The Finality Problem

by G. S. Denning

  I boggled at the thing. Was this some kind of joke? What was Lestrade playing at? I stared and stared, but could not understand.

  From behind me came a voice. “Will thirth be requiring any refrethment?”

  “Aaaaaaaaagh!” I cried, flinging my body over the illicit document. “Joachim? Knock, damn it! Knock next time! Did nobody ever teach you to knock when entering a sitting room?”

  “Er… no,” he said, then added, “Did thir’th guest not thtay for tea?”

  “No. Believe me, Lestrade does not want any tea.”

  “He did mention, when he came in, that he had peculiar tasteth. But I’m thure I’ve got thomething around here that he might like.”

  “Well, let’s hope not,” I reflected. “Just so you know, I am expecting another guest at teatime.”

  “And when ith that?”

  “Good God, man… What are you even doing in England?”

  * * *

  Hilton Cubitt was a tall, ruddy, clean-shaven gentleman, whose clear eyes and florid cheeks told of a life lived far from grim, gray London. He had an honest innocence to him that, I think, made him appear a touch younger than he actually was. Like any country gentleman working up to a somewhat sensitive topic, he preferred a certain amount of prevarication.

  “So, er, you’re a medical doctor, are you?” he asked, once introductions were out of the way and we were settled in with steaming cups of tea. He hardly paid attention to his, but held it in his left hand. Funny, but just that simple similarity to my friend, Warlock, made me like Mr. Cubitt all the more.

  “Chiefly, yes, a doctor,” I told him. “But I’ve handled a number of cases with Inspector Lestrade, and he knows he can count on my help.”

  “Ah. Good. Good…” He looked aimlessly about my sitting room for a bit, then remarked, “A fine house you’ve got here.”

  “Oh, thank you.”

  “Everything is so new, though.”

  “Is it?” Honestly, I hadn’t thought about it. I had some rather old books in the room, and a family portrait or two. Though, yes, I supposed most of the contributions were by Mary’s artistic set and were both modern and awful. I made a bit of a face.

  “Or maybe I’m just used to very old things,” Cubitt said quickly. “Five hundred years: that’s how long my family’s lived at Ridling Thorpe Manor. A cornerstone of the community, you know. We always have been. Though now, I suppose they’ve finally got a black sheep in the family. Me, of all people…”

  “Why is that?” I asked, doing my best not to look at the oblong envelope on the table between us.

  Yet Hilton Cubitt came up with a different answer than I expected. “I married Elsie.”

  “Oh?”

  “I didn’t mean to!” he protested.

  “Hmm. I know all about that. I didn’t mean to marry my wife, either.”

  “They warned me about her. I was on a trip to London last year and chose a boarding house in Russell Square because Parker, the vicar of our parish, was staying there. He warned me there was a lady present that any man who wished his reputation to remain unblemished would do well to steer clear of. I tried to. I tried! She was an American burlesque performer, they said, from a particularly infamous theater in New Jersey, called ‘The Joint’. They said she was a woman with no single ounce of reserve or decorum. And God help me, that wasn’t far from the truth.”

  “And you were drawn in and undone by her feminine wiles, I suppose?” I asked.

  “No! That wasn’t it at all! You see the thing was—the thing they didn’t mention—she’s wonderful. Every night the boring old farts on holiday would sit in the common room, gossiping and disapproving, while Elsie played piano. Oh, they didn’t like her at first, but it wasn’t long before we all did. She was just so light, you know. It was impossible to spend an evening in her company and not feel it was one of the brightest evenings you’d ever had. She knows what she is, but she is as unembarrassed as she is uninhibited. Elsie is a wild and free spirit, Dr. Watson, of a sort that does not occur in this land. They have to be imported. I feared she’d never want me, but when I made my suit, oh! How happy she made me, the day she said she’d be mine!”

  “And congratulations on that, so far as it goes. Yet I fear we are here to discuss…” I cleared my throat and tapped the envelope, “…other business.”

  His face fell. “Yes, of course.”

  I could not help but feel a swell of sympathy for Hilton Cubitt. I gave him a little smile.

  “When did it begin?” I asked.

  “Just over a month ago, I think. Elsie got a letter from America. But when she opened it she gave a cry of alarm. I caught just a glimpse of the writing. Or no, it did not look like writing at all, but a series of pictures. Elsie’s face went white; she swiped the thing up, folded it, begged a few moments, and ran upstairs. She was at her desk for over two hours, then came back down with a letter to post all the way to America. I asked her about it, but she told me not to concern myself.”

  “And is your wife in the regular habit of keeping secrets from you, Mr. Cubitt?”

  He blanched. “Well… yes. You must understand, Dr. Watson, that is one of the very conditions of our marriage. She has a past utterly unacceptable to English country society. She agreed to move to my quiet little corner of the world and put it all behind her. But she made it clear to me—very clear—that she did not wish me to pry. I have only one artifact of her previous life. She let me have it so that I might understand who I was marrying.”

  Hilton Cubitt reached into his coat with his left hand and withdrew—much to my chagrin—a second envelope. As he handed it over the table, I gave him the sort of look that said it was not my custom to have cases that involved quite so many shameful documents. Nevertheless, I shook it open, reached in and withdrew a framed photograph. The instant I saw it, I gave a cry of surprise.

  Not because of Elsie; she was exactly as expected. A young, pretty blonde thing, dressed in a dancing costume. It was perhaps a touch revealing, but, compared to the contents of the first envelope I’d received that morning, hardly shocking. She was depicted mid-song, clasping hands with another young woman about her age. The two smiled at each other as they sang—eyes twinkling, as if they enjoyed the bawdy little joke of their song every bit as much as they hoped their audience would. Mr. Cubitt told me, “Elsie is the one on the left.”

  But I already knew that.

  Because Irene Adler was the one on the right.

  Clearly, these were deeper waters than I had at first presumed. And yes, seeing Irene again had taken me aback, but it did something more. The instant I recovered, my wit focused to razor sharpness. If the Woman—my arch-nemesis, and though I would not quite admit it, my truest love—was involved, there was no room for error or inaction. What useful information did I possess? What information did I lack?

  “Now, the drawing you gave to Lestrade—how did you get it?”

  “It was slid under my door, two mornings ago.”

  “That will cause a shock,” I muttered.

  “Yes, the butler fainted and could not be revived for five or six hours. Two of the housemaids have quit my service. One of the others says she shall never leave now, as she’s got the best job in Norfolk. Salacious! I ought to get rid of her, but I’m rather understaffed at the moment.”

  “Did Elsie see this… erm… document?”

  “No. She was out. The staff brought it to me, and I brought it straight to Scotland Yard. Of course, I couldn’t keep the staff quiet, so Elsie knows it came. She’s rather upset I got the Yard involved and has expressed a wish she could have seen it first.”

  My eyebrows went up. “Really? That is telling. Any other strange behavior on her part?”

  “I fear so. Since that first letter, I have seen her several times, spiriting notes about. I didn’t know if they were something she had created or something she had received, but now I fear I know their content. This… this may have been going on for some time.”

&nb
sp; Hilton Cubitt hung his head and shook it back and forth in utter despair. I gave him another little smile. “Take heart, Mr. Cubitt. It is only natural to feel such distress when one finds out somebody is sending such items to his wife, yet I am confident we can find the culprit.”

  “Yet that may do nothing to answer my main concern!” Cubitt blurted.

  “Er… won’t it?”

  “Of course not! You’ve seen the picture of her past life! You know the kind of things she was surrounded by! What if… what if this is what she… likes?”

  “Oh! Right… I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “How can I compete with that? I’m just a simple country squire from Norfolk!” Hilton wailed. “Did you look at that picture, Dr. Watson? For example: did you see the one with that fellow standing straight, looking up, balancing that other fellow, using only the strength of his lips? The other man is straight as a board, lying right across the first man’s face as if there was no trick to it at all! Now, I could not be expected to—”

  “Oh no! Of course not!”

  “I mean, even if I could bring myself to do it, I still couldn’t do it! I’m not physically capable.”

  Strange, the slew of emotions that took me. I found myself touched by Hilton Cubitt’s devotion to his wife. The idea of failing to please her caused him acute stress. Then came the predictable wave of jealousy and anger at Holmes, for I had been robbed of the chance to feel that way about my spouse. Perhaps if I could have picked my own, things might have been different. But then came the strange reflection that I may well have selected the other person pictured in Elsie’s photo. This meant I might have found myself in quite the same boat as Hilton Cubitt: forced to try and play in a league far beyond my skill level. The revelation was deeply discomforting.

  I sighed. “I cannot guess if this is your wife’s proclivity. Nor can I tell you to what degree she might like you to try and emulate such. Nobody can tell you that, Mr. Cubitt, except your wife. You must ask Elsie.”

  He gave a laugh that was also a sob. “I can’t do that!”

  “I think you must.”

  “I could never be so direct.”

  I gave a shrug. “You could always come at it from an angle, I suppose. Next time you’re at breakfast inquire about her opinion of the weather, listen politely to her answer, and then say, ‘By the by, darling, I’ve been meaning to ask you: is this your pornography?’”

  “I can’t. I just can’t. Please, you’ve got to help me, Dr. Watson.”

  “Put your mind at rest, Mr. Cubitt. I shall do my best to unwind this knot that troubles you.”

  “But where will you even begin?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? New Jersey. The Joint.”

  * * *

  I had Lestrade on the trail before the day was out, wiring a number of inquiries to law enforcement officials in the States. Perhaps Elsie had such a reputation that we might even be able to discern her… er… preferences, based on previous arrests.

  But I knew that hope was slight. No, to know what was in Elsie’s heart, the clearest path was likely the best; we must ask Elsie. I puttered about all the next day seeing to my patients, but my mind was elsewhere. True, my body may have been palpating this cyst or evaluating that gout-ridden foot, but every ounce of my creative force was wondering how best to coax information from Mrs. Cubitt.

  In the end, I decided on a semi-falsehood. I would use my real name, and write her a letter, claiming to be working on an article entitled ‘Women who Love Men who Love Men’. At teatime, I decided it would be best to add the subtitle ‘And the Trials They Face’, to give the impression that she was speaking to a sympathetic ear. I dashed off one letter to warn Hilton Cubitt that this was my intention and sent it by the next post. I then wrote to Elsie, but resolved to hold on to it, in order to give Hilton time to protest. Perhaps he would not wish me to use falsehood to pry into a subject that might cause shame or discomfort to his beloved wife.

  Yet it wasn’t all that bad a lie, was it? If worst came to worst, I could just go ahead and write the article. In fact, the more I reflected on it, the more I realized it might be a sure path to fame. Controversy, to be sure. But fame.

  I carried the letter around with me all the next day, until shortly before two, when I mailed it off. Not five minutes later, as I headed home to take my afternoon break, a gentleman stepped from one of the shadowed alleyways before me and asked, “Dr. John Watson?”

  “I am.”

  “I have a communication here from Inspector Lestrade.”

  The man reached into his coat and withdrew a by now familiar item. If nothing else, this case was proving to be quite the financial boon to London’s unmarked-envelope manufacturers. Sure enough, it contained another sheaf of lewd male figures. There also seemed to be a note stuck in there, as well. Though I peeped in as carefully as I could, this seemed to make Lestrade’s messenger rather uneasy. He shifted back and forth on his feet, an innocent expression on his face as he stared purposely at a nearby tree. On a whim, I asked, “You did not happen to examine the contents of this package, did you?”

  “No!” he said, much louder than he ought.

  Then, “No!” again, his voice cracking with emotion.

  Then, “No, no, no, no! Aaaaaaghwaaaaah! Noooooooo!” as he burst into tears and charged off down the street.

  Back home in the privacy of my study, I began to examine the thing. Except… oh, I could hardly bring myself to look at the pictures. It’s exactly the sort of thing an Englishman is trained not to do. I concentrated on Lestrade’s note.

  Apparently, this second sheaf had been found by a passing gardener, nailed to the door of a small shed on a remote corner of the grounds. As it was near Elsie’s personal herb garden, she was the only person to use this shed. The profusion of recent nail holes in the door attested that several more notes may have gone unnoticed by the staff. When Elsie heard the gardener had taken the item, she confronted him, insisting that it was not meant for him and that he should give it back. This had come too late, as the note had already been en route to Lestrade.

  But Elsie’s wording vexed me. What did she mean, “give it back”? Did she mean she knew it was intended for her? Or might it mean it was not to her but from her? Or had the wording of Lestrade’s note not been exact, and I was merely chasing shadows? I was still sitting in my parlor, having a late-night pipe and musing about it, when the bell rang.

  I got to the front door just as Chives was greeting my unexpected visitor. It was a dark and ill-omened night. Through the open door, I could see that a cold drizzle fell from patchy clouds, driven in herds across the face of the moon by fitful, guilty winds. And there, framed against it all, stood Vladislav Lestrade.

  “Yes. Much better,” I told him. “An altogether more Lestrade-like moment to visit than the last time you came.”

  He favored me with a frown. “May we speak privately?”

  “Of course, Lestrade. Do come in.”

  No sooner had we reached the study than he drew yet another envelope from his jacket and said, “We have received more evidence.”

  Sure enough, there was a third sheaf of homoerotica. He spread it on my desk, then stood back and asked, “Well? What do you make of it?”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you. I believe you said you’d assist with this case, did you not?”

  “Yes, all right. But you didn’t tell me what the case was.”

  “Have you examined these documents?” Lestrade pressed.

  “Erm… a little.”

  “I think there is hidden meaning in them.”

  I shifted about and admitted, “Perhaps there is, but… look here, I’m no cryptographer, Vladislav. Isn’t there somebody at Scotland Yard who might tell us more?”

  “There was. Until he saw this and quit his position.”

  “Damn,” I mumbled. Then, because Lestrade was staring at me with expectation and disdain, I leaned in over it to do my best.

  “Many of the f
igures are repeated,” I noted. “In fact, I think there are several that were present in the first sample, as well. Then again, how many such acts are there? By God, the illustrator would practically have to repeat himself, wouldn’t he? But why spend hours generating so many redundant images?”

  Lestrade pounded the sheaf. “This is a code,” he insisted. “It has to be. When Elsie saw this latest example, she ran to Mr. Cubitt and expressed her desire to take a sudden vacation that very night! This has meaning for Elsie, Dr. Watson. Not only that, do you remember that theater in New Jersey you asked me to look into?”

  “The Joint? What did you learn?”

  “It was recently raided by Pinkertons.”

  “Why?”

  Lestrade shook his head. “That’s just it: Allan Pinkerton is not saying. Usually, he is quite happy to trumpet his organization’s achievements. He is only silent when he’s got his hands on something useful to him. It may be information, or perhaps something more palpable. I have no way of knowing. But I know this: despite his jovial public demeanor, Allan Pinkerton is one of the world’s foremost brokers of secrets. He’s in possession of quite a bit of magical might, too.”

  Well did I know it.

  “The case grows in complexity,” said Lestrade. “Now, do your job and decode this smut!”

  I leaned in again to try, but after only a moment I folded it closed and sighed. “I can’t. Don’t make me. I’m sorry, Vladislav, but I am simply not accustomed to dwelling on such things. Look, did the Cubitts go on that sudden vacation?”

  “No.”

  “Then I’ll travel to Ridling Thorpe Manor tomorrow morning, all right? I’ll address it directly. But please, please, don’t make me…”

  “Very well,” he said grumpily. “First thing in the morning.”

  * * *

  How strangely uncomfortable I was, sitting alone in a train car with three envelopes of homoerotic illustrations shoved into my coat. I had my medical bag with me, in case it should be needed. And my pistol also, for I really did not know what to expect in Norfolk.

  Nor could I have guessed.