by David Marcum
“I am sorry, but have express orders from Miss B. herself. Nobody is to be admitted, no matter who they are.”
“Very well,” sighed Holmes. “Watson, it appears we must return to Baker Street. We have nothing more to gain here.”
We returned to our waiting hansom and set off towards home. We stopped in Westminster, as Holmes announced that he needed to post a letter. He did not return to the cab for nearly twenty minutes.
“It certainly took you long enough, Holmes. I assume it is going long-distance?” I snapped, with undisguised sarcasm, my mood still dark.
“Indeed. For the simple reason that I had, first, to actually write it.” Holmes reply was cutting, and in my place I was firmly put.
“I am sorry, old man, but I am rather in the dark here,” I admitted. “And now I find that you have been consorting with - no, even worse, actually making deals with criminal gangs. My head is spinning. Whatever would MacDonald think?”
“Mrs. Hudson will provide you a wholesome bite to eat, you will smoke a fine Havana, and then, I shall endeavour to explain all that you have inquired upon,” Holmes replied, gently. He did not speak again until after we had pulled up outside 221b.
III
Mrs. Hudson was, once again, our guardian angel. A supper of cold cuts of ham and chicken was followed by a delicious fruitcake, laced liberally with fine Jamaica rum. After such a repast, it was impossible to continue harbouring a bad mood, and I retired to my armchair in far better spirits than before.
Holmes moved to his desk, opened a large drawer, and removed an elaborately inlaid Macassar ebony box, about twelve-inches-by-eight. The patterns covering its surface appeared strangely familiar, as if they might be half-remembered letters taken from an ancient alphabet.
He pressed a metal stud on the front and the lid swung upwards. I half-expected the box to contain a clue or even prove to be some fiendish apparatus connected to another case, but the reality was far from sinister. The interior was lined with a finely grained reddish-brown wood, probably cedar. The presence of a row of fat brown sticks confirmed that it was a cigar humidor. Holmes tilted the now fully open box towards me.
“Please take one,” Holmes asked. There were perhaps eight cigars left inside the box, which would have originally held twelve.
I took one from the centre and gazed upon it. Five inches in length, broader than was usual, perhaps as much as a forty-six ring gauge. The outer leaf was perfect: Dark brown, lightly veined, with a subtle glossy sheen. I gave the cigar a gentle squeeze. It gave slightly but sprung enthusiastically back. Despite his sometimes less-than-conventional habits, Holmes had kept these cigars in perfect condition. I struck and applied a long match, taking a short initial draw to avoid any flavours being imparted from the sulphurous match head. The second pull confirmed what I had suspected: This was a very special cigar. Spices, coffee, chocolate, along with hints of whisky and molasses, all hit me in a wave of sensations. I laid it down for a moment as Holmes filled and lit one of his ghastly clays.
“This is incredible, Holmes. Where did you get these cigars?”
“From a Spaniard whose family farm tobacco in something called the Vuelta Abajo, if I remember correctly,” Holmes began.
“In Cuba?” I asked, enthusiastically.
“I have no idea, Watson. By the time they arrived, I had moved on to other, more pressing matters.”
“What did you do for this Spaniard for him to have rewarded you with such a fine gift?”
Holmes raised an eyebrow and looked at me, quizzically. “Why, I bought them from him, of course. From his shop - the tobacconist in St. James’ Street.”
I sighed, but decided to ignore Holmes, whether he was joking or not.
“Holmes, you promised to share with me what you have learned, and more importantly, how you justify conspiring with criminals. Please feel free to begin at any time,” I suggested seriously.
“London is the greatest, but also the largest, city in the world. It therefore must encompass both the very worst of humanity along with some of its leading lights. The authorities can barely hold back the tide of crime as it is, and sometimes have to compromise to stop the flow becoming a full-scale flood. Accommodations are made, truces negotiated, agreements upheld. A state of anarchy benefits no one - not the police, nor the criminal underworld. As long as certain lines are not crossed - murder, excessive violence, or the involvement of victims above a certain class - then the authorities are prepared to turn a blind eye to some lesser crimes - protection, low-level smuggling, and unlicensed gambling.”
“But these are serious crimes. They cannot be simply tolerated, surely?” I stammered in reply.
“Maybe one day the police will have the resources and the appetite to go after all criminals, but for now they must prioritise, and we must understand. I, however, have left Barnes’ gang unaccosted for the simple reason that, until today, our paths had not yet crossed. He seemed to have taken this as some unspoken pact between us, but I can assure you, Doctor, that this was not the case.”
“But that is not what you said back at Barnes’ villa,” I argued. “You confirmed exactly what the thug had stated - that you had a deal with Barnes.”
“That, Watson, was merely an attempt to gain favour with the man at the door and then, hopefully, ingress to the house. It was a weak effort and it failed - badly, as you witnessed.”
“Well, that certainly eases my mind, a little,” I decided, after a long, reflective pause.
Although not entirely convinced, I had to give Holmes the benefit of the doubt. We spent the rest of the evening talking on unrelated issues, mainly news from home and abroad. It was only after I had bid Holmes goodnight and shuffled off to my bedroom that I realised that he had, yet again, skillfully avoided telling me anything of what he had actually learned regarding the case. I shook my head and sighed, then took to my bed, as confused as to the progress of the case as I had been at the start of the day.
IV
I tried to rise early the following day, but a combination of too much brandy the night before and the dampness in the air troubling my old wound made leaving my bed extremely difficult. By the time I sat down for breakfast, it was fast approaching ten o’clock. I apologised as Mrs. Hudson brought me hot coffee with my eggs and bacon. She managed a half-hearted “Tut” in admonishment, but the twinkle in her eyes gave away her true motherly feelings.
“Now, before I forget, Mr. Holmes told me to say that he hoped to be back before midday. He also said that if his guest should arrive before him, you were to keep her company until his return.”
I offered my thanks and Mrs. Hudson departed, smiling. “Call down if you would like more coffee.”
Left alone, I picked up the morning newspapers. The usual mix of politics, gossip, and crime were all present, but there was no mention of the Barnes murder. Considering that it had occurred more than thirty-six hours previously, I was more than a little surprised. It seemed that, for once, MacDonald had managed to avoid the story being leaked to the press. The presence of more than a few hardened, professional criminals would certainly have aided him in keeping the press at bay.
I spent the remainder of the morning reading and trying to catch up with my writings. As twelve o’clock approached, I began, involuntarily at first, to glance out of the window and listen for the approach of Holmes’s mysterious visitor. At half-past the hour, I heard the front door open and I bolted up straight in anticipation, but a familiar step on the staircase informed me that it was Holmes, returned from his morning’s investigations. His footfalls were remarkably light and unexpectedly rapid as he swept up the stairs. The door was thrust open, dramatically.
“Is she here?” demanded Holmes, his face flustered. He peered inside before relaxing and removing his coat and hat. He thrust his cane into the stand and sat down heavily in his armchair.
&n
bsp; “You look like you have had a busy morning, old chap,” I remarked. “Should I call down for coffee, or would you, perhaps, prefer something stronger?” I asked, gesturing to the drinks cabinet.
“I shall wait. Our guest will not be long.” Holmes rose, chose a pipe from the mantel, filled it from the Persian slipper, and settled back into his armchair.
“For whom exactly are we waiting?” I asked, with more hope than expectation.
“What do we know about Barnes’ killer, Watson?” replied Holmes, lighting his hideous, waxy black clay.
“Very little, really, I thought. A poisoner, certainly. Somebody with knowledge of Barnes’ habits and movements, of course. Other than that, I can ascertain nothing.”
“A good start, Watson, but you must deduce further. What do we know about poisoners?”
“Poison has been the favoured method of assassins since classical times, I don’t see how that helps. But wait a minute - Is poison not also one of the methods of murder most favoured by women? Along with the use of knives, I believe, it accounts for the majority of homicides committed by the ‘fairer’ sex.”
Holmes nodded slowly and deliberately.
“Are you referring to the ‘Miss B.’ mentioned by those thugs?” I suddenly understood. “Surely they must have been referring to a Miss Barnes, a daughter!”
“Precisely, Doctor. We all know about his son, Samuel, a nasty piece of work indeed, but he also has a daughter. Although she is far from well-known, her influence upon her father’s regime was far from insignificant.”
“Enough to have complete control over those thugs back at the house, at least,” I agreed. “But why would she kill her own father? And how on earth did she do it?”
“I think I hear the vessel, within which our answers dwell, arriving as we speak,” announced Holmes.
As I strained to register any sound at all, the doorbell rang and shortly after we heard light footfalls upon the stairs. The visitor knocked once only, but firmly. Holmes called and we watched expectantly as the door swung inwards.
In walked a young lady of perhaps five-and-twenty years. Her hair was blonde and held high at the front with innumerable pins. At the back, it hung low in a long, wide plait. Her eyes were bright sapphire, her nose a small nub above a wide, full mouth. She wore a satin dress of light blue, finely detailed with silver and gold embroidery. Across her shoulders was a stole of finest Russian mink. Around her neck, she wore a necklace of pearls and diamonds. As she moved into the room and accepted Holmes’s offer of a seat, I noticed a strange dichotomy. Despite her expensive finery, she did not act as one of the higher classes - her movements were natural and unaffected. It seemed to me that she was more than a little embarrassed by her own appearance.
“Miss Barnes,” Holmes began. “Welcome to 221b Baker Street. Please be assured that anything that you reveal here will be treated in the strictest confidence. I am Sherlock Holmes and this is my loyal friend and colleague, Doctor John Watson.”
“Mr. Holmes, Doctor,” replied Miss Barnes, quietly, “Firstly, let me tell you that I fully understand the situation in which I find myself. I make no apologies for my actions and am completely at your mercy.”
I was stunned by this most unexpected revelation. Was this a confession of murder? What could possibly have made her admit such a thing? I looked towards Holmes, eagerly awaiting his response.
“Well, Miss Barnes, you are certainly as brave as you are intelligent and ingenious,” Holmes replied, far from the response I had expected.
“But not enough to best Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Your letter gave me no choice but to come here and reveal all to you. My father was right about one thing, at least. ‘Avoid Sherlock Holmes at all cost.’ ” Miss Barnes smiled as she spoke. She clearly meant these words as a compliment.
“What letter was this?” I asked, rather foolishly.
“Oh, I see that Mr. Holmes has not confided in you his scheme.” Her smile was wide and honest. I noticed that her accent, although expensively schooled, still bore an echo of the East End.
“It was really most ingenious,” continued Miss Barnes. “He wrote a letter explaining that he knew everything, what I had done, and how I had achieved it.”
“And he sent this letter to you?” I asked.
“Oh no, that would have achieved nothing. I would simply deny all of his base accusations,” smiled Miss Barnes.
“Then to whom did he send it?” I asked, now thoroughly confused.
“To her fiancé,” interjected Holmes, abruptly.
I hesitated for a moment before asking her, “Why would he do such a thing?”
“Because he knew that I would intercept and read the letter. You must understand, Doctor, that I exist in a world of suspicion and mistrust. I must know all that I possibly can to survive, even it means spying on those who are closest. But it eats away at you, piece by piece, until all that is left is a hollow, paranoid shell. That is what my father became, and that is what I swore to avoid at all cost.”
“I tried for years to persuade my father to leave this world and become an honest businessman. He could easily have done this, but he enjoyed the life he had made too much. All of his friends, family, and associates were criminals. Why would he ever leave this life? The fact that nearly half of his income was now coming from legitimate sources meant nothing to him. The lifestyle was everything.”
“And then you met a man, an honest man,” added Holmes, gently. “One with no connections to your world. You wished to marry him and leave the underworld forever,”
Miss Barnes nodded, sadly. “Father refused, of course. You see, he wanted me to take over from him. My brother Samuel may appear the very image of my father, but he is vain, impulsive, and lacking in thought. If he were put in charge, the consequences would be dire. All of the truces brokered by my father would be breached and chaos and violence would ensue. Samuel could be the figurehead and the strong-arm, but father needed a more cerebral presence behind the throne.”
“Could you not have simply eloped with this young man?” I asked. “You are clearly not without means.” I gestured to her diamonds and pearls.
“My dear Doctor, do not think I haven’t thought this over a thousand times. Yes, we could have run, but he would have found us. He had ties to organisations across the globe. Where could we have hidden? The world shrinks with every passing year.”
“So you decided that you had to take drastic action.” Holmes’s voice cut through the fog of speculation. “You decided to kill your father and let your brother take control. He would then be fully occupied in his new role, leaving you free to marry your fiancé and eventually disappear from the scene altogether. That the family business might slowly crumble, or die in a haze of flame and violence, was of little interest. You wanted no part of it.” Holmes took a deep draught upon his pipe. He leaned back and sent the resulting smoke upwards, away from our guest.
“Well I do, finally, understand the reasons and motives behind this affair, but I still have one important question,” I managed, after some thought. “How did you kill your father, Miss Barnes?”
“Watson!” barked Holmes, loudly. “That is hardly a question to ask a lady.”
“I am sorry, but in the circumstances, I must know,” I replied, tersely.
“Later, Watson. But for now, we have a much more important decision to make. What do we do with the information that we have gathered?”
I thought long and hard.
“We must inform MacDonald, of course. Remember Holmes, a man has been murdered. Whatever mitigating circumstances you think there may be, surely it is for a court to decide the fate of Miss Barnes.
“I am sorry,” I addressed Miss Barnes, “but justice must prevail. I have the deepest sympathy for your plight, I just wish that you had approached us before you took such drastic action.”
“Watson, you forget that we lack the most vital element of all,” Holmes replied, sternly.
“Which is what?” I asked, genuinely surprised.
“Proof. We do not, in fact, possess any evidence whatsoever of Miss Barnes’ involvement with the death of her father. Nothing she says, or has said, here can be used against her. We are not the police. As regards our clients’ testimonies, our office is sacrosanct.”
I sighed and sank back into my chair. “I suppose you’re right. And I don’t suppose that you are going to voluntarily confess to the authorities, are you, Miss Barnes?” I asked, resignedly.
Our guest smiled sweetly, but kept her own counsel. I imagined her sitting in a courtroom, that same innocent smile beaming towards the jury. If we presented what scant evidence we had so far accumulated, we would be lucky to escape without a severe reprimand from the judge himself for wasting the court’s time.
“But I will not allow you to simply slip away and leave anarchy and violence in your wake,” Holmes intoned, darkly. “You know full well what will come to pass if your brother alone takes charge of your father’s affairs.”
“What do you expect me to do, Mr. Holmes?” Miss Barnes replied, a hint of concern breaking through her hitherto confident demeanour.
“You must stay and take control of the family business. You will continue to take full charge until such a point is reached where more than half of your family’s business is fully legitimate. You will then be free to sell these businesses and retire to wherever you so please, to live quietly with your husband, forever unaccosted by the authorities. Your brother can keep the remaining criminal concerns, as these should, by then, be too small to remain a major player in the city any longer. Any trouble he may then cause would be on a far smaller scale, which would be better for him and more manageable for those around him. Who knows? By then you may even have convinced him that running a legal business is a far more admirable path to follow.”
