by David Marcum
“To think... I could have been... what’s that word...”
“Compromised?” I ventured.
“Ruined, I think, puts it more exactly, Doctor.”
“Who on earth was the German? “ I asked, expecting no answer.
“Well, one of ‘em called him Maurice... well, Mauritz, German variety of Maurice.”
“What about that plate? What’s on it?” My question caused a stir on Lestrade’s face. “Well, nothing now guv.” He hurled it to the floor and stamped on it.
My mind was now working hard, turning over all the facts, and trying to assemble them as Holmes would have done. Maurice Kunstlich... what or who was he? “How’s your German, Inspector? Mine is very feeble I’m afraid... I recall a problem with the word Rache at one time...”
He called the constable across. “My ability with other tongues is limited, but Hesslam here has a German dad...”
“The man was given the German name,” he said, with instant understanding, “Well, that would be Maurice Arty in English, sir. Ridiculous name, sir”
Maurice Arty... Moriarty. My God! At that moment, I had the awful realisation that I had been in the presence of the fiend himself, the deadly enemy of my dear friend Holmes. Worse still, the thought struck me, there had been a picture of him on that plate, now shattered and useless, at our feet. Holmes was never to know that fact. I persuaded myself that there would simply have been a blur, as the man had stepped out of the picture before I shot at his minion.
I rather think that my losing the notes of this case is perhaps the result of my embarrassment at missing a unique opportunity of trapping an image of the man whose machinations often gave Holmes and myself sleepless nights, and more than acceptable amount of worry.
Then, something dawned in my mind that night, as I sat in my armchair, working out the amazing disappearance of that inn. I said the words aloud. Moriarty knew that Holmes was away! My brooding, cerebral friend would have seen through his German identity in a second. As for Lestrade: well, I never saw him stretch the truth of his life in front of younger officers again. He reverted to his usual crass, thoughtless self, but it has to be said that he behaved with courage and self-control.
I have only once walked along Poland Street since that strange evening. I recall stopping to look at the wall on which the inn-sign hung. I blinked, took stock of who and where I was, and for a second I heard the sound of laughter and drunken jollity behind that solid stone. One day, I resolved, I shall relate the whole affair to Holmes. But for now, let it lie.
The King of Diamonds
by John Heywood
Sir William Voigt, owner of a quarter of the world’s diamond mines, was not a man to hide his light under a bushel. He wore diamond-encrusted jewellery with the flamboyance of a Maharajah, and so great was his wealth that it earned him the sobriquet of The Diamond King among the English press. It can have surprised nobody that when such a man lost his life in a wood on a Norfolk estate, the tragedy was recounted in the greatest detail. But interest in the sad event was not to last: before the week was out, new tales of death and scandal were vying for the attention of the public, and curiosity about the millionaire’s murder withered away as suddenly as it had sprung up. Soon, perhaps, Sir William will be quite forgotten, and against that day I wish to record here a brief sketch of the events surrounding his death. The newspaper reports at the time were partial and misleading, for it is seldom within the powers of the reporter to delve under the surface of the disaster he recounts and unearth the twisted complexities beneath. My friend and colleague Sherlock Holmes, however, has made it his life’s work to shine a light upon these dark secrets, and he seldom did so to greater effect than when looking into the death of the King of Diamonds.
The summer of ’88 had lasted long and late; in early October of that year, the streets through which I passed on my way home to Baker Street still glowed warm in the light of the setting sun. Within a day or two, however, the season turned, and the golden light of summer was replaced by morning mists and darkening afternoons. Now, instead of strolling home in comfort, I and a thousand others like me hurried homewards through the damp streets, each of us huddled in his great-coat against the biting air. It was on one such evening that the case I am about to relate began. I had returned home to find that the landlady Mrs. Hudson had set a fire, the first of the autumn. Sitting by it was Holmes, his heels resting upon the coal-scuttle, so absorbed in some black-letter tome that he continued to read without so much as a glance at me or a word of greeting. Not that I had the least objection to my friend’s unclubbable ways. After a busy day at my practice, I was looking forward to a few hours of quietness, and so I was happy to settle myself in the other chair by the fire and read the paper. The evening proved as pleasantly uneventful as I had hoped. From time to time a few words of conversation would flare up between us, much as a few flames would occasionally shoot from a log, only to die down again into a steady glow. One of us might shift to a more comfortable position in his chair, and then settle again, as the burning logs once or twice collapsed into the embers and then continued to burn quietly in their new arrangement. The lines of print swam before my eyes, the paper fell from my hand, and I was drifting into sleep when my drowsy reverie was interrupted by a knock at the door.
“Come in!” I heard Holmes cry. The door opened to reveal a lady dressed in a most curious manner; heavily veiled, she wore a broad-brimmed hat trimmed, as was her collar, with silver astrakhan, while the skirts of her dark top-coat were so low and full that they brushed the floor. After hesitating for some seconds in the doorway, the lady rushed impetuously into the room, only to bridle suddenly and stop dead in her tracks again. She lifted her veil, and her glance, flickering between us, finally alighted on my friend: “Mr. Sherlock Holmes, detective?” she asked. Her manner of speech was as curious as her appearance and behaviour. It was evident that she was not a native of this country. Stepping up to Holmes, she clasped his hand in both of hers. “Mr. Holmes, help me, I beg you. My brother’s life is in jeopardy. The Diamonds King is dead! And they say-”
“You are very disturbed, madam. Please calm yourself,” said my friend, guiding her to a chair and bidding her sit. “The sal voltile, if you would, Watson. Now,” he said, turning back to her, “when you are ready, you will tell me about the Diamond King and your brother, and what danger it is that brings you here.” He gestured in my direction. “This is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson, and my name you know. There, of course, you have the advantage of us.”
The lady sat upright, grasping her bag in her gloved hands and clenching her teeth as she struggled to control her feelings.
“Good evening, Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes. I am Miss Maria Oblonsky.”
“Good evening, Miss Oblonsky,” I answered. “It so happens that I have just been reading about the Diamond King. It’s a bad business. Have you heard the news, Holmes?” I asked, retrieving the paper from the floor.
“No. You had better enlighten me. If you will read out the report, Watson, I shall be much obliged, and Miss Oblonsky will then tell us what she knows of the matter, and how she and her brother come to be involved.”
I turned to the page headed “A Dreadful Murder at Carre Castle” and read aloud from it.
A tragic event has taken from us one of the Empire’s greatest men. Sir William Voigt, better known to many as the King of Diamonds, was as familiar a figure on Change as he was at Monte Carlo, and was also a fine sportsman, who bagged, it is said, more head of game than any man living. It is our sad duty to report that “The King of Diamonds” is dead.
Sir William Voigt met his death shortly after midday today on the Norfolk estate of the Marquess of Ambleside, during a weekend shooting party. Among the exalted guests were the writer Mr. Peake Aubrey, General Sir Arthur Lamb, General Oliphant, and other prominent public figures. This morning’s shoot started after an early b
reakfast and was to continue into the early afternoon, with the marksmen taking their luncheon in the field. Sir William ate with his fellow hunters, and soon afterwards complained that he was unwell. It became evident that he was in great pain, but all attempts to help were in vain; within a few minutes he was dead.
It was immediately suspected that the luncheon he had just ingested was the cause of his death, and we are informed by Inspector Shaw of the North Norfolk constabulary that poisoning, accidental or deliberate, has not been dismissed as a possibility. “An inquiry is in hand,” said that officer. “The circumstances surrounding Sir William Voigt’s death will be investigated fully, and I am confident that if there has been foul play we shall find it out.”
We have little doubt that Inspector Shaw is correct, and that further details of this dreadful event will come to light over the next few days, details which are yet shrouded in much darkness. Readers may be assured that this journal will be second to none in laying before them all the circumstances behind this unhappy event as they emerge.
“Now, Miss Maria Oblonsky,” said Holmes, “perhaps you will be kind enough to tell us about yourself. Beyond the obvious facts that you have only been in this country for a few weeks, that you work as a seamstress, and that you and your family have seen better days, I know little about you.
She looked at him in astonishment. “How do you know these things? How do you know that I am seamstress? How that my family were once more rich?”
A smile of satisfaction briefly passed over Holmes’s features at the amazement that his powers of observation and deduction had produced. “The signs are obvious enough to the practised eye. You have pronounced marks around the tips of your index and middle fingers,” he observed. “They are the marks, common amongst seamstresses, made by the constant use of a thimble. Incidentally, that the marks are on your right hand proclaim you to be left-handed. If you wish to preserve your secrets from the eyes of men, you would do well not to remove your gloves. The hands have much to tell those who can hear.”
“And my family? That we are not rich now as before?”
“There are many signs. These gloves, for instance,” he answered, picking them up from the table. “They are of fine kid, and fitted to your hands by the glove-maker.” Holmes rose and took the lady’s hand in his own, splaying the fingers as though she were a patient in a public ward. “I observe that the index finger is slightly longer than the fourth; a most unusual proportion.” He held the glove against her hand. “Precisely the same proportion here, you see,” he pointed out. “This glove was certainly made to fit that hand.”
“You are as clever as they say, Mr. Sherlock Holmes; but how does this tell you that my family fell from fortune?”
“It is simple enough. The glove, though of excellent quality, is now old and worn. See here, where scratches on the surface have been carefully dyed, and here, where a break in the seam has been mended in thread of the matching colour. Bespoke gloves of the best quality, many years ago, but not enough money to buy new ones now when they are needed, although the owner,” he added with a nod towards the lady, “still has proper pride in her appearance. What else can that mean, but a reversal of fortunes?”
Not unnaturally, she seemed downcast by this reminder of her present state. “It is quite true. I have lost all I once had.”
“Not all, Miss Oblonsky. As I said, you have not lost your pride.” Holmes dropped her glove on to the table and resumed his chair. “Now, let us concentrate on the matter in hand,” he said. “Pray be kind enough to tell me about you and your brother, and what brought you to this country.”
“My brother Peter and I have good education, and we come from good family, very old family, but, as you see, not rich like in the days before Uprising. Little by little we lose everything, and then we have no money. My brother Peter Oblonsky comes to your country since fourteen years. It is very difficult for Peter. He pulls cart at market, but still he sends some money home for us. Then he works footman, and because we come from good family, he knows to be footman and to wait at table. He does not serve port in sherry-glass and so. Then he is manservant to one man, which is for two years, and now he is valet to Sir William Voigt.”
“When did your brother Peter enter Sir William’s employment?” asked Holmes.
“This is three years ago, in the same year that Mother dies. In Warsaw, I am lucky to find work. You know already that my job is seamstress. Peter writes to me that there is work for seamstress in London and also for domestic staff, like he is. He thinks that there will be place for lady’s maid, or perhaps I find position as governess. So two months ago I come to England. Peter finds for me small room in Covent Garden, which is not garden, but streets and alleys.”
“You have given me a very clear account of your background, Miss Oblonsky. Now, tell me what happened in these last few days.”
“Last Wednesday afternoon, Peter and I meet. We meet on Wednesday afternoons, because they are his afternoons off work. Peter tells me that he will go with Sir William to Norfolk, to the castle of Lord Ambleside. Then on Sunday, they will return to London. Peter wants me to see England, which he says is in many parts very beautiful, not like Covent Garden, so he pays for me to take train to Norfolk, and he pays for room in the inn so I may be near him in Norfolk. One day, Peter has free time, so I meet him and we go for walk near where he stays with Sir William. He is right, the country is most beautiful. That day is Thursday. The next time I will meet him is Saturday. Two o’clock we will meet, at the South Lodge gate, but when I come to gate I see another man is there waiting instead. He asks me if I am Maria, and he tells me that there is something wrong. He says that Sir William Voigt is dead and Peter cannot come to meet me. He tells me that Peter is in police prison for killing Sir William. This I cannot believe. I ask how Sir William dies, and he says that he is poisoned. Sir William eats sandwich and dies. The person who makes sandwiches for Sir William is Peter. And they search Peter’s room and find hidden there jewels of diamonds that belong to Sir William, the Diamond King.
“No mention of an arrest in the paper,” Holmes said to himself. “So the theft was discovered and Oblonsky arrested after the newspaper reports were despatched. Now, Miss Oblonsky, tell me about your brother’s relations with his late employer. Do you know of any difficulties between them?”
“My brother was very pleased to have his position with Sir William.”
“He never complained to you about his master?”
“But yes, I must tell you that he did sometimes tell me that Sir William was a difficult person to please, and demanded much of him, but then also Sir William can be very generous and kind. You must understand that Peter is gentle man, very good man, and I know that he will never, never try to hurt or kill, never. Please, Mr. Holmes, you must help save my brother. I know that he is not guilty of this death. I know it. Please, will you help?”
“I will see what I can do, Miss Oblonsky. But you must understand that I am not in the position of a lawyer who represents his client’s interests. My task, if I undertake to investigate this matter, will be to find out the truth, whatever it may be. I ask you to bear in mind these points: that your brother, apparently, prepared the sandwiches that poisoned his employer; that very valuable property of the dead man was found hidden in your brother’s effects. If I should find the truth about Sir William’s death, it may not be what you believe and wish it to be. You do understand that?”
Miss Oblonsky rose from the chair and stood straight, her back straight and head high.
“I ask no more than that, Mr. Holmes,” was her reply, given with something of the pride to which my friend had alluded. “Your words are great relief to me. I have no friends in your country except my poor brother, and if Sherlock Holmes is investigating this death, I know all that may be done is being done.”
Holmes acknowledged her words with a shallow bow. “I shall look i
nto the matter, Miss Oblonsky, and see what I can find. If I have any news for you, you shall hear it within a day or two. You have done well to come to me, and there is at present no more that you can do. Leave matters in my hands, and try to set your mind at rest. In the meantime, I wish you a safe journey back to Covent Garden.”
Closing the door behind the lady, Holmes stepped briskly over to the book-case, pulled out Bradshaw and the atlas, and carried them over to the table. He spread them open and turned up the lamp. “Let me see - Carre Castle... it is rather off the beaten track... Brailston Thorpe will be the station.” He turned to Bradshaw and ran his finger down the column: “A train leaves Liverpool Street at 8.48. Will you be accompanying me, Watson?”
“If you wish. I have nothing planned for tomorrow.”
“Capital! I shall tell Mrs. Hudson that we breakfast at seven.”
From the station at Brailston Thorpe, we took a four-wheeler, and across the flat landscape we saw, far away in the distance, the turrets of Carre Castle rising from the low-lying mists. It was a further half-hour’s drive before we reached the South Lodge, where we turned in and drove on to the main gates. The castle, which we had seen floating in the distance like a vision of Camelot, now loomed heavily over us, massive and grey, its turrets and mullions rising far above our heads. As we entered the Great Hall, we seemed to be in another age, for suits of armour stood sentinel by the doorway, and tapestries and old weapons of war hung upon the walls. They brought to my mind fabled days of yore - “old, far off, unhappy things, and battles long ago.” I said as much to Holmes, but the romance of the past had no place his heart, and in response he merely asked a maid who was working nearby where Inspector Shaw was to be found. “The police are working from the gunroom, sir,” she answered. “Down that corridor there and to your right.”
