Sherlock Holmes and the Unexpected Inheritance (2)

I could see the look of disappointment on Holmes' face, he had hoped that Mr Blackwell and his mysterious letter would prove an unusual case, but having heard the letter in full he was most unimpressed.

 

"I'm afraid, Mr Blackwell, that this isn't the exciting case you thought it was. Letters of this kind are not uncommon, they are simply a ruse to obtain people's bank account details for fraudulent purposes."

 

"I'm aware of the format Mr Holmes, but in my case it is entirely plausible. I do have family in Nigeria, including, I believe a great uncle Samuel."

 

"In which case why come to me, if you think the letter is genuine?"

 

"That's just it Mr Holmes, I don't think the letter could be remotely genuine. Our side of the family haven't had any dealings with the Nigerian side for decades, besides which Samuel has a huge family of his own, he would have no reason to mention me in his will, certainly not in relation to his shareholdings and money. That's why I thought of you, it's such a mystery, if it's not genuine, what is the purpose? Whoever sent this already knows enough about me to know about my very distant family in Nigeria, my current address and who knows what else."

 

Holmes smiled, thoughtfully, before springing into action.  "Tom," he called through the door and, as he did so, scribbled a note very quickly, his writing struggling to keep up with the speed of his thoughts.

 

"Your address is the one on the envelope? Have you a middle name?"

 

"Stanhope. There's an amusing story behind that name..."

 

Holmes waved the amusing story away, dismissively. "No time, no time. Tom, take this letter to Mr Merryweather at the Coburg branch of the City and Suburban Bank, he owes me a favour. Wait with Mr Merryweather, he will give you a message to pass on to our Mr Blackwell, Mr Merryweather will give you the address."

 

Tom dashed off at pace. "I have taken the liberty of setting up a new bank account for you. It will contain no money and nobody is allowed to remove money from the account, not you, not even the Queen.  Tom will call round with the account details and you shall write this letter in reply to the one sent," he quickly scribbled out a long response in perfect script. "You had best away, or Tom will be home before you are."

 

"Well Watson, we have baited the hook, now we wait to see if the fish chooses to bite."

So saying Holmes picked up his violin and was soon lost in a cacophony of his own devising.

 

xxx

 

A few days later I called on Holmes to see if there was any update. Tom showed me up, but he wasn't alone. He was in conference with an elderly black man with long dreadlocked hair and the air was thick with the fug of ganja smoke.

 

"Ah Watson, I'll be with you shortly, I'm in conference with my good friend Raggardy. Perhaps if you were to keep Mrs Hudson company, I'll be with you as soon as I can."

 

"You the famous Doctah Watson," the black man said. "I read all you books and stories."

 

"Always nice to meet a fan," I said. I am frequently amazed by the sheer diversity of mankind that has happened upon my books.

 

"Ah don't need a doctah mahself," the man continued. Mah doctor is here," he held up his ganja cigarette, "She cures all mah ill. This back here," he gestured to his back, as if I might be unsure which back he meant, "Before the ganja it was agony for me, like the devil was trying to tear mah spine from mah body. With mother ganja here, the pain is gone."

 

He smiled a ganja-smile.

 

Numbed into an intoxicated oblivion is not my view cured, but nevertheless I noted his claims for the drug. As a medical man nothing interests me more than the human body, for me treating human pain and disease gives me the same satisfaction Holmes must feel when he solves a case. Whilst I was waiting in the kitchen for Holmes to finish his consultation I wrote up brief notes on the gentleman's claims. A number of my patients suffered bad backs, it would be interesting to see whether a prescription of the active ingredients of the ganja drug (perhaps taken by means of a potion rather than one of those disgusting cigarettes) would have any effect. It would at the very least make an interesting paper for the Lancet.

 

After half an hour in the kitchen with Mrs Hudson I heard the front door and rushed in to see Holmes, who was opening a window to release the ganja smoke.

 

"Who on Earth was that, Holmes? A case?"

 

"Our case, Watson, the Blackwell affair. I asked Raggardy for his advice, as he knows everything there is to know about the Nigerian community."

 

"Ah, I see, of course.  And what did he tell you?"

 

"Among a thousand and seven irrelevancies Watson he told me exactly what I needed to know. No rich Nigerian has died recently. There was a Samuel Blackwell, he was indeed something of a name in the community, but he died over a decade ago, and his fortune has been long spent. And, as Kenneth said, an extended family had long since exhausted any money that had been left.

 

"So the letter was a fake after all."

 

"That's the interesting thing, Watson. I have here a note from Mr Merryweather. There has been a deposit in Mr Blackwell's new account."

 

"How much Holmes."

 

"Five hundred and seventeen pounds and 23 new pence."

 

"But if there hasn't been a bereavement then it can't be an inheritance. Where on Earth has the money come from Holmes."

 

"That, my dear Watson, is the three-pipe question."