Not exactly a shaggy dog story
This story arose from a conversation with fengirl88 about what Mark Gatiss might have in mind for his forthcoming episode, The Hounds of Baskerville. I said the only theme I could think of was the Baskerville typeface. And somehow this turned into an attempt to write a case-fic, which was really a very stupid idea given that I can't do plot. But I plodded on and reached some sort of conclusion today, which was my deadline; the original Conan Doyle novel reaches its climax on October 19 when (this may be a spoiler) Holmes, Watson and Lestrade meet a dog somewhere in Devon. This version starts with a line I spoke myself in a dream about proofs many years ago. And it ends up with a very silly joke about a quote from the original.
I do just about remember hot metal; I used to go into the Guardian building as a child and see flongs of the front page in my father's office, and I remember the great presses rolling. But I never saw the typesetters in action in those days, so I've had to glean what I can from online sources. I hope it's not too far out. Ditto everything else; I'm sure I would have benefited from a beta, but I ran out of time, so no one can be blamed except me.
This is, of course, for fengirl88.
THE FOUNT OF THE BASKERVILLES
Oxford English Dictionary
fount, font. Printing. A complete set or assortment of type of a particular face and size.
Oxford Dictionary for Writers and Editors
Baskerville (1706-75), English printer, designer of a typeface.
"It may be that you are not yourself luminous, but you are a conductor of light. Some people without possessing genius have a remarkable power of stimulating it." Mr Sherlock Holmes to Dr John Watson in Chapter One of The Hound of the Baskervilles.
*******************
"This is not Baskerville," murmured Mycroft Holmes. "I rather think it is Garamond."
He handed the dinner menu back to his PA, who frowned as she scrutinised the text.
"It's annoying, sir, but is it important enough to redo? The menus are needed in three hours - too long for Barrymore to turn them round, we'd have to use ordinary typesetters. And it's only the font..."
Fount. Mycroft didn't correct her, because she wasn't wrong; but he would always prefer the old form of the word, with its connotations of the foundry and the casting of metal type. "Font" was sweeping it away, as thoroughly as the modern technology that was almost completely displacing the old typesetters' craft. Almost; Mycroft could hold back the tide a little longer, from one small corner of the beach.
He wondered what the Americans had against the letter U? A preference for the Latin of the Roman Republic, he supposed, over the French of Norman feudalism.
"Perhaps not important in itself; we can use these menus tonight. But it is important to find out why. A line of Garamond amid the Baskerville today, a snatch of Goudy two days ago; this is not the Barrymores' normal service. We need to know why these mistakes are happening. Miss Aspall, would you be kind enough to call my brother?"
*******************
"Your brother wants you to investigate his printers' spelling mistakes?" asked John.
"Typesetters," said Sherlock. "They set the text before it's printed."
"Can't they use a spellchecker?"
"The problem doesn't seem to be spelling, but no. For certain jobs, Mycroft likes to use one of the last typesetting and printing firms in the kingdom setting copy in metal type instead of on a computer."
"Why?"
"Because my brother belongs in the nineteenth century, when this country counted for something, and because he thinks you can't hack lumps of metal. I've told him if he really wants to keep a secret he should write it down himself. A team of cryptographers could never penetrate Mycroft's handwriting."
"I thought it was dinner menus? What's secret about those?"
"It's probably easier to poison visiting heads of state if you know what dishes you're working with. But it's not just menus. There are some diplomatic documents."
"OK, that sounds more important, but I still don't see why a bit of punctuation is a matter of national security."
"Because these people don't usually make mistakes and now they do."
"Probably hired someone new."
"He'd know. It's a small family firm and they've all been vetted. Mycroft has a point," Sherlock said reluctantly, "it suggests something odd."
"So you're going to take the case?"
"You are. I'm busy."
*******************
John walked down Devon Street, checking the doors until he reached the plaque for Grimpen Press. He rang the bell, and after a minute a tall, mousy-haired woman answered.
"Mrs Barrymore?"
"Yes?"
"John Watson. I'm here from Mycroft Holmes." He registered alarm melting into suspicion as she glanced past him, looking for the black car, but he smiled brightly. "I took the bus from Waterloo. I've a letter of introduction" - he pulled it from the pocket of his sports jacket - "and you can ring his office for confirmation."
"Who is it, Liz?" A bearded man appeared, while pop music drifted through an inner door behind him.
"Says he's from Mr Holmes."
Another flicker of alarm. "Oh - you should've called. How can we help?"
"Mr Holmes just wants to know if everything is all right. Apparently there have been some small errors recently... Mr Barrymore?"
"Sorry, yes, we've been a bit distracted - our daughter's just gone to uni. I may have made the odd slip. Give him our apologies."
"What's happening?" Another man emerged from inside.
"It's OK, Ian," said Barrymore. "Mr Holmes sent this gentleman..."
"About the messages?"
The Barrymores looked at each other in dismay. John took advantage of their confusion to push through the door.
"Right," he said. "Let's try again. Tell me about these messages, from the very beginning."
*******************
"It started a couple of weeks ago," said John. "They arrived at work and found threatening messages, in their own metal type."
He had come out of Grimpen to call Sherlock, away from the music and listening ears.
"What sort of threats?"
"Didn't sound very specific - 'Barrymore, you're a dead man', that sort of thing. The premises were locked, of course."
"Of course."
"They were afraid Mycroft would sack them for the security breach, though they said there was no sign of anything else wrong. When I turned up, they pretended they were making mistakes because they were upset about the daughter leaving for university."
"Which university?"
"Does it matter? After Ian - Mrs Barrymore's brother - gave the game away, they admitted the real reason was worry about these threats. So... do we tell Mycroft?"
John could hear Sherlock humming. "Not yet. If it really were a threat to national security, the perpetrator probably wouldn't flaunt the breach. It would be better to give Mycroft the full story, and we don't know what that is yet. Are they still getting these messages?"
"Every couple of days, they said. Or nights, I suppose."
"Then you'll have to keep watch, and catch whoever it is."
John sighed. "Not ready to join me yet?"
"Still busy. I'm sure you're more than capable of handling a break-in."
*******************
John had explained that he wasn't reporting back to Mycroft Holmes yet and was going to stay on the premises overnight, so now he was sitting watching Jack Barrymore at work. It wasn't for Mycroft, at present; Barrymore was setting a study of the Beatles for someone who wanted an authentic sixties feel.
Despite the combined racket from the typesetting machine (Linotype, he'd been told - nothing to do with lino, it meant "line o' type") and Radio 2, which seemed to blare out non-stop, John found it quite interesting watching this all-but-lost craft. He'd worked it out now. Barrymore was operating a keyboard, mostly with his right hand; that caused letter moulds to fall out of the big box above him, dropping into place in a fixed line; when the line was full, Barrymore pulled a lever that sent it off to be cast, molten metal pouring into the letter moulds. The cast lines of raised letters gradually built up into a column - a galley, he remembered. Occasionally Ian came in and took galleys away; he seemed to be in charge of the actual printing, while Liz dealt with customers and handled accounts. And all the time the letter moulds were being returned to where they'd started, shot up to the top of the machine and somehow redistributed into the right box.
*******************
The clatter came to a halt, allowing music to fill the room - a sad, haunting voice that had almost been drowned by the machine noise. John recognised it, too; Harry had had a thing about Robert Wyatt.
But I just can't help thinking that if you were here with me
I'd get all my thoughts in focus...
He smiled. Were his thoughts more focused when Sherlock was with him? Or was it that Sherlock's thoughts were so focused it didn't matter - you could sit back and watch the expert at work? ...Expert.
"Wait a minute," said John. "This is a highly skilled job for which you've been trained. If the intruder is setting messages, doesn't that mean he must have trained on a machine like this? An old colleague with a grudge, perhaps?"
Barrymore shook his head. "He didn't set it, really. He just pulled the matrices - the letters - out of the magazine. Probably used tweezers. And then arranged them on the galley tray. It was a bit of a mess, but you could read it. Not a pro, though."
John sighed. "Sorry. Thought it might be a clue."
"Might have worked it out ourselves, then. Now, we're shutting down. If you and me are going to stay the night we need some grub - there's a chippy near here, or a burger?"
*******************
John could always tell whether Sherlock was in or not when he walked into 221b. Even if his flatmate was lying silent on the sofa, the room seemed to carry some sort of electric charge when he was there. This morning the flat was lifeless as John ran upstairs to take a shower. He was dressing in fresh clothes when his phone buzzed.
Where are you? SH
Baker street. Where are you? Nothing happened, btw.
Nothing conspicuous happened, or you'd have contacted me. Describe what did happen. SH
Barrymore got fish and chips, we sat and waited, we took turns to doze, nothing happened until wife and bro came in this am.
So you might as well have put up a balloon saying This is a Stakeout. Go back and do it properly. SH
Define properly.
Tell them you can't come back tonight, then turn up when they're out of the way. Keep out of sight. Don't blink. SH
How many nights do you think this will take?
You can sleep now. Get five hours. SH
Where are you?
Important business. I'll be back when you need me. SH
John sighed and set the alarm for half past three. After fixing himself a sandwich and gulping down some tea, he returned to his room, pulled the curtains shut, and fell into bed.
*******************
He crouched between dust-bins, watching Grimpen's back window, and tried not to yawn. Sherlock hadn't specified whether John should break in or not but, in case he was here a few nights, it seemed better to wait. Let whoever it was get in, and John would follow. Even if the man entered from the other side of the building, he'd use a light. No way could somebody pull those tiny letters out of the boxes and arrange them into a coherent sentence in the dark.
John checked his watch again. About twenty past four. This time he couldn't stop himself yawning. He was tempted to wake Sherlock with an update on his progress, or lack of it, and was fingering his phone when he finally saw the light. A faint, wavering light, a torch probably... this was it! He edged out of his hiding place, and ran round to the front, searching for a forced entry. Nothing. He tried the door handle; shut. But, pushing against top and bottom, he was fairly sure the Chubb locks were undone. Just the Yale, then. John took a few steps back, ran at the door and forced it open with a splintering crash. He rushed into the typesetting room, grabbed the intruder, and pulled back his head to see, in the pale torchlight, Jack Barrymore.
*******************
"OK," said John, getting his breath back and picking up the torch. "You'd better have a good explanation. And saying you're here for the same reason as me won't wash. If you were trying to catch someone, you wouldn't have waited till half past four to arrive. And -" he waved the torch at the Linotype machine "- I can see letters on that tray. You were forging a threatening message so you could show me, weren't you?"
Barrymore was still gasping. "No... yes... had to... Shelley!" He groaned.
"Shelley?"
"My daughter... that was the threat. They've got Shelley. Said if we wanted her back, we'd got to follow instructions."
"The girl at university?"
"Yes... went three weeks ago... she was texting her mum... then it stopped. Then we got the message."
"And the instructions?"
"Switch the fount in bits of the menus. They tell us which."
"Not the diplomatic stuff?"
"Just menus."
"And they still communicate using type?"
"Not now. Radio. Steve Wright show. They send in requests."
"But there must be thousands of requests coming in! How can they rely on getting through?"
"Pretend it's a sponsored walk. Keep sending updates - funny stories. He likes reading them out." He looked at the letters in the tray. "Sorry. Afraid you'd try to stop us if you knew. We have to get her back."
*******************
Given all that he had to report, John felt justified in ringing Sherlock directly.
"Good."
"Good?"
"Well, not-good for the Barrymores. But they're telling the truth at last. I don't think they're holding anything back now - nothing that they're aware of, anyway."
"So what do you advise?"
"They're right. They need to keep following the instructions, exactly. I'll talk to Mycroft. You'd better stay there, but keep out of sight, in case the place is watched. Let me know as soon as the next message about the fonts arrives."
"And are you coming yet?"
"Soon. I've a bit more to sort out here in Birmingham."
"Birmingham? That's where Shelley Barrymore... Oh god, Sherlock, you've known all along, haven't you?" He could practically hear the smirk.
"It was an obvious line of enquiry. They were lying to you, however incompetently, from the start - their first instinct was to get the unwanted visitor off the premises - but at the same time they couldn't help mentioning the daughter. Subconsciously they wanted you to find out."
"But how did you...?"
"Despite your failure to ask the right questions, I found out where the girl was supposed to be. And once I knew, it wasn't hard to ascertain that she hadn't been seen on the campus for several days."
"And have you...?"
"I'll be in touch. Bye."
*******************
They sat round the Linotype machine, listening to its clatter and an interview with Phil Tufnell. The air was tense, yet easier now that the tension was open, with nothing to hide. The morning courier had brought in a packet of papers from Mycroft, including a menu for a dinner commemorating the fiftieth anniversary of the European Social Charter. Jack had already set it.
"What if..."
"We take out those slugs and put in new ones in the other fount."
"And I've had another update from Rodger," Steve Wright was saying. The Barrymores froze; no need to ask why.
"Remember, Rodger's walking the length of the country to raise money for Children in Need. And he's just limped into Lancashire. In a minute I'll tell you what happened when he asked a policeman the way to the cricket ground at one a.m. in October. That'll make you laugh, Tuffers. But first, as he's in Lancashire, let's have a real oldie: George Formby with Mr Wu."
"Dessert, Goudy," translated Barrymore. He pulled a lever, grabbed the handwritten menu, and started to re-set the lines.
John texted Sherlock. Message received.
Understood. Want to stretch your legs? SH
Thought you wanted me to stay here.
You can keep me company waiting for Lestrade. SH
Where the hell are you?
Old Kent Road. Your nearest bus-stop.
*******************
The 172 bus came screeching up to the bus-stop, and a graceful, grey-haired Doberman of a man had sprung from the central exit.
"Budget cuts hitting the Met, Lestrade?"
"Yes. But I can get an armed response unit in five minutes if needed. And you're the one who told me to try to be inconspicuous."
"Then let's get back into Grimpen," said John. "If anything sticks out like a sore thumb here it's Sherlock's coat at a dingy bus-stop."
They headed back to the typesetters, and John made the introductions.
"Mr Holmes? You're Mr Holmes's brother?" asked Liz Barrymore eagerly. "Have you got news of Shelley?"
"Not yet, but I hope we'll have something very soon," said Sherlock, evidently deciding to overlook his relegation to Holmes minor as he slid into the reassuring mode he could do perfectly well when he chose.
"My colleagues in Birmingham are working to find her," Lestrade offered.
"Dr Watson didn't say you were coming," said Jack.
"I didn't know they were coming," grumbled John.
"The overnight news convinced me I should get here as soon as possible," said Sherlock. His phone buzzed, and he lifted it to his ear. "Yes... Good... Put her on." He turned to Liz and gave her his most dazzling smile. "I think you should take this, Mrs Barrymore. It's from Birmingham."
*******************
"Shelley? Shelley!" The Barrymores crowded round the phone as John hustled Sherlock into the corridor.
"Exactly how long have you known where that girl was?" he demanded.
"About... seventeen hours?"
"And you couldn't let them know sooner that she was safe?"
"She wasn't safe until five minutes ago. None of them may be safe for long if we don't get this sorted, but we had to spring her now to trigger the next move..."
"You mean you could have sprung her sooner."
"There was no point until we'd got the last message. The captors were checking in at 21 minutes past the hour every hour. If they hadn't, the operation would probably have been aborted."
"Sherlock, can you imagine what her parents have been through?"
"Fortunately not. I kept my imagination for tracking her down."
"So you know who's behind all this?"
"Not yet."
"But you said they checked in every hour..."
"John, these people are so paranoid about being monitored that they're sending coded messages via dinner menus. They make the Barksdale crew look like PR agents. Do you think they'd do anything as stupid as communicate directly?"
"Then...?"
"I observed that some sort of message was sent at the same time every hour. Mycroft's people tracked it down, eventually. Banal status updates on Facebook. Even more trivial than your blog."
*******************
They returned to the typesetting room, and John glared as the Barrymores wrung Sherlock's hands and thanked him for saving Shelley. Evidently Lestrade had denied regular police involvement and credited some special unit; not hard to guess who was behind that.
"So where do you come in?" John muttered to Lestrade.
"Any minute now, I think."
"What did he mean about triggering..."
The doorbell rang.
"Right," said Sherlock. "I need you to act as normally as possible, given that your lives are in extreme danger. Turn the radio back on. We'll be in the print room, and we'll come in at the first sound of trouble. But keep them talking as long as possible so the police back-up can arrive."
"Sherlock, you might have explained what we're up against," hissed John as they scurried into the back room.
"One, you didn't give me time with your lecturing, and two, I don't know."
They listened as Liz Barrymore opened the front door. Someone was asking about the damaged lock.
"Yes, the key stuck this morning, we're expecting the locksmith..."
"Mr Vandeleur?" That was Jack. "Wasn't expecting you."
John could see Sherlock typing Vandeleur into his phone.
"I decided to rewrite the last chapter," said the new voice. "Let me just show you."
There was a sudden shriek, and the sound of shrill barking.
*******************
John and Lestrade started towards the door, but Sherlock mimed the firing of a gun. No sudden moves; he's armed, he'll shoot.
"Mr Vandeleur?" he called out. It might have been a drawl, except that it was pitched to carry above the sound of pop music and yapping.
"Who's that?"
"I wondered whether we could discuss what happened the night Brian Epstein died. I've always had a theory."
"Come in, then, with your hands up."
"I'm not planning to publish, you can have my ideas." Sherlock was strolling down the corridor, his hands raised. John and Lestrade edged after him. "You see, there's an interesting detail about the pills..." He passed through the door.
"Do go on."
"It is rather distracting, the way you're holding a gun to Mrs Barrymore's head."
"Will you concentrate better if I hold it to yours?"
"You know, I think I might."
"But in fact Mrs Barrymore needs to concentrate, because before you interrupted I was asking her whether she'd heard from her daughter..."
Suddenly the yapping restarted, and a small Yorkshire terrier ran out into the corridor and began snapping at Lestrade's ankles. He was hopping about, and John was trying to grab the dog, when Sherlock yelled "Now!"
They rushed into the room, as Lestrade yelled "Drop your weapon! You are surrounded by armed bastards!"
*******************
Evidently Lestrade's Gene Hunt act needed practice, as nobody took much notice. Sherlock was gripping the wrist of a fair-haired man, whose hand held a gun currently waving at the ceiling. Liz Barrymore, who must have escaped his grasp during the diversion caused by the dog, was hurling slugs of type at Vandeleur and shouting about Shelley, while her husband and brother circled helplessly, waiting for the chance to intervene, and the terrier ran about under everybody's feet, barking excitedly in accompaniment to "Simon Smith and the Amazing Dancing Bear".
John seized a galley tray and tried to knock the gun from Vandeleur's hand, but couldn't quite reach. Just then there was an outraged squeal; Vandeleur had trodden on the dog as he and Sherlock swayed to and fro, and it sank its teeth into his leg. A gunshot splintered the window, but the weapon fell from Vandeleur's hand as he and Sherlock crashed to the floor. Ian kicked it into a corner, Jack caught the terrier, and Lestrade sat on Vandeleur, gabbling "I am arresting you on suspicion of false imprisonment and unlawful possession of a firearm. You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if -"
"Don't shut him up yet!" complained Sherlock, scrambling to his feet. "He's a fascinating mix of espionage and the Beatles."
*******************
The armed officers had finally arrived and were helping Lestrade to hand-cuff Vandeleur.
"Is that it?" asked John.
"Of course not," said Sherlock. "The kidnapping and the blackmail were merely means to an end; the message in the menus."
"So what is the message?"
Sherlock picked up a printed menu. "Would Mr Vandeleur like to enlighten us?"
The prisoner, stony-faced and silent, was evidently taking to heart Lestrade's caution about not having to say anything.
"Then let's see what we can do without his help. Mr Barrymore, you said the instructions you received related only to the course and the font."
"Yes."
"So the message cannot be complex, as none of the wording on the menu was to be changed."
"The diners would probably notice if the food didn't match the description," remarked John.
"True. And they didn't know what dishes would actually be served, but the number and type of courses at these affairs are boringly predictable. The substitute fonts are sufficiently similar that no one is likely to notice that a couple of lines look different, unless they are searching for that difference."
"So what does it mean?"
"I would say that the course indicates the time for the exchange of goods, and the font indicates the meeting place."
Vandeleur growled.
Sherlock smiled. "I take it that signifies a bullseye."
*******************
"Well, you got there in the end," said Mycroft. "With help."
Sherlock scowled at him. "I deduced the rendezvous, didn't I?"
"There weren't that many places where two individuals could meet discreetly during a formal dinner. Anyone could guess that Garamond meant the bar and Goudy the gentlemen's toilets."
"But the men who were passing information are under arrest now," said John.
Mycroft smiled maliciously. "The Hungarian might prefer to stay under arrest here. As both were covered by diplomatic immunity, they're being expelled, and I doubt he's looking forward to getting home."
"So neither was British?"
"Technically it was nothing to do with us, this time. Vandeleur seems to have acted as an international broker for parties selling state secrets."
"A consulting spy," suggested Sherlock.
"If you insist. I'll continue changing founts for another week or so, in case we can flush out any more deals he arranged before you caught him. We managed to keep the arrests quiet on the night."
"Are you going to keep using the Barrymores?" asked John.
"Yes. If anything sinister happens again, they will alert me by setting certain words in italic. They decided to keep the dog, by the way. They said her barking would make them feel more secure, and she would be company when their daughter returned to university. Her name's Beryl."
*******************
"That was the most bizarre case we've ever worked on," said John as they climbed the stairs to 221b.
"You think so?"
"All that effort - kidnapping the girl, blackmailing the family, hoodwinking Radio 2 - just to set up an encounter between some dodgy diplomats? It's preposterous! There had to be a simpler way to do it - some way of phoning or writing that would have stayed under the radar."
"It reflected the convoluted mind of Vandeleur," said Sherlock. "And probably his disdain for the 21st century. He was not above using some of its tools, but actually he wanted to be living in a sixties caper film with an early Beatles soundtrack. He really was an acknowledged expert on them, it appears."
Suddenly he giggled.
"What?"
"For me, the most memorable part was lying on the floor watching you wave that galley like a baton to the beat of the song about the dancing bear."
"That was Alan Price, not the Beatles."
"I'll take your word for it. It may be that your knowledge of the classics is less voluminous, but you are a conductor of light music."
John sighed. He pulled a menu out of his pocket - he had kept it as a souvenir - and studied it carefully.
"I keep meaning to ask - what is the difference between Garamond and Baskerville?"
Also posted on Dreamwidth, with
comments.
I do just about remember hot metal; I used to go into the Guardian building as a child and see flongs of the front page in my father's office, and I remember the great presses rolling. But I never saw the typesetters in action in those days, so I've had to glean what I can from online sources. I hope it's not too far out. Ditto everything else; I'm sure I would have benefited from a beta, but I ran out of time, so no one can be blamed except me.
This is, of course, for fengirl88.
THE FOUNT OF THE BASKERVILLES
Oxford English Dictionary
fount, font. Printing. A complete set or assortment of type of a particular face and size.
Oxford Dictionary for Writers and Editors
Baskerville (1706-75), English printer, designer of a typeface.
"It may be that you are not yourself luminous, but you are a conductor of light. Some people without possessing genius have a remarkable power of stimulating it." Mr Sherlock Holmes to Dr John Watson in Chapter One of The Hound of the Baskervilles.
*******************
"This is not Baskerville," murmured Mycroft Holmes. "I rather think it is Garamond."
He handed the dinner menu back to his PA, who frowned as she scrutinised the text.
"It's annoying, sir, but is it important enough to redo? The menus are needed in three hours - too long for Barrymore to turn them round, we'd have to use ordinary typesetters. And it's only the font..."
Fount. Mycroft didn't correct her, because she wasn't wrong; but he would always prefer the old form of the word, with its connotations of the foundry and the casting of metal type. "Font" was sweeping it away, as thoroughly as the modern technology that was almost completely displacing the old typesetters' craft. Almost; Mycroft could hold back the tide a little longer, from one small corner of the beach.
He wondered what the Americans had against the letter U? A preference for the Latin of the Roman Republic, he supposed, over the French of Norman feudalism.
"Perhaps not important in itself; we can use these menus tonight. But it is important to find out why. A line of Garamond amid the Baskerville today, a snatch of Goudy two days ago; this is not the Barrymores' normal service. We need to know why these mistakes are happening. Miss Aspall, would you be kind enough to call my brother?"
*******************
"Your brother wants you to investigate his printers' spelling mistakes?" asked John.
"Typesetters," said Sherlock. "They set the text before it's printed."
"Can't they use a spellchecker?"
"The problem doesn't seem to be spelling, but no. For certain jobs, Mycroft likes to use one of the last typesetting and printing firms in the kingdom setting copy in metal type instead of on a computer."
"Why?"
"Because my brother belongs in the nineteenth century, when this country counted for something, and because he thinks you can't hack lumps of metal. I've told him if he really wants to keep a secret he should write it down himself. A team of cryptographers could never penetrate Mycroft's handwriting."
"I thought it was dinner menus? What's secret about those?"
"It's probably easier to poison visiting heads of state if you know what dishes you're working with. But it's not just menus. There are some diplomatic documents."
"OK, that sounds more important, but I still don't see why a bit of punctuation is a matter of national security."
"Because these people don't usually make mistakes and now they do."
"Probably hired someone new."
"He'd know. It's a small family firm and they've all been vetted. Mycroft has a point," Sherlock said reluctantly, "it suggests something odd."
"So you're going to take the case?"
"You are. I'm busy."
*******************
John walked down Devon Street, checking the doors until he reached the plaque for Grimpen Press. He rang the bell, and after a minute a tall, mousy-haired woman answered.
"Mrs Barrymore?"
"Yes?"
"John Watson. I'm here from Mycroft Holmes." He registered alarm melting into suspicion as she glanced past him, looking for the black car, but he smiled brightly. "I took the bus from Waterloo. I've a letter of introduction" - he pulled it from the pocket of his sports jacket - "and you can ring his office for confirmation."
"Who is it, Liz?" A bearded man appeared, while pop music drifted through an inner door behind him.
"Says he's from Mr Holmes."
Another flicker of alarm. "Oh - you should've called. How can we help?"
"Mr Holmes just wants to know if everything is all right. Apparently there have been some small errors recently... Mr Barrymore?"
"Sorry, yes, we've been a bit distracted - our daughter's just gone to uni. I may have made the odd slip. Give him our apologies."
"What's happening?" Another man emerged from inside.
"It's OK, Ian," said Barrymore. "Mr Holmes sent this gentleman..."
"About the messages?"
The Barrymores looked at each other in dismay. John took advantage of their confusion to push through the door.
"Right," he said. "Let's try again. Tell me about these messages, from the very beginning."
*******************
"It started a couple of weeks ago," said John. "They arrived at work and found threatening messages, in their own metal type."
He had come out of Grimpen to call Sherlock, away from the music and listening ears.
"What sort of threats?"
"Didn't sound very specific - 'Barrymore, you're a dead man', that sort of thing. The premises were locked, of course."
"Of course."
"They were afraid Mycroft would sack them for the security breach, though they said there was no sign of anything else wrong. When I turned up, they pretended they were making mistakes because they were upset about the daughter leaving for university."
"Which university?"
"Does it matter? After Ian - Mrs Barrymore's brother - gave the game away, they admitted the real reason was worry about these threats. So... do we tell Mycroft?"
John could hear Sherlock humming. "Not yet. If it really were a threat to national security, the perpetrator probably wouldn't flaunt the breach. It would be better to give Mycroft the full story, and we don't know what that is yet. Are they still getting these messages?"
"Every couple of days, they said. Or nights, I suppose."
"Then you'll have to keep watch, and catch whoever it is."
John sighed. "Not ready to join me yet?"
"Still busy. I'm sure you're more than capable of handling a break-in."
*******************
John had explained that he wasn't reporting back to Mycroft Holmes yet and was going to stay on the premises overnight, so now he was sitting watching Jack Barrymore at work. It wasn't for Mycroft, at present; Barrymore was setting a study of the Beatles for someone who wanted an authentic sixties feel.
Despite the combined racket from the typesetting machine (Linotype, he'd been told - nothing to do with lino, it meant "line o' type") and Radio 2, which seemed to blare out non-stop, John found it quite interesting watching this all-but-lost craft. He'd worked it out now. Barrymore was operating a keyboard, mostly with his right hand; that caused letter moulds to fall out of the big box above him, dropping into place in a fixed line; when the line was full, Barrymore pulled a lever that sent it off to be cast, molten metal pouring into the letter moulds. The cast lines of raised letters gradually built up into a column - a galley, he remembered. Occasionally Ian came in and took galleys away; he seemed to be in charge of the actual printing, while Liz dealt with customers and handled accounts. And all the time the letter moulds were being returned to where they'd started, shot up to the top of the machine and somehow redistributed into the right box.
*******************
The clatter came to a halt, allowing music to fill the room - a sad, haunting voice that had almost been drowned by the machine noise. John recognised it, too; Harry had had a thing about Robert Wyatt.
But I just can't help thinking that if you were here with me
I'd get all my thoughts in focus...
He smiled. Were his thoughts more focused when Sherlock was with him? Or was it that Sherlock's thoughts were so focused it didn't matter - you could sit back and watch the expert at work? ...Expert.
"Wait a minute," said John. "This is a highly skilled job for which you've been trained. If the intruder is setting messages, doesn't that mean he must have trained on a machine like this? An old colleague with a grudge, perhaps?"
Barrymore shook his head. "He didn't set it, really. He just pulled the matrices - the letters - out of the magazine. Probably used tweezers. And then arranged them on the galley tray. It was a bit of a mess, but you could read it. Not a pro, though."
John sighed. "Sorry. Thought it might be a clue."
"Might have worked it out ourselves, then. Now, we're shutting down. If you and me are going to stay the night we need some grub - there's a chippy near here, or a burger?"
*******************
John could always tell whether Sherlock was in or not when he walked into 221b. Even if his flatmate was lying silent on the sofa, the room seemed to carry some sort of electric charge when he was there. This morning the flat was lifeless as John ran upstairs to take a shower. He was dressing in fresh clothes when his phone buzzed.
Where are you? SH
Baker street. Where are you? Nothing happened, btw.
Nothing conspicuous happened, or you'd have contacted me. Describe what did happen. SH
Barrymore got fish and chips, we sat and waited, we took turns to doze, nothing happened until wife and bro came in this am.
So you might as well have put up a balloon saying This is a Stakeout. Go back and do it properly. SH
Define properly.
Tell them you can't come back tonight, then turn up when they're out of the way. Keep out of sight. Don't blink. SH
How many nights do you think this will take?
You can sleep now. Get five hours. SH
Where are you?
Important business. I'll be back when you need me. SH
John sighed and set the alarm for half past three. After fixing himself a sandwich and gulping down some tea, he returned to his room, pulled the curtains shut, and fell into bed.
*******************
He crouched between dust-bins, watching Grimpen's back window, and tried not to yawn. Sherlock hadn't specified whether John should break in or not but, in case he was here a few nights, it seemed better to wait. Let whoever it was get in, and John would follow. Even if the man entered from the other side of the building, he'd use a light. No way could somebody pull those tiny letters out of the boxes and arrange them into a coherent sentence in the dark.
John checked his watch again. About twenty past four. This time he couldn't stop himself yawning. He was tempted to wake Sherlock with an update on his progress, or lack of it, and was fingering his phone when he finally saw the light. A faint, wavering light, a torch probably... this was it! He edged out of his hiding place, and ran round to the front, searching for a forced entry. Nothing. He tried the door handle; shut. But, pushing against top and bottom, he was fairly sure the Chubb locks were undone. Just the Yale, then. John took a few steps back, ran at the door and forced it open with a splintering crash. He rushed into the typesetting room, grabbed the intruder, and pulled back his head to see, in the pale torchlight, Jack Barrymore.
*******************
"OK," said John, getting his breath back and picking up the torch. "You'd better have a good explanation. And saying you're here for the same reason as me won't wash. If you were trying to catch someone, you wouldn't have waited till half past four to arrive. And -" he waved the torch at the Linotype machine "- I can see letters on that tray. You were forging a threatening message so you could show me, weren't you?"
Barrymore was still gasping. "No... yes... had to... Shelley!" He groaned.
"Shelley?"
"My daughter... that was the threat. They've got Shelley. Said if we wanted her back, we'd got to follow instructions."
"The girl at university?"
"Yes... went three weeks ago... she was texting her mum... then it stopped. Then we got the message."
"And the instructions?"
"Switch the fount in bits of the menus. They tell us which."
"Not the diplomatic stuff?"
"Just menus."
"And they still communicate using type?"
"Not now. Radio. Steve Wright show. They send in requests."
"But there must be thousands of requests coming in! How can they rely on getting through?"
"Pretend it's a sponsored walk. Keep sending updates - funny stories. He likes reading them out." He looked at the letters in the tray. "Sorry. Afraid you'd try to stop us if you knew. We have to get her back."
*******************
Given all that he had to report, John felt justified in ringing Sherlock directly.
"Good."
"Good?"
"Well, not-good for the Barrymores. But they're telling the truth at last. I don't think they're holding anything back now - nothing that they're aware of, anyway."
"So what do you advise?"
"They're right. They need to keep following the instructions, exactly. I'll talk to Mycroft. You'd better stay there, but keep out of sight, in case the place is watched. Let me know as soon as the next message about the fonts arrives."
"And are you coming yet?"
"Soon. I've a bit more to sort out here in Birmingham."
"Birmingham? That's where Shelley Barrymore... Oh god, Sherlock, you've known all along, haven't you?" He could practically hear the smirk.
"It was an obvious line of enquiry. They were lying to you, however incompetently, from the start - their first instinct was to get the unwanted visitor off the premises - but at the same time they couldn't help mentioning the daughter. Subconsciously they wanted you to find out."
"But how did you...?"
"Despite your failure to ask the right questions, I found out where the girl was supposed to be. And once I knew, it wasn't hard to ascertain that she hadn't been seen on the campus for several days."
"And have you...?"
"I'll be in touch. Bye."
*******************
They sat round the Linotype machine, listening to its clatter and an interview with Phil Tufnell. The air was tense, yet easier now that the tension was open, with nothing to hide. The morning courier had brought in a packet of papers from Mycroft, including a menu for a dinner commemorating the fiftieth anniversary of the European Social Charter. Jack had already set it.
"What if..."
"We take out those slugs and put in new ones in the other fount."
"And I've had another update from Rodger," Steve Wright was saying. The Barrymores froze; no need to ask why.
"Remember, Rodger's walking the length of the country to raise money for Children in Need. And he's just limped into Lancashire. In a minute I'll tell you what happened when he asked a policeman the way to the cricket ground at one a.m. in October. That'll make you laugh, Tuffers. But first, as he's in Lancashire, let's have a real oldie: George Formby with Mr Wu."
"Dessert, Goudy," translated Barrymore. He pulled a lever, grabbed the handwritten menu, and started to re-set the lines.
John texted Sherlock. Message received.
Understood. Want to stretch your legs? SH
Thought you wanted me to stay here.
You can keep me company waiting for Lestrade. SH
Where the hell are you?
Old Kent Road. Your nearest bus-stop.
*******************
The 172 bus came screeching up to the bus-stop, and a graceful, grey-haired Doberman of a man had sprung from the central exit.
"Budget cuts hitting the Met, Lestrade?"
"Yes. But I can get an armed response unit in five minutes if needed. And you're the one who told me to try to be inconspicuous."
"Then let's get back into Grimpen," said John. "If anything sticks out like a sore thumb here it's Sherlock's coat at a dingy bus-stop."
They headed back to the typesetters, and John made the introductions.
"Mr Holmes? You're Mr Holmes's brother?" asked Liz Barrymore eagerly. "Have you got news of Shelley?"
"Not yet, but I hope we'll have something very soon," said Sherlock, evidently deciding to overlook his relegation to Holmes minor as he slid into the reassuring mode he could do perfectly well when he chose.
"My colleagues in Birmingham are working to find her," Lestrade offered.
"Dr Watson didn't say you were coming," said Jack.
"I didn't know they were coming," grumbled John.
"The overnight news convinced me I should get here as soon as possible," said Sherlock. His phone buzzed, and he lifted it to his ear. "Yes... Good... Put her on." He turned to Liz and gave her his most dazzling smile. "I think you should take this, Mrs Barrymore. It's from Birmingham."
*******************
"Shelley? Shelley!" The Barrymores crowded round the phone as John hustled Sherlock into the corridor.
"Exactly how long have you known where that girl was?" he demanded.
"About... seventeen hours?"
"And you couldn't let them know sooner that she was safe?"
"She wasn't safe until five minutes ago. None of them may be safe for long if we don't get this sorted, but we had to spring her now to trigger the next move..."
"You mean you could have sprung her sooner."
"There was no point until we'd got the last message. The captors were checking in at 21 minutes past the hour every hour. If they hadn't, the operation would probably have been aborted."
"Sherlock, can you imagine what her parents have been through?"
"Fortunately not. I kept my imagination for tracking her down."
"So you know who's behind all this?"
"Not yet."
"But you said they checked in every hour..."
"John, these people are so paranoid about being monitored that they're sending coded messages via dinner menus. They make the Barksdale crew look like PR agents. Do you think they'd do anything as stupid as communicate directly?"
"Then...?"
"I observed that some sort of message was sent at the same time every hour. Mycroft's people tracked it down, eventually. Banal status updates on Facebook. Even more trivial than your blog."
*******************
They returned to the typesetting room, and John glared as the Barrymores wrung Sherlock's hands and thanked him for saving Shelley. Evidently Lestrade had denied regular police involvement and credited some special unit; not hard to guess who was behind that.
"So where do you come in?" John muttered to Lestrade.
"Any minute now, I think."
"What did he mean about triggering..."
The doorbell rang.
"Right," said Sherlock. "I need you to act as normally as possible, given that your lives are in extreme danger. Turn the radio back on. We'll be in the print room, and we'll come in at the first sound of trouble. But keep them talking as long as possible so the police back-up can arrive."
"Sherlock, you might have explained what we're up against," hissed John as they scurried into the back room.
"One, you didn't give me time with your lecturing, and two, I don't know."
They listened as Liz Barrymore opened the front door. Someone was asking about the damaged lock.
"Yes, the key stuck this morning, we're expecting the locksmith..."
"Mr Vandeleur?" That was Jack. "Wasn't expecting you."
John could see Sherlock typing Vandeleur into his phone.
"I decided to rewrite the last chapter," said the new voice. "Let me just show you."
There was a sudden shriek, and the sound of shrill barking.
*******************
John and Lestrade started towards the door, but Sherlock mimed the firing of a gun. No sudden moves; he's armed, he'll shoot.
"Mr Vandeleur?" he called out. It might have been a drawl, except that it was pitched to carry above the sound of pop music and yapping.
"Who's that?"
"I wondered whether we could discuss what happened the night Brian Epstein died. I've always had a theory."
"Come in, then, with your hands up."
"I'm not planning to publish, you can have my ideas." Sherlock was strolling down the corridor, his hands raised. John and Lestrade edged after him. "You see, there's an interesting detail about the pills..." He passed through the door.
"Do go on."
"It is rather distracting, the way you're holding a gun to Mrs Barrymore's head."
"Will you concentrate better if I hold it to yours?"
"You know, I think I might."
"But in fact Mrs Barrymore needs to concentrate, because before you interrupted I was asking her whether she'd heard from her daughter..."
Suddenly the yapping restarted, and a small Yorkshire terrier ran out into the corridor and began snapping at Lestrade's ankles. He was hopping about, and John was trying to grab the dog, when Sherlock yelled "Now!"
They rushed into the room, as Lestrade yelled "Drop your weapon! You are surrounded by armed bastards!"
*******************
Evidently Lestrade's Gene Hunt act needed practice, as nobody took much notice. Sherlock was gripping the wrist of a fair-haired man, whose hand held a gun currently waving at the ceiling. Liz Barrymore, who must have escaped his grasp during the diversion caused by the dog, was hurling slugs of type at Vandeleur and shouting about Shelley, while her husband and brother circled helplessly, waiting for the chance to intervene, and the terrier ran about under everybody's feet, barking excitedly in accompaniment to "Simon Smith and the Amazing Dancing Bear".
John seized a galley tray and tried to knock the gun from Vandeleur's hand, but couldn't quite reach. Just then there was an outraged squeal; Vandeleur had trodden on the dog as he and Sherlock swayed to and fro, and it sank its teeth into his leg. A gunshot splintered the window, but the weapon fell from Vandeleur's hand as he and Sherlock crashed to the floor. Ian kicked it into a corner, Jack caught the terrier, and Lestrade sat on Vandeleur, gabbling "I am arresting you on suspicion of false imprisonment and unlawful possession of a firearm. You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if -"
"Don't shut him up yet!" complained Sherlock, scrambling to his feet. "He's a fascinating mix of espionage and the Beatles."
*******************
The armed officers had finally arrived and were helping Lestrade to hand-cuff Vandeleur.
"Is that it?" asked John.
"Of course not," said Sherlock. "The kidnapping and the blackmail were merely means to an end; the message in the menus."
"So what is the message?"
Sherlock picked up a printed menu. "Would Mr Vandeleur like to enlighten us?"
The prisoner, stony-faced and silent, was evidently taking to heart Lestrade's caution about not having to say anything.
"Then let's see what we can do without his help. Mr Barrymore, you said the instructions you received related only to the course and the font."
"Yes."
"So the message cannot be complex, as none of the wording on the menu was to be changed."
"The diners would probably notice if the food didn't match the description," remarked John.
"True. And they didn't know what dishes would actually be served, but the number and type of courses at these affairs are boringly predictable. The substitute fonts are sufficiently similar that no one is likely to notice that a couple of lines look different, unless they are searching for that difference."
"So what does it mean?"
"I would say that the course indicates the time for the exchange of goods, and the font indicates the meeting place."
Vandeleur growled.
Sherlock smiled. "I take it that signifies a bullseye."
*******************
"Well, you got there in the end," said Mycroft. "With help."
Sherlock scowled at him. "I deduced the rendezvous, didn't I?"
"There weren't that many places where two individuals could meet discreetly during a formal dinner. Anyone could guess that Garamond meant the bar and Goudy the gentlemen's toilets."
"But the men who were passing information are under arrest now," said John.
Mycroft smiled maliciously. "The Hungarian might prefer to stay under arrest here. As both were covered by diplomatic immunity, they're being expelled, and I doubt he's looking forward to getting home."
"So neither was British?"
"Technically it was nothing to do with us, this time. Vandeleur seems to have acted as an international broker for parties selling state secrets."
"A consulting spy," suggested Sherlock.
"If you insist. I'll continue changing founts for another week or so, in case we can flush out any more deals he arranged before you caught him. We managed to keep the arrests quiet on the night."
"Are you going to keep using the Barrymores?" asked John.
"Yes. If anything sinister happens again, they will alert me by setting certain words in italic. They decided to keep the dog, by the way. They said her barking would make them feel more secure, and she would be company when their daughter returned to university. Her name's Beryl."
*******************
"That was the most bizarre case we've ever worked on," said John as they climbed the stairs to 221b.
"You think so?"
"All that effort - kidnapping the girl, blackmailing the family, hoodwinking Radio 2 - just to set up an encounter between some dodgy diplomats? It's preposterous! There had to be a simpler way to do it - some way of phoning or writing that would have stayed under the radar."
"It reflected the convoluted mind of Vandeleur," said Sherlock. "And probably his disdain for the 21st century. He was not above using some of its tools, but actually he wanted to be living in a sixties caper film with an early Beatles soundtrack. He really was an acknowledged expert on them, it appears."
Suddenly he giggled.
"What?"
"For me, the most memorable part was lying on the floor watching you wave that galley like a baton to the beat of the song about the dancing bear."
"That was Alan Price, not the Beatles."
"I'll take your word for it. It may be that your knowledge of the classics is less voluminous, but you are a conductor of light music."
John sighed. He pulled a menu out of his pocket - he had kept it as a souvenir - and studied it carefully.
"I keep meaning to ask - what is the difference between Garamond and Baskerville?"
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