by Barry Day
When we entered the room itself some of the immediate motivation became clearer. On the dais—standing next to the headless waxwork and making a perfect opportunity for several of the newspaper photographers to take his picture, which they were in the process of doing—stood Royston Steel. Whether he had been part of the crowd when we first entered or whether he had timed his entry more recently for maximum impact was not entirely clear. What was clear was that he was now milking the occasion for every last drop of righteous indignation.
And, no doubt about it, the man was a born orator. The Government was mentally and morally bankrupt … the Opposition was geriatric and traditionally infirm of purpose … Sodom and Gomorrah were just around the next corner and our enemies were massing to recreate Armageddon in England’s green and pleasant land. It was time a few independent souls of like mind and will, etc., etc. It was arrant nonsense, of course, but it was mesmerising nonsense and one could see how he had gained his public reputation. Even Holmes, I could see, was reluctantly impressed with the display.
“The man only needs a burning bush and a few tablets of stone and we can all follow him to Kingdom come,” he whispered.
“Which is precisely what the people of this country are going to do, Mr. Holmes.”
It was Moxton at our elbow, contentedly puffing a large and expensive cigar.
“I hear on all sides that it is time for a change. By the way, Doctor, as a writer, may I ask your professional opinion of that for a slogan? ‘Time For A Change!’ Not bad, eh? One day a candidate is going to get elected with those same meaningless words.”
This was the second time in a few minutes my literary credentials had been invoked in a distinctly patronising way. A snort of indignation was the only reply that seemed vaguely suitable.
Turning to Holmes, his tone changed. “My spies tell me our ubiquitous feline friend, the Cheshire Cat has been up to his tricks again? It was always one of my favourite characters in Alice. I always envied his—or was it her?—ability to appear and disappear at will. So convenient in today’s world. The company bores you and—pouf!—all they’re left with is the grin, ‘which remained some time after the rest of it had gone’, I seem to remember. Such a way with words, our Mr. Carroll. Or should I say Dodgson? Identity can be such a complex matter, don’t you agree?”
Then, observing that Holmes was making movements to leave, he added—“Oh, Mr. Holmes, one more thing. I’m so grateful to you for reminding me of these past literary pleasures that I find they’re becoming quite an obsession lately. So much so that I’ve decided to throw an Alice party at my London house tomorrow night. You must both come, now I insist. Everyone will dress as a character from the book. I feel sure you’ll find the guest list interesting—what’s the phrase I want? All the usual suspects. Or did I just think of that? Ah, well, like that other literary genius, Oscar Wilde, I shall no doubt persuade myself that I did.”
“You may count on both of us, Mr. M-Moxton,” said Holmes with again the slightest of pauses on the ‘M’ and before I had an opportunity to make any excuse.
“Oh, and may I ask you one last favour? May I take one of your excellent cigars? I’ve been fascinated by them all evening.”
Moxton immediately produced one from his cigar case but seemed to pause a moment before handing it to my friend.
“A cigar, Mr. Holmes? I was always told that you were a pipe man?”
“And I would never have put you down as a smoker at all. No, Watson here has been nagging me for some time about my filthy tobacco habits and I have determined to turn over a new leaf. And a new tobacco leaf seems as good a way to start as any. Good day …”
CHAPTER SEVEN
I awoke the next morning to a fusillade of sounds that my Army experience told me were undoubtedly gunshots. My first thought was that Moriarty had broken cover and decided on the ultimate direct approach. It was the work of a moment to snatch up my dressing gown and my service revolver, which was never far from my hand. Taking the steps two at a time—a risky business at my stage of life—I burst into the sitting room we shared … only to find Holmes hunched up deep in his armchair, a carton of Boxer cartridges in his lap, the detritus of the day’s papers at his feet and a large hair trigger pistol pointed, or so it seemed, directly at my head.
“Good God, man,” I sighed, for it was not the first time this little scene had occurred, “how often do I have to remind you that pistol practice is an open air pastime and, as far as I’m concerned, as far away and as late in the day as possible? To inscribe the sovereign’s initials on our sitting room wall, while undoubtedly an enviable and patriotic talent, is equally one without redeeming social features. I would remind you that Mrs. Hudson has only just had that plaster repaired. What is she going to say?”
“Do you take me for a fool, Watson?” said Holmes, a suspicious twinkle in his eye. “Do you think that before embarking on this feat of derring-do I have not carefully ascertained that the good lady has embarked upon her morning visit to the shops, an excursion that will take her another …” and here he consulted his rather battered watch—“seven minutes? Now, be fair, old fellow, is that not my chef d’oeuvre?”
There on the wall, where once could be discerned the legend—‘VR’—the bullet-pocks now read—“JM.”
I sighed heavily and picked up what was left of my morning paper. “Any word from our feline friend?” I asked.
“Nothing under that particular imprimatur,” my friend replied, “but then he doesn’t need to boast this morning when the whole of Fleet Street is busy doing it for him. Even as I foretold you, my dear chap,”—and he scooped up a handful of assorted pages from the floor—“Listen to this …”
“HEADLESS LEADERS WITH FEET OF CLAY?” The Daily Gazette … “HOUSE OF PARLIAMENT—OR MUSIC HALL?”
The Daily News. But leaving the sensationalists aside, the worrying content is what is starting to emerge in the serious press. Here’s the Telegraph leader—“If the recent spate of events”—I think ‘spate’ is a little overstated but even so—“is any indication of the state of our national security, then perhaps we would be well advised to take greater heed of some of the more dramatic stories currently circulating in certain quarters. Only a short time ago the possibility of Nihilist or other organised extremists carrying out their activities on our shores would have seemed …”
“You can imagine the rest, Watson, knowing the Telegraph, as you do. Outraged Empire, ‘Disgusted, Tunbridge Wells’ and all that.”
“So the devil is getting away with it?” I spluttered, annoyed as much as anything else with Holmes’s sang froid and the fact that his observations on the futile fumings of certain of our fellow citizens were only too accurate.
“For the moment I’m afraid he is, old fellow. Here, let me pour you a fresh cup of tea before you choke on your toast. I told Mrs. Hudson you would probably need an extra spoonful of the Earl Grey to go with this morning’s news. But to answer your question …” And now the levity was discarded with the crumpled papers. “We have little choice for the moment but to let Moriarty play his hand while we try and assess what cards he is really holding—or, indeed, what his true game is. Disruption, certainly, national instability. No need to ask what is meant by ‘certain quarters.’ The Clarion has been orchestrating for days these rumours of vague Nihilist plots, sightings of mysterious and notorious but conveniently unnamed European agents. They promote Dame Rumour and, if called into question, protest the sanctity of their ‘sources’ and the public’s right to know. I very much fear, Watson, that—whatever the outcome of this little affair—Moriarty has unleashed a force far more sinister than any of his previous skulduggery and one which cannot be re-corked like a genie in a bottle.”
“Perhaps we shall know more after this evening’s affair,” I suggested, more for something to say than with any real expectation. The picture Holmes had painted was black indeed: “Undoubtedly, old fellow. We are meant to be fed little tidbits to keep us interested. Mor
iarty is having a high old time at our expense but never forget for one moment that, while we are sniffing along his trail, he is constructing a guillotine over our heads rather more practical in its purpose than the one we saw yesterday in the good Madame’s emporium.”
As he spoke, once again I experienced the vague sense of having seen something significant there and, once again, it eluded me.
“He is being prodigal with his clues because he believes there is nothing we can do about them. It is up to us to prove him wrong and to lure him through arrogance into error. My sixth sense tells me that tonight may prove to be our friend’s Ides, if not of March, then of—where are we now, Watson?”
“October,” I said, verifying the date from the ravaged Chronicle I was holding. “October the Thirty-First. Halloween. Very appropriate!” Again that tiny mental bell rang insistently and I was on the verge of remembering why when …
Another bell sounded from the front door below.
Holmes raised an eyebrow: “Were we expecting anyone at this unearthly hour? I really am in no state to receive visitors.” He pulled his disshevelled dressing gown tighter around him, as if in protest. “Watson, I wonder if you would be so good in Mrs. Hudson’s absence …?”
Muttering, “Not the only thing that’s in no state to receive visitors,” beneath my breath, I picked my way through the mess that Holmes had managed to make of the room we were supposed to share. Really, I had never known anyone who could create chaos out of domestic order with apparently so little effort. He had to be London’s worst tenant—I sometimes wondered how that scalpel of a brain could tolerate such physical disarray. I could only assume it didn’t see it. Or was it that my own all too short period as a married man had left me with certain indelible domestic standards?
Pondering such immensities, I trotted down the stairs and opened the door, fully expecting to see the ferrety features of Lestrade or one of his minions. Instead, I found myself facing the statuesque figure of—Alicia Creighton! Even with the long veil down and having only seen her the once, she was unmistakable. Although she could only have been of average height she had the comportment of the ladies one sees in the fashion plates.
Even now—when she was once again clearly tense, looking anxiously over her shoulder—her presence rendered me unable to think of a single thing to say. Instead, I simply stared at her, reflecting even as I did so that the woman must think me a deaf mute idiot. “Won’t you come in, Miss Creighton?” I finally managed. She brushed past me, lifting her veil as she did so, and those blue-grey eyes drove whatever I might have said next clean out of my mind. Not since Irene Adler—the woman—had I encountered such a positive female presence and I remembered the complications that lady brought with her, though fortunately not to me … All this and I had yet to hear the lady utter a word.
Moments later we were in the sitting room and Miss Creighton was settling herself into my chair as I hastily did what I could to give the room a semblance of order. Then she spoke. The voice was low and perfectly pitched, almost a singer’s voice and—miracle of miracles—it had a smile in it.
“If this is on my account, Doctor, please save yourself the trouble. You should see my room. I suspect a degree of untidiness is the natural state of bachelors of either sex!”
Before I could respond in kind I heard Holmes say—“How very true, Miss Creighton, but I sometimes think old Watson takes things a little too far. I frequently have to take him to task for desecrating the morning papers, for instance, before I have had the chance to catch up with the world’s woes …”
“I desecrate …?” I spluttered. At which an explosion of silent laughter shook Holmes’s lean frame until it turned into a coughing fit, which made me feel justice had been served. A moment later we were all laughing and the ice was well and truly broken. The lady had obviously made two conquests.
“It’s good to see you relax, Miss Creighton,” said Holmes, suddenly serious, and I realised that the badinage had been a deliberate part of his stratagem.
“You have been under some considerable stress of late, I see.”
Not for the first time was I aware of his almost hypnotic power of soothing a client when he had a mind to.
“I’m afraid that is all too obvious, is it not?” The eyes were lowered for a moment as she busied herself with removing her gloves. Then, as if she had finally made up her mind to face whatever was concerning her, she looked directly at us. From the atmosphere in the room I could tell that Holmes was as aware as I of the underlying tension in the woman’s presence.
“I would like you to call me Alicia, gentlemen, if that were possible? I need your help very much.” For a moment the voice trembled slightly, then recovered its strength as she added simply, “There is no one else to turn to.”
“Except your guardian … except that he is not your guardian,” Holmes spoke so softly that his voice was hardly more than a whisper, yet it filled the silence of the room.
“But how do you know?” The colour left her cheeks, then came flooding back. The real Alicia Creighton came to life in front of our eyes, sitting forward eagerly in her chair. “It’s true, you do see everything! Even my g—even he says so in his bitter way. I hear him talking of you many times to his friends when he does not think I can hear. He hates you for some reason, for something that happened long ago … but I think he fears you, too. You—how do you say?—obsess him. It is about that that I have come to see you, to warn you …”
Then, as if conscious that she was rushing her narrative, she composed herself. “But I should first go back a little. What do you know about me, Mr. Holmes?”
“Other than that you have been exposed to the French language and culture from an early age … have attended a finishing school, almost certainly in Geneva … have earned your living as a governess and are proud of your accomplishment as a seamstress, I can tell very little. Except, of course, that you are fond of dogs and of one in particular and that you have been worried of late. But the last you confirmed from your own lips.”
Now the eyes took on a genuine sparkle of amusement, which temporarily banished the other feelings. “Mr. Holmes, everything I hear about you is true. You are a sorcerer!”
“Hardly that, Miss Creighton …”
“Please call me Alicia.”
“Hardly that—Alicia. My little parlour trick—to which poor Watson has been witness more times than either of us cares to count—is based on pure observation and logic. The signs are there for anyone who has the wit to read them. Let me demonstrate.
“Although your vocabulary is perfect, you have a tendency to use a French construction with English words. This suggests that you have been taught to think in that language. An English person simply learning it would not do that. Then, the way you arrange your gloves, one across the other, as if your hands were folded in your lap is a piece of etiquette much favoured by ladies’ finishing schools and one that lasts for life. But the way you entered the room and took your seat is taught exclusively by Madame Solange, a former dancer of no mean reputation whose Geneva establishment has a well deserved cachet …” Observing my amusement, he added for my benefit: “I had the pleasure of rendering the lady some small service during the course of my Swiss ‘sabbatical’ …”
“I see,” I rejoined, “was that before or after you made your study of coal tar derivatives in Montpélier?”
But Holmes, once on the scent, was not to be deterred by would-be humorous trifles. He returned his undivided attention to Alicia Creighton.
“Despite that background, your hands bear evidence of light manual work. At first I thought a writer—there is evidence of ink on your index finger. But the principal signs point to the regular use of a needle—no, Watson …” He smiled, sensing my instinctive reaction—“not the needle. Hence I deduce a seamstress. That same right index finger indicates use of a thimble and the way your hands smooth the lace at your cuffs suggests you are pleased with your own handiwork. And since there are few alterna
tives for a young lady of a good family, a governess seemed the likely occupation.”
“You’re quite right, Mr. Holmes,” she shook her head as I have seen so often when someone is exposed to Holmes’ mental powers for the first time. “I do keep a journal religiously and I did earn my living as a governess after I left Madame Solange and before my guardian …” The mention of Moxton was clearly upsetting to her, so Holmes rapidly continued.
“The recent worry I detect from the bitten finger nails but it is equally clear that this is a recent and not a long-established habit. And as for the dog … it is plain that you are used to nursing a brown and white short haired terrier on your knee—probably a jack Russell—something few ladies would permit in their finery unless they happened to be a genuine dog lover.”
“Ah, yes, little Sonny, the housekeeper’s dog. He has seen me through many a difficult hour, Mr. Holmes. It all seems so obvious when you explain it like that.”
“Indeed it is obvious, if one trains oneself to look in the right direction. Watson will tell you that it has long been an axiom of mine that …”
“… the little things are infinitely the most important,” I completed for him.
Holmes caught my eye for half a beat. Then his smile encompassed us both.
“There will come a day, Alicia, when, if you have your Watson, you will no longer need your Holmes. And if I continue to indulge myself with explanations, my little bubble of reputation …”
“But that day will be a long time coming,” I hastened to add—and meant it most sincerely.
Alicia leaned forward in her chair. “In all of this I had almost forgotten that you already knew the very thing I had come to tell you. My ‘guardian’ …”
Holmes raised a hand to stop her. “I suggest you tell us about the events of the last few weeks in your own words, Alicia. Leave out no detail, no matter how small or apparently irrelevant.”
“I’m afraid most of it comes down to what so many of my sex like to hide behind—a woman’s feelings and much of it sounds so commonplace …”
