by Rob Nunn
“I cannot guarantee that the King will take your word on this matter, madam.”
Irene Norton leaned forward. “That is why I came to hire you, Mr. Holmes.”
Holmes cocked an eyebrow and she continued. “I do not wish you to go against the King’s wishes. In fact, I am counting on you to carry them out. You no doubt have a plan to burgle my house to obtain the photograph. It has all been done before, but not by one so skilled as you. I trust that you will follow that line of inquiry. I only ask that I be allowed to consult on the outcome. And for that allowance, I am willing to pay you a second income for the same problem on which you are already working.”
“A double cross!” Watson ejaculated.
“You may call it that, sir,” Mrs. Norton smiled. Turning back to Homes, she continued. “By all means, go about your business, but I ask only that you allow me to keep the photograph as a token of security against future acts of the King. In its place, I will leave a different photograph which he might care to possess along with a note explaining my actions to him. I am confident that the King will take me at my word. I have no doubt that you would be able to follow my movements. If the King is not willing to believe me, I will give up the original photograph and you may keep my payment.”
“This is an intriguing offer, Mrs. Norton,” Holmes said from behind his pipe, “but why come to me at all in the first place?”
“Because I am tired of this man, Mr. Holmes. It is true that I originally said that I would use the photograph against him, but my life has moved on. I do not wish to be harassed by him or his agents any further, but I do wish to leave some safeguard in place against him.”
Holmes puffed on his pipe and watched the blue smokerings as they chased each other up to the ceiling as he contemplated for a few moments.
“Alright then, Mrs. Norton, I agree. I will be injured tonight on your doorstep, dressed as an elderly clergyman. You will bring me in to be bandaged, and while doing so, you will open the window to allow me fresh air. Dr. Watson will throw a plumber’s smoke rocket through the window, and after that, I will disappear. I will call on you tomorrow morning with the King to show him where you have hidden the photograph, and you must be gone by then.”
Holmes’ newest client smiled. “It is very clever, Mr. Holmes. I agree.”
“One other thing, you must not show any pretense of leaving the country until after I have departed from your home tonight, or some suspicion may arise. Leave your note and photograph for the King at your house and send your payment to me in two days’ time to allow the King and his agents to depart from London.”
Mrs. Norton agreed to Holmes’ terms. Pulling the hat back down over her face, she rose. “Until tonight, Mr. Holmes.”
After Mrs. Norton had left, Watson smiled at Holmes. “A most remarkable woman, indeed! It’s a shame she married earlier today, for I think she might have matched you suitably.”
Holmes chuckled. “You add too much romance to the situation, Watson. I should never marry myself, lest I bias my judgement.”
“But you cannot deny the woman’s merits,” Watson persisted.
“Hardly not. From what I have observed, Mrs. Norton eclipses and predominates the whole of her sex, but you put me in a false position placing me as a lover. For the trained reasoner such as myself, admitting such an intrusion would introduce a distracting factor which might throw a doubt upon all my mental results.”
Watson chuckled at his friend’s cold and precise manner. “I trust your judgement.”
“A very sensible reply, doctor.”
The night went according to Holmes’ plans, and the next morning, Holmes and Watson sat at the breakfast table when the King of Bohemia burst into the room.
“You have really got it!” he cried, grasping Holmes by the shoulder, and looking eagerly into his face.
“Not yet, but I have hopes.”
“Then, come. I am all impatience to be gone. My brougham is waiting.”
When the men arrived at Briony Lodge, the front door stood open, and an elderly woman stood on the steps.
“My mistress told me that you were likely to call. She left this morning with her husband by the train from Charing Cross for the Continent, never to return,” she announced as Holmes looked on with a convincingly startled gaze.
“And the papers?” asked the King hoarsely. “All is lost!”
Holmes pushed back the servant and moved into the sitting-room, and pulled out a photograph and a letter from a small sliding shutter. The photograph was of Irene Adler in evening dress and the letter was addressed “To my mysterious clergyman. To be left until called for.” The note read:
“My dear guest, You really did it very well. You took me in completely. Until after the alarm of fire, I had not a suspicion. But then, when I found how I had betrayed myself, I began to think. I had been warned against an agent in London months ago that the King could employ. Yet, with all this, you made me reveal what you wanted to know. Even after I became suspicious, I found it hard to think evil of such a dear, kind, old clergyman. But you know, I have been trained as an actress myself. I immediately started to see my husband.
“We both thought the best resource was flight, so you will find the nest empty when you call. As to the photograph, your client may rest in peace. I love and am loved by a better man than he. The King may do what he will without hindrance from one whom he has cruelly wronged. I keep it only to safeguard myself, and to preserve a weapon which will always secure me from any steps which he might take in the future. I hope that you can respect my wishes, and take me at my word. I remain very truly yours,
“Irene Norton, nee Adler.”
“What a woman, what a woman!” cried the King of Bohemia. “Did I not tell you how quick and resolute she was? Would she not have made an admirable queen? Is it not a pity she was not on my level?”
“From what I have seen of the lady, she seems, indeed, to be on a very different level to Your Majesty,” said Holmes coldly.
“I know that her word is inviolate. The photograph is now as safe as if it were in the fire. I am immensely indebted to you. Pray tell me in what way I can reward you! You have to name it.”
“This photograph of Miss Adler,” Holmes pointed.
The King stared at him in amazement. “Certainly, if you wish it.” Thinking that his business with Holmes had concluded, the King took a step towards the door.
“And would you prefer to discuss the rest of your payment here or back at Baker Street?” Holmes asked.
Chapter 5: We Can But Try
The year 1887 continued to be a busy one for Sherlock Holmes. After toppling Baron Maupertuis and the Irene Adler incident, Holmes turned back to his work with an energy Watson had never seen before. Within weeks of the Adler business, Holmes had taken control of a luxurious secret club, The Amateur Mendicant Society, who held meetings in the lower vault of a furniture warehouse. Holmes’ stealthy ownership was known to only one member of the society, and its funds were used to finance Holmes’ other operations. During this time he also arranged for two men to escape from their jealous wives and rigid families by sailing on the Sophy Anderson which Holmes arranged to disappear from all knowledge. That masterful work was quickly followed by a heist from the Grice-Pattersons off the coast of Scotland, of which Holmes was especially proud. The year also found Holmes assisting Scotland Yard in his special way with capturing the villain behind the Camberwell poisoning case.
But all of Holmes’ activities during this year were not well-thought out successes. One such instance was the problem of the Bar of Gold opium den. Holmes’ syndicate not only planned out criminal activities, but also operated and provided protection for places such as this seedy den. While reading through the papers one morning, Holmes saw that the Bar of Gold was a focal point in a missing man investigation that had begun the previous d
ay. While walking home the previous day, a lady had seen her businessman husband’s face in one of the den’s upstairs windows. But when she forced her way in, he was nowhere to be found; only her husband’s clothes and a local beggar were in the room. The beggar had been arrested by the police on suspicion of murder.
Enraged that he had not been notified of this problem before the police and newspapers became involved, Holmes planned to infiltrate the den without arousing suspicion from police in the area. He meant to solve the disappearance before Scotland Yard and make the problem go away. The opium den was a steady source of income for Holmes’ operation, and he despised any interference from the authorities or attention being called to it by the newspapers.
With police still around, Holmes was unable to address the lascar who operated the Bar of Gold. Taking the disguise of a wrinkled and bent old opium addict, Holmes left the next day to collect his information.
“Holmes,” Watson reacted, “Surely you cannot be thinking of going to that vile den!”
“Ay, Watson. I hope to find some clues in the incoherent ramblings of the sots who frequent the establishment. Do not fear, though. I have no intention of adding opium smoking to cocaine injections and all the other little weaknesses on which you have favored me with your medical views.”
“But what of the police investigation?”
“It is my hope that they are off on the wrong scent. The Yarders’ temptation to form premature theories upon insufficient data is a boon to our profession.”
So, dressed as an old addict, Holmes spent the day with an opium pipe dangling down between his knees, as though in sheer lassitude. Holmes listened to the gossip among those sober enough to discuss yesterday’s events and caught bits of conversations from the officers passing through. When the opportunity arose, he sneaked up to the second floor and investigated a trap door that the police suspected was where the missing man had been dropped into the Thames to his death.
Holmes found no evidence of a struggle, but the police had not done a thorough enough search of the room and Holmes found a letter addressed to the missing man’s wife wedged behind a loose board in the wall. Pocketing his evidence, he slipped out of the opium den and returned to Baker Street. The letter he found contained the man’s signet ring and was dated from that morning. It read:
“Dearest, do not be frightened. All will come well. There is a huge error which it may take some little time to rectify. Wait in patience - Neville.”
Holmes analyzed the paper and envelope closely. After a long day collecting information, he sat in front of the fire at Baker Street and retold the facts to Watson, hoping to use his friend as a conductor of light. Holmes felt that he had all of the information to find Neville St. Clair. If he could only discover why Mr. St. Clair had not returned to his wife, public scrutiny of one of his steadily earning buildings would disappear, and Holmes could deal with the wily lascar who had allowed issues to reach this point.
The next morning, Watson came back down to the sitting room to find Holmes perched cross-legged on a sort of eastern divan created from pillows and cushions from around the room. His pipe was between his lips, smoke curling upward, filling the sitting-room with a dense tobacco haze.
“Good morning, Watson.”
“Holmes,” Watson coughed through the dense smoke, “have you been up all night?”
“Yes. Pondering over the problem of the missing Mr. St. Clair. Dress quickly and we will have a morning drive,” Holmes chuckled, seeming a different man than the somber thinker Watson had spent time with the night before. “I want to test a little theory of mine. I think I have the key of the affair now.”
“Where is it?”
“In the bathroom. Oh, yes, I am not joking. I have just been there, and I have taken it out, and have got it in this Gladstone bag. Come on, my boy, and we shall see whether it will not fit the lock.”
Holmes had, when he so willed it, the utter immobility of countenance of a red Indian, and Watson could not gather from his appearance whether he was satisfied with the case during their cab ride. While Watson yearned to know of the developments with the Bar of Gold problem, Holmes was only interested in discussing the Bertillon system of measurements, expressing his enthusiastic admiration of the French savant.
Their cab pulled up in front of the police courts on Bow Street, and Holmes handed Watson the Gladstone bag and a note. “Hand this to Inspector Bradstreet and come back out. He and I have had some correspondences in the past, but I am not willing to tempt fate and set foot inside that building.”
Watson returned a few minutes later and Holmes ordered the cab to drive around the block and park up the street, where they could watch the door.
“What are we waiting for, Holmes?”
“I expect to soon see a man with damp hair and a beggar’s outfit leaving the building,” Holmes answered. “And when he does, we will give him a ride home.”
As predicted, a man meeting Holmes’ description stepped out and Holmes ordered the cab to pull up beside him.
“Mr. St. Clair,” Holmes spoke out the window. “Or do you prefer that I call you Hugh Boone when you are dressed as so?”
Surprised, the man could only stare up at the man speaking to him.
“Get in the cab, Mr. St. Clair. We will take you back to your wife. She has been very worried about you.”
Neville St. Clair climbed in suspiciously. “Are you the one who sent the officer in with the sponge?”
“You have caused enough problems, Mr. St. Clair. I will lead this conversation,” Holmes said in his rigid and constrained demeanor. “Please correct me on any points of which I am in error.”
Neville St. Clair nodded.
“For whatever reason, you have been passing yourself off as Hugh Boone, a professional beggar and you have been using the Bar of Gold as your dressing room at the beginning and end of each day. At the end of the day on Saturday, you looked out the window of the second floor and saw your wife and she happened to look up and recognize your face. She tried to run upstairs, but was slowed by the door attendant, giving you time to change back into your beggarly clothes. When she finally made her way in, she only found Neville St. Clair’s clothes and Hugh Boone. Is everything correct so far?”
“God help me, it’s all true, sir,” St. Clair moaned. “I don’t know how you know all of this, but it’s true. I would not have done all of this if it wasn’t for my children. I wouldn’t have them ashamed...”
Holmes interrupted. “Your motives are not of interest to me. Clearing up this matter quickly is the only thing that concerns me at this time. I will continue. Your wife raised the alarm and the constable on duty came to her aid, but could not help her to find her husband. Seeing a small point of blood on the windowsill, which,” Holmes nodded down at St. Clair’s hand, “I can tell was not part of a murderous row, and also seeing your clothes on the floor, the beggar Boone was arrested for murder, prompting an investigation and you were put in jail. You were able to write your wife a letter, hoping that it would pacify her until the matter could be resolved. That was your plan until your ruse was discovered this morning when the officer washed your disguise away.”
“Yes. I would have endured imprisonment, aye, even execution, rather than have left my miserable secret as a family blot to my children,” St. Clair responded. “Did she send you after reading my letter? I never hoped to put her through such a trial.”
Holmes held out St. Clair’s signet ring. “The man you gave your letter to was unable to deliver it. Your wife knows nothing of this. Here we are,” Holmes said as they pulled up to his house.
“You will reunite and tell your wife and the police any story that you choose, but it stops here. There will be no more of Hugh Boone and you will stay away from the Bar of Gold.”
“I have sworn it by the most solemn oaths which a man can take.”
“In that case, I do not believe that any further steps need be taken. Now get out, Mr. St. Clair.”
Dazed, Neville St. Clair stumbled from the cab and up to his front door.
As the cab pulled away, Watson looked in amazement at the man who was forever confounding him with some new phase of his astuteness. “Holmes, I am always amazed at your deductions!”
“I have found that at times, sitting and consuming an ounce of shag can help to focus one’s thoughts. I think, Watson, that if we drive back to Baker Street, we shall just be in time for breakfast, and then I can deal with the wily lascar behind this whole problem.”
Soon enough, man who had been operating the Bar of Gold was dealt with. His departure sent a clear message across criminal London that rules were to be obeyed.
One day that September, Holmes had just returned from a meeting with members of the Paradol Chamber Society as a particularly violent gale began to lash the streets of London. Picking up his violin, he treated Watson to small performance.
“Bravo, Holmes! It is always a treat to hear you play, especially on a day when the weather is as sorry as this. Your talents gladly drown out the sound of the wind crying and sobbing in the chimney.”
Holmes smiled. “You are quite descriptive doctor, perhaps if our criminal enterprises were to dry up, you should become a novelist.”
Chuckling, Watson responded. “Oh, I hardly think I would be able to keep all of my facts and dates straight. Tell me, how did you come to become such a virtuoso on the violin?”
Lighting his clay pipe, Holmes settled into his chair. “Ah, that is an interesting story. While I was living in Montague Street, I had helped Scotland Yard in my own capacity and they allowed me to interview their prisoners. I told them that it was research for a monograph I was attempting on the criminal demeanor, but in truth, it was for my own personal knowledge. One of these opportunities allowed me to meet with the convicted murderer, Charles Peace, while he was waiting to be hanged. Our discussion on his methods and my youthful curiosity impressed the man so much that he treated me to a few pieces on his violin before my visitation was over.
