The Hapsburg Falcon

by J. R. Trtek

  “Oh, it is not quite that,” objected my friend. “Something else is of greater interest.”

  “Oh? And what might that be?”

  “Why, that he stood beside the pillar-box at all,” declared Sherlock Holmes. “But look, this is Breton Mansions now before us, is it not?”

  It was. Passing a man with a hurdy-gurdy, who, with a young, dancing woman in a sailor’s uniform, entertained a motley assortment of children and washerwomen, our four-wheeler stopped, and we departed it to survey that new block of flats where the vanished youth had lived. Gazing up at its imposing height, I commented disparagingly upon the building’s facade, speaking loudly to make myself heard over the sound of the hurdy-gurdy.

  “Myself, I’m no judge of art or architecture,” shouted Stanley Hopkins in reply. “I must assume civilization is the better for it.” He looked down to the assembled throng at the corner. “That is a catchy tune, though, is it not?”

  “I believe it to be ‘Hail, Columbia’,” noted Sherlock Holmes. “An American march,” he added in a kindly tone when confronted by our two blank expressions.

  “The German and Italian street bands frequently play Yankee pieces these days,” Hopkins noted. “And the other day I saw a listing at a restaurant for a Manhattan cock-tail!”

  “Americans everywhere now, it seems,” I added, trying to ingratiate myself with Hopkins by supporting what I took to be his point.

  The inspector shrugged. “Well, to return to business, Mr. Hope Maldon’s rooms are on the first floor, and there is a lift available. Shall I—”

  “We should prefer the stair, I think,” remarked Holmes as we gained entry to the building. “Dr. Watson and I have avoided all use of lifts since that distasteful incident at the Ventura Hotel.” My friend smiled coyly, and I shuddered at the memory of that gruesome murder more than fifteen months past.

  “As you will,” said the inspector glumly, leading us up the stair.

  At the top, we encountered two other representatives of Scotland Yard, to whom Hopkins nodded as we walked past. “This will be the young man’s suite,” he said with panting breath. “It was sealed late last evening and, to my knowledge, has not since been disturbed in any manner. You are the first to investigate the premises, Mr. Holmes.”

  “I welcome the opportunity,” said my friend as we walked past another police guard and into a dim sitting room. The room’s lack of furnishings lent it a sense of spaciousness, which its true dimensions did not warrant. Holmes strode quickly toward one corner of the room, where the floor was littered with broken glass from framed photographs that lay amid the shards, evidently swept from a nearby table. Holmes stopped at once and wrinkled his nose.

  “My, this place wants airing. Might the two of you open windows?” he asked, to my astonishment.

  “Open the windows?” said Hopkins. “Are you certain that is what—”

  “I am most certain,” replied the detective, stepping before the table.

  “But, Mr. Holmes, there is still a damp chill—”

  “Indulge my fancy, Hopkins, please. And, pray, assist him, Watson.”

  With shared reluctance, we unlatched and opened a pair of windows facing the court below, immediately magnifying the sound of the hurdy-gurdy still playing outside. I turned around to face Holmes, who stood with his hands buried within his coat, his mind deep in thought.

  “Ah,” he said as if leaving a trance. “That is so much the better.” Now humming “Hail, Columbia” in sympathy with the street musician, he removed his waterproof, took off his frock-coat as well, and carefully placed them, along with his topper, upon a nearby chair. He took deep breaths as he started once more to roam about the flat. “The out-of-doors sharpens the mind, surely.”

  “Even as it numbs the toes,” added Hopkins, staring grimly at me as I wrapped my waterproof more tightly round my shoulders, and we both stepped away from the open windows. Giving my friend a suspicious glance, I weakly trod in place to warm my body.

  The detective chuckled. “I understand the sacrifice you two are making,” said he. “Believe me when I say it is very much appreciated.”

  Holmes then spent several minutes engaged in that unique form of investigation I had witnessed so many times over the course of the years. He began with the scattered pile of photographs, shattered frames, and debris that lay upon the floor, speaking to himself in disjointed comments about the placement of every shard before pulling each from its position as if performing a delicate surgery. He examined the portraits that had remained untouched upon the table and then proceeded to expand his survey across the entire room. He brushed hair from the shelves of a nearby empty bookcase and kicked the legs of chairs with the toe of one boot. He bent down to the floor to study scuff marks in its wooden planks and ran his fingers through every inch of carpet. Then, swiftly and methodically, he turned over the contents of drawer after drawer in both desk and cabinets. On occasion, he voiced satisfaction at some discovery, but most often his mind appeared to teem with silent thought. At last, when he reached the open windows, he shouted as if for joy.

  “Here!” he said. “How could this have escaped the notice of not one but both of you?”

  Hopkins and I joined Holmes at the open windows, where my friend pointed to fresh gashes and scratches in the frame and latch of one.

  “What was the state of these windows when we entered?” asked Holmes.

  “Both were securely latched,” said Hopkins. “Dr. Watson and I opened them, as you requested.”

  “Those marks are undoubtedly recent,” I said. “There was an intruder.”

  “At least one intruder, Watson,” said Holmes, leaning out the open window frame. “A second person, however, was in these rooms much later.”

  “How so?” asked the inspector.

  “Look you there,” said Holmes, leaning back into the room and pointing down. “Observe the faded yellow shred upon the floor, below this windowsill. I expect that it is the remnant of a daffodil bloom from the court below,” the detective continued. “Those flowers, Hopkins, did not begin to open around the town until this very week, well after Maldon was last seen. It would appear a rather agile person scaled the building’s ornate facade from the court below and then forced open the window. It was not a bad bit of work, though I think I could have done a better job of entering without damage to the surface.”

  “I’ll pass over that comment, Mr. Holmes,” Inspector Hopkins said. “You mentioned two people having been in these rooms, however.”

  “It is obvious that the first intruder could not have latched the window after leaving the room through it, and I think it most unlikely that the same person who required stealth to enter this building would have boldly walked out through its very front door.”

  “Such would not be impossible,” I noted quietly.

  “True, Watson, but I call your attention to the condition of the interior windowsill itself.”

  “It is well crafted, I suppose,” said Hopkins.

  “Yes, it is finely milled,” replied Sherlock Holmes, running his long fingers over the surface. “And it is damp. Very damp. You may even notice where rain has trickled down onto the wallpaper.”

  “Thus the window was open for some time before being closed and locked,” Hopkins declared. “In particular, it was open during the light rain of the past few days.”

  Holmes nodded silently. “That does not preclude Watson’s conjecture that the intruder might have left through the building’s front door, but it still argues for a second individual being present at some later time in order to close and latch the windows.”

  “Or the same person waiting some time before closing them and then leaving,” I suggested, half in jest.

  “Yes, Watson,” Holmes replied coyly as he closed both windows. “Someone who, unlike you, enjoys the out-of-doors.”

  “Perhaps it was you then, dear fellow.”

  “I am sure, having lodged at 221 these past several days, that you will corrobor
ate my alibi, Watson.”

  “And who might have been that second person?” asked the inspector with slight impatience, seemingly not amused by our repartee.

  “I cannot say,” said Holmes with renewed seriousness, walking across the room to fetch his frock-coat. “Indeed, at present we do not know how many plausible answers there may be to that question. Concerning the first to enter, meanwhile, I fear there are few conclusions to be drawn at all, other than that the person who broke into these rooms was an expert climber and a middling cracksman.”

  “What of the photographs?” asked Hopkins.

  Holmes donned his coat in a somewhat awkward manner, glancing at me with an odd expression. “Yes, that is the only other violence done here. The pictures that were thrown upon the floor have at least one common element—this person, whom I take to be our vanished Mr. Robert Hope Maldon.” Holmes picked up one photograph from the floor and pointed to a man in the image, a wide-eyed, thin youth with a moustache.

  “That’s him,” confirmed Stanley Hopkins.

  “All the portraits thrown to the floor include him,” Holmes repeated. “And none of those left upon the table do, save perhaps this tinted one, which I take to be the man as an infant in the arms of his mother. My, the colourist has given her such bright blue eyes! We may, perhaps, infer that our intruder was not a Hope Maldon family member or intimate with their history.”

  “Are there other points of interest here?” Hopkins asked.

  “A few,” said Holmes, crossing his arms. “Let us, however, remain with this collection of photographs, both those on the floor and still on the table,” he said.

  “Family scenes, some of them,” observed the inspector.

  “Yes,” replied Holmes, looking in my direction as if to coax a response.

  “But nowhere is there a likeness of the father, Lord Monsbury,” I said.

  “Very good, Watson. Lady Monsbury is some years deceased, is she not? And those must be siblings or cousins or whatnot, I gather. Yet the earl himself is everywhere absent. What does that suggest?”

  “Estrangement.”

  Holmes nodded. “Now turn your attention to all these bookshelves.”

  “They are largely empty,” I said.

  My friend raised his brows.

  “Largely empty of books,” said Hopkins. “But they contain several bookends. The books that were there are now gone. Perhaps the young man took them with him?”

  “That is unlikely, especially since half his luggage contained nothing, you said. It is far more probable that he sold the volumes. And there…” continued Holmes. “What do you make of that section of wall?” he asked, pointing toward a blank area near the two windows.

  “That space on the wall…” said Hopkins as if meditating. “I see within it a rectangle, which appears less faded from the sunlight, as if—”

  “A painting once hung there,” I completed.

  “And it is gone now,” suggested Hopkins, “because—”

  “Mr. Hope Maldon sold it, and perhaps other furnishings, for needed money,” I said, taking my turn in providing a conclusion.

  “Excellent, both of you,” said Holmes. “The only additional comment is that gambling debts may be to blame for the young man’s lack of funds.”

  Hopkins and I both turned inquisitive looks on our companion.

  “I did have an advantage over the pair of you in deducing the fate of books and objets d’art. Scattered notes and letters in the young man’s desk suggest he has a fondness for cards and that he does not succeed at that vice.”

  “What of possible evidence in the court below?” I asked. “You’ve already alluded to daffodils.”

  “Have you examined that area?” Holmes said to the inspector.

  “We have and discovered nothing,” Hopkins answered. “But perhaps it would be best if you added your talents there as well.”

  “I shall be glad to try,” Holmes replied, reaching for his topper and waterproof. “I fear, however, that the continuing rain, though light, has likely destroyed any evidence either of us might have found. Still, I shall take a look before we pay our call at Lord Monsbury’s.”

  Aside from the barely distinguishable mark of a footstep, which my friend declared to be of no value, Holmes’s survey proved fruitless as predicted. We then left through the arched court entrance and regained the street to find that the hurdy-gurdy had vanished, and its audience dispersed. I began to whistle for another four-wheeler when Stanley Hopkins stopped me with a light touch upon the forearm.

  “You’ll be needing transportation for only two, gentlemen,” he said.

  “Are you not joining us?” asked Holmes.

  “No,” the inspector said. “The earl made it very clear to me that he would talk to you alone concerning the information he possesses. I believe I can put my own time to better use at the Yard rather than waiting upon you at Lennox Square.”

  “Very well. Will you then ring us up or call at Baker Street later today?”

  “I can come round, if it will suit.”

  “It will. The doctor and I should certainly be back at our digs by four o’clock, I fancy. Call upon us then, please.”

  We bade farewell to the inspector and then whistled for a hansom to take us on the next leg of our journey, to Lennox Square and the home of Lord Monsbury.

  “You will allow yourself to be retained in this case then?” I idly asked once we were in the cab.

  “But of course, Watson. My perception of the affair has changed significantly over the course of the hour, and I now should not trade this matter for any other. Indeed, I should refuse even the sphinx as a prospective client.”

  “That is resolution.”

  “Yes, but there is the matter of the woman involved, you see.”

  “Woman? What woman?”

  Holmes chuckled. “What woman, indeed! Why, the one in the photograph.”

  “What photograph?”

  “The one you have not yet set eyes upon,” my friend replied. “I took it from the table and hid it in my coat pocket while you and Hopkins so graciously turned your backs in order to open windows for me.”

  “I assumed that was a deception at the time, but, of course, I did not ask you to justify the request in Hopkins’s presence.”

  “As always, Watson, you are as discreet as you are perceptive. And do forgive me, old fellow,” said he, while grasping my arm. “I could not be certain how this picture might affect even you, and I thought it best that Hopkins not witness your reaction to it.”

  “My reaction? To a mere photograph?”

  “Yes. Perhaps you should view it now,” he replied, producing a small, framed picture from his pocket. “Behold the woman in question.”

  Behold the woman. How apt those words were, for, in truth, it was the woman, as Holmes had so often termed her.

  I stared at the likeness with disbelief. “But she is dead!”

  “Evidently not,” Holmes said, watching shop fronts pass us by. “Evidently not.”

  “Alive,” I said. “She is alive. But, Holmes, how could she have survived? How could that fact have escaped you for so many years? And how has she fared in all this time? All this time, Holmes, and yet—”

  “My dear Doctor, a picture is nominally worth a thousand words. You have raised the value of this image to a million speculations. We should not waste time in useless conjecture; the coming interview at Lennox Square commands our attention now, Watson. Watson?”

  “She is alive.” I believe I must have uttered it yet again as the cab sped north toward the river and I gazed upon the face of Irene Adler.

  CHAPTER TWO :

  A Pillar of State

  As our distance from Breton Mansions grew, so did the strength of my composure and, in turn, my curiosity about Holmes’s calm acceptance of Irene Adler’s apparent resurrection. As we rounded Kennington Park, I could not resist the temptation to plumb his thoughts.

  “If she survived that Swiss avalanche,” I o
ffered, “perhaps her husband still lives as well.”

  “One then wonders what Godfrey Norton will make of the Honourable Robert Hope Maldon.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “You are a once and future husband, Watson,” my friend replied. “Tell me, what husband desires a rival?”

  “Do you imply that—”

  “Of course I do. The relation between the woman and Hope Maldon is more than casual, if you will take the trouble to glance at the inscription on that photograph you have been clutching so fervently these several minutes.”

  I took a moment to read the expression of endearment written across the bottom of the picture and then looked again at my friend. “But can you not help feeling exhilaration at the thought that she is, after all, still alive?” I asked.

  “Some might say that life in itself should be a cause for exhilaration,” he said drolly as our cab veered round a large wagon, whose horses had decided to move no farther.

  “Do you recall our last sight of her?”

  Holmes shrugged and stared out the hansom window.

  “She was dressed as a young man,” I said. “I remember distinctly, because it became a scene in my story.”

  “Yes,” Holmes said disdainfully, “as a portion of frivolous narrative coda most irrelevant to the particulars of that case.”

  “She had the cheek to wish you a good evening, Holmes,” I said as if to taunt. “You did not penetrate her disguise even then, did you?”

  “Look, Watson,” said Holmes. “The building that housed Morse Hudson’s shop is being razed. How many Napoleon statues were there in all—four or five?”

  “Six,” I said, “and they were busts.” I knew as I answered that I gave him information he already possessed, despite his feigned ignorance. Yet if Holmes at that moment intended to deny me his inner thoughts concerning Miss Adler, the vividness of my own recollections of her more than compensated.

  In the episode my editors titled “A Scandal in Bohemia,” Sherlock Holmes had acted to remove a threat of blackmail against the hereditary king of that country. The presumed villain was Irene Adler, and her weapon was another photograph, a compromising scene of the monarch and adventuress together. Employing a brilliant stratagem, in which I humbly assisted, Holmes located the damning evidence, but Miss Adler saw through his scheme and denied us its possession. In her goodness, however, she vowed never to use the picture, allowing the king to safely conclude his own political marriage while she wed the lawyer Godfrey Norton in a ceremony at which Holmes himself served as witness, disguised as an unemployed horse groom.