“Well, there was paying the Irregulars, and holding some aside for rewarding their success.”
“There was almost a half month’s rent in there!” I said, shocked. “You gave them all of it?”
“There was also the bribe to let my ‘secretary’ take my place in the archives, and more to buy that boy something approximating a suit. I spent a great deal on cables to America last night, after Mr. Sewall left. Then there was the investment in locating Miss Hartley here in London. That was no easy matter, for she didn’t want to be found, though the Irregulars always succeed. I’ve sent a note requesting an hour of her time tomorrow at eleven.” He paused, frowning. “She evaded me quite a while. However, one must spend money to get more in, Watson.”
He sounded so prim and marmish I would have laughed, if I hadn’t been so angry.
“Well,” I said, mollified, and not a little relieved. “What have you found out?”
Holmes’s eyes glittered like a dragon on a hoard; he loved nothing so much as information. “I’ve discovered that Mr. Sewall is a first-rate cad. He may have made a promise to his wife, but I doubt he intends to keep it. He certainly never kept any of the other vows he made to her; if my source is correct, Sewall has a string of fancy women from New York to San Francisco. And he is in very dire straits, far worse than he suggested. He’s squandered a great deal of his family money, teetering on the brink of bankruptcy, with debts coming in fast.”
I grinned; that in and of itself was gratifying. “I suspected as much. What about his claim? Is he legitimately part of the family?”
“That I believe is true, and have confirmed it with records in Boston. The question is, why come to us?”
“You said it yourself. It takes money to make more money, and if time is a factor, then it’s well spent to come to you.”
“Perhaps. But he’s up to something, Watson, and I do not like not knowing what it is.”
“What about Miss Hartley?”
“She is more difficult. My instincts are all a-tingle, what with both Sewall and brother Mycroft so set against her. She is something more than a mere ‘adventuress.’ Her claims to be a descendant seem in order, though I have not satisfactorily determined what Mistress Anna Hoyt might have been doing on this side of the Atlantic.”
“Hmm, well, if we find Sewall’s inheritance, he’d better pay us. The kitty is now quite empty.”
“I always honor my debts,” Holmes said, a trifle peevishly.
Then he looked at me, an amused smirk playing about his lips. “You do realize, Watson, that if I decide to dip into the butter and egg money to buy cocaine, I shall probably not leave a note saying I have done so?”
“I never imagined . . .” But I felt my face going red all the same and hastened to tell him of the attack. “There might have been dire consequences, Holmes.” I recounted my meeting with Dermody and his boys, Margaret’s rescue, and Aggie’s initiation into one of the household’s peculiar habits.
He frowned. “In that case, my apologies. What should have been a slight inconvenience for you was very nearly something much worse.” He clapped me on the shoulder. “I have a friend who owes me dinner at his chop-house; we’ll go there tonight, form our battle plans. But you must tell me one thing.”
“Of course.”
“How does it feel to have your lady friend save your life? Again?”
I shrugged, showing nothing but mild amusement at his jibe. “It’s rather wonderful, you know. No end of useful in, er, matters of the boudoir. Better than gin. You should look into it, Holmes—oh, my pardon. You don’t have a lady friend, do you?”
“I don’t require anything so base. Mine is a life of the mind.”
He looked so pious, I could not help but laugh, as I reached for my hat. “Ha! You only say that when you haven’t any lady friend.”
Since it was so cheap to dine very well, we could not resist prolonging the evening with a quick drink at a local pub. There, I ran into some old friends from the regiment; drinks led to toasts, which led to cards. I lost track of Holmes at one point—he had done pretty well at cards, as he tends to—but rather than exploit his advantages, he left before anyone could grumble about his winnings. I saw him across the way discussing something with an unsavory-looking Egyptian, just as one of my mates took offense at something a sailor said. As the first punch was thrown, I felt that familiar red haze descend and the calm that came before a good row . . .
The next morning, the curtains were pulled open with a racket I usually associate with locomotives. “Oh, John, the state of you. And you’d been doing so well.”
“Mags, please . . .” Razors seemed to fill my eye sockets. “We just need to get our feet under us again . . .”
“No time for that. Drink your tea, and do better next time. You have a letter from a Miss Hartley.” Mrs. Hudson raised an eyebrow. “On scented paper.”
“A client.”
“Hmm.”
As Holmes and I set off for our appointment that morning, I was profoundly grateful it was raining, for sunlight would have been unbearable. I did wish, however, the rain would not beat down on my hat with such heavy, echoing blows.
Holmes’s aspect was ghastly, showing all the sad characteristics of a recent opium binge.
When we arrived at the hotel, Miss Hartley received us in a small parlor. She was a trifle late, but as we stood to greet her, I could only say that it was time well spent. A stunning petite blonde, she was dressed de rigueur in dark green velvet. I was utterly bewitched by the little Silesian iron ornament in her upswept hair, making as charming a figure as could be imagined. As she bade us sit, I could see the deep blue of her eyes, like the sea after a storm.
Holmes, who abhors the untidiness of latecomers and missed appointments, obstinately refused to be charmed. He was politeness itself, as he invariably is in public, but I recognized the slight hardening around his eyes that communicates—to those familiar with it—a disdain. For him, punctuality was a cardinal rule of etiquette, and before even shaking hands, Miss Hartley had blotted her copybook.
I’m sure that from her appearance, her claim, and this breach, he had deduced the whole of her history. I myself noted that, while her movements were graceful, there was an anxiety that informed her smallest gestures. The twisting of a handkerchief, the way her eyes darted around the room, her startlement at the least noise all told me of a lady in trouble.
“Thank you for seeing us, Miss Hartley,” Holmes said. “Perhaps you know already why I requested this appointment?”
“My claim to the fortune left by Anna Hoyt.” She looked away. “I hardly expected to meet the famous Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”
He waved a hand dismissively. “How did you learn about the bequest?”
“I had been traveling in the continent; a friend sent me a letter with the clipping from the paper. I contacted Mr. Deering.”
“Why were you abroad?”
“I was visiting friends.” She hesitated, then looked up at Holmes directly. “I had formed an . . . attachment there . . . and later learned he was untrue to me. I returned because . . . my health declined.”
“And the bequest—” Holmes started.
“I’m a doctor,” I broke in. “If I may be of any assistance—?”
She laughed, a lovely sound. “Thank you, I am nearly better now. But if I find Anna Hoyt’s bequest, I shall travel to Egypt and let the ancient sun heal me.”
Holmes frowned briefly at me. “But to the case at hand. You’ll forgive me asking—how is it that no record of your birth exists in the United States?”
“For the simple reason that my family has always been in England. It is my belief that Anna’s son—my many-times great-grandfather—was the result of either a hidden marriage or an illicit love affair.” She blushed prettily. “But the records for my family are here, even if Anna Hoyt did not remain.”
“You met your distant cousin, Habakkuk Sewall, while you were in Prague, correct?”
Sudd
enly, her features sharpened. “Forgive me, Mr. Holmes, but do you work for Mr. Sewall?”
“It is true.” He raised an eyebrow. “One cannot always choose one’s clients.”
I frowned; it was unlike him to be so indiscreet.
“Then I believe this interview is at an end,” Miss Hartley said. “I have no interest in furthering the interests of a gentleman—and I must only use the term in its most general sense—who seeks to rob a young lady of something that is rightfully hers. Good morning.”
She rose, and for a moment, I could see in her defiance and disdain a great deal of her ancestress. With the barest of nods to me, Miss Hartley moved past with a rustle of silk satin. At the door, she weakened. We ran to her aid, and she would have fallen had I not caught her.
She thanked me, squeezing my hand with a sad smile, and fled before I could ascertain her illness.
“Bravo, Holmes,” I said angrily. “She’s clearly still unwell!”
“Watson, please.” He patted his pockets, frowning. “She knew that I am working for Mr. Sewall.”
“What of it?”
“And yet she waited to bring it up as a way to exit.”
“What do you mean?”
“Simply this: Why meet us, if she wants to avoid Mr. Sewall?” He cocked his head. “Much more sensible to make up some excuse to us and hide herself away again. And there’s the question of why Mycroft would want me to keep me my distance from her. I think, Watson, she wanted to . . . show herself to me. To let me read her history in her words and in her person. Communicate something to me.”
One of Wiggins’s troop of mercenaries ran in. “Mr. Holmes, come quick!”
“What is it, Mr. Coupe?”
“Mr. Deering’s office—it’s on fire!”
We got there too late. The conflagration kept everyone far back; it was not known if Mr. Deering was alive or dead.
“There is more at stake here than money,” Holmes murmured. “This is an act of rage.”
“But how—?”
We were interrupted by a shout. Another of the Irregulars ran across the busy thoroughfare, skillfully dodging omnibuses and hansoms, reaching us, out of breath.
“Mr. Holmes! I came as fast as I could!” It was the young man got up as a clerk doing research for Holmes.
“What have you found, Mr. Morris?”
“Miss Morris—my twin brother can’t read as well as me,” she said; I belatedly realized that her hair was tucked under her collar and cap. “I’ve found the location of the house!” She held up a scrap of paper with an address. “It’s in Sussex! On the South Downs, near Eastbourne.”
“Very well done, Miss Morris!”
When I saw the way the young lady’s face lit up, I could not help but think Holmes was correct in giving the Irregulars the chances he did. With her ink-stained fingers and third-hand clothing, Miss Morris was as proud as an empress at her achievement.
“Shall I find you a cab, Mr. Holmes?” she said, her breath returning.
“No need. But you’ve earned this.” He handed her a coin. “Go find the others, tell them to keep up the fine work.”
“Yes, sir! Thank you, sir!”
We immediately found a cab and rushed to the station. “I’m afraid we’ve missed the good train to Eastbourne, Watson.”
“I’m not sure what we’ll do when we get there. Our client is Mr. Sewall, but you’re saying that Miss Hartley wants our aid?” I reached into my pocket for a cigarette. My fingers brushed across a small scrap of paper. Frowning, I pulled it and read it. “Isaiah 56:5? Where on earth did this come from?”
Holmes’s face cleared, and I knew he’d discovered the solution to some part of our puzzle. “I thought I was wrong about Miss Hartley, when she didn’t pass me a note. She put the clue into your pocket, because you were there first.”
“What?”
“She’s given us the location of the treasure. She is indeed asking for our help.”
We barely made the next train to Eastbourne. As I caught my breath, I could not imagine what conclusions Holmes had reached.
“I believe Chercover himself was the unfaithful ‘attachment’ Miss Hartley formed, or possibly she broke it off when she discovered his true nature. The foreign cut of her garments and particularly the Silesian iron jewelry she wore—I’m much better at identifying contemporary fashion, Watson!—suggests a long stay in central Europe. When she received news of the Hoyt treasure, she realized she might find the means to flee him. That Egyptian fellow I spoke with last night? He is the porter for her hotel; he confirmed her luggage had stamps from Prague.”
Holmes continued. “She knew my reputation, and she knew that if I was investigating this case, I might be able to assist her. She relied on me reading her situation from her person, and her version of the story. She could not be plainer about Chercover or the location of the treasure for fear we were spied upon, or might give her up.”
“Chercover burned down the law offices,” I said, remembering Holmes’s mention of “rage.”
“Yes. He followed her to London, perhaps having read the letter she’d received. And when we were beset by that ruthless gang, I knew it might not only be Mr. Sewall she hid from. But I think Chercover has another purpose here: meeting Mr. Habakkuk Sewall.”
“What!”
“Sewall’s interest in the treasure is genuine—he needs the money. But I believe he formed the idea of working with Chercover when he visited Miss Hartley abroad. You remember, he mentioned she was with a bad crowd? I think he’s been in negotiations with Chercover to sell space on his reputable ships for whatever Chercover wishes to smuggle—men, gold, guns. In exploring Sewall’s claim, my man in Boston observed that he sent a large number of cables to Prague.”
“Yes. And it was by watching Chercover that your brother Mycroft learned about Sewall, the legacy, and Miss Hartley,” I said. “And our involvement.”
“Exactly! He warned me away from Miss Hartley, as he believes he can use her to find and arrest Chercover and his men.”
I frowned. “It seems so odd that both of them—relatives from opposite sides of the Atlantic—would be entangled with a monster like Chercover, but you’ve shown me quite material reasons for it.”
Holmes shrugged. “There is also the matter of atavism and hereditary aptitudes, Watson. We observe that Mistress Hoyt was clever, cautious, and canny; she survived a rough era to die peacefully of old age. And yet, she hid money to escape possible political reverses and avoid taxes; my man in Boston suggests a dark history behind her wealth. It is not difficult to imagine that her descendants might have also inherited her clever, perhaps criminal turn of mind, one looking for excitement abroad, the other risking large sums of cash.”
“But what about this piece of paper?”
“The location of the treasure. Do you know the Bible verse?”
“If memory serves, something about walls and a house?”
“‘Even unto them will I give in mine house and within my walls a place and a name better than of sons and of daughters.’ I believe if we find a wall or construction of late last century’s vintage, we will find the treasure. Or, at least, we’ll find Miss Hartley, who wants us to help her escape Chercover, who is no doubt closing in on her.”
I nodded. “She is the only one in this case not guilty of anything more than bad judgment, to have fallen in love with an anarchist. I’m happy to help her over Mr. Sewall.”
“A race to the treasure.” Holmes’s face was grim, but his eyes were alight with anticipation. “Watson, do not be mistaken: There will be a bloodbath in Sussex.”
It took an excruciatingly long time to reach the farmstead; we had good luck getting a taxi from Eastbourne, but after finding directions to the farm itself, were forced to walk the last mile to the long driveway leading to the front of the house.
The farmstead was quiet when we arrived in the early evening. I had to assume we were not the first ones here. There was little wind in this sheltered sp
ot and I fancied I could almost hear the crash of waves on the nearby coast. The age of the little farmhouse suggested to us both that it long predated Anna Hoyt’s time. We agreed to circle around from opposite sides, I from the left, and Holmes from the right as we faced the house. With any luck, we would find a wall constructed within the past century or meet in the back.
Nearing the rear of the house, past a flanking hedge, I could make out several tea-chest-sized structures staggered inside a stone wall enclosing the yard behind the house. Only prudence born of long experience kept me from racing to it, and it was well I did not: as I approached the hedge, I was surprised by several men. Their shouts were in the same guttural language spoken by the brigands who attacked us in the alley. A flock of my bullets drove them away, but, returning fire, they forced me to take cover on the ground behind the hedge.
As the echo of shots died away, I realized that an angry droning noise had risen up all around me. A rich scent, redolent of alfalfa, burned molasses, and thyme, filled my nose. I saw ranks of beehives in the space between an ancient ruin of a moss-covered wall and a much newer construction. Thousands of dark little bodies flitted through the air, disturbed by our gunplay. There seemed to be no end of them. I’d never been stung by a bee, and never thought about it, but now the sheer number of them, the huge noise they made as they rose up to defend their homes, became a phantasm, a terror that robbed me of my will. I had no idea what to do. . . .
The darkening sky closed down around me and my vision narrowed. I felt as if I was being pressed into the earth. The noise was . . . everywhere. Inside my head, down to the hollow cores of my bones. There was no relief, no cessation. I could feel every vibration of the swarm in the dirt beneath me. The enraged hum screamed “danger,” thrilling my every nerve. If I moved, I’d be shot. If I stayed, I would surely die. My heart pounded fit to shatter my ribs.
Only half aware of my surroundings, through the stems of the hedge, I saw Holmes approach the rear of the house, toward the hives. Heard the arrival of other men.
Echoes of Sherlock Holmes Page 8
