“And, lastly, you told me, Inspector, that the maid, Jeanette, was in the kitchen and heard nothing on the night of the murder. Perhaps you would be so good as to cast your minds back to the afternoon we examined the scene. I returned to the room to fetch my hat and stick-”
“And I clearly heard you moving about upstairs,” I interjected.
“As I figured that you would,” Holmes replied. “Jeanette would have to have been lying when she said that she could not hear anything transpiring upstairs. The design of the house and the kitchen would have placed her almost directly underneath of the room in which her employers were killed. The weapon itself is also connected with the kitchen. It would not be too difficult a task to search the kitchen for the knife, Inspector. And, if you find one, feel free to send it my way. I have developed something of a test which will differentiate blood from a whole host of other substances. Its presence on a blade should not be too difficult a thing to ascertain, given a few hours of concentration.
“As I see it, Jeannette - if her name truly is Jeannette - felt not repulsion for her father when she saw him lying, dying in a hospital bed all those years ago, but a yearning for revenge against the man who had done this. Her disappearance gave her ample opportunity to begin seeking employment in some of the wealthiest houses in France, bringing her into the social circle of M. Andre Dupont. After some years, I rather think that Dupont would fail to recognize the little girl who had once been the daughter of his friend, and he hired Jeannette, completely unaware of the conspiracy against him. Jeannette was working with her father to avenge him and began the persecution, creating fear in the Dupont household. Even when he attempted to flee, she would follow. Dupont told us that he brought only his most trusted staff to England, and you confirmed, Inspector, that Jeannette was in London.
“On the night of the murder, Jeannette aided her father’s entry into the house. She stabbed to death both M. Dupont and his wife before her father began his bloody task. Once she had managed his escape, Jeannette broke the window to convincingly approximate a break-in - inadvertently casting suspicion solely on her father - and then returned to the kitchen. I am glad only that the police investigation has run this long, Inspector. Should Jeannette have tried to flee before now, surely she would have been easily traced. However, I suggest that you apprehend her as soon as possible. News of the action by the river shall spread fast and, with nothing else to lose, I fear that she might do anything in so desperate a situation.”
Durand rose from his chair. “I shall put my best men to it immediately.”
“Excellent,” Holmes replied. The two shook hands. “It has been an absolute pleasure working alongside you on two separate occasions and, should the needs arise, please feel free to contact me again.”
“I shall do so only too happily,” Durand replied. “I shall see myself off. Au revoir, gentlemen.”
I found myself feeling in much better sorts during the remainder of the day, and the following morning, Holmes and I found ourselves once more trundling across the French countryside by train. Holmes had remained silent about the case but, as he sat, casting a glance out of the yet again rain-streaked windows, I noticed a certain melancholia descend upon him.
“You have vindicated yourself,” I said trying to coax him from his brown study. “You have seen justice served once again.”
“You are right, Watson,” Holmes replied, “but one cannot go unaffected by what we have witnessed here these past few days. This adventure of the Parisian Butcher has only reinforced to me what a bleak world we inhabit.”
“Well,” I said, “it should then reinforce what a role you must play in it, then. If the world is as bleak and dark as you make it out to be, then surely the world needs a Sherlock Holmes to maintain the light.”
The Missing Empress
by Robert Stapleton
Glorious weather was not the only delight putting a skip into my step that Sunday morning in June 1887. But, on returning to Baker Street, I found my friend Sherlock Holmes in a much more sombre mood.
He was sitting in front of the unlit fire, glaring at a sheet of paper lying discarded in the grate.
“This is no time to be gloomy, Holmes,” I chided him. “The Queen celebrates her Golden Jubilee on Monday, and the nation is already rejoicing.”
Without turning to me, he gestured towards the sheet of paper as if it were a warrant to attend the Last Judgement.
I plucked it from the fire-grate and read it through. It turned out to be a note from Scotland Yard. From Inspector Lestrade. An invitation, nay a summons, to attend immediately. To interview a drunk.
“I consider it an insult, Watson,” said Holmes, without raising his gaze. “For Lestrade to send for me in this manner is little short of an outrage.”
“Look on the bright side,” I told him. “It might turn out to be another case.”
“To interview a drunk? The fellow probably mistook his way home.”
“Or maybe not. At least we should find out what Lestrade considers so important.”
“The very reason I didn’t destroy the letter the moment I received it.” He stood up and reached for his coat, hat, and cane. “I suppose we had better go.”
I stepped outside to hail a cab.
“Mrs. Hudson!” Holmes took out his frustration by bellowing at the landlady. “We’re going out.”
* * *
Within ten minutes, we had arrived at Scotland Yard. The inspector was waiting for us.
“You took your time, gentlemen.”
Holmes ignored him. I did my best to diffuse the tension between them. “My fault, I think, Lestrade. I was delayed by a visit to a patient this morning. A lady more in need of a friendly face than the tablets I prescribe for her.”
“The drunk,” said Holmes, turning on Lestrade. “I’d like to see the reason for our being called here this morning.”
Lestrade softened his attitude. “Of course. Please follow me, gentlemen.”
He took us down a flight of steps to the cells beneath Scotland Yard, secure and safe below ground-level. Our footsteps echoed in the confined passageway as the Detective Inspector led us to a door at the far end. There he opened the viewing port, and looked inside. “An ugly brute, I have to admit,” observed Lestrade.
This piqued my colleague’s interest. Holmes took his place at the opening and stood for a moment watching the man inside. Then he stood back abruptly. “What does this fellow have to say?”
“You’d better hear him yourself, Mr. Holmes.”
“First, tell me what you know.”
“His name is Bessington,” said Lestrade. “He’s well known to the Metropolitan Police as a layabout. He gets drunk whenever he can afford it, but generally he’s a harmless cove.”
“Until now,” said Holmes. “Or why else would you have called upon my services?”
“More a mystery, I would say, Mr. Holmes. I thought you might be interested. You see, in the early hours of this morning, he staggered into a police station in Clerkenwell, ranting about a kidnapping.”
Lestrade unlocked the cell door and we followed him inside. The smell of damp clothing and unwashed humanity hung in the air. It was rank enough to turn a tanner’s stomach.
Inspector Lestrade left the door open. “Not a pleasant sight, is he, Dr. Watson?”
“I’ve seen worse,” I told him. “But what’s all this about a kidnapping?”
From the bench on which he had been lying, the drunk lifted himself into a sitting position and glared up at his visitors. “That’s right,” he exclaimed. “Kidnap! High Treason! Treachery!” The man seemed to double in size as he spoke, and his eyes shone with an inner passion.
Holmes sat down beside the man, and looked into his bloodshot eyes. “Tell me.”
“I’d been drinking.”
�
��Of course.”
“To celebrate the Jubilee of the Queen. God bless her. I needed somewhere to sleep. I happened to find myself near the Boar’s Head in Clerkenwell. So I slipped ‘round the back and climbed down into the basement, like I often do when I’m up that way. It’s dry, and out of the night air. It suits me well enough. See? I can be gone again the next morning before anybody knows I’ve even been there. Nobody knows. Nobody gets hurt.”
“Then something happened.”
Bessington’s eyes flashed again. “Something woke me up. It was late. I heard a church clock strike twelve. Then, I realised I wasn’t alone. I could see a light. And people, sharing a meal.”
“How many?”
“Four of them. Three men and a woman. They were sitting at a table. I didn’t dare move. I knew if they’d seen me, I’d be dead.”
“Dead? How did you know that?”
“Because of what they were saying.”
“Tell me.” Holmes was becoming intrigued.
“They were discussing plans to kidnap somebody.”
“Who?”
“Her Majesty.”
A tense silence filled the cell.
“The Queen?”
“That’s what I heard.”
“When was the kidnapping to take place?”
I found myself drawn into the discussion. “On the day of her Jubilee, perhaps?”
“Nah. Not then. The day after.”
Now it began to make sense. “Of course,” I exclaimed. “Tuesday. There’s to be a procession through the streets of London. To Westminster Abbey, for a service of thanksgiving.”
Holmes nodded. “Then back to Buckingham Palace.”
“But crowds will be lining the streets,” I reminded him. “Nobody could possibly kidnap her then.”
“That’s right, Dr. Watson,” said Lestrade. “We’ll all be on high alert. If anybody plans to kidnap Her Majesty, it won’t be then.”
“No,” said Bessington. “They’ll do it when she gets back to the Palace.”
Lestrade leaned closer to Bessington, “Tell us more.”
“I didn’t hear no more. As soon as they’d gone, I got out of there. In double-quick time, I can tell you.”
“You say there were four of them,” Holmes reminded him. “Three men and a woman.”
“That’s right. I saw them.”
“Lestrade,” said Holmes. “Take me to the Boar’s Head, if you please. The place for us to begin is the location of the crime.”
“Crime? So, you think there might be something in this fellow’s story?”
“It’s too early to tell,” said Holmes. “I need concrete facts upon which to work.”
“I’m beginning to learn your methods, Mr. Holmes,” said Lestrade. “I thought you might want to visit the place, so I told them to leave everything exactly as it was.”
“Good. And please ask a member of Her Majesty’s household to join us there.”
* * *
The basement of the Boar’s Head tavern was a dark and gloomy hole. It reeked of sawdust and stale beer, but it was spacious and private.
Holmes had insisted that we bring Bessington along with us. For the moment, he remained half-hidden in the shadows, with a constable to make sure he didn’t slip away. I didn’t think there was much chance that he would. He had sobered up by now, and seemed keen to help.
Sir Cuthbert Hollingham joined us a few minutes after we arrived. He seemed loath to climb down into the cellar, but his determination to do his duty outweighed his reluctance. He was a small man, with greying side-whiskers and a balding head, but his presence made up for his lack of height. He introduced himself as a representative of the Queen’s household, and complained that he had better things to do at such a significant moment in history.
Holmes ignored his complaints and made his way across the cellar towards a table with four chairs around it. He examined the table. “Is this the way it was last night?”
“Nothing has been touched, Mr. Holmes,” said Lestrade.
“Four people.” Holmes looked towards Bessington.
The man nodded.
“Might I venture to call them a Council of Four?”
“We need more light,” I said. Holmes nodded his consent as I lit the candelabrum in the centre of the table.
He sniffed the air. “They dined on lamb, with a custard dessert.” He bent down, and examined each place setting in turn, beginning with the chair facing the doorway. “Hello! What have we here? The man sitting in this place has expensive tastes. A tall man, possibly with connections to Buckingham Palace. Dark haired, with a liking for expensive French wine.”
“Guesswork,” huffed Sir Cuthbert.
“Not at all,” said Holmes. “The imprint of a boot beneath the chair suggests a man about six feet in height. The wine glass contains a small but detectable trace of good quality wine. And a single hair on the table is darkly coloured, with a hint of the sort of Macassar oil favoured by the late Prince Albert.
Sir Cuthbert’s eyebrows shot up. Now Holmes had his attention. “It could be the new fellow. Henry Tinderman. He works at the Home Office, but lately he’s been helping us prepare for the Jubilee celebrations.”
Holmes shifted to the next place around the table. “Ah, here we have the woman in the group. And well dressed, judging by the small feather trapped on the back of the chair. A lady’s maid, perhaps. With a perfume that lingers.” He looked up at me. “Don’t you think so, Watson?”
I leaned closer, and sniffed. “Indeed. Not one that catches in the throat, like so many cheaper scents.”
Holmes found the third place very different. “Now, this fellow smells of horse. Undoubtedly the working man of the group, judging by the fragment of sawdust beneath his chair.”
“Extraordinary,” exclaimed the Palace official.
“Obviously the man to drive the kidnap vehicle.”
“Sounds reasonable,” muttered Sir Cuthbert.
Holmes turned his attention to the fourth place. “I have to admit, this dark man is not so easy to read.” He turned to Bessington. “What can you tell me about him?”
“He had his back towards me the whole time. He wore a cloak, and a top hat he never once took off. His voice was strange, as well. Foreign.”
Holmes stood upright. “Here we have the mastermind. A dangerous man. But who is he? The ashtray contains the end of a cigar. Cut, not bitten.” He sniffed the tobacco. “Unusual aroma. East European, if I’m not mistaken.”
Lestrade broke Holmes’s concentration. “Are we to assume, then, that the threat to the kidnap the Queen is real, Mr. Holmes?”
“Oh, yes. Very real.”
“Kidnap?” exclaimed Sir Cuthbert. “Then we must put a stop to it at once. I’ll have Tinderman put in irons.”
“Don’t be so hasty, Sir Cuthbert,” said Lestrade. “We don’t yet know for sure if it’s him, or who these other people are, or how they intend to commit the crime.”
“Or with what purpose,” I pointed out.
Holmes sat down in the mystery man’s chair, and looked up to the ceiling. “It has to take place on Tuesday, the day of the public celebrations. We have agreed that the most likely time is after Her Majesty has returned to the palace.”
“That’s right, Mr. Holmes,” came Bessington’s voice.
Holmes turned to face Sir Cuthbert. “What will be Her Majesty’s itinerary for the rest of that day, Sir Cuthbert?”
The Palace official rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “On returning from the service, she will appear on the balcony of the Palace. Then she will meet officials from around the world, before attending a celebratory banquet.”
“And later?”
“A firework display will be held in the grounds of the P
alace. Part of the nationwide celebration.”
“Hmm. Is Her Majesty to venture out into the grounds?”
“Indeed.”
“Then, I suggest that might be the most likely time for these people to make their move.”
As we prepared to depart, Bessington called Holmes over and whispered something to him, casting glances toward Lestrade, who was looking elsewhere. Holmes nodded and joined me by the door.
* * *
Outside, Holmes suggested he and I should take a cab to the river. We stopped at London Bridge, and wandered along the riverside. We found The Pool of London crowded. With lighters and barges cluttering up the quayside, often several abreast.
“What do you make of this business, Holmes?” I asked.
“It seems as clear as day to me.”
“Well, apart from a threat to the Queen, I’m dashed if I can make much of it,” I admitted.
“As with all investigations, the successful uncovering of the crime lies in careful preparation on our part.”
“What preparation?”
“Well, for example, you notice that ship a hundred yards ahead?”
I saw the vessel. A small steel-hulled steamship, about the length of two Thames barges. The black hull carried a name in rusting white letters: Drakesian. Above the white deck-housing rose a tall black funnel. The hold took up the forward third of the ship.
“Did Bessington direct you here?”
Holmes nodded. “He had also overheard the name of the ship, but he felt that Lestrade and the police might bungle it.”
“It’s like so many others along this stretch of the Thames,” I said. “What’s so special about this one?”
The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories - Part IX Page 19
