The Whole Art of Detection

by Lyndsay Faye

  “I quite understand the situation,” I said coolly. “Lady Violet, regarding the incident in Hyde Park—what transpired, exactly?”

  “I was accosted by a stranger,” she replied, voice strained. “As instructed, I was walking along, quite alone, when suddenly a fine trap approached. The man inside demanded I get in, and I didn’t know how to refuse. I stepped up into the darkened carriage with my heart in my mouth. My persecutor smiled at me and quoted the very words I had written to this handsome engineer—harmless words, Mr. Holmes, but ones that Wellesley would find altogether scandalous. When I pleaded with the cad to return my letters, he said he wanted ten thousand pounds to remain silent.”

  “I should hardly call the loss of ten thousand pounds harmless,” Lady Cranley sniffed.

  I leaned forward, tenting my fingertips. “I hope it will not come to that. Describe the man.”

  “But I cannot,” Lady Violet said bitterly. “Would that I were capable, but the carriage was dark and the man masked. Nothing stood out. I could barely distinguish a sleeve button in that gloom, let alone the color of an eye. . . . I am sincerely sorry, Mr. Holmes. My greatest fear is that there is nothing whatsoever you can do.” And with that, she commenced weeping.

  I have stared death itself in the face multiple times. But the only organisms which alarm me more than snakes and blackmailers are copiously weeping women—in part because I wish they were not in such distress, and in part because it is difficult to guess how best to stem the flow and return to the hard facts that will enable me to assist them tangibly. Thankfully my ability to soothe those who feel hope is lost is not inconsiderable, and I hastened to comfort her spirits.

  “Lady Violet, despite your inability to identify your tormentor, I am ready and willing to act as your agent, and I do not exaggerate when I say that no one could possibly serve your interests better. I fear, however, that another case necessitates my leaving London as soon as possible. How were you told to communicate with the villain? If I can attempt to trace him, I may be able to put a stop to this without delay.”

  “Yes, do,” Lady Cranley huffed. “It has taken me years to arrange a suitable match for my niece, and I will not watch an excellent marital opportunity dissolve at my feet.”

  Lady Violet pressed an embroidered kerchief into her still streaming eyes. “He said he would give me time to gather the funds. He is to write to me again tomorrow afternoon with instructions, which is the reason I so urgently wanted to see you today.”

  I pressed her arm. “Tomorrow afternoon, then, you must deliver the note to me and meticulously follow any instructions I might dictate.” Passing her my card, I rose.

  “I shall be at Baker Street on the instant I hear news,” she assured me, also standing.

  Just then the hall door banged open and a visibly fuming figure stepped over the threshold. A man of sixty years, with great bristling side-whiskers (gout sufferer, exceedingly wealthy, spent time in South Africa, political conservative, breeder of spaniels), entered with a gnarled walking stick in his hand, waving its head vaguely at the ceiling. Lady Violet shrank back while Lady Cranley smiled in an abrupt show of greeting.

  “I have been sitting in the courtyard for nearly ten minutes!” the old man snapped. “Were we or were we not meant to take a drive this afternoon?”

  “But you sent no one to fetch—I was just coming, Wellesley,” Lady Violet stammered.

  My heart sank. Never were truer words written than that when sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions.

  “And who’s this, then?” he growled, pointing at me. “Some sort of tradesman? What’s he to do with? The wedding, no doubt?”

  “Yes,” Lady Violet said in a choked voice. “He’s the florist. Mr. Holmes, allow me to introduce my fiancé, Sir Wellesley Lyttleton.”

  Saturday, September 29th, 1888 (continued).

  I don’t like this. I don’t like it at all.

  Little did Watson know it, but I had taken him to see Lady Violet’s work at a Bond Street picture gallery upon the day Sir Henry Baskerville lost his second boot. The establishment was showing one of her portraits, an ethereal study of her friend the Lady Rosamund Grimsham. I made a pretense of examining some very fine Belgian landscapes, but it was Lady Violet’s work I’d particularly wished to examine, knowing that I would soon be acting upon her behalf.

  I suggested to Watson—and he most sturdily disagreed, the stout fellow, telling me that my ideas were crude at best—that art allows the close reasoner to deduce more about the painter than the subject. (I kept to myself the fact that the painting before us led me to gather Lady Violet was a highly perceptive, resolute woman.) It is confounding to me that Watson failed to take my point; when I play my own compositions on the violin, they sound like nothing imitative of the exterior world, but rather the inside of my mind. They are imaginary landscapes, as darkly fanciful as my musings, and serve when I am in the dumps to lessen despair by virtue of expressing it.

  Watson is simply wrong—but then there is no art in his blood whatsoever. He has seen much evil in his life, but tragedy and hardship have quite failed to taint his mind with morose imaginings, for his nerves have now thoroughly recovered from the Battle of Maiwand. My friend is the best of men, a relentless optimist, and unfortunately he wouldn’t know a Rembrandt from a harpsichord.

  Why would a sensitive, comely young woman marry such a sullen old stick, meanwhile?

  I am meant to defend this match from the ravages of blackmail and find myself longing for Lady Violet’s exposure. As a florist—clever girl—I spent a mere three minutes in the company of Sir Wellesley Lyttleton and by the end of the interlude had pegged him for a slow-witted, petulant bully. A rich, slow-witted, petulant bully, I grant; but if one were to compile every separate fortune amassed by the East India Company, the wealth would be an insufficient recompense for marrying such a brute. Not when divorce is so nearly impossible. I would as soon permanently tether myself to a wardrobe as a female, but that doesn’t mean I am unsympathetic to the plight of women who suffer cruelties for marriages of financial convenience.

  And as I mentioned already, something disturbs me, something I still cannot yet quite identify. There is a crack in the lens I can barely make out. Infuriating. Lady Violet is my client and I must protect her interests—evidently, however, her interests lie in quite another direction from her request.

  I wish the doctor were here. His advice would be invaluable—­gallantry, thy name is Dr. John H. Watson. For all he was too thin and far too rootless and melancholy, he may as well have stepped down off a white charger that day at St. Bart’s years ago. I had a telegram from him upon returning to Baker Street stating they’d arrived safely in Devonshire and were comfortably ensconced at the hall. While searching for the monograph on the contusions caused by garroting that I lent to him, I found that he had neglected to pack his woolen muffler, despite the fact it is nearly October. Is this the act of a prudent medical practitioner? Honestly, he can be very trying at times.

  I gave it to Mrs. Hudson to send by the first post on the morrow. She keeps niggling me to eat, and packaging the scarf served to distract her, if only for twenty minutes.

  So I have concluded my first day of investigations into the Gaskell case with distressingly little to show for it save the deepest concerns regarding Lady Violet’s engagement. Pray God that tomorrow provides me with better opportunities to do my job, and to do it well.

  Sunday, September 30th, 1888.

  Three hours of restless slumber, inexplicably haunted by hounds with slavering jaws and hellfire burning in their pupils. My eyes are dry as newsprint and my neck stiff as a telegraph post. I never sleep much when working, but these night visions are equally as confounding as they are disturbing. It isn’t as if I am worried about the doctor—he survived Afghanistan; he can face mythological dogs. Should Watson prove diligent in his efforts regarding the B
askerville affair (and diligence is one of his most pronounced characteristics, as mine is acumen), I shall reward him with picture postcards of backlit women.

  I need to get to Dartmoor.

  It strikes me that investigating the Corps of Royal Engineers, Fifth Regiment, with whom Robert Winter served and perhaps yet does serve, is the most logical place to seek out the so-called friend who made off with Lady Violet Gaskell’s love letters. After consulting my commonplace book, I find that military men of an engineering bent frequent the Sackville Club. Lady Violet is not expected until the afternoon, and it would do well for me to escape the flat—Mrs. Hudson has tried to foist eggs upon me twice already this morning. This whole business has me so unnerved that I am off comestibles entirely.

  Sunday, September 30th, 1888 (continued).

  Damn, blast, and confound it all.

  The Sackville Club is a comfortable brick establishment in Bloomsbury, so I hadn’t far to travel, which was a lucky circumstance since today the skies have opened and the streets are foul little rivers. I presented myself to the proprietor, who was most helpful in pointing me toward a member of the Fifth Regiment. This gentleman was named Lieutenant Ernest Shattock (engaged to be married, boxing enthusiast, submarine expert, fiancée owns a bulldog). After I introduced myself as a former school chum of a fellow member of the Fifth, he was readily persuaded to partake of a brandy and soda and some leading conversation in the club’s darkly paneled common room.

  “I heard rumor the lads of the engineering ranks populated this place and thought I might take a chance upon finding my old friend,” I mused, eyes passing idly over the men smoking cigars and playing billiards in the low light.

  “It was well thought out, Mr. Holmes. What’s your mate’s name, then?” Lieutenant Shattock inquired affably, sipping at his drink.

  “Lieutenant Robert Winter. Or at least, he was a lieutenant when last I heard tell of him.”

  Lieutenant Shattock frowned. “That’s queer. I should have thought I’d know him, but the name isn’t familiar. Joseph! Ever heard of a Robert Winter?”

  The fellow named Joseph (gambler, dabbles in archery, originally from Glasgow), who was placidly reading the Pall Mall a few feet away, folded his paper down. “Winter . . . can’t say as I have.”

  “Are you certain he wasn’t a contracted civilian, Mr. Holmes?” Lieutenant Shattock asked. “Or posted to the Corps of Military Artificers?”

  After I repeated that he was enlisted, the good gentlemen made a few other inquiries for me. All came to naught, however—Robert Winter, the man for whom Lady Violet had unwittingly risked her reputation, has apparently been erased from existence.

  I quit the club none the wiser, with a brandy and soda disturbing my empty stomach.

  This doesn’t add up. I highly doubt the engineers were prevaricating. They were steady and thoughtful, as military men often are. Watson exemplifies the type. I hope his revolver is in his pocket. I told him never to be without it, and he generally follows my instructions, but a hound (whether supernatural or the common garden variety) can tear a man’s throat out.

  Thankfully, Watson is an excellent marksman. When I knew him less well and found myself strangely curious about him, I asked Mycroft to look into his brief military career: apparently he shot a sniper in Candahar at a farcically difficult distance before being posted to the Berkshires, which incident immediately recommended him to me as a potentially useful business partner. I mentioned the event to him once over breakfast. “Remarkable, Holmes!” he exclaimed, tanned face alight. “However could you possibly have deduced such a thing?” He was so pleased, I hadn’t the heart to tell him I’d learned it in a letter from my brother, which flirted with invasion of his personal privacy; thus I merely smiled enigmatically and intoned something philosophical about logic.

  I’ll never understand the character of military men. Not ­Watson—his lust for adventure is keen enough that he grows as restless as I do when my career lags—but those who send other men into danger. My temperament wouldn’t agree with command, masterful as I am. I should much prefer to take a risk upon myself in solitude than order comrades into harm’s way. I’d make for an altogether wretched colonel.

  Lady Violet is due to arrive at Baker Street at any moment. There, I think I heard the bell chime.

  Sunday, September 30th, 1888 (continued).

  Lady Violet has just now departed, and the note she delivered into my keeping with the blackmailer’s instructions for delivering the ten thousand pounds makes everything clear. God, what a dunce I’ve been all this while. The case appeared so very simple that I allowed its lack of complexity to blind me utterly—that, and I have been somewhat distracted. I should have seen the truth plain as day when Lady Violet said she could tell me no details about her persecutor owing to the dimness inside the carriage. Instead I traipsed about in search of Robert Winter, of all people. Asinine. Watson will howl with laughter when I tell him about it. (And the anecdote will provide the perfect opportunity to implore that he mention Norbury with greater frequency.)

  “Lady Violet, after copious reflection, I’ve determined that your only course of action is to throw yourself upon the mercy of your aunt’s generosity,” I told her. She nodded, clutching her gloves and looking faintly ill, pale blue semicircles beneath echoing the blue within her eyes. (Yes, it seems that my pen, like the good doctor’s, veers into the overly descriptive when I am not vigilant.) “Lady Cranley must therefore wire the money to my bank without delay. The instructions to deliver the cash to a locker at Charing Cross train station tomorrow at noon exactly will then be carried out by me, as your intermediary, for the sake of safety and discretion. Is all this agreeable to you?”

  “Nothing about it is remotely agreeable,” she sighed. “But you have done everything you can, no doubt, and you mustn’t think me ungrateful.”

  “Not at all. This time tomorrow, Lady Violet, the whole sordid business will be but an unpleasant memory.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Holmes.” I took her petite hand, and she made me a small, elegant bow. “I’ll not forget your kindness, nor your talents.”

  “As a sleuth or a florist?” I asked, smiling a little. “I must say, Lady Violet, your fiancé is a . . . memorable man.”

  The pain in her eyes was evident; the tendons of her throat were taut with regret. It was as I suspected, then. I know nothing whatever of love, granted, but any sane woman ought to be as enamored of Sir Wellesley Lyttleton as she would a particularly cantankerous badger.

  “He is certainly a rich one, and my aunt owns traditional sensibilities. I can hardly blame her, for she was raised with them. Do you want to know what life I’ve always dreamed of, Mr. Holmes?”

  “By all means.”

  “Living in a dear, shabby garret in Florence, painting. I should be quite alone, but I should have my canvases and oils and I should be happy as a lark. Does that sound foolish to you?”

  “Not in the slightest. Your engagement is, I regret to say, an unfortunate impediment to such a life.”

  She offered me a weak smile. “That cannot be helped, I fear. But I have complained long enough, and you must have many demands upon your time. Good day, Mr. Holmes. I shall be forever grateful for your kindness during my hour of need.”

  When I shut the door upon her, I rubbed my hands together, marshaling my wild thoughts.

  I’ve reached a decision of which I think Watson would approve. If I play at being a judge from time to time, he is indubitably a jury, and I believe on this occasion we would be in complete agreement as to our ruling.

  What a pity I am forced to wait another day before departing. I must pack my things, send a telegram to Cartwright to determine if the boy is game to accompany me, and see that my post is forwarded to Devonshire with the greatest possible efficiency. Cartwright is a trusty lad, practically one of my Irregulars by this time, and I’ve my eye on a suita
ble cave dwelling. One mustn’t reveal one’s hand too quickly, after all, and I believe dark forces to be massing around Sir Henry. But supposing I mean to reside in a ditch temporarily, I should still prefer to have a clean collar of a morning. Hygiene will not be sacrificed if I can possibly help it. Also, if Watson is dedicated to writing me detailed reports, then by God I am going to read them. Backlit females notwithstanding, they promise to be most invigorating. I should hate to miss them, no matter how many picturesque ruins he describes.

  I’ve reached the decision to inform Inspector Lestrade of my plans, that I might summon him at a moment’s notice should I have need of a steady Yarder, which is not at all unlikely. Lestrade can no better employ his imagination than he can employ clairvoyance, but in this case that’s all to the good. He is more trusting of me than the rest of the official force, and more tolerable to pass the time with, and it is a cunning game to see just how far I can advance his reputation by giving him credit for my own successes. I could distribute the wealth more evenly, but gifting all to a single individual is much more amusing—if Lestrade were ambitious, he could make chief of police for all the puffing I’ve provided. As he is not ambitious but simply wonderfully decent and rather dull, however, it’s droll to ensure that he solves three times as many murders yearly as Bradstreet or Gregson (despite the fact they’re both brighter than he and for no other reason than because I enjoy the faces he pulls when I twit him over lapses in his logic).

  How does one approach Her Majesty’s postal service about forwarding correspondence to the open moorland when one is in pursuit of a criminal mastermind? The formality rather escapes me. “To Be Delivered to Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Devonshire, Third Crag from the Left, Grimpen”?

  Sunday, September 30th, 1888 (continued).

  It fast approaches midnight. All is in readiness.