Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine #6

by Marvin Kaye

  Holmes closed his eyes briefly, as if contemplating the issue. “Where does the lady live?”

  Weyland smiled and rose. “Forty-seven Berkeley Square.”

  “Very well.” Holmes waved a languorous hand and closed his eyes again. “Dr Watson and I will call on her this afternoon.”

  “We would be delighted to,” I said, getting to my feet. I suspected that Holmes was far more interested in this case than he let on, and I certainly looked forward to meeting Lady Vennering.

  “I doubt if I can be there myself. In fact, she might speak more freely if I am not.” Weyland handed me his card. “You will know where to get in touch with me if you wish.”

  Holmes did not move. “Very well, sir.”

  I walked Weyland to the door. To his credit, he did not seem discomfited by Holmes’s lack of courtesy. He bowed to both of us.

  “Good day to you, gentlemen. I am greatly in your debt.”

  “Good day.”

  I watched him descend the stairs, where Mrs Hudson met him with his hat and gloves. Then I returned to our chambers.

  “Strange business, Holmes,” I said, pacing from one end of our sitting room to the other. “I cannot believe that Mr Weyland’s motives are entirely impersonal.”

  “Nor can I.” He could not conceal his merriment.

  “What are you laughing about?”

  “I was thinking of the Book of Tobit, Watson.” He rose and joined me by the window. “In that story, the role of protector — the role I have just been asked to take — was played by the Archangel Raphael.”

  He grinned, face alight with mischief.

  “I cannot help feeling, Watson, that I am making distinct strides in my profession.”

  * * * *

  N

  umber forty-seven, Berkeley Square, was a pleasant Georgian building overlooking the shaded walks and mature plane trees of the green. An elderly butler ushered us into a cheerful, modern drawing room. A fire crackled beneath the delicately carved Adam mantelpiece, but the trim form of Lady Vennering drew our gazes.

  She set aside the book she had been reading and rose to greet us with an outstretched hand and a charming smile. A fine figure of a woman, with chestnut hair and intelligent, dark eyes, she was even more beautiful now that she was not swathed in black veiling, hounded by journalists as she had been at the Old Bailey.

  “Mr Sherlock Holmes, I am so pleased to meet you.”

  Her voice was mellow, as rich as fine brandy. Holmes immediately bowed low over her hand.

  “How do you do, Lady Vennering. May I introduce my old friend, Dr Watson?”

  “How are you, Doctor?”

  “I am pleased to meet you, Lady Vennering.”

  “Do sit down. You are just in time for tea.” She rang the bell, then resumed her seat on the settee and indicated that Holmes should join her there.

  “Thank you.” He darted me a glance before returning his attention to her. “You know why we are here, of course.”

  “Naturally,” she said, not at all discomposed. “Mr Weyland came ’round as soon as he left you. You are to persuade me to look after my mortal affairs, while he takes care of my immortal ones. Isn’t that it?” Her bright-eyed gaze moved from Holmes to me.

  I cleared my throat. “Most charmingly put, Lady Vennering.”

  She rewarded me with a smile, then turned back to Holmes. “May I say, Mr Holmes, I am flattered that a man of your eminence should be sufficiently interested to bother about me.” She spoke forthrightly, without a hint of coquetry.

  “You underestimate your own importance, Lady Vennering,” said Holmes. He smiled. “Though if your problem had been as simple as Mr Weyland made it out to be, I might have been otherwise engaged.”

  The butler and a maid appeared. After they arranged the tea service, she dismissed them. She waited until they left before replying.

  “You are being very frank, and a little mysterious. Are you suggesting that Mr Weyland was less than forthright?”

  “I am.” He met her gaze, his eyes narrowing. “And I hope you will be more candid with me.”

  At that, she laughed. “Sherlock Holmes, I like you. You are most refreshing.” She arranged the Royal Worcester to her satisfaction and poured a cup. “Milk and sugar in your tea?”

  “Just milk, thank you.”

  “Here you are. And you, Dr Watson?”

  “Oh, the same, please. Thank you.”

  After dispensing tea and encouraging us to sample a few of the delicacies on the tray, she returned to the topic at hand.

  “And now, Mr Holmes, perhaps you will explain why you believe you have not been fully informed regarding my affairs.”

  “Before I answer, Lady Vennering, I wonder if I might ask you a few questions.”

  “But of course.” She looked at him attentively. “Anything.”

  “When your first husband, Signore Bossoni, was killed, did the police find any suspects?”

  Her vivacious expression dimmed but she answered readily enough. “One. Vernon Gaultier, a young man who had been an assistant in our magician’s act. A stupid, good-looking boy who thought he was in love with me.” She shook her head. “However, Inspector Lestrade had to release him. There was no evidence.”

  I snorted at the mention of our sometime colleague. “Lestrade? If he arrested Gaultier, you can be certain the boy was innocent,” I said, sotto voce.

  Holmes ignored my aside. “A warning note was found among your husband’s effects, wasn’t it?” he asked.

  “Yes. And it was signed in Hebrew, with the name Asmodeus.” Lady Vennering sipped her tea. She lifted a delicate eyebrow. “But perhaps you are not familiar with the Book of Tobit?”

  “Oh, yes, I am familiar with it, Lady Vennering.” Holmes set his cup on a side table. “When did you discover that the Hebrew letters signified that name?”

  “At the time of my first husband’s death. Mr Weyland translated them for me.”

  “I see.” Holmes affected unconcern. However, one who knew him as well as I did saw his attention sharpen.

  Lady Vennering continued: “He also read me the Book of Tobit. Mr Weyland has always been particularly fond of that book.” She chuckled, and her cheeks coloured slightly. “Perhaps because it illustrates his own ideas on the dangers of marriage.”

  “But he told us he hadn’t seen any of the warning notes until yesterday,” I said, pleased to get the drop on Holmes.

  “Precisely,” said Holmes. He glanced at me, his expression enigmatical. “Lady Vennering, I read in the papers that you intend to marry Major Beckwith, despite his being tried for your late husband’s murder.”

  “May I remind you that he was acquitted in a court of law, Mr Holmes.” Her tone turned chilly. “As to your question, yes, that is my intention.”

  “When are you to marry, may I ask?”

  Her dark eyes flashed, but she answered calmly. “When it pleases me.”

  “But what of the scandal?” I cried.

  “Not to mention the fact that Major Beckwith’s life is in obvious danger,” said Holmes.

  “Of course I understand the risks, gentlemen.” She rose and crossed the room, her skirts rustling with her rapid steps. She turned to Holmes and spread her hands, exclaiming, “However, despite my tragic marriages, am I to spend the rest of my life alone, as Mr Weyland would have me do? I am young, alive …”

  The drawing room door flew open, and before the butler could announce him, a young man burst precipitously into the room.

  “Peter!” Lady Vennering gasped, one hand covering the lace at her throat. “What are you doing here?”

  The young man approached her, his face ruddy. “I arrived in England today, Diana,” he said, his brogue thick on his tongue. “What is this I read about you marrying Beckwith?”

  “As you can see, I have guests.” Recovering from her surprise, she assumed her social obligations. “Mr Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson, this is Peter McComas, one of our most promising young pa
inters.”

  McComas was sandy-haired and his visage displayed typical Hibernian features. His clothing was of good quality, but rumpled and dusty, in sore need of care.

  He barely acknowledged our presence, his eyes remaining fixed on Lady Vennering.

  “Diana, tell me, is it true? When I left England, you loved me, and I you.” His voice broke.

  Lady Vennering lifted her hand to her lips and turned away.

  “I come back, and what do I find?” McComas continued, his voice rising. “You are planning to marry Beckwith. If you think you can throw me over like some silly boy, you’re very much mistaken.” He scowled, fists clenched. “I will not stand for it, do you hear!”

  Holmes and I exchanged a glance and prepared ourselves to come to Lady Vennering’s aid, if necessary.

  She did not need our assistance. She turned and faced him, her hand outstretched toward the door.

  “Get out of here, Peter! Get out!”

  “Diana …” His anger, barely mastered, simmered beneath the surface.

  She lifted her chin. “Get out, and do not return until you have learned manners and discretion.”

  “But, Diana,” he pleaded.

  “Get out.”

  “I shall leave for the present.” McComas glared at us. “But whoever has poisoned your mind against me will pay.”

  His shoulders stiff, his expression defiant, he stalked from the room.

  Lady Vennering took a moment to compose herself. After such a scene, I would not be surprised if she asked us to leave immediately; I am certain many women would bow or break under the pressure of such unwanted attentions. Yet she remained composed and dignified.

  She returned to her seat, gesturing for us to resume ours. “I apologise for the interruption, gentlemen.”

  “Not at all,” I said. “You are certainly not responsible for McComas’s ill-considered actions.”

  She smiled warmly at me. “Peter is such an impulsive boy.” Glancing at Holmes, her expression grew grave. “And he is mistaken. I never indicated by word or deed that I loved him, although he often insisted upon expressing his love for me.”

  “So there was never any rivalry between McComas and Major Beckwith?” asked Holmes.

  “I had heard …” she began, then shook her head. “No, I refuse to believe that Peter could be involved with such a dreadful affair. I never encouraged him, I assure you.”

  Holmes inclined his head. “First Gaultier, and now McComas. It must be invidious to be the object of such unwelcome regard.”

  “Yes, indeed. Fortunately, my new protectors are even more formidable.” Her eyes shone as she smiled at us. She turned to Holmes. “Were there any more questions you wished to ask me?”

  “One, Lady Vennering,” said Holmes. “Where is your fiancé?”

  “He is upstairs.” She lowered her gaze to her hands, which were clasped tightly in her lap. “I am allowing him to remain here until the scandal of the trial has died down.”

  Holmes sprang to his feet, startling both Lady Vennering and me. “I must see him at once,” he cried.

  “At once?” I said. “Why, Holmes? He is in no danger until the marriage takes place.”

  “The marriage has taken place, Watson, unless I am very much mistaken.”

  Lady Vennering looked up at him, her dark eyes wide. “What makes you think so, Mr Holmes?”

  “You are much too discreet and intelligent, Lady Vennering, to allow him to stay in your house unless you were already married.”

  She laughed, as would a child caught in some harmless mischief. “We were married this morning. We planned to keep the fact a secret for a few months, until the gossip had died down.”

  “May I talk to him, please?” Holmes did not share her laughter. If anything, his expression darkened.

  Lady Vennering rose, apparently not one whit distressed. “I shall ring for the butler and ask my husband to join us.”

  I recollected Mr Weyland’s visit to us that very morning. “May I ask, Madam, who married you?”

  “Mr Weyland,” she said.

  “Ah. So at the time he talked with us today, he was aware this marriage had taken place. He must have just come from it!” For a man of the cloth to weave such a fabric of falsehoods was almost inconceivable. I turned to Holmes as the drawing room door opened and the butler appeared.

  “Holmes, I do not trust Weyland,” I said quietly.

  “He certainly was being very sly,” Holmes replied.

  “Oh, there you are, Greaves,” said Lady Vennering. “I just rang for you. Will you ask Major Beckwith —”

  “Excuse me, my lady.” Greaves’s voice wavered and his naturally ruddy complexion was very pale. “I was just on my way to telephone the police.”

  Holmes went very still.

  Lady Vennering rested one hand on the mantelpiece. “The police? What do you mean?”

  Although Greaves’s face was bleached of colour, his years of service stood him in good stead. “It’s Major Beckwith, m’lady.”

  She hesitated, then asked in a firm voice, “What has happened?”

  Greaves’s gaze darted to us before returning to his mistress. “He is dead, m’lady. Stabbed to death in his bath.”

  I gasped. “Beckwith murdered, too!”

  Holmes raised his brows, but did not look surprised.

  I was concerned about Lady Vennering. After two such emotional blows in one afternoon, surely even the most steely composure would crack. But I did not understand the depths of her self-possession and resilience.

  She was pale, and leaned heavily against the mantelpiece for a moment. Then she straightened.

  “Greaves, I shall telephone the police myself. By now, I am rather well acquainted with Inspector Lestrade. Excuse me, gentlemen.” She swept from the room.

  “Dreadful business, Holmes,” I said softly, staring at the door. “Her third husband murdered on his wedding day.”

  “But what a woman, Watson!” He laughed and spread his arms wide. “She is superb! Magnificent!”

  I am familiar with Holmes’s peculiar ways, and especially his opinion of the female sex. His enthusiastic approbation of Lady Vennering certainly seemed out of character, and I wondered briefly if he suffered from an undiagnosed brain fever. But no, his eyes were lucid, his movements vigourous.

  “What on earth do you mean, Holmes?” I demanded.

  “What courage! What unconquerable spirit in the face of fresh tragedy!” He strode to the windows and back. “Watson, she fascinates me. I have not seen such a splendid female since we solved that little difficulty with the King of Bohemia!”

  Another scandal, to be sure. I would never forget that case, nor the woman who had bested the great Sherlock Holmes.

  * * * *

  O

  ver the course of the next month, I saw Holmes only occasionally. I assumed he was working on another case, for he had absented himself before for prolonged periods when infiltrating a notorious gang or maintaining a false persona. However, I could not help but feel troubled at his failure to confide in me regarding the nature of his investigations, especially those requiring so much of his time.

  I was finishing my breakfast one wet, chilly morning when Holmes entered the sitting room. He had been out the previous evening and not returned until after I had retired. I did not like the look of him; his cheeks were paler than usual, and although his eyes were clear and bright, he seemed consumed with nervous energy.

  He waved away my offer to ring for more food and threw himself into the chair beside the fireplace, where he filled his pipe with a foul-smelling mixture.

  I had taken my coffee and the newspaper to my usual chair when Mrs Hudson bustled in, Inspector Lestrade hard on her heels. His eyes were red-rimmed and he smelt of damp wool and mud.

  I greeted Lestrade and motioned him to a seat. He declined and paced the room until Mrs Hudson had left with the breakfast dishes. Then he turned to Holmes, who had completely ignored him.

&
nbsp; “Mr Holmes.”

  “Yes, Lestrade?” Holmes continued to stare into the fire.

  “Major Beckwith was murdered a month ago, and we haven’t found a single clue,” he said plaintively.

  Holmes turned and scowled. “And you expect me to make up for the deficiencies of Scotland Yard?”

  “It’s unlike you not to help us, Mr Holmes,” said Lestrade. “And after all, you and Dr Watson were in the house when it happened. If you ask me, the murderer is either McComas, that Irish painter, or the clergyman Weyland. What do you think?”

  Holmes rose, his scowl deepening. “As far as I am concerned, the case is closed, Lestrade, and I wish you would stop bothering me!” Ruddy patches sat high on his cheeks, and he threw down his pipe. “What do you think I am, nothing but a detecting machine?” he shouted before disappearing into his room, slamming his door shut.

  Lestrade looked as stunned as I felt. “Mr Holmes! Whatever’s come over you?” he called.

  My attempts to excuse Holmes’s rudeness were feeble at best. With a heavy heart, I watched Lestrade leave. Should I speak with Holmes about what was consuming him so? Or should I keep my peace and trust that he would confide in me at the appropriate time?

  I stood in the sitting room, unable to decide on the best course of action, when Holmes emerged from his chambers, fully dressed. He glanced at me, and his remote expression softened for a moment.

  I took courage from that slim evidence of his regard. “You were intolerably rude to Lestrade.”

  His lips twisted into an apologetic smile. “Indeed I was, my old friend. I am afraid that my current investigations are difficult enough without the weight of Lestrade’s expectations added to my burden.”

  I took advantage of the opening he provided. “You know you can always trust me to help, no matter the occasion.”

  His gaze lingered on the carpet and his mouth tightened. “You, of all people, can be of no help in this.”

  I turned away at his rebuff, made all the more painful because I had brought it upon myself. I would have been better served if I had kept silent.