The Adventure of the King's Portrait

by Amelia Littlewood

  The Adventure of the King’s Portrait

  A Sherlock Holmes & Elizabeth Bennet Mystery

  By Amelia Littlewood

  Also by Amelia Littlewood

  Death at the Netherfield Park Ball

  The Mystery of the Indian Diadem

  The Peculiar Doctor Barnabus

  The Apparition at Rosing's Park

  The Shadow of Moriarty

  The Adventure of the King’s Portrait

  The Case of the Patriarch

  The Final Equation

  Copyright © 2018 Amelia Littlewood

  All rights reserved.

  Published by Cyanide Publishing

  www.cyanidepublishing.com

  First edition

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Contents

  Chapter One: A Detective’s Obsession

  Chapter Two: The Misplaced Portrait

  Chapter Three: A Trip to the Opera

  Chapter Four: Mary Lends a Hand

  Chapter Five: Holmes and the Woman

  Chapter Six: Holmes is Thwarted

  Chapter Seven: A Pity

  Chapter Eight: The Last Surprise

  About the Author

  Chapter One:

  A Detective’s Obsession

  I had, in my time with Mr. Holmes, come to both appreciate his virtues and grow accustomed to his flaws. There were things about him that I now took for granted and adjusted my behavior for without conscious thought, whereas others would be surprised or appalled and would inevitably make a disparaging comment. My mother was certainly one of those people.

  We had reached an uneasy truce, Mother and me. She still didn’t like the idea of me throwing myself into danger and possibly damaging my reputation in spending time with someone like Mr. Holmes, a man who is outside of the landed gentry and who regularly deals with the homeless and the criminal element. It did not matter at all to me who Mr. Holmes had to interact with in the course of obtaining information for his cases, nor did I particularly care if my reputation was damaged.

  It was reckless of me, I know, but I had found a real purpose in my life in helping the people that came to Mr. Holmes for assistance. Before I had met Mr. Holmes, my life had been rather boring, although I hadn’t had the courage to admit as much to myself. I had nothing to stimulate my intellect. I had my dear friend Charlotte and of course my sister Jane, the person in the world to whom I was closest, but I knew their companionship was temporary in a manner of speaking. As soon as we all married, we would be inevitably separated. And while I did love their company, talking about who had married whom, who had given birth, and so on could only carry my mind so far.

  With Mr. Holmes, I was finally getting to stretch my mind and create an impact in people’s lives. I had purpose. It also enabled me to stay in London near my dear Jane and assist her through her trying pregnancy and now being a young mother. I was no longer stuck at Longbourn, whiling away the hours with books, stagnating and yearning desperately for something, anything, to come along and break the state of mental limbo that I was in. Now I was truly living life.

  I knew that Mother would never truly understand this. I had, through talks with others, come to understand her concern for me more and did try to act in deference to it. But I would not stop what had become my chief joy in life.

  And so it was that in the afternoons, after morning calls were paid, I usually found myself at 221b Baker Street. I did try to avoid calls when I could, but I was unable to fully escape them, especially now that the rest of my family was temporarily in Jane’s London home. Mother and Father would soon be going home, for Father hated London. There were far too many people for his taste. And where Father went, Mother went. I had made some observations of late, including the pinched look around Mother’s mouth and the less care she took in her wardrobe, and knew that it was because she was worried for Father’s health. Once there was a time when she would have begged him to let her stay in London, even without him. Now she simply planned to follow him back home to Longbourn without complaint.

  Personally, I had higher hopes for my father’s health, but Mother is always fancying herself sick in some way and so sees it in others as well.

  My younger sisters, however, would be staying. Mother would not be dissuaded on that count. I had introduced Kitty and Lydia, my two youngest sisters, to the sweet and delightful Miss Georgiana Darcy, and the three had come to a close friendship. It was due in part, I believe, to Miss Georgiana and Lydia’s having both been temporarily in the clutches of the unscrupulous Mr. Wickham, a rake who had met an unpleasant but—in my mind at least—not entirely undeserved end.

  The three being so close, and with the London season upon us, Mother insisted that Kitty and Lydia make their official debut with the help of Jane and Mr. Bingley, my brother-in-law, so that my sisters might make something of themselves. Mr. Bingley had five thousand a year, and I believe Mother’s hope was that her two younger daughters would make even better matches of it.

  My middle sister Mary was also staying, although I could not rightfully blame her for our sudden influx of social calls that forced me to either stay home and help Jane receive them or go out on Jane’s behalf or as a chaperone to Kitty, Lydia, and Miss Georgiana. Mary stayed in London because she wished to study, as surreptitiously and extensively as she might, in matters of law and the classics.

  We might have purposefully failed to mention that to Mother when it was suggested that Mary, too, should stay in London.

  And so it was that I found my time with Mr. Holmes shorter than usual. I confess, although I felt it shallow of me, that I hoped my sisters would soon find a husband just as my mother hoped, so that my life with Jane might return to its usual tranquility and I could devote the entirety of my time to Mr. Holmes rather than snatching it when I could.

  I was certain that Mr. Holmes would remark upon it when I entered his flat, but to my surprise, he did not even greet me. Mr. Holmes was not a man known for his geniality or his sense of manners, but I had steadily been working with him on the idea that in order to keep getting clients one must put on at least a show of some consideration, which included greeting people when they entered one’s apartment.

  But there was no, “Ah, Miss Bennet,” followed by an observation or an introduction on a case he was working. Instead, I found him staring at the many pictures and scribbled notes on his wall, the one that I had secretly come to call the Spider’s Web for the little bits of red string crisscrossing it.

  In truth, I did not always believe in this Moriarty we were chasing. It sounded fantastical. But more worrisome than the reality of a supposed master criminal was how obsessive my friend was becoming about it. Could he no longer notice or care when I entered?

  “Mr. Holmes,” I said, alerting him to my presence.

  He continued to stare at the wall for a moment, then cleared his throat and turned to look at me. I saw at once that he was not sleeping as he should. Not that Mr. Holmes ever cared much for his personal health—the amount he smoked his pipe spoke to that. “Miss Bennet.” He looked me up and down. “Still forced to attend the London Season, I see.”

  “Jane cannot attend, what with the baby still so young.” Jane had, despite my desperate fears, rec
overed nicely from her pregnancy and had delivered a healthy baby boy, named after my father. But a baby has demands and Jane, bless her sweet nature, would not give him over to a wet nurse so that she might attend balls.

  “And have your sisters succeeded yet in finding husbands?” Mr. Holmes asked, and then immediately corrected himself. “No, I see they have not.”

  “I am getting too much sleep for that,” I said, deducing that he had noticed the lack of circles under my eyes. If either Kitty or Lydia had been proposed to, I should not have gotten a wink of sleep for all the excited dashing about and squealing that would have gone on.

  “Precisely.” Mr. Holmes then turned back to his wall.

  I held in my sigh. “Mr. Holmes, you have spent the last month staring at those papers. They will not transform into new information before your eyes.”

  “And yet, one must be persistent in the hunt,” Mr. Holmes countered.

  “Did no one ever tell you that the key to success in life is moderation?” I replied. “Mr. Holmes, please. Allow me to make you some tea.”

  I had never known how to make tea, or anything else, or clean, before I had met Mr. Holmes. There were always servants to take care of that for me. Now I knew how to make tea, and cook a little, and clean almost anything.

  “I have no need of it,” Mr. Holmes replied, waving me off.

  “You certainly do,” I told him. “Mr. Holmes, I am concerned. Your obsession with this person—who we still have yet to see in the flesh—is not healthy. How many cases have you turned away because of this?”

  “You are not my mother, the last I checked,” Mr. Holmes said.

  Once, such a comment would have insulted me. But I had grown used to arguing with Mr. Holmes during the course of our acquaintance. He could not so easily send me off into a huff or intimidate me with his blunt manner. “No, but I am your friend and, I should hope, a person possessing common sense. Come now. Stepping away and working upon another case will keep your faculties sharp. I think a change of pace might even do you good, you can come back and look at this with fresh eyes.”

  There was silence for a moment, and then Mr. Holmes said, “Miss Bennet, do I seem mentally sound to you?”

  I paused. “What would bring on such a question?” Mr. Holmes was the most intelligent and sane man that I knew. Whatever he lacked in social skills he made up for in sense and logic. Mr. Holmes did not know much of the soft things in life. Indeed, he scorned them, rejected romance and sentiment, and I had never once seen him so much as glance at a poem or stop to observe a pretty view. Lord Byron should have been appalled at Mr. Holmes, and I knew that the feeling would have been mutual.

  Mr. Holmes gestured at the wall. “This. You say I am growing obsessed. Is that not one of the signs of mental imbalance?”

  “I think it is merely your sense of determination,” I told him.”

  “Perhaps. But I do fear that I am overestimating this character. I wonder if I have simply made up his accomplishments.”

  I did not think Mr. Holmes would go so far as to make up an enemy for himself, but I could see why Mr. Holmes should fear that. He was often bored and would embark on the most insane experiments in order to occupy his mind. One time I came to find a human skull sitting on the table surrounded by vials with which he was coating the skull. Another time I entered the apartment only to gag from the awful smell and be told that Mr. Holmes was conducting a study in organ decay.

  When I say that being Mr. Holmes’s partner is not for the faint of stomach, I do mean that literally.

  It was not a stretch, I supposed, that to try and stimulate his mind, Mr. Holmes would wish for a master criminal. Someone on the opposite side of the law who was his equal, with whom he could finally engage in proper mental chess. It was appealing, and while I did not doubt Mr. Holmes’s sanity, I could see why he would doubt his own and wonder if his wishful thinking was impairing his judgment.

  “Well,” I said, “As you cannot learn anything new, perhaps it is time to set it aside for now. Many great mathematicians have had to set their figures aside for a time and I dare say we stretch our minds just as they do. I can ask around among my acquaintances at the balls and see if anyone is in need of our assistance. A few new cases away from this matter will be what’s best.”

  “I suppose you are right,” Mr. Holmes replied.

  I could not resist smiling. “Is the great detective actually conceding that I am right?”

  Mr. Holmes gave me a stern look. “So long as you do not rub it in.”

  I was glad that I could get my friend back into better humor, but before I could further bolster his spirits, Mrs. Hudson entered. “Mr. Holmes? Miss Bennet?”

  “Yes,” we answered at once.

  “You have a visitor.” Mrs. Hudson, for once, looked shaken. “A very important one.”

  “How important?” I asked, for in Mr. Holmes’s mind a person’s importance depended upon the complexity of their case and not their social status.

  Before Mrs. Hudson could reply, a man brushed past her into the room. Instinctively, I went down upon my knees, bowing my head, for I felt a simple curtsy would not do in such a situation. I had not met the man himself before but I had seen his portrait and heard of him, just as I had heard of and seen portraits of many royals.

  It was the King of Bohemia.

  Chapter Two:

  The Misplaced Portrait

  “Please, dear lady, don’t make a fuss on my account,” the king said.

  The discrete reader will no doubt note that I am not using the king’s precise name—in fact, the reader might very well wonder whether it was the king of Bohemia at all, or if it was not another member of royalty altogether. As a woman who seeks through Mr. Holmes to both exercise my own mind and help others, and I cannot do the former and go directly against the latter if I am careless with client privacy, I’m sure readers will forgive me for choosing a country at random and merely addressing our client as ‘the king’.

  I quickly stood but was unsure of how next to behave. A member of royalty, coming here—it was unbelievable. In fact, I discreetly pinched myself to make sure that I was still awake.

  Mr. Holmes, of course, did nothing of the sort. He didn’t even bow, so far as I could tell. Instead he turned and looked the king directly in the eye. While it was still obvious, at least in my mind, when I was looking someone up and down in order to observe them, Mr. Holmes managed to take in every aspect of a person while either looking them directly in the eye the entire time or not even appearing to look at them at all.

  “Would you care for some tea?” I asked. While others have been known to comment upon the stereotypes of the British with a condescending manner, I must say that when one is in the middle of a social crisis, I dare anyone to think of something that will better help to clear the air and soothe everyone’s nerves than offering some tea.

  After all, even if the offer of tea is refused, it’s usually enough to jumpstart a conversation when needed. The king looked at me and blinked for a moment, as if in confusion, then gave an apologetic smile. “I’m afraid I don’t have time for such pleasantries. I’ve taken care that nobody know I’m here, but the court will soon miss me if I stay for too long.”

  “Of course,” I said, taking over the conversation since I knew Mr. Holmes would not want to deal with such conventions. “Why don’t you get down to the matter at hand then. Please, sit if you would like.” I gestured to one of the chairs.

  “This is, as I’m sure you must both already guess, a matter of some urgency and discretion,” the king said. “You are probably wondering at my coming here myself, rather than employing someone else—”

  “But you have a matter of such delicacy that you cannot entrust to anyone else,” Mr. Holmes finished.

  The king stared at Mr. Holmes in fascination. “Yes, it is true.”

  “A matter regarding something personal, no doubt, rather than a matter of state,” Mr. Holmes
went on.

  “Well, yes, but how on earth did you come by such a deduction?”

  Mr. Holmes looked at me and I saw that he wished for me to answer the question. I tried to speak calmly, as I would to any other client who came to the flat. “You allowed yourself to be seen by our landlady,” I said. “While Mrs. Hudson is a most respectable woman, you were willing to chance a random Londoner of the lower classes seeing your face over sending a servant to disclose the case to Mr. Holmes. In this case, the matter could not be something of state, because your advisors and allies would need to know of it—rather it is a matter of personal discretion, and something serious enough that you would rather have a random woman telling her friends that she saw a king before you handed such dangerous information to a subordinate in your household.”

  The king looked at me with a kind of reluctant respect, and I saw Mr. Holmes give one of his tiny, almost humorless smiles. “Miss Bennet here is my associate. You can say anything in front of her just as you would in front of me. She possesses admirable deducting skills.”

  Our visitor seemed unsure what to say to that, and in the end bowed to me. “Well, then, I suppose I should better explain myself. Some five years ago I made the acquaintance of a young adventuress by the name of Irene Adler.”

  To use the word ‘adventuress’ I found rather damning. It was a polite term used to describe a woman who operated outside the bounds of society, generally by serving as a courtesan of sorts to rich and noble men. Yet, I had heard that name before.

  “Miss Adler is an opera singer,” I said. “A contralto.” I remembered her for Jane loved the opera, and true contraltos are rare and greatly prized by operatic composers for their rich, lower voices. “I believe, if my memory serves, she was born in New Jersey in the Americas, and at one point served as the Prima Donna for the Warsaw Imperial Opera.”

  “Your knowledge is accurate and commendable,” the king replied. “She was, in fact, the lead at the Warsaw company when I was also there. She has since been to other companies and is a well-traveled young lady, never settling down for long. It was as though the moment I learned of her address but she was off somewhere new. Now, I hear, she has settled more permanently in London at the Royal Opera House as their premiere star.”