by Marvin Kaye
Falling to his knees before his grandmother, he caught her hand in his.
“I am too late! The count has killed her!” He choked back a sob.
“Pull yourself together,” said Holmes. Bent over from the waist, he was carefully examining the ruined jewel case on the floor beside the fireplace. A rough circle of shards and patches of glass ground to powder glinted upon the carpet and planks. “She is nowhere near death.”
“Do not move her yet,” I said, turning back to my patient. “Holmes, I require more light.”
“Maryja, matka Boga!”
I glanced up. Carolus entered the room, carrying an oil lamp.
“Bring the lamp here,” I ordered, loosening the count’s cravat.
He placed the lamp on the floor beside me, then clasped his hands behind his back.
“What has happened? Who has done this to my master?” he asked.
“That is what we are trying to ascertain,” replied Holmes. He picked up the shattered jewel case and held it to the light.
Carolus gasped. “The emeralds!”
I finished my examination of the count, then rose stiffly, retrieving the lamp.
“The count has been badly beaten and appears to have fallen and struck his head, resulting in his current state of unconsciousness. However, I do not believe he has any broken bones, nor any internal injuries.” I turned to Carolus. “Have two or three of your strongest footmen carry him to his bed. Does he have a private physician?”
“Yes. He consults Sir Theobald Western, of Harley Street. Sir Theobald is in attendance tonight.”
“Excellent. Send a footman to find him and take him to the count.”
The dowager duchess stirred, groaning softly.
“The devil with the count and his emeralds! What of Grandmama?” cried Sheppington. “She is bleeding!”
“I will also require a bed or chaise in a quiet room for Her Grace,” I continued, ignoring Sheppington’s outburst.
Carolus hurried from the room. I heard him shouting instructions in another tongue. Stanislaw and another footman entered the room, gathered up the count, and carried off the portly figure as easily as a young lady holds her fan.
“Be still, Your Grace,” I said, setting down the lamp beside the dowager duchess and bending to examine the wound on her scalp. “Your Lordship, please allow me room to work.”
After a moment, he sat back.
I took her hand in mine, although I knew what I would see. The empty fingers of her glove depended from her wrist and quivered as I lifted her hand to the light; she had, at some point before she was injured, unbuttoned her glove at the wrist and drawn her hand out through the opening. The better to admire the emeralds? Yet she had not had time to fold away the surplus kidskin. I finished my examination of her hand and gently encircled her wrist with my fingers. Her pulse remained strong. As I probed the wound on her temple, she winced and drew in a sharp breath.
“You may have a head-ache for a few days, but the injury is superficial,” I said, the tightness in my chest easing. I gave her a reassuring smile. “Is it possible for you to sit up?”
She breathed deeply, then nodded. “Of course.”
With the assistance of Sheppington, she sat up by degrees.
“Do you remember what happened?” I asked.
Holmes paused in his examination of the jewel case and glanced in our direction.
She frowned. “As we entered the room, my attention was upon the glass case. I stepped to the table . . .” She hesitated for only a moment, a faint glow touching her cheeks. “I did not notice anything amiss before the lights were extinguished. And then . . .” Her brows drew together. “I . . . I do not remember anything more.”
A soft cough announced Carolus’s return.
“I have prepared a room for Her Grace,” he said. “And sent a messenger for the policja.”
“If you cannot stand,” I said, “the footmen can carry you—”
She lifted her chin. “Hilary will assist me.”
“Certainly, Grandmama.” The viscount leaned over, his arm encircling her shoulders.
I lent my strength on her other side. At one point she bowed her head as if overcome. Holmes uttered a brief exclamation and swooped in, but his concern was unnecessary. She gained her feet without experiencing any further weakness.
Despite Holmes’s obvious impatience, I insisted she pause a moment before proceeding. Once assured that she would not succumb, I allowed her, supported by her grandson, to leave the room.
From outside, I heard Denbeigh cry “Mother!” before Holmes drew me toward the broken window. Cold air poured into the room. I took a deep breath.
“Quickly, Watson! The police will arrive any moment. I am certain you observed several deep scorings raked across the count’s face, as if from fingernails. Is it possible that she inflicted such wounds?”
The question did not surprise me. Naturally, Holmes would have noticed my reaction to the evidence on her fingers and wish to ascertain the cause. That did not mean I welcomed his enquiry, however.
I sighed. “Yes.”
“As I suspected.” Holmes sounded extremely satisfied.
“Her actions must have been defensive!” Any other option was simply unthinkable. “Surely the count attacked her . . .”
“Do you truly believe a lady of her years was capable of repelling his determined attack?” His voice was hard as flint. “And what of the emeralds?”
I looked from the empty jewel case to the broken window.
“No. No, it cannot be, Holmes. She cannot be responsible.”
“You are thinking with your heart and not your mind, Watson! Does not the evidence point to Her Grace surprising the count with a blow of sufficient force to stagger him?”
“With what?” I gestured to the room. “There is nothing she could use as a weapon.”
Holmes pointed to a brass poker lying in a shadowed corner. I had not noticed it before.
“There is blood upon the end,” he said.
How could this be? In her right mind, the dowager duchess would never be capable of such actions. Was Denbeigh correct to be concerned that his mother suffered from kleptomania? If so, could her disease have progressed to a violent manifestation with such rapidity?
Holmes continued. “After she removed the jewels from their case, the count must have recovered enough to lunge at her. She fended off his attack, in the course of which he fell and struck his head. Either she was already in the process of ridding herself of the jewels before this occurred and lost consciousness immediately, or she was able to break the window and toss the jewels outside before succumbing to her injury.”
“If what you say is true, Holmes, and I must admit that I fervently hope you are wrong, it must be a direct result of this insidious disease. She is most certainly not at fault, and it might be possible to salvage her reputation.” I turned toward the door. “Let us retrieve the emeralds before the police arrive.”
“Too late, I fear,” replied Holmes as voices rose in the receiving room. “However, we do have one further clue as to what occurred.” He thrust his hand into his coat pocket and withdrew it far enough for me to catch a glimpse of glittering emerald and fiery diamond against his palm.
I started at the unexpected sight. “Good gracious! But where …”
He returned the gem to his pocket and smoothed back his hair.
“The least of the jewels,” he said softly. “It lay beneath her, and I was able to retrieve it without her knowledge.”
Misery kept me mute.
A hoarse cough from the door caught our attention. A large constable stood on the threshold, holding his hat and frowning.
“Now, wot’s all this then?”
* * * *
&nbs
p; I excused myself and left Holmes to explain the situation to the constable, for I still had my patient to attend. Her Grace rested in a cheerful morning room, while Sheppington sat on a footstool by her side. With a thunderous expression, Denbeigh paced the length of the room.
There was little I could do save admonish Denbeigh for worrying his mother, assure myself that her pulse remained strong, and vow to return again in a quarter hour to ensure she continued to improve.
I closed the morning room door behind me and turned to face a tremendous bustle and clamour. Apparently the police had arrived in force while I attended the dowager duchess, for a handful of constables were endeavoring to contain the count’s guests in the ballroom. I returned to the receiving room.
“There you are, Watson,” said Holmes. “You remember Mr Athelney Jones of Scotland Yard.”
He indicated a stout, ruddy-faced man, whose small, bright eyes nearly disappeared into heavy folds of flesh.
“Of course I do,” I replied, as Jones wheezed a greeting.
“Bad business, this,” said Jones. “Dowager Duchess of Penfield attacked, eh? Not to mention that foreign count. I’ve examined the room and will need to ask them a few questions, of course.”
“Her Grace is still quite shaken and should not be disturbed,” I said firmly. Certainly too shaken to be questioned by Jones. “I believe Count von Kratzov’s physician is attending him now. He will be able to answer as to the count’s current condition. When I last saw the count, he was unconscious.”
“Ah.” Jones pursed his lips. “You were there when the attack occurred?”
“Not in the room, no.” I explained what I had seen. “I cannot tell you more.”
“Just so, Doctor.” Jones nodded vigorously, his jowls quivering like the dewlaps of a dog on the scent. “Mr Holmes showed me the smashed case. No sign of the jewels. What were they? Diamonds?”
“The von Kratzov emeralds are priceless and renowned throughout Europe,” replied Holmes.
“Are they, indeed?” Jones did not appear impressed.
“That is why the count instituted so many precautions: the locked door, the trusted servant stationed outside, the jewels themselves housed in a case,” I added.
“Which did nothing to prevent the theft,” Jones said bluntly. “So although the window was broken, the iron bars are too closely spaced to allow even a child to enter or exit. Common sense tells us the glass was broken by accident.” He tugged at the waistcoat of his grey suit. “The facts are clear, gentlemen. The thief slipped by the count’s man and entered the room. He then pocketed the emeralds, but before he could leave, the count and Her Grace surprised him. The thief attacked them, and after you and Mr Holmes here entered, he escaped in the confusion.”
“A most interesting theory,” said Holmes. I met his gaze, but did not speak.
“Facts, Mr Holmes! Facts! As I’ve had occasion to remind you before, you should avoid theories and focus strictly on the facts. There can be no other explanation that fits the facts you and the doctor have presented.”
As he spoke, a constable approached and waited to one side. Jones lifted a finger and directed his attention to the young man. Frowning at Holmes and me, the constable murmured to Jones.
“Good, good!” said Jones, then turned to us. “Excuse me, gentlemen.”
Holmes waited until Jones and the constable hurried off in the direction of the ballroom.
“Now is our opportunity, Watson. Let us see what is outside the broken window.” He caught up a lamp and hurried toward a baize-covered door.
Fortunately, we were unobserved as we entered the servants’s hall. I glanced about the dimly lit corridor with dun-coloured walls and cocoa-nut matting on the floor—a stark contrast to the richly appointed apartments that lay on the opposite side of the door. The air smelt faintly of cabbage and beer.
“Do you truly believe we will find the jewels?” I asked, following him closely.
“I most certainly do not believe in Mr Athelney Jones’s theory of a thief who, through no doubt supernatural means, entered the room, stole the emeralds, attacked Her Grace and the count, and then disappeared into the ewigkeit.” Holmes paused as a young woman with a doubtful expression, carrying an armful of linens, hurried past.
After several turns and one brief detour, we gained entry to the cobbled yard. Several grooms bustled about purposefully, while a few others leaned against the wall, smoking their pipes. I gasped as the cold struck me like a blow and wished I had collected my coat and hat first.
“This way,” Holmes said, as always indifferent to the temperature.
I hurried to follow his long strides as he crossed the yard and turned onto Chapel Street. After a glance at the façade to locate the broken window, he handed me the lamp. A locked iron gate guarded the stair that gave access to the deep channel between house and pavement. Holmes nimbly leapt over the gate and made his way down the stair.
I raised the lamp, illuminating the narrow well. Holmes dropped to his knees, heedless of the decaying leaf mould and spots of damp on the pavement.
“Where are they?” he muttered as he ran his hands through the debris. “They must be here. Watson, examine the street and the kerb.”
I did as he bade, but saw nothing save the usual effluvia.
“There is no trace of the jewels here. Unless they were discovered by a passerby and taken away.”
“Or retrieved by an accomplice,” he replied. “Which would belie the diagnosis of kleptomania.”
“You have gone too far, Holmes. I refuse to countenance such nonsense! Why, she could no more plan and execute such a devious and audacious theft than I could!”
“I fear you underestimate your capabilities, my dear fellow, as well as those of Her Grace.” He climbed the stair and vaulted the rail again. “However, the fact of the matter is the emeralds are not here.”
“I must admit that I am relieved.” I cast a despairing eye over his stained knees and filthy hands. Holmes followed my gaze. He raised one brow and withdrew his handkerchief, wiping his hands. I sighed. Mrs Hudson would have something to say when she discovered the damage to his evening clothes.
“I have gone wrong, Watson. Very wrong.”
Holmes thrust his grimy handkerchief into his pocket, and we returned to the house in silence.
Slowly we retraced our steps through the corridors. As we turned a corner, Holmes suddenly cried out and fell to his knees.
“Light, Watson!”
I held the lamp near. Nose almost to the floorboards, Holmes extended a finger and delicately brushed a small spot of white powder at the edge of the cocoa-nut matting. It glinted in the light.
“Holmes, is that glass?”
“Yes, Watson!” He raised his face, eyes shining with excitement. “I have been a fool, and you may remind me of the fact whenever I become enamoured of my own genius. In this matter we are now in complete agreement: the Dowager Duchess of Penfield is innocent of this crime.”
“You are truly convinced of her innocence because of a dusting of powdered glass?” I cried. “But how?”
“Through the application of logic, my dear fellow.” Rising, Holmes snatched the lamp from my hands and scrutinized the corridor. “Ah!”
Lamp held high, he strode down the hall until he reached a corner. Bending low, he examined another small spot on the matting.
“More glass?” I asked, frowning. “How can this be significant?”
He glanced up at me. “Where have we recently encountered a quantity of such glass?”
“In the drawing room where the emeralds were displayed.”
“This pulverised glass is the very same glass used in the jewels’s display case.”
“Can you be certain it is that particular glass? Perhaps a servant broke a goblet or bott
le, and a shard was crushed underfoot.”
“You may remember the monograph I wrote on the chemical composition of varieties of glass as evidenced through the spectrum, Watson. This is not crystal, nor common pressed glass, nor is it the glass generally used for window-panes. It displays the identical colour signature as the crushed remains of the case.”
We followed the faint traces of powdered glass through the house. His gaze fixed upon the floor, Holmes cast about with the lamp, as if he were a modern-day Diogenes. Passing servants looked upon us with confusion, but none dared interrupt.
“What have you found?” I asked as he bent over at the back of an odd little alcove.
He straightened, his keen eyes glinting in the lamplight, and raised his arm. A length of heavy, dark fabric cascaded from his hand.
“It is a cloak,” he replied, folding it over his arm. “With a hood.”
“Perhaps a servant dropped it,” I said, although my assertion sounded feeble even to my ears.
“Perhaps. But does its presence here not suggest another possibility?”
I frowned. “Not to me. The cloak cannot be germane to the problem at hand, for this niche does not lead anywhere. Look about you; there are no doors or windows, nor even a cupboard where the thief could hide.”
Holmes turned and started back the way we had come. “Watson, recall the words of our colleague, Mr Athelney Jones. We must deal with facts.”
I trailed behind him. “Even if those facts are meaningless as a whole?”
“Ah, but are they truly meaningless?” He glanced back at me over his shoulder. “Come, Watson. You know my methods; use them. There is only one way to assemble these facts into a meaningful pattern.”
He stopped before the baize door leading to the receiving room and set down the lamp. I folded my arms. “What does the evidence reveal to you?”
“Why, everything,” Holmes replied lightly, as he opened the door.
