But I was determined not to let my friend down, or be less than he had thought of me. He had been most generous in his confidence in me, and not made little of my danger. The success of the venture turned as much upon my part as upon his.
The concert was magnificent. I should dearly liked to have heard it myself. I have a great fondness for music, especially of the romantic kind. There is little that is lovelier than a perfectly sung ballad. However I was shivering in the cold, awaiting my moment of adventure.
When the final curtain was brought down to a tumult of applause, Vassily Golkov disappeared backstage to congratulate some of his fellow artists, and then to pass on his good wishes to the management.
Holmes went first to the management, then when Golkov arrived, he excused himself and undertook the most dangerous part of the entire exercise. Using his oddly shaped keys, especially constructed for the purpose, he made his way into that private part of the manager’s rooms where the proceeds of the evening were kept, opened the safe and took them, secreting them carefully upon his person.
As he emerged he skirted around the groups of people talking. He had the great gift of being able to alter his appearance simply by changing the stoop of his body and the way in which he moved. The extraordinary vitality which usually marked him seemed to drain away and he became a colourless person, such as you might see, and then instantly forget.
Then he straightened up and assumed his usual, striking posture and engaged the manager in conversation.
At the same moment Golkov slipped into the empty office and closed the door behind him.
As he spoke again to the manager, offering his admiration for the evening’s achievements, Golkov took his leave.
Holmes asked how well the event had done, remembering the number of prominent people he had seen present.
The manager named a magnificent sum.
Holmes offered to add something to it himself, on behalf of a public figure who would prefer to remain anonymous.
The manager flushed with pleasure and conducted him to his office where he might write a receipt for the amount, and place it under lock and key.
Of course when he got there he saw immediately that the safe was open and empty, and the window gaped wide onto the low rooftop. The poor man was mortified. Very naturally, in his desperation he turned to Holmes. Was he not the greatest consulting detective in the world, and right at his elbow?
Naturally Holmes did not refuse. He spent what remained of the evening examining the office, asking searching questions of all present. The manager did not wish to make the loss public, hoping each moment that Holmes would discover the thief and all would be well.
But Holmes gravely advised him that the police should be called, and informed. It could no longer be hidden from the authorities.
With intense reluctance the manager complied.
Lestrade arrived on the scene, as lugubrious and self-important as always. He questioned everyone as to what they had seen and heard. By midnight for once he and Holmes were in agreement. There was only one conclusion the evidence supported. Golkov had been seen to enter the manager’s office, but not to leave it. Obviously he had taken the money and left by the window while Holmes had been congratulating the manager on his success. There was no help for it but to make the matter public, and set up the hunt for Golkov, and the money.
The morning newspapers trumpeted; the story of Golkov was painted in the blackest colours. Not one person had a good word to say for him. The musician who had played with such skill as to be considered gifted of God, was suddenly a devil incarnate. The fact that we had once loved him and listened to him with such emotion, poured upon him such praise, made our rage now bite the more deeply.
“Good,” Holmes said, pacing the floor of the sitting room in Baker Street. Several newspapers were scattered around, all of them carrying the tale of the robbery. “Good.” However he looked anything but pleased. I did not like to ask him if his dark mood were a result of some flaw in our plan, or if it were merely the ugliness of the situation. I believed it to be to do with the criticism which he was shortly to bring upon himself when he initiated the next stage in the process. He is an intensely proud man. He would deny it, probably with considerable annoyance, but he does care what others think of him. He dismisses flattery, and yet I have seen how it pleases him when his gifts are truly valued, and something of his marvellous intelligence is glimpsed by others. I could only hazard a guess at what this performance would cost him, but to pretend I had no knowledge of it was all I could offer.
Golkov had accepted the terms Carburton had offered, and asked that the arrangement for the exchange should be delivered to us. Since Golkov was now inevitably a fugitive it was a natural enough arrangement.
The eagerly awaited message arrived at last. Holmes snatched it from Mrs. Hudson’s fingers, barely thanking her for it, and tore it open. I noticed his hand was shaking.
“Come, Watson,” he said grimly. “Now is the time to put it all to the test, win or lose. Within an hour or two we shall know.” And without even glancing at me, he took his coat from the rack in the hall, jammed his hat on his head and strode down the stairs, leaving me to follow him.
It was a miserable day outside and bitterly cold. The sky was of a uniform greyness and the edge to the wind promised snow before the day was out. Still the streets were full of people in high, good spirits, and filled with the sounds of cheery wishes for the season passing from one to another, the excited cries of children, the jingle of harness as coaches and carriages passed by. The clatter of hooves and the hiss of wheels on the wet road all but drowned out the sound of a barrel organ playing a Christmas carol, and one or two voices raised in song.
Holmes sprang forward off the kerb, his arm raised to hail a passing hansom, risking being knocked down in his single-minded eagerness.
I grasped his arm and pulled him back, to his considerable annoyance. He shook me off, and shouted to the driver to take us to the York Gate entrance of Regent’s Park.
I scrambled up behind him, nearly losing my balance as the vehicle lurched forward and gathered speed, weaving through the traffic on all sides. Then followed a tense journey during which we did not speak.
When we reached the park Holmes commanded me to remain in the hansom and to wait for him, which I complied with only because I appreciated that it must be so.
Holmes alighted, carrying with him a small bag in which was the money from the concert. He strode away without once looking backward. I confess I was sorely tempted to follow him regardless of his command to the contrary, in case the blackguard should offer him either resistance, or dishonesty.
I waited in an agony of apprehension, but it proved ill founded. Within a few moments Holmes reappeared, carrying a violin case. He leaped up into the hansom, calling out for the driver to return us to Baker Street.
“Is it the Stradivarius?” I demanded, although I was certain from the look on his face that it must be.
“Of course, Watson! Do you think I should have accepted it otherwise? He has no wish for the thing, nor for the money either, for that matter. All he wants is to ruin Golkov. His purpose would be better served if Golkov has his precious instrument back again.”
“It was Hugo Carburton?”
“Naturally . . . who else?”
I had known it, but it was still a satisfaction to me to hear it. I was finding the whole plan nerve-racking, and still afraid that the final part, upon which it all rested, might yet fail.
Again I was unable to accompany Holmes, although I knew exactly what he must do, and how dearly it would cost him. I paced the floor in Baker Street, as Holmes so often did himself, desperate, frustrated, my imagination racing, picturing what was taking place.
He told me afterwards, but with so little detail that I had to fill in from my knowledge of him, watching and reading his face as he spoke quietly, not meeting my eyes but staring downwards at his hands flexed, fingers rigid in his lap.
; He left Baker Street and went to find Lestrade in his office.
“Well, good morning, Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade said with some surprise. “What can I do for you today? If you’ve come to ask me if we’ve found Golkov yet, I’m afraid we haven’t, but we will. He can’t escape. He’s too well known. He’s a concert violinist. The day he steps on a stage, he’ll be arrested.”
“I’m perfectly aware of that!” Holmes snapped, then with an intense effort, changed his tone. “I am afraid we—I—may have come to a conclusion too rapidly.”
“Oh no,” Lestrade replied with confidence. “It’s obvious he did it. No question, Mr. Holmes. You and I agreed, for once, and we were absolutely right. Only thing is, we haven’t got the bounder! Now if you can help me in that, I’d be most grateful to you—and so would a hundred or more poor little orphans who’ve been robbed of their Christmas.” He shook his head. “That’s something I don’t understand, Mr. Holmes, and that’s for sure. Why would a man who’s got fame and money go and steal from children?” His face screwed up in bewilderment. “Can you explain it? He’s lost everything, all that respect people had for him, and when we catch him he’ll end up in prison. Do you think he’s a bit mad, maybe?”
“I think there’s another explanation,” Holmes replied, tight-lipped. “If you will be so good, Lestrade, let us follow the trail of Mr. Golkov after he left the concert hall last night.”
“Can’t see what good that’ll do now!” Lestrade grumbled.
“Humour me!” Holmes said tartly. “If you will be so good . . .”
Lestrade conceded, perhaps for old friendship’s sake. It was still clear in his expression that he thought it pointless.
Doggedly they set out again, beginning at the theatre back door where the roof was at its lowest pitch, and walking along the alley towards the street. Lestrade grumbled to himself with each step. Holmes bent forward, peering from one side to the other as if expecting any moment to see something of vital importance.
He came to the end of the alley and stopped. “Ah!” he said portentously.
“What?” Lestrade demanded. “I don’t see anything! Just a narrow street. Hardly a soul here. Not even anybody to ask . . . if that was what you were hoping.”
“You have missed the point, Lestrade, as usual!” Holmes retorted with unnecessary waspishness. “If you were fleeing the scene of a crime, and knew that your pursuers might be close behind you, which way would you go?”
Lestrade looked one way then the other.
“Quick!” Holmes cried. “They are behind you! Which way? Don’t stand dithering, man!”
“That way!” Lestrade replied, somewhat stung. “There’s nowhere to hide the other way, and up there is a main street where I could blend in with other folk, if I were lucky, and maybe catch a hansom. If I am Mr. Golkov, I’ve certainly got money enough. And,” he added, “if I am Golkov I maybe don’t know the back streets that well, and I don’t need to get lost, or worse still, cornered!”
“Precisely!” Holmes agreed. “You are thinking, Lestrade. Excellent.” And he set out towards Shaftesbury Avenue at a rapid stride, obliging Lestrade to caper along behind him to keep up.
Just around the corner there was a sandwich seller. I remember him only too well myself!
“My good man!” Holmes addressed him. “Were you here yesterday evening at half past ten, or thereabouts?” It was then mid afternoon.
“I was, sir,” the man answered. “Sometimes the folk leaving the theatre fancy a bite. Do quite well then, I do.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Did you see a young man come running down that alley, hair flying, velvet jacket on, looking as if he were pursued?”
“I did an’ all! ’Ceptin’ ’e were the one doin’ the chasin’,” the sandwich seller replied. “Arter the feller wot robbed the the-ayter, I reckon.”
“What?” Lestrade demanded. “What are you saying?”
“ ’E were a chasin’ after the feller wot robbed them orphans,” the man repeated patiently. “Big, rough-lookin’ feller ’e were! Shoulders like an ox, ’at jammed down over ’is ’ead, moustache all bristling an’ a big stick in his ’and like ’e’d bash someone’s brains out wif it. I tell yer straight, gents, I’d a thought twice about chasin’ arter ’im, in case I caught up wif ’im an’ ’e did fer me.”
Lestrade questioned the man closely, but he did not alter his story, because of course it was the truth.
“Well, I’ll be blessed!” he said at last, staring at Holmes. “This alters everything! I blamed Golkov, poor devil! We’ve got to find out what happened to him, Holmes, and right away. Let us pray it is not too late.”
Thus they followed the very distinct trail of one man chasing another for at least two miles until eventually the young man with the flying hair and the velvet jacket was seen to catch up with the older ruffian and there ensued a terrible battle in which the younger man was beaten about the head and left all but senseless on the cobbles of a stable yard, but not before he had belaboured his prey and sent him off only too grateful to escape both his attention, and that of the crowd which had begun to gather.
“Damn it!” Lestrade swore furiously. The apparent injustice of it outraged his sensibilities. “He nearly had him, Mr. Holmes!”
“So it would seem,” Holmes conceded.
“Never mind ‘seem’!” Lestrade retorted. “Golkov wasn’t your thief at all! You were wrong, Mr. Holmes. First time I can recall that ever happening.”
“No, it isn’t,” Holmes contradicted him, I think merely for the sake of argument. He could not endure to be gracious about it.
Lestrade did not labour the point. “Now we must find what happened to poor Golkov. Somebody took him in. Who?” He looked around at the small gathering of old men, boys and a washerwoman who had given their various pieces of the story.
“Ol’ Gertie,” one of the men replied. “Pick up any stray, she will, an’ feed ’em, like as not.” He pointed helpfully to a narrow doorway, the top half of which had once been glassed, but was now covered over with sacking.
In the room beyond Holmes and Lestrade found a very impatient Golkov, pretending to brave a severe headache and to be sufficiently newly recovered of his senses to be unaware of his surroundings.
“Well, young man, a fine dance you’ve led us!” Lestrade said cheerfully, immensely relieved to see him not seriously the worse for his adventure. “Mr. Holmes here thought as you’d run off with the money from the concert!” He could not resist saying it one more time. “In all the newspapers, it is! Never mind. We’ll put that right.”
Golkov stared at Holmes. Lestrade could not possibly have imagined the reason for the passion in his face.
“So it was!” Holmes said grimly. “Read by Mr. Hugo Carburton, who made several decisions regarding your future relations with his family because of it.” He managed a look of sufficient clarity that Golkov understood his meaning. However he recalled Lestrade’s presence just in time, and refrained from expressing his joy, or his gratitude.
Golkov turned to Lestrade. “I have the money! I got it from the villain before he ran off.” And he produced the bag of money which he himself had provided by selling everything he could to raise it. It may not have been precisely the same amount, but it would have been within a few guineas. It was to be hoped that the theatre manager would not count it, and the guardians of the orphanage would be far too grateful to think of such a thing.
Holmes, Lestrade and Golkov went back to Scotland Yard, where Golkov was finally relieved, both of the money, and the accusation of having stolen it. Holmes bore the good-natured teasing with as much fortitude as he could muster. Golkov was the hero of the hour.
Holmes returned to Baker Street and found me stiff and tired, nursing a brandy before the fire.
“Well?” I demanded.
“Very satisfactory,” he replied, then seeing my hunched shoulders and remembering my contribution, he softened somewhat. “Thank you.”
“It canno
t be entirely satisfactory,” I argued. “Golkov may have both his reputation and his violin back, but nothing can redeem Miss Carburton’s part in it all.”
Holmes looked smug. “I think it was understandable, in her situation, Watson.”
“Well I don’t!” I said hotly. “I find it contemptible.”
“She is in love with an earl’s son, and very well aware of the realities of society,” he replied.
“What?” I was dumbfounded. It made no sense at all.
Holmes smiled. “Miss Jeannie Carburton, Watson. The clean boots, remember? The second visit up the stairs, which required the boy to unlock the door for her? Planned and carried out with some skill, but I dare say she is less proud of herself now.”
“Oh! Oh yes, I see.” I confess I was too thankful for Golkov’s sake not to smile at it.
Later that evening Holmes and I visited Golkov in his rooms. He could hardly contain his gratitude, and I was doubly delighted to see Miss Helena Carburton there also. She proved to be a most charming and courageous young woman, willing to risk her father’s wrath and abandon all the comfort of his position in order to be with the man she loved.
“I can never thank you enough for what you have done for me!” Golkov said, his admiration for Holmes lighting his face till his eyes were like a child’s who has seen the magic of Christmas and understood it for the first time. “You have sacrificed your reputation for infallibility, in order to save my honour, and my violin! You are a truly noble man. . . .” He put his arm around Miss Carburton and she also gazed at Holmes with the utmost respect; indeed her regard for him seemed second only to her feeling for Golkov.
More Holmes for the Holidays Page 3
