by Marvin Kaye
“I must leave or I shall be inexcusably late,” said Holmes. He sounded brusque and businesslike.
I returned to my chair. “Where are you off to?” I asked, although I did not expect an answer.
“To Berkeley Square. To see Lady Vennering.”
I stared at him. “Lady Vennering? But you said to Lestrade —”
“I said many things to Lestrade, all of which are true.”
“Then the case is closed? But if you are not continuing the investigation, why are you calling on her?”
Holmes smiled broadly. “For pleasure, Watson. For sheer pleasure.”
* * * *
A
fortnight later, I looked up as Holmes entered the sitting room, dressed in evening kit, and my heart fell, as well as my expression.
“Holmes, you are not going out again tonight, are you?”
“I’m afraid so,” he said with a regretful smile.
“This will be the fourth night in a row. I was hoping that we would have a nice, quiet time in front of the fire.” I could not help the accusatory tone that coloured my words, although I tried to temper it. Now, his every activity revolved around Lady Vennering: the opera, popular plays, concerts, exhibits at the Crystal Palace, luncheons, suppers, afternoon teas. He had spent several afternoons at the tailors, acquiring fine new clothing, and showed me the small gifts he purchased for her. Holmes had quite forsaken his work, and me along with it.
He seemed unaffected by my complaint. “I am sorry, Watson, but I promised to take Diana to the horse show at Olympia. I should be home by midnight.”
* * * *
H
olmes and I had just sat down to tea the following afternoon. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that I had sat down to tea while Holmes brooded by the fire with his pipe, when Mrs Hudson appeared, the Reverend Arthur Weyland close behind. Weyland ignored me and strode over to Holmes.
“Mr Holmes.” Weyland’s face was pinched.
“Yes?” Holmes drawled, tapping his pipe on the fender.
“You are seeing altogether too much of Diana.” Weyland jabbed an accusatory finger at Holmes. “She seems to be completely under your spell.”
Holmes lifted a brow but did not retreat. “But you introduced me to her in the first place, with the request that I keep an eye on her.”
“I made a great mistake.” His expression thunderous, Weyland folded his arms over his chest. He looked like Jehovah sitting in judgment. “As her spiritual protector, I must ask you to stop seeing her.”
Holmes crossed to the door and flung it wide. “I’m afraid I must ask you, sir, to mind your own business.”
Weyland opened his mouth as if to speak, but Holmes’s cold look silenced him. Weyland stormed from the room, but not before awarding Holmes a venomous glare.
Although I deplored Weyland’s temerity, I shared his opinion regarding the frequency of Holmes’s visits with Lady Vennering. Perhaps I could provide a distraction.
I set aside my book. “I say, Holmes. Have you seen in the paper that that violinist, Ysaÿe, is playing at the Albert Hall tonight?”
“I have not looked at the paper today.” Holmes crossed the room and gazed at his chemical apparatus, still residing on the side table, although ignored these past few months.
“I thought that perhaps we might go along and see him.”
He dragged a finger through the dust on the table. “I am afraid I cannot. I am taking Diana to ‘The French Maid’ at Daly’s Theatre. I hear that it’s a charming musical comedy.”
I jumped to my feet, my heart pounding. “But look here. We have been friends for a good many years, now.”
“Very true.” He threw himself down on the settee.
“And I think that I am entitled to speak to you straight from the shoulder.”
“Of course you are.” He sounded amused.
“Very well, then. This woman …”
“Ah,” he exclaimed, as if I had answered a difficult question, and took up his pipe.
“It’s your own business, of course,” I said, trying to remain calm, but my concerns, once acknowledged, would not remain hidden. “I cannot bear to see her making such a fool of you. You have neglected your work entirely since you have met her. You gad about as though you were a young fellow of twenty. What has come over you?”
“Stop pacing about, will you, and sit down.” Some powerful but unidentifiable emotion crossed his face as he gestured toward my usual chair. “In fact, it might be a good idea if you fortified yourself with a nip of brandy from the tantalus. What I am about to say may come as something of a shock.”
I declined the brandy, and he waited until I seated myself before continuing. “Watson,” he began, then stopped, seemingly at a loss for words. He essayed one or two false starts before clearing his throat. “Diana and I are getting married. Tomorrow.”
I stared at him. Surely I had not heard him correctly. “What did you say?”
His fingers tightened around the stem of his pipe. “I am getting married, tomorrow.”
“But …” There could be only one explanation for this news. “You are insane.”
Holmes burst into laughter and leaned back in his chair. “That is not very flattering, Watson. I don’t see why you should be so surprised. You yourself married and left Baker Street once, didn’t you?”
“But you, Holmes. A confirmed woman-hater …”
“No, no, my dear Watson, no, indeed no.” He waved his hand. “You remember, in our adventure that you titled ‘A Scandal in Bohemia,’ I met a lady that I’ve often referred to as,” he said with a chuckle, “‘The Woman.’”
“But Irene Adler was a criminal.” How could he compare Irene Adler, adventuress and consummate actress, with Lady Vennering? The two women could not be more different.
“Exactly. And yet,” he said, rising to his feet, his excitement growing, “Diana has the same magnificent characteristics. Keen intelligence, courage, and unconquerable spirit!”
Holmes truly was insane to even consider such a prospect. “But three of her husbands were murdered on their wedding night! Are you proposing to be the fourth?”
“Oh, rubbish. Because tragedy has attended her previous marriages, is she to go through life alone?”
I had heard those words before, from the lady herself. I looked at Holmes, at his animated face, his sparkling eyes, and was forced to face the truth of the matter.
“Holmes, you really mean it, don’t you?”
“Of course I do.”
The news was a blow, but I hid my distress as well as I was able. Still … “I think I will have a nip of brandy.”
“Do not take it so badly.” Holmes poured me a brandy, handing it over with a kind smile. “We will continue to see each other frequently. Diana insists.”
“Oh, really?” I took a hasty drink. “Who will perform the ceremony? Not the Reverend Mr Weyland?” I could not envision Mr Weyland willingly officiating at the nuptials of a man he had warned away.
“No. We decided, in view of Diana’s previous marriages, that he might prove to be a trifle, well, unlucky.” Holmes chuckled, as if the previous murders were minor inconveniences and not harbingers of potential threats to his person. “A fellow named Vernet will officiate. Weyland, of course, insists on being present, just the same.”
“What time is the wedding tomorrow?” I could not pretend to be happy about this state of affairs, but I knew what I owed Holmes, and would do my duty.
“Two o’clock.” He clapped me on the shoulder. “I should have mentioned this before. I hope your cutaway coat and top hat are in a good state of preservation. You will be a prominent figure at the ceremony, you know.”
“You mean that …”
“I mean that if Sherlock Holmes marries, who else could be his best man but his old friend, Dr Watson?”
* * * *
F
ortunately, Holmes’s wedding — and how I never expected to say those words — was a simpl
e affair at a small church close to Berkeley Square, rather than at St. George’s, Hanover Square, with all the attendant pomp and ceremony.
Although the air was still chilly, the sun put on a brave show as we left Baker Street, and we were able to take a hansom to the church. I delivered the bridegroom to the altar in good time, and to her credit, the bride did not keep us waiting. Before attending us, she briefly spoke to Weyland, who glowered and glared, violently gesturing toward Holmes as we introduced ourselves to the Reverend Mr Vernet. A heavily built man with a pronounced stoop and pince-nez balanced on the end of his prominent nose, Vernet’s amiable countenance contrasted sharply with Weyland’s dark expression.
I hoped Weyland might leave before the ceremony, but he remained, seated at the back of the church, a skeleton at the feast.
Holmes appeared relaxed and attentive as Mr Vernet spoke, and his bride gazed at Holmes with a soft smile that was pleasing to see. If Holmes was to be married, at least his wife showed a proper appreciation of her good fortune.
Finally Mr Vernet’s sonorous voice intoned those familiar words: “I now pronounce you man and wife. And those who God has joined together, let no man put asunder.”
The happy couple then signed the marriage register, and our small party took a carriage to Berkeley Square. Holmes told me the night before they had discussed the matter of where to live and, our lodgings obviously being unsuitable for the married couple, decided Holmes would move his residence to Berkley Square.
I dreaded returning to our chambers alone that evening, and understood, for the first time, how Holmes must have felt when I left him for married life. Still, I could not begrudge him the well-deserved joys of matrimony.
We finished the wedding breakfast, and I toasted the fortunate pair.
“Madam,” I said when we had drunk to their health and happiness, “I am going to claim the privilege of the best man and give you a kiss.”
She smiled and presented her cheek. “Of course you shall, Doctor.”
Then I turned to Holmes and clasped his hand. “And you, Holmes, are a lucky fellow.”
“I am indeed.” He gazed at me, a fond look in his eyes.
His wife took his arm for a moment, her fair hand in stark contrast to the inky black of Holmes’s jacket. “Sherlock, I am going upstairs to change my dress now.”
He covered her hand with his. “Very well, Diana. I shall be up shortly.”
“I hope to see you later, Dr Watson.”
I bowed slightly. “Of course, Mrs Holmes.” She disappeared up the stairs. “You know, Holmes, I never thought I would ever say that.”
Holmes’s expression grew grave. “Watson, I am worried.”
“What? Today? What is the matter?”
He leaned toward me. “Just before the ceremony, I received a warning note. It was signed by Asmodeus.”
My heart sank. I had hoped — in vain — that the mysterious Asmodeus would not leave his calling card this time. “You must be careful.”
“I believe I shall slip out and have a pipe or two on the matter,” he said with a thoughtful nod. “Look after my guests for me, will you?” He lowered his voice. “Keep your eyes open. And your ears.”
“Yes, I will indeed.” I watched him leave, my abstraction interrupted by a figure hurrying by. “There you are, Mr Weyland. Would you care for a glass of champagne or punch?”
“Thank you, no.” He favoured me with a sour look. “I am in no mood for celebration. I am certain Mrs Holmes has made a shocking mistake.”
“Well, really, sir, I don’t think —”
“I only came here in a last minute attempt to dissuade her,” he said, interrupting my protestations. “Now that I have failed, I shall leave. Good day, sir.”
I was relieved to see him go, and assuaged my suspicions by watching him retrieve his hat, coat, gloves, and stick from Greaves, before striding out the door. I breathed a little easier at his absence.
“Dr Watson?”
I started and turned.
“Oh, hullo, McComas.”
Properly dressed for the occasion, McComas looked around, his eyes bright. “Where is Mr Holmes?”
“He will return in a few minutes. Would you care for a glass of champagne, sir?” I assumed my duties and beckoned to the footman.
“Thank you.” He took a flute from the tray. “I should like to drink a toast to the pair. I have been in love with Diana for years, y’know, but she would not marry me, and well, I suppose I might as well make the best of it.” With a shrug, he drained half the glass, then gave it a respectful nod. “I must say that your friend Sherlock Holmes seems a splendid fellow.”
“He is indeed, McComas. In fact, I may say —”
“Watson!” Holmes cried out, his voice faint, but unmistakably coming from the upper floor.
“Excuse me, sir.” I did not wait to hear McComas’s reply but bounded up the stairs, heedless of the stares of the servants. “Are you all right, Holmes?”
To my relief, he appeared in a doorway halfway down the corridor and beckoned urgently. “Come here!”
“I’m coming! What on earth is the matter?” I ran to him. His hair was disarranged, his shirt torn.
“Follow me and lock the door behind you.”
I did as he instructed, then turned to the room.
Holmes stood in the center of a bedchamber. He flung his arm out toward a figure reclining on a chaise. “Allow me to introduce you to the demon Asmodeus, Watson. Unfortunately, she struck her head on the edge of that table,” he said, indicating a heavy, marble-topped commode, “and is unconscious.”
“Good Lord!” I knelt beside the still form. “It’s your wife!”
I checked her pulse and gently inspected the wound on her scalp as Holmes watched.
“I shall need water and towels,” I said. “I’m afraid I did not expect to need my medical kit.”
Holmes left the room, returning quickly with the items I requested. I set to work cleaning her injury.
“What happened? How did she attack you?”
“After I left you, my devoted spouse sent her maid to fetch me, using the pretext that a clasp on her luggage was faulty.” His smile was grim. “She dismissed her maid as I repaired the clasp, and made the mistake of trying to stab me with this knife,” he held up a small, wickedly sharp stiletto, “as I bent over to fasten the valise. She did not allow for the wall mirror in which I observed her.” He indicated the ormolu mirror on the far wall.
I sank back on my heels, my patient temporarily forgotten, eyes fixed on the glittering blade. The blade that had almost extinguished the life of my friend.
“Are you injured, Holmes?” I said, rising. “Be honest with me. She is in no danger, but you …”
He waved away my concern. “She did not harm anything but my linen.”
Reassured, I returned to my patient. Although his revelation stunned me, Holmes did not sound at all surprised by his wife’s actions. That could mean only one thing: “You suspected her all along?”
“Of course I did. The problem was to find the proof.” He turned to the mirror and smoothed his ruffled hair. His hands were steady and sure, unlike mine, which trembled with the knowledge that he had so closely escaped injury or death.
Holmes looked at his wife. “I first suspected her when I learned she had been a magician’s assistant. The key to the profession of magic is misdirection, and these murders have been a perfect example of misdirected motive.”
“Misdirected motive?” I studied the recumbent form on the chaise, then returned to my labours. “How do you mean?”
“By ensuring she always had at least two ardent admirers in her orbit, she focused the murders on jealousy. In this way she concealed the fact that the one person with the perfect motive was herself: the widow, who was to inherit. She began modestly, to be sure, but then set her sights on increasingly wealthy men.”
“But you are not particularly well-to-do, Holmes.”
He took the blood-
streaked towel from me and gazed at it.
“I took great care to make her believe I was.”
I nodded. “Which explains those newly purchased suits and the many presents you bestowed upon her.”
“Exactly.”
His evidence sounded all too plausible. I still did not understand one thing: “What of the notes from Asmodeus? How could she be the instrument of their creation?”
Holmes sighed and shook his head. “The well-meaning stories of the Reverend Mr Weyland inspired her fertile imagination.”
“But the signature on the notes was written in ancient Hebrew. She did not have that knowledge.” I could hear the echo of Lestrade’s objections in my own.
“Ah, but she did have access to Mr Weyland’s theological library. It would have been a simple matter to copy the Hebrew signature for later use.”
I looked from Holmes, still in his torn shirt, to his wife, faintly stirring on her couch, to the knife, cruelly sharp. “And the reason she was not caught before?”
“Because she was devilishly clever. She left no clues except an indirect one that I at once spotted: the likeliest person to be able to approach a bridegroom unsuspected and stab him is his bride.”
I took her hand in mine and monitored her strengthening pulse, wishing another doctor could attend her. Why had I not seen the situation as Holmes had? It was only another example of how I had been obtuse.
Holmes stepped beside me and gazed down at his bride. “And now I wish you would see if you could revive her. When the police arrive, I should like Mrs Holmes to be in full possession of all her faculties.”
* * * *
T
he hour was close to midnight by the time Holmes had laid the facts before a delighted Lestrade and Mrs Holmes was carried off to gaol. I expected he would remain in the house on Berkeley Square and was therefore surprised, and touched, when Holmes joined me in the hansom.
I leaned back, exhausted by the day’s exertions. “Well, Holmes, I must say I never expected to be driving back with you to Baker Street on your wedding day.” My eyes fluttered shut; the image of the knife rose clear in the darkness behind my lids. I opened my eyes with a gasp. “I cannot tell you how happy I am to see you.”
