The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories Part I

by David Marcum

  Holmes and I arrived that Her Majesty’s Theatre and walked inside. During our cab ride, Holmes told me about the brief conversation had with Mademoiselle Dipin. He, too, noticed her uneasy expression when her mother asked about the Corps. The girl admitted that one of the fellow dancers, Esther Daines, who would be first in line to replace her, should anything happen, ducked out of a rehearsal about two hours before she came home. Mademoiselle Dipin said that she hadn’t been close to Miss Daines and didn’t pay her much attention, but noted her acting uneasy before she left.

  “If ever there was a motivation, Miss Daines would have it, Holmes,” said I, as we walked the backstage halls of the theatre. “Mademoiselle Dipin is a remarkably handsome and elegant woman. I’m sure jealously follows her wherever she treads.”

  “Jealously, Watson. A waste of an emotion. It spurs people and drives them to ludicrous decisions that never reveal a positive outcome. Look at David and Bathsheba, jealous for another man’s wife, so he sends that man to the frontline of war, and he’s slain.”

  “It is a monstrous emotion, but do you mean to tell me you do not feel it?” Holmes did not reply. “Truly, Holmes?”

  “I suppose I have had my experiences with it, yes.” Holmes stopped. “Ah,” said he tapped his knuckles repeatedly upon a closed door. It swung open and a short girl with big bold green eyes and dark brown hair greeted us.

  “May I help you?” she asked. He voice was mouse-like.

  “I am Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and this is my friend and colleague, Doctor Watson. Aren’t you Miss Daines?

  “I am, yes...”

  “We are professional enthusiasts for your art, and we hoped to speak with you,” Holmes continued.

  “Well, I, uh... are you sure you mean me and not Dipin?”

  “No, no! We mean you.” I stood there and watched Holmes. I smiled and nodded at the girl, who reluctantly allowed Holmes and me into the dressing room. As we followed, Holmes continued to converse with her about the ballet. I noticed no one was around. She sat at a table littered with cosmetics and large mirror at the back. Holmes pulled a seat over and they continued talking.

  “I feel you should be the lead!” said Holmes. Miss Daines blushed.

  “But Dipin is a master,” she replied.

  “Wouldn’t you like to lead?”

  “Of course, it is my dream.”

  “Rumour has it Mademoiselle Dipin is being stalked again. Rumour has it some people aren’t keen on her being here, and they want her out of town.” Miss Daines frowned and laid her hand on the table. “Maybe you can take over?”

  Miss Daines moved her hand, knocking over bottle of perfume. She frantically tried to pick it up. Holmes reached over and caught the bottle before it rolled over the side. “Yes, I’ve heard that, but well,” she said, as Holmes handed the bottle back to her. “No. Of course I don’t want her to go.” She seemed startled and uneasy.

  “Sorry if I have crossed a line. I mean no offence,” said Holmes.

  “It’s quite alright.»

  “We really must be going,” said Holmes, “but thank you ever so much for letting a couple of excited fanatics a chance to speak with you.”

  “Well, at least one of you spoke. Your friend here seems shy.” Miss Daines smiled her perfect smile at me.

  “I am just pleased to be here...” I said. She extended her hand and I kissed it. Holmes tapped my shoulder and we left.

  “What was all that about?” I asked as we walked down several narrow corridors.

  “I wanted to see if Miss Daines did have any aggression towards Mademoiselle Dipin.”

  “You couldn’t have possibly learnt anything from that maskarade!”

  Holmes pushed a door open and we came outside. “As a matter of fact I did. Miss Daines has been writing letters!”

  We walked back to Baker Street. My friend became a silent companion was we made our way through Piccadilly, over Oxford Street, and up Baker Street. Upon our return there was a letter from the Continent. Holmes ripped it open and read out.

  Mr. Holmes, I have looked into the whereabouts of Monsieur Javet. He was jailed but served his sentence. Has taken a lodgings outside the city. I confirm he has not crossed the channel, nor hasn’t in some years.

  I cried, “My God, Holmes, he isn’t here?”

  “Seems not. I have a few things to look over the rest of the day. I shall come to you when I need a companion.” Holmes walked into his room and shut the door gently.

  The next day, I was awakened by a sudden jerk. Holmes had his hand pressed to my shoulder.

  “Did I wake you?” he asked.

  “You did, yes.”

  “As you are awake, might you do me a kindness?”

  “Name it,“ I returned.

  “I need you to go to Mademoiselle, tell her to end all her performing, and leave at once for the Continent by the morning.”

  “Is her life in danger?”

  “Go to her now!”

  I went off immediately to find our ballerina and relay Holmes’s instruction. It was not unlike Holmes to keep his plans to himself. As much as he criticised my apparent romanticising of his adventures, he, too, had a flair for the dramatic when he drew a case to a close. This was no exception. Holmes was playing this so very close to his chest. But his reasons were always valid. Holmes was an endless enigma. His methods were strategic but unpredictable. What the game was rolled over in my mind again and again as I made haste to our client.

  Arriving at the theatre, I found Mademoiselle Dipin. She was in mid-rehearsal. The stage was full of ballerinas in tutus, their legs bound by white stockings. They bent and twirled this way and that with impeccable timing. They flowed together, and everything was natural, like the movements of the oceans as tides comes and go. Mademoiselle Dipin was glorious. She wore her outfit with pride and seduction. She was a magnificent sight to behold! Everything about her was a masterpiece. She eyes lit when she looked out into the auditorium and saw me. She waved her hands and the productions stopped. She floated towards me.

  “Doctor Watson, what brings you here?”

  “Holmes has sent me with word,” said I. Her expression suddenly tensed. “He’s said the game is over. It is best for your safety that you stop performing and leave the show.”

  “I demand a reason. What is happening?” she snapped.

  “He hasn’t informed me. He’s just told me to come and tell you at once. He’s asked that you pack and leave by morning.” The woman look at me with horror. Her breathing increased. Was it panic or anger? I could not fully tell, perhaps a combination of the two. Watching this fine artist be told she must abandon her art for her safety - when has an artist done such a thing truly?

  “No!” she roared. “I won’t go. I won’t do it. This is what my mother wants. This is what the villain who is chasing me wants, to ruin my life.” She stormed off. I began to follow her. She darted onto the stage again. She called Miss Daines over. Our sweet ballerina looked at Miss Daines and instructed her to do something. She snapped her fingers and Miss Daines went off. I was taken aback by this. The woman, so gentle before, seemed tense and fierce. Miss Daines returned, looking most unhappy. She carried a pair of ballet shoes.

  “I’ve brought these like you asked,” I heard her say. Mademoiselle Dipin took them into her hands, slipped off her old shoes and put the new on. She looked at them a moment and balanced herself momentarily. She clapped her hands then the rehearsal began. She began to move and glide across the stage. She was picked up and twirled. The soft shuffle of feet could be heard against rhythm of the orchestra. She began to twirl furiously around, the clicking of her shoes echoed as she balanced between spins. Suddenly she slipped, her legs buckled and she fell, letting out a cry of pain. I stood. A crowd rushed around her. She was escorted off stage and taken to her dressing room.
As I followed, I caught a glimpse of Miss Daines, who looked to be smirking. I found Mademoiselle Dipin in her private room with her leg propped up. Her shoes were on the floor. I examined her leg and foot. She has sprained her ankle, at least several day’s rest would be in order.

  “I should have left,” she said to me.

  “What happened?”

  “A problem with the shoe.” She turned her head towards them. I picked them up.

  “Heeled? Unusual.”

  “I wanted to try them. They are like the shoes of old.”

  “Looks like the heel broke,” I observed. I examined it closely and sniffed the heel. I attempted to put Holmes’s own power of deduction to use. I ran my finger along the broken edge. “Who gave you these shoes?” I asked.

  “My mother. She said they were left for me here.”

  “By who?”

  “Miss Daines got them as a gift.”

  “Excuse me,” came a mouse-like voice from behind. It was Miss Daines. She looked at me with surprise. In her hand she held a letter. “Don’t I know you?” she asked.

  “I believe we met,” I returned.

  “Yes, the shy man. Your friend was very talkative.”

  “What do you want?” Mademoiselle Dipin snapped.

  “I wanted to say sorry. The shoes. I was told they were strong, I didn’t know they would do that.” She fiddled with a slip of paper in her hands.’ “

  “What is that?” I asked.

  “This came for her just now.” She handed her the letter, which was read immediately. Mademoiselle Dipin looked at me with despair.

  “Miss Daines, leave us please.” When the girl had gone I looked over the letter.

  I hope the shoes fit

  J

  “It’s him,” she said, with an exhale.

  “I must let Holmes know what has happened.” She looked at me longingly as if to say, “Don’t leave me alone here.” I put my hand on the lady’s hand. “I will make sure no more harm befalls you. Give me a moment.” Leaving the shoes, I spoke with a young stage hand and asked him to stand watch outside her rooms and see that she went nowhere. As I walked through the theatre, I saw Miss Daines. She was with a tall, dark-haired man. Tears ran down her face and he embraced her. A man wearing flat cap with a bucket and mop shuffled past the two, bumping into them.

  “Watch where you’re going, geezer!” the dark-haired man shouted.

  “My apologies, my apologies,» the old man echoed, shuffling past me. I exited the theatre and found a police officer outside. I begged his assistance and told him to go inside and watch over the ballerina. When I said I was working with Sherlock Holmes, he did not hesitate. We both rushed inside, but when we got to her dressing room she has vanished. The young man who I instructed to watch her was unconscious on the floor. We revived him, but he had no recollection of what happened. On her table was a note the said she was leaving and not returning. My heart sank. I needed Holmes. I looked for the broken ballet shoes but they were nowhere to be found! I took my leave and raced to Baker Street.

  When I arrived, I ran up the stairs and into the study. I called out for my friend. Holmes came out his room, quickly shutting the door behind him. He held a rag and was wiping his face. I took a moment to catch my breath.

  “Sit down, man,” he said to me.

  “We have a problem,” said I. “At the theatre, Mademoiselle was hurt. The shoes her mother brought to her...”

  “They were tampered with. The heel was weak and bound by cheap glue, with the intent of causing physical harm to our dear ballerina,” Holmes finished. I look upon him with utter amazement.

  “Holmes! You are magician! How can you know?” He picked something up from his chair and tossed it over to me. It was a flat cap. “That was you?” I asked. “Tell me what you know!”

  “Let the night play out, Watson. I have a few things left to arrange. Tomorrow morning all will be revealed. Tonight, though, you and I will attend the ballet.”

  We did just as Holmes said. The crowed was buzzed with excitement. Murmurs of Mademoiselle’s departure was talked about by almost everyone we passed. Miss Daines had finally slipped into the lead. As for the performance began, she was elegant and graceful with her movements. Watching, one would think she had always been the lead. Holmes watched the stage, not as a spectator, but like a hawk. He disappeared after intermission, leaving me to watch the remainder on my own. After the show, as I made my way through the lobby, my arm was grabbed. It was Holmes.

  “Where have you been?”

  “Putting the final pieces in place,” he smirked.

  “You are enjoying this too much, Holmes!”

  “Well, aren’t you the detective who was meant to look after my daughter?” I looked to see Madam Dipin.

  “I am,” said Holmes.

  “And now she’s vanished, abandoned all. I hear she’s even sustained a sprain.”

  “And why aren’t you looking for her?” I interjected.

  “I told that girl this life would end her, and so it has. And I wanted to see how her replacement did.”

  “Some might think you ended it for her,” said I. The woman’s eyes blazed with anger. She puffed her cheeks and stormed off.

  “Come now, Watson,” said Holmes. I gave him a curious look. “Oh, dear boy, she’s not our culprit.”

  “The shoes though, she could have tampered with them!”

  “I know who tampered with them. It wasn’t her,” Holmes confirmed. “I’ve dropped the net, and now we pull our catch in! Come and watch.” I followed my friend outside the theatre and around the back. There was a police Maria and two officers. Lestrade had Miss Daines cuffed and was escorting her into the carriage. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I thought back to when Holmes and I met with her. The mouse-like girl. Then I remembered her smirk when the injury occurred.

  “This church-mouse of a girl is responsible for such horrible acts, fueled solely by jealousy.”

  “Come, let’s return to Baker Street. We don’t have much time.”

  Holmes told me to take a seat upon entering. He darted into his bedroom quickly shutting the door behind him. I heard a murmur as if he was speaking to himself. There was as sudden beat upon the door. Holmes shot out of his room. I stood. The door swung open and a dark haired man stood there. It was the same man who I saw hugging Miss Daines.

  “I got your note, Mr. Holmes!”

  “Why don’t you take a seat and explain yourself?” Holmes asked.

  “Why don’t you explain why you framed my darling sister!”

  “Don’t make threats unless you have solid evidence,” Holmes said coolly. The man pressed forward.

  “You have no evidence against her. She’s done nothing!” The man’s face turned beet red.

  “Your sister wanted the spotlight and she got it, at a high price I might add.”

  “She is a saint! She deserves that light, not some French Prima Donna!” The man lashed out and charged at Holmes. With a swift and graceful movement Holmes took hold of the man’s extended arm spun him around and tossed him into a chair. He sat there shocked to have not caught his prey. Holmes motioned for me to stay back, but I remained ready to come to his aid.

  “You will admit the truth, or you sister will suffer,” said Holmes.

  “Admit what?”

  “This is no time to play games.” Then Holmes gave three taps on the floor. His bedroom door opened and there stood Mademoiselle Dipin! Her presence only inflamed the man’s rage. He shot from his chair and Mademoiselle Dipin held her hand up. Grasped in it were the letters. Suddenly the man’s rage withdrew and his face turned white with panic.

  “I suppose you know what’s in her hand?” Holmes asked. He shook his head.

  “It’s... nothing.”

 
“It’s everything,” she said. The man fell back into the chair.

  “I... it was all done for my sister,” he said.

  “Miss Daines?» I questions. He nodded.

  “I got carried away. It was meant to be harmless.”

  “You tried to run me out of town! You tried to foil my work! You send me letters pretending to be Javet. You followed me, you destroyed my apartment! How is any of that harmless you... you beast!”

  “This isn’t over, Mr. Holmes. You have yet to prove a single thing. This is all conjecture and blackmail!” The colour began to return to his face.

  “Shall I lay it out so that even you can understand?” Holmes said sharply. “You might have got away with the entire operation should you have done one thing differently.” The man looked at Holmes. “Typed out the letters.” Holmes paused a moment, and Mr. Daines suddenly looked sheepish. “Being familiar with the study of the written hand, when I spoke with your sister I noticed on her dresser that there was a letter on her table. I recognised the hand which had written it. I was able to take a quick glimpse at the letter,” which Holmes withdrew from his pocket. “It was an invitation from you for her to join you for dinner.” Holmes walked over to Mademoiselle Dipin and took a letter from her. “It’s the way you swoop your L’s and looped your E’s that gave it all away initially when I examined the papers.

  “So, I followed your sister to her dinner date. I watched you like a hawk. I found where you live, a nice place in Angel. Inside your house, I found papers bought from local sellers, all of whom remember selling to you. Types of paper that match the letters received by Mademoiselle Dipin. I also noticed a particular brand of ink on your desk which happens to be the exact ink on the letters, and a particular pen which was used to script the letters.” Holmes looked at the man who now cowered in the chair. “Harmless, you say? Was it harmless when you sent the shoes to Mademoiselle Dipin with a weak heel? Your sister already said how you gave them to her, to try and win favour with Mademoiselle. Or when you placed the final letter at the front desk for her about the shoes? Oh, don’t look surprised. You might remember an ‘old geezer’ who was mopping the floors. Yes, that was me. Give it up, Mr. Daines, the game is over.” There was a ring at the bell, and Lestrade came in with Miss Daines. She look horrified to see her brother standing there.