“You should, Watson,” said Holmes “Tell your readers about the Stradivarius matter, it really does have certain aspects to it that lends itself towards your literary habits of embellishment…..”
He returned to scratching on his own violin tunelessly, I turned to pen and paper and reached into my dispatch box for some notes I had made on the case he mentioned.
For those regular readers of Sherlock Holmes cases you might believe that every story began with someone bursting into our rooms at 221B Baker Street with a perplexing story to tell or problem needing unraveling but this wasn’t always the case.
I recall that it was a glorious summer evening in early August 1895 and we had spent the day at the Old Bailey with myself as an observer and Holmes as a witness in the case against Patrick Cairns in the sensational murder of Peter Carey. As we nodded our heads goodbye to Peter Carey’s wife and daughter, Holmes and I decided on a gentle stroll back down Fleet Street. We watched the hacks bustling in and out of the offices like worker bees at a hive churning out the stories that were like nectar to Holmes and his unquenching thirst for criminal misdeeds.
And so onwards we walked, towards town, buying some tobacco and having worked up quite an appetite we decided to stop at Simpsons in the Strand for a spot of supper. We sat in the upper room and it was over the courses of julienne soup, filet de soles, spring chicken and a dessert of Charlotte Russe, all the while Holmes perusing a copy of the London Evening Standard as I gazed outside at the pedestrians, cabs and coaches that filled the early evening air with that familiar cacophony of the city.
When I looked up I could see a glint in my friend's eyes. “What is it Holmes?” I asked. He looked up. “Watson, I believe that crime sometimes creeps in like the tide, slowly towards us and inevitably”, “There are currently crimes happening many miles away and mark my words, within a few months will be knocking on our door”. He enigmatically refused to elaborate any further on the matter and I quickly forgot as Holmes told me of his plans to at least provide poor Patrick Cairns with some degree of comfort with plans for a regular supply of tobacco and rum whilst he awaited his execution at Newgate prison.
Two months later found us both in our rooms in Baker Street; Holmes deep in a chemical analysis and myself writing up notes on the recent cases that we had been involved with including the peculiar incident involving the solicitor Hector Mcfarlanne, the case of the Colchester corpse and the mysterious Hatton garden jewelry thefts to which Holmes solved without much effort and to the extreme embarrassment of Inspector Lestrade who had wrongly arrested a worker in one of the shops.
The smells of cooking were wafting up the stairs and I was just considering what culinary delights Mrs Hudson would soon be bustling through our door with when a loud knock came from the front door.
Soon a dapper stocky little man of around fifty with a prominent mustache presented himself in our sitting room. He was carrying in his hands a violin case. He looked at both of us in turn and said in excellent English with a hint of an accent “Mr. Holmes?” Not looking up, my friend bid the gentleman to sit whilst he finished his experiment.
I introduced myself, offered him a chair and then we sat in silence for a few minutes until Holmes finally, with an exasperated sigh, set down a test tube and looked up and around at our guest.
He gave a slight smile and said the most astonishing words to this man, clearly unknown to both myself or him “I can see you were born in France, you have lived in England most of your life, you own a restaurant and have recently purchased a fake violin from a very fat man for an exorbitant price.”
The man and I both looked astonished but he finally found voice and exclaimed, “It is all true, Mr. Holmes, but how can you know all of this?”
Holmes shrugged off the question and in reply said “All I need to know from you is your name and what restaurant you own?”
“I am Monsieur Jacques Jonquet, the proprietor of The Cafe Bordeaux in Piccadilly.”
“Please hand me the violin for examination whilst you tell myself and my partner your no doubt interesting tale.”
I poured the little man a Brandy, lit his cigarette and bid him to commence his story whilst Holmes picked up a magnifying glass and prepared to examine the violin case.
He said “…it was a busy evening service when a very fat man came and sat by himself eating. He had with him a violin case.”
Holmes interrupted him, “Please describe him and his clothing precisely, Monsieur Jonquet”
Monsieur Jonquet recommenced, “He was around mid thirties, about 5 '6, very fat with sandy coloured hair that had started to thin at the temples and a well spoken English accent. He wore a slightly tight fitting but once fashionable black suit. When he finished his meal the waiter presented him with the bill and I could see the two having a conversation. The waiter then beckoned me to come over which I did. The man who said his name was Mr. Smith said he had left his billfold in his nearby hotel. He asked if he would be excused to go collect it and offered to leave his violin as guarantee. He said it probably had no great value but it had been left to him in his uncle's will and had just collected it and that he was probably going to sell it, but that it certainly had a value more than commensurable to the meal.”