"Of course, Holmes," I replied stiffly, somewhat offended that my old friend could imply I had so little delicacy as to reveal the identities of those involved in the services to the nation that had led to Holmes being offered a knighthood in June 1902, the coronation month (had not illness postponed the celebration) of our late and gracious monarch, Edward the Peacemaker. For reasons that must perforce remain undisclosed, these services had been rendered some years earlier, in the spring and early summer of '97, at a time when the world supposed Holmes to have been ill, a fiction at which I have hitherto been obliged, from the highest of motives, to connive. His iron constitution, I wrote — truthfully — showed some symptoms of giving way. It did not in fact do so.
On a chilly day late in February 1897 Holmes and I were lunching in the Baker Street rooms, when a telegram arrived. This was hardly an unusual occurrence, but my engagement with Mrs Hudson's mutton chop ceased immediately when Holmes's face was suddenly transformed, flushed and with a glitter in his eyes, followed by an expression of extreme thoughtfulness. He handed the telegram to me, his brows drawn into two dark lines. It read: "Come at once. My club Mycroft."
"When Brother Mycroft commands, and during the hour of luncheon at that, we may be sure that weighty matters are afoot, Watson."
"Shall I accompany you, Holmes?"
"Why, certainly. We leave immediately. Mrs Hudson will no doubt forgive our abandonment of her excellent treacle pudding. I smell danger in its place, though of a form which I trust should have no need of your pistol."
Within the half hour we were being ushered into a private room of the Diogenes Club in Pall Mall, one of the few places where speaking was permitted in this club of most unclubable gentlemen. There we found not only Mycroft awaiting us, but three other most distinguished visitors. The remains of a hasty luncheon suggested they had been foregathered some time. One of the visitors we recognized instantly and indeed Holmes had undertaken cases for him on former occasions. If anything were needed to convince us of the seriousness of the circumstances that called us here, it was the presence of the elderly Lord Bellinger, once more Premier of Britain. The second was Sir George Lewis, solicitor in delicate matters to the highest in the land. He too was no stranger to Holmes, though my presence brought a swift frown to his face which was only removed by a nod from Lord Bellinger. The third, a keen-eyed tall man of about thirty-five, was introduced to us as Mr Robert Mannering, a name familiar to us as Lord Bellinger's Adviser on European Affairs. He had inherited the mantle, though not yet the high office, of the late Trelawney Hope, Lord Bellinger's Secretary for European Affairs at the time of the Adventure of the Second Stain. Holmes' brother Mycroft sat in the midst of the group, a huge and ungainly spider in the centre of the web of Government diplomacy and intrigue.
"I had not thought we should yet again have need of your services, Mr Holmes," the Premier began. "Your brother informs us you are exceptionally busy at the moment."
"That is so."
"We have to ask you to lay all else aside, save that which we are about to ask you to undertake."
"That is scarcely feasible, Lord Bellinger." Holmes was taken aback at this request. "There is the interesting case of the Vanishing Pedlar, and the affair of the Ten Black Pillowcases."
"Insignificant trifles, Sherlock," Mycroft rumbled.
From no one but his brother would Sherlock Holmes have accepted this without considerable demur.
"Well, well, that may be debated on a future occasion."
"Let me explain, Mr Holmes. I act on behalf of a —" Sir George coughed slightly as though he were unwilling even to commit himself so far, "— a noble client of the highest station, who is concerned on behalf of his mother, a — um — lady of venerable years," Lord Bellinger and Mr Mannering's eyes were momentarily averted from us, "who is held in highest public esteem and affection and who has no knowledge whatsoever of the events that I am about to relate to you. Nor must she ever have. That is mandatory. His mother — let us call her Lady X — "
"If you insist," Holmes agreed in a bored voice.
"Lady X," Sir George continued hurriedly, "is mistress of an exceptionally large household in London and several country residences. She was widowed early after a most happy marriage, and though blessed with a large and loving family, inevitably as each in turn chose matrimony she came more and more to rely in her private life on a large group of retainers, and one in particular, a loyal and faithful servant who was her personal attendant and confidant to a degree that aroused the disquiet of some of her advisers, though he was an honest enough fellow."
"To the point, Sir George. I believe this loyal and faithful retainer of yours to be dead these fourteen years," Holmes said, displaying some impatience.
Sir George bowed his head in slight amusement, despite his obvious anxiety. "As always you are correct, Mr Holmes. He died in one of Lady X's larger country residences and afterwards his effects were naturally returned to his family in Scotland. He left no will, and her ladyship made the request of his appointed executor that such correspondence as had passed between them, on matters concerning the estate and so forth should be extracted and returned to her. This was done, or so it was believed."
"Believed?"
"We have reason to believe that one letter never reached the security of Lady X's archives. The librarian keeps the correspondence under lock and key, not to mention his own coded system. He is positive it has not been touched since it entered his possession. I need hardly say he himself is above suspicion.Yet this morning, Mr Holmes, I received an unsigned letter informing me that the writer had in his possession a letter from Lady X to her retainer and was prepared to part with it for a suitable sum."
"On a matter concerning the estate?" Holmes queried politely.
Sir George hesitated, and Robert Mannering after a nod from Lord Bellinger replied for him. "We must rely on your complete discretion, Mr Holmes, Mr Watson."
"You may be assured of it," my friend replied coldly.
"This letter, a copy of which was enclosed, was written during the retainer's last illness, which was a highly infectious one precluding any visits by Lady X to his bedside. It was a letter of warmth, full of affection and gratitude for the years of devoted service and friendship that he had given her."
"Come, come, Mr Mannering. We trifle."
"By an enemy," Robert Mannering continued steadily, "that letter, assuming it to be no forgery, might be capable of grievous misinterpretation by those who seek an opportunity for mischief."
"If that is the case," I said eagerly, "why has nothing been heard of it for fourteen years?"
"Good,Watson," Holmes cried. "However, an event is to take place this summer which must surely rank above all others in placing Lady X at the forefront of world attention. At such a time the letter, if it fell into the wrong hands, might well be used to devastating effect."
"To ruin her reputation?"
"Worse, Watson. To besmirch not only England, but the Empire itself, if I am not mistaken.Why else should the Premier's Adviser on European Affairs be with us today?"
"You are not mistaken, Mr Holmes." Lord Bellinger spoke
gravely. "We must buy that letter back." •
"Pray let me see the copy, and the letter to you, Sir George."
After a moment's hesitation, Sir George handed both to him. "It will tell you nothing. It came by hand from an unknown messenger."
"Nothing in itself inevitably conveys information," Holmes remarked, scanning the contents. Both were penned in a bold black copperplate, and the letter to Sir George was brief: "The writer is prepared to part with the original of the enclosed letter for a sum to be arranged. The crest will prove its provenance. The personal columns of the daily newspapers will convey my next instruction."
"They are written by hand," Holmes observed to his brother.
Mycroft chuckled. "I can supply names, Sherlock."
I was bewildered at this exchange, and indeed I was only now appreciati
ng the gravity of the whole affair. Holmes did not pursue the subject.
"We would ask you to carry out the negotiation on our behalf, Mr Holmes," Sir George said.
"I believe my services may be required for more than mere barter," Holmes replied quietly, "or Mycroft alone would be handling this affair."
"Why, Holmes?" I was startled, but the expression on Lord Bellinger's face confirmed it.
"Ten years ago this month, Watson, there was another occasion of equal importance to Lady X yet nothing was heard of this letter then. Does that not suggest that the writer of the letter is no ordinary sneaksman, but plays for large stakes and to whom, since time appears no object, the game is of more importance than the outcome? A dangerous opponent, Watson. Ten years ago — correct me if I err, Mr Mannering — the leader of the European power who now casts envious eyes on Britain's prosperity, had not yet succeeded his father on the throne, and moreover his country had a great and wise Chancellor to guide it. Today, however, the son rules alone, and through jealousy, his relations with England are currently so bad that he would stop at nothing to mar the additional prestige that this summer will undoubtedly bring to Lady X and the British Empire."
"I fear you are right, Mr Holmes," Robert Mannering said heavily, "and that this affair will by no means be a straightforward financial transaction."
"What then?" I asked, as no one spoke.
"There will be other bidders, Watson," Holmes replied. "It remains to be seen whether we shall be permitted to be one of them."
"But Sir George's letter — "
"The game, Watson, the game."
Readers of my chronicles may recall the name which was now to be mentioned, and whose dramatic introduction to my friend I stated that I might some day recount. I am now able to do so, for Sir George said briskly: "All the more reason that the world must not know that you are involved, Mr Holmes. I have already taken the liberty of arranging for you to visit Dr Moore Agar of Harley Street who will issue instructions to you to surrender all your cases and take a complete rest, lest you suffer a breakdown of health. The newspapers will be informed of this. Dr Agar is well accustomed to such confidential work on our behalf."
Holmes, who prided himself, despite his addiction to the notorious drug, on his strong constitution, reluctantly concurred.
In order to maintain the fiction we hailed a cab even for the short distance from Harley Street to our Baker Street rooms. No sooner had we entered than he flew to his index of biographies.
After a mere ten minutes he exclaimed, "I have it. The chief player in our game, Watson."
"Who is he, Holmes?"
"What man would play such a game for its own sake? I sought a woman.You may have wondered what I found informative about the handwriting. Why, nothing, save that its use told me that the writer did not fear discovery. It followed that we dealt with no common criminal but with someone well acquainted with the highest circles in the land and who gambled that the identity of the thief would be nothing compared with the need to recover the letter. It also follows that the thief is unlikely to be British with a social position to be maintained at all costs. The Baroness Pilski is most certainly our thief." He brandished the heavy volume in the air. "A redoubtable lady, Watson, deserving of our respect. Her late husband fled to England after the failed uprising of the Poles in 'sixty-three and, of an émigré family herself, she married him in 'seventy-nine at the age of twenty-three. For some years a lady-in-waiting to Lady X, she resigned the position ten years ago and has since employed her skills to wreak damage to whom and where she chose.You may recall I crossed swords with the lady in the curious incident of the Limping Jarvy."
"Cannot Lestrade arrest her?"
"Tut, tut, our friend will be prepared for such a move. It is the letter we seek, Watson. No, we must wait upon events."
We did not have long to do so. Three days later, at breakfast, Holmes, deep in his study of The Times, startled me with a glad cry. "By Jove, I have it!" His long forefinger pointed to a notice in the personal column.
"The butler is a reptile who sleeps in the shadows until summoned by Zeus," I read. "A cipher, Holmes?"
"I think not, Watson. Until summoned bears no hint of the cipher about it. The butler of course refers to our faithful retainer, Zeus the Thunderer to The Times, and the reptile — well, that is surely obvious." He had sprung to his feet and seized a timetable from the shelves.
"The Reptile House of the Zoological Gardens." I rose eagerly, ready to depart at once.
"Pray resume your seat, my dear fellow. See, our express train departs at eleven forty-five and that is time enough for you to consume Mrs Hudson's excellent muffin in its entirety."
"But where are we going?"
"Why, to Cornwall."
He would say no more, and shortly before midnight we were established in a tolerably comfortable inn after a drive from the small country railway station of St Erth. On our way I had glanced at a signpost, dimly lit by the cab's lamp: "The Lizard".
"The reptile, of course," I exclaimed.
"It is always 'of course' after my explanations, Watson, never before, I note."
It was unusual for my friend to speak so sharply and a measure of the anxiety that preyed upon him.
Next day we found ourselves a small cottage on a grassy headland near Poldhu Bay, in order to further the fiction of complete rest for my friend. Rest? I have seldom known my friend so restless during the weeks that followed. As day followed day, and bluebells replaced the primroses, daffodils and violets in the tall grassy banks that bordered the quiet lanes, and still nothing appeared in the newspaper, I became concerned once more about his health. The ancient Cornish language, as I recounted in an earlier chronicle, did indeed arrest his attention at this time, convinced as he became that it was rooted in the Chaldean, but it could not sufficiently occupy that great mind. Had it not been for the horrible affair of the Devil's Foot which so unexpectedly cropped up in the nearby hamlet ofTredannick Wollas, I should indeed have prescribed the rest Dr Agar had supposedly ordered. After the case was solved, however, he relapsed into the same silent preoccupation, with such feverish eyes that made me wonder if the Devil's Foot root we had both imbibed in his quest for experimentation had not had lasting effects.
However I awoke one morning to a grey spring day, promising yet more of that soft and gentle rain with which Cornwall is so plentifully endowed, and Sherlock Holmes was standing by my bedside. Gone were the signs of feverishness, replaced now with the vital strength I had come to know so well.
"If ever I am presumptuous enough to place my services at the disposal of the nation, Watson, pray remind me of the faithful retainer. We return to London today, and by heaven I trust we are not too late." He spoke gravely.
"For what reason, Holmes?" I struggled from my bed.
"Why, to study the Chaldean language, my dear fellow." But the words were kindly spoken, not with the mocking sharpness of the last few weeks.
In a jolting restaurant carriage on the Great Western Railway I ventured to press for an explanation of our sudden departure. Even The Times had remained unread today.
"Come, Watson, surely with this excellent sole before us you can adopt Mr Auguste Didier's methods, even if mine remain unfathomable to you?"
"Isn't he that cook fellow at Plum's Club for Gentlemen who solved one or two cases?"
"Indeed he is I was curious enough to pay him a visit in `ninety-six after the remarkable affair at Plum's. I cannot approve all his methods, since he will have it that detection is not purely a science, whereas I maintain that it is entirely a process of logical deduction. He holds that cookery is akin to detection in the assembling of ingredients and their selection, and fashioning into a palatable dish requires a measure of creativity. I doubt if Mrs Hudson would agree. However, consider, Watson, the ingredients in the puzzle before us."
"The letter, the Baroness — "
"And other bidders, Watson. That is deduction, not creativity. We may
also deduce that the Baroness would assume that this affair is too important for my services not to be called upon. It follows, if the Baroness acknowledges this, then so do the other bidders. I have been an ass, Watson." His bantering tone returned to its former anxiety.
"I assumed," he continued, "that the message which sent us scurrying so precipitately to Cornwall was from the Baroness. It was not. It was placed in order to throw me off the scent, no doubt by another bidder, and it succeeded."
"But nothing has appeared in The Times."
Holmes replied sombrely: "How do we know the summons will be in The Times? The original instruction stated merely the daily newspapers. Fortunately Mrs Hudson is under instructions to throw nothing away in any circumstances. Let us trust that two months' supply of the London newspapers from the Daily Graphic to the Financial Times awaits us in Baker Street. By God, Watson, if I have thrown our chance away —' He broke off, rare emotion consuming him.
"Who might such a bidder be?" I asked quietly.
"You will recall the matter of the Bruce Partington Plans in `ninety-five; Mycroft informed me there were few who would handle so important an affair. The only contenders worth considering were Adolph Meyer, Louis La Rothière and Hugo Oberstein. The villainous Oberstein now resides in prison, and thus we are left with La Rothière and Adolph Meyer."
"Meyer must surely be our man," I exclaimed.
"For once I agree, Watson. He still resides in London at 13 Great George Street, Westminster. La Rothière has been known to me for some years, and I believe we may dismiss him. I have made it my business, however, since 'ninety-five, to find out what I can of Adolph Meyer. The gentleman is plump, portly, a friendly soul, with a passion for music though his execrable taste runs more to Mr John Philip Sousa than to the classical. He favours the tuba, not the violin. Inside that affable shell, however, beats the heart of as evil a man as ever lived. He is unofficial agent to the Baron von Holbach. The name means nothing to you, Watson? I am hardly surprised. He does not seek the limelight, but his Machiavellian hand was behind Bismarck's dismissal, the Kruger telegram, and countless other intrigues. He has the ear of the Kaiser, whereas the Chancellor himself remains unheard. He is no friend to England, and Meyer is his tool. Watson, if I could choose my enemy, send me one that wears the face of evil."
The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures Page 47
