Sherlock Holmes and the Folk Tale Mysteries - Volume 2

by Puhl, Gayle Lange

  “These are merely bits of stage jewellery, Watson. Each is nothing but paste and glass, mounted on brass or nickel. The Zenana Diamond is not here. Yet Jemmy Phillips believed it was hidden in this chest with the other baubles. Why did he think that? It could only be that he has already searched her rooms and did not find it. When Mme. Jacasser returns to her apartment tonight I think she will find its contents have been torn apart.

  “Consider that Jacques de Vitt was a hunted man and could not move about safely in public. He could not depend on a hiding place anywhere else. This dressing room has to be the resting place of the diamond. Yet it would seem that Jacques de Vitt did not give Mme. Jacasser the jewel to hold for him after all. How is the woman?”

  “She will be bruised, but is not in danger otherwise. Excuse me.” I went over to the dressing table and found, among the bottles and pots, a small vial of smelling salts. As I turned to my patient, the mandolin player appeared in the doorway. His dark eyes took in the scene and then he turned to us.

  “Will she be alright, M. Holmes?”

  “You have the advantage over us, sir.”

  “I am Henri Souche. I am Jeanette’s friend.”

  “It was you who wrote the nursery rhyme and delivered it to me, wasn’t it, M. Souche? Notice, Watson, the mended piece of elastic on our visitor’s left shoe. Also, the small size of his feet would explain how a pair of boots could be contained in a sheet of brown paper only 12 inches by 14.” Sherlock Holmes motioned the man into the room and gave him his full attention.

  The handsome dwarf approached the day bed and gazed on the unconscious woman. “That is true. You are as clever as I have been told, M. Holmes. I have loved Jeanette Jacasser for years, but she feels nothing for me. I am just “le petite Henri”, the mascot she cannot pin to the wall by her mirror. She is the only reason I have stayed in England all this time. We grew up together in Avignon, in France.

  “Jacques de Vitt visited Jeanette frequently during the last few days. She told me they knew each other years ago, in Paris. He was good to her, but that Jemmy Phillips was a brute. I never liked him. I overheard de Vitt and Phillips talking in the hallway two days ago, before Jeanette got to the theatre. I didn’t understand everything that was said, but Phillips was angry. He made an appointment to meet with Jacques last night on Shooter’s Hill to collect his “payoff”. He made threats against Jeanette if he didn’t get his “cut”, and I was afraid for her. I followed Jacques, after he visited Jeanette last night, and clung to the back of the buggy.”

  “You hid among the construction supplies near their meeting place.”

  “You are correct, M. Holmes.”

  “You left several tracks, betraying your short stride.”

  The dwarf smiled ruefully. “I saw what happened. I also heard Phillips tell Jacques just before he killed him that he was sure Jeanette had the diamond and he would come here tonight and get it. If Phillips found out that I had alerted anyone about Jacques’ murder, my life would be very short indeed. I wrote the note in code so if it fell into Phillips’ hands, he wouldn’t understand. Did you have much trouble figuring it out?”

  “You gave me a very interesting problem, M. Souche, for which I thank you very much. Do you know where the Zenana Diamond is?”

  “No.”

  “Then we must ask Mme. Jacasser.” Holmes motioned to me and I applied the smelling salts. A few moments later the French actress was sitting up, gathering her robe about her and looking at us in bewilderment. When she noticed the dwarf, she spoke to him in French and he answered her reassuringly. De Vitt’s name was mentioned and she dissolved in tears. It took a few minutes before she regained her composure. M. Souche introduced us and told her why we were here. After a few more sentences, she agreed to answer Holmes’ questions.

  Holmes pulled up the chair from the dressing table and positioned it facing the day bed. I stood by the tri-fold screen and Henri Souche sat on the floor by Mme. Jacasser’s feet. As she spoke she ran her fingers through his dark hair and patted his head, as one would treat a favourite pet dog. He accepted this attention quietly, but from where I stood I could see the hopeless devotion in his eyes that was invisible to the oblivious young woman.

  Mme. Jacasser answered Holmes’ questions openly and completely.

  “Yes, M. Holmes, Jacques was my friend. I had seen him last three years ago. He returned two weeks ago. I was glad to see him. We met here, after my performances. He was wary, and moved only after dark.”

  “Did de Vitt ever give you any gifts? Any jewellery or something to hold for him?”

  “Jacque never gave me any presents, or anything else. I didn’t want him to give me things. Just seeing him and talking about the old days was enough. I knew that he had spent time in prison. I am not a fool. But he was the friend of my years in Paris and always kind to me.”

  “Tell me about what transpired last night.”

  “It was like any other visit. He waited in the hall until the play was finished, and I let him into my room. We sat and talked a bit and then he left. He mentioned that he had an important meeting later and had rented a buggy.”

  “Did he say or do anything unusual?”

  “I do not think so. Wait, there was one thing. He was quieter than usual, and before he left for his meeting he brought me a glass of water. That is all I remember.”

  Sherlock Holmes stood and looked around the room. The flickering gaslight sent sparkles back from the pile of stage jewels on the table. The gauzy cloths of the costumes and the plumes on the hats hung on the walls moved gently in the breeze from the broken window. Absently, he began to place the false jewels back in the silver-painted box. Just as he topped the contents with the brass and paste tiara, a smile broke across his face and he turned to the wash stand. He snatched up the tin pitcher and turned it over. The contents splashed into the basin and we all heard a loud thunk. Holmes reached into the water and turned, something clutched in his hand. He held it out to us and opened his grip.

  Water dripped through his long, thin fingers. In the centre of his palm was a glittering object, a square faceted diamond with a white gold pendant mount. The gaslight shot beautiful colours off its wet surface. I looked from the gem to Mme. Jacasser and Henri Souche. By a trick of the light, masses of coloured light reflected from the precious gem played over his suit, temporarily bathing the dwarf in the tints of motley. The actress in her Oriental robe and M. Souche in his multi-coloured garb looked like an illustration of some exotic fairy tale out of a storybook.

  “Oh, M. Holmes, is that real?” The woman leaned forward, her eyes as sparkling as the diamond, and peered at Holmes’ prize. “How did you know it was in the water pitcher?”

  Sherlock Holmes carefully dried the Zenana Diamond with his handkerchief and held it up. “I believe Jacques de Vitt thought he might not return from the meeting. He had no reason to trust Jemmy Phillips, his disgruntled cohort in crime. He had no secure place to keep the diamond, so he had been carrying it around with him. Rather than risk bringing it to the rendezvous, he had to find a hiding place. He dropped it in the water pitcher. Since the pitcher was made of tin, and at least one third full of water, the diamond would be invisible if someone just looked inside. If he returned unharmed, he could retrieve the gem. If he didn’t, it would be discovered by his good friend, Jeanette. He must have trusted you very much, Mademoiselle.”

  “I think now that he loved me, M. Holmes. He also knew nothing could come of it. He was not a good man, I know, but he was always considerate towards me.”

  “True love is a rare and wonderful thing, Mme. Jacasser,” I said, my eyes fixed on Henri Souche’s face. “You must never discount any chance to find it, no matter where it happens to appear or in what guise.”

  We left Mme. Jacasser and Henri Souche sitting on the couch. The next morning a story in the Times announced the apprehension
of Phillips, tracked down by the Greenwich police force before he could find refuge on a departing ship. The French Government, in the person of the Ambassador himself, came to our sitting room and with many profuse thanks picked up the recovered Zenana Diamond. He presented Sherlock Holmes with a nice check, which Holmes wasted no time in depositing in his own bank. A few days later we read a small announcement in the Evening Globe that said Mme. Jeanette Jacasser, the prima diva of L’Opera Pendule of Greenwich, was giving up her career and returning to her home town of Avignon to marry M. Henri Souche, talented musician and the son of the mayor. Holmes shook his head.

  “I believe that we shall not hear from M. Souche again, Watson.”

  “Why is that, Holmes?”

  “With his penchant for communicating via nursery rhymes, it might be that M. Souche’s next note could involve a cradle and a tree and that should prove naught to do with either you or me.”

  The Case of the Bivalve Burglars

  For three weeks in October of a year I am constrained by Mr. Sherlock Holmes into concealing for his own personal reasons, I had seen little of my friend the great detective. Circumstances had enabled me to join a small medical practice in partnership with a younger colleague. My efforts allowed me to keep my hand in the healing world while still affording me time to join Holmes when his investigations required my assistance. My partner was keen to advance his professional position and welcomed any opportunity to cover for my irregular absences.

  So it was that I was available to Holmes the morning he received Mr. Charles Carroll into the sitting room of 221b Baker Street. Holmes invited him to take a seat near the fire.

  “I am a partner in Carroll and Lewis with our offices on the south side of the Thames, sir,” said our new client. As he took his seat on the sofa I saw Holmes give him a keen appraisal from head to foot.

  Mr. Charles Carroll was a stout man in his mid-fifties, with a thinning head of brown hair and a clean-shaven face the colour of rose wine. His nose looked like it was formed from a potato and his pale blue eyes peeked out from behind bags of skin. He had fleshly lips over a set of double chins. He wore a suit of black broadcloth and sported an old-fashioned turnip watch on an Albert chain that hung from one waistcoat pocket across his ample stomach to the other side. Two small seals and an unusual knife hung from the links.

  “You must find it very profitable to be able to pick up the oyster trade, after such a lull over the summer,” drawled my friend. “Although a vacation spent on the Thames and the Cam, drifting past the great castles and universities of old must have been very relaxing.”

  “Yes, it was. Wait! How did you know I spent my vacation on the Thames and the Cam?” said Mr. Carroll.

  Sherlock Holmes chuckled. “The fresh blisters on your hands have not yet had time to heal. The pattern on the palms is that of a man using a punt pole. Punts are very popular around the stretch of river that runs through Oxford. Leaves from the graceful trees that overhang the river at that point are evident in your pant cuffs and are particular to that area. You are unmarried and live in quite a bachelor establishment, for a wife or competent maid would have brushed off the evidence by now.”

  “And the oyster trade? How did you know that is my profession, sir?”

  “You bring into our land-locked little home an air that smacks of the sea, Mr. Carroll. Plainly you are not a seafaring man, so you must deal with its fruits and the ships that bring in the harvest. On your watch chain is a strange little knife, devised for the shucking of oysters. I have seen such a knife on the brokers who deal with oysters. It is used to test the freshness and quality of the bivalves on the spot, before money changes hands.”

  “Everything you have said is true, Mr. Holmes. I must admit your words have relieved my mind. I wondered if even such a famous detective would be able to make sense of my problem, but now I am reassured. Mr. Holmes, you must solve my mystery, or I will be forced out of business and left beggared on the streets!’

  “Indeed,” purred Sherlock Holmes. “Pray tell me of your woe, Mr. Carroll. Watson, get our client a tot of brandy, for I see he is in need of a strengthening dram.”

  I poured out a drink and placed it on the table by Mr. Carroll’s elbow. Before I could regain my seat with my notebook in hand he drained the glass. Silently I refreshed his drink as Holmes filled his morning pipe. The thin smoke from the pipe’s bowl veiled my friend’s grey eyes as his lids drooped while he listened to our client’s story.

  “As I said, I am a partner in Carroll and Lewis, the seafood brokers, well-known in the London market and even points north and south,” Mr. Carroll began. “Tenniel Lewis and I have been in partnership together for nearly twenty years. We deal mainly in oysters, but during the off months we have a nice little business in whiting and snails, lobsters and other fish. We are strictly wholesale and have a warehouse at the river’s edge near the Isle of Dogs to hold our stock until it is shipped out to our customers. We deal in perishables, you understand, and keep complete records of every cask and crate of inventory that goes in and out our doors. If we didn’t keep up-to-date information, our stock could easily be overlooked and become spoiled and wasted. We spend a fortune in ice to keep the fish in prime condition. Only constant clear bookkeeping can keep such a business profitable.

  “Lewis and I take turns with the business’s acquisitions and dispersals. For the past year he has been urging me to sell out my shares to him. He has a family and wants his oldest son to come into the business. The boy wants to get married. I have no other interest in life save the warehouse and as you can see I am still in reasonably good health. I don’t want to sell, but Lewis insists there is not enough income on his half to support two households.

  “For the past two weeks I have noticed that the accounts on the books and the actual inventory in the warehouse do not square. Numerous casks of oysters have disappeared. I asked Lewis about the discrepancies but he protested that he knew nothing about it. He even took exception to my suspicions and declared that if I continued to suspect him he would insist I sell out to him and his son, or he would take me to court for defamation of character!

  “I am of two minds as to whether Lewis is pulling some kind of scheme on me to force me to sell out, or if there is another explanation. I am at my wits end, Mr. Holmes. Can you help me find the thief and save my business?”

  “Dr. Watson and I will be happy to look into your case, Mr. Carroll,” said my friend. “Can you meet us at your warehouse this afternoon at two o’clock? I think that a survey of the scene of the crime will be most helpful.”

  “Of course, Mr. Holmes. Thank you, Dr. Watson. Here is the address. Do you wish Mr. Lewis to be present?”

  “Yes, that would be most satisfactory,” replied Holmes. A moment later the door closed behind Mr. Charles Carroll. Holmes went to his chemical table and resumed an experiment he had begun the evening before. I left for my surgery to see my morning patients and inform my partner that I would need him to cover my afternoon appointments.

  I met Holmes after lunch. Together we journeyed over the Thames to the address on the southern side.

  Carroll and Lewis’s warehouse was situated just west of the Isle of Dogs. The tide had retreated and we could clearly see mud flats exposed under the high pilings of the long wooden building as we approached it from the west. Holmes had the cabby stop and we walked the last fifty yards.

  “That is certainly a large warehouse, Watson,” murmured Holmes. “The houses and offices on the street’s other side are more modest and nondescript, but these on the river’s edge are imposing in a silver-grey, well-worn way.”

  To the left of the Carroll and Lewis establishment was another storage building. It looked deserted. The sign over its door, Surlaw and Company, Import-Export, was faded. Its loading dock door was piled up on either side with flotsam and jetsam thrown up by the river. The wooden building had a pier
on the right side between it and Mr. Carroll’s business that offered access to the Thames. Only a few feet separated the pier from our client’s building. There was a stack of long planks on its splintery surface.

  To the right of the Carroll and Lewis warehouse was a brick edifice, the sign over the door reading The Seven Maids Mop Factory. There were clear signs of a thriving business within with sounds testifying to a busy workforce, all concentrating on their various tasks.

  Sherlock Holmes smiled. “Now, what do we have here, a welcoming committee?”

  Two men who had been standing by the front door to our client’s business turned at our approach and came toward us. They were clearly related. Both were just above middle height, with sloping shoulders, long arms and short, thick legs. The elder was dressed in a drab suit, covered by a long rubber apron, with a pair of thick leather gloves shoved into the pocket. The other looked to be his son, clad in corduroys and with a sullen, dissatisfied look on his face that never left it for the entire span of our interview.

  The older man thrust out a hand to us and introduced himself. “You must be Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. I am Tenniel Lewis and this is my son, Bill. Carroll told me you were coming to look into this discrepancy in the books. Bunch of nonsense, if you ask me. If the man isn’t happy with the way things are going, he should sell out and find something that pleases him better. I’ve offered him a fair price. My boy here wants to get married and it’s high time he did.”

  “My girl Alice won’t wait forever,” muttered Bill Lewis. “She as much as told me she’s had other offers. There’s Jim Cheshire, always smiling and winking at her at the White Rabbit. He’s got an ugly puss and I’ve told him more than once it would be better for him if he just disappeared.”

  “It’s all ridiculous,” Mr. Lewis declared. “So what if a couple of small casks of oysters get shoved into a corner and forgotten? Crated oysters on ice can be held for use nearly four weeks after harvesting. I admit they taste best when they are freshest. We’ve got a successful business but crates and boxes get shifted around. I don’t think it’s worth bringing in a detective. I told Carroll I’d meet you, Mr. Holmes, but I’m not going to add to this farce by answering foolish questions. He’s inside in the office, waiting for you. As for me and Bill, we’re going home. My day is done now. Good day to you, sir, and you, sir.” With that the Lewis men turned away and marched off.