Sherlock Holmes and the Adler Papers

by John Hall

  I heaved a positive sigh of relief. ‘You have quite settled my mind, and I can give my undivided attention to the task before us. Anything I can do, Holmes. You have but to name it.’

  He smiled. ‘I fear there is little either of us can do just for the moment.’ He produced a small fat book with a red cover. ‘I acquired this at the station. It is the latest guide to the region, and I shall take the opportunity to study it whilst we are travelling.’ And with a nod, he plunged into the little book.

  I loaded my revolver, put it away, and gazed out of the window. The flat coastal lands were far behind us now, and the train was going through little German villages set among hills and valleys. It was still only afternoon, perhaps four o’clock, but at that season and in that locality the light was beginning to fade and folk were lighting their lamps. Here and there beyond the neat little houses the last glimmerings of the setting sun lit up the still bare upper branches of great trees, the outer edges of that primeval forest which is such an integral part of the German soul, which sits so deep in the national character. An impressive place, the Schwarzwald, in certain circumstances a grim place, I imagine, and irresistibly I found myself recalling stirring old tales of its legendary inhabitants, the ancient gods and heroes.

  ‘What are you thinking now, Watson?’

  ‘I was just wondering what the restaurants are like in Vienna,’ I told him; no use getting poetic where Holmes is concerned.

  Holmes smiled and put away his guide book. ‘Remarkably good, as I remember. You will have ample opportunity to prove them for yourself tonight, Watson, for there is no connection before tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh good – ah, good gracious, that is a pity, Holmes.’

  We stayed in Vienna that night, though I cannot recall just where, nor what we had to eat. I do remember that Holmes picked rather irritably at his food and seemed to be fretting at every wasted moment. And I recall that the German beer was deceptively light, and that the full effect was somewhat postponed, as it were. A fact that was brought home to me at some unearthly hour next morning, when Holmes all but dragged me from my bed, mumbling some nonsense about wanting to catch an early train.

  After a grossly inadequate breakfast of milky coffee and a couple of crescent-shaped rolls, I found myself sitting, still half asleep, in that early train with which I had been threatened. For some reason – I think that perhaps it was a workmen’s train with cheap fares – it was crowded, so that even Holmes had not been able to secure a private compartment this time. Holmes took a seat in a corner on one side of the compartment, while I had to sit in the opposite corner at the other side, so that we had no opportunity for direct conversation. My near neighbours were country folk, a farmer and his wife who spoke in some strange patois amongst which I could barely recognize a few words with Germanic roots. They were kindly people, though, for the man gave me a fill of strong and aromatic tobacco and a tiny glass of some clear liquor which took my breath away, at which he laughed heartily and told me with much waving of arms and emphasis on words that meant nothing to me that it was slivova, which I knew meant home-made plum brandy. And his wife shyly handed me a huge slice of some curious game pie which more than compensated for the deficiencies of breakfast. By the time they got out at a little wayside halt, I was sorry to see them go. And, whether it was the pie or the plum brandy or the tobacco, or perhaps all three, I was feeling as fit as a fiddle by noon, when our train reached the station at Dopzhe, the ancient ‘Quadri-montium’ of the Romans, that for centuries had been the capital of Bohemia.

  Holmes, who had been dozing in his corner seat for the last hour or so, stood up and took our bags from the rack. ‘Ready, Watson?’

  ‘Ready for anything.’ Despite my boastful tone, a nagging doubt had been creeping over me for some time, and as the crowd thinned and I was able to speak more discreetly to Holmes, I muttered, ‘Have you formed any plan of campaign? After all, we can hardly just march up to the palace door and demand to see the king, can we?’

  Holmes smiled. ‘Can we not?’ And as I evidently looked unconvinced, he added, ‘Remember that the king has used our services in the past. He will be forgetful and ungrateful indeed if he does not grant us the favour of a few minutes’ interview.’

  ‘I suppose that’s true.’ I was somewhat heartened by this, for I had been rather downcast at the thought that I had no idea as to where we might start our investigations. But what Holmes said was true, the king certainly had cause to be grateful to Holmes, and between the three of us we ought to be able to rough out some plan of action. I followed Holmes, then, with a confident stride, to the main square that lay just outside the station.

  As Holmes hailed an ancient fiacre with an equally ancient horse and a driver even more ancient yet, I stood and took my first close look at the royal city of the hereditary kings of Bohemia. Of all those cities which I had visited it was perhaps most reminiscent of Paris, with wide boulevards and some impressive public buildings, almost all new or relatively so. I was to learn later that the present king’s father had been greatly influenced by the French architects of his day and built, or rather rebuilt, the central area of his capital city accordingly. There were other influences too, though, for at the other side of the square the feeble spring sun was reflected in a blaze from the gold leaf that covered the dome of a mosque, a reminder that this had once been one of the farthest provinces of the Ottoman empire. Out in the countryside, as I would also learn later, the buildings were more humble, more often than not of wood, and exhibited the Turkish influence to a very marked degree.

  The phrase, ‘the crossroads of history,’ is a hackneyed one, but it is true enough of Bohemia, for many peoples have met, fought, and settled here, Magyar and Turk, Hun and Vandal, Goth and Rus, all have left their mark. The people are as diverse as the architecture, and this diversity is nowhere more apparent than in their everyday speech, for the nobles and aristocracy speak French, the tradesmen and middle class speak German, while the country folk speak what I can only suppose is Bohemian, a dialect of Czech peculiar to the place, but with borrowings from French, German, Russian and Turkish, the last more marked in the outlying provinces.

  It was not my intention to write a guide book; but this diversity was brought home to me when our driver, observing from a sidelong glance that we were two men unaccompanied by any women, suggested in hoarse German a variety of ‘entertainments’ for our consideration. Needless to say, we ignored him, thereby provoking a shrug of the shoulders and a muttered, ‘Gospodini!’ which translates as ‘gentlemen,’ but in a pejorative sense, as meaning ‘stuck-up, toffee-nosed, and generally far too good to speak to a humble chap like me!’ His attitude changed when we reached our hotel, the Albion, and I handed him a tip the modesty of which was intended to reflect his surly behaviour. He practically kissed me on both cheeks before leaping into his seat and driving off at a good pace. It was not until Holmes, with some acerbity, pointed out the peculiarities of the Bohemian currency that I realized that I had given the driver a little under five pounds sterling for a journey lasting some five minutes! It was, of course, too late to remedy matters, but I resolved to solve the mystery of the exchange rate before I parted with so much as another kopek, much less a forint or a kreuzer.

  The manager of the Albion, Herr Mueller, was a Swiss. He welcomed us warmly in French, thereby paying us the compliment of thinking we were gentry. Holmes already had a good grasp of the geography of Dopzhe, gained from his guide book, and Herr Mueller confirmed that the route to the royal palace was as Holmes outlined. Herr Mueller added that the palace guards, in their ceremonial uniforms dating from great antiquity (I took it he meant the style, rather than the uniforms themselves), were a popular sight with tourists, but that it was no use our going there just at the moment, as they would all be taking their luncheon. This was said with a nod in the direction of the dining room, and Holmes, after asking that our modest luggage be taken up to our rooms, said that we would follow the guards’ example, adding to
me in an undertone, ‘It seems that the Bohemian army shares your sense of priorities, Watson.’

  ‘Very sensible, too,’ I said. ‘There’s no war just at the moment, is there? Why should they – and we – not take lunch?’

  At which Holmes laughed, and said that he would leave the choice of menu to me. I cannot now remember just what I elected to have, but I recall that, in common with most meals I had in Bohemia, it included some sort of potato dumpling, and that it produced a post-prandial lethargy that was not entirely unpleasant or unwelcome.

  I had little time for rest, though, for as soon as we had smoked a cigarette Holmes was on his feet and looking for his hat and stick. I tried to tell him that the guards probably ate more heavily than we had done, and that very likely they had a lengthy siesta as well, but he studiously ignored the hint. I sighed, and stood up in my turn, following Holmes outside. He strode off confidently across the great square, through some narrow cobbled streets, and out into a wide boulevard. Carriages and fiacres rolled along at a stately pace, ladies and gentlemen in their finery were taking the air, and a file of lancers in ornate uniforms clattered past. Holmes nodded to the opposite side of the road, and I looked where he indicated, to see a low, long building, surrounded by a high wrought-iron fence, and with a couple of soldiers in quaint costumes on guard outside the gate.

  ‘The palace?’ I hazarded.

  ‘Just so. Now – ah!’ Holmes smiled with some satisfaction as a carriage, ordinary enough, with no coat of arms or other decoration on its exterior, swung through the gate and into the palace forecourt. The two guards showed no sign that they had even noticed its passing. A footman hurried out of the huge doorway to assist the passengers within the carriage.

  Holmes said, ‘We should have no difficulty reaching the door, at any rate!’

  Privately I was not quite so positive. The guards on the gate most probably had their orders from the sergeant, look out for Monsieur So-and-so’s carriage at such and such an hour, and allow it in without let or hindrance. But they would not have had similar orders concerning two unknown Englishmen! I had half a notion that we ought to be wearing court dress, instead of our homely tweeds; we would look out of place among the nobility, jackdaws among peacocks. Still, Holmes was a couple of paces in front of me so he, and not I, would have to face the challenge. And then, too, we came here not as scavengers but as avengers, hawks rather than jackdaws, here to do the king a good turn, if we could. I straightened my shoulders and strode out as confidently as I could manage.

  I need not have worried, though. The guards never shifted as we strolled past, Holmes unconcerned, and myself a touch apprehensive. The same footman appeared as if by magic, looking very stern. In French, he asked us, ‘What would Messieurs desire?’

  ‘We would be grateful for a word with one of His Majesty’s secretaries, or equerries, were that possible,’ said Holmes.

  The footman’s face cleared. ‘Of course, Monsieur. Please follow me.’ And he led us through a maze of corridors and into a little ante-room, hung with tapestries and crowded with ormolu pieces. ‘Messieurs have their visiting cards?’ We handed them to him, and he bowed again. ‘I shall not keep you a moment. If Messieurs would kindly take a seat?’ and while we did that, he vanished from view.

  ‘Easier than I thought it might be, Holmes.’

  He nodded. ‘I confess that I had some trepidation, Watson. But there is no reason why we should not be admitted, after all.’

  ‘No, I suppose not.’ I sank back in my comfortable armchair with some satisfaction. My luncheon, as I think I have told you, had been of the sort which is conducive to slumber, and the cushions were really very deep and soft. However, I had scarcely settled myself when there was a footstep outside and the door opened. I struggled to my feet as a middle-aged man, a touch under the average height, entered the room.

  ‘Mr Sherlock Holmes?’ He spoke in English, and as he spoke he glanced from one to the other of us.

  ‘I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is Doctor Watson.’

  ‘Your names are, of course, well known to me, as are your reputations, gentlemen. Forgive me, I have not introduced myself. I am the Freiherr von Kirchoff, and I have the honour to be His Majesty’s private secretary.’

  We exchanged bows, and Holmes said, ‘It is a delicate matter upon which we are here, sir. If it were possible, we should like to speak to the king himself.’

  Von Kirchoff raised an eyebrow. He said, ‘You honour us with your presence, gentlemen, but at the same time you will be aware that the king has many calls upon his time, and more especially now, when there are preparations under way for a most important state visit.’

  ‘Just so,’ said Holmes.

  ‘If I might, therefore, ask the nature of your business?’

  ‘It is a matter of the gravest importance.’

  Von Kirchoff smiled, a thin little smile. ‘One would hardly expect the king to grant an audience for anything less!’

  ‘It touches on the very safety of the kingdom.’

  Von Kirchoff gave the most delicate of shrugs. ‘I am, as I say, the king’s private secretary.’

  ‘Very well, since you insist upon it. It concerns one Mrs Norton, the former Miss Irene Adler.’

  I was looking at von Kirchoff’s face, and it was almost impassive at the mention of Miss Adler. Almost, but not quite. He told Holmes, ‘If you would wait just one moment? I shall tell His Majesty you are here.’ And he bowed and went out.

  I sought the comfort of my armchair once again, and again I had little time to appreciate its luxury, for the door opened soundlessly and a footman appeared. Holmes and I stood up, but the footman merely smiled and said, ‘If Messieurs would follow?’ Naturally I expected him to turn round and lead the way out, but instead he closed the door behind him, crossed the room, and touched some hidden catch or spring in the wall, causing a section of it to slide back. The footman said, ‘It is a little dark and a little damp, I fear, so if Messieurs will follow carefully, and be sure to look where they tread?’ He reached into the recess behind the hidden door and took down a lamp, which he lit. Then with another little bow he stepped cautiously through the door and down a narrow stair.

  ‘Secret passage, eh, Holmes?’ I muttered as I made ready to follow.

  Holmes laughed quietly. ‘As found in all the best palaces, Doctor. From what we have learned, it was a necessity rather than a luxury.’

  At this point the footman turned, frowned, and put finger to his lips, to indicate that we were making too much noise with our jesting. Duly admonished, we followed in silence down the narrow stair, along a passage with more than one abrupt turning, and down a second, much longer, flight of steps which ended in a door. The footman fiddled with a catch, the door swung outwards, and we found ourselves in a second corridor, this one stone-flagged and much broader than the first one we had traversed. We were evidently in the very bowels of the earth, beneath the main palace building, probably in a corridor used by the kitchen staff or something of the sort, as I judged.

  The footman closed the door through which we had just come, and I had some difficulty in seeing where it had been, so cleverly was it disguised to look like the wall of the corridor. The footman saw me stare, and permitted himself a little smile. ‘It has been useful more than once, Monsieur, in the olden times. And more recently, too,’ he added in an undertone.

  He led us a score of paces along the corridor, stopped before a heavy oak door, produced a key and unlocked the door. ‘Messieurs?’ He stood aside to let us enter.

  Holmes went in first, and I followed. The footman came in close on my heels, and set the lamp down on a roughly made deal table. ‘If Messieurs would wait just a short while?’ And with a bow he was gone, shutting the door behind him. To my utter astonishment, we then heard the key turn in the lock!

  ‘Holmes?’ I strode to the door and tried it. ‘That fellow has locked us in, Holmes!’

  ‘I had observed as much,’ Holmes replied drily. He held t
he lamp up to illuminate the room, and I saw a couple of grimy straw mattresses on the floor, the table I had already noted, and nothing else in the way of furniture. There was no window, which did not surprise me as I already knew that we must be below ground level, but there was a sort of fanlight, with heavy iron bars, set high in the roof, which allowed a little light to penetrate. There was not enough light to provide decent illumination, but Holmes blew the lamp out none the less. ‘We may need it later,’ he told me, as we sat glumly on one of the mattresses and let our eyes become accustomed to what seemed like a dull twilight – and this despite the fact that my watch showed that it was a little before three in the afternoon!

  I took another look around the place. ‘A rum do, this, Holmes.’

  ‘As you say, Watson.’

  ‘Straw mattresses, you see.’

  ‘Just so.’

  ‘Bars on the window, and the window too high to be accessible.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Heavy oak door, locked from the outside.’

  ‘Your observations are accurate in every particular. And your conclusion, Doctor?’

  ‘Well, Holmes, if I didn’t know better, I should say that we were in one of the palace dungeons!’

  Holmes clapped his hands and laughed in the strange noiseless fashion that was habitual to him.

  ‘What is not quite so easy to conjecture, though,’ I went on, ‘is why?’

  ‘Ah, now there you have me, Watson.’

  ‘And while the situation is not without its humorous aspects – we come here to do the king a good turn, and end up in the clink – it does make you wonder, does it not?’

  ‘It does, Watson.’ Holmes mused in silence for a moment. ‘I can only think that the king is anxious not to have the matter made public.’

  ‘Very sensible.’

  ‘Still –’

  ‘Still,’ I finished for him, ‘there must be more salubrious ante-rooms than this.’

  ‘One would think so, would one not? But then if the king, or his courtiers, intended us any harm, why not shoot us out of hand?’