by Hugh Ashton
“Well, Evadne,” said her brother, settling himself into a chair opposite the desk. “There is more to this than the police know and you want to tell them, is there not? Does Mycroft know what has happened here?”
“No, he does not, and I do not wish him to be informed by you, Sherlock, or by anyone else. He suffers from a weak heart, as you know, and the shock would be bad for him. The country can hardly afford to lose him at this hour.” I pondered briefly on the workings of this strange family, who seemed to hold the fate of the nation in their hands, before my attention returned to their conversation. “It concerns the Russian treaty.”
“Ah,” said Holmes. “The Odessa business?” This was completely outside my sphere of knowledge, and I had no conception of what was being discussed.
Miss Holmes nodded. “The very same. I do not know if Mycroft informed you of the details?”
“The vaguest outlines only.”
“I will not bore you with the minutiae, but suffice it to say that if the French government were to learn of what had been agreed...” She shrugged her shoulders and spread her hands in what I took to be a comic parody of a typical Gallic gesture. “The final draft was here in this room.”
“Was?” interjected her brother. “And it vanished at the same time as your paperknife?”
She sighed. “Why do I bother telling my brothers anything? They are always telling me that they know it all before I open my mouth,” she complained to me, humorously. “No, you cannot be right all the time, Sherlock,” returning to seriousness. “It vanished last night. The paperknife vanished two days ago.”
“The day after our mysterious Russian was first seen peering in at the window, in fact?”
“I suppose so. Yes, that is correct.”
“And soon after you had had occasion to converse with Monsieur Leboeuf in this room? Monsieur Leboeuf is a tall man, I take it? About as tall as me? And clean-shaven, of course.”
“Of course he is, Sherlock. Why do you bother confirming the obvious after your exertions in the flowerbeds outside? But it was not after I had talked with him that the knife vanished, it was after I had been holding a discussion in this room with the drawing master, Monsieur Delasse.”
Sherlock Holmes’ eyes positively sparkled. “Better and better!” he exclaimed. “We have it all now, I think. Watson, you and I will have a word or two with Monsieur Delasse. How long has he been with you, Evadne?”
“Since the start of this term only,” she replied.
“And how long was Monsieur Leboeuf in your employ? I use the past tense, because I fear you will never see him again. He is now,” looking at his watch, “probably stepping off the ferry from Newhaven in Dieppe.”
“Two terms. I now see what you mean, Sherlock. Since the Odessa business. What a fool I have been.”
“Hardly, Evadne. I am sure they came with excellent references and were both skilled teachers. You cannot allow yourself to take any blame.”
She smiled. “Indeed they were excellent instructors. I will say that much for them. It will be difficult to replace them with others of equal competence.” There was a somewhat ironic smile on her face, which reminded me of her brother’s occasional moods. Her ability to see such a side to even the worst of prospects made me warm to her.
“Never fear. I am sure something can be arranged for you and your pupils. Where will we find Monsieur Delasse?” She told us. “Come, Watson.”
The drawing master’s room was what might be expected of a Frenchman of an artistic persuasion. Pictures of a certain indelicacy hung on the walls, and certain smells that were not of English provenance filled the air. The man himself was a very caricature of a certain type of Frenchman, with waxed upturned moustaches, and a nervous excitable manner.
“But what is it you want?” he positively squeaked at us.
“I merely heard of your collection of interesting drawings,” remarked Holmes, “and I wondered if you would grant us the pleasure of admiring them.”
“I heard you were of the police,” said Delasse.
“With them, but not of them,” replied Holmes. “The distinction will become clear if you are to cooperate with us by showing us your most interesting drawings.”
The other shrugged, and I saw the source of Miss Holmes’ comical imitation. “If that is what you wish, messieurs.”
He fetched a portfolio of papers, and spread them out on the table. “This one here, by Renoir. Observe the fineness and delicacy of the lines.”
No matter how fine or delicate the lines might have been, the subject matter was less than delicate, and showed our Gallic cousins’ lack of restraint in matters of the heart. Holmes appeared to be unconcerned with the subject of the drawings, however, and waved his hands over the paper.
“No, no. I mean your latest acquisitions. The ones you came by last night.”
“What are you talking about?” His eyes showed his fear, darting from one of us to the other.
Holmes sighed. “I was hoping that you would display the aptitude for logic for which Frenchmen are famous. But since that is not to be...” He turned as if to leave the room, and put a small whistle to his lips, but did not blow it.
“Wait! I can help you, I think.” He hurriedly reached for another portfolio, and extracted a sheaf of handwritten foolscap sheets.
“Thank you,” said Holmes, receiving the proffered papers, and tucking them in an inside pocket after glancing through them. “And now, if you tell us the truth, there is a very good chance that you may follow your colleague home on the next boat from Newhaven.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then there is every certainty that I will call the police and have you arrested.”
“I never killed him!” wailed the Frenchman. “That was of Jacques’ doing, I swear before God.”
“Throttled, I take it? But then you and he dragged the body together to Miss Holmes’ window and it was you who rifled her study while Monsieur Leboeuf put on his false beard and looked through the girl’s window to frighten her. I must give you credit for allowing Leboeuf to ‘discover’ the body. Who would ever suspect the man who discovered the body to be the very man who committed the murder? Whose idea was it to use the Russian as a decoy?”
“Jacques’. Originally, our plan was simply to steal the papers, taking some plate and other valuables to make it appear as a burglary. You understand, hein? But this anarchist appearing was a gift from God. The girl, Anastasia, gave no description of the man except that of a great bushy beard, which she sketched at my request. It was easy to procure a facsimile. Jacques, being taller, was the one to wear it and look in at the window to distract attention from my work at the other side of the building. I had already marked the place where the papers were kept. We waited, he and I, for the Russian to appear—”
“How did you know he would appear that night?” interjected Holmes.
“We did not. We were prepared to wait every night for a week or longer if needed. In the event, we had only to wait a few nights. He entered through the back entrance of the grounds. We sprang on him, and I held him, while Jacques did his work. He struggled a little, and then – pouf!”
“And the dagger?”
“I had taken it from the study after my interview with Miss Holmes. I had a feeling that it would be useful in the future.”
“The artistic feeling,” Holmes sneered. “Why did you not take these,” he tapped his pocket, “at the same time?”
The other gave another of his comic shrugs. “Alors, how could I do that? They were in front of her face, in plain view. The knife, that was different. That I could take without notice.”
“And why,” I asked, “are the papers still here? Why are they not with Leboeuf in Dieppe?”
Holmes shot me a glance, I am proud to say, that seemed to bespeak admiration.
“Because, monsieur, there was every chance that he would be stopped by the police. You have missed him by a matter of hours only. Who would think of looking fo
r these papers here, when the bird has flown from the nest?”
“Indeed,” chuckled Holmes. “One last question. How did you discover that the papers were here and the true nature of my sister’s work?”
“Your sister? You are Sherlock Holmes?” Holmes nodded, and the other grinned, unexpectedly. “No wonder we were discovered. The famous Sherlock Holmes. We had no chance, did we? But to answer your question, which is a good one, I can swear to you before God, on my mother’s grave, in any form you please, that neither Jacques nor I have any knowledge of this. The orders came from the Quai d’Orsay to come here and do this work. Other than that, I cannot help you. Believe me.”
“I believe you,” said Holmes simply. “You are free to go. I would advise going now, and not bother packing any of your belongings.”
The little man looked stunned. “You mean it?”
“I gave you my word. Now go.”
We turned and went down the stairs, returning to Miss Holmes’ room.
As we descended, I could not refrain from asking Holmes why he had allowed a man who was not only an accomplice to murder, but also an enemy of our country, to go free.
“The dead man is no great loss to the world,” replied Holmes. “Even Lestrade has the good sense to recognise this fact. As to the other, it is better for all concerned if the matter is kept hidden, and is not exposed to public view, which, in the event of a criminal trial, would undoubtedly be the case. It may be that I am not strictly within the bounds of the law here, but I am certain that I am in the right. I am confident that I can persuade Lestrade, through hints, of the justice of my actions, and my conscience is clear on the matter.”
We knocked on the study door, and were bidden to enter.
“We discovered this in Monsieur Delasse’s room,” said Holmes, handing over to his sister a sheaf of drawings, which I had observed him pick up as we left the drawing master.
Miss Holmes glanced through them, and her cheeks flushed. “Sherlock, you cannot shock me so easily. I may not be a married woman, but I know the ways of the world. This is a bad joke on your part.” She raised her hand as if to strike him, but Holmes stepped back.
“Forgive my antic sense of humour, Evadne. Maybe the next page will be more to your liking.” She turned the page and came across the foolscap writing. Her eyes lit up, and her hand, which had been raised to slap my friend across the face, was joined by its partner in an embrace around his neck.
“You dear darling Sherlock!” she exclaimed. “You have saved me!”
“And Mycroft, and my own reputation, come to that,” said Holmes, who was as close to total embarrassment as I have ever beheld him. I turned away to spare his feelings.
“Of course.”
“Now I must go and put Lestrade’s mind at rest,” said Holmes, “before he starts to go off on one of his flights of fancy and arrests the gardener. A good fellow in his tenacity – like a bulldog, in fact – but sadly lacking in imagination, except when it comes to deciding who is guilty of a crime. I think I can persuade him that Leboeuf is the guilty party – which he is, by the way – and that it would be a waste of Lestrade’s time to pursue the matter any further. The fact that Leboeuf has flown the coop should be enough to persuade him of that.”
“But you and Dr Watson will stay to dinner, I hope, before you return to London?”
“I gratefully accept, on behalf of Sherlock and myself,” I replied, wishing to learn more of this intriguing lady, who was at the same time so similar to, but yet so different from my friend. Holmes looked at me reproachfully and shook his head, but said nothing.
-oOo-
“It was obvious to me from the first sight of the body, Watson,” said Holmes, as we sat in our rooms in Baker Street. “Surely you, as a medical man, must have noticed the blatant incongruity. A live man stabbed through the heart would surely lose more blood than the trickle we discovered beside the body and staining his clothes.”
“I remarked the fact at the time,” I replied, “but could not attach any great significance to it.”
“But,” continued Holmes, “you must know that a cadaver stabbed in the same way loses much less blood – about the same amount, in fact, as we discovered.”
“You mean he was dead when the knife was plunged into his heart?”
“Pah! That simple fact was obvious from so many clues. Did you not observe his boots? They were completely free of any mud and, as you undoubtedly noticed, the ground was soft and heavy. Not only that, but there were obvious signs that the body had been dragged to its resting place from somewhere else. Those ignoramuses of the local police had obscured almost all other footprints, but that much, at the least, was clear.”
“But why did they leave the body outside your sister’s study? Surely that would draw attention to the fact that the papers had been stolen?”
“Hardly that, Watson. Consider. There was an intruder. His body is discovered. The missing papers, should my sister ever have announced the fact of their having being stolen, were not on his body. This was a blind, Watson, a blind to lead Lestrade and the rest of them in the wrong direction. Who would ever suspect there was a thief on the premises, if the suspected thief’s body was there, paperless?”
“And why not leave the body outside the girl’s room?”
“Come, Watson, surely you can answer that one for yourself? Did you not notice the height of the window? How I had to stretch myself on the tips of my toes to peer through it? And I am not a small man.”
“And the dead man was indeed a small man!” I exclaimed, with a flash of insight.
“Bravo, Watson! Even the Sussex police would have come to that conclusion eventually. Furthermore, I noticed the footprints in the flowerbed that were almost identical in shape to the ones I left after I had strained to peer through the window. From which, I naturally deduced that the man outside the window was about my height. You saw me retrieve a tuft of fibre from the false beard, which had evidently caught on the plant creeping up the wall. Added to which, the soil took an excellent impression, and the marks of the boots showed clear indications of their being of French manufacture. The missing Monsieur Leboeuf was obviously the man who had frightened our little Russian Archduchess so badly on the second occasion. However, there were also marks, though not so distinct, of some sort of box or platform having been placed there in the past few days. We can assume that the Russian had used some sort of seed-box or packing crate as a support the other day when he was spotted through the window.”
“And the other?”
“There were faint traces, though the police had done their best to erase them, of another pair of boots near the body. These were of French manufacture. I guessed it quite likely that there would be a drawing master, or music instructor of some kind on the staff, and so it transpired. When my sister had explained the existence of the draft of the treaty, the rest was obvious, once you understand the workings of the French mind. It would have been easy for the French authorities to insert the agents into the school, and for them to discover my sister’s habits with regard to her government work. We may assume that Leboeuf and Delasse are among the foremost practitioners of their kind. Their methods were almost cruder versions of those that I would employ myself, should I ever find myself engaged in such an enterprise.”
“It seems so simple when you explain it.”
“Quite so,” he replied shortly. “Now, I suppose, I may return to that Bach partita. Maybe you, Watson, would be good enough to draft on my behalf a reply to the Duke of Shropshire advising him to order his son to keep a safe distance from Colonel Moran.”
-oOo-
Sherlock Holmes
in
The Case of the Missing Matchbox
Editor’s note
In the account of the case entitled Thor Bridge, Dr Watson alludes to “A third case worthy of note … that of Isadora Persano, the well-known journalist and duellist, who was found stark staring mad with a match box in front of him which contained a
remarkable worm said to be unknown to science,” categorizing this as a “failure, since no final explanation is forthcoming”. It is feared that the good doctor’s memory was at fault here, since this case, which for some reason remained unpublished by him, possibly in an attempt to protect the name of one of the principals in the case (although Watson used a pseudonym here) was indeed solved by Holmes, at least to the detective’s satisfaction. It is here presented to the public for the first time, the line of the unfortunate “Professor Schinkenbein” having died out, meaning that no scandal can now be associated with the late maestro.
-oOo-
“It is one of the pities of our age,” my friend Sherlock Holmes remarked to me one day, “that duelling is no longer in fashion.”
“On the contrary,” I retorted, “I count it as one of the blessings of our civilised world that a man need no longer fear being shot dead or run through with a sword on account of a few careless words he may have uttered. Why do you say otherwise?”
“I was merely considering the affair of Isadora Persano, as reported in today’s Morning Post.”
“You speak of the opera critic?”
“The same. It seems that last night while he was dining at his favourite restaurant in Piccadilly, he came into conflict with the composer of operas and other works that have been the subject of recent adverse criticism by Persano for some time now. The composer approached him, and slapped his face with a glove. Persano’s Latin blood rose to the insult, and the result was a challenge along the classic lines of a meeting at dawn on Hampstead Heath. Naturally, the other diners in the restaurant overheard the heated exchange, and the police were called, with the result that both men are now in custody.”
“And why do you consider it so regrettable that the composer was not permitted to obtain the satisfaction that he imagined he deserved?”
“Because I attended one of the performances criticised by Persano, and though I generally find myself in agreement with his judgements, in this case I consider his opinion to be sadly mistaken. The work in question was, to my mind, one of the finest musical productions to be encountered in many a year. The worlds of both journalism and music would have been well served, Watson, if Persano had been exposed to the displeasure of Herr Professor Schinkenbein. I very much doubt if the result would have been fatal on either side, despite Persano’s reputation in these matters, but a salutary lesson might have been imparted.”
