The Final Page of Baker Street

by Daniel D Victor

  * * *

  I was now sitting in darkness. An hour passed. My Harris tweed kept the chill away, but there was no stopping the cold’s ultimate embrace. A few more minutes crawled by, and another train whistle shrieked. I would finish my drink and head inside.

  Before I could muster the energy to stand, I heard the distant ring of the front-doorbell. Without the servants or the lady of the house available, I reckoned it was up to me to see who was there. I opened the door and found myself staring into the cornflower-blue eyes of Elaine Sterne.

  “Oh,” she said when she saw me. There was a note of disappointment in her voice. We hadn’t separated on the best of terms back in July. “I forgot my key,” she explained. “I thought Rafe would come to the door. I didn’t expect you’d still be here.”

  “He invited me,” I said. “I’m afraid he’s been drinking again.”

  All she did was shake her head.

  “He’s knocked out upstairs in his bed,” I reported.

  “I’ll make some tea,” she offered, slipping out of her long coat and placing it over the back of a nearby chair. She paused for a moment, as if to think, then added, “Why don’t you go have a look at Rafe?”

  I agreed and once again climbed the stairs.

  Sterne’s door was now closed. Maybe I was the one who’d shut it, but I didn’t remember doing so. Maybe Sterne had got up to close it. I pushed it open and stared into darkness. I couldn’t see anything, but a pungent smell overpowered all else. It was a sickly sweet smell that hadn’t been there before. It was a smell you don’t forget.

  Never taking my eyes from where I knew Sterne to be lying, I ran my hand up and down the wall next to the doorjamb in search of the electric switch.

  Immediately, the room was bathed in light, and I was confronted with death.

  Raphael Sterne was lying on his left side, both feet still on the floor as if he’d been sitting at the edge of his bed and fallen over. His head extended over the side, and his right arm dangled towards the floor. His fingers remained inches away from an ever-increasing pool of red - its source, a trail of blood dripping down his face from a bullet hole in his right temple. His gun, the Webley, lay where he’d dropped it, in the centre of the ever-widening red pool. Sterne had obviously found some new place to stash the thing, a place where I couldn’t find it - under a pillow, behind some books - it didn’t really matter. No doubt he had expected that I’d search the desk to be sure the gun was really gone and that he could no longer be a danger to himself. I was wrong again.

  My inaction surprised me, yet I knew I had to tell the dead man’s wife. I left the light on and closed the door. Slowly, I walked down the stairs and into the sitting room where Elaine had set up for tea.

  “And how is the melodramatic author today?” she asked.

  At first I thought she meant me; then I remembered who the real author was.

  “I think you should go up and have a look,” I said cryptically. I knew it was wrong, that I should have prepared her for what she was about to see, that I should have told her that her husband was dead. But something perverse inside of me wanted her to feel the shock on her own. Maybe I wanted the impact of Sterne’s death to cut through the wall of stoicism she seemed to be constructing. Maybe I was still angry with her and wanted her to feel the pain.

  I heard her footsteps ascend the stairs, walk down the hallway, and enter Sterne’s room.

  Then I heard nothing.

  A few moments passed before I headed up the stairway myself. Framed in the doorway, her back to me, Elaine was sobbing silently, her body quaking in response to the shock.

  I approached her cautiously and dared to put an arm around her shoulder.

  She shook me off.

  I walked slowly down the stairs, out of the front door, and onto the pavement. On West Street I found a uniformed constable and told him what had occurred. He immediately sounded his whistle, reported the incident to the policeman who arrived in answer to the call, and then raced along with me back to the cottage while the second policeman ran off to the station. A local police motor-car arrived shortly thereafter.

  Scotland Yard, I knew, would be round as soon as they possibly could.

  * * *

  It is now Sunday morning. With shaking hands and a half-closed eye, I force myself to write of one final event, which occurred last night and that I must include in this narrative.

  After I had given my report to the police, Elaine insisted that I leave, and so I did. I still had time to make the final railway connections back to Paddington.

  As I was returning to my room, a large, dark car - a Daimler, I think - rolled up to the kerb. A tall, thin old man with a white moustache got out. Dressed in evening suit and top hat, he was carrying a fashionable walking stick that had a silver handle. At first, I thought he might be some lost codger out for an evening on the town. The driver stayed inside, but another bloke - short, stocky, and much younger - followed the old man out of the car. I suddenly realized they were coming for me. It was fortunate that I had already folded and placed this narrative in my coat-pocket and out of harm’s way, for in a moment the older man had pinned me against the wall of my building with his stick.

  “Give up the Leonard case,” he threatened.

  “What?” I blurted out. I hadn’t given Terrence Leonard a serious thought in months. If truth be told, when that motor-car arrived, I had been envisioning Elaine Sterne standing naked before me in her bedroom.

  “Shall I instruct the bleeder, guv?” the shorter man asked.

  The top hat nodded, and the right fist of the younger man pounded into my stomach. I doubled over, the wind knocked out of my gut, and then a knee caught me under the chin. I fell backward onto the cobblestones, and a quick kick struck my side.

  “A boot to the chops, Guv?”I barely heard the younger man ask.

  “Just the one,” said the man with the stick.

  He missed my jaw. A numbing blow to my temple was causing all to go black.

  “That’s for openers, sonny,” I could just make out a disembodied voice growl. “Keep it up, and you might find yourself floating in the river.”

  “Yeh,” the other man said, “pegged out.”

  I scarcely remember hearing them get back into the motor-car and rumble off down the road. But they must have. Somewhere I heard a violin playing Bach. And yet it still amazes me that, as I drifted into unconsciousness, I had the presence of mind to appreciate just how poetic the language of street-toughs can be...

  X

  The moment a man sets his thoughts down on paper, however secretly, he is in a sense writing for publication.

  - Raymond Chandler, Working Notes

  The news of Raphael Sterne’s death brought Sherlock Holmes back to London the next day.

  “I can’t say that I’m surprised,” he told me upon his arrival.

  But at Sterne’s inquest that Monday morning in Marlow, it was Billy who caused the sensation. Although Holmes and I had witnessed the damage to Billy’s face the evening before, others simply stared, appalled to see Billy’s bruises, the small cuts at his temple, his right eye swollen shut. His body too had suffered; for the first time his walking stick was more than a mere accessory. It had taken a Herculean effort to get himself out of bed the previous morning, write the final bit of his report, get cleaned up, and come to my house later in the day with his journal in hand, but he succeeded. I ministered to him, while Holmes read Billy’s account of his latest trip to Marlow and the brutal beating that ended it. Once I’d finished attending to the young man’s wounds, I too read the disturbing narrative.

  It was obvious to Holmes and me that Billy had been attacked by Sebastian Moran and one of his minions. I wanted Youghal at the Yard to lock the blackguards up and throw away the key; but, as usual, Holmes’ call for reason prev
ailed. One of Moran’s many solicitors, he suggested, would argue that it was simply Billy’s word against Moran’s. Since Billy could produce no evidence that it was, in fact, Moran who’d conducted the attack, any such case against the villain would fall to pieces, and that would put an end to the matter. Billy was no physical fighter - certainly not against anyone as vicious as Sebastian Moran - but Billy trusted Holmes well enough to accept my friend’s pledge. Holmes promised that, if there was any justice in the land, he would see to it that at the end of this affair Moran would have no further need for Billy.

  The inquest itself was held in the large assembly room of Market House, Marlow’s gloomy, old grey-stone town hall in the High Street. Although Mrs. Sterne formally identified her husband’s body for the police, she did not attend the inquest. Since she was not the person who’d first discovered the body (that honour went to Billy) and since she said she was feeling too distressed to testify, the authorities did not require her presence. Not surprisingly, even without her observations on the deceased’s deteriorating state of mind, the coroner concluded that the unfortunate victim, Raphael Sterne, had died by his own hand. Such an outcome seemed completely consistent with Billy’s report to us.

  And yet Sherlock Holmes appeared far from convinced. Beneath a threatening sky, Billy and I watched him silently prepare his briar, cross the street to the stone obelisk at the centre of the small ring road, and strike a match against its side.

  “This won’t do,” he said mysteriously and exhaled a cloud of smoke that seemed to come from a fire within as much as from the tobacco in the bowl. “I had hoped that Youghal would be more discerning. He has a reputation for stirring the pot.”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time Scotland Yard has bungled an investigation,” I said, thinking of the clues missed at Lord Steynwood’s town house in Mayfair. “And yet for the life of me, Holmes, I can’t imagine what additional knowledge you have that the police do not.”

  Holmes smiled. “Why not share my knowledge with Mrs. Sterne?” he asked. “Perhaps her answers to the questions I pose will satisfy my concerns. I doubt it. But if you’re up to it, Billy, we’ll all three call on her, shall we? Trust me, gentlemen. There are much deeper goings-on here than this inquest has led us to believe.”

  Ever the gallant, Billy protested. “I’m not sure we should go see her, Mr. Holmes. Not because of my injuries - I’ll make it, all right - but because she’s so upset. She didn’t even come to the inquest. Why would we want to distress her any further? Elaine deserves a time to rest.”

  “Elaine?” I repeated. Even if Billy sounded like Lancelot again, hoping to protect the Lily Maid of Astalot, his familiarity seemed completely misplaced regardless of past events.

  Holmes let out another cloud of smoke, this one apparently borne of exasperation. “Perhaps, young man,” he declared through gritted teeth, “a dose of reality will dampen your ardour.” With great deliberateness, he added, “A female in repose is often a female in control.”

  * * *

  Whatever Holmes’ age, when he sensed the immediate resolution of a case, he could not be tethered; I, on the other hand, was feeling my years as well as my old war wound. On this occasion, he had to make allowances for Billy’s limp; and so I managed to keep up with the two of them as they progressed along West Street. Billy had assured us that the Sternes’ cottage was just minutes away, but with the town-hall clock in the cupola behind us striking noon and the ever darkening clouds promising rain, Holmes increased his gait, leaving Billy and me to scuttle along behind. Even more immediate to Holmes, I well knew, is that an unannounced arrival always puts the one to be questioned at a disadvantage.

  The cantilevered house was every bit as unsettling as Billy had described it. With its steep roof, overhanging sections, and projecting windows, the cottage seemed the structural manifestation of the bizarre events that had occurred within. Only the black wreath at the entrance offered some sense of stasis. Holmes knocked on the door when suddenly rain exploded everywhere. We pulled our coats around us, but fortunately Mrs. Jenkins, the housekeeper, opened the door, and we followed her into the sitting room. A small fire glowed in the hearth, doing little to warm the room. A few moments later, heralded by a roll of thunder, Mrs. Sterne entered the scene. Dressed in black and standing tall, she looked like royalty in mourning.

  “My God,” she said upon seeing Billy’s battered features. “What happened to you?”

  “I’ll be fine,” he assured her. “Some people around here don’t like me.”

  Mrs. Sterne placed a gentle hand against Billy’s cheek. Her look of care and concern must have reflected all that Billy could ever have wished for. It seemed difficult for her to look away from him, but with some hesitation she finally addressed us all: “W-Welcome, gentlemen, although I-I can’t begin to fathom what brings all three of you to see me.”

  “I believe condolences are in order,” I offered.

  “Yes,” she said, clutching at the gold doubloon at her neck, “but the funeral isn’t until tomorrow.”

  “Before then,” Holmes said, “I have some questions I’d like to put to you, Mrs. Sterne.”

  “If you’re up to it,” Billy added reassuringly.

  “I s-suppose so.”

  As we were seating ourselves, Mrs. Jenkins appeared. She desired to know if any sort of repast might be required; but with a quick shake of her head, Mrs. Sterne sent her away. An uncomfortable silence blanketed us, the staccato drumming of the rain the only distraction. Mrs. Sterne’s gaze travelled from one of us to the other, no doubt seeking some form of comfort. She once again began twisting the intricate chain of her necklace.

  “May I?” Holmes said, extending his left palm in her direction. “The doubloon, if you please.”

  Mrs. Sterne furrowed her brow. “I don’t understand,” she said.

  “I would like to examine the engraving,” Holmes replied. “It looks most interesting.” He moved his left hand towards her again. He had seen the coin before, of course. But not until now had he studied its detail.

  Reluctantly, Mrs. Sterne raised her hands to the back of her neck and, with arms up and elbows out, undid the clasp. A moment later, holding the golden coin in her left hand, she slowly poured the delicate chain on top of it with her right. Then she leaned forward and placed the collection in Holmes’ extended palm.

  Sherlock Holmes picked up the doubloon between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, leaving the gold chain cupped in his left palm as if the delicate links had formed a tiny pool of water. Turning the coin so that the engraving faced outward, he held it up for Billy and me to inspect.

  I leaned forward, but Billy, nodding in recognition, said simply. “I’ve seen it before; I thought it looked military.”

  In Billy’s report, Holmes and I had both read of the engraving’s design. Now we were seeing it close up for the first time. Facing outward, a small lion, adorned with a coronet, stood upon a large crown; the crown itself rested atop a rosette below which, in a flattened V shape, waved a blank banner.

  “Quite military indeed,” I echoed.

  “Especially,” Holmes added, “when you know the words that actually used to occupy that vacant banner. As, I’m sure, you do, Mrs. Sterne.”

  Elaine Sterne grew pale. “I-I don’t know what you mean. I bought the piece at a jumble sale some time ago. I thought it had something to do with His Majesty.”

  “Is that what you told your husband?” Holmes asked.

  “Why, yes, of course.”

  It was Billy who stated the obvious. “The blank banner - something must have been written inside.”

  My friend smiled. “Printed in English, the words, ‘The Loyal Regiment.’ Just as you observed, Billy - quite military, indeed.”

  “But the point, Mr. Holmes?” Billy asked.

  “Mrs. Sterne?” Holmes prodded
.

  Elaine Sterne sat stone-faced, lacking the energy - or so it seemed - even to ask us to leave.

  The little fire crackled feebly.

  In the face of Mrs. Sterne’s silence, Holmes supplied the explanation. “One day last July, when you, Watson, were attending your surgery, and when you, Billy, were coming out here to Marlow on your own, I took the opportunity to visit White Hall. I remembered enough about this engraving to reproduce it on paper; and since it is easily recognizable as a military insignia, I correctly assumed there was no better place to enquire about it than in the War Office.”

  “What did you learn?” Billy asked.

  “One of the officers working there knew the design immediately. It is the badge of the Loyal North Lancashire Regiment. And they, gentlemen, as I’m certain Mrs. Sterne can confirm, served under Lieutenant-Colonel Robert Kekewich in the Boer War.”

  “Just a moment,” I said. “Wasn’t Kekewich the officer who commanded Terrence Leonard?”

  “Yes, Doctor,” Billy said, grimacing as he readjusted his position. “At Rooiwal.”

  “As you yourself reported to me a few months ago, Watson,” Holmes added.

  Throughout this seemingly digressive exchange, Mrs. Sterne was sitting perfectly still. She might almost have been holding her breath.

  “And yet,” Holmes continued, “at the War Office, when I examined the records of the Loyal North Lancashire during the Boer War, while I did discover some useful information, I could find no trace of Terrence Leonard.”

  “Some sort of error,” I suggested.

  “Perhaps.”

  “Mr. Holmes,” Billy asked, “do you think that Terrence was lying to me about serving under Kekewich?”

  “Before going to the War Office,” my friend said, “I couldn’t have provided a reliable answer to that question. But I did ask the officer I was speaking to if he knew of anyone who might have some specific knowledge of combat injuries suffered some thirteen or fourteen years ago. He directed me down a long corridor to the Office of Medical Records. At a small writing table within an office marked ‘War Records’ sat a clerk, pen in hand, noting figures in a ledger. As it turned out, he was compiling statistics on British military casualties suffered before 1900. Obviously, that included the Second Boer War, and after I’d introduced myself, he was quite helpful indeed.”