duties were, and whether he enjoyed the work. George stammered his replies, betraying all the youthful eagerness of one anxious to please.
Holmes smiled kindly. “A good apprentice is the making of a fine craftsman, my lad. Attend to your duties, and you will go far.”
The boy flushed with pride, and I saw him glance at Upton as if seeking his approval.
Our tour next brought us to a tall, broad shouldered man who was arranging trays in the rear kitchen. He wore a heavy apron, his sleeves rolled up, and his hair disordered.
“This is Tom Mackenzie,” said Upton. “The best hand with ganache in London.”
Mackenzie gave us a brief nod and went on with his work, his large hands moving with a curious delicacy, at odds to his size as he poured a glossy stream of chocolate into moulds. Holmes asked him some technical questions about temperatures and the tempering process, which Mackenzie answered in a slow, thoughtful manner, his accent betraying his roots. He seemed a man more at home with pots and pans than with conversation, yet there was no mistaking his skill.
Lastly, Upton conducted us back to the shop, where a young woman was busy at a side table, affixing ribbons and small decorative sprigs of holly to gift boxes. She was slight of figure, with dark hair coiled neatly, and wore a simple dress with a white collar.
“This is Miss Orietta Lombardo,” said Mr Upton.”
She looked up and inclined her head politely, with her excellent, albeit accented English. Holmes asked one or two light questions about the volume of work during the Christmas season, which she answered readily enough, though she seemed eager to return to her task. There was nothing in her manner to suggest either nervousness or artifice; indeed, she presented the appearance of a young woman wholly intent on ribbons and bows.
Holmes, for his part, made no more of her than he had of the others, and soon turned back to Upton.
“I would like to see your stockroom.”
We were led through narrow passages into a cool chamber where shelves rose to