Sherlock Holmes--The Legacy of Deeds

by Nick Kyme

  “I do not know who you are talking about,” Graves replied, though his mood had grown decidedly acerbic, “but I would be obliged if you would leave my home immediately, for it might go better for you in the long run.”

  “I am afraid we cannot do that, Mr Graves, for there is evidence of a most damning nature connecting you to the young woman who has committed murder and who I believe plans to kill again this very night. Rest assured, the police have been contacted and they will soon be on their way to apprehend your Russian ingénue.”

  This was a ruse on Holmes’s part, for I knew no such communication had been made with Scotland Yard but the pressure it applied on Graves became immediately evident.

  “You are both ignorant fools,” said Graves, still nonchalant. “She has bested wiser men than the two of you.”

  And so at last Graves admitted he was part of it.

  “Indeed,” came Holmes’s swift rejoinder, his eyes sparkling, “she led us quite the chase across the London rooftops. Alas, we were caught wanting by the task but I think we have regained the upper hand. Your defence of this young woman is admirable, if misguided. She is a callous murderer and must be brought to justice.”

  “You can protect her no longer, sir,” said I.

  “That’s where you are mistaken, Dr Watson,” Graves replied, backing away from us and towards his rack of swords, “for I would defend her to my dying breath!”

  “Holmes, he means to draw a blade!” I cried, lunging after Graves who sprang back like an antelope and suddenly had a sabre in hand.

  I felt a hand on my shoulder as Sherlock Holmes eased me back.

  “Steady, Watson,” he said. “Graves is an accomplished swordsman and I do believe he means us harm, despite the histrionics.”

  Holmes had not let his eyes off Graves, and though he appeared relaxed there was an air of readiness about him. “Is that not so, sir?”

  Graves stared at us both coldly, his expression predatory as a barn owl regarding a field mouse. “Two men enter my house unannounced, unwanted and under the cover of darkness. Mayfair is a reputable and affluent part of the city. If strangers come into my home, how am I to know they aren’t thieves? It is every man’s right to defend his property. Fearing a burglar or worse, I arm myself, dousing the lights to take the men by surprise and then kill both before they can raise a hand against me. Imagine my horror and surprise when the interlopers are revealed to be none other than the illustrious Sherlock Holmes and his friend Dr Watson. A tragedy to be sure, but certainly, as far as Scotland Yard is concerned, misadventure.”

  “You should give the humble inspectors more credit,” Holmes replied calmly, his legs slightly apart and his stick held before him. “For I believe they would see through the ruse.”

  “I have no doubt, but by the time they had put the facts together, Irina and I would be long gone.”

  “Lay down your weapon, Graves,” I warned him, hoping we could avoid any unnecessary violence. My words fell on deaf ears, though, as Graves advanced upon us.

  “Stand back, Watson!” Holmes cried, stepping in front of me.

  Chagrined at being relegated to spectator and fearful for my friend, I nonetheless obeyed. I knew why Holmes bid me retreat, for it is a misapprehension that two men always fair better in a fight when against just one opponent. In fact, when dealing with a man of Graves’s apparent skill with a blade, the opposite is the case. Whereas one man can act with one mind and purpose, two men cannot.

  Graves swung at my companion’s head with his sabre, but mercifully the blow was parried before it could connect. Holmes riposted with a quick jab that Graves countered expertly but which was designed to put him on the back foot. To my dismay he recovered quickly and aimed a lunge. A swift sideways turn of the body, followed by a circular downwards cut had the sabre slicing air instead of my companion, and so I breathed again. Thwarted, Graves came back with a flurry of strikes that I was hard pressed to follow but which Holmes appeared to be the equal of, though I noted his stick had received several cuts and would not endure much longer.

  Heart thundering in my chest, I could only watch as the duel ranged across the gallery in a blistering display of expert footwork, one man briefly taking the upper hand before a clever move saw it go to the other. Every thrust and lunge, every parry and cut, was rewarded by the hard smack of steel striking wood. Slivers of Holmes’s walking stick flew into the air, and the odd rash of sparks as Graves’s blade met the iron ferrule. I tried to follow the fight as best I could, but it had grown positively frenzied, both combatants evenly matched and unable to overthrow the other. I saw a war of attrition taking hold, however, one I knew my companion could not win.

  “Did you teach her, Graves?” Holmes asked, his breath huffing in and out with the effort of fending off the other man.

  “She needed little tuition from me,” Graves replied, similarly exerted. “Though she was a determined student. Revenge is a powerful motivator.”

  “And you share in it, do you, Graves?” asked Holmes, favouring avoidance over direct intervention as a series of sweeping cuts came his way. “Has her cause become your cause? Would you willingly condemn yourself so, an accomplice to murder?”

  “You are blind, Mr Holmes,” said Graves, pausing but a moment to withdraw and get his breath. I could see it was a welcome respite for my companion, his earlier poise usurped by determination in the face of his opponent’s skill. “I would do anything for her. Murder if necessary. I would not expect you to understand.” Graves returned to an en garde position and beckoned to Holmes. “Shall we be done with it then?”

  Holmes mirrored the pose. “As you wish.”

  Concerned for Holmes’s welfare, I was about to weigh in despite my earlier qualms, when he said, “Find her, Watson, if she’s here, whilst I deal with this blackguard.”

  The two men engaged once more. The fight saw Graves edged off to the side, and allowed me a more or less clear run to the door. I paused but a moment, worry for Holmes warring with his barked imperative to me.

  Having miraculously weathered another barrage, Holmes lashed out at Graves’s head, who swept the blow aside only for Holmes to spring forwards and land a swift but certain jab to the chin with his fist. Briefly dazed, Graves recoiled, allowing Holmes to press his advantage. A whipping strike to Graves’s left leg saw the stick yield at last, splitting apart as half of it skittered across the floor.

  “Immediately, Watson,” he said, gasping. “And your stick, if you please.”

  I tossed my stick to Holmes, who caught it one-handed, and then set off into the house. I made my way down a short hallway with a set of ascending steps at the end. Two doors also led off from it. It was darker here, the lamps turned low, and for a moment my concern for Holmes was outweighed by thoughts for my own safety as I considered that I sought a murderess. Having given my stick to Holmes and with my old service revolver safely under lock and key back at Baker Street, I had only my wits to protect me. I ignored both doors, for there was a clandestine air about the steps as they fell away to an inviting darkness.

  I forged on, cautious but possessed of some urgency. At the top of the stairs was another door, shrouded in shadow, lit only by the ambient glow of the lamps in the hallway above. During my career as an army surgeon I had developed a nose for trouble. I suppose it helped to keep me alive in those bloodiest of years. I felt it again now, though, that sense of something around the next corner, behind the closed door.

  I found the door unlocked, and taking a steadying breath, I opened it and cast a faint corona of light into the room beyond. Picture frames and canvases were caught in the glow, their edges limned in the hazy lamplight. Shadows lingered here too, preventing me from seeing all the way in, and I called out, “Show yourself. Come out now, for this foul business is done. Come out.”

  No answer came to my summons. I could smell oil paint, and the acerbity of turpentine. Shadows settled in the corners, muddying my perception of the room’s size, deep enough to conc
eal a person should they crouch down. The many frames, rolled-up canvases and easels also made ready nooks to hide in. I am not ashamed to admit, I paused at the threshold, straining every one of my senses to try and discern if I were alone or if another watched me from the darkness, waiting to strike.

  Cautiously, I entered the room and upon finding a window thrust the heavy curtains aside and was able to see more clearly in the moonlight. Irina Laznovna was not here, though her art certainly was, the room evidently her studio. Several paintings confronted me, the moonlight revealing their subjects as well as the mien of our quarry. Heavy, sweeping brushstrokes described a host of nightmarish images, rendered in a frenzy. I am no art expert, but I knew rage when I saw it. A veritable gallery of bleak vistas presented themselves: a carrion crow pecking a morsel from the eyehole of a bleached white skull; a figure in silhouette hung from a skeletal tree, an emaciated family looking on; a mournful house fallen to disrepair, surrounded by a garden of shallow graves; and variations of that same tortured figure we had seen at the Grayson Gallery.

  “The Undying Man,” I said aloud to myself, scarcely realising I had breathed the words.

  Amongst this unremitting horror, just one sliver of light, an unfinished facsimile of the aged photograph we had found at the Church Row lodgings. Rendered larger here, more details became apparent, such as the ballet shoes snug under the young Irina’s arm. What a life she must have once had, and I felt a small measure of pity for her then, for whatever set of circumstances had taken her from the family she had recreated from memory to the darkness I saw surrounding it.

  In the many years we had known each other, Holmes often imparted his methods of deduction to me, and I resolved to apply his methods, examining the room further. Sketches adorned the walls, more studies of death and despair. A few related to the Laznovich family scene, but the majority were devoted to Grand Duke Konstantin. His every aspect had been captured. In some instances it had been ghoulishly transformed and I considered this doppelgänger might be how Irina saw him. Of the portrait, I noted, there was no sign. This meant it was likely already at the Royal Opera House.

  I turned sharply, calling out to Holmes as I ran back down the stairs, but came to an abrupt halt on the third step as Graves appeared at the landing. Little more than a shadowed silhouette, the rise and fall of his body spoke of the exertion of the duel.

  A chill settled in my blood as I considered the fact I had erred in not going to my companion’s aid earlier in spite of his protestations. Ice quickly thawed in the heat of my anger.

  “Where is he?” I demanded.

  “It’s all right, Watson,” said Holmes, appearing from behind Graves. He had the sabre in his right hand, pressed gently to the other man’s back. “As you can see, I have disarmed our adversary.”

  Graves grimaced as Holmes prodded him for effect and I felt a sudden rush of satisfaction at his displeasure.

  “I am bested, there is no need to further prove the point,” Graves said. “I must congratulate you on your fencing, Mr Holmes. I suspected your antics in my house a few days ago when you almost dropped the blade were playacting but I had no idea they hid such a rare talent.”

  “I shall take that as high praise indeed, sir.”

  “Holmes,” I declared, somewhat incredulous at this exchange, “the man tried to kill you.”

  “But failed, Watson, so let us not dwell on the matter, for our attention is now needed elsewhere.” I saw him peer into the room beyond. “Is Miss Laznovna conspicuous by her absence, Doctor?”

  “I have yet to search the entire house, Holmes.”

  “I will save you the inconvenience,” said Graves. “She is not here. And you cannot stop her either.”

  “He is telling the truth,” said Holmes, who stared at Graves, “at least the part regarding her absence.”

  “Regardless, there is a small studio up here,” I said, “and I think she did indeed paint a portrait of the grand duke for there are a great many sketches of him on the walls. It is just as we saw at Church Row. It is missing, though, Holmes.”

  I dared not consider the fact that Irina Laznovna could be planning something so heinous as what transpired in the Grayson Gallery, and on such a scale. Given Graves’s apparent attendance at the gala, it seemed extremely unlikely; he would not put himself at risk of poisoning. Not mass murder this time, but something just as public but tailored specifically for the grand duke.

  “A commission arranged by Mr Graves here, I suspect, under the pseudonym of Ivor Lazarus. No doubt, it is already at the Royal Opera House,” said Holmes.

  Here Graves smiled and my earlier smugness at his defeat evaporated. “As I said, you won’t stop her,” he said, his false bonhomie having disappeared completely, allowing a darker, truer mood to take over. “She is too clever, too clever by half.” He glanced over his shoulder at my companion. “Even for you, the great Sherlock Holmes.”

  “Then I relish the challenge. Shall we?” replied Holmes, as he ushered Graves up the stairs. “Now, Watson,” he added, “show me this studio.”

  As Holmes examined the small room, I took the sabre and kept my eye on Graves who seemed content to keep his silence.

  “Alas, dear Watson,” said Holmes, as he moved about the room, paying especial attention to the family portrait, “your walking stick did not survive and you shall require another.”

  “A small price to pay for continued good health, Holmes.”

  Holmes paused at this, smiling. “Quite so. I do believe my waistcoat is a little worse for wear, though.”

  I had not noticed it before but the garment bore several lacerations, although they were mercifully shallow. I turned my indignation on our prisoner. “I am sure Mr Graves can make the appropriate restitution and recompense.”

  A snort of derision from the man suggested otherwise.

  “A second studio?” asked Holmes, as he went about the room in his useful fervent manner. “Did she paint here as well as in the room at Church Row?”

  Graves only glared, declining to answer.

  “I wonder, at what point did you realise her intentions? And when did you concoct this plan about the portrait?”

  Again, Graves said nothing.

  “It is over, Graves,” I said to him, “you might as well confess your misdeeds.”

  Holmes turned, his examination concluded. “He saved her, Watson. Is that not right, Mr Graves? He saved her when she fled to this country, and from an abusive gaoler, one he mistakenly put her with, before taking her in. You are indeed altruism personified. I should very much like to hear the full truth of it, though.”

  Graves looked about to protest. Then his shoulders sagged and I realised he would reveal all.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  THE SINCERE ACCOUNT OF DAMIAN GRAVES

  “I am not an unlawful man,” Graves began, “though I believe the doctor is predisposed to think ill of me.”

  I remained impassive at this remark, even though it was true.

  “I am vain and profligate,” Graves admitted, as though this was any revelation. “I think little of money, for I have never had to. My income comes from numerous family overseas investments that have come to fruition. I am, however, the last of my line and not so driven as my father and his father were. I deal in antiques, more as a hobby than a business, but this you already know. It is a distraction, nothing more, and one I have grown increasingly weary of, though it provides a healthy income.

  “I have seldom had cause to strive for anything, but if it is a crime to inherit wealth then one would have to arrest a good deal of London gentlemen. I put it to use at first, charities I favoured, self-improvement both mental and physical. I even travelled for a time, until returning to London unfulfilled and buying this house in Mayfair. I spent frivolously and indulged in a great many vices, but a hollow remained in me. I experienced a profound ennui.”

  He looked hard at Holmes, and I saw the pain in Graves’s eyes but could find no pity for him. Many wors
e off than this man had managed to rise from the doldrums he had described. I saw it as a flaw in his character that he should be so afflicted by the absence of struggle or hard work. It beggared belief that he should consider his circumstances an impediment to his contentment.

  “You said that I saved Irina… I believe it was the opposite.” He smiled sadly at some past recollection. “It was almost two years ago, and I had taken to drinking heavily, but I sought not the company of my peers, my fellow feckless and over-privileged, of whom there are many. Instead, I went amongst the dregs of society, bawdy old taphouses and dens of ill repute. I frequented them all, and so fell deeper into despair. When this failed to satisfy me, I took to wandering the streets but kept my wits enough so as I never fell foul of the law.

  “I reached my nadir somewhere near Shadwell, though I have no memory of how I got there for I was drunk. It was winter and there was a biting wind in the air. Staggering across the dockyards, half dreaming as I watched the ships gently stir with the tides, I saw a girl, no older than sixteen, huddled in the shadow of a tobacco warehouse. An emaciated thing, she was, her skin pale as chalk under the grime and her eyes wild. I think she might have frozen that night had I not come across her. To this day, I still do not know how I even noticed her, but the sight of her all shrunk up like some pitiable wraith, it cut through the drink and I became quite sober. I wonder, perhaps, if it was providence.”

  I saw Holmes raise an eyebrow slightly at this, but chose not to comment. Graves remained unaware of my companion’s scepticism as he went on.

  “I cannot say how long it was since she had eaten, but I knew then that I had to take her from that place, and that in so doing I might find some meaning for my own existence. It took some effort to cajole her from hiding, and I was fearful that if I tried too hard I might arouse the attentions of the lesser men who trawled the wharfs. Thankfully, she was simply too exhausted to resist. I took her back to Mayfair, offering my coat to ward off the bitter cold, which she took. I suspect the cab driver thought me in the company of some dollymop, my generosity ensuring his lips remained sealed.