The Secret Notebooks of Sherlock Holmes

by June Thomson

  To take my mind off his perilous journey, I counted off the seconds under my breath and reached the total of two hundred and sixteen before Holmes arrived at his goal and once more was able to step off the narrow cornice and stand upright on the broader ledge of the window to the Baron’s room.

  The window, thank God, was not fastened, a lucky chance which I fervently hoped could be taken as a good omen for the successful outcome of the whole enterprise. Within seconds, Holmes had slid the lower sash upwards and had disappeared over the sill into the room. Moments later, there came a slight tug on the rope indicating that he had untied it and, at the signal, Oscar and I drew the rope in hand over hand until the full length of it lay coiled up upon the floor.

  I regarded it with the same horror as I might a poisonous snake, for the terrible truth had at last to be faced. It was now my turn to secure it over my shoulder and lower myself backwards out of the window.

  I hung there for what seemed like an eternity, feeling with the toes of my rubber-soled boots for the cornice, which gave me some purchase on the stone, thank God. At the same time I was clutching desperately to the pediment above the window, as a drowning man might grasp at a life-belt. Knowing that if I looked down I would lose my nerve completely, I kept my gaze fixed upwards, straight into the face of Oscar, who was standing at the open window looking down at me, ready to pay out the rope as soon as I began to inch my way along the ledge.

  I think it was his expression which persuaded me to move. It was rigid with horror at my predicament, as if it were a mirror reflecting what I imagined was the expression on my own face, and I realised I had two choices: either to scramble back ignominiously into the room or to follow after Holmes.

  I chose the latter, more out of pride than courage. If Holmes could do it, then so could I. Indeed, I had to do it.

  At that moment of decision, my right foot found the edge of the cornice, although its narrowness struck me with terror. But I knew I was now committed and I took my first shuffling step sideways, my body pressed inwards towards the hotel’s façade.

  Bricks are familiar, commonplace objects. In London, or any town or city, one sees them everywhere and one assumes there is little more to find out about them other than their shape and colour. To see them less than an inch before one’s nose was like a revelation. I saw in close-up their gritty surfaces with their coarse, open pores, and their colour, predominantly a reddish brown which was streaked in irregular patches with lighter and darker shades ranging from a dusky pink to a purplish black. I saw, too, the paler bands of mortar which bound them together, not smooth as they appear from a distance but pitted and scabbed. I also smelt them, a mingled odour of soot and damp cinders.

  I was aware of nothing else about me, neither the rest of the hotel stretching up above me nor the lighted glass dome of the restaurant below.

  As my feet crept painfully sideways, my right hand, as if attached to my feet, made the same slow, oblique progress across the wall, like a crab, feeling for the edge of the pediment above the next window, that of the room where Igor, Baron Kleist’s bodyguard slept. My relief on reaching it and feeling my fingers grip the stonework is beyond description, except that I knew then the emotion a mountaineer must experience when he successfully gains the summit of some dangerous, rocky cliff.

  Seconds later, my shuffling feet had, so to speak, caught up with my hand and I was able to lift them slowly, one after the other, on to the broad safety of the window sill.

  Like Holmes, I rested there for several moments, aware for the first time of the pain in the stretched muscles in my arms and the backs of my legs. I also copied the action I had seen Holmes make, pressing my face close to the glass, and saw what he must have seen which had induced him to signal for silence.

  Although the curtains were drawn across the window, a pencil-thin gap between their edges allowed me a glimpse into the room beyond. I could see little except for a strip of flower-patterned wallpaper and part of a cream-coloured bedspread together with the wooden foot-rail of a bed, similar to the one in the adjacent room to which Oscar had attached the rope. I could see no one, but something about the manner in which the cover was disarranged suggested that someone, Igor presumably, was either lying on it or had been recently. The sight of it made me strongly aware that, although absent, the Baron’s malign influence was still potent, a thought which spurred me to move on, although I doubted if the occupant of the room could have heard anything above the sound of the orchestra below in the Winter Garden or the traffic passing by along Piccadilly.

  The relief I had felt on reaching the first window was a mere tremor compared to the rush of emotion on my gaining the safety of the last.

  Holmes had left the bottom sash open and was waiting inside the room to help me over the sill.

  He said nothing, for he rarely expressed his feelings, but his face conveyed more clearly than words his own relief at my safe arrival. There was also both admiration and pride in his features as he took my hand in both of his and wrung it warmly, mouthing the words ‘Well done, Watson!’ as he did so. It was at moments like those that I felt closer to Holmes than to any other living person, my own dear wife excepted.

  He had already scribbled down a note for my benefit which read: ‘Igor is in the next room. Keep cave for me.’

  He pointed to the far wall where a door connected the two rooms and I nodded in agreement to show I, too, was aware of Igor’s presence, before crossing silently to the door and kneeling down in front of it. Like a little window, the keyhole afforded me a wider view than the narrow gap between the curtains. I could see more of the bed and the legs of a man stretched out upon it. I could also smell the pungent odour of a Russian cigarette and hear the crisp rustle as the pages of a newspaper were turned over.

  While I was thus occupied, Holmes himself had been busy, for, by the time I glanced over my shoulder, the doors on the large wardrobe, the twin of the one in Oscar’s bedroom, already stood open, although Holmes may have picked the lock before my arrival, and he was in the act of lifting out of it a leather valise, like a Gladstone bag only smaller, from which he extracted a black-japanned metal box with a strong steel band going round it, in the centre of which were three small keyholes.

  With most of my attention centred on keeping watch on the Baron’s bodyguard lying on the bed in the adjoining room, I was able to take only occasional quick glances at Holmes. By this means, I saw him carry the metal box to a dressing table with a mirror standing upon it, like the wardrobe an exact double of the one in Oscar’s bedchamber, and, placing it carefully down on the surface, took from his pocket the three picklocks which Charlie Peak had given him.

  The room was full of a heavy, dense silence which seemed palpable, as if an invisible fog had crept into the room, filling every corner and crevice. The only audible sounds were the tiny metallic clicks as Holmes manipulated the picklocks and, faraway, the distant sound of the Winter Garden orchestra, which was now playing extracts from Gilbert & Sullivan.20

  It was evident that, despite the hours of practice Holmes had spent at our lodgings, opening the Medici casket was not easy. Each time I glanced hurriedly over my shoulder at his thin frame stooped over the task, his long fingers were busy delicately probing, his head strained forward in the effort to hear the faint sound of the wards yielding to his skilful manipulations. He was totally engrossed, deaf and blind to anything else going on about him.

  And then suddenly, he gave a long, soft exhalation of breath and with it, the tension in the room fell away as if a great pressure had been released. The locks had at last given way.

  The whole of my attention was now centred on Holmes. As I watched, he opened back the lid to look into the casket and then, reaching inside it, lifted out a little case covered in blue and gold leather, the exact replica of the one Holmes had in his pocket.

  As he did so, I was aware of a new and unexpected sound which came not from the room which we were occupying but from the adjoining chamber. It wa
s an insignificant noise and had I not been kneeling with my head close to the door, it might have passed unnoticed, for it was nothing more than the faint creak of a bed frame.

  Immediately, I clapped my eye to the keyhole only to find to my consternation that my view through the tiny aperture had changed dramatically.

  I could no longer see the outstretched legs of Baron Kleist’s henchman. Instead, I saw the lower part of his torso, his garments strained upwards, an odd perspective until I realised the man was standing upright and was stretching his arms above his head as if loosening his muscles. The next second, I lost even this limited view of him as he stepped forward towards the door.

  It is astonishing how quickly one’s mind can work in moments of danger. Although I had only a few seconds in which to act, I knew instinctively what I had to do.

  I gave a low whistle to attract Holmes’ attention and, as he turned his head, I got up from my knees and jerked my thumb urgently towards Igor’s room. At the same time, I stepped to the right where, once the door was opened, it would shield me from view for at least a few seconds as Igor crossed the threshold.

  The next instant, the door was flung back and a huge man with the build and muscles of a prize-fighter came into the room. His astonishment at the unexpected sight of a stranger standing by the dressing-table gave me a split second’s grace. So, too, did the additional few moments it took him to absorb and realise the significance of what he was seeing – the wardrobe doors gaping wide, the leather bag discarded on the floor and the Medici casket lying on the table, its lid opened back.

  It was only then that he prepared to attack.

  As he stepped into the room, I also made my first move. Flinging myself forwards from my hiding-place behind the door, I seized him round the legs from behind in a rugby tackle21 and, using my weight like a battering ram, slammed him face downwards on to the floor.

  He collapsed with a grunt, dazed but not unconscious. As he struggled up on to his knees, Holmes, who had meanwhile strode towards us, delivered the coup de grâce with a powerful right upper cut22 at which the man fell forwards again, this time unconscious.

  Rubbing his knuckles, Holmes gave me a rueful grin.

  ‘It was, of course, very unsporting to hit a man when he was down, but I am sure the Marquess of Queensberry23 would have forgiven me. Your fellow members of the Blackheath Rugby Club would certainly have applauded your tackle. It was superb, my dear fellow.’

  However, while appreciating Holmes’ compliment, I was aghast that my precipitate action might have not only ruined Holmes’ plans but also those of the King of Scandinavia.

  ‘What will you do now?’ I asked anxiously. ‘Once Igor regains consciousness, he will be sure to report to the Baron and the cat will really be out of the bag.’

  To my surprised relief, Holmes treated the matter with an off-hand air.

  ‘It is of little concern,’ said he, with a shrug. ‘I doubt very much if Igor will tell Kleist anything. To do so would certainly mean instant dismissal. But should the Baron be informed, his first concern will be to examine the Medici casket, which he will find securely locked and the Gustaffson stone safely inside it. It would not cross his mind that it is the fake he himself so cleverly passed off as the original. The King of Scandinavia, or rather to use his preferred title, Count von Lyngstrad, only recognised it himself because of the secret mark his so-called ‘uncle’ scratched on it without the Baron’s knowledge. But if, by some unlikely chance, he does suspect something, what can he do about it? Inform the police? Hardly. It would mean admitting to fraud. Or would he try to hunt us down and force us or the King of Scandinavia to return the real jewel? Also unlikely for the same reason. As for identifying us, that too is out of the question. Because of our disguises any description of us by Igor or a member of the hotel staff would be quite useless.

  ‘Consider also another aspect of the situation: Baron Kleist’s arrangement to sell the Gustafsson Stone to Cornelius Bradbury, the American collector, who is due to arrive in this country in a few days’ time. If Kleist admits the pendant is a fake then he will undoubtedly lose the sale.

  ‘No, my dear fellow. We have no cause to fear any of these contingencies. If the Baron finds out about the substitution, he will keep quiet about it. I know I would if I were in his shoes.’

  ‘But Bradbury will be buying a fake!’ I protested.

  ‘Oh, Watson!’ Holmes chided me, laughing heartily. ‘The pendant is part of the Scandinavian crown jewels! The man must know it was obtained illegally. All I can say to that is caveat emptor, a very sensible piece of advice to anyone buying an article of dubious origin. You realise, of course,’ he added, ‘that because of this little contretemps, there will be no need for us to leave by the window. We can go out via the door like civilised human beings, a benefit for which I am profoundly grateful.’

  ‘And so am I,’ I agreed wholeheartedly.

  ‘By the way,’ Holmes added a few moments later as he placed the fake Gustafsson Stone in its leather box inside the Medici casket, ‘have you noticed the emblem on the casket lid?’

  In the general excitement of dealing with Igor, I had not given particular attention to the box, but now that Holmes had drawn it to my notice, I saw that the decoration was in the form of a eagle, inlaid in brass, its wings outspread and holding a single leaf in one of its claws.

  The amused smile on Holmes’ lips alerted me to its significance.

  ‘But is it not the same design which Charlie Peak described as being on the lid of the casket that Signor Valori was working on in Florence?’

  ‘Exactly so, Watson! Which means we have here the very same casket bearing Kleist’s personal emblem, appropriated, I might add, from the Hapsburg insignia of the imperial eagle. The bay leaf, a symbol of victory, of course, is Kleist’s own personal touch. The vanity of the man is overweening! It gives me enormous satisfaction to have beaten him at his own game!’

  With an air of well-deserved self-congratulation, Holmes placed the casket, now containing the fake Gustafsson jewel, inside the leather grip which he locked. That done, he closed and secured the wardrobe doors with a flourish.

  Between us, we carried Igor’s recumbent form into his bedroom, where we laid it on his bed. After that, all that remained to be done was to tug on the rope to signal to Oscar to draw it in. Once it had slithered out of sight over the window sill, I closed the sash while Holmes made sure everything else in the room was as we had found it.

  As I lowered the window, I stood for a few seconds looking down on the lighted dome of the Winter Garden and, remembering my earlier image of crashing down on to the diners below, I allowed myself a small smile at the extravagance of my imagination.

  We left immediately afterwards, pausing for a few seconds to make sure the corridor outside was empty before Holmes locked the door behind us and we let ourselves into the adjoining suite of rooms where Oscar was waiting anxiously, fearing for our safety when the rope returned with neither of us at the end of it.

  Holmes gave him a brief account of our adventures and then we left for Baker Street by cab, stopping briefly on the way so that my old friend could send a telegram to our client, Count von Lyngstrad, alias the King of Scandinavia, announcing the success of our mission.

  It read simply but enigmatically to anyone ignorant of the facts: ‘YOUR FRIEND GUSTAF IS ON HIS WAY HOME STOP SUGGEST YOU MEET HIM TOMORROW AT 11AM STOP’.

  The following morning, precisely on the hour, our illustrious client, the King of Scandinavia, arrived at our lodgings and was shown upstairs to the sitting-room where, beaming delightedly, he offered both his hands to each of us in turn.

  ‘Congratulations!’ he exclaimed. ‘It seemed an impossible task but between the two of you gentlemen, you have triumphed against all the odds! May I see the Gustafsson Stone?’

  ‘Of course,’ Holmes replied, indicating the table where the pendant was already laid out for inspection on a starched white napkin.

  The king seiz
ed it eagerly, holding it up by the chain towards the light and letting it revolve slowly so that he could examine it from every angle, all the time murmuring, ‘Excellent! Excellent!’

  Then turning to Holmes, he added, ‘Tell me, for I am longing to know, how you managed to recover it.’

  After Holmes had given a brief account of our adventure, to which the king listened with great seriousness, exclaiming out loud at the description of the dangerous route we had taken to enter the Baron’s room, my old friend concluded, ‘I think we may assume that the matter is now concluded. If Baron Kleist learns of the substitution of the real jewel for the fake, he will keep silent for fear of losing the sale to the American millionaire.’

  The king nodded in agreement and, returning the jewel to its leather case, he placed it into an inside pocket of his coat before again shaking hands with us and turning towards the door.

  But the ceremony was not quite over. At the door, he turned back briefly to lay a large envelope on the white table napkin where the Gustafsson jewel had been displayed. Then, without a word, he bowed and left the room.

  The envelope, which was fastened with an elaborate seal in red wax of the Scandinavian royal emblem of a crowned eagle, contained, as Holmes discovered when he opened it, a great number of English bank notes amounting to a fortune and a brief note which read:

  ‘You will be committing lèse-majesté if you do not accept this fee as well as my eternal thanks, both of which have been honourably and courageously earned.’

  It was signed Erik von Lyngstrad, the name by which he had first introduced himself.

  ‘Well! Well!’ exclaimed Holmes.

  He seemed uncharacteristically taken aback by the lavishness of the gift. Seconds later, however, he had recovered his usual sang-froid and remarked, with a laugh, ‘A truly king-sized fee, wouldn’t you agree, my dear fellow, which could be the key to open our own Medici caskets.’