by Marvin Kaye
Even her suitor took a step away at that. “A glass of water for the dear baroness!” the duke called.
I thought a little distance might be in order here as well. I purposefully stepped between the duke and the object of his affection. “Water will do her no good if you do not give her air.”
The duke and his entourage dutifully took a few more steps away.
“Thank you, Watson,” the baroness whispered close by my ear. “I’m afraid the duke’s attentions can be a bit suffocating. Still, I think we should remain. The assassin might strike at any time!”
A glass of water was thrust into my hand. I glanced up, a bit taken aback by the heavy-set serving women, so different from the delicate nobility all around us. The serving staff had no doubt been recruited from the peasant class back home.
The baroness raised her fan so that she might sip her water in private.
“Ah,” she said at last as she relinquished her glass to one of the servers. “I am better already.” She lowered her fan. “Duke, there is much I would love to ask you about your country.”
The duke smiled at that, stepping close once more. “Surely then, you will stay and join us for dinner.”
But one of the surrounding women spoke up. “You monopolize our new arrival, you naughty duke! Come, Baroness, we will get you some air. Let us go and freshen up!”
My worst fears were realized. We had fallen victim to the habits of women everywhere. The baroness could do nothing but obey! I watched helplessly as the baroness and half a dozen other women moved towards that place where no man might go.
Count Orlock had once again placed his short stature before me. He seemed to want to make small talk about the baroness’s habits. I could not truly concentrate on the conversation. Excepting a certain woman in green, Holmes had never seemed to have much use for the fairer sex. How would he fare among the company of women?
The count went on and on. I could do little but nod. Once I had evaded his questions concerning my companion, the small man wanted to talk about nothing but politics!
“I have so little opportunity to explore the English mind. Compared to my home country—pfahh!”
I am afraid that the conversation was getting on my nerves. I snapped a response: “Perhaps you might have more opportunity to explore things if you presented yourself a little less—forcefully.”
The count seemed unfazed by my anger. He simply shook his head and replied, “One must make one’s own opportunities, my dear Doctor.”
But the women had returned. And they were laughing, the baroness along with all the rest! A certain young woman at the edge of the group turned to me with great excitement.
“Oh, Doctor!” the young woman related in the most breathless of tones. “Your baroness is a marvel! She is a fountain of information—what she has told us of skirt length and fabrics and the changes in number of petticoats. She knows every variation of dress over the past fifty years! I had no idea that fashion was so fickle!”
I smiled at the news. Holmes would of course lead with his strengths. My worry had been needless once again. Throughout our association, the detective would never cease to surprise me.
I turned back to the baroness, and saw her waving for me with her fan.
“I have gained some useful information as well, Watson,” the baroness confided when I reached her side. “Unless I am very much mistaken, the assassin will not be among the women. Or at least these particular women.”
I longed to ask the detective how or why he had discovered this, but the duke approached again, ending all attempts at conversation.
“I have taken the liberty to have my kitchen prepare some of my country’s specialties.” He waved about the room, and I saw that the heavy-set serving women had returned, this time bearing great silver trays piled with foodstuffs.
The duke leaned close to the baroness. “The Breaded Codfish Soaked in Beer is a particular delight!”
The baroness fanned herself. “Indeed?”
The duke discerned her meaning. “Ah.” He leapt forward to snatch something from a passing tray. “Perhaps you would care for something lighter? These pastries are filled with our native berries.”
The count was once again before us. “But Duke! Surely you wish to sample the Fannsnufel!” One of the large serving women was at his side, her tray piled high with some large, puffy white concoction.
“Ah, Count!” The duke swallowed the berry trifle and nodded to the bloated white things. “Fannsnufel is my passion! Well—one of my passions.” For once, both duke and count were all smiles. Only the baroness was frowning.
The count waved away the questing fingers of the duke’s entourage from the silver tray. “We should always let the duke sample first. As he said, it is his passion. And I understand that this plate was made specially.”
The duke acted as if he barely even heard the small man, his gaze fixed resolutely on the tall woman in tweed. “These are indeed the pride of my native land. Perhaps we should give some to our honoured guest.”
The count stared at the duke as if the elder man had spoken the unthinkable. “What if they are sour? You know yourself that if the heavy cream, brown sugar and wartroot are not mixed precisely, disaster may result.”
But the duke did not take his eyes from the baroness. “Perhaps, then, we might sample them together. I will feed one to you, and then, perhaps—”
The baroness raised her fan. “As eager as I am to sample the delights of your kitchen, I feel that I must pass, and I suggest that you pass as well.”
“So you suggest I save my appetite for other things?” On a commoner, the look upon the duke’s face might have been taken for a leer.
“No,” the baroness replied. “The count appears as if he is much neglected. I suggest that the first taste of Fannsnufel should be his.”
“A capital suggestion from a generous lady!” the duke agreed.
But the count looked pale. “I have no appetite for pastries.”
The baroness stared at him. “Especially none prepared with your sister’s recipe?”
The count gasped. “What do you know of my sister?”
“Only that before she left, she hired and supervised the kitchen and serving staffs. She had always felt the position beneath her. Not to mention that she conveniently left just before you arrived.” The baroness smiled slightly in my direction. “It is amazing what you might learn in a private conversation with the women of the court.”
“Ah, that countess,” the duke murmured. “A beautiful woman, but so private. She did not wish to have too much known about her family, I believe. The very existence of Count Orlock here came as a complete surprise!”
“What are you insinuating?” the count demanded, his voice breaking with the emotion.
Colonel Gelthelm stepped to my side.
“Is there some difficulty here?”
“Ah!” the baroness cried. “A wonderful source of information! I pray, Colonel, you may allow me to ask you a few questions of a delicate nature?”
“If the duke does not object, I am your man.”
“You will have to stand in line behind me, Colonel!” the duke rejoined. “But by all means, answer the delightful lady’s questions!”
The baroness nodded graciously. “I understand that, besides the count, the embassy staff is very—close knit?”
The colonel cleared his throat. “Ah yes, well, you see, I am a married man. But I have heard that certain of my officers are somewhat—familiar with certain ladies of the court.”
“They are all strangers together in a strange land,” the baroness agreed. “It is to be expected. Yet the count seems to be as standoffish as—say, his sister?”
The count seemed genuinely uncomfortable. “I find my pleasures elsewhere.”
“In Fannsnufel, perhaps?” The baroness snatched one of the large and gooey pastries from the tray. “Come, take a bite.”
The count turned his head away.
“Perhaps kno
wledge of your family has taken away your appetite,” the baroness coaxed. “You see, I know of your stepfather, a certain Professor Van Zummann.”
“Van Zummann?” Colonel Gelthelm cried in alarm.
“Perhaps when bombs do not work, Count,” the Baroness continued, “you find subtler means of death, like poisoning the Fannsnufel. Or should I say—Countess?”
“Enough!” The count pulled a knife from deep within his coat. His—or was it her?—voice seemed to rise with every word. “Poison is too good for this lecherous duke. I will kill him myself!”
The colonel took a step forward, hoping no doubt to intercede. He paused as he saw that three of the serving women had drawn knives as well.
The baroness reeled away. “Doctor, my salts!”
Everyone turned to look at me as I fumbled for my medical bag. I wished I had had the foresight to bring my revolver from Baker Street. What did Holmes want me to do?
“If you wish to get to the duke, you will have to get by me first.” I looked up to see that the baroness stood once more, but now, in her hand, she held my revolver!
“It is amazing what one can carry in one’s bag,” she remarked casually. “But I assure you, Countess, I know how to use this, and, should you approach the duke, I will not hesitate to fire!”
“You are a woman of action!” the unmasked countess exclaimed. “Oh, how I have longed for a life such as yours. I was forced into this by my backwards nation! Look at this pitiful duke, so typical of the ruling class! Only someone as versed in politics as myself should be allowed to rule this land!”
But the baroness would not be moved. Colonel Gelthelm quickly shouted orders, and the uniformed sentries entered the room, their own guns at the ready.
“You see,” the baroness explained as the miscreants were led away, “the countess, no doubt working under her stepfather’s orders, set up the means to poison the duke. But since she was in charge of kitchen staff, she would immediately fall under suspicion if such a thing were to happen. That is why she had to disappear, and the so-called Count Orlock took her place.”
“A countess masquerading as a count!” the grand duke marvelled. “Who could imagine such a thing!”
The baroness dropped her gun into her bag and once again took up her fan. “Oh, I assure you, my dear Duke, I can imagine that and more.”
If anything, this all appeared to make the duke more excited. “But Baroness, you reveal a new part of your personality. You are indeed a woman of action! It makes me desire you all the more!”
The baroness bowed her head. “Alas, my Duke. I am afraid my destiny lies elsewhere. I must go.”
She turned and strode gracefully but briskly from the ballroom. I nearly had to run to follow.
“You cannot desert me like this!” The duke’s voice followed us from the room. “My life shall never be the same! If you exist, I shall find you!”
“Then,” Holmes spoke softly to me, “the baroness must cease to exist.”
Indeed, not a week later, we received a sealed letter at 221B Baker Street from that same embassy, a letter from the grand duke, a missing-person case. The duke was beside himself. Price was no object.
Holmes, regretfully, had to tell the duke he was otherwise involved. It was one case, in fact, that Holmes said might elude him forever. And a case that, while I write of it as I do all the rest, might best stay sealed for an equal time.
Irene Adler got the best of Sherlock Holmes in “A Scandal in Bohemia,” and twenty years later, her daughter did the same (according to “The Second Generation,” a radio dramatization by Anthony Boucher and Denis Green, available from Simon & Schuster Audioworks). In the suppressed, oddly timely manuscript below, however, the woman actually seeks Holmes’s aid, and this time, at least, she means to play it straight with him. Or does she?
The Woman
BY ALINE MYETTE-VOLSKY
Our visitor that winter evening was a lady, and a lovely one, most modishly turned out. I noticed Holmes’s keen eye narrow as he bent over her ringless hand, a hand surely meant for the display of expensive rings, or so most observers would have thought. In fact I myself had noticed the obvious lack. Perhaps my close association with my friend was beginning to lend a sharper edge to my own powers of observation, or perhaps the fact that the lady’s hand was gloveless as well as ringless had pointed it out to me.
I awaited his first words with some curiosity.
“Mrs. Norton” (so he had recognized her). With a nod he indicated a comfortable chair near the hearth where the firelight and the mantel lamp would conspire to light her facial expressions. To my shame I felt only amusement as I saw her balk his purpose by shifting her chair slightly as she seated herself. Now her features were somewhat shadowed and more difficult to read. In the face of this small setback Holmes showed no discomfiture. I should have been surprised if he had.
“Mrs. Norton,” he repeated, “I am pleased to renew your acquaintance, although the signs of urgency which mark your arrival at my door give me cause for a certain amount of concern on your behalf.”
Her head came up at that. “Signs of urgency, Mr. Holmes? I am unaware of displaying any such signs.”
“When a lady has left home in such a distressed frame of mind that she has forgotten to wear gloves, and her journey has been so precipitous that her veil blows in and out with the swiftness of her breathing, I take these to be signs of anxiety.”
She nodded slowly. “Of course you are right, Mr. Holmes. I had almost forgotten the observant study you habitually make of your visitors. And yet it is for that very reason that I am here, to take advantage, if I may, of those powers for which you are so justly famous.”
“Thank you for your faith, and I assure you that my so-called powers will be put to work for you as willingly as they were used against you during our last meeting.”
He referred, of course, to the scandal in Bohemia when the king of that country, about to be married, had called upon Holmes to retrieve certain compromising letters and photographs of the glamorous opera star Irene Adler, as she then was. The great detective consultant had developed a respect and admiration for “the woman,” as he thereafter referred to her, which to my knowledge he conceded to no other of her sex.
Irene Norton sighed and lifted her veil, revealing the beautiful face and great glowing eyes which had helped to make her the toast of Milan and the jewel of La Scala. “I have long been the designer of my own destiny,” she told us, “or so I have thought myself. To a woman as independent as I, the reminder that there are influences which can work me personal harm or financial damage comes as an unwelcome surprise. And although I have racked my brain—and believe me, Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson, I have!—I have been completely unable to discover the source or sources of these attacks on me or the reasons behind them.”
Holmes’s long chemically stained fingers, witnesses to his years of scientific experimentation, tapped the arms of his chair. “When you mention attacks, madam, surely you do not mean attacks against your person?”
“Oh, but I do mean that. On a number of recent occasions I have been deliberately shoved by passing strangers; yesterday I was even pushed into an open doorway by a gang of street arabs—not hurt, mind you, but nasty language was used and my garments pulled about quite roughly.” She took a deep breath. “Now I am not unfamiliar with harassment, sir. If you will recollect my experience with the king of Bohemia—”
“But in that case you held something which was dangerous to him and which you refused to relinquish. So there was a reason.”
“So there was a reason. Yes. But in this case I pose no danger to—to anyone, so why am I being harassed in this increasingly alarming fashion? Who is my enemy? And what does he—or she—want of me?”
Holmes got up and moved over to the window which overlooked Baker Street, where he stood holding aside two inches of the drapery so that he could look out into the lamplit darkness. “No one in sight,” he remarked. “For the moment, at least, you
seem to have shaken off your annoyers. I am, however, not convinced that the minor rudenesses you’ve been subjected to are actually anything more than coincidences. Your street arabs, for instance . . .”
“ ‘Minor rudenesses,’ Mr. Holmes? Such as the burglary of my suite in the best hotel in London? The theft of my jewels by my new lady’s maid after three days in my employ?”
Holmes moved his length away from the window to stand beside the fire, his look suddenly more attentive. “No, I must admit that where there occurs a sudden series of uncommon events, either all good or all bad, the probabilities are that they are being directed by a purpose rather than by chance. Please describe to me more precisely the occurrences which have brought you to me in such haste this evening.”
“You wish me to describe each incident in detail?”
“As minutely as possible, if you please.”
She frowned in thought for a moment and Holmes took his keen gaze away from her face, as if to allow her a sense of mental privacy while she cogitated. It occurred to me that he was not always so thoughtful.
After a moment Irene Norton spoke again, her voice reflective. “To begin with, I would guess that this—campaign against me—”
Holmes pounced. “Campaign?”
“Yes, that is how I am forced to see it: a campaign of persecution. The petty annoyances such as the theft of my newspaper from before my door in the mornings and the scorching of a Worth gown I had given to my maid to be pressed (that incident was what led me to hire a new maid). As I’ve mentioned, she stole every piece of jewelry I owned, left my boxes bare of a single personal treasure—oh, but she was a merciless little thief!”
Her remarkable eyes flashed and Holmes darted an amused glance at me. “As far as thieves are concerned, madam, mercy toward the victim is not their strong suit. They do not leave consoling souvenirs behind them.”
“I’m aware of that, sir, but in this case I had a confidential conversation with this girl and found her so sympathetic in manner that I confided to her my deep regard for one or two special jewels, gifts from a very highly placed Personage: a diamond sea horse, my set of emeralds. . . And to think she stole those from me as well—oh, I suppose I’ve been a trusting fool and I’m ashamed to have you gentlemen see me in that light.”
