“That’s exactly why Goldstone won’t expect my sudden return. Besides, the man is no crack shot.”
To my consternation, Holmes sprinted back to the Longetine Manor. When he entered the gate, he disappeared from my view. A few moments later, another shot rang out and Holmes came flying towards me. Goldstone stepped out into the lane, cursing the good name of the imaginary Mr. Matthews. He leveled his gun and gave one last blast.
“Tally ho, Watson!” Holmes said as he swung himself up into the driver’s seat. With a flick of his wrist, we were off, the furious Gladstone quickly disappearing in the rain behind us.
“What was all of that business?” I asked.
“I was taking the measure of the man, metaphorically and literally.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. The finger marks on the jewelry box and the front door, where I had seen him place his hands as he chastised us upon our arrival, did not match. Further, Mr. Goldstone has the distinct amble of a victim of rickets.”
“Absurd. I saw none of the hallmark deformities.”
“The signs were subtle, I admit, and further I believe Mr. Goldstone takes great pains to hide them. Nonetheless, the nascent angles of caput quadratum could be seen about his temples, and the footprints he left in the mud don’t lie. My first conjecture would be that the deficiency was congenital, and that a corrective diet was not supplied until after infancy. I suspect we would find that Mr. Goldstone was put into an orphanage at an early age, and from there taken into household service. Besides the signs of a deprived nativity, he demonstrates that unique combination of haughtiness and contempt found only in those lifelong servants accustomed to dining off of their master’s silverware. No matter. He was admirable if ineffectual in defending Lady Longetine’s belongings.”
“From you.”
“From what he perceived to be a pair of robbers. If he himself were the thief, it would have been the perfect opportunity to let us go about our business and implicate us for any past crime he may have committed. He may be an ill-tempered lap dog, but he is at least a loyal one.”
“So we have cleared him of suspicion.”
“Indeed, the whole household, for Goldstone and Lord Longetine are the only men in residence, and the Lord would have little reason to sneak into his wife’s jewelry box. Even if he meant to convert the jewels to currency, he surely could have simply taken the necklace at any of a thousand opportunities. More to the point, there were half-a-dozen pieces more valuable at hand, and the Lord would have known that.”
“Then we have little to go on. The necklace might have been switched at anytime since the marriage.”
“I am uniquely well-versed in the art of counterfeit. This method is new, and so must the theft be.”
“So we may yet catch the villain.”
“The possibility remains,” Holmes replied, a lupine grin stretched taut across his clenched jaw. What seemed to me utter defeat was to him the very scent of the game. He retreated into the depths of his mental process for the duration of the trundle home, and I was left to turn up my collar and lament the sodden cigarettes in my pocket.
Mrs. Hudson met me at the door of 221b as Holmes handed the cart off to a rough looking fellow who seemed to materialize from the shadows when we halted.
“Oh, Dr. Watson, this is the second time today you have dripped all over my floor. I shan’t be surprised if the boards are warped tomorrow. Nevermind that, your own clothes have dried, and cleaned as much as a soap and brush can manage. You’d best resume your traditional attire. Mr. Holmes has a client waiting.”
Keenly aware of the good landlady glaring in my general direction from the heart of her kitchen, I exchanged my workman’s togs for my suit, which she had restored admirably, behind the cover of an open cupboard door. I hung the soaked costume up myself and shuffled up to Holmes’s parlor with much the posture of a chastised schoolboy. By the time I arrived, Holmes was sat primly in his chair, as if he had been sat there all day pondering the papers and smoking his pipe. In my own chair was an agitated man turning his top hat round and round between his hands. His side whiskers were eccentric but impeccably groomed, and he wore a fine green velvet jacket atop a silk cravat, pinned with some kind of heraldic crest too fine to make out in the gloom.
“My associate,” Holmes gestured to me, “Doctor Watson.”
“Doctor.” The man touched his brow as if to tip the very hat that was dancing in his lap.
“I’m afraid I do not investigate matters of a purely domestic nature,” Holmes said. “There are any number of agencies better suited. I know Barker to be a good man and can supply you his card.”
“This isn’t a simple domestic matter...” The man glanced at me.
“I assure you that Doctor Watson can be relied upon absolutely,” Holmes said.
“The drawing was one thing, but as far as it went, it was a perfectly fine hobby for a girl.”
“The drawing?” I asked.
“Mr. Reynold’s daughter has an artistic bent and has long been sketching about town.”
“I would prefer she focused on still-lifes, of course,” Reynolds said. “Or even landscapes, but she has always been fascinated by the people of London, and by drawing what she calls ‘scenes from life’. She wanders down the shabbiest streets as if that were nothing extraordinary.”
“I sympathize with your concerns,” I said, “But I quite agree with Holmes. There is little he can do about that.”
“I have long since resigned myself to her stubbornness. Her mother is much the same and, to be honest, it is one of her better qualities. I don’t want a meek little mouse for a child. That said, we did come to an agreement that she would limit her wanderings to broad daylight, and remain in plain view. That, at least, she has heeded.”
“Then how do you expect us to be of service?” Holmes asked.
“Her habits have changed recently. Where once she made studies of the common Londoner, street scenes and depictions of the harbor workers and so on, which could be argued to have social and artistic merit, she now draws portraits of rich idlers and heiresses. Worse, she accepts payment for it.”
“There’s nothing wrong with having an industrious spirit,” I replied.
“She is toiling for shillings when she is on the cusp of a marriage that would give her security for life.”
“She has a fiancé?”
“No, but she is of age, and there has been definite interest from more than one suitor. I have had more than my fair share of success, gentlemen, and am in a position to see that marries well.”
“Perhaps she prefers her independence,” I said. “Some do, these days.”
“I could provide for that as well, and would if it would make her happy.”
“That isn’t really independence,” I observed.
“Tut, Watson,” Holmes said. “The girl resides with her parents, takes her meals at home, relies upon the servants for her needs. This is no radical reformer.”
“Yet she gathers coppers,” I mused. “After seemingly abandoning her concern for the poor.”
Holmes sat far back in his chair and drew from his pipe deeply. A prodigious billowing of blue smoke poured from his lips. He seemed to watch it twirl and climb, to be dashed against the ceiling, before he spoke. “Women often keep their secrets for good reason, though admittedly girls sometimes keep them injudiciously. I shall make a preliminary inquiry, Mr. Reynolds. If I deem that your daughter is in danger, or that there is something rotten in the business, I shall take the case in hand.”
“Thank you, Mr. Holmes!”
“Yet,” Holmes held up a cautioning finger, “If I find this is a silly nothing, whether on her part or yours, I shall immediately retreat. Such decision will be entirely at my discretion, as well as what, if any, findings I will report back to you. If I tell you t
here is nothing to it, that is to be the end of it.”
“Very good, Mr. Holmes. I trust your judgement completely.”
I showed the excitable Mr. Reynolds out before turning the Holmes. “Why take on a new case, one very much beneath you, when we have just begun the other for Lady Longetine?”
“Just as the first tantalizes me on a scientific level, this matter intrigues me on a human level. Besides, it will be an hour’s work to decipher the riddle of Miss Reynolds.”
As he spoke, Holmes disappeared into his bedroom. Moments later, he returned in crisp suit and tie.
“Whatever are you dressed up for?” I asked.
“Why, for tea at the Meadowlark, of course.” He produced a gilt invitation from the mantel.
“What is the Meadowlark?”
“A charming country retreat, the summer home of some ancient duchess or some such. A classic example of Tudor architecture, with all of the modern amenities, of course. Mr. Reynolds’ daughter, Emily, has been spotted there, applying her vocation.”
“By whom?”
“As he himself indicated, he has been casting his daughter about town in hopes of finding a good match. She is a bit of a celebrity at the moment in certain circles, as all eligible young ladies are in due course.”
“That’s a bit of a cynical view, Holmes.”
“Nonetheless, we are charged with extracting her with a minimum of scandal. Reynolds is going to wire ahead to make arrangements for us as American business prospects out for a weekend at a real English country manor. He assures me it is the perfect camouflage.”
“I can hardly pass for American, Holmes, particularly if there is are genuine Yankees present.”
“No, but you shall serve quite well as my British secretary. Someone who knows the ins-and-outs of business practicalities here.”
“And you?”
“I have had some small practice. We will put it to the test.”
As we rode out to Meadowlark, clattering along on one of those rural lines that seems to be maintained almost as a hobby of the locals, I began to seriously wonder about Holmes’s mental state. He had been eccentric as long as I had known him, but his behavior at the Longetine Manor had been foolhardy at best. Then to pivot on his heel to this bit of frivolity was most unlike my friend.
As the train made its way up to the station, which was hardly more than a garden shed with an extended roof, Holmes righted himself again, executed a brief series of contortions to limber himself up, and snatched his travelling bag from the shelf above. After I had stiffly levered down my own bag, we stepped down onto the dirt. I had not realized how stale the air in the train had been, but the clean scent of warm soil came as a kind of shock. We had managed to leave the rain behind us and that, at least, was a relief. A little way off sat a landau, the Meadowlark crest painted garishly in gold upon the doors. A pair of ladies were directing the coachman as he secured their luggage at the rear of the vehicle.
“I could not ask for better accessories to our disguise,” Holmes whispered to me.
“Accessories?”
“A group of men are, by nature, viewed, however subconsciously, as a kind of invasion. The company of women tempers such instinctive suspicions. Besides, as you yourself have often proved, a beautiful woman is the best distraction, or at least the surest.”
His whole body suddenly assumed a new posture and Holmes bellowed out, “Hold on there, friend! Don’t forget about us!” It seemed that Holmes’s had conjured the ghost of Buffalo Bill Cody, whom we had both seen at the American Exhibition. He sauntered over to the carriage with a kind of movement I would not have thought possible of my friend. Once there, he slapped the back of the unfortunate driver and dropped his bag on the fellow’s toes. “See that you find a good spot for my luggage, my good man.” He then pivoted on his heel and seized one hand from each of the women. He lifted each in turn and kissed their knuckles with too much familiarity and for far too long. The ladies blushed and playfully batted Holmes away, only to titter to each other.
“I have never been so charmed,” said the one on the left. Her dress was covered with elaborate frills of lace, as was her hat.
“May we ask whom we have the pleasure of meeting?” said the other. While at first her outfit seemed much more conservative, upon closer inspection it was studded with black pearls, as was her hair.
“Colonel Raymond Colburn at your service,” Holmes said, leading them up into the carriage.
“My sincerest apologies,” I said to the coachman as I approached. The man had a grimace of pure spite aimed right at Holmes’s back.
“There’s no more room for luggage,” he spat at me. “You and your friend will have to ride with your bags in your lap.”
“I quite understand,” I said, stooping to retrieve Holmes’s bag. When I tried to hand it up to Holmes, I found him hunched deep in conspiratorial conversation with the two beauties. It was one of life’s incongruities that Holmes, who had such little desire for the affections of women, was so apt at ensnaring them. With no help from anyone I fumbled my way into my seat, where I found the view much obstructed by the pile in my lap. Holmes pounded upon the roof, and, with what seemed like an excessive cracking of the whip, we were off.
“Somewhere under there is my man in London, Nigel Greenstreet,” Holmes said. “What are you up to under there anyway?”
“There was no more room,” I managed before being cut off by the peals of laughter.
“We’re in luck,” Holmes said. “The girls here practically run the Meadowlark, and they are going to make sure we have a real good time.”
“Now, Colonel,” chided the one in pearls, “you mustn’t say things like that, and certainly not with that tone.”
“Just because we are French in our fashion doesn’t mean we are French in our behavior,” said the other. “We are proper ladies, and you, sir, are going to act like a gentleman.”
The four of us sat in serious silence for a moment before the three of them began cackling again.
“Of course, my darling Arietta,” Holmes said. “Anything for you.”
“As always, they pledge themselves to my sister.”
“On the contrary, beautiful Minuet, I fear any pledge to behave myself with you would be tantamount to a lie.”
They carried on in this fashion the whole way, and to say it was a relief when at last we arrived at the Meadowlark would be an understatement. The hotel was breathtaking. There were a dozen peaked gables and a dizzying array of pattern work on the exterior. The top floor was completely ringed in glazed glass. When the carriage came to a stop, Holmes clamored out over me to help the ladies down. Again I was left to manage the bags. By the time I had extruded myself from the carriage, Holmes was disappearing inside with one of the women on each arm. Members of the hotel staff had appeared to carry the luggage inside, and mercifully a man in pristine uniform at last relieved me of my burden. Just before whisking the carriage away again, the driver gave me a momentary look of sympathy. At my elbow, then, was a maid.
“You are Colonel Colburn’s companion?” she asked.
“Yes. Mister, uh, Greenstreet, of London.”
“Very good. I can show you to your room.”
The stairway was remarkably constrained and, by the time we had gained the second floor, I was quite glad that I did not have to carry the bags up. While the room was small, it had a commanding view of the hedge maze out back - a view ruined only by the sight of Holmes cavorting with the ladies we had met on the way here, as well as a number of other merrymakers.
The maid had left me with a pitcher of clean water, and after some ablutions and a cigarette, I felt restored enough to face the garden party below. Holmes was looking on as the sisters posed for a sketch by a woman who must certainly be Emily Reynolds. As I approached, Holmes stirred and took me by
the arm, leading me a discreet distance away from the other revelers.
“I don’t know what you are playing at, Holmes, but this charade is too much.”
“I quite agree. I abhor vacuous small talk and empty pleasantries, and if I do not speak to anyone, including you old friend, for at least a week after this has concluded I hope you won’t think ill of me.”
“You seemed to like it well enough when you had Arietta and Minuet cooing over you.”
“Ha!” Holmes said. “Nonetheless, it has borne fruit.”
“Yes, I see we have found the young Miss Emily. We hardly needed those women for that.”
“No, but I was able to commission a sketch of them, and that has revealed at least three items of interest. Observe for yourself.”
I stepped closer to peer over the artist’s shoulder. Her depiction of the insufferable socialites was quite good. She clearly had a quick eye and a clever hand. In fact, she had captured something in black and white that I had failed to decipher in life. I stepped back to Holmes.
“Egad!” I cried. “They aren’t just sisters, they’re twins!”
Holmes sighed.
“With one so fair and the other so dark, I hadn’t seen it before,” I said.
“Again you are looking at the women when you should be looking at the facts.”
“What do you see, then?”
“One: Miss Reynolds labels the drawings with names and addresses. A strange practice when she surrenders the drawing to her clients on the spot, wouldn’t you say? And yet she never signs her own name. I have yet to see the working artist who does not sign her own work.”
“She is an amateur, despite what her father thinks. You make too much of little things. What else do you see?”
“While her portraits are certainly serviceable, her skill only really shines in her depictions of jewelry.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean she spends more time on their adornments than their faces, and the result is practically schematically perfect.”
“So she is better at drawing things than faces. What of it?”
The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories - Part X Page 41
