by John Hall
I have said that the room into which we had broken was in darkness; but the servants were still in the house, and their master was expected back later that same evening, so the entrance hall and corridors were still lighted by gas lamps. Indeed, the whole ground floor was a sight too well lit for my taste. But Holmes never showed any hesitation, moving swiftly and silently to the great staircase, and darting up the stairs without a sound.
The first floor was not quite so brightly lit as the ground floor, with only an occasional gas-jet, turned down low, casting a pool of light in the corridor here and there. Holmes had brought along a dark lantern for each of us, and we now lit these. ‘We shall work faster if we split up,’ Holmes told us in a whisper, and he waved his hand to indicate the direction in which von Gratz and I were to go, before opening the nearest door and vanishing inside.
I tried a couple of rooms, clearly guest bedrooms, and unoccupied, before opening the door of a room that was somewhat grander than the others, and which had obvious signs of being used; a night-shirt laid out on the bed, slippers ready to hand – or foot – and the like. I waved to Holmes and von Gratz to join me.
Von Gratz picked up a silver hair brush and looked at the crest engraved upon it. ‘It is Gottfried’s coat of arms,’ he said.
Holmes threw the beam of his lantern round the room, stopping it as it illuminated a connecting door to the next room. ‘A sitting room?’ He opened the door, and we saw that it was indeed a compound of sitting room and study, being furnished with comfortable chairs, but having bookshelves on the whole of one wall.
This looked more like it, I reflected, as I followed Holmes into the room. We should be unlucky indeed if we did not find what we sought here. Then my train of thought was broken, and I let out a muffled curse as my ankle struck some solid object on the floor.
The impact had made a slight thud, and Holmes made a sound, ‘Shh!’ of disapproval. Irked at myself for my carelessness, I cast the beam of my own lantern down, to see what I had bumped into. It was a little revolving bookcase made of oak, a couple of feet high, just the right height for a man to reach from the depths of the leather armchair which stood nearby. A dainty looking thing, but solidly built, as my ankle could testify! I had seen something like it in London the previous year, and thought that I would like one for my own little den, and now I wished I had bought it.
Then I looked again. There were books on the little shelves, but there were also illustrated magazines. Now, earlier on I had mentioned something about Poe’s ‘Purloined Letter,’ and this little bookcase reminded me irresistibly of that story; for if I wanted a safe place to hide letters, I should interleave them into a book or an illustrated weekly paper, and put the whole thing out in public view. I bent down, and took some of the magazines from their shelves, riffling the pages in the hope that some loose sheets would flutter down. Nothing. Disappointed, I tried again. And again, nothing. Only – as I flicked the pages over, something seemed odd about them. I held my lantern nearer, and examined the magazine more carefully. Yes! Here and there, a letter had been inserted, fixed by gumming one long edge to the spine of the magazine so that the sheets did not fall out when the thing was held upside down and shaken. I called Holmes to see.
‘Well, done!’ he said. ‘It is a clever device, and one which a clever man might have missed.’ – Which I took to be a compliment! He showed the letters to von Gratz. ‘Is it the king’s handwriting? His seal?’
Von Gratz studied the letters closely. ‘It appears to be the king’s hand,’ he said cautiously. ‘If it is not, it is an excellent forgery.’
‘But then it would be, would it not? It would have to be,’ said Holmes, his tone far removed from the initial elation of a moment before. ‘Is the photograph there?’ he asked me.
I rummaged again amongst the books and so forth on the stand. ‘There is a photograph album here,’ I said. ‘Working on the premise that the obvious thing is the correct thing –’ and I took the squat, heavy, leather-bound album from its shelf and began to turn the pages. Most of the pictures were the size which the photographers call ‘cabi-net’, some four inches by five, mounted on heavy card, and with tissue paper to protect them. They were of the usual sort, family portraits of absorbing interest to those depicted in them, mildly amusing to those family members not so portrayed, and stultifyingly boring to the outsider. But among the family groups, the old dowager duchesses, the young boys in sailor suits, was one picture which made us all three gasp aloud as I turned the page. It was the duplicate of that which Mrs Norton had shown us, the very photograph which all the fuss was about!
‘But this is merely a print,’ von Gratz reminded us. ‘We must still find the original plate.’ And he stood up, as if to search elsewhere.
I was still sure that I alone had solved the case, though, and I continued to turn the pages of my little album. As I did so, it seemed that one page was thicker and heavier than the rest, and I studied it more closely. The photograph in the mount was of an elderly lady in the stiff pose and formal dress of perhaps 1860; but when I lifted a corner of this photograph, I found a glass plate beneath it. As I have said, the photographs were mounted on stout card, and two pages of this card had been cemented together, with the centre of the uppermost cut out to form a recess.
I held the thing aloft in triumph.
‘Is that authentic?’ asked Holmes.
Von Gratz took the plate from me, and shone his light on it. ‘It is difficult to be sure,’ he said. ‘It is what we call a “negative”, and without making a print from it, I cannot swear as to details.’
I could see his difficulty. The beam of the lantern reflected from the silver surface, making it hard to distinguish anything, at least for my untutored gaze. The photograph showed a man and a woman, that was clear, and the costumes seemed in general not unlike those in the print; but the tones were all reversed, so that the woman’s hair was white, and her face a dark grey.
Von Gratz shook his head. ‘It appears to be my plate,’ he said, but there was doubt in his voice.
‘It is too pat,’ said Holmes, and his voice was decisive. ‘I know that it is –’ and he stopped, as von Gratz gave a sharp intake of breath. ‘Well?’
‘It is a forgery!’ said von Gratz. ‘That is, the plate is genuine enough, but this is not the picture which I took.’
‘You are certain?’
‘Absolutely. You see, I am a keen photographer, and I like to experiment with new chemicals, new techniques. It is not an exact science, you understand, the nature of the plate has its effect, the chemicals, the temperature of the developing solution –’
‘Yes, yes!’ said Holmes, with a good deal of impatience.
‘To be brief, a small section of my plate was spoiled, the gelatine was overheated and crinkled, “reticulated”, as we call it. It was no great matter in the print, in fact it looks merely like a small fleecy cloud. But I am an amateur in the true sense, Mr Holmes, and it rankled with me. This plate, though, is perfect, with no defects in the gelatine at all.’
‘A fake?’ I said. ‘It is an elaborate charade, though! They have hired a photographer, an actor and actress –’
‘Elaborate, yes,’ said Holmes. ‘But worthwhile if it chanced to throw us off the scent. I knew it was too good to be true!’ He thought a brief moment, then laughed and took up one of the magazines which contained the letters. ‘We must work fast,’ he said, ‘for we still have to find the real papers. But we can use the fakes, none the less.’ And he started to run the blade of his penknife down the spine of the magazine to free the letters.
‘You plan to switch them?’ I asked.
‘Oh, an obvious enough jest, but I cannot resist it. There were twenty-three, were there not, according to Mrs Norton?’
‘Ah – that was the number I recall,’ I said, perfectly untruthfully.
‘Then all are present.’
‘But, Holmes, you yourself said we do not have the real letters and photograph! Where are they?’
‘The logical place is a safe. And the safe is –’ and Holmes darted about, moving pictures on the walls, tapping the books on the shelves, until he laughed, and finished – ‘And the safe is here!’ as a section of ‘books’, actually merely painted wood, slid aside to reveal a smart modern safe.
‘Small, but effective,’ Holmes remarked, as he studied the dial. ‘The new type, you see, where the owner chooses some word of his own to act as the key. H’mm, five letters, “A” to “Z”. How many possible combinations is that, I wonder?’
‘Too many! Wait, though – if the safe is new, may it not have been bought specifically for this one task? If so, then the word is –’
‘ “Adler”! To be sure.’ Holmes spun the little dials, and tried the handle. It did not budge.
‘H’mm. If my mathematics are not too rusty, the number is twenty-six to the power five. A number near enough astronomical.’
‘Not to speak of all those umlauts,’ I added helpfully. ‘It is a German safe.’
‘Nay, it is made by Hyder and Levin, an American firm, so that lessens our task,’ said Holmes with a laugh. Then he snapped his fingers. ‘We are too formal, Doctor. We should perhaps adopt the American usage for the American safe,’ and he spun the dials again until the wheel read ‘Irene’, and tried the handle a second time.
With the softest of clicks the handle turned, and the door swung open. Holmes gave a quiet laugh of triumph as he took from the safe a leather document case. He opened the case, and removed the contents. ‘I fancy these are the genuine papers,’ said he, handing a glass plate to von Gratz.
Von Gratz scrutinized the plate. ‘It is the real plate,’ he said. ‘There is the little patch of reticulated gelatine.’
‘Capital! Then we put the real papers to one side, and the fakes go into the case, and the case into the safe,’ said Holmes, suiting his actions to the words. The fakes which I had discovered in the bookcase were quickly lodged in the safe, and the safe locked.
‘They will surely detect the imposition?’ I said.
‘Oh, to be sure. But it will not be immediately, at least I hope not. And in any event, it will be too late. I just hope Gottfried and Karl appreciate the joke, though I rather fear they will not.’ Holmes looked at his watch. ‘We are almost over-staying our welcome, and Captain Markus will be anxious.’ He cast the beam of his lantern round the room. ‘I think that all is in order. We may have disarranged one or two pieces of furniture, but that is quite consistent with our removal of the “fake” papers. Come, gentlemen, it is time we were off.’
We returned to Markus, who was indeed beginning to get a touch restive, and the four of us returned to the Albion. As we sat in the carriage a sort of nervous reaction set in with me, for it had all seemed so easy that I feared some twist in the tail of our little adventure. And I fancy that the others felt the same way, for none of us seemed inclined to say a word. But the return was quite uneventful, and we were soon safe in our rooms. Not until then did we venture to relax somewhat, and Holmes poured us all a stiff drink.
‘I wonder what the best thing to do with it might be?’ said Holmes, referring to the glass plate which he was holding up to the light.
‘Smash the damned thing in a million pieces!’ suggested von Gratz. ‘That way, it can harm no-one ever again.’
‘It is an interesting proposition,’ said Holmes.
‘But, Holmes!’ I said.
‘Yes, Watson?’
‘Mrs – that is, your client –’
‘Ah, yes, I had all but forgotten,’ said Holmes. He smiled at von Gratz. ‘My client, as Watson does well to remind me, is Mrs Norton, and it is to her that the photograph should rightly be returned.’
‘But it was I who took the photograph,’ von Gratz told him. ‘Have I no say in its disposition, then?’
‘Forgive me, but did you not give the photograph to Mrs Norton, or Miss Adler as she then was?’
‘Why –’ von Gratz hesitated – ‘yes, it is true, but then it seemed so harmless, the act of one friend to another. I never envisaged that it would be used in this dreadful fashion. Surely that alters matters quite considerably? My first duty is to the king, and not to Mrs Norton.’
Holmes frowned, deep in thought. ‘It is a good point,’ he conceded at length. ‘However, there are reasons why I should not destroy the plate just yet.’
‘And what reasons are those?’ asked von Gratz, naturally enough.
‘I would prefer to keep them to myself for the moment.’
I could see that neither von Gratz nor Markus liked the sound of this; but equally I knew that Holmes must be thinking of the curious way in which the case had been brought to his attention, and the way Mrs Norton had insisted on the plate’s being returned to her. Not that Holmes was necessarily going to return the plate to Mrs Norton, of course! But his inherent curiosity would prompt him to keep the plate until he knew the whole truth. And besides, as I – not to speak of the long-suffering Mrs Hudson, his landlady – knew only too well, Holmes had a constitutional aversion to throwing anything away, or destroying anything.
Holmes was saying, ‘I think I shall keep the plate here, for the time being. You may rely upon me to find a safe place of concealment.’
Von Gratz and Markus took the liberty of disagreeing with this proposition, and some lively discussion ensued. It was all in good humour, though, for we all four believed that the hardest part of our task was done. After all, we had the papers, and could now dispose of them as we saw fit; and that was the important thing.
At about this time, I left the room – we were in the sitting room which Holmes and I shared jointly – for a few moments, on some trifling personal errand, I think to wash my hands or perhaps to fetch a pipe from my bedroom. I made my way back, but paused with my hand on the door. Something was different – I did not actually define it as ‘wrong’ at that moment, you are to understand, but there was that which made me hesitate, and attempt to work out what was changed. I have said that we were a merry party; and I think you would agree that, given our successful enterprise that evening, given that we had saved the king from disgrace, and Bohemia from civil war, we had every right to be merry.
And yet now the room was silent. No clink of glasses, no boisterous chaff, no sound of any voice. Wait, though! A woman’s voice; more, one that I recognized as Mrs Norton’s. So, Holmes was right; Mrs Norton had returned, to claim her precious ‘papers’, then.
I threw the door open, stepped inside, then stopped dead in my tracks. Mrs Norton was indeed there. She was saying something like, ‘You must hand it over, Mr Holmes.’
I say, ‘something like.’ I cannot swear as to her exact words, for what caught my immediate attention, putting all other thoughts out of my mind for the moment, was that Holmes, von Gratz and Markus were all standing at one side of the room; while Mrs Norton, on the other side of the room, was pointing a small revolver at them.
SEVEN
When I opened the door, of course, I had not the remotest idea that Mrs Norton was threatening my companions with a pistol. I thus had no thoughts of concealment, I saw no need to enter quietly, or anything of the sort. I simply pushed the door open and walked into the room.
I have said that I noticed the little tableau; Holmes and the others at one side, Mrs Norton at the other. As I entered the room, they all turned to look at me, and for the briefest of moments we all simply stood there.
Then Holmes leaped at Mrs Norton, with von Gratz and Markus hard upon his heels. There was a somewhat undignified, and I must say a very gentlemanly, scramble, and before I had time to work out what exactly was going on, Holmes was holding the revolver, von Gratz and Markus were standing there looking about as bemused as I felt, while Mrs Norton was holding a handkerchief to her eyes and sobbing.
‘My dear lady,’ I said. ‘What on earth is the meaning of all this?’
And the others echoed this sentiment, in more or less robust terms. For a considerable time Mrs Norton cou
ld not bring herself to speak, and then she told us, ‘You have spoiled everything! My life is ruined!’
This was, I felt, a touch harsh. We had, after all, done what Mrs Norton herself had asked of us, namely, saved the king from an apparently hopeless situation. What had we done wrong, then? Why this complaint, and above all why the revolver? I was completely lost, and rather offended, by Mrs Norton’s behaviour, and I fancy that the others felt much the same. Von Gratz frowned, Markus put a hand to his head, while Holmes looked thoughtful.
‘It is essential that I have the photograph back,’ Mrs Norton said, her composure much recovered.
‘But Irene – madame – you need have no fears. The photograph is quite safe with us,’ said von Gratz. ‘Our loyalty is to the king, after all.’
‘As is mine. But then a wife has other loyalties, more pressing yet.’
‘And what could be more important?’ asked von Gratz.
‘Why, a wife’s loyalty to her husband,’ answered Mrs Norton. ‘In my case, to the best husband a woman ever had, my own dear Godfrey.’
‘And what has Mr Norton to do with the matter?’ asked Holmes quickly.
The answer was unexpected; Mrs Norton burst into tears a second time. Holmes looked at von Gratz and Markus. ‘Gentlemen,’ said he, ‘it might be as well if you were to wait in the next room. I shall call you when we have resolved this little problem.’
As you may imagine, neither von Gratz nor Markus received this suggestion with any marked enthusiasm. But it was clear that Mrs Norton was not going to speak more coherently in what must have seemed a roomful of folk, and they went out, grumbling to themselves as they did so.
‘And now, Mrs Norton,’ said Holmes, as the door closed behind the others, ‘you may speak freely. You are, after all, my original client, and my duty is to you, provided always that it does not conflict with my loyalty to the king.’
And, ‘What’s all this about your husband?’ I asked.
