by J. R. Trtek
“What is it?” I asked. “What has happened?”
“They fought!” said Miss Adler in a distraught voice. “They fought, and Robert pushed him!”
“Doctor, pray see to her,” Holmes said to me in a voice that was soft yet distant.
Stumbling in the dark, past the boxes in which Holmes stored surplus books and other memorabilia, I approached the pair. Miss Adler kept repeating the same words she had already uttered. “Here,” I said, gathering her shoulders in my hands and assisting her onto her feet. As she rose, I glanced out the open lumber room window and believed I could discern some large object upon the stone walk below.
“He flung him off!” sobbed Miss Adler. “He just flung him off!”
Holmes at last appeared to move. In the moonlight, he gave the window frame a brief examination then reached down and lifted a glove from off the dusty lumber room floor. It was, to the best I could discern in the dim light, light brown in colour.
“It’s his glove!” said Miss Adler. “Robert’s glove!” She seemed to curl up in fear in my arms, and it required all my will to guide her out of the room and toward the stair.
“Holmes?” I said. I turned to face the detective, who stood silhouetted against the window as he slowly put his hand into the glove, his long fingers not quite able to fit. Then, more loudly, I repeated my call.
“Coming, old fellow,” he replied. He quickly removed the glove before rushing past me, and as he did so, Miss Adler seemed to gain a greater degree of poise.
“I will follow and not be a burden,” she said urgently. “Come, Doctor,” the woman told me, as if now she herself were leading me. Trailing Holmes, we descended to the sitting room, where the detective instructed me to settle Miss Adler upon the sofa. Mrs. Hudson, alarmed by the noise, had already been waiting on the landing to meet us.
“Please attend her,” Holmes asked of our landlady. Then, to Miss Adler, he inquired, “You will feel safe here while the doctor and I go below?”
The woman nodded then seemed to almost lose consciousness as she sank onto the sofa.
“Come, Watson,” said my friend, after he had grasped a lantern.
We rapidly descended the stair and, without coat or hat, strode to the rear of 221 and exited into it dark back yard, shielded in part from the night sky by Baker Street rooftops. As we stood in a mist pierced only by Holmes’s light, two or three voices called to us from nearby windows. Holmes replied by requesting that someone summon the police and then shone his lantern upon a body that lay face down upon the stone walk. It was as still as the upturned hat sitting nearby, and the corpse’s legs pointed back toward 221.
“His condition, Watson?” said Holmes, holding the lantern as if he were a statue himself.
I bent down and searched for a pulse, though from the state of the man’s skull, I knew at once what I should find.
“He is dead, Holmes.” I briefly stared at the body, and then I rose to my feet, grieving for Miss Adler. “How can we tell her?” I asked, turning away. “This will crush everything within her.”
“What?” said the detective, and I looked round to see that he was in the midst of examining the body.
“Holmes?”
“Think you this is Lord Monsbury’s son? Your tears are premature, I believe. Recall what Miss Adler herself told us above. Here, my survey of the back side is complete. Assist me in turning the body over, if you will.”
Years of medical service at once asserted itself, and I dispassionately helped my friend expose the battered face. Even in the light of Holmes’s lantern, I could see it was not that of a twenty-four-year-old man but rather the damaged visage of someone far older.
“Yes,” said my friend as he bent to look down. “I thought it might be him.”
“You know who this was?” I asked. “I do not—”
“You never glimpsed him during the case in question,” Holmes said. He rose to his full height of more than six feet. “And I saw him upon only one occasion but for great enough duration to recognize him now. This will, at least, set the public record correct in its essence, if not the exact chronological details.”
“Explain yourself, please,” I said impatiently. “Who is this man?”
“Why, Godfrey Norton, of course,” Holmes replied, his hawk-like nose accentuated in the dim light. “The now truly deceased husband of our guest.”
“Norton?!”
“Yes,” said Holmes as others approached down the alley. “But only to us, Watson. For the moment, he is an unknown person, presumably a burglar, who appears to have fallen while travelling the roofs of Baker Street. We ran outside when we heard the screams and found the body, only that and nothing more. You comprehend?”
“Of course.”
“Good. I fancy this must be the police coming. Please be responsible for the interview—present the facts as I have just instructed you while I go inside and see to Miss Adler.”
“Holmes?”
“Yes?”
“Am I to mention her?”
“Do not volunteer the fact of her presence. If they ask for the particulars of 221, tell them only of the two of us and Mrs. Hudson. Should the police wish to enter the house, fetch me first. I suspect, however, that mention of my name will provide all the protection you will require.”
“Very well.”
“We might also speak tomorrow to Stanley Hopkins,” Holmes added quickly. “But for the moment, I should like to maintain simplicity in our relation to the police.”
“I understand.”
“Here they are now. See to it, if you will.”
Holmes handed me the lantern and retreated into 221 while I met three police constables, who had been gathered by the local folk, many of whom now crowded round the body as well. My explanation was as Holmes had instructed: we had heard a scream and a crash, come out to investigate, and found the body of a man we did not know. Upon giving my name, two of the three constables recognized me as Holmes’s assistant and biographer before I could even mention my friend, whereupon they gave me a considerable degree of deference. When asked if they wished to interview the detective himself, they all declined vigorously, expressing no desire to bother one they held in such great esteem. It was, perhaps, nearly an hour before all matters were attended to, including the arrival of a wagon for disposing of the body. When, at length, I re-entered 221—bolting the door behind me—I found Mrs. Hudson preparing water for tea. I inquired after Miss Adler.
“The dear remains shaken, as we might expect—all of us, that is, except Mr. Holmes,” she said with more than a touch of irritation in her voice.
“Did she—”
“I tell you, Dr. Watson,” our landlady continued. “I’ve never understood the way he treats my house, but I can tolerate it. Mr. Holmes is a great man and, during most hours, a kind and generous man, so I let those things pass—”
“Mrs. Hudson, how—”
“Though he treats my house callously,” she went on, talking to me as the water heated. “Though he treats things roughly, yet I can dismiss it, seeing in him what I do. But the way he can treat people!” She turned her now-florid face to me. “The poor dear up in that room is at the end of her wits, I tell you. You remember how I saw the terror in her eyes on that first day? I told you both about it. I saw—”
“Mrs. Hudson—”
“I saw what was in those frightened eyes of hers! She’s a dear one, I can tell you that. She’s right and square, no matter what Mr. Holmes seems to think!”
“Mrs. Hudson, I believe the water has reached a boil.”
She turned and quickly removed the kettle from the heat.
“Go up there,” she ordered me as she settled the vessel back down with both hands. “Tell the dear woman I’ll be up in a bit with some special tea that will soothe her. And try…” she added as I turned to leave. “Try to talk some little speck of human kindness back into that man!”
I hurried up the stair and entered the sitting room, where I found H
olmes alone, planted in his armchair before the fire, his hands wrapped in each other as if in prayer. “How is she?” my friend asked.
“I do not know,” I replied. “Has she retired to her room again? I can—”
“I was referring to Mrs. Hudson,” the detective said gently, staring into the coals.
“She will be bringing some tea shortly for Miss Adler.”
Holmes nodded.
“Our guest has gone up then, has she?” I asked, to end the awkward silence.
Again he nodded.
“I shall wait by the door and direct Mrs. Hudson to the maid’s room then.”
My friend remained motionless.
“Holmes, might I fetch you your shag?” I asked, seeing the Persian slipper lying across the room from him. “And if you will direct which pipe you—”
“I am fine, Doctor,” said he, leaning back in his chair and grasping an armrest with each hand. “But I appreciate the thought, old fellow,” he said in a somewhat distrait tone. “I assume the business with the police was uneventful?”
“Uneventful, yes. Your reputation oiled the gears of bureaucracy immensely.”
“Did it?” Holmes said, almost with a tone of self-reproach. He smiled wanly in the wavering light, crossing his arms and stretching his legs toward the warmth. “I fancy I hear Mrs. Hudson. Help her, Watson, and then return when you can, and we shall discuss tonight’s events.”
“Very well. Holmes?”
“Yes?”
“Forgive me for asking, but do you know anything of Miss Adler’s composure?”
“It has been several minutes since I last saw her,” said my friend, his posture still unchanged. “I assume she has quieted.”
I thanked him and stepped out to meet Mrs. Hudson, who had reached the landing. There I offered to take the tray from her and help attend to Miss Adler.
“Thank you, Doctor, but this I can do by myself,” she told me. “Nothing against you personally, but this isn’t a time for men. If you wish to see to anyone, choose the one in there,” she said, nodding toward the sitting room. With that, our landlady proceeded up the stair toward the maid’s room.
I watched as she ascended and then entered Miss Adler’s quarters after knocking. The door shut behind her, and I returned to the sitting room, where I found Holmes still perched before the coals. He acknowledged my presence by the slight turn of his head.
“Ready, Watson?”
Silently, I approached and, pulling the basket-chair close to him, sat down.
Holmes smiled grimly in the light of the fire. “How shall it be, Watson? Dialogue or pure exposition?”
“Did Miss Adler say anything at all?”
“Ah, dialogue. Well, yes,” my friend answered. “Before our conversation was terminated by Mrs. Hudson, she informed me that it was her fiancé who hurled Godfrey Norton to his death.”
“He was here then?”
“That is his glove,” said Holmes, pointing to it upon a nearby table. “It was still warm when I picked it up.” In the full light, I could see that it was tan in colour.
Holmes continued to recount their conversation. “Miss Adler admitted that the kerchief in her window was actually a signal to Robert Hope Maldon, conveying that it was safe for him to contact her. He did just that, she confessed, tossing small pebbles at her window from the roof. Once she had quietly opened her window, she silently directed him to the lumber room above. While we were still in the sitting room, Miss Adler discreetly ascended to the second floor, where she opened the lumber room window for him.”
“Why such an approach?” I asked. “Why did he not come to the front door and ring the bell?”
“A good question, Watson, and one to which I did not receive any suitable answer. In any event, Hope Maldon chose the lumber room as his path of entry. He gained access to the open window by means of the plane tree. According to her, they enjoyed a brief embrace after days of separation, when who should follow Hope Maldon in through the window but Godfrey Norton himself. There were words—the precise content of which I, again, had no opportunity to learn—and the two men struggled. One glove was pulled from Robert Hope Maldon’s hand, but he, in turn, pushed Norton away. Such force was used that Norton was hurled out the window and to his death upon the stone walk. Miss Adler screamed. Hope Maldon scrambled out the window and away across the rooftops or down the plane tree; I was not allowed by Mrs. Hudson to ask which it was.”
“The presence of Godfrey Norton is most astounding, if tragic,” I remarked.
“Oh, I have long believed it was only a matter of time before he arrived to play a part in our little drama,” said Holmes. “His death, however, is a most unfortunate development.”
“Why did you expect him?”
“It has been obvious that one more character lurked somewhere offstage.”
“How so?”
“Recall that young Hope Maldon’s rooms at Breton Mansions were entered through the court window. Prior to this evening, who could it have been?”
“Jasper Girthwood?”
“Mr. Girthwood is barely able to negotiate the stairs of this house, let alone its roofs and windows.”
“Girthwood’s henchmen then.”
“Girthwood, to this point, has had no henchmen in London, excepting the pathetic Mr. Starkey,” said Holmes. “No, the intruder at Breton Mansions was someone else. Until tonight Godfrey Norton was, I admit, merely a possible candidate.”
“And considered possible for what reason?”
“For the fact that both Irene and Godfrey Norton were reported in the newspapers as having died together in an avalanche. If one escaped that fate, why not both?”
“But why did Miss Adler not tell us of his survival? And would that not affect her plans with young Hope Maldon?”
“As to your latter question, I expect it does—or did—complicate matters greatly. As to the former, she did not say. I expect she will claim it was to shield her husband from the king of Bohemia.”
“The king would have had Norton murdered had he known the man still lived?”
“I am not so certain of that conclusion, but I suspect Miss Adler is, yes.”
“So its truth is uncertain?”
Holmes yawned. “I leave it for the ghost of Pilate to contemplate the nature of truth at the moment,” he said. “You may join him in discussing it if you wish. For myself, it is now to bed. We shall get no more, true or false, from Miss Adler tonight, and perhaps we might fabricate some additional evidence for Hopkins when he comes round tomorrow, as he surely will.”
“Do you believe it is safe for us to retire?”
“I sent word to Langdale Pike earlier, while you were occupied with the police. He and Upshaw will arrive shortly and take up positions to the front and rear of 221 tonight as a precaution. Good night, Watson,” said Holmes, rising to his feet and striding toward his room. “See to the coals, if you will, old fellow.”
CHAPTER TEN :
The Quarry and Its History
When I descended the stair the next morning I found, as usual, the sitting room occupied. The inhabitant was not Sherlock Holmes, however, but Irene Adler.
“He has not yet arisen?” I asked in astonishment.
“He has already left,” the woman said. “I woke early,” she continued. “And Mrs. Hudson kindly provided me breakfast and suggested I warm myself here.” She looked down at the hearth and then idly smoothed her dress with one hand. In her lap was The Martyrdom of Man.
“You are still attempting to read that?” I asked, fearful of raising the subject of the previous night’s tragedy.
“Yes. Mr. Holmes did recommend it, did he not?”
“Holmes recommends a great many things, not all of them advisable.”
“You do not approve of the book?”
“It is too long-winded for my taste.”
“Perhaps it is,” Miss Adler said. “Nonetheless, I shall stay with it.”
I considered reaching for my Arcad
ia then thought better of it and took to the basket-chair. “Do you require anything to calm your mind?” I asked, trying obliquely to acknowledge her grief. “I could go down to the chemist…”
“No, Doctor, but thank you. I shall see all this through relying upon my own resources.”
We sat opposite each other for a moment, and as she failed to return to her book, I said at length, “We, of course, did not know your husband...was alive...at the time.”
“You must now find me as untrustworthy as Mr. Holmes has always seemed to,” the woman replied in a hesitant voice. “If only you could understand—”
“But I do,” was my immediate response. “I do understand! You would not have wanted the king of Bohemia to know of Mr. Norton’s survival.”
“But Mr. Holmes does not believe that, does he?”
“We discussed the matter last night.”
“And what did he say?”
“He expected you to give the reason that you just conveyed to me.”
“But he does not believe it, does he?”
I struggled to make some answer.
“I have not led the most honest of lives, Dr. Watson.” She turned again toward the hearth. “You know that, yet you show the extreme kindness of never alluding to it. Still, I have been dishonest. I have been dishonest with you and Mr. Holmes.”
“Shall I attend to the coals?” I asked, feeling myself to be a most uncomfortable witness to Miss Adler’s unfolding confessions.
“Please leave them; I am fine. Perhaps one honest thing I did do was forswear any attempt to blackmail the king of Bohemia. Godfrey and I—”
The door to 221 opened and closed below us. Almost at once I heard the familiar bound of Holmes upon the stair.
“Ah, you have both arisen,” said the detective, tossing off his coat and hat. He stirred our fire with the bent iron then stood to one side and leaned upon the mantel. “Did you chance to read the note I left for you?” he asked Miss Adler.
“I did.”
“May we now resume our conversation of last night under those conditions?”
