The Mystery of the Purloined Plates
(Written in the style of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle by Steve Brügge)
It is now, after the passing of many years, that I am free to put pen to paper and recount another adventure of Sherlock Holmes. This chronicle has remained heretofore untold because revealing the identity of one of the individuals involved would have required me to break my word as an English gentleman. Recent reports in the British press, however, free me from that vow, and the details can be fully elucidated for the public.
It all began late one quiet Sunday evening in 1912 as Holmes and I shared a pot of tea in the drawing room. Holmes looked up from his tepid cup and said, "Ah, Watson, I see that you have spent the afternoon working on your newfound hobby of photography."
As accustomed as I was to Holmes's apparent ability to know the unknowable, this took me aback. There simply was no possible way for my dear friend to have known that I had spent the entire afternoon developing photographs.
I turned to Holmes and replied, "You have shown yourself to be clever far too many a time, but I must confess that short of following me through the streets of London this afternoon, there is no way you could have known that I did, indeed, spend the day developing photographs."
"Watson, my friend, I do not have to rely upon such a crude and ungentlemanly a method as trailing you like a common detective. Simple deduction based upon physical evidence will reveal all that I need to know."
" But before joining you for tea, I changed clothes, washed, and even visited the barber," I said with some degree of protest in my voice.
"It is true," Holmes replied solemnly, "that your initial outward appearance hides a day of working with chemicals in a darkroom. But if you will glance upon the index finger of your right hand you will spy two small black spots. These spots can only be the result of some spilled silver nitrate used in the development of photographs, as you have washed and changed before joining me this evening. Silver nitrate will stain human skin and will wear off only as new skin grows out."
" You have, once again, Holmes, made child's play of what seemed to be impenetrable," I said with astonishment in my voice.
At that instant, there came at the foyer door a knock. I turned to Holmes in full anticipation that he would reveal the name and occupation of the person who came to call so late in the evening.
Holmes turned to me with a puzzled expression on his face and said, "I wonder who has come to call?"
I must have revealed surprise upon my countenance, because Holmes looked at me with his raven-black eyes and said, "Even I, my friend, cannot see through a heavy wooden door. Please do let our visitor or visitors in."
I sprang from my seat with alacrity and went forthwith to the door where I found waiting two gentlemen who carried with them the air of life on the Continent.
Their heavy accents betrayed them even further. Even I could say without a doubt that they were French.
The taller of the two looked furtively at me and then at Holmes before he asked, "Which of you is the famed Sherlock Holmes?"
"I am the person whom you seek, and this is my colleague Dr. Watson."
" My name is Jacques and this is Michel. We shall not use our last names as our mission is of utmost secrecy. And in order to protect yourselves from possible harm or even death, you must know as little as possible about us. "
Holmes nodded to himself and asked the two strangers into the drawing room. "Please have a seat and tell us why you have come such a great distance for assistance."
"Let me get to the heart of the matter," said Jacques. "Two days ago a certain member of royalty was photographed having a tête-à-tête with another chief of state. If it becomes public knowledge that these two leaders were seen together, it could bring about a war that would involve all of Europe and maybe even the Americans."
Jacques continued in a hushed voice, "It is believed that the thief did not have time to develop the photographic plates but has clandestinely made his way to England where he intends to sell the plates to the unscrupulous British press."
Upon the close of this heart-renching soliloquy, Holmes stood, faced our visitors, and said, "Your story can only refer to two individuals, and I once had the honour of serving one of them many years past."
"Indeed," exclaimed Jacques, "it is he who has sent me to implore your services once again."
"We shall, like the spider, have to spin a large web quickly if we hope to prevent the outbreak of a massive war," said Holmes in a serious voice that sent chills down my spine.
Our visitors were asked to return to the Continent. Holmes implied that if he could not recover the plates by then it would be too late for all of Europe.
I fell asleep that night in the drawing room and suffered severe dreams of war far more horrible than what I experienced in service to the Queen many years previous. I do not believe that Sherlock Holmes slept at all that night. With the first rays of light, I was roused from my slumber by a quite agitated Holmes.
"With haste, Watson, come with me!" yelled Holmes as he sprang for the door. Like a faithful dog, I alighted from the couch and ran with Holmes out to a waiting hansom.
After a mad dash through the still-sleeping London streets we came to a stop in front of a very respectable home. We were ushered into the parlor where we were greeted by two women. It was here that I met the great Marie Curie and her friend Hertha Ayrton, widow of the well-known physicist.
Because of troubles of her own with the French press over her affair with Paul Langevin, Marie Curie had come to England and was traveling under her maiden name, Sklodowska.
How Sherlock Holmes knew that this famed scientist was in London was never revealed to me. I also cannot tell you, dear reader, exactly what conversations went on that morning. Holmes and Curie retired to the anteroom and spoke in Polish--his knowledge of languages never ceased to amaze me.
At one point the twice-bestowed Nobel winner rushed upstairs and returned with a small but weighty box, which she placed in Holmes's hand with great care.
Without another word we were back in the hansom bouncing through the cobblestone streets like two madmen being chased by the devil himself.
At last we came to a rest in front of 221b Baker Street. And for the first time that morning, Holmes looked calm. "There is," he said, "nothing more we can do. Like the spider we must wait for the fly to come to us."
I pleaded to know more, but all he did was smile and beckon me into his flat.
We waited all morning. Holmes said nothing but smoked his pipe and stared out the front window. At half past eleven there came a bold knock at the door.
"Let me answer that, Watson, and please play along."
"Yes, Holmes," was all that I was able to stammer in reply.
A rather rotund gentleman stood upon the stoop and he appeared to be quite nervous. He had in his hand an advertisement, and I was able to see that it proclaimed in bold black letters the following: "Watson & Holmes Photographic Developing, 221b Baker Street, London."
Our apprehensive guest opened a valise and removed two large photographic plates. "Cost is no object--I must have these plates developed at once."
As he reached to close the case, a large pistol could be seen underneath his coat. At that moment I only wished that I had remembered my service revolver which was safely tucked away at home.
"I shall oversee the development myself," said our visitor with a menacing tone to his voice.
"Our work is well regarded," replied Holmes, "but you are certainly welcome to watch the entire process. The size of these plates will require the use of our second laboratory. Please join us for the short ride there."
Holmes gathered a couple of items--including the box given him by Marie Curie--and we found ourselves in the hansom en route to my modest darkroom.
Holmes carefully placed the box next to the visitor's valise for the ten-minute ride.
Once inside my makeshift darkroom, our visitor insisted on using the equipment himself. He certainly knew how to mix the chemicals and, with pistol in one hand and plates in the other, there was little we could do but watch and wait.
After the final wash in the developing process, our visitor threw open the heavy black curtain and held up the first of the plates. A look of despair came over his face like a heavy cloud.
The second plate brought forth a cry of such pain that one might have thought that he had been stabbed in the heart. "I'm ruined!" he exclaimed as he tossed the plates in his valise and ran out to the street.
"Shall we follow him?" I asked.
"No," Holmes replied, "the fate of Europe has been saved--at least for now."
"How?" was the only word I could utter.
"Again, dear Watson, the application of science, logic, and careful observation will solve almost any crime. You see I knew that the thief would be in need of a safe place to develop his purloined photographs, and that is why I took out the advertisement in this morning's London Times. I also knew that this individual would be most dangerous and I would have to destroy the plates without his ever having a clue.
"But," I interjected, "there is no way to destroy such plates without being seen!"
"Oh, Watson, you really need to keep abreast of the latest scientific findings. It is really Marie Curie and her radium who has kept Europe from turning into a war like one never seen before."
"I have heard of radium, but I am unaware of how it can destroy photographic plates."
"The radium emits unseen particles for which Curie has coined the term 'radioactivity' and these particles will fog a photographic plate in short order," said Holmes.
"Now I understand what is in the box and why you insisted on placing it next to the plates during the ride to my darkroom."
"Very good, Watson!" proclaimed Holmes. "I knew that I would have little chance of physically apprehending the plates, but, through the application of science, even the best laid plans of a clever thief can be derailed. And the beauty of it is that the thief will never know that unseen rays destroyed his chance to bring down a noble and just ruler."
brugge@aps.edu