by John Hall
Sherlock Holmes and the Adler Papers
John Hall
© John Hall, 2001
John Hall has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 2001 by Baker Street Studios Ltd.
This edition published in 2015 by Endeavour Press.
Table of Contents
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
A Word to the Reader
When Dr Watson wrote of the ‘King of Bohemia’, he caused more problems than he realized. Attempts by Sherlockians to identify a real counterpart to the king have, without exception, failed miserably. Largely this is because by the time Watson wrote his tale the old independent kingdom of Bohemia had become an integral part of Austria-Hungary, and all the possible candidates for the kingship have their movements well documented. If Watson used ‘Bohemia’ in order to hide the real geographical location, and that seems the only possibility that makes sense, then it was surely because he had not the wit to invent ‘Ruritania’. (Although his friend and medical colleague, Dr Conan Doyle, named a fictional ocean liner after that country.)
For all the integration, the Bohemians were not entirely happy with their Austrian partners, and resisted attempts to ‘Germanize’ the language, place names, etc, insisting on retaining Czech. (The Hungarians were similarly unhappy with the new order, and not at all upset when Austria-Hungary split into its component parts.)
For the purposes of this book, then, ‘Bohemia’ still has its independence, it remains a middle European kingdom which never joined forces with Austria-Hungary; the royal house of von Ormstein sits on the Bohemian throne; and the boundaries and street plans of neighbouring countries and towns have been liberally re-drawn where necessary...
ONE
I have already told of how I lost touch with Mr Sherlock Holmes for a short time following my marriage to the former Miss Mary Morstan in the latter part of the year 1887. And I have recounted the dramatic way in which we renewed our acquaintance in March, 1888. It was then that Holmes was retained by the King of Bohemia to recover a compromising photograph from the adventuress Irene Adler. In a strictly limited sense, Holmes may be said to have failed in his mission because the photograph was never recovered, but the king was satisfied that the former Miss Adler, who had by that time married one Godfrey Norton, would never make the photograph public; and the king esteemed – and rewarded – Holmes highly as a consequence.
The acquaintance, once resumed, did not quickly lapse a second time. I accompanied, and I venture to think that I assisted, Holmes as he worked on various problems over the next few months. Towards the end of 1888 my own practice was rather busy – there were, I recall, a good many cases of influenza and similar complaints that winter – and I was perforce obliged to neglect Holmes to some degree for a time. However, by late February in 1889 my own list was less pressing than it had been for some time, and one bright but chilly day, as my travels happened to take me via Baker Street, I took the liberty of calling upon Holmes.
I was admitted by Mrs Hudson, and immediately noticed a somewhat worried look on her face. ‘It’s Mr Holmes, Doctor,’ she confided almost before I had stepped inside the door.
‘Not ill, is he?’
‘Not to say ill, no, Doctor. But he hasn’t eaten this past two days.’
‘Ahah!’ I knew the symptoms well. Holmes evidently had some knotty problem in hand, and this was his way of resolving it, starving his body to clarify his brain. Medically preposterous, of course, but it would take a braver man than I am to persuade Holmes of that! I told Mrs Hudson, ‘Pray do not concern yourself too much. I shall have a word with him,’ and I saw myself up to the old familiar door.
I was sufficiently sure of my welcome to enter without knocking. As I had expected, Holmes was curled up in a chair by the window, smoking an ancient and foul pipe, and staring at a sheet of paper or something of the sort which lay on his knee. The window, I might add, was closed, so that the atmosphere was somewhat stuffy. ‘Holmes?’
When he did not answer, I strolled over to another window and opened it, to let some air in. Then I went over to Holmes, intrigued to know what it was that so held his attention. I was slightly taken aback to see that it was nothing other than the cabinet-sized photograph of Irene Norton, née Adler, which Holmes had acquired at the end of the strange case of the King of Bohemia. ‘Fine looking woman, Holmes,’ I ventured.
Again, he did not answer me. ‘Bright day, Holmes. Good day for a stroll. You must need a little fresh air by now. Prevent total collapse of your lungs, you know.’
He said nothing, but merely continued to stare at the photograph. I am, I make so bold as to say, the most mild mannered of men; and yet I admit that I was a touch nettled to be thus ignored. And for what? For a photograph of a woman who, when all was said and done, had been no better than she ought to be, and who was now married to a lawyer to boot! I have often remarked upon Holmes’s powerful intellect, his rising superior to the ordinary feelings and fancies of humanity, his machine-like powers of reasoning; and yet here he was staring at a woman’s picture like any moon-struck youth who feels Cupid’s darts for the firsttime!
Very well, thought I, sitting down opposite him. ‘Interesting case the other day, Holmes. Fellow was in the park – bright day, same as this – after luncheon at his club. Good lunch, too, with a bottle of something or the other. Beaune, I dare say. Anyway, he felt a touch sleepy, and sat down on a bench. He dozed off, started to dream he was in France, during the Terror. Caused by the Beaune, I expect. Imagined he was an aristocrat, trussed up like a Christmas goose, and handed up on to the guillotine. Well, the blade was wound up, and he heard a click as it was released, and a “whoosh” as it came down. Now, it chanced that his good lady happened to be strolling in the park that afternoon as well, and as she walked past his bench, she noticed him asleep there. Feeling that it wasn’t the proper thing, she tried to wake him by tapping the back of his neck. Fellow thought it was the blade of the guillotine, and the shock killed him! Died of a heart attack without ever waking up. Curious, don’t you think?’
I stood up, went over to the coal scuttle, and selected one of Holmes’s cigars, the most expensive brand that I could find among the assortment in there, a fine firm cigar with a dark wrapper and a grand aroma, a cigar in the new shape with a taper at only one end that was just then replacing the old figurado. I cut the end leisurely, lit the cigar carefully, and watched the smoke curl upwards to the heavens.
Slowly, slowly, infinitely slowly as it seemed, Holmes turned his head towards me. ‘If this fellow died without ever waking up, then how the devil –’
‘Does anyone know what he was dreaming? That’s the point of the story, Holmes. Rather good, don’t you think? Heard it in the club last week.’
He laughed in his own silent fashion. ‘Well, at least it got my attention, Watson.’ He stood up and shook my hand, running an eye over me. ‘You have been rather busy of late, I see. The influenza, I suppose? And you have not been entirely immune from the illness yourself, that is obvious. But now, happily, you are fit and well, and have even ventured so far as to make a short visit to Brighton within the last two weeks, staying, as I judge, not longer than the one night.’
Years of Holmes have made me immune; I did not rise to the bait. ‘Right in every respect, Holmes. I won’t ask how you knew.’
‘Oh,’ said he, a touch disappointed. ‘Well, of course it i
s always a pleasure to see you, Doctor. I believe you made some remarks to me earlier, which I failed to catch?’
I nodded at the photograph, which he had put down on the table. ‘I presumed to remark that the former Miss Adler was a good-looking woman, Holmes.’
‘Was she?’
It was my turn to laugh. ‘You certainly seemed to think so, for you were gazing at her likeness intently enough!’
‘And you thought that it was admiration?’
‘Perfectly natural, Holmes. Good-looking woman, middle-aged bachelor. And you yourself have expressed some sentiments of regard towards the lady, I think?’
He considered. ‘From a purely professional point of view, Watson, I assure you.’
‘Oh? And what did Miss Adler do that was so clever, then? She revealed the hiding place which you sought almost at once, as the result of a very simple deception. And then, when she knew you had been engaged on the case, she ran away to the Continent! Hardly a brilliant strategy, Holmes.’
It was Holmes’s turn to be nettled. ‘To the casual observer, perhaps not. But it stung, Watson, to be thus outwitted, and by a member of what I had previously regarded as the weaker sex. I have not often been bested; three or four men have done the trick, but only one woman. I have to admire Mrs Norton, as she now is.’
‘H’mm. But you were so very intent when I came in just now, Holmes. And Mrs Hudson says you have been abstracted for a day or so? Surely there is more to this than a professional regard for an old adversary?’
‘Your powers of deduction are happily unimpaired by a year of marriage, Doctor.’ Holmes strolled to the mantel shelf and rummaged among the litter that covered its surface. He found a letter, and threw it across to me. ‘That arrived two days past. Read it, if you would.’
I read: ‘My dear Mr Holmes – You will, I am sure, recall the curious way in which I made your acquaintance almost a year ago. I have been out of England, as you know, since then, but now circumstances oblige me both to return to London, and to ask if I might consult you upon a professional matter. It will, I assure you, in no way compromise any loyalty you may feel towards His Majesty the King of Bohemia, and it will, I venture to think, intrigue your sense of the curious. We were adversaries once, but when you have heard my story I think you will agree that we must work together now. With your permission, I shall call upon you today, at three o’clock. Yours sincerely, Irene Norton, née Adler.’ I put the note down. ‘Curious, indeed.’ I glanced at the superscription. ‘The Northumberland Hotel eh? And dated two days past, I see. Well, Holmes? I suppose you have heard the lady’s story, and been ruminating upon it ever since? Don’t just sit there, man! What did Miss Adler – or Mrs Norton, as I should say – want to see you about?’
He shook his head, and was silent for a moment. ‘There you have me, Watson,’ he said at last. ‘The matter stands thus: as you observed, that note arrived two days ago, at eleven in the morning. I was as intrigued as you are, and wondered what it might be that had caused Mrs Norton to consult her old adversary in a professional capacity, as she put it. I was therefore waiting eagerly when three o’clock came, and went. At four, I grew restless, and at half past I sent a messenger to the Northumberland Hotel. He was back almost at once, and told me that Mrs Norton had left at half past two, and not returned! I went to the hotel myself, and got the same tale. Yesterday I sent again, twice, to find that Mrs Norton had not been back at all. And similarly, she had not returned this morning.’
‘Missing two days from the time, then, that she set off to see you? Suspicious, that, Holmes.’
He nodded. ‘There are two likely explanations.’ He cocked his head on one side, and looked at me.
‘One, that she got cold feet, thought better of consulting you, and ran for it. And, two –’ and I broke off.
Holmes nodded again, but said nothing.
‘Was her bill paid?’
‘It was not.’
‘Suggesting that the first possibility is not a probability?’ I said. ‘For if she had merely decided against consulting you, there was still no reason why she should not settle her account and leave all in order before catching the boat, or whatever she had in mind.’
‘I concur. Which is rather disturbing.’
‘It is indeed. It rather suggests that the second possibility, that Mrs Norton was prevented from seeing you by some person or persons unknown, and for no good purpose, is the correct one.’
‘What would your course of action be, Doctor?’
I thought. ‘I think I should go to the hotel again, settle Mrs Norton’s bill, and ask that her luggage be sent here. And leave a message to that effect. Force her hand, so to speak. If she does return, and wants her bits and pieces, then she’ll be obliged to come and see you after all!’
‘Excellent!’ Holmes leaped to his feet, and sought his hat and stick. ‘Can you accompany me?’
‘Nothing I’d like better.’ And a few moments later we were out in the street, headed south.
A brisk walk soon brought us to the Northumberland Hotel. Holmes strode inside and approached the clerk, explaining that he had been asked to settle Mrs Norton’s bill, and asking that her luggage be sent to 221B Baker Street as soon as convenient. The clerk at first demurred, but the name of ‘Sherlock Holmes’ did the trick. When the clerk left to see about the luggage, Holmes scribbled a short note, explaining matters to Mrs Norton, and he left that with the clerk, with the request that it be handed to Mrs Norton in the event of her return to the hotel, ‘lest,’ as Holmes put it, ‘there should be any small misunderstanding.’
‘A wise precaution,’ I said, as we left the reception desk.
‘Oh, it is somewhat high-handed, I agree, but what else could we reasonably do? In all events, Mrs Norton will not continue running up her bill when she is not even occupying her room!’ Holmes stopped as we reached the main entrance, and nodded to the uniformed doorman.
‘Sir?’
Holmes produced the cabinet photograph of Mrs Norton that he had evidently concealed, unseen by me, in his pocket. ‘This lady has, I believe, been staying here?’
The doorman looked at the picture with obvious appreciation. ‘Yes, indeed, sir.’
‘Did you perhaps see her leave the hotel two days past? Around half past two in the afternoon?’
‘Now you mention it, sir, I did.’
‘And did she perhaps ask you to call a cab?’
The doorman shook his head. ‘I did ask, sir, but she glanced at her little watch – it was on a brooch affair pinned to her dress, you know – then asked me the time, as folks do even when they’ve just looked at their own watches, and when I told her, “It’s half past two, madam”, she smiled and said she had plenty of time, and she would walk.’
‘H’mm. Thank you,’ said Holmes, reaching in his pocket.
‘Only she didn’t.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Begging your pardon, sir, but she didn’t walk, the lady. She set off, fair enough, heading back the way I just seen you come, ten minutes since. But at the corner there,’ he nodded to a spot no great distance away, near the corner of Trafalgar Square, ‘a carriage pulls up, and someone inside calls out to her.’
‘Man or woman?’ asked Holmes at once.
The doorman shook his head. ‘A man I think, sir, but I couldn’t rightly see.’
‘Carriage, you say? Not a cab?’
‘A carriage, sir. Anyway, the lady looks up, and smiles, says a few words, nods her head and what have you. Then he – I mean, whoever was inside the carriage – says something more, and then the lady hesitates, so to speak, then she climbs into the carriage.’
‘You didn’t see a man, or anyone, step down to assist her?’
‘No, sir. Not that the lady looked as if she would need any assistance, begging your pardon, sir. Very self-contained, as you might say. Determined.’
‘Yes, indeed.’ Holmes took a coin from his pocket. ‘Thank you.’
‘You didn’t by any
chance see any coat of arms, or anything of that kind, on the carriage?’ I asked.
Holmes nodded approval, but the doorman said, ‘Nothing of that sort, sir. It was just a hired carriage, you know. In fact, I almost thought I recognized the driver.’ And he paused, significantly as it seemed to me, and glanced down the street.
Holmes at once put his hand in his pocket once more, but the doorman quickly said, ‘No need for that, sir! Here, Bill!’ he called, addressing a roughly dressed man who was propping up the wall a few yards off, the sort of lounger who hopes to make a few pence by opening cab doors for the gentry, and what have you, round about a large hotel. ‘Bill, you know that carriage driver, thickset bloke, thinning on top, with a little scar over one eye? What’s his name again?’
The lounger approached, eyeing Holmes and myself speculatively. ‘Oh, I know. Tommy something, Tommy Maunby, that’s it. Works for old – that is, for Mr White. White’s cab yard, sir,’ he added to Holmes, ‘down by the Embankment.’
Holmes took a second coin out, and threw it to the lounger. ‘I am much obliged, sir. Come along, Watson.’
He led the way down Northumberland Avenue and turned under the railway arches near Hungerford Bridge, stopping at a high wooden gate which bore a roughly made hand-lettered sign, ‘Whites Yard No Trepsassers’, with not a vestige of punctuation and scant regard for spelling. A large middle-aged man with an alert expression walked up to us. ‘And what can I do for you gents?’
‘Mr White?’ said Holmes, and when the man nodded, Holmes continued, ‘I believe you have a driver named Thomas Maunby in your employ?’
‘Tommy? I do, sir. Here, he’s not in no trouble, is he?’ asked Mr White.
‘No, no. On the contrary, sir. My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I have reason to suppose that Mr Maunby may be able to help me with an investigation which I have in hand.’
Mr White made some appropriately incoherent remark as to the improbability of Mr Sherlock Holmes seeking out his – Mr White’s – place of business for the purpose stated, and the great honour it conferred upon him, Mr White, and then went off to find his driver. He returned a very short while later, bringing with him that ‘thickset bloke, thinning on top, with a little scar over one eye,’ whom the doorman at the Northumberland Hotel had so accurately described. ‘Here he is, sir,’ Mr White told Holmes.
