Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine #4

by Marvin Kaye

  “I suppose I could have, but I didn’t,” Miss Venn retorted. “I didn’t want the wretched things. Poor Mama is obsessed with what we lost. Sophronia was supposed to stay with her last night, but she sometimes takes a bit too much brandy at dinner. Mama must have followed me to the hotel last night. It will not happen again.”

  M. Renard fixed his eyes on Miss Venn. “This is insupportable, Madamoiselle! You must not let a mad woman range about the town at will, disturbing the guests at this hotel . . .”

  “Mama is not mad!” Miss Venn cried out in despair. “She is not deranged, she is no danger to anyone, and she does not steal jewels! Sophronia looks after her well enough during the day, and last night was something of an exception. I cannot imagine why she should have taken so much brandy.”

  “It may be that you told her that I was here,” Miss Podsnap said. “At one time, I thought Sophronia Lammle was my friend. I even offered to lend her money when she and her husband had to leave England. I should like to think that she regretted some of her actions, but it has been a very long time since I saw her, and she may have changed.”

  “This is of no importance,” M. Renard said. “I must ask that this mad woman be confined!”

  “No!” Miss Venn looked at Miss Podsnap. “I will not have Mama caged like some animal, put into a tub of water all day, under the care of nuns. She was insistent that I not be sent to a Catholic convent school. And she did not come here this morning, because Sophronia was most contrite, and stayed with her all day.”

  “Besides,” Miss Podsnap remarked, “it is highly unlikely that a woman of Mrs. Veneering’s age and figure would perform acrobatics, such as getting in and out of windows, and standing for hours on the roof of a veranda. However, a young man might do so. I suggest a search of the rooms of Mr. George Magill, and possibly his mother and sister. They were in and out of several shops this morning, and it is possible that some of the merchandise that left with them was not strictly paid for in currency.”

  M. Renard rose with the light of battle in his eye. “Now I shall summon the police,” he said. “The laws of France are not amenable to thieves, even though they are Americans.” He bustled out, leaving the two English ladies to face each other.

  Miss Podsnap spoke first. “I did not mean to disparage your mother,” she said. “One cannot choose one’s parents. Mine were quite dreadful, although I never said so to anyone except Sophronia.”

  “When did you realize that it was young Mr. Magill who had taken your pearls?” Miss Venn asked.

  “Oh, it was quite obvious that he was not doing well at the Casino, and he was the only one who could have been in that corridor at that time of the day who knew that I had the pearls, and what I had done with them.”

  “But why on Earth did you dangle them so blatantly? It’s as if you wanted them to be stolen!”

  Miss Podsnap smiled ruefully. “I suppose I should tell you, now that this has been settled. Mr. Lightwood heard through other English friends who had stayed here that someone was stealing jewels from hotels in Deauville, and was worried that it was your Mama. I don’t know whether it is because he thinks he has a debt to pay for all the meals he had at your parents’ expense, or just because he is a lawyer and does not like to see someone prosecuted for a crime they did not commit, but he asked me to look into the matter when I came here. So I did. I’ve spent a lifetime watching people from the corners of the room; now I want to get into the room myself.

  “Therefore, if you would care to accompany me on my travels, I can offer you a small emolument, which will allow Mrs. Veneering and Mrs. Lammle to live in seclusion, in some small place where they will not be tempted by the sight of English women wearing jewels.”

  “That is very kind of you,” Miss Venn said.

  “Besides,” Miss Podsnap went on, “I think that when Mr. Magill tries to sell or pawn that necklace, he may get a nasty surprise. It is not as valuable as he thinks it is.”

  “Paste!” exclaimed Miss Venn.

  “Let us say, a very good copy,” Miss Podsnap corrected her. “People like the Magills should know better than to be taken in by appearances.”

  THE ADVENTURE OF THE ELUSIVE EMERALDS, by Carla Coupe

  Although these events occurred many years ago, I shall never forget the circumstances. For once, I played a rather dashing role, as the small gold locket on my watch chain constantly reminds me.

  Our adventure began on a cold winter morning. A thick fog had rolled between the houses, and the windows opposite formed dark, shapeless blurs through the heavy yellow murk.

  Inside, our gas lamps glowed bright and banished the gloom. As we breakfasted, Holmes quickly sorted through the usual pile of correspondence. After opening and reading several letters, he examined a small parcel that had arrived in the morning’s post.

  “Where is that from?” I asked.

  “From Liverpool.” A reminiscent smile touched his lips.

  I repressed a shiver. My friend’s heroic efforts to clear the reputation of a young Naval officer remained fresh in my mind, and I could not share Holmes’s smile yet. Perhaps one day, after certain related events had faded from the public’s memory, I would be permitted to tell that singular tale which had so nearly resulted in tragedy.

  When opened, the parcel yielded a small jade dragon, exquisitely carved in the Oriental style. It was a lovely piece of work, a fitting token acknowledging the dangers Holmes had encountered and overcome.

  After setting the dragon in pride of place upon the mantelpiece, Holmes buried himself in the most recent issue of the Times.

  For the next hour or two, we sat on either side of the cheery fire, and only the rustle of the newspaper, the soft hiss of burning coal, and an occasional comment interrupted the quiet of our chambers. Shortly before eleven, Holmes rose and crossed to the window.

  “Ah. Set aside your paper, Watson. I believe our caller has arrived.”

  “Are we expecting a visitor?” I placed the newspaper on an untidy pile and joined him at the window. In the street below, a brougham with a pair of matched greys waited at the kerb.

  “This morning I received a note from Lord Maurice Denbeigh stating that he would call upon us at eleven. Would you look him up in Debretts?”

  “Denbeigh?” I paused on my way to the bookshelf, then returned to the window. “I am familiar with the name. He’s the second son of the Duke of Penfield. His Grace died five or six years ago, I believe, and Denbeigh’s elder brother succeeded to the title.”

  “You are acquainted with the family?” Holmes glanced at me inquiringly.

  “I met his mother, now the Dowager Duchess, at the Smythe-Parkinsons’ a number of years ago. Fascinating woman.”

  I smiled, recalling that carefree time. Although the Smythe-Parkinsons were remote relatives, they had welcomed my visit.

  A knock interrupted my reminiscences. At Holmes’s nod, I hurried across the room and opened the door. Mrs Hudson entered, followed by a middle-aged man with fair hair and a colourless complexion.

  “Lord Maurice Denbeigh,” she said.

  “Thank you, Mrs Hudson.” I held the door for her as she left.

  “How do you do,” said Holmes. “I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my associate, Doctor John Watson.”

  I bowed.

  “Mr Holmes,” Denbeigh burst out. “You must help me!”

  Holmes gestured him to a chair. “I shall do my best. How can I assist you?”

  He collapsed onto the chair like a man at the end of his strength. Holmes and I resumed our seats. Denbeigh buried his face in his hands for a moment, then raised his head and inhaled loudly.

  “This is very difficult for me to speak of, gentlemen. It has to do with my mother, the Dowager Duchess of Penfield.”

  “I see.” With a glance at me, Holmes crossed h
is legs and leaned back in his chair. “Pray continue.”

  “To put the problem in a nutshell, my brother, the present duke, is with his regiment in India. During his absence, all the responsibilities of the family have fallen upon my unhappy shoulders. For a year now, I’ve been driven nearly insane by my nephew, Hilary, Viscount Sheppington. The boy is eighteen, and his escapades have caused me many a sleepless night. But now comes the crowning blow: My mother, my own mother, has turned thief.”

  “Her Grace a thief?” I could not conceal my outrage. “Oh come, sir, you must be mistaken!”

  He stiffened. “Would I make such a shocking statement, Doctor, unless I was certain? I repeat, she is a thief, and a disgrace to our family.”

  Holmes raised an eyebrow. “I take it that monetary considerations are not involved?”

  With a hollow laugh, Denbeigh sprang from his chair and paced the room.

  “My mother has no concerns in that area, gentlemen.” He paused before the fire, his head bowed. “Unlike others of us,” he murmured.

  “Then I can only assume that Her Grace is the victim of that unfortunate affliction known as kleptomania.”

  “Kleptomania?” I darted a glance at Holmes. “But the description of that illness has only recently been published. I take it you have been reading my French medical journals.”

  Holmes nodded once, his attention still upon Denbeigh.

  “She is a kleptomaniac, Mr Holmes.” He sighed, and despite his coat’s fine tailoring, his shoulders bowed. “I spoke with several eminent nerve specialists, and they confirmed the shocking diagnosis. Not only are there the difficulties with shopkeepers to contend with; how can I explain to friends of the family when Mother decides to pocket some valuable memento whilst paying calls?”

  “A vexing problem, indeed,” replied Holmes.

  “And though it is petty thefts today, how can I be certain she won’t lapse into more serious criminality? Mr Holmes, you must help me find some way out of this intolerable situation. For the family’s sake, I am willing to pay—”

  A loud series of knocks came from the front of the house. Denbeigh started nervously and glanced about.

  The rich, husky voice of a woman rose above Mrs Hudson’s gentle murmurs.

  “Mother!” cried Denbeigh.

  At the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps, we rose and faced the door.

  After a single knock, it opened, revealing Mrs Hudson again. She only had time to say, “Her Grace, the Dowager Duchess of Penfield,” before the lady swept past her into our chambers.

  Beneath an elegant feathered hat, her chestnut hair was now streaked with silver, yet she looked every inch the magnificent woman I remembered. She dismissed Mrs Hudson, then glanced from me to Holmes.

  “Which of you gentlemen is Mr Sherlock Holmes?”

  Holmes stepped forward. “I am.”

  She held out her hand, and he took it, bowing low.

  Straightening, Holmes released her hand. “And this is my friend and colleague, Doctor John Watson. I believe you have met before.”

  “Oh?” She fixed me with sparkling, dark eyes. “Where was that, Doctor?”

  “Several years ago, at the Smythe-Parkinsons’.”

  “Charming people,” she said with a small smile and a gracious nod. “They always host the most amusing parties.”

  “Yes, indeed, Your Grace.” I was a trifle disappointed that she did not appear to remember me, but why should a duchess remember a simple military doctor?

  “Maurice,” she said, transferring her gaze to her son. He flinched, and she let out a little sigh. “I thought I had made my wishes clear.”

  His waxen cheeks took on a rosy tinge, and he shifted in place as if he were a schoolboy.

  “You had, Mother. However, I thought—”

  “I’m certain you did.” She walked to the door and opened it. “We shall discuss this further in private, Maurice. You may kiss me before you go.”

  She tilted her head, presenting her cheek. Denbeigh glanced at Holmes, who bowed.

  “Your Lordship.”

  “Goodbye, Mr Holmes. Doctor.”

  Denbeigh crossed to the duchess, obediently kissed her cheek, and left. I closed the door behind him and turned, my attention captured by Her Grace’s elegant form.

  “Gentlemen, I fear my son has placed me in an invidious position.” She crossed to the fireplace and examined the assortment of items displayed on the mantelpiece. When her gaze lit upon the tobacco-filled slipper, she smiled.

  “How so?” Holmes enquired, standing beside the settee.

  “He has been spreading dreadful rumours about me.” She moved around the room, casting a cool glance over the well-worn furnishings. At least Mrs Hudson had tidied yesterday, although Her Grace didn’t appear distressed by our usual clutter. I was grateful that Holmes had not conducted any chemical experiments recently, for they often filled the room with smoke and an appalling stench: an altogether unsuitable atmosphere in which to receive a dowager duchess.

  Holmes’s intelligent gaze followed her perambulations.

  “What sort of rumours?” he asked.

  Her Grace turned to Holmes with a frown.

  “Pray, do not play coy with me, Mr Holmes. Maurice believes I am suffering from some sort of nervous disorder and is, I am certain, preparing to have me declared incompetent.” She raised a gloved hand to her bosom.

  “Gracious me,” I said, appalled. I hurried over to her. “What a shocking—”

  “Thank you, Doctor, but I do not require sympathy.” She lifted her chin and gazed solemnly at Holmes.

  “These are indeed serious charges,” said Holmes.

  “They are.” She hesitated for a moment, indecision briefly written upon her face. Then she stepped to my side and rested her hand on my arm. Her fingers trembled.

  “As much as I find discussing my personal circumstances distasteful, it appears to be necessary,” she said, her voice low. “Gentlemen, I control my personal fortune outright. My son’s expenses have far exceeded his income, and although I have settled some of his debts, he continues to ask for more money.” She glanced from me to Holmes. “You understand the advantages to him were my finances to be under his control.”

  Holmes nodded.

  “Yes, of course,” I replied, and ventured to rest my hand upon hers for a moment.

  “Thank you.” She smiled and gave my arm a gentle squeeze. “Anything you can do to dispel the rumours would be a great service to me. Otherwise, we shall speak no more of this matter.” She swept to the door.

  “I will see you out,” I said, hurrying to open it.

  She paused in the entrance hall, drawing on her gloves, and gazed at me for a moment.

  “The Smythe-Parkinsons, you say?”

  I smoothed my rumpled jacket. “Yes, Your Grace. At a fancy-dress ball.”

  “Ah, that explains my lapse of memory,” she replied with a nod. “After all, is not concealment the very point of fancy dress?”

  “Of course.” Although it was clear she still did not remember me, at least she was gracious enough to provide an excuse.

  I helped her to her carriage, then returned to our chambers.

  “What a superb woman.” I closed the door behind me and took my seat.

  Holmes chuckled and walked to the fireplace, his pipe in hand. “Yes, quite remarkable, isn’t she?”

  “Luckily we weren’t taken in by Denbeigh’s story.”

  After leaning to light a twist of paper in the fireplace, Holmes straightened, lit his pipe, and waited until it was drawing properly before replying.

  “You recall that jade dragon I received in this morning’s post?”

  “Yes, you put it on the mantelpiece.” I looked up and gasped. �
��Good Lord, it has vanished!”

  “Precisely.” Holmes’s voice was filled with satisfaction. “Either Her Grace is so brilliant a kleptomaniac that she has achieved an unnoticed theft at 221B Baker Street or her son wishes us to think so.”

  “Well, of all the amazing nerve!”

  “Watson, we have met a worthy antagonist.” Holmes suddenly emptied his pipe into the fire and strode to the door. “Come along, old chap. Don your hat and coat. I think we will take the liberty of providing the duchess with an unobtrusive escort.”

  * * * *

  The streetlamps glowed warmly as I limped after Holmes into Carrington’s, the silversmiths on Regent Street.

  “Holmes, this is the twelfth shop we’ve visited,” I whispered. “My feet are tired, my leg aches. We’ve been following the duchess all afternoon.”

  “I was eager to observe Her Grace amongst temptation.” Holmes hovered by a display case.

  “Temptation?” I grumbled. “As far as I can see, she hasn’t been tempted to do anything except purchase a variety of items in far too many shops.”

  “Well, I must admit that I have not observed any untoward behaviour thus far,” Holmes replied.

  Across the shop, the duchess studied a display of small silver goods laid out upon the counter. The manager, a tall, lugubrious Scot with an unfortunate squint, hovered over her like a stork over a new-born chick as she examined piece after piece.

  The door bell rang, and a fashionably dressed young man with curling, chestnut hair stepped inside the shop.

  “Hullo, Grandmama!” he called, waving his stick. “Saw the carriage outside and thought you might be here.”

  Her Grace turned and regarded the young man with a fond smile.

  “Ah, Hilary. I wondered when you would find me.” Turning to face us, she continued. “Mr Holmes, Doctor. Do stop trying to disappear into the woodwork and come meet my grandson.”

  Holmes and I exchanged a glance. Warmth spread across my cheeks, but Holmes appeared amused.