by David Marcum
“Yes. I promise I shall explain my reason later.”
“Very well,” I sighed.
I returned a few seconds later with my stethoscope adorned to my neck. I asked Mr. Smith if I could assist him, but he preferred walking on his own. With the help and support of the cane, he did just fine.
“Tomorrow, I would like you to go to the bank and withdraw the £1,000 from your account,” Holmes explained. “Then, wait at your business for the abductor’s next set of instructions. Once they arrive, come see me immediately. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Mr. Holmes, I shall do precisely as you ask.”
I helped Mr. Smith down the stairs, and soon after we were outside. I hailed a cab, assisted the gentleman inside, and then Mr. Smith was on his way back to his home.
After, I climbed the seventeen steps and found Holmes in his favorite chair, sitting with a glass of brandy in hand, his clay pipe in mouth, studying the portrait. Holmes turned and looked at me with a mischievous smile on his visage and asked, “Doesn’t Miss Welty look like the perfect match for Mr. Smith?”
We both burst out laughing at this absurd question.
“Really, though Watson,” Holmes continued, calming himself while I still tittered. “I believe I can help the man. The case shall be over tomorrow, and perhaps I can assist him in more ways than one.”
“Perhaps you can be a witness for their wedding,” I joked and started guffawing again. Holmes chuckled silently, but just said, “We shall see, we shall see. For now, I grow tired of this case and propose that we dine out this evening at Simpson’s, followed by a night at the symphony. Tonight’s performance is Grieg’s ‘In the Hall of the Mountain King’, which I have heard is a remarkable work. What say you, Watson?”
I concurred, and after a wonderful night of food, music, and spirit, I awakened the next day and left to make my calls with Mr. Smith’s dilemma forgotten from my thoughts. My rounds for the day went much faster than expected, and I returned to Baker Street in the middle of the afternoon.
Upon entering my domicile, I found Holmes sitting with a female client. She was a stooped bony woman, though well dressed. Her skin was pale, almost albino in its features, and her teeth so strongly jutted from the top and bottom of her mouth as if they were parallel to each other.
Holmes was holding his sketch pad again, and this time it featured a rather stunning portrait of a gruff, clean shaven, and handsome man.
“Ah, Watson, please meet Madame Illsley. You may remember this man,” Holmes motioned to his portrait, “from yesterday.”
I bowed to the Madame and told Holmes I had no recollection of meeting the man.
“You really must be more observant, Watson. He was standing outside our residence yesterday while Mr. Smith told us of his situation. Now, Madame Illsley, have you seen this woman?”
Holmes shared the portrait he had drawn of Miss Welty. The Madame’s eyes bulged and her mouth sputtered. “Why yes! Yes! Mr. Holmes. I saw her on several occasions as I dined with Lord Priswick. It would be difficult not to note one as she. Indeed, I commented to the Lord about the woman, and he feigned that he had not noticed her, though I knew he was being dishonest.”
“Thank you, Madame,” said Holmes. “That will be all. I shall do my best to retrieve your stolen jewels. Please be patient. Even as we speak, Inspector Gregson is searching the premises of Lord Priswick, though that is not his real name. Do not lose hope.”
“Bless you, Mr. Holmes,” Madame Illsley responded. “The necklaces and rings are family heirlooms. They are of value, but it is for my family name, as well as my own personal pride, that I would like to see them returned.”
“All in good time.” Madame Illsley thanked Holmes again before leaving.
“Watson, your timing could not have been more perfect,” Holmes assured me. “All is prepared to catch Henry Mueller and his wife, Patrice.”
“Mueller?” I asked, not following the detective.
“Yes. Come now, old chap. A hansom awaits us, and we shall catch the thieves in the act. I shall explain all on our journey.”
We descended the stairs and hopped into our transportation. As we left our residence, Holmes began his tale. “Yesterday, when Mr. Smith arrived and you were assisting him on the stairs, I glanced out onto Baker Street and noted a man loitering about the pavement. Then, as Mr. Smith explained his story to us, I noted several peculiarities. First, that Miss Welty learned much from Smith, but he little from her. He had no knowledge of her place of work, her residence, even the name of her attacker. Second, Miss Welty was left alone on occasion in his place of business while he did things such as fetching family photographs to share with her. Third, the supposed break-in to the coffee trader’s business was actually staged. The shards of glass on the pavement before the door indicated that the glass was smashed from the inside, not the outside. This led me to the conclusion that Miss Welty and an associate had planned the entire episode.”
“Remarkable, Holmes,” I said. “But who was Miss Welty’s associate?”
“It was her husband, Watson. Miss Welty’s real name is Patrice Mueller, the same Miss Mueller I mentioned earlier. Her husband was the Lord Priswick that you heard Madam Illsley mention, but his real name is Henry Mueller. Both husband and wife are notorious thieves who use their physical features to seduce and coerce others, snatching their wealth away.
“I believe Miss, who I should refer to as Mrs., Mueller learned the location of the key to Smith’s safe. The night before the robbery, while she sent Smith to fetch some article of interest, she took the key to the backdoor. The next morning, when Smith left on business, the Muellers entered his business, found the key to the safe, and then unlocked it. They had planned to run off with the money, but instead they found the safe completely empty. The Muellers had not planned on Mr. Smith taking his money to the bank. The couple did not want all of their work to go to waste. They had targeted Mr. Smith - yes, targeted, Watson, for I am sure that the two were already waiting in Market Street on the night of the supposed attack, probably in a side alley.
“Instead of leaving as poor as they started, the couple concocted a kidnapping scheme. They smashed the window to the entryway and wrote the ransom note. Since Mr. Smith noted that he rarely uses the backdoor, he probably only locks it from the inside. I believe the Muellers removed the key to the backdoor and locked the door behind them when they left. Hence, Mr. Smith assumed that the door had always remained locked, and he did not think to look to see if the key was missing.
“Yesterday, when Mr. Smith relayed his story to us, it reminded me of the story of Miss Illsley, which I had heard from Inspector Gregson that very morning. While you were helping Smith to his hansom, I watched Mueller, who was covering his face behind a tall collar across the street from you. The man acted just as I expected.
“Upon seeing Mr. Smith leave in the hansom, he hailed a cab, and it was the one in which we are sitting now. Mr. Stewart, the driver, has become a common fixture on Baker Street. He knows of my business and - like the Irregulars - he becomes my invisible eyes and ears in this section of London. This morning, I called upon Mr. Stewart, and for a two-pound payment, he gave me the address of the Muellers.”
“Well done, Holmes. But why did I need to wear my stethoscope outside yesterday?”
“It was insurance, Watson. I was almost certain that Mueller did not know I was a detective, but to be safe, I had you assist Smith to his carriage. By having Smith visit a doctor who lives at 221b Baker Street, it would alleviate any suspicion that Smith came to me for help. It also gave Smith cover for not going to the bank earlier that day. Mueller could see that the injury prevented him from acting quickly.”
“Very good. And are we on our way to the Mueller residence now?”
“No, Watson, there is a portion of today’s events I have yet to relay to you. After you left
this morning, I sketched out the portrait of Mr. Mueller from my own memory. I then contacted Gregson and also sent a letter to Madame Illsley. Due to a prior engagement, she was not able to meet with me until this afternoon. Still, as we corresponded via telegram, it was clear to me that the man I had seen following Mr. Smith was indeed the man who had stolen her jewelry.
“At about noon, I heard from Mr. Smith. He had received directions to put his money in a satchel and leave it at a specific set of bushes in Hyde Park at precisely five pm. He is to come alone, drop the satchel in a remote location in the park, and keep walking west for fifteen minutes. However, since Gregson put several of his men on the trail of Mueller, we will apprehend him with the money in his hands, verifying his theft.”
“But Holmes, we won’t arrive until well after five o’clock.”
“That is fine, Watson, for we, along with Mr. Smith, will be with the officers who apprehend the man.”
Soon after swerving through the streets of London, we arrived outside a section of Hyde Park. The street was bustling, a perfect place for Mueller to escape into the crowd, but it was also a perfect spot for the undercover Yarders to hide in plain sight.
Holmes and I left the carriage and waited with the small crowd of Gregson’s men who were incognito and pretending to check a map of London. One of them, hidden in the crowd, was Mr. Smith, still hobbling on my cane.
“Good to see you, Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson. I look forward to apprehending the scoundrel and proving my angel’s innocence.”
I shook my head sorrowfully. Even after the police had informed Smith of the true identity of Miss Welty, he was too smitten to believe it.
“Here they come,” growled one of the men, and we all looked up to see both Mr. and Mrs. Mueller walking, arms linked, with Henry Mueller carrying the satchel of money.
Before anyone could stop him, Mr. Smith burst through the crowd and hobbled to the couple as quickly as he could on his injured leg. The two were stunned to see the man, as they had assumed he was still wandering far away from them in the opposite direction. They had no knowledge that a waiting brougham had fetched Smith and quickly brought him back to the rendezvous point.
“Unhand her, you brute!” Smith stormed up to Henry Mueller, his left fist clenched and swaying in the air.
Upon seeing Smith, Mr. Mueller’s mouth dropped open. He was stunned and his face paled in fear of Smith’s fists. Mrs. Mueller had an opposite reaction and instead of cowering, she burst out laughing.
“Oh, you cunning fool!” she sneered at Smith. “Coming to my protection, are you? Ha! Did you really think the likes of me would ever be with a lump of a man like you?”
Smith stopped in his tracks, deflated.
“That’s right,” Mrs. Mueller continued. “You thought I was your dear Miss Welty. Well, I never was! I tricked you! And now we are going to be off with this bag of money we happened upon in the woods. Nothing illegal in that. And if you have a problem, well just you try and stop us. I’ll scream and bring the police. That would be perfect. Having the police arrest you for trying to take back your own money. What a lark!”
“You can save your breath, Mrs. Mueller. The police are already here,” said Holmes, as he and the force surrounded the couple, “though I believe you’ll find they are correctly on the side of Mr. Smith. We have the ransom notes and witnesses who can connect you to the crime. Your days of preying on the innocent are over.”
The couple braced for a fight, but when they saw the number of officers there to arrest them, they simply put out their wrists and allowed themselves to be taken away. As the police removed the criminals, Holmes and I stood a moment with Mr. Smith.
“I was a fool, Mr. Holmes,” he stammered, his voice hollow. “If she had asked, just asked me, for the money, I would have given it over willingly.”
“Ah, but the criminal mind does not think that way, Mr. Smith. Part of the thrill of the chase is committing the crime. Be thankful that we were able to apprehend them with your money in tow. Tomorrow, I shall have Gregson return it. I recommend going to your home and resting.”
Smith gave a silent nod and then we went our separate ways.
“Do not look sorrowful, my dear Mary, for that is not the end of the tale.”
“Oh, I am so glad,” Mary breathed a sigh of relief. “I do hope this has a happier ending. I feel just terrible for poor Mr. Smith.”
“I believe you’ll be pleased, my dear. The following evening, Holmes was practicing violin until eight in the evening, when he abruptly stopped, put his instrument away, and then grabbed his inverness and deerstalker hat.
“‘Wherever are you going?’ I asked my friend.
“‘Ah, Watson,’ I have dinner plans with Mr. Smith and Madame Illsley. I spoke with Gregson this afternoon, and he did retrieve all of Madame’s jewels from the Mueller home. The couple was probably planning on selling them off after they had absconded with Smith’s money. Then they could have traveled to another city, possibly as far away as Edinburgh, where they would have continued their scheme. Gregson and I will go together this evening to Simpson’s to return the stolen goods.’
“‘Simpsons? I confess Holmes, why not just have the two retrieve their property at the Yard?’
“‘Because, Watson, both had more than their finances stolen from them. Both also lost their hearts. I made reservations for us at eight tonight. However, as you can see, Gregson and I will be fashionably late. It will give the two a chance to get acquainted before we arrive.’
“And did they find love?” Mary inquired hopefully.
“Why yes, my dear, they did.” And at that, I held up my newspaper clipping. It was an announcement of the ten year anniversary of Mr. and Mrs. Smith.
The Two Patricks
by Robert Perret
Winter was turning to spring and a light rain traced the windows of 221b Baker Street. Holmes was tending to his little garden box, gently watering and pruning his poisoner’s collection of monkshood, foxglove, cuckoo pint, nightshade and, of course, hemlock. I had objected to having such a deadly collection in the flat, but Holmes assured me that someday I would be glad of it. Mrs. Hudson had no idea of the nature of the garden and was quite taken aback when I slapped her hands away from an alluring purple blossom and forbade her ever to touch the flower box again.
For my part, I was nestled in my reliable club chair, lingering over a fine cigar and flipping slowly through The Times, and listening to the gentle patter of the rain. The front page was, of course, all about the incredible return of lost scion Patrick Blackhouse to his parents after sixteen years of captivity. As a child, young Patrick had been kidnapped right off the grounds of the Blackhouse estate. According to the newspaper, he had been taken by a traveling show troupe. Sylvester Love was a master of the sword arts, including swallowing. His wife, Naomi, performed a snake act portraying the Seduction of Eve. Their own son had disappeared into the crowd at Newcastle the year before, never to be seen again. Insane with grief, Naomi had taken Patrick and raised him as her own. It was quite a story, to say the least.
“That it appears in a newspaper is no guarantee that you are looking at one rather than the other.” Holmes said.
His sudden intrusion startled me. “What’s that?”
“You were just thinking that sometimes the truth is more fantastical than fiction. I suggest to you that appearing in a newspaper is no guarantee of truth and no proof against fiction.”
“I’m not as simple as all that.” I lifted the paper up before my face to create a barrier between myself and the great detective.
“She’ll quite like that.”
“Damnation, Holmes! You can’t hold half a conversation with a fellow that doesn’t even know it is happening. What are you on about now?”
“I daresay Mrs. Watson will enjoy your day at the Royal Jubilee Exhibition
. I hear the fountain at the center of the hall is breathtaking.”
“Aha! I’ve got you now, Holmes! I was thinking of no such thing!”
“Your mind was stirred by the wedding announcements in the paper, reminding you of your own anniversary. You quickly dismissed an advertisement for ladies’ boots, wisely deciding the issues of both size and style were unduly fraught. You lingered upon an advert for an electro-magnetic hair brush, rather too long for a professed man of medicine, before coming to rest on the article describing the Jubilee Exhibition Hall recently built by Maxwell and Tuke. You then absently felt for the train schedule book in your breast pocket, showing that you had moved from abstract thoughts to planning the practicalities of the trip. I cannot be blamed if I can follow your thoughts better than you can yourself.”
“Humpf. Just mind your plants, Holmes.”
The bell at the front door rang. A minute later, Mrs. Hudson appeared in the doorway to the study. “Mr. Holmes, a lady to see you. A rather dignified one at that, unlike the types you usually consort with.”
“Yes, very good, Mrs. Hudson. Please show her in.”
Mrs. Hudson went back down the stairs, and in her place appeared a woman regal in appearance. She wore a fine blue velvet coat over a striking satin dress, pristine even in this rainy weather. Lace ran to her wrists and throat, and upon her head she wore a tall hat tied with a sharp bow. She looked appraisingly at myself and Holmes. There was a great pause, and then to my surprise Holmes put down his gardening implements and stepped towards our visitor with his hand outstretched.
“Lady Blackhouse, I presume?” She gave a small start and then a stiff smile.
“Mr. Holmes? It appears your reputation is well founded.”
“Simple observation, madam. Your clothes are new and expensive, but not needlessly showy. You are comfortable wearing luxury items, so your new wardrobe does not suggest a change in station. The colors are unfashionably dark for spring, but rather less dark than the mourning black I suspect you have become accustomed to wearing in recent years. Your lack of ostentation in jewelry suggests old money, and yet you are unfamiliar to me. A member of the social elite who has shunned high society. You are disturbed enough to seek out the aid of a consulting detective, yet clearly not distraught. From this, I surmise that you are a wealthy woman who has spent many years suffering and only recently have events turned for the better, and yet this has not brought you the happiness you anticipated. Further you believe something to be amiss in your good fortune. London is abuzz with the news of a well-to-do family that has recently experienced a mixed blessing in the form of the return of a lost child under unclear circumstances. Exactly the type of situation beyond the scope of police assistance.”
