by Geri Schear
Title Page
SHERLOCK HOLMES AND THE OTHER WOMAN
Geri Schear
Publisher Information
Published in the UK by
MX Publishing
335 Princess Park Manor,
Royal Drive, London, N11 3GX
www.mxpublishing.co.uk
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© Copyright 2015 Geri Schear
The right of Geri Schear to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998.
All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without express prior written permission. No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted except with express prior written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended). Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damage.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The opinions expressed herein are those of the authors and not of MX Publishing.
Cover design by www.staunch.com
Grateful acknowledgment to Conan Doyle Estate Ltd. for the use of the Sherlock Holmes characters created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
Chapter One
Friday 25 March 1898
Doctor John H. Watson is a man of many remarkable talents, something readers of his semi-fictional accounts of my cases might not guess, and one of the most precious of these is silence.
Usually.
As I am, by nature, a more solitary individual than most, I find it comforting to share my accommodation and a great portion of my life with such an individual.
Usually.
However, it is irksome when one wishes to engage in conversation only to find one’s closest companion relentlessly... silent.
Watson did not speak when I trudged up the stairs with my suitcases, nor did he offer to help as I creaked my way into my bedroom and clattered all my belongings onto the floor.
After many vexed exclamations, at last my arms were free and I was able to sink into my customary chair beside the hearth. Still the wretched man did not look up nor acknowledge my presence in any way. Wounded, I spluttered, “Well, I’m home!”
He glanced up at me indifferently and said, “Oh, hullo. Toss some more coal on the fire if you would, Holmes.”
I did so in no happy temper and sank back in my seat with my coat wrapped around me. I might as well go back out if this was all the welcome I was to receive in my own home after ten weeks abroad.
Before I could remonstrate, there was a knock on the door and Mrs Hudson entered carrying a heavily laden tray. “You might help me with this, if you please, Mr Holmes,” she said, all but tossing the object at me. I had no option but to take it. I placed it on the table and made to return to my seat by the fire, but the woman said, “Come, now, Mr Holmes. You must be thirsty after your long journey. Sit there and have a nice hot cup of coffee.”
There was more than coffee: several dishes of hot food were there for my pleasure. I glanced up at my housekeeper and she tittered. “There now, you didn’t think we’d let you come home without some sort of a welcome, did you?”
Watson grinned and sat at the table beside me.
“You knew when I’d be returning?” I said.
“We had a telegram from Paris,” Watson said. “We’ve been keeping a close watch for your arrival for over an hour.”
“I shall leave you to your breakfast, Mr Holmes,” Mrs Hudson said, patting me on the shoulder. “It is very good to have you home again.” At which point she kissed my forehead and I had that extraordinary sensation of feeling like a very small child again. That, in turn, compounded a quite ridiculous sense of gratitude that threatened to engulf me. Can there be a greater joy than to return home after a long absence and to be warmly greeted by dear old friends?
I waved the woman away, “Yes, yes,” I said. “This was a splendid thought. Thank you, Mrs Hudson.”
Watson laughed loudly. “I had you going, didn’t I?”
I sipped my coffee and said, “I cannot imagine what you mean.”
“Fibber.”
I joined in his laughter and admitted, “Well, I did think it was a bit much that a man’s closest companion doesn’t greet him with even a hullo when he returns home after a long absence.”
He brushed a non-existent speck from his trouser leg and said much too casually, “You’re home sooner than I expected. Is everything all right?”
“Yes,” I said. I handed him a telegram. “I received this from Mycroft.”
“Zugzwang?” he said. “Who is that?”
“Not who; what. It is a term used by German chess players. It means one is compelled to move when one wishes not to.”
He stared at me in bewilderment.
“It’s Mycroft’s way of telling me I must come home, whether I will or no.”
“Whatever for?”
“There is insufficient data for me to speculate. I suggest, my dear fellow, we finish breakfast and make our way to Whitehall to see what is on my brother’s mind. I need to talk to him, in any case.”
Watson sipped his coffee and said, again too casually, “It must be important if you had to cut short your holiday. Still, it is a shame. I’m sure Beatrice wasn’t happy about having to return after just a few short weeks.”
“Hmm? Oh, B didn’t come back.”
“What? Good grief, Holmes, you cannot mean you left her alone on the Continent?”
I bit into a piece of buttered toast and swallowed it before saying, “She is not alone; she’s with friends in Paris.”
“Paris?” he spluttered. “You cannot be serious. Do you know what is happening all over France right now? Riots and who knows what sort of outrages. This ‘Dreyfus Affair’ has become even more violent since Zola’s arrest.”
“Of course I know; I just came from there. I do not understand why you are in such a lather, my dear fellow. B is no fool and she’s perfectly capable of looking after herself.”
“In London, perhaps; under civilised conditions. But for goodness sake, Holmes, leaving a woman alone in Paris during such turmoil: Is it wise? Is it safe?”
“It’s not some ‘woman alone in France,’ Watson. It’s B. She is as capable as any man I know. In fact, it was her idea that I should return and speak to Mycroft.”
“Why? What does she expect him to do?”
“Mycroft is a man of considerable influence. B thinks, and I agree, that he might be able to prevail upon the cooler heads in the French government to find some peaceful solution to this situation.”
My friend seemed prepared to argue further but I forestalled him. “My wife and I have an agreement, Watson: the terms of our marriage are that we live our separate lives without infringing upon each other’s freedom. We even wrote up a formal contract stating the terms. I cannot say I am entirely happy with her decision, but I am honour-bound to support it. Now, if you have quite finished those eggs we really should be off.”
Half an hour later - nothing can hurry Watson through a meal - my friend and I made our way through the streets of London to Whitehall. The weather was typically English: cold, wet, and blustery, but there is something in the British air, particularly Lond
on air, which I usually find sweeter than all the perfumes of Lombardy.
Mycroft’s aide Gillespie greeted me warmly, as always. “A great pleasure to see you again, Mr Holmes,” he said. “It’s been a while. Last time I saw you was when you and the doctor took me to lunch at the Devereux during the last day of court.”
“Excellent food,” Watson said. “Dreadful case.”
“Yes, indeed. Still, that villain is dead now, along with all his cutthroat conspirators, thanks to you and Mr Holmes. Don’t think I’ve ever met a villain to equal that Porlock fellow, not in all my years.”
“And you’ve had more years than most, Mr Gillespie,” Watson said, laughing.
“I have at that. I still find it hard to believe that an Englishman should be so corrupt.”
“An Englishman he was, nonetheless,” I said. “With a pretty English wife and pretty English children. I suppose we are as capable of villainy as any other nation.”
“We are at that. By the way, Mr Holmes, I must congratulate you on being awarded the Royal Victorian Order. It is a great honour and richly deserved, if I may say so.”
“Hear, hear,” Watson said.
“And congratulations to you too, Doctor,” Gillespie said. “Her Majesty was very taken with you, yes, very taken. She speaks of you often with great affection.”
“Does she indeed? May I ask how you know?”
The old man lay a long index finger to the side of his nose. He keeps his secrets close to his breast.
There is no doubt Watson would have stood chatting if I had indulged him. Gillespie fascinates him. “The things he has done, Holmes. The life he has lived.” I hear the same exaltations every time we come here. Then he repeats the old man’s stories word for word and declares them “quite charming.” It is almost enough to make me want to stop bringing him with me to Mycroft’s office. Instead, I have encouraged him to write down some of man’s exploits. At least that keeps him (mostly) quiet.
To be fair, few have seen as much as that old man has. Years of service to the Queen, a combat veteran of extraordinary experience, and one of Mycroft’s most trusted assistants: he’s privy to more secrets than the Prime Minister. It is not that I do not understand Watson’s admiration. I just wish I were not subjected to it with such regularity.
I was in no mood for chatter this afternoon, however. We had work to do and I was anxious to get on with it.
Mycroft barely glanced up when we entered his office. Watson and I sat by the roaring fire and took off our coats while my brother continued to work at the papers on his desk. I caught a glimpse of a familiar seal on the document in his hand.
At length he returned the papers to his drawer, locked it, and came to join us.
“Welcome home, Sherlock,” he said. “I am sorry you had so rough a crossing from Calais.”
“How did you know the crossing was rough?” Watson said.
“Come, Watson,” I said. “I realise my brother is a busy man but even he must be able to find the time to read the shipping forecast telegrams.”
Mycroft smirked. “True,” he said. He sat down heavily in his large armchair, eased his foot up on a stool, and winced. Watson leaned forward and was on the point of donning his medical hat when my brother pre-empted him by saying, “We have gathered up almost the last of Porlock’s nest of vipers. A few remain at large, of course, and there are a couple whose complicity remains in doubt, but I am confident we have identified the most dangerous.”
“Identified? But not arrested?” Watson said.
“Sometimes it is wiser to watch from a distance. Vipers have a talent for finding other vipers.”
“Just make sure you do not lose sight of them, Mycroft,” I said.”We do not want another Moriarty or a Porlock arising from the ranks.”
“I know,” he said, rubbing his calf. He stretched his leg out, winced, and said, “You missed the hanging.”
“I saw no reason to attend. Execution is necessary, I suppose, but I find no pleasure in seeing a man, even a man like Porlock, being hanged.”
“I understand he went bravely enough. Kissed his wife and children as if he were merely going to his club. He made some dire prediction that England’s fall is inevitable and died a ‘good soldier’, as he put it.”
“Monstrous,” Watson said.
“Unquestionably,” I said.”But we have more pressing matters to discuss. You sent me a telegram. Zugzwang?”
“Yes.” My brother frowned and I saw his face set into its most implacable expression. “You know as well as I, Sherlock, the situation in France is volatile in the extreme.”
I said, “It is a dreadful situation. There is a deplorable injustice being perpetrated, Mycroft. First upon Dreyfus and now on Zola. We must prevail upon the government-”
“Absolutely not!” he cried.”It is out of the question. I was horrified to learn that you went to Paris in January. Lord only knows what damage you might have done. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, you return there this week? I declare you have lost what little wits you possessed. Sit down!”
I remained standing and glowered at him, meeting his fury with ice.
“What on earth were you doing there, anyway?” he thundered. “The entire country stands on the brink of utter chaos and you decide to take a holiday? We have towers in England, Sherlock. No need to rush across the Channel to see their Tour Eiffel.”
“We stopped on our way to Italy because Zola was a friend of Beatrice’s late father and she was concerned about him. There was no sightseeing.”
“And your return?”
“Word reached us in Milan of Zola’s arrest.”
My brother released a long slow breath and sank back in his chair. “It is an extremely dangerous situation. Believe me, Sherlock; I am as outraged as you are, but there is a great deal at stake, far more than the lives of a foolhardy novelist and a disgraced Jewish captain.” He held up his hand, anticipating my argument. “I am not unsympathetic to Dreyfus’s plight. Devil’s Island is a terrible place even for a guilty man.”
“You acknowledge the man’s innocence, then?” Watson said.
“Of course. Only a fool would believe otherwise. There are sensible men in Paris who know this and whose approach is far more temperate than Zola’s impassioned J’Accuse. Why, even the title is provocative. I have contacts among the more sober members of the government. I shall do what I can, but privately. Discreetly.”
He sighed and his eyes flickered with pain. I caught Watson’s look of concern and shook my head slightly. Not yet.
“If you and I were private citizens it would be different,” Mycroft said. “But whether we like it or not we are public figures, as is Beatrice to a lesser extent. Still you’re both home now so possibly there’s no harm done.”
“Beatrice is still in Paris,” I said.
“What? Sherlock, I hope this is a jest. You cannot mean you left the woman alone in the middle of the riots?”
“She’s not alone; she has friends in Paris, some of them influential. She’s not a fool, Mycroft.” I sat back in my chair and said, “I think her loyalty is admirable.”
“It is admirable,” Mycroft said. “But it is also exceedingly dangerous. Not only has she put herself at risk, but her presence could cause some serious difficulties for the government if she is noticed by the wrong people.”
Silence fell on the room. The only sound was the crackle of the fire and the ticking of my brother’s clock. Mycroft shifted uncomfortably in his seat and then in a weary voice he said, “I can only advise. And my advice, Sherlock, is you get Beatrice out of there. Now. Today. The situation is a powder keg and may explode at any moment. There have already been riots and I fear worse is yet to come. If you value the woman, you must tell her to come home. While she still can.”
I was shaken by the degre
e of his alarm. He is right. Of course he is. It is unfair to blame him when I am the one at fault.
“It may not be easy,” I admitted. “She’s not a woman who takes kindly to being told what to do, but I shall do what I can to persuade her.”
“I doubt you’ll need to do much, Holmes,” Watson said. “Just tell her you wish it. I think you’ll be surprised how effective that will be.”
I changed the subject: “Was there anything else you wanted to discuss, Mycroft?”
“Primarily I wanted to get you out of France. I did not anticipate you would be fool enough to leave your wife there... However, yes, there are a few things. To begin with the mundane, I received a communiqué from the Pinkerton Agency in America regarding an old friend of yours.”
He handed me the report and I read it without much surprise. I passed it to Watson.
“This is the fiend who murdered that entire family?” Watson said. “Mundane? This man is void of all humanity, and he’s living like a prince in New York. It’s unconscionable.”
“Calm yourself, doctor,” Mycroft said in his most unperturbed voice.
“Michel Watteau?” said I. “Well, well... That name is not familiar to me but I shall review my archive. We know him well enough by another alias, eh, Watson?”
“We do. A blacker villain never lived.”
“He is capable of any monstrosity,” I agreed. “You have asked Pinkertons to keep an eye on the creature, Mycroft?”
Watson spluttered, “Keep an eye...? But can we not do something? Extradite him?”
“With what evidence?” I said. “The murders did not take place in these islands. From this report, it appears the Canadians have done a credible job, but our friend here was very careful not to leave any traces that might incriminate himself. We can only suppose it was he who committed the dreadful crime.”
Watson made a noise like a growl. Never did a man more resemble the English bulldog. “‘Only suppose...’” he said.”Who else could it have been?”
“We have no way of knowing. That family - more specifically the men of that slaughtered family - had a knack for antagonising people. While Watteau is very probably the killer, he will not face justice without evidence. The Canadians are still working on the case and I see they have instituted proceedings to have our old friend returned to their authority for questioning.”
