The Belgian and The Beekeeper

by Peter Guttridge

  Sherlock Holmes breakfasted on kippers on the small balcony of Poiret’s suite, watching the fishing boats return with their catch. At nine he sent out for a fresh collar and a shaving kit from Hanningtons, then sat by the telephone and made a series of trunk calls.

  Poiret stepped into the street, sniffed the carnation in his buttonhole and hailed a cab with a wave of his stick.

  “Somerset House, if you would be so kind!”

  Dr Watson left the Grand before breakfast and strode along the promenade to his office in the Pavilion. The sea was leaden, slow slicks shifting on the tide. The guns across the Channel were silent.

  At the Pavilion he tidied his papers into his capacious briefcase and walked onto his balcony. The babble of excited Indian voices and the pungent aroma of spices from the field kitchens wafted up to him. Both reminded him acutely of his Indian service and, inevitably, the kohl-eyed beauties he had known so well on this third continent.

  The telephone rang on his desk.

  Sherlock Holmes sat at the bureau, telephone in hand.

  “Poiret, listen. I have it.”

  “Moi aussi.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Non, non. That is not my way. I have a little weakness. Always I prefer to keep the threads in my own hands up to the last minute. But when the time is right I reveal all. Perhaps you might tell me.”

  “My solution probably depends on yours.”

  “We must gather everyone –“

  Sherlock Holmes groaned.

  “Gather everyone.”

  “It is the modern way.”

  “Yes, yes – so I believe. Very well. But where?”

  “I have an idea,” Poiret said, “that I hope you will find apt.”

  Jules Poiret and Sherlock Holmes shook hands in front of the unprepossessing doorway on the narrow lane. They were jostled by passers-by as they contemplated the gloomy entrance.

  “You approve?” Poiret said.

  Sherlock Holmes chuckled.

  “I approve. You have a flair for the flamboyant, my friend, as do I.”

  “The manager was most amenable,” Poiret said.

  “How do you want to do this?”

  “We each have our part to play.”

  “But we have not blocked the scenes. You are sure we are of the same mind?”

  Poiret smiled.

  “Let us see.”

  Sherlock Holmes smiled back.

  “After you, Poiret.”

  Poiret gave a little bow.

  “Non, non, maître. I insist.”

  Sherlock Holmes inclined his head and went through the Theatre Royal Stage Door.

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Enter Stage Left

  Jules Poiret entered the sitting room of 221B Baker Street, observing the effect it had on the Great Detective. Sherlock Holmes looked around the familiar scene: his test-tubes and chemical apparatus spread across the dining table, his dressing gown laid over his armchair, his umbrella in the stand below his Inverness cape. He shook his head only at sight of the deerstalker behind the door and the clutter around the fireplace.

  Dr Watson was in his familiar armchair but not poring over the newspaper or his notes. He was alert and expectant, looking out beyond the room. Poiret and Sherlock Holmes came to stand on either side of his chair. They too looked out but not at the bustle and thrum of Baker Street life. Instead they looked at the empty auditorium of the Theatre Royal – a solid block of stall seats and above them the tiers of the circle, the upper circle and the gods.

  The house lights were down, the stage lights up so the seats were but dimly visible. However, they could see that not all the seats in the theatre were vacant. There were boxes in tiers to left and right of the stage. The stall boxes were lit and occupied.

  Poiret bowed to left and right.

  “Gentlemen, I thank you all for coming. Some more willingly than others.”

  He paused as Sherlock Holmes walked across to a familiar wingback chair and sat down in it.

  “Eh bien,” Poiret said, advancing to the footlights. “Although all of you in some way know each other, I don’t think you have been formally introduced.” He indicated Dr Watson, who had yet to speak. “This is, of course, Dr John H Watson.”

  He pointed at the stalls box at stage left.

  “These three military gentlemen are Sepoys Akbar, Singh and Khan of the Indian Army. The gentleman standing in the shadows behind them is a Romanian, Alexander Brusilov.”

  He walked along the footlights to the stalls box at stage right.

  “This gentleman in the grey three-piece is Mr George Adlam. The tall, sandy-haired English officer – well, he shall remain nameless but he has been acting as a kind of bodyguard for me as I do some other work for the British government.”

  The lieutenant gave a cheery wave to the other box. Poiret turned to Sherlock Holmes. “All correctly present, I believe.”

  At that moment the door to the stalls just beside the box at stage right opened and the Anglo-Indian clerk the two detectives had seen at the card table in the Pavilion Gardens rushed in, a notepad clutched to his chest in one hand, his other hand waving a pen. He looked flustered.

  “S-sorry to be late,” he said.

  Dr Watson gestured to Sherlock Holmes then the three Indian soldiers.

  “Holmes thought we might need translators for these gentlemen and, perhaps, a note-taker. He suggested this fellow, er, Green –“

  “Perhaps you would take that seat between the lieutenant and Mr Adlam,” Sherlock Holmes said to the clerk. “And thank you for your assistance.”

  The man entered the box and the lieutenant rose, put his hand lightly on the clerk’s shoulder and helped him into his own seat.

  “I’ll stand – there’ll be more room for your writing arm,” he said.

  “We are complete now?” Poiret said to Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes nodded, but added:

  “There may be one more coming along later.”

  Poiret frowned. Sherlock Holmes shrugged. Poiret took centre stage and looked from one box to the other. The theatre-goer in Sherlock Holmes wished for a spotlight to be trained on the French detective.

  “We all are gathered here,” Poiret said, “because we wish to know the fate of the great Agra treasure.”

  He gestured towards Dr Watson.

  “This gentleman recounted in The Sign of the Four how Jonathan Small, the only Englishman among those four conspirators, threw it by the handful into the Thames. Jonathan Small’s grandson – Mr George Adlam, here – does not believe that. Nor do the grandchildren of the other three members of the Sign of the Four.” Poiret waved a hand at the three soldiers. “You understand what I am saying?”

  They looked from one to the other.

  “We understand,” Sepoy Akbar said.

  “Then if I’m not needed…” the clerk said, rising.

  “Non, monsieur, I beg you. Please remain in your seat. You are most needed, as you will see in due course.”

  The clerk resumed his seat, an unhappy look on his dark face. Poiret continued:

  “There is a belief that Dr Watson was aware of the treasure before ever Miss Morstan came to consult Sherlock Holmes. That he plotted for some years to seize the treasure and that, eventually, the treasure was not lost but taken by Dr Watson and his future wife. I leave for the time being further questions about how Mrs Watson died. I merely note that in consequence of her death Dr Watson apparently inherited the Agra treasure.”

  Dr Watson shook his head wearily.

  “An attempt was made on Dr Watson’s life by someone here among us. Oh yes, be assured that person is present. Was it George Adlam …?”

  All eyes turned to the man in the three-piece suit. He reddened.

  “It most certainly was not!” he declared. He stabbed a finger towards Poiret. “Why would I hire you to get this money legally if I intended harm to Dr Watson – and what good would come from his death? I am a businessman – I focus on my aims.
My aim is to get the treasure that rightfully belongs to me – killing Dr Watson would not achieve that.”

  Poiret nodded and stroked his mustachios lightly.

  “All that you say is true, Monsieur Adlam. Our three Indian soldiers in the other box have precisely the same aims and, therefore, one would presume that they too would be disinclined to harm Dr Watson.” He stepped towards their box. “But then there are three of you and one of you might be more hot in the head than the other two.”

  Poiret produced from his pocket the garrotte that had been left behind after the attempt on Dr Watson’s life.

  “Furthermore, this garrotte is of Indian manufacture and the practice is much used in your country by the thuggees. Is one of you a thuggee?”

  The three soldiers said nothing.

  “Shall I translate?” the clerk called across.

  “We are not thuggees,” Sepoy Akbar said. “We are soldiers.”

  Poiret nodded.

  “Very well,” he said. “Let us talk now of the assault on Sherlock Holmes and myself in London. The ruffians who attacked us have said not a word to the authorities about who hired them. Since we are, in theory, on the side of Mr Adlam and even you three gentlemen, none of you would gain anything by attacking us. The main suspect, though it grieves Mr Holmes to think it, is Dr Watson – ”

  “Sir!” Dr Watson protested, half-rising from his seat.

  “I have never said as much!” Holmes cried.

  “Dr Watson,” Poiret repeated. “He is suspected because we were getting too close to the truth of the matter. Furthermore, we were in London to investigate a walking stick left at the scene of an attack on George Adlam, a man intent on bringing you down. That makes you the main suspect for the commission of that crime also.”

  “You shall pay, doctor,” George Adlam said with passion. “I shall see to that.”

  Dr Watson was on his feet now. He took a step towards Poiret.

  “Oh this is nonsense. I was the one whose life was attempted and now I am accused of a crime?”

  He glared, a stag at bay, from one to the other of the boxes. “The fate of the treasure is as I have described. My account is, however, not holy writ.” He pointed at Poiret. “This fat Belgian has been parsing it and my other narratives for meanings that they do not possess.”

  “Fat Frenchman,” Sherlock Holmes muttered. Poiret gave him a pained look. Sherlock Holmes was oblivious.

  “There are, I am sure, discrepancies in all my narratives,” Dr Watson continued. “Things that do not bear close analysis. I believe it to be the same with all writers.” He looked across at Sherlock Holmes. “I have done my best by this gentleman and that is all anyone can hope. Sadly he repays me by betraying me.”

  It was the Great Detective’s turn to look offended.

  “How have I betrayed you, Watson?”

  Dr Watson looked from box to box, where all eyes were fixed on him.

  “These matters are not for public discussion – talk of wealth and wives is not seemly in such a forum – or in private for that matter.”

  “Matters have gone beyond the seemly, I am afraid, good doctor,” Poiret said. “Mr Alexander Brusilov, please step forward.”

  He pointed as the Romanian emerged from the shadows, smart in a well-pressed but worn summer suit and neatly trimmed goatee beard.

  “Dr Watson – do you know this man?”

  “I have never seen him before,” Dr Watson said.

  Poiret pointed at Dr Watson.

  “Mr Brusilov, do you know this man?”

  Brusilov shook his head.

  “I know of him, of course, but I have never met him.”

  “Mr Brusilov! You promised you would cooperate fully in return for the sympathetic understanding of the local constabulary.”

  “And I am co-operating. I am here, am I not?”

  George Adlam had been straining forward in the opposite box, peering at Brusilov.

  “Wait a minute, wait a minute,” he said. “I know this man.”

  “Indeed you do,” Poiret said. “He is the man who attacked you on the promenade.”

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  The Truth Will Out

  “By Jove, you’re right,” Adlam said, jumping to his feet.

  “My apologies, sir,” the Romanian called across the distance between the two boxes. “I meant you no real harm.”

  “You might have brained me with that damned stick of yours.”

  “No, no it was not my intent.”

  “Intent be damned.” Adlam pointed at the discoloured lump on the side of his head and looked at Poiret. “And you say he’s made some kind of deal with you to evade prosecution for doing this. Was I consulted?”

  “Monsieur, you would never have discovered his existence were it not for Monsieur Holmes’s investigations.”

  Sherlock Holmes sat forward in his chair and waved an airy hand.

  “Simple enough,” he said. “A man with a walking stick manufactured in Romania is likely to be an exile from his homeland during this war. Where are all the exiles staying in Brighton? Those with means are staying at the Grand. It was a simple matter to check with my friends there for someone in need of employment.”

  Sherlock Holmes glanced across at Brusilov, who cleared his throat.

  “Allow me to confess my impecuniousness, Mr Holmes,” he said. “As the war has lingered my reserves have dwindled and I have been unable to get access to my money. The Grand has been very good about my debt to them but, yes, I am in urgent need of funds. So when a gentleman offers to pay my debts to the hotel and a fee in addition for a simple favour, it is difficult to resist.”

  “Attacking me a simple favour!” Adlam snorted. “Well, I’ll be.”

  “And this gentleman who desired the favour was Dr Watson,” Poiret declared.

  “It was not,” Brusilov said. “Unless he was working through an intermediary. An elderly gentleman. Sallow-faced and frail.”

  “Sounds like one of your dreadful disguises, Holmes,” Dr Watson said. “Except that I recognise the description.”

  “Or it might be you, Dr Watson, in disguise,” Poiret said. “You are staying at the Grand. You know some of the European exiles there – some of the women intimately. It is obvious you could have met Brusilov there.”

  “That may be so. But a desire to hurt or warn off Mr Adlam would presuppose I had something to fear from him,” Dr Watson said. “I have nothing to fear from anybody here. Including you, you … Frenchman!”

  “What of Sherlock Holmes?”

  Dr Watson cast a long look over at the Great Detective.

  “Sherlock Holmes should know precisely the source of my wealth.”

  Sherlock Holmes frowned. Sepoy Khan stood up beside Brusilov but directed himself to Dr Watson.

  “May I intrude, sir,” he said. “I am still not clear who attempted to strangle you and commissioned the attack on Mr Adlam.”

  There was a murmur of agreement from the two boxes.

  “Yes, what the devil is going on, Poiret?” Adlam said. “I hired you because you assured me you were as good as that Belgian fellow – actually, I think you claimed he had modelled himself on you –“

  Poiret coughed into his fist.

  “I hardly think I went so far…”

  “Perhaps Mr Holmes can cast light on this,” Adlam continued. “I know he’s past it but he may still have something to offer.”

  Although they were many yards apart, Poiret and Sherlock Holmes exchanged an almost intimate glance, both possibly remembering an aside from their meal together when they had agreed that the worst thing about their job was their clients.

  “Have I missed out anything of substance, Monsieur Holmes?” Poiret said.

  He looked startled when Sherlock Holmes replied:

  “Perhaps one thing.”

  Sherlock Holmes stood and it was as if a great actor had just made his entrance from the wings.

  “Wir sind gewohnt das die Menschen ver
hoehnen was sie nicht verstehen,” he declaimed.

  Poiret threw up his hands.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Goethe is always pithy,” Sherlock Holmes said.

  There was silence in the two boxes until the Romanian said:

  “Allow me to translate: ‘We are accustomed to people ridiculing what they don’t understand’.”

  “That may be so,” Poiret said, “but what has that to do with our current circumstances?”

  Sherlock Holmes took from his pocket a copy of The Sign of The Four. A slip of paper acted as a bookmark.

  “May I draw your attention to this passage? Thaddeus Sholto, that kind, decent man, is speaking.” Sherlock Holmes turned stage-front. “I’m quoting now: ‘Early in 1882 my father received a letter from India which was a great shock to him. He nearly fainted at the breakfast-table when he opened it, and from that day he sickened to his death. What was in the letter we could never discover, but I could see as he held it that it was short and written in a scrawling hand.’”

  “Yes, yes,” Poiret said impatiently as all heads turned to him from Sherlock Holmes. “We are aware of those circumstances. It is presumed that it is a letter warning him that Jonathan Small has escaped. Thereafter Sholto lives in terror of a one-legged man.”

  “That is true.” The heads swung back. “But have you given thought to who wrote that letter in scrawled handwriting?”

  A silence fell on the theatre. Poiret broke it with a groan. He bowed to Sherlock Holmes.

  “Maître.”

  Poiret walked with slow, precise steps upstage, ceding the spotlight, had it been lit, to Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes glanced to the box at stage right. Did he give some kind of signal? An observer might have noticed the lieutenant shift to block the door of his box.

  Sherlock Holmes looked at his fob watch then made a cup of his hand behind his ear in an exaggerated listening pose. The people in the boxes leaned forward to listen.

  There was subdued conversation coming from somewhere behind the scenery and a slow shuffling.