by Otto Penzler
At last we reached the Duck and Dragon, and I confess, my heart was in my mouth as I assisted her out, and paid the driver. I asked him to wait, but I had little confidence that he would do so.
It was a most gloomy and sinister place, even though it had stopped raining and the wind was not cold. Everything about us seemed to drip and creak as if the entire street were subsiding upon itself. The smell of rotting timber and stale beer filled the air and the occasional shout or cry seemed less than human.
I took her by the arm. “Come,” I said with a cheer I did not feel. “It is only a few steps, and we are in excellent time.” I held her firmly in case she should see her father and run to him. I would use her as bargain if I had to.
The seconds ticked by. I searched the shadows for a sign of Harris, or of Holmes. Suddenly I was desperately afraid Harris would think me a man of too much honour or kindness to use his daughter in this way. What if he were certain I would never harm her, and he did not come?
Then I steadied myself. Harming her had never been my intent. My weapon against him was to allow her to know exactly what manner of man he was. And I still had his ransom note, written in his hand. I would show it to her, and explain it all, if I must.
I led her farther toward the faint light of the one lamp above the door to the public house, so if Harris were somewhere in the shadows, he would see her.
It worked. A huge, dim figure detached itself and moved forward. I felt Naomi stiffen in terror, then relax as she recognised something in the outline of him.
Still I held her so hard she winced.
“Where is Holmes?” I asked grimly.
Harris stopped. He seemed to be taking the measure of me, perhaps judging how much I was capable of, and willing to do, or even if I had already damaged his daughter’s opinion of him beyond redeeming.
Then I knew what I should say.
“Have you managed to save Holmes?” I asked, my voice as clear and steady as I could make it.
He hesitated only a moment before he surrendered.
“Yes,” the single word grated with all the anger and frustration he dared not reveal.
“Show me,” I demanded.
He made a sharp gesture with one arm.
Holmes stepped forward. I was horrified by the appearance of him: His clothes were torn and stained with mud and there were bruises and dried blood on his face. He had certainly given his captor a fight, but he was doubtlessly taken by surprise, and far outweighed.
My heart soared at the sight of him. I felt like laughing with sheer relief. But we were not yet entirely free.
“Good!” I said breathlessly. “Then we may take our leave, and our mission is complete. As you had said, Mr. Harris, your daughter is a woman of both courage and honour, and you are rightly proud of her. It has been my pleasure to make her acquaintance.” I wished him to know I had told her nothing ill of him, he still had everything to gain by allowing us to leave in peace.
He understood me. I saw in that ill light the anger in his face, and a kind of relief as well, as if defeat were not all bitter.
Then Holmes walked toward me, and I let go of Naomi’s arm and she went to her father.
“Well done, Watson,” Holmes said softly as he reached me. “I have never wished more to go home.”
“It was nothing,” I said airily. “Just a little exercise in logical deduction, and an understanding of values. When one cares, one has a hostage to fortune, whoever one is.”
“Indeed,” he murmured. “But you did it well.”
The Adventure of the Missing Countess
JON KOONS
BEST KNOWN AS a performer, Jon Koons (1962– ) has also written in various genres, including nonfiction, arts criticism, and short stories. He is the author of the highly successful children’s books A Confused Hanukkah: An Original Story of Chelm (2004), illustrated by S. D. Schindler, and Arthur and Guen: An Original Tale of Young Camelot (2008), illustrated by Igor Oleynikov.
Koons is an exceptionally versatile entertainer, having first been on stage at the age of nine, subsequently becoming a singer and actor on Broadway and Off-Broadway, and in summer and regional theater productions, feature films, television programs, and commercials. He has become accomplished in magic, ventriloquism, stilt-walking, fire-eating, juggling, mime, and just about anything that can be performed on stage or screen or at private events. He has performed everywhere from New York to Hollywood to Kenya.
In addition to his career as an entertainer, he has worked as a producer, director, and stage manager for opera, theater, and film companies, and is a leading teacher of theatrical, circus, and performing arts. It is his background with circuses and circus performers that inspired his story about Holmes and the fascinating world that lies beneath the Big Top.
“The Adventure of the Missing Countess” was originally published in The Game Is Afoot, edited by Marvin Kaye (New York, St. Martin’s Press, 1994).
THE ADVENTURE OF THE MISSING COUNTESS
Jon Koons
IT WAS A glorious spring day in the year 1889. The air was still brisk, but surprisingly fresh for the city, and the walks and lanes down which I trod were lined with fragrant and colorful rosebay willow and London Pride.
I awoke this morning fully with the intent of escorting my lovely wife, Mary, at her request, to the travelling circus that had made nearby Tunbridge Wells its temporary home, but those plans were laid aside, much to my wife’s dismay, by an urgent communication from my friend and associate, Sherlock Holmes. As I walked the accustomed route to 221B Baker Street, I reflected on some of Holmes’s past adventures which started out in this exact same manner. Upon arriving at my destination, Holmes greeted me warmly.
“Ah, Watson, so good of you to come.”
“Come, Holmes,” I replied, “I have rarely declined an opportunity to accompany you on one of your cases.”
“Quite so, but since Mary Morstan made an honest man of you, your availability has been somewhat more limited.”
“One of the small disadvantages of married life, I’m afraid.”
“A small disadvantage to be sure. Married life agrees with you, old boy.”
“Not that I disagree, mind you, but what leads you to that conclusion, Holmes?”
“Elementary, my friend. You have, of late, been more ebullient than ever. Your apparel has been more carefully coordinated, the obvious influence of a woman’s keen eye for fashion, and is better tended to, save for the small stain there on your vest…kippers, I would say…which indicates that you are being well fed. The fact that your ample stature has become even more so by eight or ten pounds would tend to support this conclusion. You are more precisely groomed, your shoes are finely polished and you appear more rested and less tense, an obvious benefit of the sort of companionship that you formerly lacked. Your occasional discourse regarding your wife is always favorable, and the very fact that you have been less available to join me lately clearly indicates that you are enjoying your current situation and reaping the benefits.”
“Holmes, you never cease to amaze me.”
“Nor I myself, old boy.”
“So, what are we on to today?”
“Come, Watson. I’ll tell you all I know in the cab.”
In the carriage, Holmes explained what he knew of the case.
“Do you know the name Countess Virginia Thorgood Willoughby?”
“As a matter of fact I do. I read an account of the Countess Willoughby recently in the society pages of the Strand Magazine. If memory serves, she’s a widow who lives alone with her seventeen-year-old daughter. She lost her husband during a visit to America last year, although the particulars of the event elude me.”
“Very good, Watson. What else do you recall?”
“She returned with her daughter to London six months ago to leave the incident behind and raise her daughter with a sense of proper British morality, something which, according to the article, the Countess found lacking in America.”
&nb
sp; “Precisely. She did not wish her young, impressionable daughter, Alexandra, to succumb to the improper influences that she said the Americans seemed to thrive on. Apparently she was a bit too late, as her daughter was already enamored of American ways and was, by all accounts, unhappy with the sudden move back to England. She caused her mother a good deal of embarrassment by making her feelings known at every opportunity, not least of all in public.”
“But what does this have to do with us?”
“It seems, Watson old man, that upon arriving home from the opera late last night, Countess Willoughby found her home a shambles and her daughter missing. She has not been seen since approximately five hours before the discovery of the transgression, which is why our destination is their Kensington residence. The Countess immediately sent word to Scotland Yard, which investigated with its usual fervor but aside from finding a concise ransom note, is unable to fathom the meaning of any of the available clues. As has happened more than once, as well you know, Inspector Lestrade sent for my aid, which he will gladly employ and thereafter forget to acknowledge. But no matter, my dear Watson. I have been hungry for a new mystery to occupy my time. I was, of course, dismayed to be called so long after the crime had been discovered, but Lestrade assures me that the scene, and any evidence which might be present, will be left undisturbed until our arrival. So now you know as much as I about this case, save that we are presently going to meet the Countess in the company of her legal advisor and recent social companion, Kent Osgood, whose role in these proceedings has yet to be determined.”
“Surely, Holmes, this is a simple case of kidnapping, not worthy of your extraordinary talents.”
“Perhaps, Watson,” Holmes replied. “Perhaps.”
Holmes then fell silent and gazed out the window, his fingers pressed together in a steepled attitude, as was his custom during moments of deep thought. As I looked upon my friend, bedecked in his customary deerstalker cap, cape-backed overcoat and pipe, all of which had become, I daresay largely due to my accounts of his adventures, his trademarks, I pondered my own good fortune not only to be in the presence of greatness, but to be his personal friend and longtime companion as well.
We arrived at the address in Kensington shortly afterwards and were ushered into the house with all due haste by a maid who appeared utterly distraught. She took us directly to the sitting room where Inspector Lestrade, the Countess, and Mr. Osgood were waiting. At once we could see the disarray caused by the perpetrators. Furniture had been knocked askew or overturned. Drawers were opened and rummaged through, and all manner of things were strewn about the room.
—
“Mr. Holmes,” cried the Countess, “I am at my wits’ end. You are the only man in all of London who can save my little girl. Please say that you will help me.”
“I shall do what I can, madame. Please try to calm yourself so that you may answer some questions for me.”
“I will do my best,” said the Countess as she grasped the hand of her companion. After some brief introductions, Holmes began his questioning.
“Countess Willoughby, I am told you discovered your daughter missing when you returned from the opera last night…”
“Yes, Mr. Holmes, that is so. I blame myself. Had I not been out of the house last night for so frivolous a reason perhaps my little girl would still be here with me now…” She began to weep, and Mr. Osgood embraced her.
“Now we’ve been all through that, Virginia. You are not to blame,” said Osgood in a comforting tone.
“Mr. Osgood is quite right. You cannot be held accountable for actions about which you had no prior knowledge. If I may continue? Is it your custom to frequent the opera, or was last evening a special event?”
“If I may, Mr. Holmes,” Osgood interjected. “Since Virginia and I have been keeping company these last several months we have made it a weekly ritual to visit the opera, or perhaps a concert. We generally do so on a Friday evening, but this past Friday Virginia was feeling a bit under the weather, so we postponed our weekly entertainment until last night, Tuesday.”
“Was anyone else aware of this change of plans?”
“Not to my knowledge. It was the maid’s day off. We had invited Alexandra, as we usually do, but she unfortunately declined, as she usually does.”
“And at exactly what time did you leave the premises?”
“The opera we saw was The Magic Flute, at Royal Albert Hall. It was to begin at eight o’clock. As you are no doubt aware, Albert Hall is not far, so we left here at a quarter past seven, I would say.”
“And you returned…?”
“They returned,” piped Lestrade, obviously feeling left out, “at exactly seventeen past midnight, according to my report.”
“Thank you, Inspector. Your assistance, as always, has been invaluable. Now if you will permit me to inspect the premises, I shall see what clues I can unearth. If you please, Watson.”
As we began to scrutinize the room, Inspector Lestrade commented on the lack of available clues, save a knife thrust through a photograph of Alexandra hanging over the mantel. Holmes nodded. I followed my friend to and fro, carefully noting every item that he examined.
I spotted something unusual on the floor near the entrance.
“What do you make of this, Holmes?” I called out. He joined me at the door, stooped down on his knees and pulled his glass from his pocket.
“Good show, Watson. Sawdust!”
“Sawdust? Then perhaps we are looking for someone in the construction trade. Or perhaps woodworking.”
“Perhaps, Watson. Come look at this photograph. Young Miss Willoughby is quite an attractive lass, is she not?” She was indeed, I agreed. The hand-tinted photograph showed her long golden hair and lovely, delicate features.
Holmes pulled the knife from the photograph and handed it to me. “What can you tell me about this knife?”
“Well…” I studied the knife carefully but could not see what he was getting at. “The handle is worn more on the left side than the right, so…our suspect is left-handed?”
“Excellent. Please continue.”
“The blade is very dull, which means that it is used by someone who is either neglectful of its poor condition or else who does not require a sharp edge.”
“Bravo, Watson. Very astute. There is more, but time is fleeting. Inspector,” Holmes said, turning to Lestrade, “I would like to see the ransom note, then I want to inspect the girl’s bed chamber.”
“Here’s the note. No point looking into the bedroom.”
“Quite,” was all Holmes said. He glanced briefly at the note and then handed it to me. “Please read this aloud, Watson.”
“If you ever want to see Alexandra alive again, deliver a sum of one thousand British pounds to the Charing Cross train station on April 29th at noon. Put it in a small bag and leave it at the signal flag at track 9. Go to ticket window five afterwards and Alexandra will be waiting. Come alone. If we see police, I will kill her.” As I finished reading, the Countess once again burst into tears.
Holmes asked the maid to direct him to the girl’s bedroom, and went off directly, only to return a few moments later.
“I told you it was pointless, Holmes.” Inspector Lestrade looked at me with a smug look.
“I have seen all I need to,” Holmes replied simply. “I shall contact Watson three days hence and he shall relay my instructions. In the meantime, feel free to tidy up the damage and go about your business. Countess, your daughter is safe, so you needn’t fear. Three days, then!” And with that he nodded to the group and was out the door. Both Lestrade and the Countess were obviously bewildered, and looked to me for clarification, which I could not provide.
I quickly followed. “No time to explain, Watson,” Holmes stated, as he hailed a cab. “Be at Baker Street in three days.” As he climbed into the cab, he turned and said, “And bring your lovely wife Mary with you.”
“Holmes…?”
“Time is short, Watson. I’ve cl
ues and motives to juggle.” The cab started off.
Puzzled by Holmes’s behavior, I took advantage of my proximity to Kensington Gardens, and strolled through the park pondering the events of the day. Could Holmes have pieced together the clues and unravelled the mystery so quickly? I had, of course, witnessed his uncanny abilities on numerous occasions before, but it seemed he reached some conclusion in an impossibly brief amount of time. Why did he leave so abruptly? What purpose would his three day absence serve? And to what end was my wife’s presence requested? Think as I might, I could not decipher his reasoning. Winded from my exertions, I sat upon the steps of the Albert Memorial and watched two badgers frolic through some oxeye daisies, Mary’s favorite flower. I knew only one thing for certain. Holmes had been right. I was putting on weight.
—
Three days later my wife and I arrived at Baker Street. It had been some little time since Mary had been there, but she remembered it well and felt quite comfortable, although no less curious than I about the circumstances. Shortly after our arrival, Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, handed me a wire from Holmes. It instructed me, and Mary, to meet him, at, of all places, R. J. Toby Colossal Travelling Circus in Tunbridge Wells. He entreated us to enjoy the three o’clock show, and then wait afterwards at the Torture King tent on the midway where he would meet us. Mary was delighted to be included in Holmes’s adventure, but even more now that it appeared she would get to see the circus after all. We departed immediately for Tunbridge Wells.
—
The festival was a splendid sight to behold. A great tent, striped in bright red and blue, was the centerpiece to a dizzying display of color and movement. Wonderful carriages, arranged in a half circle, resplendent in their brilliant reds and whites, were trimmed out with yellows and greens and gaudy rococo gold leaf. Some of the carriages bore cages which held magnificent beasts of all types, while others displayed performers’ names and promises of wonders to come. While looking closely at a caged lion I discovered, curiously enough, that my inclination to sneeze while in the presence of common house cats was also very much a reality in the presence of these larger rather less amiable cats, a fact which did not please me but apparently amused my wife no end. A carousel hosting painted horses and carriages turned round and round for the amusement of the children, and the sound of calliope music filled the air. Aromas of all types, some pleasant and some not so, assaulted the nose. The midway was quite a sight, sporting tall impressively illustrated banners describing the likes of such oddities as the Incredible Bearded Woman, the Tantalizing Egyptian Snake Charmer, the Amazing Dog-Faced Boy, and the Death-Defying Torture King. I noted the location of the latter’s tent for future reference.
