“Strange,” Joanna said and was about to close the door when she abruptly stopped. She gazed back at the inner wall of the closet and noticed that it did not reach the floor completely. “There is something behind this back wall.”
Joanna reentered the closet and thoroughly searched its entire structure. At the last moment she rose up on her tiptoes and discovered a small metal latch beneath a ceiling beam. Carefully she pulled it down. The back wall of the closet slowly opened.
“Hello! What is this?”
She entered the hidden room, with my father and me a step behind. The secret room was windowless and empty except for a sturdy Chubb safe. Off to the left was a flight of stairs ascending to the roof.
“This is the way he went,” Joanna said excitedly, and led us up the steps and through another door.
The roof was perfectly flat and surrounded by a parapet three feet high. In the distance we could see the spires of Westminster Abbey.
My father paused to catch his breath. “Why bother to carry a body up here? Why not simply toss it from the window?”
“Moran was afraid of being seen,” Joanna replied. “The third-floor window of his parlor can clearly be seen from the row house across the street. I myself could see a finely dressed woman in the window across the way.”
“But why would Moran kill Harrelston?” I asked. “After all, it was Moran who was owed the money.”
“How do you know that?” Joanna challenged.
“Well, Moran said it.”
“Moran said a lot of things.”
My father fumed under his breath. “A doctor and a fusilier, and he turns out to be a cold-blooded murderer! He is a disgrace to the uniform and to his profession, and I would not mind in the least watching him being marched to the gallows.”
“Murderers come in all stripes, Watson,” Joanna reminded.
“But I defy you to find one who so wantonly kills a brother-in-arms.” My father took several deep breaths and allowed his anger to pass, then brought his attention back to the crime scene. “So it appears the despicable Moran carried his victim to the edge of the roof and threw him off.”
“The victim was not carried,” Joanna corrected him. “The victim was dragged.”
“Oh?” My father looked over to the place on the roof Joanna was pointing to. He saw a smear of blood there and another smear closer to the wall. There were brush marks through them, which indicated someone had tried to scrub them away. “There is definite blood here.”
Joanna nodded slowly. “The blood drippings did not form spots or splatters, but only smears. That tells us the body was either rolled or dragged toward the parapet.”
“And Moran no doubt stayed crouched down so as not to be seen,” my father envisioned. “A clever jackal, this one.”
“He is a beauty,” Joanna agreed.
“But where is the motive here?” I asked.
Without answering, Joanna suddenly turned and hurried back down the stairs. My father and I were directly behind her.
In the secret room, Joanna took a magnifying glass from her purse and dropped to her hands and knees. She carefully examined every inch of the floor until she came to the area just in front of the safe. “And here is more blood,” she announced. “Someone attempted to clean it up, but a small amount remains.”
“Does it give us any clue as to the motive?” my father asked.
Joanna stood and brushed the dust from her long dress. “There is a long history between the victim and the murderer, Watson. And that is where the answer lies.”
“Are you saying the murder was planned a long time ago?”
“I am saying these are very dark waters,” Joanna said gravely. “Much darker than any of us might at first imagine.”
5
Proof of Lineage
That evening my father and I dined on superb fillet of sole prepared by Miss Hudson, then settled in front of a glowing fire and sipped nicely aged brandy. Outside a fierce storm pounded down on London, so I agreed to spend the night in the bedroom of Sherlock Holmes. I had no idea how close to the famous detective I was about to become.
My father stared at length into the blazing logs before he spoke in a most serious tone. “I am about to tell you a story that goes far beyond your wildest imagination. It will astonish you in every possible way.”
I leaned toward him, not wishing to miss a single word.
My father continued. “The story you are about to hear can never be repeated, for you and I will be the only two people on earth who know it, and it must remain that way. Thus, I must have your word on this.”
“You do, Father,” I said solemnly.
“This Joanna Blalock is a very remarkable woman,” my father began. “You would agree?”
“Most certainly.”
“Well, she is even more remarkable than you could ever imagine.”
“How so?”
“She is the daughter of Sherlock Holmes.”
“What!” I blurted out, stunned. “What did you say?”
“She is the daughter of Sherlock Holmes,” my father repeated.
“How—how can this be?” I stammered.
“The story begins long ago.” My father rose to fetch more brandy and replenished our Waterford snifters. “Prepare yourself for twists and turns that are stranger than any fiction you have ever encountered.”
“Pray go on,” I encouraged.
“It all dates back to one of Sherlock Holmes’s most interesting adventures. Do you recall the case of A Scandal in Bohemia?”
“Not in detail,” I admitted.
“Allow me to refresh your memory,” my father said, and gazed out into space like a man about to relive an exciting episode in his life. “On one winter’s night Holmes and I were visited on Baker Street by a most unusual man. He was over six and a half feet tall, with the chest and arms of a Hercules. The man was very richly dressed and wore a black mask to hide his identity. He was in fact the King of Bohemia, and had compromised himself by becoming entangled with an adventuress named Irene Adler.”
“The operatic star?”
“The very same.” My father went on. “During their romantic escapade, the king wrote some rather delicate letters to this woman, and now wished to have them back. In addition there were also some indiscreet photographs of the couple that could cause an immense scandal, for you see the king was shortly to become engaged to marry the second daughter of the King of Scandinavia. For obvious reasons he desired to have them destroyed as well. But alas, the Adler woman was still madly in love with the king and refused to return any of the items. And if the king were to proceed with his engagement to be married, Irene Adler threatened to send the letters and photographs to the royal family in Scandinavia.”
“‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,’” I uttered.
“Truer words were never written,” my father agreed. “In any event, it was Sherlock Holmes’s task to retrieve these items and return them to the king.”
“I take it Sherlock Holmes was successful.”
“He was not,” my father said, with a half smile. “He was outsmarted by the most enchanting and beautiful woman he had ever seen.”
“Sherlock Holmes, beguiled by a woman’s beauty?”
“It was not her beauty that outwitted Holmes, but her brains.”
“Was Holmes upset?”
“Not in the least. As a matter of fact he greatly admired her and always referred to her as the woman. In his eyes she eclipsed and outclassed the whole of her sex. But there was never any emotion akin to love for that would have been abhorrent to his precisely balanced mind.” My father paused to sip more brandy before continuing. “At least that is what I believed, for Holmes always seemed to be a cold reasoning machine that was devoid of emotion. But all this changed when one evening he called me back to Baker Street to tell the most incredible story—which I am about to share with you.”
I held up a hand. “So I take it that the letters and photographs we
re used in a most unpleasant manner against the king.”
“They were not,” my father replied. “But more about that later. Now here is the story Holmes related to me. Some years later there was a knock on the door to his rooms at 221b Baker Street. It was none other than Irene Adler, whose last name was now Norton. Shortly after her encounter with Sherlock Holmes she ran away to Paris with her new husband, a successful lawyer named Godfrey Norton. The marriage did not go well and her husband became a rogue, a gambler, and a philanderer with a string of mistresses. She tried desperately to change him, but he continued in his ways and became something she could not tolerate at all.”
“An abuser?”
“Worse.”
“What, then?”
“A bore,” my father replied. “With her wonderfully sharp mind, nothing could have been more intolerable. Here was this woman with a finely tuned brain who was now hooked into a drunken dullard. Like most people of great intellect, she required mental stimulation to avoid misery. Her husband could not or would not provide it, so out of desperation she came to 221b Baker Street.”
“How did Holmes receive her?”
“With delight. For his brain too required constant stimulation and her brain was a perfect match for him. They got along splendidly that evening, with long conversations on an endless variety of subjects, and all the while drank too much cognac and gave each other repeated injections of cocaine. And, believe it or not, they ended up in bed together.”
“I say!”
“It is difficult to believe, but true.”
“I simply cannot envision your Sherlock Holmes in a passionate position.”
“I did not use the word passion, for there was none involved, at least on his part. He described the encounter in very clinical terms and told me the experience felt pleasant through his alcoholic and cocaine haze, but not particularly memorable. He thought it similar to foot-paddling a boat on the Serpentine Lake in Hyde Park. Enjoyable, but hardly worth the effort. In any event, the next morning she had gone without so much as leaving a note behind.”
“I would surmise that Sherlock Holmes did not find this disappointing.”
“If anything he was relieved because now he could focus his mind on a most perplexing case without interruption or distraction. He thought that was the end of their association, but he was wrong. Eight months later she returned to his doorstep, now very pregnant with child.”
“Joanna Blalock!” I breathed.
“Yes,” my father said, and took another sip of brandy. “As I mentioned earlier, Irene Adler’s marriage was a loveless one. He was rarely home, and when he was it was to obtain money so he could continue in his selfish ways. Which meant the child was Sherlock’s.”
“But what proof?”
“Her word, which was as resolute as her mind.”
“But still—”
My father waved away my interruption. “It would be wise to hold your reservations until you have heard the entire story.”
“Forgive me for getting ahead of myself,” I apologized. “Please continue.”
“Sherlock rightly believed the child was his and offered to give whatever financial support was needed. But that was not the purpose of her visit. Although near penniless and deserted by her husband, Irene Adler’s problem was far greater than lack of funds. She was stricken with severe toxemia related to the pregnancy and her life was now in peril. Her blood pressure was out of control and her kidneys were failing. As her condition worsened, it became clear she would not survive and needed someone to look after the child to be born. It was impossible to even entertain the thought that Sherlock Holmes might care for the newborn. He simply could not and would not do it. But in his incredible mind, there was no problem he could not solve, so he went about solving this, much to Irene Adler’s satisfaction.”
“Well, it could not have been an abortion.”
“Obviously.”
“What then?”
“An adoption,” my father replied. “Sherlock asked me to have the newborn placed with a suitable family, and so I did. Irene Adler gave birth here in London at St. Mary’s Hospital and the newborn was given to Dr. and Mrs. Thomas Middleton, a childless couple who I knew would adore the baby. Dr. Middleton was a colleague of mine, so I could occasionally inquire about the child’s well-being without seeming to be intrusive.”
“Did Irene Adler ever see the child?”
“She did on the day of the child’s birth, and died before the night was out. But before drawing her last breath, she gave Sherlock Holmes the compromising photographs and letters that associated her with the King of Bohemia. She had withheld them all those years as protection, in the event the king ever threatened to cause her harm. So now Holmes possessed all the damning items.”
“Which I assume he destroyed.”
“To the contrary, he sold them.”
“To whom?”
“To the King of Bohemia, of course,” my father said with a sly grin. “Sherlock went to the king with the items and fabricated a story that he had purchased them from a master thief for the princely sum of five thousand pounds. The king was delighted and promptly reimbursed Sherlock, who placed the money in a trust fund, in case the newborn girl came on hard times. And Sherlock named me trustee of the fund, knowing I would watch over the child. I did this regularly until I learned that the daughter of Dr. and Mrs. Thomas Middleton was marrying into the family of Sir Henry Blalock. Thus, the future of Joanna Blalock who is the daughter of Sherlock Holmes appeared to be quite secure.”
I could not help but applaud. “Bravo, Father! Bravo!”
“However,” my father continued, “no one knows what the future may hold, and should Joanna Blalock ever face financial difficulties, the trust fund must be made available to her. Upon my death, I have stated in my will that you are to become trustee of the fund, which is the purpose of my telling you this story.”
“I shall carry out your wishes faithfully, Father.”
“As I knew you would,” my father said, and then sighed to himself. “But the sadness here is that this most fascinating case involving Sherlock Holmes can never be written about. Here we have an adventure in which he and Irene Adler combined their wits to come up with a perfect answer to a seemingly unanswerable problem.”
“What a story it would make,” I remarked.
“Indeed, what a story,” my father concurred. “But it is hidden from the public eye and it will remain there.”
I carefully chose my next words before speaking them. “I do not wish to be unkind, but surely you must realize that it is possible that Joanna Blalock is not the true daughter of Sherlock Holmes.”
My father shook his head firmly at the notion. “Only the genes of Sherlock Holmes could endow an offspring with such a magnificent brain and keen deductive skill.”
“But did not Irene Adler herself have the wits to match Sherlock Holmes?” I pointed out. “Perhaps her genes were passed to the child who was fathered by someone else. This quick-witted woman eventually went to Sherlock Holmes when she had nowhere else to turn.”
“I trusted Sherlock Holmes, and his instincts were always true in such matters.”
“But still—”
“I was ninety-nine percent certain, and that was good enough.”
“Yet there remains one percent of doubt which even you admit to,” I persisted. “We must remember that a dying woman carrying an unborn child would be very desperate and turn to virtually anyone for help. Surely you agree.”
“I do, and I must say there was the smallest possibility that your conclusion was the correct one. But that doubt was completely removed during our visit to the Blalock mansion.”
“How so?”
My father rose from his chair and went to a stack of boxes that contained the cases and magazines involving Sherlock Holmes. He had to search for several minutes before finding the item he was looking for. It was a mystery magazine that featured a picture of a young Sherlock Holmes on its cove
r.
“Here,” my father said and proffered the magazine. “Tell me what you see.”
I stared at the photograph in utter and complete disbelief. “Oh, my God in heaven!”
My father smiled broadly. “Striking, isn’t it?”
I still had difficulty believing the photograph. I quickly changed my position so that the light from the fire shone directly on the picture. But there could be no question about the face looking back at me. “Joanna Blalock’s son is an exact replica of a young Sherlock Holmes. They are like twins.”
“Which explains my shock when the lad first entered the Blalock library.”
“Astonishing,” I breathed as Sherlock’s heavly-lidded eyes peered into mine.
“And there is more,” my father said. “Do you recall the small, star-shaped birthmark on the Blalock lad’s wrist?”
“Yes, of course,” I replied. “It was so perfect, it resembled a tattoo.”
“Sherlock Holmes had the same birthmark.”
“And the lad has the quick observant mind that his mother possesses.”
“And that his true grandfather had.”
“The genetics involved here are fascinating,” I mused. “The genes dictating the size and capacity of the brain were passed through from one generation to the next to the next. Yet the genes carrying Sherlock Holmes’s physical features skipped a generation since Joanna Blalock has no resemblance to him.”
My father nodded. “But the enchanting charm and beauty of Irene Adler was inherited by Joanna.”
“I have noticed,” I admitted.
“I have noticed you noticing.”
“Am I that obvious?”
“As obvious as she is when stealing glances at you.”
“I think you overstate.”
“Oh?” my father asked warmly. “Have you not observed that when she looks at you she involuntarily reaches for her now unadorned ring finger and gently rubs at it?”
I sighed to myself and hoped that my father’s observations were correct. “Her beauty and grace go far beyond enchanting, and her intellect knows no bounds.”
The Daughter of Sherlock Holmes Page 6
