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“Oh, for God’s sake, not again,” said John Watson, pulling his pillow around his ears. It was two in the morning, but Sherlock Holmes was yet again playing his violin. The temperamental genius had been at it almost constantly since he had solved his last case, which was three weeks ago. The music he played ranged from simple baroque melodies to modern atonal to flurries of notes that few besides Paganini could have come up with.
When he wasn’t playing the violin, he was moping around, depressed without the mental stimulation that he so desperately craved. All that John could do was wait for another case to come, when his friend’s energy and spark would return again. For now, he desperately needed sleep. While Sherlock had a more freelance career, John had a medical practice and patients to attend to each day. Putting in his earplugs, he did his best to fall back asleep.
The next morning when John came down for breakfast, Sherlock was fully awake and looking out the window.
“We have a visitor. A cellist, and a famous one at that,” he said, without averting his gaze.
“Hmm,” said John, not even bothering to ask how Sherlock had come to his conclusion. Looking out the window, he could see a man on the sidewalk carrying a cello, waving to a luxury car as it pulled away down the street.
“The brand of the case, and the fact that it’s got a few marks. Hardly one chosen by amateurs, given the price, and the marks show he’s travelled with it quite a lot,” explained Sherlock, pulling out his phone and tapping away on it. “His walk certainly tells of an ego; it’s practically a strut. Could be a wealthy hobbyist player, but a hobbyist wouldn’t travel with the instrument everywhere. So, he’s a professional, and a very, very good one. Ah,” he added, smiling slightly before tucking his phone back into his pocket and walking down the stairs to the door as the bell rang.
“Christopher Davison. And someone has done something to your cello.”
“How did you-? Oh, you are as good as I’ve heard, Mr. Holmes. And yes, someone has done something to my cello.”
Christopher Davison was a tall man in his mid-thirties, with short-cropped sandy hair. He wore a long black coat much like Sherlock’s, and his expensive-looking scarf and red dress shirt showed his wealth and obvious success. As John walked over to the living room to hear what he had to say, Davison tossed his coat and scarf at him, telling him to hang it up for him. John did so, but not without sending a scowl and questioning expression to Sherlock.
“This cello is a Stradivarius made in 1707,” Davison said with an obviously aristocratic air, sitting down as Sherlock opened the case to examine the instrument. “Or at least, that was what was in the case when I brought it to Redford Violins on Friday. I had been in Vienna performing the day before, but we caught some turbulence on the return flight, and I feared that something may have been jostled loose. I’ve always trusted Richard with my instruments for years, and he was the one who had sold me two of my current cellos, as well as helping me find where to buy the Stradivarius. He found a slight crack on one the seams, and so I left it with him for the weekend to allow the glue to cure. When I came to get it today I tested it out first, and the tone was absolutely awful.”
“It’s also quite heavy for an instrument of this quality,” remarked Sherlock, who was lifting up the instrument, “and remarkably seamless.”
“Exactly!” Davison exclaimed, jumping out of his chair. “That is not my cello, Mr. Holmes, and as shocked as I am about it, I believe that Richard Redford has stolen my cello and replaced it with a fake! This, this- forgery… has no seams anywhere on it, and has the tone quality of something nowhere near its actual value.”
“Replaced the real one to steal it and sell it, putting back a fake in a pathetic attempt to trick the owner in to thinking nothing was amiss,” Sherlock said as he put the cello back inside its case.
“And just what is that actual value? John Watson, by the way,” John asked, holding out his hand to Davison, who gave it a quick shake. John could feel callouses on the man’s fingers from playing.
“Thirteen million pounds!” he shouted, shaking his fists into the air. “Thirteen million pounds and a precious piece of historical genius, now lost by a two-faced thieving shopkeeper!”
Sitting back down and turning to John, he said “yes, I know who you are. I’ve read your blog.”
“Lost? Do the police not have the man in custody?” Sherlock asked, strapping the cello back into its case.
Davison sighed, sitting back down. “They searched all of the shop and his home, having me check every one to see that he had not hidden it somewhere. There were dozens of cellos in the shop, none of which were remotely like mine. He’s being held at Scotland Yard, but continues to deny having done anything. The bloody liar claims that all he did was take it to his home and do the repairs it needed, but I don’t believe him for one second. He knows where it is, and he doesn’t want to give it up, even though he knows we’ve got him.”
“Well, we do know how good the police can be at doing searches,” said Sherlock, putting on his scarf and coat.
“You’ll take the case, then?” Davison said, taking his own coat.
“Certainly. Just take me to the shop. I will do my own search, then we can meet this Richard Redford.” He turned to John. “Coming?”
“Of course!” John said, taking one last swig of tea. “Let’s find that cello!”
As they walked out to Davison’s waiting chauffeur, John whispered to Sherlock: “you do realize that the cello probably isn’t there, and that the police really can do a good search, right?”
As Sherlock responded with a grunt and flipped up his coat collar, John simply rolled his eyes. Sometimes it could get tiring putting up with that much arrogance.
They soon arrived at Redford Violins, where several police cars were already waiting. As Sherlock stepped out of the car, he heard a voice say: “Well, look who’s here.”
Turning towards the direction of the voice, he was met by Greg Lestrade, standing with his hands in his pockets. “Come to search for it, eh? Don’t think we did a good enough job?”
“The man wanted an expert opinion, so he came to me.”
“I did try to tell him that it probably isn’t here,” said John, walking up to join them, “but you know how he is.”
“Pictures. I need to know what the real instrument looks like.”
“Here, I have some,” said Lestrade, reaching into his satchel to produce several prints and handing them to Sherlock.
“I had these taken when I first got it,” said Davison, who had also joined them.
“Excellent.”
For the next thirty minutes, Sherlock walked around the little instrument shop, examining every cello that was there, as well as checking in closets, cabinets, and anywhere big enough to hide a cello. He even yanked at the floorboards and wall paneling, to see if there might be some hidden space where the stolen instrument might be kept.
Meanwhile, John was outside, talking to Lestrade and Davison to find out what the police had done so far on the case. They had been reluctant to take the case at all, and at first had not even believed Davison when he said that the cello was stolen. Eventually, persuaded by Davison’s high-profile status and the value of the missing instrument, they agreed to do a search. Finding no trace of the cello, arrested Redford on suspicion of theft. He was taken back to Scotland Yard and questioned. Throughout the entire questioning he was incredibly distressed, maintaining his innocence and insisting that he didn’t know what had happened to the cello.
By the time Sherlock came back out, his search having been fruitless, John at least had found something significant.
“It’s not there. It must be in the house. Or he could’ve dropped it off somewhere over the weekend. Lestrade, I need transcripts from the questioning.”
Lestrade stepped towards Sherlock, saying quietly “I can’t just give you transcripts from an official questioning, Sherlock. You’ll have to interview him yourself.” As much as Lestrade stretched the rules to allow Sherlock, who was still not technically an official detective, to work on investigations, there was always a limit on what he could do.
Sherlock gave a frustrated sigh.
“Sherlock.”
“Yes, John? Find anything on your own little investigation here?”
“I didn’t even tell you I was doing anything-”
“You were out here talking to Lestrade and Mr. Davison here while I was inside working. Of course you did some little investigating. You could’ve come in and helped me, but you felt it might be better to spread out, get more information, ask Lestrade. You have infinitely more faith in him than I do. While I am more of one to go straight to the evidence, you are often content to talk to the people, make conversation, see what you can find.”
“Yes, and it works. Richard Redford has a brother named William.”
“A brother? Oh, yes,” Sherlock said, a slight smile crawling onto his face. “Oh, this is just lovely. So many options! Do we go question the shopkeeper, or search his house, or question his brother? Lestrade, take us to Scotland Yard.”
They arrived at Scotland Yard, where Lestrade led them in to where Richard Redford was being held. Christopher Davison had been asked to stay behind due to concerns that his being there might pressure Redford too much.
The luthier was waiting for them in a small room. He looked to be about thirty, a tall, moderately thin man with short dark hair and thin rectangular glasses. Sherlock sat down across the table from him, while John stood behind him and Lestrade turned the recording device on in the room. Regardless of who was doing the questioning, it was still policy to record what was said.
“You- you’re Sherlock Holmes! I’m sure you already see me now as some sort of criminal, but-”
“I make no judgments until I have all of the evidence, Mr. Redford, so you don’t need to worry about being seen as what you may or may not be. Tell me first why you chose to take the cello back to your home with you that weekend, and everything that happened while it was in your possession.”
With a sigh of what was likely relief, the man began.
“Christopher Davison has been a long time customer of mine. I was the one who pointed out to him that there was to be a Stradivarius auctioned off, and he went right for it. He came to me last Friday, concerned that it might have been damaged slightly on a turbulent plane flight. I looked at it right away, and saw that there were a few small cracks, but that I would need to keep it for a few days to allow the glue to set. I would never leave an instrument like this in my shop for a few days, let alone overnight; I couldn’t sleep if I did. I asked him if I could take it back home with me, and he agreed.
“After I closed for the day at 6:00, I went straight home in my car, making no stops. My brother William lives with me while he’s at engineering school, and I phoned to tell him that he couldn’t bring any friends over that weekend. He wasn’t happy about it, so I told him that it was because I was bringing an instrument back, and didn’t want to be disturbed. It wasn’t like he exactly spent much time at home that weekend. He said he had work to do, and wouldn’t explain what he was doing, probably because he thinks it would be ‘too complicated for me to understand’. That’s rubbish, really. He thinks he’s better than me, just because he’s going to be an engineer instead of working in our family’s instrument shop.
“Anyway, I kept the cello in my little workshop at home. The room is locked whenever I have an instrument there that isn’t mine. I did the work on it right away Saturday morning, which took me nearly the whole day, since I was being so careful with it.”
“Why did you do the repair on Saturday morning, rather than do it right away on Friday?” asked Sherlock.
“I was tired; I had done many other repair jobs that day, and wanted to work on it when I was fresher. I’m an early riser, and I just can’t work well late at night. I checked each night that the door to the room was locked, and I left it to cure after the repair was done. I even closed my shop on Monday so that I wouldn’t need to leave the cello alone or move it before it was fully cured. I noticed it was quite heavy when I picked it up to bring it to my shop this morning, but I didn’t think of any reason why it would weigh so much more. Now,” he said, leaning his head on his dejectedly, “I wish I had listened to myself and checked it over again before I took it back with me; then I would’ve realized sooner that it was gone. Mr. Holmes, I swear I am not the one who stole the Stradivarius, but I am also at a complete loss as to what has happened to it!”
“How has your shop been doing lately? Loss in profits, any debts to pay?”
“I have no debts at all. Business has been improving recently, and I’m seeing more clients than I ever had before! But now, with this, I doubt that will continue. Even any suspicion that I might’ve stolen an instrument from a client, people won’t trust me. I’m ruined!”
“And where is William now?”
“William’s at school as usual today. He said he was working with his mentor, Dr. Greenridge.”
“And what does your brother look like?”
“Here,” said Redford, taking his phone from his pocket and pulling up a picture.
After looking at the image for several seconds, Sherlock got up, buttoning his coat as he motioned to John that it was time to go. “That’s all!”
John nodded his head towards the disgraced shopkeeper, then thanked Lestrade. “Guess it’s off to the house now.”
“I have strong reason to believe that man is innocent. He has no motive for stealing it, and admitted himself that even any suspicion of theft would ruin his business,” Sherlock said quietly to John when Lestrade was out of hearing.
“You think it was William, then?”
Sherlock gave no answer, or even any indication of an answer. John assumed that he either hadn’t decided for certain, or that he wasn’t yet willing to share what his conclusion was.
They soon arrived at the house where William and Richard Redford lived, where Lestrade showed them inside. There were a few officers still searching around the house. Sherlock finally seemed to be convinced that the cello was not in fact hidden there, and instead asked to search William’s room. He looked under the bed and rifled through each of the drawers. Finally, he pulled out of one of the drawers something that looked like binoculars, but with the top two lenses angled slightly towards the center, and a stick like a handle that had a third camera on the bottom.
“A 3D scanner. What exactly was William’s field of engineering?”
John looked through the scattered papers on the desk, and saw blueprints and titles; “3D printing. He’s studying 3D printing.”
“If that’s here, then…” Digging through the rest of the drawer, Sherlock found a USB cord, with a plug on one end that fit into the base of the scanner.
“Yes! I need a computer that can read this data. One with a 3D modeling program.”
“Forensics,” said Lestrade. “They’ve used that sort of thing to model crime scenes before.”
They uploaded the data from the scanner, and couldn’t believe what they saw: a digital replica of the Stradivarius, precise even in the colors and wear of the varnish.
“Find and arrest William Redford, now. That cello is most certainly a copy, and here the evidence for how it was made. Impressive, I must admit, and he seems to have incredible skill at the process for just a student. His knowledge of cellos from his days growing up around instrument makers certainly helped him do it. Making a cello by this method would’ve required layers and layers of sawdust, held together by glue in between every layer, which explains the weight. Of course, a copy can’t come close to mimicking the tone quality and resonance of a genuine Stradivarius, which explains how terrible the fake sounds.”
They set off at once for the university, taking the scanner with them as proof in case William denied any wrongdoing. On the ride over, Sherlock searched on his phone for what building Dr. Greenridge was in, since William was all but certain to be there with him. They could only hope that William hadn’t made a run for it before they could apprehend him.
The three men-Lestrade, John, and Sherlock- went in to the building, with Lestrade posting an officer at the door to prevent the suspect from escaping. They went swiftly but quietly, so as to come up on him by surprise.
They eventually found William in the printing lab. He looked similar to his brother, but wore a black track jacket and kept his hair longer. Hearing them enter the room, he spun around, fear on his face. He tried to run past through the door on the other side of the large room, but was tackled by Sherlock as he ran after the thief.
“The innocent don’t run,” said Sherlock to Lestrade as the detective handcuffed William.
“Where is the Stradivarius?” said Lestrade.
“I don’t have it! He has it!”
“Who has it? Who helped you, William?” Sherlock said, his voice powerful.
“No one helped me, I did it myself!”
“Lie! A student couldn’t make that convincing of a copy. I know you had someone else’s help.” He paused a moment, then narrowed his eyes and smiled slightly. “Tell me where Dr. Greenridge is.”
“I said I wouldn’t- oh, it’s over now,” he said, ceasing his struggling and admitting defeat. “He’s the one who told me to do it. I trusted him, and he promised me a job right away, before I even graduated, if I helped him. I didn’t know until today that it wasn’t just any old cello. Dr. Greenridge is my mentor, and we wanted to test if we could make a cello using sawdust as a base, instead of the plastic usually used in the printing process. I mentioned that Richard had brought a cello back with him, and so we decided to cease the opportunity. I knew where the key to the workshop was, and he’s such a heavy sleeper that he never heard anything, not even when I came in to switch the copy into the case. I had planned to tell him before it was given back to the client, but he left early and I was too late. I didn’t want to tell him, or he would know, and be even more cross with me. Dr. Greenridge took it to his house. It’s there, I promise.”
“You’re still in big trouble,” said Lestrade. “Don’t think you’re getting off just because you told us where it is.”
They drove to Dr. Greenridge’s house, and locked William in the police car while they went in.
Lestrade knocked on the door. “Open up! Police!” Trying the doorknob, he found it was unlocked, and so they rushed in. No one else was on the main floor of the house, so they went upstairs.
They found Dr. Greenridge in his study, the cello in its case by the window.
“Oh, so William did talk. I suppose it’s all over now anyway, our little game.” He simply held out his hands for Lestrade to arrest him. For as much of a criminal as he was, once the challenge was done and the truth found out, he simply walked into the punishment he had earned.
“Just one question,” he asked, as Lestrade led him out to the car. “How good was it, the copy? It really looked genuine, didn’t it?” He smiled, but it was a defeated smile. The fun was over, and he had to face the consequences.
“Looked, but didn’t sound,” said Sherlock.
The last they saw was the man’s face, now sullen and disgraced, after his plan had not actually worked so well in the end.
“As good as technology is, John, it can never match the true quality of an expert craftsman.”