Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine #4

by Marvin Kaye

  “Everything? Including the name of the thief?”

  “Everything, Watson. Including the names of the thieves.” He walked into the receiving room, the door swinging closed behind him.

  “Wait, Holmes!” I dashed through the door. “Thieves?”

  Much to my aggravation, Holmes refused to say more. Instead of answering my questions, he sent a young constable for Mr Athelney Jones.

  Before Jones arrived, I heard a quiet cough at my shoulder and turned.

  Carolus bowed. “I beg your pardon, Doctor.”

  “Yes?”

  “Her Grace requests your presence.”

  “Certainly.”

  I excused myself and followed Carolus to the chamber where the dowager duchess rested. Sheppington still sat by her side.

  “At last!” he cried, leaping to his feet.

  Denbeigh ceased pacing and looked at me expectantly.

  “My mother wishes—” began Denbeigh, breaking off when Her Grace raised her hand.

  “Thank you for responding so promptly, Doctor,” she said. “Has Mr Holmes any solution to the mysterious events surrounding the theft of the emeralds that will clear me of suspicion?”

  I sat beside her in the chair vacated by the viscount.

  “You understand I cannot speak for Holmes,” I said. “Rest assured, however, that his investigations will soon be concluded, and they are leading in an entirely different direction.”

  “I should hope so!” Denbeigh said, posture rigid.

  “I am glad to hear it.” She sighed, and for an instant I glimpsed the deeply troubled woman beneath the public persona. The moment passed quickly as she exerted her iron will and continued: “I am certain that I have recovered sufficiently to return home, yet agree with Maurice and Hilary that it would be prudent to request your opinion before venturing forth.”

  “Very sensible,” I replied. My examination was of necessity superficial, and when I had finished, I released her wrist with a smile. “You are a remarkable woman.”

  She laughed. “You forgot to add ‘for my age,’ Doctor.”

  “For a woman of any age,” I asserted and helped her to rise.

  Although her step was firm and her carriage erect, she leaned heavily upon me as we slowly walked down the corridor, followed closely by Denbeigh and Sheppington.

  We gained the receiving room, where Holmes, no longer carrying the cloak, stood deep in conference with Jones. Carolus listened at a respectful distance.

  “A moment, Doctor,” she said, releasing my arm. “Mr Holmes, I believe you have made progress in your investigation?”

  “I have indeed,” said Holmes. “If you will permit me to detain you for a few minutes, I would like to demonstrate how the attack upon you and the count, as well as the theft of the emeralds, occurred.”

  I glared at Holmes and turned to my patient. “Your Grace, I believe this is most unwise!”

  My exclamation was lost amidst the chorus of voices evincing surprise and disbelief at Holmes’s request, which continued until Her Grace nodded once.

  “Very well, Mr Holmes.” She quelled Denbeigh’s vehement objections with a glance.

  Jones entered the drawing room first, while a constable remained stationed by the door. Holmes quickly ushered in Her Grace, Denbeigh, and Sheppington, followed by Carolus. When Jones questioned the latter’s appearance, Holmes raised his hand.

  “In the absence of Count von Kratzov,” Holmes said, “I have requested that his private secretary attend us, so that he may correct any errors I might make regarding the details of the display.”

  “Get on with it, Mr Holmes,” Jones grumbled.

  I have always maintained that Holmes, despite his protestations to the contrary, is a consummate showman. To set the stage, he lowered the light until the room was cloaked in shadows. Then he positioned Her Grace in the centre of the room by the overturned table and asked Carolus to take the count’s place opposite her.

  “Play-acting!” muttered Jones, but he did not object further.

  “Upon your entry into the room, your attention was immediately caught by the sight of those magnificent emeralds,” Holmes said, addressing Her Grace. “As you admired them, the count stood by your side. His remarks became more personal and intrusive. When he pressed close, becoming increasingly familiar, you struck out at him and withdrew to the window.”

  The colour drained from her face, and I hurried to her side. She waved me away.

  “Continue,” she said, her voice firm.

  Holmes lifted one brow. “Before he could pursue you, the lights were extinguished and there was a sudden commotion: the sounds of a struggle and breaking glass, the grunts of the combatants. In the faint illumination from the window, you watched as indistinct shapes wreaked havoc in the room.”

  Her hand crept to her throat and she nodded, her eyes dark with the memory.

  “I recall it all now,” she whispered. “A man stumbled toward me. It was the count, his face streaming with blood, his hands reaching . . .” She shuddered. “He struck me on the temple, a blow that sent me reeling. I fended him off, and he moved away with a cry, but my head swam and I staggered, grasping at the curtains for support.” She looked at Holmes, her brows drawn together in bewilderment. “I do not remember more.”

  “That is hardly surprising,” I said, stepping to her side. “Holmes, I really—”

  “No, Doctor,” she interrupted. Her voice trembled. “I must know what happened. Mr Holmes, can you tell me who attacked the count, and how did he enter and leave a locked room?”

  “Certainly, Your Grace.” By some trick of the light, Holmes’s eyes shone like a cat’s. “I shall answer the latter first.” He strode to the far wall and ran his long fingers across the moulding.

  “Mr Holmes,” began Jones. “What are you—?”

  His question died upon his lips as, with a soft creak, a portion of the wall swung open. A secret panel! I was scarcely able to believe my eyes. Beyond the opening, I could make out the small niche that Holmes and I had explored earlier.

  “Good God!” cried Denbeigh. Sheppington bit back a ripe oath.

  “Capital, Holmes! A palpable fact!” Jones smiled and tugged on the lapels of his coat. “I asked for facts, and you have provided me with a corker!”

  “Mr Holmes, you have exceeded my expectations,” Her Grace said, sounding a trifle breathless. “How did you ever discover this?”

  Holmes explained his discovery of the crushed glass. “The traces we found were of the same variety used in the jewels’s display case, and the trail led to an alcove in the servants’s hall that is visible through the door.”

  “In addition,” he continued, “the thief did not retrace his steps, as the single set of tracks clearly showed. Therefore, it was clear that the thief entered the servants’s hall at that location, directly from this chamber.”

  “So the thief must still have traces of glass in his boots,” I said.

  “Exactly, Watson.” Holmes pointed to the area of powdered glass on the floor beside the hearth. “The thief trod in the glass there, and when he exited, he left a trail—Constable! Stop that man!” Holmes cried.

  Denbeigh started.

  Confused, I glanced about the chamber.

  Carolus struggled in the grasp of the burly constable, shouting what sounded like pleas in a foreign language, his face pale with terror. He must have surreptitiously edged toward the door as Holmes outlined the evidence.

  “If you examine the soles of his shoes,” Holmes said to Jones, “you will discover traces of glass embedded in the leather—the same glass as that of the smashed jewel case.”

  “And the emeralds,” Jones said triumphantly. “He must have taken them after he attacked his master.”

  Carolus
ceased his struggles and turned to Holmes. “Mr Holmes, you must believe me! I never meant to harm anyone. When my master and Her Grace entered, I hid in the shadows, but I could not stand by and watch the count molest her.”

  She shuddered once, then breathed deeply, lifting her chin. I could not but admire her strength.

  “Why are you listening to this blackguard, Mr Holmes!” Sheppington pushed his way past his uncle and glared at Carolus. “He has deceived us all.”

  “I very much doubt that he is the only person in this room who is not speaking the truth,” replied Holmes with a cold look at the young man. He addressed Carolus again. “But what of the emeralds?”

  “I do not have them!” he asserted.

  “Then who does?” Holmes asked, his voice implacable.

  “I do not know his name, and I never saw his face.” Carolus bowed his head. “He came to me, and threatened to reveal . . .” His throat worked as he swallowed.

  “It is not uncommon for opium addicts to be blackmailed,” said Holmes.

  Carolus stared at him. “How did you—?”

  Holmes waved negligently. “The characteristic sallow complexion, the wide pupil, a trace of the distinct odour . . . Your vice was obvious to me the moment we met.”

  “I see,” Carolus whispered. “He knew of the secret panel. He instructed me to ensure that the emeralds were displayed in this room and to steal them tonight. After doing so, I was to leave them wrapped in a handkerchief behind a vase in the receiving room. When I checked after arranging for the count to be carried to his chambers, they were not there. I know nothing more!”

  “All this sounds extremely dubious to me,” Jones grunted. “Mr Holmes, do you believe this ruffian?”

  “I do indeed.” Holmes surveyed the room. He reached into his pocket and then lifted his clenched fist. All eyes were upon him. He opened his hand, revealing the emerald he had discovered beneath Her Grace.

  “You may wish to check the jewels you received, Your Lordship, for I believe you are missing one.”

  As he spoke, Denbeigh drew himself up and fixed his cold gaze upon Holmes.

  “How dare you imply—”

  “I recognize that voice!” cried Carolus, pointing at Denbeigh. “It is he!”

  “The villain lies to save himself,” Denbeigh said, turning to the door. “I will not stand here and—”

  “No,” Her Grace whispered, sagging against me.

  “Grandmama!” Sheppington rushed up and supported her other arm, but she had already mastered her momentary weakness.

  “Maurice.” Her steely tones cut him off abruptly. “Show us the contents of your pockets.”

  Complexion the colour of parchment, Denbeigh turned from face to stern face. A constable approached.

  “Do not lay hands upon me!” He gazed imploringly at the dowager duchess. “Mother, you cannot—”

  “Show us, Maurice.”

  “There is no escape, Your Lordship,” Holmes said and held out his hand.

  With a sigh, Denbeigh reached into his coat pocket, then deposited a small parcel wrapped in a handkerchief into Holmes’s waiting hand. Holmes quickly untied the knots and opened the linen. The gems inside glittered with cold fire.

  Jones shook himself as if roused from a deep slumber and took charge of the situation. A phalanx of constables removed Denbeigh and Carolus from the chamber, while Her Grace sent instructions to the family solicitor.

  “I shall also ensure Carolus is represented well,” she said, Sheppington standing at her side. “For I feel a certain amount of responsibility for this situation.” She dismissed my protestations with a sad shake of her head.

  “Your Grace, I am certain you have many questions,” Holmes began.

  “Thank you, Mr Holmes, but I am a trifle fatigued.” She gave him a weary smile. “Hilary and I shall call upon you and Dr Watson on the morrow. You may answer my questions then. For now, I would like Hilary to take me home.”

  * * * *

  The following morning, Holmes and I perused the newspapers over breakfast, and I was relieved there was no mention of the incident.

  “It will do nothing to prevent rumours from flying about,” said Holmes in response to my observation. “Fortunately, this sort of occurrence is handled with discretion and seldom goes to trial.”

  True to her word, Her Grace, accompanied by Sheppington, called upon us a little later. As she entered our chamber, I was pleased to see that her step was as firm, her carriage as elegant as usual. When she lifted her heavy veil, however, traces of the emotional and physical toll of the previous evening were writ clearly upon her features, for she had apparently eschewed the use of cosmetics and artifice to hide her injuries.

  “You are well?” I asked.

  “Thanks to your assistance and care,” she replied. Settling upon the sofa, her grandson beside her, she declined our offer of refreshment with a weary air.

  “There is still much to be arranged,” she confessed in quiet, dignified tones. “My son’s perfidy extends further than I had suspected.”

  “Yet you did suspect something amiss,” said Holmes. He leaned against the hearth, regarding her gravely. “You instructed Viscount Sheppington to monitor His Lordship’s activities. He was unable, or possibly unwilling, to disguise himself as effectively as Lord Maurice, and thereby gained a reputation as a connoisseur of certain unsavoury practices.”

  The young man’s countenance darkened. “When I began, I did not realise I would be haunting venues where a disguise would be essential, Mr Holmes. That fact was quickly brought home to me, but by that point, I was already tarred by vice’s brush.” He shrugged. “I can only hope that the rumour-mongers will soon discover another object of interest and I can endeavour to restore my character.”

  Her Grace took his hand and pressed it gently. “I never meant for you to suffer so, dear boy.”

  “Do not vex yourself, Your Lordship,” said Holmes. “The most cursory glance at the newspapers will supply a variety of individuals with reputations far more scandalous than yours. Besides, isn’t it often considered desirable for a young scion of the nobility to have a faintly dubious past, above which he can rise?”

  “I say!” cried Sheppington.

  Her Grace assayed a faint smile, yet her lips trembled. “We can only hope that is indeed the case, Mr Holmes.”

  I rose from my chair. “But why? Why did His Lordship court exposure and disgrace?”

  “For the money,” said Sheppington. “Although his vices were few, they were costly. Gambling at cards and on the horses, and his mistress alone . . .” He glanced at his grandmother, his cheeks colouring.

  Holmes nodded. “When His Lordship encountered Carolus smoking opium in a den of depravity, he conceived of the plan to steal the emeralds. He was familiar with the count’s house and its hidden doorway, for it had been in your family for many years, had it not?”

  “We resided there for several years while he was a child,” she said. “Even then, Maurice was always poking into corners and winkling out everyone’s secrets.”

  “Through his unsavoury associates,” continued Holmes, “His Lordship knew he could dispose of the gems, or alternatively, he could hold them for ransom. Either way, he would benefit.”

  “Unfortunately for Carolus, he became my son’s dupe,” said Her Grace. “And yet I cannot help but be grateful to him, for he defended me from the count’s advances at some considerable risk to himself.”

  “Addicts are not necessarily criminals or depraved individuals,” I said, not looking at Holmes. “Indeed, there are several private clinics that have successfully weaned these unfortunate individuals from the sources of their addiction. If Your Grace would consider arranging for his treatment at one such facility, it would certainly repay his actions on your behalf.
”

  “An excellent suggestion, Doctor.” She nodded. “If I may, I shall ask for a few recommendations.”

  “Of course.” I bowed.

  “Now I must broach a more delicate matter, one I wish to conduct without intermediaries.” She stood, opened her reticule, and withdrew an envelope. “Mr Holmes, your assistance in this matter has been invaluable to me and to all of my family, even the one exposed by your investigations. I hope you will accept the enclosed as a token of my gratitude for your efforts.”

  “I was honoured to be of service.” Holmes accepted the envelope, setting it to one side.

  “And you, Doctor,” she said, turning to me with a smile. “How can I ever find the words to thank you?”

  Momentarily speechless at the warmth of her regard, I bowed again. “It was entirely my pleasure.”

  “I know you would not accept any gift of great value, but I hope you will permit me to present you with this small keepsake.” She pressed a small, gold locket into my hand.

  “Your Grace!” I said, opening the locket. Inside rested an exquisite miniature portrait of the dowager duchess, obviously painted at the time I first met her. “I am honoured and will keep it always.”

  “And now, gentlemen, if you will excuse us,” she said. “I have an appointment with my solicitor. Hilary, will you see to the carriage?”

  “Of course, Grandmother. Thank you, Mr Holmes, Doctor.” He hurried out the door.

  Holmes gravely bowed over her hand, and she allowed me the pleasure of seeing her to the door. Her carriage waited at the kerb. With a wistful smile, she pressed my hand before turning and crossing the pavement. Sheppington handed her into the brougham, then joined her.

  I returned to our apartments, unaccountably melancholy. Had not Holmes solved the case to Her Grace’s satisfaction? Taking my seat beside the fire, I picked up a medical journal but did not open it.

  “She is a woman of immense strength, Watson.” Holmes sounded almost kind. “I am certain she will weather any storm of gossip or public exposure regarding her son’s behaviour with her usual dignity.”