The Perils of Sherlock Holmes

by Loren D. Estleman

  “Hullo, Watson! Listen to this.”

  He read:

  All of London society is expected to gather at

  Balderwood House, home of Sir John Whitsunday, M.P.,

  and his wife, Alice, where on the 23rd a ball will be held

  to honour their guest, the Marquis duBlac, of Paris and

  Bordeaux, France. The marquis is popular in this

  country, as his efforts on behalf of the French Republic

  to cement peaceful relations between his homeland and

  England are well known.

  “‘After the Ball’ is a popular song in America,” said I. “Friends in Chicago have written me that they’re quite weary of hearing it everywhere they go. How can you be certain the recording refers to this event?”

  “You must agree that this particular song arriving on the night of this affair is an unlikely coincidence. Use your imagination: ‘Many a heart is aching’; ‘Many the hopes that have vanished.’ What cataclysm might we expect to cause these tragic considerations?”

  I frowned. “War?”

  “Bravo! The friendship between duBlac and our government is a slim barricade against the centuries-old differences that have plunged England and France time and again into mass bloodshed. Certain foreign powers would have much to gain by eliminating so well-known a French dignitary on British soil.”

  “Good heavens! Are you suggesting he may be assassinated at that ball?”

  “There is no time to discuss the matter. How soon can you be dressed for a gala evening?”

  “Ten minutes from here to my house, and twenty minutes to change.” I snatched my coat and hat off the peg.

  “I shall be there with a hansom in thirty minutes. Do not forget to add a revolver to your ensemble. A well-armed man is dressed for any occasion.”

  “How are we to get in without an invitation?”

  His eyes were bright. “I am Sherlock Holmes. My presence is always welcome among the law-abiding.”

  Balderwood House had been built under Charles I, upon the foundations of a monastery burned to the ground during the Reformation. In those days it had occupied a country plot far from the bustle of medieval London: The great fire that had destroyed most of the city under Charles II had been but a glimmer observed from its casement windows. In the ensuing three centuries, however, the metropolis had spread to encompass its walls. A twenty-minute hansom ride deposited us at the gate, which stood open for the convenience of the evening’s guests. Notwithstanding the gay occasion, the dour fog, and beneath it the stark fact of a nation bereaved, cast over the estate a sombre, even baleful aspect. The candles burning in the windows created the impression that we were under the hostile scrutiny of a many-eyed beast from pagan mythology. Despite the clammy chill of the evening, drops of perspiration prickled beneath my boiled shirt.

  The butler, a cherubic enough fellow, bald of head and pink of cheek, frowned decorously at Holmes’s admission that we had not been invited, but accepted our cards and asked us to wait in the entryway. Moments later we were joined among the room’s baronial trappings by a handsome woman in her middle years, attired in a black evening dress of dutiful mourning and a minimum of jewels, who introduced herself as Lady Alice Whitsunday, wife of Sir John.

  “And which of you is Mr. Holmes?” asked she eagerly, looking from one of us to the other. “You do us a great honour, along with embarrassment that we omitted you from the list of our guests.”

  Holmes accepted this well-bred rebuke with equal grace, removing his silk hat.

  “I am Holmes, dear madam, and by that confession the man who must apologise for this breach of protocol. This is Dr. Watson, my friend and confidant. It is my belief that someone intends to do your party a great deal more mischief than mine.”

  “My stars! A theft?” Her hand flew to the pearl choker at her neck.

  “No, Lady Alice. A murder.”

  She paled suddenly, and I stepped forwards. However, she was an estimable lady, and instead of swooning tugged at a bell pull. Instantly the butler reappeared.

  “Gregory, please fetch Sir John.”

  The servant bowed and withdrew. Within a short space of time, the doors to what once must have been the Great Hall slid open, emitting music, sounds of merriment, and the lord of the manor, who drew the doors shut behind him and stood looking down at his two unwanted visitors from his astonishing height. He was a full head taller than my friend, but weighed not a copper more; beneath a shock of startling white hair the very bones of his face protruded beneath his bluish pallor like stones in a shallow pool. The black satin mourning-band sewn to the sleeve of his evening coat was not darker than his gaze.

  “What is this outrage?” he demanded coldly.

  Holmes wasted no time in niceties.

  “My name is Sherlock Holmes. It has come to my attention that your guest of honour is in grave danger. He may not leave this house alive.”

  “The marquis? Indeed. Where did you obtain this information?”

  “There is no time, Sir John. Is there a room where we can be alone with the gentleman?”

  Parliament has never been known for swift action. I was impressed, therefore, when this esteemed member directed us immediately to a room at the top of the stairs and joined us there within five minutes, accompanied by the French dignitary. The room was Sir John’s study, spacious and scholarly, with books on all sides and claret and cigars on a table opposite his desk, an uncommonly fine one of carved mahogany.

  “A very great pleasure, Monsieur ’Olmes. Your services to my country are known in every corner of the Republic. The circumstances surrounding the rescue of Marechal Henri Bonaparte from monarchists is still the talk of Paris.”

  The marquis was a small man as was common to the Gallic race, with a large head adorned by neatly pointed moustaches. A red satin sash described a violent diagonal across his starched shirtfront, with the golden starburst of the Legion d’Honneur appended to his right breast. He bowed deeply.

  “I hope to do it one more service this night, on behalf of both our homelands, your excellency,” replied Holmes.

  He proceeded to tell both duBlac and our host, in the sparest possible terms, the circumstances that had led us to this meeting.

  “What rot!” said Sir John, when he’d finished. “You propose to disrupt an important affair of state on the basis of a trinket you received in the post?”

  “Disruption is not my intent, and we should all be wise to pay particular attention to trinkets. The fates of kingdoms often turn upon such trifles.”

  “I agree with Monsieur ’Olmes,” said the Frenchman. “A necklace led to the fall of the Bastille and the Reign of Terror. What do you propose to do?” he asked Holmes.

  “Nothing, your excellency.”

  “Nothing?” The honoured guest’s great brow creased.

  “Nothing!” Patches of unhealthy colour appeared upon Sir John’s hollow cheeks.

  “Holmes!” Even I, who knew never to expect anything but the unexpected where my companion’s methods were concerned, was astounded.

  “Then I trust you will have no objection to my sending Gregory out for the police.” Sir John reached for a bell pull beside the desk.

  Holmes held up an admonitory hand.

  “Forgive me for assuming too much, Sir John. There is no reason to expect a busy M.P. to be familiar with the lyrics to a popular American song. I call your attention to the first stanza.”

  Whereupon the greatest detective in England astonished us all further by singing, in a pleasant tenor:

  After the ball is over,

  After the break of morn,

  After the dancers’ leaving—

  “The message is clear,” he said, abandoning the rest of the composition. “Our assassin will not strike before the end of the evening. If we disrupt the entertainment with an aggressive investigation, we will put him on alert, and merely postpone the inevitable until another time when we are less prepared. Whoever our unk
nown benefactor is—we shall assume for now he is a traitor in the enemy camp—we must not waste the clue he has sent us by behaving rashly.”

  Our reluctant host withdrew his hand from the bell pull. “Do you mean to suggest that we go on with the ball as if we knew nothing?”

  “That is the impression we must leave, and it is not far from the truth. In reality, of course, we shall be wary. Is there a location from where Dr. Watson and I can observe the activity in the ballroom without calling attention to ourselves?”

  “There is a landing on this floor where you can stand between the staircases and look down. There will likely be other guests there,” added Sir John with a faint hint of apology. The gravity displayed by his illustrious intruder had to some degree eroded his disbelief.

  “All the better for us to lose ourselves in the crowd. Au revoir, your excellency.” Holmes executed a smart bow in the marquis’ direction. “I pray that you will be able to enjoy your fete without fear for your safety.”

  “I do not see how it could be otherwise, with the great Sherlock Holmes as my protector. In any event, once you have faced Prussian cannon, you find that life is”—he hesitated—“surprix, what is the English word?”

  “Overpriced. Vous somme un chevalier, excellence.”

  The Frenchman took his leave. Following, Sir John Whitsunday interrupted his own departure to peer down at my friend. “I should warn you that if it turns out my guest’s trust is misplaced, you will have to answer to all of Europe.”

  “Thank you. I am not so concerned at that as I am of answering to myself.”

  The ballroom had been refurbished in the grand Victorian manner, with a high vaulted ceiling and twin staircases swooping down from a balustrated landing. As we climbed the steps, having left our sticks and outerwear in the study, I said, “Holmes, I’ve known you for twenty years and never heard you speak more than a common phrase in French before tonight.”

  “I picked it up during the Bonaparte affair the marquis mentioned—a simple matter, not a worthy subject for your memoirs. Learning required little effort, beyond inserting a string of unnecessary letters into one-syllable words.”

  At the top we stood among a group of gentlemen elders who had sought refuge from the energetic activity on the floor to smoke cigars and pontificate upon the situation in Ireland. To one who recalled the bright hues and laughter of happier times, it was somewhat depressing to observe the subdued fashions of the dancers moving decorously to restrained music from an orchestra clad in black from neck to heels. Even the wreaths and coloured glass ornaments that decorated the hall were understated to a funereal degree.

  Holmes, I saw, was in no such reverie. In spite of his own assurance that nothing would happen for several hours, his hatchetlike profile and intense gaze as he gripped the marble railing made him resemble a bird of prey. I slid my hand into my coat pocket and found comfort in the cool touch of my old service revolver, veteran of so many adventures.

  I directed my attention to the marquis, who stood drinking wine and chatting with the Whitsundays beneath a huge full-length portrait of our late queen, suitably framed in black crepe. When that proved uninvolving, for some time I endeavoured to pick out the villain or villains who had infiltrated the gathering. It seemed that this swarthy fellow standing by the refreshments table fit the bill, but then that nervous dancer drew my suspicions regarding the source of his unease.

  Such diversions are contagious; at the end of an hour I had decided that everyone present, with the exceptions of my friend and I, our hosts, and of course the marquis himself, was capable of assassination. Holmes had told me time and time again that I lacked imagination, but at that juncture I decided I had it in surplus.

  Then a stout, red-faced guest who shared our landing raised his voice in argument with a companion, loudly excoriating the French government for criticising our stand against the Boers. He could be overheard above the music, and as far as the ballroom floor, where annoyed glances rose his way. The vehemence of his tirade caused me to share my suspicions with Holmes in a hoarse whisper.

  “That is Colonel Sutworth,” said he. “He’s been in the House of Commons since Gladstone was a lad. In any case, I have eliminated all the men on this landing, so long as they remain upon it. Their tailoring will not admit the accessory of an air rifle or a crossbow. The range is too great for any accuracy with a revolver.”

  “Have you eliminated the women present tonight?”

  “Nothing would please me more. Daggers and poison are their weapons of choice, and I do not relish wrestling one to the floor the moment she moves within striking distance of duBlac or his wine.”

  “Perhaps we should move closer. ‘After the break of morn’ may be a ruse to divert us from the actual timetable.”

  “I considered that, and rejected it immediately. If subterfuge were intended, why alert us at all? In any case, I would postulate a later hour even without the lyric. The floor is too crowded for the killer to make good his escape. He will wait until the guests thin out.”

  I resolved thenceforth to withhold my opinions, which were clearly an irritation to my companion.

  Sometime later I suppressed a yawn and withdrew my hand from my weapon to reach for my watch. Holmes’s sudden grip upon my arm arrested the movement. Belatedly I became aware of the tune the orchestra was playing:

  After the ball is over…

  He cursed beneath his breath. “I’ve been a fool, Watson! The clue was not in the lyrics, but in the song itself. It is a signal for action!”

  “But the killer’s escape—”

  “No time to explain!”

  With that, he was gone from my side, flying down the stairs with his coattails flying.

  I sprinted to catch up, drawing my revolver and shouldering aside a number of guests who were climbing the steps to escape the heat and noise of the ballroom. Several well-dressed gentlemen complained of the effrontery in no uncertain terms. A middle-aged woman in black taffeta shrieked when she spied my weapon.

  By the time I quit the stairs, Holmes was halfway across the floor, shoving men and women sprawling in his anxiety to reach the guest of honour. I hastened behind, dodging and leaping over the hunched forms of outraged dancers attempting to regain their feet. I overheard a Scotsman declare in an angry, burring baritone that this was what one might expect now that Edward was on the throne.

  Now the refreshments table was the only thing separating Sherlock Holmes from the emperilled marquis. He seized the table in both hands and flung it over. It was a twelve-foot trestle, and it went down in a flurry of white linen, flashing silver, and shattering crystal as Holmes vaulted on over, bound for the shocked trio of duBlac, Sir John, and Lady Alice.

  I am not as athletic as my friend; years of overindulgence have thickened my girth and shortened my endurance. I paused before the ruined table, panting heavily; and was immediately grateful that I had, for as I glanced up, I experienced a hallucination so real, the shock might have flung me on my face in mid-stride.

  Queen Victoria was moving.

  Moving, I repeat, with the same stately dignity with which she had comported herself in life, advancing in my direction while the crowd on the dance floor parted to make her a path.

  Presently I realised that this was a misapprehension, and that the great seven-foot portrait that hung behind the marquis and his hosts was swinging outward, as on a pivot. Beyond it yawned the dark rectangular of an open passage, and inside that rectangle, standing poised within easy striking distance of the French dignitary with a long-bladed dagger was—

  But I am drawing ahead of my narrative. In that frenzied moment, I saw only the great blubbery figure of a man in immaculate evening dress, his flipper of a right hand engulfing his weapon to the hilt.

  I drew aim upon that broad target with my revolver, but Holmes himself prevented me from squeezing the trigger, for as he leapt to fling his arms round the man in the passage, his back came between us. I held my fire whilst the pair fell
into a heap on the floor inside the opening.

  “Hold, Sherlock!” the huge man exclaimed, disentangling himself from the detective. “Whenever will you learn to place your head before your feet?”

  It was then that I recognised Mycroft Holmes, my friend’s older brother, from whose hand the dagger had fallen when he crashed

  to earth.

  Ten minutes later, Holmes and I were seated in our host’s commodious study with Sir John, the Marquis duBlac, and Mycroft, who had corrected his dishevelment and now occupied the largest armchair with a cigar in hand and a glass of claret on the table at his elbow.

  “All your questions will be answered in the fullness of time,” said he. “Impatience always was your great weakness, Sherlock. A man with less natural protection than I might have suffered a cracked rib.”

  “As might I,” responded his brother, “had I not an enormous feather mattress to break my fall.” The sharpness of this retort gave evidence of the mixture of curiosity and resentment that roiled beneath Holmes’s otherwise calm exterior.

  Mycroft ignored the aspersion. “As the elder brother, I shall go first. Tell us how you guessed at the presence of a secret passage behind the painting.”

  “I haven’t guessed since we were children. When the orchestra began playing ‘After the Ball’ and I realised the die was cast, a hidden corridor was the only possibility that occurred to me. It offered both access to the intended victim and escape afterwards. The antiquity of Balderwood House suggested the probability that such a feature existed. Fairer circumstances did not prevent the Catholic clergy from designing priest-holes for concealment in the event of further persecution.”

  “Admirable!” cried the marquis. “Unfortunately, our society includes a number of deranged individuals for whom the prospect of flight holds no importance.”

  “There is no allowing for the movements of such men—or women, if your Charlotte Corday is any example. However, the wax recording cylinder that was delivered to my door, and the whole business of the song, pointed to a subtle and devious mind. A fanatic did not answer.”