by Marvin Kaye
“But you did agree to accept her as your client, therefore you have no alternative.”
“And wouldn’t take it if I had. The woman has rare spirit. Right or wrong, she deserves support because of her courage and the fact that she is so far out-numbered in this battle; she faces such overwhelming forces. Well, you and I know what and who they are, Watson, and we know she cannot win. But yes, I believe I can still extricate her from her trouble without a public disgrace, although she cannot maintain this ‘friendship’ . . . she’s over-matched and must be brought to admit it. For once she’ll have to bow to a stronger power.”
From one of his coat’s great square pockets he withdrew his notebook with pencil attached. “A discreet ad in the personal column of the papers should bring about a meeting with his mother’s loyal emissary, don’t you agree?” He was writing busily, holding the notepad at an angle which allowed me to read it as he scribbled:
Tall dark gentleman who enjoys a walk in the park around ten A.M. and is in sympathy with the dealings of patriotic Lady with military men, nimble-fingered maids and urchins-for-hire seeks meeting with above-mentioned patriotic Lady. Object: to relieve her and Others of problem arising from unsuitable Friendship. Perfect satisfaction and discretion guaranteed if face-to-face meeting can be arranged. No written response necessary.
He pocketed his pencil and glanced over at me. “I hope this will bring results.”
“I’d almost wager on it,” I assured him.
“It went much as I had foreseen,” he told me a few days later, rubbing his lean hands together and looking somewhat smug. “Veni, vidi, vici, as Caesar would have put it. Not that the encounter was comparable to the Gallic wars, perhaps, because to tell you the truth the lady was—well, in all respects a lady. The threats were real enough but our discussion was courteous and we found ourselves in accord at the finish.”
He went on to relate how the black and yellow carriage approached him as he walked in the park. He knew it instantly and also Lady Fitzbarry, who descended from it to join him on the walkway. The carriage moved slowly along the drive behind them as they talked, she first:
“They—that is, the Family—are all of one mind. This affair must cease at once. The Empire must not be witness to yet another fall from grace. The lady in this case could even be dangerous to the Succession.”
“In what sense, madam?” Holmes inquired. (“Although I knew the answer quite well, Watson.”)
“In the sense, Mr. Holmes, that she seems to hold the key to all his preferences, and his infatuation with her has become so obvious that he is now publicly ignoring the responsibilities of his station. As for her, she has been given increasingly pointed warnings and has chosen to ignore them.”
“Is it possible that she does not connect her own actions with your ‘warnings’?”
Lady Fitzbarry slanted a scornful glance at him. “Apparently we have a higher respect for her acuity than you do. She knows! And still she’s made no retreat from her position nor seems inclined to do so. Frankly, sir, we cannot allow it to continue.”
“I think I understand, madam. What do you suggest that I advise my client?”
“You may tell her that the Family sees no recourse but to use its influence here and abroad. Believe me when I say that her way will not be easy. The great opera stages of Europe will never welcome her again. The Society which she values so highly will now be closed to her. She’s gone too far in her belief in her own power, and this arrogance cannot be tolerated. She is about to feel the effects of true Power. We are all reluctant to use harsh measures and we regret the necessity, but—”
“Are you so certain of the necessity, Lady Fitzbarry? Why must the Power you mention stoop to crushing one individual? I can think of alternatives to be considered.”
“Can you? What would you propose?”
“It seems to me,” Holmes said slowly, “that if the lady in question were to take her personal attractions elsewhere, to another scene, another place, in fact to another country . . .?”
She stared directly at the path before her. “And all contact between the parties would cease permanently?”
“Permanently, but with the assurance that my client would remain safe from any damage whatsoever to her career or to her reputation now or in the future.”
“That might be acceptable,” she said, and then, “Very well, then.”
“And—?”
“There is no ‘and.’ If she abides by these demands (and make no mistake, sir, they are demands, not requests), her life can continue on its present course—except in England. Here she will be hence-forth persona non grata. The end. Finis. She has brought it upon herself.”
“With his help, madam . . .”
Her eyes met his and she bent her head slightly and signalled to the carriage with the same motion. A moment later Lady Fitzbarry was gone.
. . . “So you may see how well I had gauged the situation, Watson! The best I could have hoped for was that there be no spiteful desire on their part for vengeance, no need to ruin her future.”
“But still—” I said doubtfully. “How did Mrs. Norton take it?” I asked, thinking of the proud high-held head and the independent spirit of the woman.
He rubbed his chin. “She was shaken, but she took it surprisingly well,” he told me seriously. “And yet, I shouldn’t say ‘surprisingly.’ When a champion shows quality it should surprise no one, and she is—you may judge for yourself, Watson, for if I’m not mistaken she’s on her way up our stairs at this very moment, or my faith in her punctuality is ill placed.”
He was turning the doorknob as her knock sounded. “Dependable as ever, I see, Mrs. Norton,” he greeted her. “Won’t you come in and be seated?”
But she remained standing in the doorway, straight and tall. “No, Mr. Holmes. I requested these few minutes with you only to offer a few more words of appreciation for your efforts. I fear that the last time I saw you my—my—humiliation was so complete that I failed to do justice to them. To your efforts, I mean. Your results were not what I had hoped for, but after a few weeks or months have passed I’m certain that my pride will have recovered sufficiently for me to fully appreciate them. Even now, while my self-confidence is so badly mauled, my more rational side can and does thank you most sincerely. With the handicap you had working against you (and yes, I do mean my own lack of frankness), as well as the Power aligned against you, you managed to salvage a great deal of my life to go on with. In your own way you are—incomparable.”
“Madam, I thank you and I return the compliment with full confidence that wherever you go, your life will continue to be a pleasant and successful one.”
She smiled. “So, then, the time has come to bid one another good-bye, Incomparable Sherlock Holmes.” She extended her hand, which he shook, and nodded to me, then the door to 221B Baker Street closed behind her.
A few hours later I was struck with the irreverent thought that today must be Ladies’ Day at this same 221B Baker Street, for when the next knock sounded on our door, it was opened to frame the figure of an angry Lady Fitzbarry. A more icily furious woman I had never encountered in all my life. I am not anxious to repeat the experience, even though I was not the one on whom she poured what some have referred to as “vials of wrath.”
She swept into the room before Holmes could invite her to enter, and her accusing index finger pointed so directly at his heart that he took an involuntary step backwards.
“You!” The finger still threatened. “Was this your advice to your client? Do you own no conscience whatsoever? What sort of a man are you, to bear me such spite, such deep-held malice simply because I won the honours in the bargain we struck in the park?”
Holmes raised a hand, his face pale with his own resentment at this attack. “I assure you—” he began, but she broke in hotly.
“Oh, yes, assure me, assure me! My God, man, much good may that do me now! All I know is that only days ago my husband had no thoughts of this woman, non
e at all, and now, at this very moment, they are aboard the Dover-to-Calais—”
“Who?” Holmes interrupted, but I knew by his look that he had guessed.
“Who but that—creature—that singer or whatever she calls herself. As if you didn’t know who! ‘Off together for a lengthy tour of the Continent,’ his note said, and may the boat go to the bottom of the Channel with the both of them!” She was flushed and trembling with temper.
“Madam,” Holmes said expressionlessly, “I know nothing of any of this. I had nothing to do with it. Their—plans—might well have been made some time ago.”
She glared at him. “Impossible.”
“Why so?”
“Because Lord Fitzbarry knew with whom she was connected, and what loyal Englishman would have interfered under those circumstances? No, he would have never—but since your meddling fingers have stirred the waters, all that has changed and now—he’s gone! Your fault! Your fault!”
“My ‘meddling fingers,’ ” he said coldly, “have merely served your own purposes, madam, as you outlined them to me. If the outcome is different from what we both expected it is none of my doing and I refuse to accept the blame. Therefore, Lady Fitzbarry, although I deeply regret the distress this has caused you—”
“Does it not occur, even to one such as you, how ignoble a deed it is to sunder a marriage for such a spiteful personal reason?”
Holmes had heard enough. Without another word, he walked to the door and opened it significantly.
For a long moment she stood there, indecisive, and then she threw him one last hateful look and departed.
He closed the door and leaned against it with his back to me. His shoulders were shaking and I stood watching him, shocked to see him display his emotions so openly. Another man might very well have felt and shown signs of stress after such a scene, but I had thought my friend more in control of his own nerves.
But when, after a moment, he turned towards me, I saw his face alight with the deepest amusement he had ever revealed to me. I was startled, and naturally Holmes, being Holmes, caught my expression. He clapped me on the shoulder, chuckling aloud.
“Watson,” he said, “was there ever to your knowledge another so wilful, so charming and so deceitful as Irene Adler Norton? I tell you, wherever she goes the woman can upset the world around her. And mine also, my friend. Mine also. At least temporarily,” he added, still chuckling.
And throwing himself into his armchair he pulled out his pipe and leaned back. “But you realize, Watson, that this is the second time that this same female has played me one of her sly tricks. I find myself embarrassed. ‘Fool me once and shame on you. Fool me twice and shame on me!’ Therefore spare my blushes, old friend, and keep this particular story to yourself, will you?”
I saw his point. I said I would and I have.
In my 1996 St. Martin’s collection, The Resurrected Holmes, my colleague J. Adrian Fillmore explained that Dr. R., the Philadelphia collector who bought the tin dispatch-box, hired many authors to ghost-write Watson’s notes into full narratives. Many writers tried, but few succeeded in submerging their own distinctive literary styles in favour of Watson’s. Dr. R.’s ledgers reveal that though the bulk of the next tale was penned by Inspector Lestrade himself, the frame and certain characters and situations were embellished by Arthur Stanley Jefferson (1890-1965), a young English comic who, stranded in 1912 in Philadelphia, made the acquaintance of Dr. R., who recognized Jefferson’s genius and many years later asked him to write up “The Little Problem of the Grosvenor Square Furniture Van.” Aficionados will recognize in it the germ of an idea that later won an Oscar for Jefferson (a/k/a Stan Laurel) and his partner Oliver Norvell Hardy. Mmm-mmm-MMM!
The Little Problem of the Grosvenor
Square Furniture Van
BY “PATRICK LOBRUTTO”
(ASCRIBED TO ARTHUR STANLEY JEFFERSON)
In the thick London night, a lemon-tinted, coal-fouled fog swirled. Although everything beyond ten feet became wavering and indistinct, sound seemed magnified, heavy. Voices, hoofbeat and footfall, the sodden sound of wooden wheels thudding on wet cobblestone came out of the night from all directions.
Two men stepped into the flickering gaslight on a corner by Cavendish Square. The blockier of the two stopped, moaned softly, held a hand to the side of his face for a brief moment, then walked on, his pace quick and determined. His companion hurried to catch up.
They walked through the night, turning west at Wigmore Street. Never uttering a sound, they strode on. At the foot of Baker Street, they turned north, increasing their pace. At Crawford, they stopped and stood in front of the corner shop bearing the sign CURTIS & CO. CHEMISTS. The lean, grey-eyed gentleman with the deerstalker cap waited quietly while the other went into the shop. He returned after only a few moments, holding a small, square package in one hand.
“I have what I came for, Holmes.” His voice was thick with pain. “We must press on.”
“Yes, Watson. We can go home now.”
Walking back south on Baker Street, they entered 221, walked up the seventeen steps and entered B, Holmes’s apartment.
Inside, with the door closed behind them, their coats still on, they paused and looked at each other. Watson nodded. “I’ll be only a moment. I hope the laudanum will ease this pain; we must decide what we are to do.” He pulled a sheaf of papers from a pocket inside his coat. “Once you have observed these, you will understand my urgency, and why I have ventured out into the streets with this damned toothache when I would much rather be soothed by the tender ministrations of my new wife.” His ill temper was evident and sharp.
Holmes nodded and removed his coat. “Of course, Watson, of course,” he said soothingly. He took the proffered papers. Printed in block letters across the top of the first page were the words:
Mr. Holmes and the Grosvenor Furniture Van or
The True Facts As I Seen Them with My Own Two Eyes
BY Inspector G. Lestrade
Holmes sighed heavily and stared up at the ceiling. “What a revolting development this is,” he said, and began to read . . .
It was a bright and sunny afternoon when I come to Baker Street to speak to Mr. Sherlock Holmes of 221B, an amateur detective who has occasionally been of some assistance in a few official police matters, and Doctor John Watson, a writer of magazine stories. These two gentlemen—especially Holmes—have accumulated a great deal of the public’s admiration in recent times at the expense of our efficient and hard-working Metropolitan Police. By means of this testimony, I hope to address the balance . . .
Holmes stopped and said, “Who could have foreseen, nearly a year ago, that the little sallow, rat-faced fellow would be such a snitcher. I think we shall both be in need of whiskey, Watson, and much of it, before this is done.”
“It’s elementary, my dear fellow,” said Watson in a sharp tone, wincing with discomfort. “He is, no doubt, having his revenge for the times you went out of your way to show him up.”
“Might I remind you, old friend,” Holmes replied, “that it was you who wrote about it.”
For the briefest of moments, the two men held each other’s gaze.
Making a visible effort to rein his billowing temper, Watson said, “Nothing to be done for that now. I’ll do the honours. Read on, won’t you.”
Holmes said, “Yes, yes, of course,” and did so . . .
. . .When I arrived, on that day, Mr. Holmes and Doctor Watson both were engaged in an attempt to bring a piano into their apartments on the second floor. I would have thought that Mr. Holmes’s way with a fiddle would have been enough to fill any house but now it seems that he must have the tinkle of a piano for Baker Street. Perhaps Mr. Holmes thought to accompany himself whilst he played the violin. I do pity the neighbours.
Holmes put down the papers and looked over to Watson, who stood by the bow window rubbing his sore cheek. “I say, old man, what do you suppose Lestrade meant by that remark about my violin playing and pitying
the neighbours?”
It seemed, for a few moments, that Watson hadn’t heard the question. Slowly, he turned towards the seated detective. He stared at him for a long moment, and said, finally, “Just read on, won’t you?”
“Yes, of course.”
Me, I been seeing to the duties of an officer of the law twenty years nearly, learned it the hard way—through the records division—and I say it’s the old hound what’s best, when all is said and done. I concentrate on the job and the evidence before me and hunt down criminals. I shall leave fancy theories to amateurs.
Now you take this case here at hand. The search for the mysterious, and missing, S. Terry, the Poet Laureate of the West End, had led me into many strange and dangerous situations with little result. I knew I needed to talk to someone with very specialized and unsavoury information. I took myself, therefore, to Number 221B and attempted to see if some of that useless information in Holmes’s skull might be of some use to the good people of London.
