by Geri Schear
“I think you should go back to bed, Holmes,” Watson said. “You’re looking very pale. A nice long sleep will do you good, I think.”
“I need to know more about those documents of Mrs Prentiss. Rickman returned, as I knew he would, because there is something in that house he wants. We have ruled out jewels and other valuables; Kidwell is no longer there so we can eliminate the carnal factor.”
“What do you need me to do?” Watson said.
“Go visit Mrs Prentiss and ask her if we can read her documents. Perhaps they will help me deduce what Rickman seeks.”
“But she returns her documents to Brahms when she is finished,” Watson said. “Would she still have this paper?”
I held my arm and winced. It really hurt like the devil. “I cannot say,” I admitted. “The thief seems to think she still has it so we cannot overlook the possibility.”
“Very well, I shall speak to Mrs Prentiss and get her permission.”
“Bring the papers back here as soon as you can. Then I have one more assignment for you, if you are willing.”
“Of course.”
“I need you to visit Hatton Garden.”
Chapter Eight
I slept all morning thanks to another dose of Watson’s disgusting medicine. At some point, I heard him come in but I could not shake myself back to consciousness.
It was late afternoon when I awoke and I felt utterly disoriented. Mrs Hudson brought up some coffee and a tray of food. I surprised myself by emptying the pot and cleaning the plates. Feeling much improved, I then turned my attention to the case of documents Watson had left. I was making slow but steady progress when he return
“Ah, you’re up,” he said. “Our friend Inspector Glaser was most concerned to hear of your injuries, Holmes,” the doctor said. “He insisted on coming to pay his respects himself.”
“Very kind of you, Glaser. Won’t you join us for supper?”
“Thank you, no; the Solbergs are expecting me. I was sorry to hear you’d been injured, Mr Holmes. Rivkah has sent you her chicken soup. She says it has healing properties.”
“Thank you. That was most kind,” I said. “Now, tell me all your news: What has been happening in the diamond district?”
“Nothing of any consequence, I’m afraid, Mr Holmes,” he said. “I have been keeping careful watch but I’ve seen and heard nothing of the man you seek. Dr Watson told me the fellow was spotted in the Holborn area. Is it possible his interests lie beyond our small world of precious gems?”
“Possible? Yes. But my instincts tell me there is some link between the diamond district and my case,” I said. “What little we know of the man suggests he knows something of jewels; he has been twice spotted in the vicinity of Holborn, and as I discovered to my cost last night, he is willing to shoot anyone who stands in his way. Perhaps I am wrong. It does happen,” I added at seeing his bemused expression. “But I would prefer to be cautious.”
“I’ve made sure the merchants and tradesmen in my district have the full description that the doctor gave me. If he makes an appearance someone will let me know.”
“I expect so. But is it possible someone might be hiding him?”
“Yes, it is, I’m afraid. There are unscrupulous people everywhere, and though many in our community are religious, we have our share of rogues. Besides, even good people will keep silent if they are afraid enough.”
“Ha! In my experience, some of the worst rogues in Christendom have been men of the cloth. No reason to suppose Jews are any different.”
“In that respect or in any other,” Glaser agreed. “But as to this fellow, I have excellent resources around the diamond district. If Rickman is hiding there, we’ll find him eventually. I have instructed my fellow officers to contact me if they hear anything. Of course, Holborn goes far beyond the Hatton Garden area.”
There was a ring at the front door and a moment later I could hear light footsteps hurrying up the stairs. A perfunctory knock at my door was followed by B bursting into the room in a state of high dudgeon.
“What in the world,” she exclaimed. “You get shot, Sherlock, and don’t even bother to send word to me? What were you thinking? Oh, forgive me, I did not realise you had company.”
She hesitated, caught between good manners and concern.
I said, “This is Inspector Glaser from the Hatton Garden district. He is helping me with the Camden Town case. Glaser, my, ah, friend, Lady Beatrice.”
“Inspector Glaser,” B said, shaking his hand. “A pleasure to meet you. Tell me, how fares my old friend Rabbi Steinmetz?”
“You know the rabbi?” Glaser said, looking surprised. “He is very well. He is as old as Methuselah but you’d never know it. I have to run to keep up with him.”
“He and my father were acquainted,” B said. “My father was a scientist and a man of enormous curiosity. He came upon some Torah scrolls several years ago and donated them to the rabbi’s synagogue.”
“Beatrice’s father was Benjamin Jacoby,” I added.
“Professor Jacoby was your father?” Glaser exclaimed. “I met him once. It was a long time ago, five or six years at least. But you said ‘was’?”
“He died some time ago.”
“I am truly sorry to hear it. He was a good and kind man. The rabbi will be very saddened by the news.”
“Thank you. But, forgive me, you were discussing business. I should leave.”
“By no means, Beatrice,” I said. “We would welcome your insights. The lady has a remarkable mind,” I told Glaser.
Briefly, I brought her up to date with the developments of the case.
“And your wound,” she said, “it is not serious?” She looked, not at me, but at Watson.
“I have no doubt it is painful, but the bone and the major blood vessels are intact. He was very lucky.”
“You both were, Doctor,” she said. “All the same, Sherlock, I think you might have told me.”
“Forgive me,” I said. “I am not used to... such things.”
Beatrice and I held each other’s gaze until we realised an uncomfortable silence now filled the room.
“And you have borrowed Mrs Prentiss’s documents?” she said, recovering. “Surely if there had been anything of value she would have returned them to Brahms already?”
I waited, watching her reason it out. “But Rickman believes she still has it. Whatever ‘it’ is. He returned last night to get it.”
“As you see, Glaser,” I said. “Beatrice has a highly logical mind.” To my wife I added, “We took only the oldest documents, ones that she has been working on for the past several weeks.”
“Perhaps I can help,” B said. “My French and German are excellent and even my Italian has improved.”
For a moment, I imagined I could hear the orchestra tuning their instruments. I could see B was remembering, too, for her cheeks flushed. Of course, it may simply have been because of the exertion of hurrying to Baker Street to see to my welfare.
“That’s not a bad idea, Holmes,” Watson said interrupting my reverie. “It took a good deal of persuading for Mrs Prentiss to give up her papers. The sooner we can return them to her the better.”
“Your help would be most welcome, Beatrice,” I said. “The sooner we catch this Rickman character the better.”
“And the Irregulars?” B said, “Can they help?”
“Billy and Tommy are already on the case,” I said. “They have the others scouring the city. Glaser, do you have any youths in your district who you would trust to search? What about that fellow, Ari?”
“I have already enlisted the help of my most reliable boys and girls.”
“Then I think we can do no more.”
Glaser rose to leave. He shook hands with Beatrice and with Watson, then with me. “I
wish you a speedy recovery, Mr Holmes. I shall send word as soon as I have something. In the meantime, if you need anything further, send word and I shall be glad to assist.”
“A nice young man,” Beatrice said after he left. “One of your acolytes, I think.”
“Acolyte?” I said. “Why do you say so?”
“It is obvious he has learned much from studying the Master. He was clearly thrilled to be part of the case, to help you with it. I do hope he will be careful. He so wants your approval.”
“See, Holmes,” Watson said. “Not so old after all.”
Friday 22 April 1898
I am sick of contracts. Of letters from whining officials and of endless catalogues of insufferably dull trinkets. We finished late this afternoon with nothing but paper cuts and ink stains for our pains.
The Prentiss family returned to their home last week. It was difficult for the children to travel to school from Gillespie’s house in Chelsea. I am not sanguine about it, but Watson tells me people do not live in a vacuum and cannot remain hostage to a dangerous villain forever.
Lestrade’s men have been keeping a close eye on Harrington Square and have seen nothing. I was, I confess, somewhat sceptical of their reports but the Inspector assures me his men are highly motivated.
“A man who would dare shoot the great Sherlock Holmes,” he said without any apparent mockery. “My constables are incensed. If this blackguard returns, you may be sure we shall catch him.”
He has not been apprehended. Does this mean he has not returned? If not, why not? Does he fear that I have set another trap for him, or has he spotted the constables? Too many questions and not enough data.
Though I am not at all sanguine about the Prentisses’ return to Harrington Square, at least they have had no disturbances. Thus far. George Prentiss assures me that the house has been secured with double-locks, the windows fixed with bars, and he, himself, has taken a position in British Rail’s head office. It is a reduction in salary, but the hours allow him to be home every evening. His wife seems perfectly satisfied with this arrangement. In the meantime, my old friend, Gillespie, has moved in with them for the moment. While he is advanced in years, he has a great deal of experience both as a soldier and as a member of the Queen’s own guard. I must be content.
This is what I tell myself: I must be content.
Watson and I went back to Camden Town this afternoon and returned Mrs Prentiss’s documents.
“You have done my work for me, Mr Holmes,” she said. “I’ve never been so up to date with my translations.”
“My... friend Beatrice did the bulk of it,” I said. “She is fluent in several languages.”
“Did you find them helpful, Mr Holmes?”
Watson hastily replied, “At least they enabled Holmes to rule out a number of things. Didn’t they, Holmes?”
There was no doubting the edge in his voice. I said, as cheerily as I could muster, “Indeed, yes. That is so. Though I must confess I was disappointed we did not find anything more on point.”
Watson sighed.
I continued, “Mrs Prentiss, are you sure you gave us everything? Is there nothing more?”
“Nothing, Mr Holmes, I assure you.”
I studied the rug on the floor of the study: A deep crimson background with intricately woven black branches and white flowers that I supposed to be cherry blossom. It was far too cheery a thing for my mood. Watson said, “Is it possible there were other documents that you had already translated and returned that struck you as out of the ordinary?”
My head shot up. Sometimes, Watson, sometimes...
Our hostess pondered for several moments then said, “You know, now that you mention it, yes there was. There was the matter of the Egyptian Fathers.”
“The what?”
“Yes, I thought it puzzling, too, Mr Holmes. It was at the beginning of the year; January, I think. I had quite forgotten all about it.”
“Yes, yes, but what did the document say? Where did it come from? It’s been several months, I suppose you cannot remember too much...”
“On the contrary, Mr Holmes,” Mrs Prentiss said, rising. She opened a cabinet and, after a few minutes, withdrew a document and handed it to me. It was a long sheet of paper comprising almost entirely of a list of names and years. There were forty-four entries.
“I always keep a carbon copy of the translation for my own records,” Mrs Prentiss explained. “Just in case there is some dispute or query later on. I do not have the original, of course. Although, to be clear, I do not believe the copy I received was the original either. It looked like it had been transcribed from another, older, document.”
“Thank you, Mrs Prentiss,” I exclaimed. “You have done exceedingly well. Why did you think the document was a copy?”
“There were small signs.” She sat and pondered, trying to recollect. “The paper was old but not antique. As a linguist, I am a student of philology. Some of the words on the page were archaic.”
“So you believe the style of language seemed older than the paper?”
“Yes, precisely. Language evolves, you see. The way we speak and write now is quite different from the Elizabethan era, for instance. This document had something ancient in the language, in the way certain words were used. The syntax and grammar were particularly antiquated, and there were no upper or lower case - something that is exceedingly unusual in a modern Greek document but commonplace in ancient Greece.”
“Can you tell us anything about the paper?” I did not hold up much hope, but the woman surprised me.
“Well, it was paper and not parchment. Something else that suggested a copy.”
“Anything else?” I asked. “Close your eyes. Imagine it in your hands. Examine it.”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry, I’ve told you everything.”
“Be patient,” I urged. “Look at the document in your hands. How many pages are there?”
“Three... No, four. Yes... Four.”
“Are all the pages filled with text?”
A longer pause this time then, “Yes. Evenly spaced on the first three pages, but more cramped on the last page. The writing was slightly different, too, more rushed.”
“Good. You are doing exceedingly well. Now, feel the paper in your hands. How does it feel?”
“Rough. A medium weight type of paper. Not parchment as I said, just paper. It was dry. Brittle.”
I took a breath. We had probably reached the limit of her remembrance. One last question came to mind, however, and I said, “What does it smell like?”
Instantly she replied, “Camphor.” She opened her eyes and blinked. “Why, isn’t that extraordinary? I had quite forgotten. Yes, it smelled strongly of camphor. I remember coughing at the smell when I first took it out of the satchel. Whatever does it mean?”
“It means the paper has probably been stored in a cupboard for a long period of time.”
“So it is an old document,” Watson said.
“That is by no means certain,” I said. “All we can deduce is that the paper seems old, but not ancient, and that it has been stored near camphor.”
“Oh, I wish I could remember more,” Mrs Prentiss said.
“Not to worry,” Watson said. “You have done extremely well. Hasn’t she, Holmes?”
“What? Oh, yes, splendidly. Well, it may not matter, in any case. As you say, this was not the original manuscript but only a copy...”
I tried not to sound too disappointed. Even a copy can be of extraordinary interest if one knows what one is looking for.
“You said you took the papers out of a satchel,” I said. “Where did the document come from?”
She took the copy back from me and held it, as if the tactile connection could stimulate her memory.
“It was in
between two pages of a letter,” she said.”I’m afraid I cannot tell you anything about that letter; I did not record the information.”
“You did not translate it?”
“No...” Her hand caressed the page and she frowned. “Now, why didn’t I? I see I noted receipt of the document on the twentieth-fourth of January and that I returned it on the seventh of February.”
Watson and I waited as she continued to ponder. “It was in English... Yes, that’s right. It was a bill of sale from the Fleming estate and spoke of the death of old Sir Nicholas Fleming... He had died only two days earlier and I remember I was surprised that his heirs acted so promptly to discharge his affairs. I suppose he had been ill for some time and they were waiting for it. What a horrible thought. But I remember that I thought it was odd to find a document like that in my box of papers.”
“Odd?”
“For two reasons: in the first place I don’t get documents in English. Sometimes there may be some direction from Mr Brahms, ‘I need this urgently’; or ‘M Brel sends his regards’, sort of thing.”
“I understand. And the second reason?”
“Well, Sir Nicholas wasn’t someone we would normally do business with. He was an English gentleman and if he had affairs with foreign correspondents, he dealt with them himself. He used to come to the shop from time to time; he and Mr Brahms were acquainted. Yes, I remember that Mr Brahms was very anxious that everything to do with the estate be handled as quickly as possible.”
“Sir Nicholas Fleming, the explorer?” Watson said. “He and his partner, Sir Jeremy Jeffrey made their name in North Africa, if memory serves.”
“Yes... Tell me, Mrs Prentiss, is there anything else you can tell us about the gentleman?”
“Not really, I’m afraid. I met him once, no, twice. He was very elderly and not in good health. He had three sons but I got the impression he was not on good terms with any of them. He was an antiquarian with a taste for the exotic. He had a particular fondness for documents of the ancient world: Greece, Egypt, and the Middle East. Now and then Mr Brahms received an object associated with one of those places and he always let Sir Nicholas know.”
