by Geri Schear
“I cannot understand where Beatrice could have got to.”
“I am sure she’s perfectly safe. Look, here she is.”
Looking unusually flustered, my wife hurried into the seat beside me.
“Are you all right?” I asked her.
“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” she said. She seemed out of sorts but she gave me a smile and seemed to relax.
The service continued. Glaser stamped on a glass and everyone shouted Mazel Tov! It was quite delightful.
The reception was to take place in the hall attached to the synagogue but Glaser excused himself and joined me.
“Congratulations, Glaser,” I said, shaking his hand. “It was a charming ceremony.”
“It was indeed. Mr Holmes, Daniel told you about Netta Appleby? That she’s been providing lodging for that Rickman fellow?”
“Yes he has. I should very much like to examine the room.”
“As would I. If we leave now, I can be back in half an hour.”
“What, leave your wedding?” Solberg sounded aghast.
“Only for half an hour. Rivkah understands.”
Solberg rolled his eyes. “Oy, oy, oy,” he said. “Well, come on, let’s go.”
In the corner of my eye, I saw Rivkah and Beatrice engaged in earnest conversation. B caught my eye and nodded. So she knew and approved. I am not sure why, but that gave me some comfort.
Appleby was full of apologies. Glaser cut her short. “You’re very lucky I’m in too good a mood to scold you, Netta. But this is a serious matter. You knew we were looking for this fellow. I spoke to you myself, in fact.”
“You did, Inspector,” she said, tearfully. “It was very wrong. But he was such a sweet young boy. Simple. There didn’t seem any harm in him. I know he must have family; he spoke of a sister... Between ourselves, I think he was terrified of her. But I couldn’t just get rid of all his things...”
The room was a jumble of confusion. Clothes, once good but now soiled and frayed, were strewn around the bed and the floor. There were dozens of empty whisky bottles. No drinking glass.
Curiously, the surface of the table was empty except for a letter. The paper was cheap stationery available anywhere, and the note was written in pencil. It was a disjointed, sometimes incoherent account of the thoughts of a man about to take his own life.
My dear Mariah, it said,
I cannot live with the wicked things I have done. I have become a monster. I have failed you and myself.
Do not be angry with me. Please, please... I know what a wretch I am. A fool, just as you always said. But, Mariah, I cannot live with the things I have done. You tell me these things are right, are just, but what if we’re wrong, Mariah? Dear God, what if we’re wrong?
Your quarrel you should have kept to yourself. I have sins enough of my own without needing to add yours.
I would go to the police but I cannot bear what they must do to you. And what of your dear children? They would forever hate their Uncle Albert.
I cannot sleep. I lie in the dark and those faces haunt me. They say I am accursed.
A boy, Mariah. Just a child. How could you? Oh God.
I did not find the diamonds. I did not find the coins. I have failed in everything as I always do.
I beg you take care of Connie and my child. Give them what money you can spare, I know it cannot be much.
May you and God forgive me.
Your devoted brother,
Albert.
I felt Watson shudder. “Poor wretch,” he said. “What a terror his sister must have been. A shame he did not admit his guilt and let justice be served.”
The letter was not surprising, nor was it particularly helpful.
“Nothing that specifically inculpates his sister,” I said. “We shall have to find our own evidence. As you say, Watson, a pity this fellow did not admit his crimes and do penance.
“You and Solberg should return to the wedding, Glaser. I would like to examine this room more thoroughly. Watson and I shall join you shortly.”
“Be sure you do,” Glaser said. “My wife will never forgive either of us if you do not.”
The two friends left, leaving Watson and me to examine the room. A half an hour was sufficient. Truthfully, the job was done in a matter of minutes but I wanted to be thorough.
The only thing of even slight interest was a floor plan of a building. After a moment’s study, I was able to identify it as Schwartz’s workshop.
“What do you make of it, Holmes?” Watson said.
“He was trying to discover the entrance to the vault. A useless endeavour for it is beneath the building and not on these plans. I studied every inch of that establishment, Watson, and it took me almost an hour to find it. That was in daylight with my eyes and my wits. This proves conclusively he was hoping to get to the gems and precious metals that are hidden away in there. Yes... I think, apart from his guilt and his shame, he was afraid to tell his sister he failed. How she must have bullied and vexed him to make him so terrified of her. Harridan!”
“He asked her to look after Connie and his child. He didn’t know they were dead,” Watson said. “She did it. By heaven, Holmes, we have met scoundrels before: Moriarty and Porlock; Grimesby Roylott and Milverton, but this woman is their equal in wickedness.”
We kept the letter and sealed up the room, reminding the landlady it was not to be entered until Inspector Glaser gave permission. We returned to the wedding and the festivities. Around two o’clock I was surprised to see Lestrade beckon me from the doorway.
“Forgive me, Mr Holmes,” he said. “But something has happened and I wanted to tell you at once.”
Beatrice and Watson joined me. “What is it, Inspector?” Beatrice said. She seemed to be holding her breath.
“That woman you asked us to watch-”
“Oh, for heavens’ sake, Lestrade, surely you have not lost her already?”
“No, Mr Holmes. She is dead.”
I cannot say what feelings coursed through me: elation, relief, and deep, ugly suspicion. I did not dare to look at my wife.
“How?” Watson asked. “Did she take her own life?”
“Well, that’s possible, though I doubt it. She left her lodgings around noon and went to the railway station. To Euston, that is. It was busy on the platform with a sudden surge of crowds as happens sometimes. Anyway, somehow she fell onto the tracks. Fell, or was pushed. She is badly... I mean, identifying her wasn’t easy, but my men recovered this.”
He handed me a blood-stained sapphire ring.
“I see,” I said. “I appreciate you letting me know.”
“I understand you are busy, but if you wanted to investigate...?”
“Why should I want to do such a thing?” I said. “No, Lestrade. As far as I am concerned, she met with an unfortunate accident. I am happy to leave it at that.”
Wednesday 31 August 1898
Beatrice is quiet and very gentle in her dealings with me, but her sleep is troubled and once I heard her call out. I held her and she stopped trembling at last. “You are safe,” I said. “Hush, you are safe. I’ll never let anyone harm you.”
Nor shall I. No matter what sacrifice I must make. This I vow.
Background Notes
I was very young when I began reading the Sherlock Holmes stories, and for a while I was convinced he had really lived. Well, I was only seven years old.
Later, I started to wonder: what if he had really lived? What would his life have been like? What did he get up to between cases? Watson hints that Holmes was consulted on matters of international importance. What were they? These questions and hundreds more inspired me to write my first Holmes novel, A Biased Judgement: The Sherlock Holmes Diaries 1897. In the book, I combined the canonical stories of Sir Arthur Conan Doy
le with the historical events of that year. Writing it was so much fun and reader response so positive I knew I had to write a sequel. So, Sherlock Holmes and the Other Woman.
I wanted this book to follow immediately after the first, so I started researching 1898. As before, I began with Doyle: what happened in the Sherlock Holmes canon that year? Watson shares only two cases, though he teases us with hints of others. The Adventure of the Dancing Men began in July and The Adventure of the Retired Colourman took place in July or August, depending on which chronology expert you believe. I wondered what Holmes was doing in the months prior. Well, one event dominated the world’s newspapers in the last decade of the nineteenth century: the so-called Dreyfus Affair.
My novel is fiction and cannot do justice to such a convoluted tale, but I hope I have included enough detail to capture the essence of those events. My research included reading a large number of books, in particular Ruth Harris’s definitive book, The Man on Devil’s Island (2010) published by Allen Lane. I also read a number of contemporary newspapers and on-line articles.
Here are some of the undisputed facts about the Affair:
Captain Alfred Dreyfus (1859 - 1935) was born in Alsace to a Jewish textile manufacturer. His family moved to France and he later joined the French army. Dreyfus was considered a good soldier until 1894 when the French became aware that military secrets were being passed to the Germans. Suspicion fell on Dreyfus because, as a Jew and an Alsatian, he was deemed an outsider. Despite a case built on little more than badly forged documents and anti-Semitism, Dreyfus was found guilty in a secret court. He was publicly disgraced, stripped of his rank, and sentenced to life imprisonment in the notorious French penal colony on Devil’s Island.
In 1899, Dreyfus was pardoned by the French president and released, but he was not fully exonerated until 1906. He was then readmitted to the army with the rank of major. A week later, he was made a Knight of the Legion of Honour.
Dreyfus died in 1935, 29 years to the day after his official exoneration.
The supporters of Captain Dreyfus were called the ‘Dreyfusards’. These included members of the literati and the most brilliant intellectuals of the day such as Jean Jaurès, editor of La Petite Republique; Émile Duclaux, a microbiologist and chemist who was an associate of Louis Pasteur’s; and Émile Zola.
Zola (1840 - 1902) was a renowned novelist who was nominated for the first and second Nobel Prize for Literature in 1901 and 1902. He put his career and indeed, his life in jeopardy when he published J’Accuse, an indictment of the French military and government’s anti-Semitism and hypocrisy, and a demand for justice for Dreyfus. This stance shattered Zola’s reputation. He was convicted of libel in 1898 and was removed from the Legion of Honour. He fled to England and remained there until June 1899 when he returned to France.
In September 1902, Zola died of carbon monoxide poisoning. There were rumours that he was murdered. Indeed, a chimney sweep by the name of Henri Buronfosse allegedly claimed he deliberately blocked Zola’s chimney in order to kill him.
Zola was honoured with re-interment in the Panthéon in 1908. He shares a tomb with fellow literary giants Victor Hugo and Alexandre Dumas.
Marie-Georges Picquart (1854 - 1914) was the youngest Lieutenant-Colonel in the French army and chief of its intelligence bureau. His investigation into the Dreyfus Affair led to the discovery of the real traitor, Ferdinand Walsin Esterhazy. Picquart was cautioned to keep his discovery to himself, but continued his investigation despite considerable opposition. One of the people who tried to hinder him was Hubert-Joseph Henry (more on him shortly). Picquart was himself arrested on a trumped-up forgery charge when he seemed likely to exonerate Dreyfus. He subsequently resigned from the military. However, Dreyfus’s exoneration also exonerated Picquart, and he returned to the army in 1906 with the rank of Brigadier-General.
Ferdinand Walsin Esterhazy(1847 - 1923) was an officer in the French Army. He was a spy for the German Empire and committed the act of treason for which Dreyfus was convicted. One of his letters fell into the hands of Picquart, and the investigator realised at once the handwriting was identical to the documents that had sent Dreyfus to Devil’s Island.
Despite overwhelming evidence against him, Esterhazy was acquitted by a French military tribunal in January 1898. The judgement led to riots in the streets and, ultimately, to Zola publishing J’Accuse. In September 1898, Esterhazy fled France. He made his way to Belgium before settling in England.
Hubert-Joseph Henry (1846 - 1898) was a French Lieutenant-Colonel who admitted to forging two documents known as the ‘faux Henry’ that had helped convict Dreyfus of treason. He was sent to French military prison at Fort Mont-Valérien. The next day he sent a letter in which he admitted his guilt and added, cryptically, “You know in whose interests I acted.” He was later found dead in his cell. His throat had been cut. Although no razor was found at the scene, the French police pronounced his death a suicide.
The prevailing air of conspiracy was intensified by the unexplained death of one of Henry’s agents who went by the name Lemercier-Picard (real name Moses Lehmann). His death by hanging was never fully explained. Indeed, when Lieutenant-Colonel Picquart was arrested he said, “To-night perhaps I shall go to the Cherche-Midi, and this is probably the last time that I will be able to speak in public. I would have the world know that if the rope of Lemercier-Picard or the razor of Henry is found in my cell, I shall have been assassinated. No man like myself can for a moment think of suicide.”
I’ll leave the Dreyfus there and move on to Sherlock Holmes and the world in 1898.
The ‘Coptic Patriarchs’ will be familiar to Holmes’s readers as one of those cases Doctor Watson mentions only in passing (The Adventure of the Retired Colourman). For more than a century, Sherlockians have wondered who these ‘Patriarchs’ were. I’d like to think Dr Doyle would have approved my interpretation. The myth of the coins is an entire fiction, although the history of the Coptic Church is real. The City of Akhetaten (Tell el-Amarna) was founded and deserted just as Bazalgette describes to Holmes.
The term ‘zugzwang’ will be familiar to chess players as meaning a forced move with no good options. It wasn’t introduced to England until 1905, but it had been in common use in Germany since 1858. It derives from the German zug meaning move, and zwang meaning compulsion. While Sir Arthur Conan Doyle never mentioned Holmes playing chess, it seems reasonable to assume he was familiar with both the game and the term.
In October 1859, the steam clipper Royal Charter was wrecked in a storm off the coast of Anglesey and some 450 people died. As a result, Vice-Admiral Robert FitzRoy introduced a warning service for shipping in February 1861 using telegraph communications. While the system was managed by the Met Office, it’s likely Mycroft would have kept an eye on the forecast while he was expecting his brother’s return.
Hatton Garden had, and has, an international reputation as the centre of London’s jewellery industry. While David Glaser and the other inhabitants are entirely my own creation, the neighbourhood and the Jewish community are mostly real. Like much of London, it has changed considerably over the past century. I hope readers will forgive my filling some off actual gaps with supposition and, on occasion, complete fabrication. For instance, although there were several synagogues within a mile or two of Hatton Garden, there wasn’t one in the immediate vicinity. However, for the sake of the story, I played with the geography a little. The district was much more ethnically diverse, too.
The nearby Saffron Hill where the unfortunate Constable Bing meets his end, was notorious as one of the most dangerous places in the city. Conan Doyle mentions it in The Adventure of the Six Napoleons as the home of the Venucci family. Although that story is set in 1902, I paid homage to it by putting a bust of Napoleon in Demosthenes Jones’s shop and have Holmes threaten to break it as he actually does in Doyle’s tale.
Much of my information about
London during this period comes from the extraordinary work of philanthropist and social researcher Charles Booth. He mapped out the entire city according to crime and poverty rates in 1898. His maps and notes are available on-line at http://booth.lse.ac.uk and make compelling reading.
My descriptions of Mrs Prentiss’s neighbourhood owe much to the paintings of The Camden Town Group. The group included Walter Sickert, Spencer Gore, Augustus John and many others. The artists painted various scenes around Mornington Crescent and Harrington Square at the turn of the century. It was fascinating to see what Camden Town looked like during this period.
While the Home for Unfortunate Women in Holloway is my own creation, many establishments of this sort existed at the time and were very unpleasant places.
Telephones were in use by 1898, though they were hardly commonplace. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle mentions them in several stories, including The Sign of Four and The Adventure of the Dancing Men. While only the wealthiest or most important members of society had their own telephone at this time, it’s probable Holmes arranged for one to be installed in 221B Baker Street. Perhaps Mycroft insisted upon it. I speculated Holmes’s telephone was kept in the downstairs hallway, so Mrs Hudson, bless her, could take messages when Holmes and Watson were out.
James Billington (1847 - 1901) was the executioner for London and the Home Counties from 1892. He hanged 24 men and three women in Newgate Prison.
Mrs Prentiss keeps carbon copies of her translations. Carbon paper was widely produced since the 1820s.
Captain Sir George Mansfield Smith-Cumming, KCMG, CB (1859-1923) was the first director of the Secret Intelligence Service (SIS), later known as MI6. I’d like to think he was influenced by Mycroft, wouldn’t you?
Fans of the Granada television series might recognise ‘Peter Huggins’ as the real name of the late, much-missed Jeremy Brett.
While I was writing this novel, and shortly after I completed it, a number of events happened that echoed my fiction: anti-Semitic attacks in France (some would say they never stopped), and a major jewel robbery in Hatton Garden. The more things change...
