by Geri Schear
“Scoundrel,” Prentiss said. “Some men are utter cads. I am very sorry for the girl, but she made her bed.”
“Indeed. I confess, Mr Prentiss, I cannot rule out the possibility that Rickman was merely using her to gain access to your house.”
“Good God! But why? To what end?”
“Why, indeed. I understand you have no valuables on the premises?”
“Nothing but some jewellery but even that is of very little value. There are houses in the square that are far richer than ours. We are not wealthy people.”
“What about the documents your wife translates?”
“Very ordinary things, so far as I know. Letters and so forth from the Brahms Antiquities, pretty dull stuff to my mind, though she seems to enjoy it. Alice also translates documents for individuals from time to time, but nothing out of the way. She would have told you, I am sure, if she had found anything unusual.”
“She denies seeing anything of the sort. Still, it is possible she did not realise the significance of something.”
“But this man, Rickman, has been coming into the house for weeks. Alice works rather quickly. It only takes her a few days to translate a box of papers and then she returns all the documents to the company or the owners.”
“Yes, that is what she told me. And yet there must be some reason why this fellow should take such risks as to come into your home with such frequency.”
“Could it not be as Connie said? Merely to...? Well, you know what I mean.”
“Yes, it is possible. Still, I am uneasy, I confess. Why the subterfuge? Why take such elaborate precautions against being seen?
“Rickman, or whatever his name is, deceived Connie about his name and his address. He obviously had the run of this house and I believe made several attempts to gain access to your wife’s study, seems to suggest a motive other than copulation.”
“He tried to access my wife’s study?”
“There are faint scratches around the lock. Initially I thought it was because your wife was very tired when she finished her work for the night and so sometimes missed the lock. However, I cannot rule out the possibility that Rickman was trying to gain access to the room.”
“Good God!”
“Your wife would know if any of her documents had been moved, so I infer he was unsuccessful in his attempts to gain access. I suspect Kidwell did not give him much time to make these attempts.”
He flushed and sipped his coffee. “Yes, I see what you mean.”
I gave him a moment to consider what I told him. He seemed bright enough to see the implications and the more he thought the more anxious he became. “Mr Holmes,” he said. “As you know, I am gone from home for long periods. Is my family in any danger?”
“I have been examining the security of the house,” I said. “I have taken pains to secure the basement, and the back door is safe enough with its lock and the deadbolt. However, the bolt on the front door is high and it is quite stiff. I assume your wife does not use it when you are not here?”
“No, she can’t reach it, nor can Agnes.”
“I would recommend in the strongest terms that you get another bolt placed on the bottom of the door. You should also purchase stronger locks for the windows.”
“I shall,” he said. “I shall do everything you ask, Mr Holmes, and at once. Is there anything else you would suggest?”
“Yes, I wonder, would it be possible for you to take your family away for a few days and leave the house empty?”
“Empty?” He stared at me, bewildered.
“So I and Doctor Watson might keep watch. If this chap is keeping your home under surveillance, it’s possible we may be able to lead him into a trap.”
“It will take a day or two to organise,” Prentiss said. “But we shall manage. Yes, by Jove, we shall.”
Chapter Six
Monday 4 April 1898
A letter from B arrived in the morning’s post. At last! She writes,
Forgive the delay in my reply, my dear Sherlock. For several days I was much in demand, meeting with representatives of the Dreyfusards, trying to calm M Zola, and lending what assistance I could. In addition, going out became perilous for a short while. I was forced to remain indoors until this morning when the violence abated somewhat.
Something about this entire affair reminds me of your thorny case last year. Perhaps it is the memory of the dreadful business with Porlock that makes me imagine spies and cutthroats everywhere. I envision a puppet-master controlling the situation and observing the resulting chaos with amusement.
One of Zola’s neighbours, Maurice Lachapelle, was set upon by thugs as he returned home from his work in the bakery last night. Although he is Catholic, he has a somewhat Jewish appearance. The facts of the matter were irrelevant for his assailants and they stripped him naked, cut off his hair and beard, and left him unconscious in the street.
Yesterday I was privileged to meet Émile Duclaux. What an extraordinary man he is, not merely a microbiologist and chemist of the first order, but a true logician who approaches this shameful business with exemplary rationality and courage. He is a great admirer of your work, Sherlock, and says your practical applications for science are remarkable and innovative.
I fully apprehend Mycroft’s concerns and your own husbandly sense of duty. Nor am I fool enough to be unaware of the difficulties posed by my presence in France. To that end, my friends are making arrangements for my return to England. Safety is, at this stage, a greater matter than urgency, so I beg you be patient until the most prudent route may be planned. I shall let you know as soon as the details have been finalised.
Now Zola’s conviction has been overturned I can leave with an easy conscience.
Fondly,
B.
My first reaction to this letter was a profound sense of relief. She is coming home, and she is taking proper precautions. Thank heaven.
I have never met Duclaux but I have certainly heard of him and have read his papers with interest. I recall he once described himself as one of those who “are devoid of any other preoccupation than the truth.” These are principles I have always tried to uphold. I am deeply honoured to be esteemed by such a man.
Zola’s conviction has been overturned on a technicality only, and so the whole farce begins anew. I am not optimistic of the outcome. The French military and government are too deeply embroiled to do anything but uphold his conviction. Still, it allows B to leave France with an easy conscience and that is enough from me.
This afternoon’s post brought a letter from Zola himself. He urges me on no account to return to France. It is not safe, he says. Although he is greatly appreciative of B’s support, he is worried for her safety. It is wise, he says, that she is coming home to England. He outlined the plans he and his trusted supporters have made to ensure she gets safely out of the country. Thursday sees the beginning of the Jewish Passover: they anticipate a great deal of trouble. Best have her leave before then.
Zola begs me to make sure B, too, does not return to France. Her presence has been noticed. She is too visible, too outspoken. Her support for him and the beleaguered Dreyfus has excited attention in the worst possible quarters. For the sake of her safety, he begs I keep her in London.
How am I to accomplish such a thing? A woman is a woman and will do as she pleases. While I share Zola’s concerns, I am, I confess, very proud of B for her courage, her tenacity, and her loyalty. Not that I have any right to be proud. I have no part in her choices or her actions. Her esteem is something to treasure. I would not dream of breaking our agreement to honour each other’s freedom, and yet I would keep her safe.
Well, if all goes according to plan, B will be back in London on Thursday.
Watson looked up from his newspaper to say, “So she’s coming home then?”
He
looked smug, though I suppose I can hardly blame him. “Well done, Watson,” I said. “You are really coming along remarkably well.”
“Well, Holmes,” he said, “I may not have your talent for ratiocination nor your astute observational skills, but I do know you. That smile and that relief in your shoulders can only mean one thing: Beatrice is coming home.”
“I am relieved,” I said. “B’s passions lead her to defend the defenceless, and passion is a very dangerous thing in Paris at present.”
“Yes, I’ve been reading the paper. New outrages every day it seems.”
“B has a theory that some puppet-master may be behind the whole thing,” I said, picking up my violin. I did not play it however, but lay it upon my lap.
“I knew it was a mistake not to arrest all of that Porlock gang,” Watson cried.
“Calm yourself, doctor.” I plucked at one of the violin strings. “Those villains are being watched. Although...”
“Although?”
“Mycroft’s report from the Continent concluded there were a few fellows whose links to Porlock could not be proved. There was Casonne who vanished before the agents could talk to him, and a banker called Zeiss. He had ties to von Schwartzkoppen.”
“Von Schwartzkoppen? Why do I know that name?” Watson said.
“He’s the military attaché at the German Embassy in Paris.”
“Ah, that’s right, I remember. Those documents that got Dreyfus arrested in the first place, weren’t they found in von Schwartzkoppen’s wastepaper bin?”
“Yes,” I said. I plucked another string and then set down the instrument. I rose, stretched, and put on my coat. “It may not signify,” I added. “France is marinating in suspicion. B may simply be a victim of the prevailing mood.”
“Will you pass on her suspicions to Mycroft?”
“Hmm? Not yet. I want to talk to her first and see if this is anything other than that old traitor, ‘woman’s intuition’. You need not look at me that way.”
“It will be good to have her home, in any case,” he said, mildly.
“Yes, indeed.”
“So will she come here, our Queen B, or go to Wimpole Street?”
“Oh, Wimpole Street, I am sure.” I sounded aloof and disinterested. Yes, I am certain I did.
I was almost out the door when Watson added, “So you shall be at Wimpole Street then, for a few nights? Just so I know that you’re safe.”
He grinned and then hid his head in the newspaper. I threw an apple at him.
Just after dinner, Lestrade called in. As I poured him a sherry I said, “You look well, Lestrade, but you really shouldn’t let your wife make the Easter eggs so early. There’s another six days to go, you know. The wretched things will stink by then.”
“There, Mr Holmes, that’s exactly what I did say. But we have the grandchildren staying for a few days and it’s entertaining for them... Here, how did you know?”
“That curious red and green stain on your left index finger and thumb are unquestionably food dye. That particular shade of carmine exists nowhere else in nature. You would be unlikely to have a stain on those particular fingers if you were merely painting a picture, nor would you use such an odd medium as food colouring. But a right-handed man will hold the brush in his right hand and the egg in his left. The advent of the Easter holiday makes the conclusion a certainty.”
“I held the egg with my thumb and forefinger. You’re right, you’re right! You know, it always seems so simple when you’ve explained it.”
“So I have been told,” I said. I do not believe I sighed too loudly.
Lestrade winked at Watson. Before I could remonstrate he said, “I called in to tell you a tall, fair-haired man matching the description of that Rickman fellow was spotted in Great Russell Street. One of my lads spied him and took chase but the bounder vanished somewhere near the British Museum.”
“Damnation. Did your officer get a good look at him?”
“No, Mr Holmes, young Dobbs was a fair distance behind the villain, but he said it was a tall fellow with fair hair. Once the man spotted my officer chasing up the road he took off at high speed. Guilty conscience, I’d say.”
“I am inclined to agree.”
“I, ah, thought it would be better if I told you in person,” Lestrade said.
“Holmes understands it wasn’t your fault, Lestrade,” Watson said, giving me the look.
Why give me the look? Do they think I would blame the man just because one of his underlings is incompetent? I am not so unjust.
“Certainly not your fault, Lestrade,” I said.
He relaxed and took a gulp of his sherry.
I added, “You might train your men a little better though.”
He coughed, spluttered. Sherry ran down his chin. Watson patted him on the back and gave me a heightened version of the look.
I added, “At least we have learned two important things, so that is something.”
“Two things, Mr Holmes?” Lestrade said, wiping his mouth.
“We have learned that the man is still in or near the Holborn area, and that he fears being questioned by the police.”
George Prentiss called a few minutes after Lestrade left to say he had spoken to his father-in-law and Mr Gillespie was happy for the family to stay with him for as long as they need.
“‘If Mr Holmes says it’s necessary then necessary it must be,’” Prentiss quoted. “It’s a smallish house and not ideal for three young children; still, they’ll be safe and that’s really all that matters.”
Prentiss, himself, is back to Scotland next Monday on the ten o’clock train. He is relieved to know his family will be safe in his absence.
We have agreed that at eight o’clock on Monday evening, Mrs Prentiss, her children, and servants will leave the house to stay with her father. The delay cannot be helped. Old Gillespie already has visitors and though he longs to accommodate his daughter, he can hardly evict his guests. In any case, so long as George Prentiss remains at home and the safeguards I set up in the house are observed, the family should be safe enough. It is only another handful of days, in any case.
For the next fifteen minutes we refined our plans. I regret the delay in putting it into action, but that cannot be helped.
On a slightly related note, Watson brought the daughter of one of his old patients to meet Mrs Prentiss. Bessie Turner is the oldest of five children and very level-headed, I am told. “Her father died much too young,” Watson said, “and it’s such a struggle for her mother to cope with so many children. Having one less mouth to feed not to mention having the girl’s wages, will go a long way towards helping her family.”
He tells me the meeting went well on both sides and Bessie starts work tomorrow morning. Watson, determined to harangue me with all this domestic nonsense, added, “The important thing is Agnes seems to like her. She, more than anyone, will have to work with the girl. But they hit it off right away and I think it will work out perfectly. Bessie’s used to children and always looked after her brothers and sisters so she’ll manage well with the young Prentisses.”
“You look thoroughly pleased with yourself, Watson,” I said. “It’s positively indecent.”
He laughed heartily and confessed I was quite correct.
Thursday 7 April 1898
Beatrice is home. I met her at the station. She was tired and pale. Not until that moment did I truly appreciate the strain she has been under these past two weeks, but she smiled when she saw me and shook my hand.
We took a cab directly to Wimpole Street and for most of the journey she was silent. Not until we were alone in her library, surrounded by books and mementoes of her father, with good English tea before us and the door shut did she at last begin to relax.
“It seems a lifetime since we said goodbye, my
dear Sherlock,” she said. “I hope you will not consider it a breach of our contract if I say I missed your company very much.”
Another man might have flushed. I merely replied that I was not sanguine about leaving her alone in Paris, particularly under the current circumstances.
“Your continued presence, much as I would have welcomed it, would have drawn attention,” she said. “While I usually find it irksome to be ignored because I am a woman, under these conditions it was helpful.”
“Were you really so inconspicuous, do you think?” I asked it innocently enough but she cannot be fooled, not even by me.
“How well you know me,” she said. “I suppose I may have let my thirst for justice override my good sense once or twice, but it is really a shameful state of affairs. Dreyfus was a reliable, even brilliant soldier with an excellent reputation and a great career ahead of him. But because of his religion it was easy to forge documents and charge him with treason. Treason! A man like that?” She paced the floor more and more vigorously as she spoke.
“Yes,” I said mildly. “I can see how you might have allowed your passions to carry you away to imprudence.”
She stopped to look at me, gave a brief laugh, and then sank back in her armchair. “You are right. I confess it. I was very foolish - but only some of the time.”
“Your friend, M Zola, is a very brave man,” I said.
“Yes. Isn’t it curious that when a man and a woman behave exactly alike he’s considered brave while she’s called a fool.”
“I do not think that is fair.”
“Isn’t it? Do not misunderstand me; I am very fond of Émile. He is indeed brave; but he rushes into this matter with no thought for the consequence. It is all the same to him if he is imprisoned. In fact, he dares the government to do their worst.”
“A little reckless, perhaps,” I agreed.
“If he had only himself to think of it would be a little reckless, but he has a family. He has a wife and a mistress and children. What right does he have to subject them to abuse and possible violence?”
