by Geri Schear
Then he flung open the kitchen door... He was expecting us, surely? That grimace on his face, the way the pistol was ready to be fired... No, he knew we were there. So was he really looking for a document or did he intend to frighten us off and return later? Or was it his plan to kill me, only to fail at that instant? Something does not fit.
As to the murders in the diamond district, I am even less certain. Why kill Schwartz? Was he a serious threat or had there been a quarrel of some sort? It is unfortunate Mrs Schwartz claims to know so little of her husband’s dealings. Perhaps Beatrice will fare better.
I hope she will be careful.
At around half-five Watson came back into the living room.
“I can’t get to sleep,” he grumbled. He went downstairs and brought back a carafe of coffee. I did not move. I sat in my same spot following all my thoughts. Around and around I go. Perhaps I am ascribing too much intelligence to the man. Or too little. There may be a dozen explanations for his actions. Something gnaws at me. Something I have overlooked.
Around six o’clock my wife arrived. Mrs Hudson fussed about her as if she was a royal instead of merely the Queen’s goddaughter. Beatrice accepted my housekeeper’s plea that she stay for dinner with good nature, and then she joined me in the sitting room.
“You have news,” I said.
She grinned at me and I could feel her excitement. Watson rose and said, “I think I’ll go for a walk.”
“It’s not a very pleasant day, Doctor,” Beatrice said. “Please stay. I’ve no doubt Sherlock will find your observations helpful as always.”
“That weather will play the devil with your war wounds, Watson. I beg you sit. Well, then, Beatrice, tell us your news.”
“After this morning’s services, I went to see Mrs Schwartz in the company of the other ladies. There was much conversation about what a good man her late husband was. For the most part, I believe it was true. A man easily carried away by his passions, but with a good heart. That was my impression.
“At length, the rabbi’s wife Miriam asked what I as a stranger could not: What Schwartz was doing in his business building at that hour.”
“Ah,” I said, rubbing my hands together. This was what I had been waiting for.
“The widow said Schwartz had been making inquiries about some Egyptian coins. On Friday afternoon he received a telephone call and was very excited afterwards.”
“Did he tell her the nature of this call?” I asked.
“He told her the man had a Germanic accent. Schwartz seemed to think that was significant, according to his wife. He was very excited and said, ‘We have him.’”
“She was sure those were his words?”
“Yes. She added that he arranged to meet the man at his work premises after evening services.”
“Schwartz had no reservations about that?”
“None at all, apparently. He evidently did not expect the meeting to take long because he told his wife he would be home in time for dinner.”
I said with as much cheer as I could muster, “Thank you, Beatrice. That is something at least.”
“Oh, don’t fob me off with that, Sherlock, it doesn’t become you. That is not all the news.”
The glimmer in her eyes should have told me so. I smiled, genuinely this time, and said, “So what other treasures do you bring?”
She stared at the ceiling and said, “Do you know, it is a long time since you played the violin for me. I think you owe me a tune after we have dined.”
“Beatrice-” I stopped and made an exaggerated sigh. “You may have anything you wish, but please tell me what else you have learned.”
“Anything?” she said in a dangerous tone. Then, laughing, “It is not fair to tease you when you are so vulnerable. Yes, vulnerable, Sherlock. You would offer anything in order to get the information. Very well. Schwartz kept a diary. Mostly it was to record his transactions, sales and acquisitions, that sort of thing. But from time to time he also made notes about other things.”
“Ah! Do you have it?”
“No,” she said. “I could not read it and neither could you. It is in Yiddish. At my request, Miriam got it from Widow Schwartz and gave it to David. He will translate it and come here this evening with his report.”
David?
“Well, that will do,” I said. “Did he tell you what time?”
“He said after he had slept for a few hours he would read it and bring it to you. I imagine he will be here by the time we finish dining.”
For the next hour, I forced myself to be genial company. As promised, I played a few pieces on the violin to the lady’s great pleasure (or so I tell myself), and managed to eat enough of my meal to satisfy both my friend and my wife.
Around eight o’clock there was a knock at the door and a few moments later Glaser came into the room.
“Come and sit here, Inspector,” I said. “It is a filthy evening. Can I pour you some coffee? Or perhaps a brandy might be preferable?”
“A brandy would be just the thing. Thank you, Mr Holmes.”
His eyes were shadowed with fatigue and even his curly hair seemed to lack its natural buoyancy.
“You did not sleep?” Watson said. “You look done in, poor fellow.”
“I should not have asked you to come here, Glaser,” I said. “I should have come to you.”
“You did not ask; I did,” Beatrice said. “And I agree it was a very thoughtless thing to do. I apologise.”
Glaser smiled and took the snifter from me. “Thank you,” he said, and downed a mouthful. “Ah, that’s the ticket. But there’s no call to apologise, Beatrice. I made the choice to come here. To be honest, I felt like I needed to get away from the diamond district for a while. There is so much alarm and distress. I can hardly walk five paces without someone stopping me and needing reassurance.”
“And in the meantime, you’re still dealing with the loss of one of your friends and a fellow police officer,” Watson said. “You need some time on your own to grieve.”
Glaser’s smile was unconvincing but I gave him credit for the attempt. “I shall grieve when we catch Mordechai’s killer,” he said. “I think my friend’s own words might help.” He pulled a small journal from his pocket and showed it to me. As Beatrice said, I could not read it. Such a deficit in my education.
“I have not had a chance to study it properly, but I skimmed some parts on my way here. Up until last Sunday when you spoke to him about the coins, Mr Holmes, the journal is fairly straightforward,” Glaser said. “Mordechai registers the receipt of various gemstones, as well as their quality and appearance. He writes about sales, customers and amounts received. This isn’t his official business ledger. It is a personal log of the precious things that he handled or hoped to acquire. Almost a love letter. Schwartz once told me that he remembered every stone he had ever held. He could describe the cut, the colour, and the flaws the way a proud father might describe a child.”
“And since Sunday?” I asked.
“He notes your conversation, writes the word ‘Abba’, father, and a question mark. See, here? Now,” the inspector continued, “He lists the names of - I am not sure if it is two or three people who might be able to tell him more about the coins. There’s a Dr Bazalgette.”
“He is at the British Museum,” I said. I made a note. “His expertise lies in ancient Egypt. It is possible he might know something about the coins but I would have thought it unlikely. Who is next?”
“A Greek, I assume, by the name of Demosthenes, no last name and no address or indication of where the man may be found.”
“He is not Greek, he is an Englishman. Demosthenes Jones. He has a shop in Soho. I would not have put him down as a reliable source. And the third?”
“There’s a reference to Bashir.”
“Bashir? Is that a Jewish name?” Watson asked.
“Arabian,” B said. “It means one who brings good news.”
“How in the world did you know that?” Glaser said.
B said, “I knew a man named Bashir at one time. It can be either a first or a last name.”
“There is also a town by that name in Iran, I think,” Watson said.
“Yes, yes,” I said. “But this does not advance our investigation. Did Schwartz speak to any of these gentlemen?”
Glaser peered at the script and said, “He telephoned Bazalgette and was told quite firmly the coins are a myth. Then he left a telephone message for Bashir. I cannot see any sign that Bashir called him back. Ah, but then he spoke to Demosthenes. This is interesting. It appears Schwartz implied that he had the coins or knew where they were. He asked Demosthenes to help him find a buyer. That was on Friday afternoon.”
“Tell me, Glaser, does Schwartz make any notes regarding his Friday night meeting?”
“He says something about the ‘Emissary from Ngozi’ and the hour. You’ll see the time is when he was killed.”
“So we need to find a person called Ngozi?” Watson said.
“No, we need to find Rickman. There is no Ngozi.”
Glaser hesitated. “That is true, Mr Holmes,” he said. “From the way Schwartz has written this, I believe he knew the fellow was a liar. He writes ‘German’ and ‘South African’ with a question mark. I think he knew this fellow was Rickman. What I do not understand, though, is if he believed that why would he agree to meet the fellow alone and in the dark?”
“That is curious,” I agreed. “Another puzzle for us to investigate.”
“But not tonight,” Beatrice said. “We are all tired and we shall think more clearly after a quiet evening and a good night’s sleep.”
Glaser rubbed his eyes and stretched. “Yes, I ought to get back.”
“Must you?” Watson said. “I really think you could use a night off. Surely this ‘Rickman’ fellow will not return to the diamond district so soon.”
“I agree,” Beatrice said.”You need a break. You will function much better for it.”
“It is a kindly thought,” the inspector said. “But my people need me there. My presence - perhaps I flatter myself - but I believe my presence is a comfort to them.”
“You cannot look after your community if you do not first look after yourself, David,” Beatrice said.
David again. She pronounced it in the Jewish way. Da’veed.
She added, “I know there is no room here to accommodate you, but you could stay at Wimpole Street with Sherlock and me.”
“With you and...?” Glaser looked at her with some embarrassment.
“I think we should let the inspector in on our secret,” I said. “Or he shall think we are characters of ill repute. Beatrice and I are married, Glaser.”
“What?” Embarrassment ebbed as astonishment flowed.
“It is not common knowledge. Indeed, no one outside our very small circle knows.”
“They married for convenience,” Watson said in a curiously amused tone. “They even drew up a contract outlining the particulars of their arrangement, right down to the number of concerts they will attend together each month.”
“It is a perfectly rational arrangement,” I said with some pride, justifiable, in my opinion. “We both know what is expected of us. We live in our own homes and do not infringe upon one another’s freedoms. We do share accommodation from time to time, when it is warranted.”
“I see,” Glaser said. He plainly didn’t. “But why the need for secrecy?”
“Last year my godmother would brook no further delay and insisted I marry,” Beatrice said. “Unfortunately, the suitor she had in mind was not to my liking.”
“He was a loathsome cad,” I said.”A bounder of the worst sort. Beatrice would have been dead within a month if she’d had to marry him.”
“But surely your godmother couldn’t wield such influence,” Glaser said.
“She can when she is the queen,” Watson added.
“I was at my wit’s end,” Beatrice said. “Then Holmes suggested I marry him instead.” She smiled at me and added, “Quite the knight in armour, right out of a story book. All you needed was the white charger.”
I have never seen myself in such light but I cannot pretend to be dismayed that Beatrice does.
Glaser said, “I still don’t understand the need for secrecy.”
“At the time we married,” B said, “Sherlock was being harried by a cutthroat gang. He felt it was safer to keep our arrangement as quiet as possible.”
“Yes,” I said. “Even now there are those who would attack me through the people I - that is to say, through my closest friends.”
“You see the way of it, Glaser?” Watson said, still with that peculiar mirth.
“To return to the subject,” Beatrice said, “What do you say to spending the night in Wimpole Street, David? It will give you a much needed break and you’ll feel the better for it.”
I added, “I’m sure Tavistock Hill will keep an eye on things in Hatton Garden for the night. You can send word to the rabbi and tell him what you’re doing; he can contact you if there is an emergency, though I doubt there will be.”
“Well... Yes, why not?” he said. “Thank you, Beatrice. It is very good of you.”
“I’ll ask Mrs Hudson to call a cab,” Watson said. “You should be able to head off right away.”
Beatrice said, “Aren’t you coming with us, Doctor?”
“Oh,” Watson said. “I did not realise you meant me, too.”
“But of course, silly goose. Go get whatever you need for the night. There’s no rush.”
“Do you have room for all of us?” Glaser said.
“Oh, yes. It’s a big house and far too empty. I shall be very happy to share it with my friends.”
I have not had occasion to enjoy Beatrice’s music since her return from France. This evening we all sat as she played some favourites for our young friend. She delighted us with some of Mendelssohn’s Songs without Words, as well as selections from Offenbach and Saint-Saens upon the piano. Then she rose and said, “Someone gave me a special gift.” She ran her fingers over the harpsichord. “Is it not it splendid? It belonged to Bach.”
She sat and played a selection of preludes to the English Suite by way of a thank you.
The maestro would have approved.
After a while, the lady took a break and joined us for brandy. The conversation wound back to the case in Hatton Garden as though it had some sort of gravitational pull upon us all.
“It must be very hard for the community,” Watson said. “Two murders on the one night and the killer still at large.”
“It is,” Glaser said. “Schwartz was well liked by most. He was an honest businessman and I do not have to tell you how rare a thing that is. He was also very generous; he gave money to people in need and to the synagogue, too. And young Bing... he might have become a decent policeman, in time. I shall miss him.” He rubbed his eyes and said, “But I must thank you, Mr Holmes, for recommending young Stevens. He’s intelligent and motivated. Not like...” He bit his lip as if he felt he had betrayed a confidence.
“You mean not like de Vine?” I said. “I do not think it is disloyal to speak the truth, Glaser.”
He admitted, “Some men become police officers because they have a thirst for justice. Others see it as an excuse to bully others. De Vine is not interested in justice.”
For a moment he hesitated, then blurted, “His story last night rang false. When you questioned him about how he came to be outside Schwartz’s building, he shook as if he had the ague. But he answered all your questions about the gunman’s attire perfectly calmly.”
“Ah,�
�� I said, rubbing my hands together. I knew Glaser had a spark. “You spotted that, did you? What conclusions did you draw?”
“That he was lying about everything but the man’s appearance.” He shook his head and I saw he was trying to fight off fatigue. “His statement bothered me... Why was he there? His beat should have taken him up Clerkenwell Road at that time of day. He was lying about seeing a light in the window. Why?”
He opened his eyes and stared at me. “You knew all this already. Why did you not say anything?”
“I am still gathering data. I did not want to accuse one of your policemen without further proof.”
“And that is why you asked Stevens to stay with de Vine,” he said. “Ah, now I understand. I really ought to talk to de Vine, though, Mr Holmes. Give him a chance to explain himself.”
“All in good time,” I said. “Give Stevens a chance to win the fellow’s confidence. It is always best to have proof before confronting a liar.”
Sunday 1 May 1898
We had just sat down to breakfast when the telephone rang. Mrs Hudson: a body pulled from the Thames. Inspector Lestrade asks if I could meet him at the site.
Glaser, much brighter this morning, asked if he might accompany Watson and me.
“It is a grisly thing,” Watson said, “to see a body that’s been in the water. Are you sure you want to come?”
“Oh yes,” he said with such relish that Watson was dumbfounded.
Glaser laughed and said, “I never get a chance to see such things, and I dearly like to observe you work, Mr Holmes. It does seem odd, though: why would Lestrade want you to see a drowned body?”
“There are several possible explanations, but we cannot know until we go and see.”
Beatrice said, “I suppose there is no possibility of my coming? No, I did not think so. Very well, off you go and be men together. I’ll...” she sighed elaborately, “embroider something.”
She sounded so tragic I chuckled. “I am sorry, Beatrice,” I said. “But I think it would be unwise to have you join us. It would cause too much comment.”
Lestrade, well wrapped up against the wind with his felt derby pulled down low on his head, waved at us from the pier.
