by Geri Schear
She smirked. Never in all my life have I so wanted to strike a woman.
“It would be better if it had been you,” she said. “But hurting you works, too. A shame that gunman, whoever it was, didn’t kill her, that snooty bluestocking bitch. Oh, there would be tears aplenty then, wouldn’t there, my dear?”
My fist was iron and would have flown, but Watson grabbed me and all but dragged me from the room.
“Come away, now,” he said. “Come, Holmes. She’s quite mad.”
As he dragged me down the stairs, her voice echoed and ricocheted through the building. “You think we don’t know about the two of you? You think we didn’t see her spying for you in France? Jew-loving strumpet...”
“Holmes, come on. Don’t listen.” Watson had a firm grip on me, which was as well, or I would have throttled her and the devil take the consequences.
“She’d better watch herself,” the harpy shrieked. “Next time someone goes looking for her they won’t miss... And you had better stay out of my way or I’ll make sure the whole world knows about the two of you. No corner of the world will be able to hide you then.”
Watson half-dragged, half-carried me down the stairs. I had no idea of his strength.
That was four hours ago and I have not yet stopped shaking with fury. I despise these passions. Nothing destroys reason more thoroughly than pure - or impure - passion.
It was Watson who thought to call Lestrade and have two officers keep watch on the woman. No, not the woman. Irene Adler woman was a creature of integrity and possessed a certain nobility. This other woman is a monster of madness, of spite and of malice.
For most of the evening, I sat staring into nothingness as my mind sorted through the labyrinthine events since Beatrice and I returned from Europe. Yes, that is where it began. For all our attempts at circumspection, there are those who sense the bond between my wife and myself, even if they do not know we are married. Watteau, of all people, had dropped me that hint: You should not have gone to France. You make people nervous.
That creature who followed B back from Paris and who vanished after seeing her arrive at Mycroft’s office. What was that Mrs Porlock said: you think we did not see her spying for you in France?
Mycroft was right - at least I know he will not gloat over the fact - my presence in France and, later, Beatrice’s sojourn in Paris did attract attention. Esterhazy, von Schwartzkoppen, and Casonne all had ties to Porlock and all were involved in the Dreyfus Affair. What terrors they must have endured when they saw B and me arrive in France. They assumed we were there to spy for the British government. They had B followed and saw her arrival at Mycroft’s office as confirmation of their suspicions. They were happy to assist Frau Porlock with anything she needed so long as it meant I could be distracted from the Dreyfus Affair.
I see from my notes that matters became more desperate in May, presumably because Zola’s second trial was pending. The spies feared that I would intervene. Fools! As if there are no men of intelligence in France.
When all the men around her failed, Mariah Porlock took matters into her own hands. She planned to kill Beatrice as a way of injuring me. Her notion of tit-for-tat: You cause the death of my husband; I kill your wife. But Tommy saw the gun and flung himself in front of Beatrice an instant before the weapon was fired. I doubt Mrs Porlock gave the boy’s death a second thought, but it was the final straw for her brother. I do not believe it is a coincidence that he hanged himself on the same day as Tommy’s funeral. And he hanged himself in Schwartz’s shop in almost exactly the same spot where he committed his first murder.
Watson brought me a nightcap. “I do not want to interrupt your thought, Holmes,” he said. “But it’s been a stressful day and I think a single-malt might help you sleep. You can keep it until you are ready to retire,” he added, anticipating my usual lecture about alcohol and its effects on the human brain.
I took the glass and nodded for him to sit down. I reviewed the results of my ratiocination. I find explaining things to Watson often helps me to clarify my thought. His knack for asking the right questions amounts almost to genius.
“I think you are right,” he said when I finished. “But why did Watteau come back? He knew he was dying. Surely he wasn’t driven by malice?”
“He was deployed by Esterhazy and the others, I think. They could not risk Frau Porlock would fail. He was their insurance. But Watteau knew he was dying; that is why he did not bother offering any defence at his trial. Perhaps he thought killing me would be his crowning achievement. Besides, he expected to be paid in diamonds. Rickman, Richman, I should say, was supposed to steal whatever gems and gold from Schwartz’ workshop as he could get his hands on.”
“But he didn’t realise the jewels would have been locked up in the vault?”
“There were a number of things Richman did not consider: he did not realise Schwartz wouldn’t put the light on. He did not anticipate the difficulties of getting around so confusing a building, particularly in the dark. What with the uneven floors, the irregular ceiling heights, and the labyrinthine layout, it is challenging enough in daylight. In the dark, in a state of panic, it was almost impossible. So much misery would have been avoided if Schwartz’s plan had worked. It would have worked if de Vine were not such an indolent fool.”
“One thing I don’t quite follow,” Watson said as we sipped our drinks. “How did Mrs Porlock know about Gillespie?”
“Her husband had me followed much of last year, as you recall. Very likely, his wretched organisation had a file on every one of my associates. Gillespie attended Porlock’s trial; he had lunch with us during one of the adjournments. He is pretty well known in his circle. It would not have taken much effort to learn about his daughter. Mariah Porlock was looking for something outré, something that was guaranteed to lure me in. Alice Prentiss’s translations, the arrival of the innocent Mr Amun in Harrington Square, and those old stories about the Coptic Patriarchs all came together in her terrible mind. It is curious, you know, that Tommy gave me one of my biggest clues, but I did not realise it at the time.”
“He did? What clue?”
“When we had dinner in Sussex I was talking about the case and said I came to investigate it because Gillespie asked me. Tommy said, ‘Good thing he knew you, Mr Holmes. If you had to look into every haunting in London you’d never have a day off.’ He was absolutely right: It was my acquaintance with Gillespie that led me into this case. Without that relationship I would never have known about Mrs Prentiss or been drawn to that particular investigation.”
We sipped in silence for several minutes, enjoying the quiet of the evening. Then Watson said, “What sort of a man could this Albert Richman have been? How could his sister manipulate him to commit murder?”
“There was a fairly large age-gap between Mariah Porlock and her brother; I suspect she abused and harassed him for years. He was too cowed, too unintelligent to defy her, but he was not murderous by nature, not like Mariah or Watteau.
“By the by, after Watteau’s discussion about diamonds I did some checking and I am fairly certain he was involved in a number of jewellery thefts in London last year. If you recall, Lady Dalrymple’s rose diamond was one.”
“Oh, I remember that case.” He smiled. “You were outraged you could not look into it because you were so ill. I was seriously worried for your health.”
“Thank goodness for Cornwall and-”
“-Healthy air.”
“-Interesting murder.” We spoke at the same time and I laughed. “We shall never take the same view of things, my dear fellow. And thank goodness. Who else would put up with me?”
“Well, Beatrice, for one. You made up your quarrel, I see.”
“It was never a quarrel... I just felt so wracked with guilt, so sure she must blame me for Tommy’s death. It transpires she thought I blamed her. What fools we m
ortals be.”
“None more so than the unfortunate Richman. And it is a good thing for Mariah Porlock that Watteau died. He was expecting to be paid for his troubles and she’s as poor as a church mouse.”
“Oh come, Watson. Do you really believe she is destitute?”
“Well, her husband’s estate was confiscated by the government. You saw how she lives.”
“My dear fellow! Yes, Porlock’s British property was confiscated, but he had a vast estate in Munich and assets hidden in many other places. Mariah Porlock does not live in Mornington Crescent because she cannot afford better.”
“She picked it for the view. Oh, I am a dunce.”
“You are nothing of the sort, my dear Watson. I have no doubt it suited her purpose to appear impoverished to her brother; it would inspire his sympathy. She even went so far as to sew up his jacket. You know, I am very grateful to you for getting me away from her before I committed some dreadful act.”
“You’re welcome.” He rubbed his chin and said, “It was what she wanted, isn’t it? To goad you into killing her.”
“Good God,” I exclaimed. “I had not thought of that. You are quite right, Watson, that is exactly what she was doing. What a revenge that would have been: to see me follow her husband to the gallows, my name disgraced. I am exceedingly grateful to you, my dear chap.”
He looked embarrassed. He always does when I praise him, which is why I do not do it too often. He laughed and said, “Oh, my dear Holmes. It was surely very elementary.”
I laughed. “Mock all you wish, my dear fellow. You have earned it.”
“Do you think you will be able to gather enough evidence to bring her to trial?” he said, after a moment.
“I doubt it. She covered her tracks very well. Sir Jeremy might recognise her voice or that ring. Even if he could identify her, there is no proof that she placed those papers with the rest of Sir Nicholas Fleming’s documents.”
“But she is a menace, Holmes. Neither you nor Beatrice are safe while she lives.”
“All we can do is watch her for the moment.”
He nodded and rose. “You should get to bed. We have another wedding tomorrow.”
I groaned. “Yes.” I downed the rest of the scotch. “Goodnight, Watson.”
“Goodnight, my dear fellow. Hang on; something has been nagging at me: The veil. You seemed to think there was some significance in the fact that Mrs Porlock kept her face covered, but that is not unusual for widows. What did I miss?”
“Think about how she was described to you by the locals in Camden Town.”
“As a pretty blonde... Oh, how did they know what she looked like if she always wore a veil? So she only wore it so I wouldn’t recognise her and Sir Jeremy wouldn’t be able to identify her.”
“Exactly.”
“Wicked woman,” Watson said. And he closed the door behind him.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Tuesday 16 August 1898
Edward Davenport and Miss Julia Simms are now Mr and Mrs Davenport. It was a very small, very quiet ceremony, at least in comparison with Daisy and Maurice Stevens’ event yesterday. Most of the attendees were staff from Rillington Manor and I must say they gave Watson and me a charming welcome. This was nothing to the greeting my wife received. There is no doubt they hold her in the very highest esteem.
The ceremony was blessedly brief. B sat at my side and though she neither looked at me nor touched my hand, I had a profound sense of connection to her that bypasses all laws of reason.
After the ceremony, I took her aside and told her about Mariah Porlock.
“Good God,” she exclaimed. “What an odious woman. She killed Tommy?”
“I believe she did,” I said. “But I have no proof. You need not worry for the moment: She is under close watch. Not only are the police standing guard, but I have Kevin and some of the other Irregulars keeping an eye on her, too.”
“It is not my safety I am concerned about, as you well know.” She bit her lip then said, “Forgive me. I seem to be irascible of late.”
“Under so much strain, the loss of Tommy, it is hardly surprising.”
“You may be right. Or perhaps I just miss you.”
“Then perhaps I might have the pleasure of your company this evening? If you are not otherwise engaged?”
“I am at your disposal,” she said.
“Excellent. Are you planning on returning to Wimpole Street?”
“Yes, I must. Now my friends are married they should have some time alone, I think.”
“And Billy?”
“Billy will stay with the Davenports. They have become a family. It was for Billy’s sake I stayed in Pimlico as long as I did. I think now it is time I resumed my usual routine.”
“Then may I escort you home?”
“I should like that.”
Thursday 18 August 1898
There has been such a confusion these past few days as all our questions and riddles have found resolution.
I should review the events in the order they occurred. Then, perhaps, I can determine what they mean. Perhaps my suspicions are unfounded.
Beatrice and I dined together and renewed our old - I was about to say friendship, but of course it is rather more than that. Our old acquaintance? In any event, whatever word fits, we had a frank and complete discussion about the events of the past few months.
I thought she blamed me for Tommy’s death, for not keeping her and the boys safe. She, in turn, thought I blamed her. She should not have returned to town, should have stayed at Windsor, etc., etc. Both of us so full of self-reproach and guilt.
In any event, we have both granted and received absolution for crimes real or imagined. Our night was all I had hoped and quite fulfilled the promises of Milan.
We discussed Mariah Porlock at length. B said, “So that creature is responsible for Tommy’s death. She has made your life a misery and I assume she plans continue to do so.”
“So I surmise.”
“It’s intolerable. She must be stopped, Sherlock.”
“She will be. She will make a mistake and in time we shall have her.”
“In time? Meanwhile, you must live under such a shadow.”
“I am well able to look after myself. I am more concerned for your safety. Yours and Watson’s. I think she has decided that torturing me is far more entertaining than killing me outright. The safety of my friends is my primary concern.”
I was trying to lift her spirits but she is too wise to be beguiled by easy comfort, and too honourable to pretend to believe a lie. At last, she said, “Well, I will not let her malice spoil our night. And who knows, perhaps she will have a fatal accident.”
As we ate breakfast I said, “I need to return to Baker Street to change. Will you come with me? I shall not take long.”
“Thank you, my dear, but I have an errand to run,” she said. “I shall meet you at the synagogue. Oh, I am so looking forward to seeing you wear a yarmulke.”
I returned to Baker Street and changed, and went on to Holborn with Watson. The rabbi and his wife greeted us with great warmth. As Watson observed, we shook more hands than the Prime Minister greeting his public.
“Where is our friend Beatrice?” the rabbi said. “Miriam and Esther have been asking for her.”
“She had an errand to run. She should be here soon.”
Watson said, “Mr Solberg has something to tell you, Holmes.”
Glaser’s friend was serving as best man. He looked fit and healthy, his appearance vastly improved since the last time we met. But then, finding a hanging corpse would make anyone ill.
He took Watson and me outside the synagogue. “Some things should not be spoken in the presence of the Torah,” he said. Then he explained how a woman had come to him last ni
ght to seek advice. “With my friend Glaser being properly focused on the wedding, she was reluctant to bother him. A little afraid, too, perhaps.”
“Afraid? Of what?”
“Well, that man you had been looking for, the one I found... it seems she gave him lodgings. She is not religious, though she is Jewish, and she doesn’t have much to do with us. Anyway, she often takes in lodgers to supplement her earnings.”
“And this fellow, Richman, was one of her lodgers?”
“Yes. She said she tried three times to approach my friend David. She thought of speaking with the rabbi, too, but she feels intimidated by him. Goodness knows why, no one could be kinder. Anyway, the reason she came to me is this fellow, Rickman, left behind some belongings and she didn’t know what to do with them.”
“She could have sold them,” Watson said. “If she’s that hard up, I wonder she didn’t try.”
“I suspect his leavings were not particularly valuable,” I said. “But she might have destroyed them.”
“She might. In fact, I think she planned to, but some superstition prevented her. In the end, she came to me. I know her slightly and I flatter myself I have always treated her respectfully. She wanted my advice.”
“And what did he leave behind?”
“I do not know.”
A crowd of people, laughing, celebrating, passed us and entered the synagogue. Solberg dropped his voice and said, “David ordered the room sealed until you could examine it.”
“Daniel,” the rabbi said. “David is looking for you.”
“I’m coming, Rabbi.”
We all went into the synagogue together and took our seats. The service began. Still Beatrice did not arrive.
The service was like nothing I have ever experienced before. It was lively, noisy. There was a great deal of discussion amongst the congregation, with cheers and applause greeting the bride, the groom, and many of the rabbi’s comments. I should have been vastly entertained.
“What’s the matter with you, Holmes?” Watson hissed. “You’re like a cat on hot coals.”
