My Sherlock Holmes

by Michael Kurland

  “There is nothing to forgive, my dear,” I said, “and yes, I often feel the presence of the one with whom my husband had previously shared his life.” And occasionally, John also speaks of his first wife, Mary, I thought, but held my tongue.

  The young woman smiled. “Oh, you have no idea how much better it makes me feel to know that my situation is not unique. Thank you, Lady Pettigrew.” She rose and offered her hand, which I took. Then Harry escorted her out of the room. When he returned, he looked like a kid who had just won ownership of a candy shop in a sweepstakes. “Well, Amelia, what d’you think?”

  “Frankly, Harry, I feel slightly criminal presenting myself to the poor girl as something I am not. Lady Pettigrew, indeed!”

  “Nonsense, ducks, just look at how much better you made her feel by talkin’ to her.”

  “I suppose so,” I acknowledged. “But I have no idea if I can actually help her.” I glanced at the piece of vellum again. “The only lines that make any kind sense are those in the last part of the verse. The references to Tower, Dudley, King and Castle seem to point to young Lord Dudley, the husband of Lady Jane Grey.”

  “Lord and Lady Who?”

  “Lady Jane Grey was an unfortunate teenaged girl who got caught up in the political and religious machinations of Lord Dudley’s father, Northumberland, who was an advisor to Edward the … Sixth, was it? Yes, the Sixth … who was himself a mere boy. As a result, Lady Jane was proclaimed Queen of England. This was before the time of Elizabeth, before any woman had actually been crowned as sovereign, so the idea was still somewhat novel. But the plot fell to pieces when Bloody Mary, the eldest daughter of Henry the Eighth, ascended to the throne. Both Lady Jane and Dudley were arrested as traitors, imprisoned in the Tower of London, and executed.”

  Harry looked confused. “I must’ve missed that day o’ school.”

  I smiled. “This comes not so much from school, Harry, as from my years as a governess. History was always my favorite subject, next to literature. Perhaps one day I shall take you on as a pupil.”

  “So, is that it, then? The riddle’s about this Dudley Grey bloke?”

  “I do not know, Harry. Some of the references seem to fit, but others do not. ‘Castle’ is clear enough—whatever else the Tower of London may be, it is first and foremost a castle. ‘Upper Tower’ would seem to refer to the place where the prisoners would have been lodged. And ‘Riseing Dudley’ is likely the young lord, who nearly rose to the status of prince. It would be logical to assume that ‘King’ is a reference to Edward the Sixth, though why he should be ‘Slopeing’ is anyone’s guess, unless there is an archaic meaning to the word. ‘Queen’ could signify either Lady Jane or Mary, though ‘Earl’ is puzzling. It might mean Northumberland, though if memory serves, he was a duke, not an earl. As for the references to ‘St. Andrew,’ ‘Lion’ and ‘the Mercer,’ I’m afraid I haven’t a clue.”

  “But you’ll get it, ducks,” Harry said, giving me a wink. “I ’ave complete confidence in you.”

  I sighed. Harry was perhaps my oldest friend, and I was loath to hurt or disappoint him in any way, but inwardly, I prayed that this latest scheme of his would not lead to trouble.

  Harry was able to secure the services of the phaeton to take me back home. Once there, I pulled down from our shelf an old book of English history and began to pore over it, hoping that a clue might leap out from the pages to help identify the references in the riddle. Yet the more I read, the more mysterious the lines became.

  One of the phrases that continued to puzzle me was “the young Protestor,” which implied a figure who was actively fighting against a reigning monarch, perhaps even a usurper. Neither Lord Dudley nor Lady Jane fitted that description, since others attempted the usurpation on their unwitting behalf. The reference to “Lion” might stand for England itself, though “the Mercer” made little sense. Could it be a name? I glanced through the index of the book to see if I could find any notable personages named “Mercer.” I found none, though several entries down I came across a name that sent a bolt of realization through my mind: Monmouth.

  I quickly turned to the pages indicated and skimmed down the history, augmenting what I already knew about the failed attempt to usurp the throne from James II. In 1685, the Duke of Monmouth, the illegitimate son of Charles II, had staged an uprising against James that was as much a Holy War as a battle over the throne, with James on the one side holding strong Catholic sympathies, while the rebellious Duke championed the Protestant cause. The Monmouth rebellion was quickly quelled and the Duke was tried and executed. This appeared to satisfy the riddle’s phrase “the young Protestors loss” far more than did the story of Lady Jane Grey. The association with Monmouth also gave new significance to the fact that ‘Protestors’ was capitalized—not only did it mean one who was protesting the reigning monarch’s right to the throne, but one who was a Protestant. What’s more, the reference to “St. Andrews cross,” which was the symbol of Scotland, could now be seen as representing James II, who was also King of the Scots. But then, what of “Dudley”? How on earth did he fit into the Monmouth rebellion?

  After another hour or so of fruitless research, with little to show for the effort except tired eyes and a headache, I decided to put the riddle to rest for the evening.

  The next morning, after dressing and breakfasting, feeling quite refreshed, I picked up the vellum once more and resumed work on it, but quickly came to the same stone wall of confusion. It was becoming clear my best course of action was to seek the assistance of a professional scholar.

  After informing Missy that I was going out, I stepped out into a sunny and comfortably temperate autumn day, and embarked on a very pleasant walk past shouting news vendors and pungent fish shops, down to Oxford Street, where I caught the bus and rode it nearly to the impressive doorstep of my destination, the British Museum. Hurrying inside, along with a throng of other Londoners, I went straight to the reading room, located in the building’s enormous rotunda, and looked around until I located a gaunt, white-haired man whose stooped frame and thick spectacles bespoke of a lifetime spent among the volumes. From my previous visits, I knew that he was a member oi the library’s staff, though I had never discovered his name. He was, however, so much a fixture of the reading room that I would not have been surprised to learn that, instead of retreating to his home at day’s end, he nightly shelved himself along with the books.

  Edging close to him, I whispered: “Pardon me, but I need some assistance.”

  He slowly turned my way. “Yes?”

  “I need to find some information about Monmouth.”

  “Oh, yes, Monmouth,” he said slowly, savoring the worlds. “Are you interested in the Duke or the street?”

  “The Duke. I doubt the street would help me.”

  “Quite so,” the librarian sniffed. “Please follow me.”

  He led me to one particular shelf, where I saw in nearly a dozen volumes devoted solely to the Duke and his imprint upon history. Almost without looking, he selected two volumes in particular, slid them off the shelf, and deposited them in my hands. “These would be the best from which to begin,” he said.

  I groaned inwardly as [ glanced at the remaining volumes, knowing that it would take a fortnight to comb each book for clues. But dutifully I carried the first two tomes to the nearest desk, while the librarian disappeared into the maze of shelves.

  After an hour’s worth of reading, I had gained no more insight than that with which I had walked in, except for the discovery that one of my favorite aromas in life, the delicate but unmistakable scent of printed pages in a book, managed to antagonize my nose when the pages in question were aged and dusty enough. I sneezed and snapped the book shut at the same time. This was futile. Perhaps I would have been better off dousing my anger at Mr. Holmes long enough to throw this infernal conundrum onto his plate, like Harry had requested in the first place.

  “How are we doing?” a voice behind me asked, and I turned to see that my fri
end, the librarian, had returned.

  “Not well,” I admitted. “Perhaps I should have asked for the street after all.”

  “Hmmp,” he snorted. “I do not even understand why they would give a street a name so connected to a known traitor. There was really no need to change it. I can see nothing wrong with the name St. Andrews Street. But that, it seems, is the foundation upon which this August city is built: continual change, and most of it merely for the sake of change. If you are interested in this, I could direct you to a copy of Vanished London.”

  He looked at me as though awaiting a response, but I could form none. Had I heard correctly? “I’m sorry, but would you repeat that?” I finally managed.

  “I was suggesting the book Vanished London, a capital collection of photographs taken of buildings and landmarks right before they were demolished.”

  “No, I mean about Monmouth Street and St. Andrews Street.”

  “Oh, that,” he sniffed. “Simply that the thoroughfare now known as Monmouth Street was once called St. Andrews Street. I thought everybody knew that.”

  “Oh,” I uttered, raising a hand to my head. All this time I had been taking of the phrase St. Andrews cross in the riddle to mean a representation of the actual cross upon which the saint had been martyred. But what if was not a religious cross at all? What if it signified one street crossing another? Heavens, could it be that the riddle was literally a road map that pointed the way to its secret?

  “Madam, are you unwell?” the librarian asked.

  “What? No, I am fine, thank you,” I quickly replied, “but would you happen to have a map showing the street when it was called St. Andrews?”

  “I am positive we do,” he said. “We pride ourselves here that, given enough time, we can produce anything.” He disappeared into a back room and returned some ten minutes later, proving himself to be as good as his word. “Here we are,” he said, holding a folded map of the city of London. “This is dated a mere forty-five years ago, but it is already a repository of obsolete information. I believe you will find what you are seeking here.”

  Carrying the map to a nearby table, he carefully unfolded and examined it, his bony finger poised and hovering over a section in the middle. “Ah, there we are,” he said, dropping his finger on a particular spot. As I examined it, my heart leapt.

  After questioning the librarian some more, and making notes of the details of the map, I headed back home. There I telephoned Harry at the offices of Chippenham and Co.

  “I have it!” I shouted into the telephone box, a device I normally loathe, but one that, at times, does prove convenient. “I’ve solved the riddle!”

  “Gor … I mean, my word, it didn’t take you long.”

  “Honestly, Harry, it came about as much from chance as anything. But I have it.”

  I looked down at the sketch I had made from the map, the one that depicted St. Andrews Street crossing not only Earl and Queen Streets, but also Mercer Street, where it met its northwesterly extension, White Lion Street. This series of crossings was completely encased by a diamond made up of Tower Street, which moved upward to Dudley, which in turn rose to King Street, which sloped back down to Castle Street. “The words of the rhyme were all London street names, Harry, pinpointing the last place any one would look for wealth. The are the streets leading to and surrounding Seven Dials.”

  “Seven Dials? Blimey!” he cried, then caught himself, presumably for the benefit of anyone else at the offices of Edward Chippenham and Co., who might be within listening range. “Uh, I mean, do tell, Lady Pettigrew,” he uttered in high English.

  I continued describing the clues I had found on the map, still marveling at both the solution to the riddle, and the cleverness of its creator. Seven Dials was the area immediately surrounding the convergence of seven streets into a hub, which at one time was marked by a tall column containing seven sundial faces—hence its name. It had originally been an attempt at creating a fashionable neighborhood, but it rapidly fell into disrepair, and eventually became one of the worst and most crime-ridden slums the city ever had. Recent attempts to rehabilitate the area had helped, but it was still a place to be avoided after dark.

  “The most significant clue of the entire riddle,” I told Harry, “was the one we completely ignored: the word ‘neale,’ which I took to be a misspelling. But the man who laid out Seven Dials in the late 1600s was named Thomas Neale.”

  “And there’s been a treasure hidden under the bloomin’ rookery ever since,” he mused. “All this time and no one ever knew.”

  “That gets into the most fascinating part, Harry. According to the librarian at the British Museum, the column was torn down by a mob in the 1770s because of the rumor that a treasure was buried underneath it. It seems probably that the source of that rumor was the riddle, which helps confirm that it is indeed as old as Mrs. Ramsay states.”

  “Gor,” Harry said again, and this time he did not even bother to correct himself. “Did they find anything when they toppled it?”

  “History says no. What’s more, the pieces of the column were later taken to Surrey and reassembled about a hundred years later. If anything had been hidden within the stones themselves, it surely would have been discovered already.”

  “So it’s just a fairy tale after all?”

  “Not necessarily. My friend at the museum also happened to mention that, in addition to the seven sundials on top, the column itself acted as a gigantic sundial, casting shadows over the neighboring buildings that served to chart the time of day. And what does the riddle say? That ‘the time’ at which the relic shall be found would be revealed? I believe that something was buried in Seven Dials, and that it was deliberately placed at a specific ‘time,’ as reflected by the shadow of the column. If we knew what the precise time was, we might be able to pinpoint the location. It would certainly not be easy, since the column is no longer there, but it could be done through mathematical calculations.”

  “Amelia, you’re a blinkin’ genius!” Harry crowed. “Mrs. Ramsay is goin’ to be flyin’ over the moon when she hears this. I’ll give her a shout right now! I want you to be the one to give her the news, so I’ll let you know when to come. Better yet, I’ll send the coach ’round again. Gor bless you, ducks!”

  The line quickly went dead. After replacing the receiver of the wretched device, I once again studied the riddle. There could be little doubt that the solution I had derived was the correct one. The fact that all the names mentioned in the riddle corresponded perfectly with the streets of Seven Dials could not be a coincidence. The timing also made sense. The column had been erected in 1694, a mere nine years after the Monmouth Rebellion. Perhaps the ‘relick’ had been kept in a temporary hiding place during the interim, and then its holders decided to secret it in a more permanent loca tion. Burying it in Seven Dials must have been a simple matter, given the construction that was taking place in the area at that time. The only lack of foresight on the part of the riddle’s composer were the assumptions that the column would remain standing forever and the street names would never change.

  It all made such perfect sense. Even Mr. Holmes would have had to agree with that. Why, then, did I feel a tiny note of unease about my deduction, as though there were a serious flaw with the analysis that I could not identify? Perhaps I was simply thinking about it too much.

  I resolved to set aside all thoughts of the riddle and picked up a brook instead. This escapade of Harry’s, while it had been intriguing, had put me grievously behind in my reading.

  I had gotten through less than one chapter of Our Mutual Friend, by my favorite author, Mr. Dickens, when the annoying jangle of the telephone shook me out of my peaceful concentration. Rising from my chair, I marched over to thing and barked into it: “Yes, hello.”

  It was Harry. “Amelia, Mrs. Ramsay’s gone.”

  “Gone? Where?”

  “I don’t know. I tried to ring her up at the number she gave me, and ask her to come down to the shop, but she
wasn’t there. Instead I got some girl told me Mrs. Ramsay’s went away somewhere, but she don’t know where.”

  The daughter, Mary, no doubt.

  “Why would she leave like that without telling anyone?”

  “I’m thinkin’, maybe she didn’t,” Harry said, grimly.

  “What on earth do you mean?”

  “Well, this girl starts askin’ me who I am, and what I wanted with Mrs. Ramsay, and when I identifies myself—at least who I’m pretendin’ to be—she gets all a’dither, and starts askin’ things like whether I have the riddle on me, and where the shop is. Then she says I had no right to take that piece o’ parchment from the family, like I’d stolen the bloomin’ thing!”

  “I don’t like the way this is sounding, Harry. Why don’t you come over here, just in case the girls raises some kind of trouble at the shop?”

  “Right, ducks, I’ll be over in two shakes.”

  Once again, the line went dead.

  At that moment, Missy came into the room, and only when I saw that she was dressed in her personal clothes did I remember that I had promised her the evening off, with the suggestion that she attend a new play at a theater in Leicester Square. I knew, of course, that she would instead end up at the music hall, but it mattered little. She was a devoted worker and deserved a night out, even if her taste in entertainment ran the gamut from low to positively philistine. Such, I fear, is the mark of today’s youth.

  “Do you need anything before I go, mum?” she asked, clearly eager to be on her way.

  “No, dear. Enjoy yourself, but do not stay out too late.”

  “Right, mum,” she said, breezing through the door.

  I began collecting up my notes and put them, along with the vellum page, into a neat stack on the dayroom table. It was then, amidst the complete quiet that had descended upon the house, that the flaw in my reasoning regarding the riddle’s solution, which had been dancing elusively at the edges of my mind, taunting me, came into clear focus. My identification of the Duke of Monmouth as “the young Protestor,” combined with the chance discovery that the present-day Monmouth Street was once named St. Andrews Street, was the key that had unlocked the riddle—but how was the writer of the riddle able to look two centuries into the future and know that St. Andrews Street was going to be renamed for the Duke?