After clearing away her dinner dishes, Tatiana withdrew the copy of the photo from her handbag. She looked at the photograph of Ellen Sharpe and spoke to it as if Ellen were present. “Well, young lady, you may not know much about misplaced loyalty, but I do. Perhaps one day you will thank me.” With a pen, Tatiana wrote With Love, Arkady Shubin across the photo. As an afterthought, she turned the photograph over and quickly scribbled something across the back. Then she sealed the photograph in an unaddressed envelope. On her way to work the following morning, Tatiana Andreyev dropped the envelope into the letter slot of the residence of the British Ambassador to the Soviet Union.
A Change of Mind
London
More than a week had passed since Holmes and I met with Miss Ransom. I had not seen Holmes since I exited our taxi at my flat in Belgravia. My attention was fully devoted to manuscript revisions insisted upon by my new editor. My previous editor with whom I had shared a long acquaintance had recently announced his retirement. Promoted in his place was a handsome woman I guessed to be in her early forties who assured me she had the greatest respect for her former colleague, but wanted it known she had ideas of her own. As such, time had not permitted my dropping in on Holmes and the matter Miss Ransom had brought to us had drifted far from my thoughts. Upon delivering my revised manuscript to my new editor, Miss Eden Terry, I was shuttled into a private room with a typewriter, a portfolio filled with notes, and ordered to write an afterward to the manuscript I had just delivered as some of the essential details of the case had changed upon further inquiries by Scotland Yard.
The afternoon proved positively exhausting. Miss Terry was a relentless taskmaster, hovering over me as an impatient head mistress until I rolled out the final page and handed it to her. Believing I had been subjected to Miss Terry’s worst, I rose to leave, desperately in need of a stiff drink. To the contrary, the worst was yet to come.
“Dr. Watson, I believe we must address your narrative style.”
“Oh?” Goodness, how I wanted that drink.
“Your narrative style feels distant. It doesn’t feel inclusive. It keeps one at arm’s length.”
“Miss Terry, your predecessor Mr. Wilburn never expressed such sentiments. My style is the same today as it has always been.”
Miss Terry’s eyes lit up. “Exactly, Doctor! You have struck upon what I am getting at. We live in a changing world. Styles change. Readers change.”
“I am aware that time marches on and change is inevitable. Rather than beating about the bush, Miss Terry, what specifically are you driving at?”
“You do realize, do you not, more and more women are reading your stories.”
“As I have been told.”
“And we most certainly wish to build upon that audience.”
“Meaning?”
“Perhaps a little more appeal to your female readers.”
I couldn’t think what Miss Terry meant. After several moments, I asked, “How does one go about that, Miss Terry? I have no idea how to appeal more to a female sensitivity.”
“Perhaps you and the fictional Mr. Holmes can be a little more approachable.”
“I am sorry,” I said, massaging my forehead, “I am not following.”
“Good lord, Dr. Watson, I am speaking of sensuality. Play to your readers. Play up that aspect. Women love that sort of thing.”
The breath positively left my lungs.
“Without even trying, on the page you and Mr. Holmes are very - how shall we say - sexy characters?”
“Great Scot, woman, what are you asking of me? Are you asking me to write something salacious?”
“Of course not! I am merely recommending less formal and more approachable protagonists. Add more appeal to the intrigue and I am quite certain sales will increase.”
I was completely flustered. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Come on, John. You don’t mind if I call you John, do you?”
“No, Miss Terry, not at all.”
“Now that we’re on a first name basis, I prefer Eden to Miss Terry.”
“Very well, Eden.”
“In this post-war era, publishers are struggling to find their way. Readers are no longer embracing the writers and works they used to. I think Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson must change as well. I know I am asking a lot of you, but at least think about it.”
Think about it? How could I? I felt utterly discombobulated and clammy.
“You will think about it?”
“Yes,” I blustered.
“Good. Now, may I buy you a drink?”
I glanced at my watch.
“Holmes?” Miss Terry asked presciently.
“I should check in.” I removed my overcoat from the coat rack and slipped into it.
“A raincheck then.” Miss Terry handed my hat to me. “It’s a brave new world, John.”
“Indeed,” I said hurrying from her office.
Once outside, I fell back against the wall and drew a deep breath. My pride had been wounded. I was not used to having my writing critiqued in such a bold fashion. Miss Terry was quite forward; her remarks had seemed personal. I held out my hand. It was shaking. Was it anger? After a few moments I had to admit to myself no, I wasn’t shaking from anger. I wasn’t angry with Miss Terry at all. She was doing what every good editor ought to do. It was something altogether quite different and unexpected. I was rather taken with Miss Terry.
I collected myself, exited onto St. James Street and hailed a taxi.
Upon arriving at 221B, I let myself in, looked in on Mrs. Hudson and then entered Holmes apartment without knocking. I stopped short in the doorway. Holmes’s study was filled with odd-looking scale model aircraft, blue prints, and renderings of unusually shaped flying objects.
Holmes glanced up from what seemed to be a scale model of an airplane wing. “Watson, old fellow, you look positively flushed. I’ll have Mrs. Hudson bring in some tea.”
“I have just spoken with her. She is preparing a pot now.”
“Excellent! Have a seat. Judging from your appearance, I should guess all did not go well with your editor.”
“How could you possibly know?”
“You have what I presume to be typewriter ink on your fingers. As you were due to deliver a manuscript this week, I must assume you have just come from your publisher.”
“A most trying afternoon, Holmes.”
“Judging from the scent of perfume hanging on you, it seems Mr. Wilburn has taken to wearing Bellodgia.”
“What? No! Wilburn is out. He has retired.”
“In his place we may assume a far more attractive editor, which no doubt accounts for the flush around your neck.”
“I prefer not to discuss the matter. Now tell me about this sudden interest in aviation.”
Holmes waved his arm as if to introduce the array of models and miniatures around him. “I have immersed myself in a study of aerodynamics. One simply cannot apprehend the concept of the flying saucer unless one understands the principles of aerodynamics and a propulsion system capable of powering such a craft.”
“Holmes, are you expressing a belief in flying saucers?”
“No, Watson. I am attempting to understand the plethora of reported sightings worldwide.”
“Mass hysteria? Delusion? Natural phenomena?”
“Hard to say. Accounts of the first sightings reach back as far as biblical times.”
“How reliable could those reports be? The ancients were hardly equipped with the language to accurately describe celestial events. In those days of pre-science, were not such sightings typically explained in a religious context?”
“True. But even with a contextual language, many modern sightings defy explanation.
“I have yet to understand how
Stonehenge was created. I think we must accept that there are things in this world that defy explanation. Why worry about that which is simply beyond our understanding?
“Sightings appear to occur in cycles. Do you not find it unusual that the most recent cycle of sightings comes on the heels of World War II?
“Since the war, aviation technology has evolved considerably. I have no doubt these modern sightings are experimental craft. It certainly occurs to me that what we witnessed in Roswell could be. Isn’t every country capable of producing aircraft developing its own technologically advanced weapons and aviation?
“What do you make of the Americans taking the lead in compiling and classifying sightings under the auspices of Project Bluebook?”
Mrs. Hudson arrived with tea, allowing me a moment to consider Holmes’s question.
“Those ancient sightings, how can we possibly know? A meteor or a comet could easily account for such occurrences. In these modern times, sightings are far more problematic. If we subscribe to the belief that modern sightings are man-made aircraft, why the need for a Project Bluebook?”
“Why indeed, Watson?”
I waited for Holmes to follow up his question with an answer, but he did not.
“Well,” I said. “Intriguing to be sure, but I cannot imagine this sudden interest is not without a reason.”
“I have decided to take on the Ransom case.”
“A most unexpected turn of events. What has prompted your change of heart?”
“This case is intended for us.”
“Intended? By whom?”
“That is to be determined.”
“You believe there is more to this case than that of one missing young woman? Do you question the veracity of Miss Ransom?”
“My sense is there is more to this than Miss Ransom was at liberty to reveal.”
“Go on.”
“Any number of government agencies is better equipped to handle this matter than we, and yet she was insistent on my involvement.”
“You have a reputation for solving perplexing cases. Something has set you off.”
“You recall the day we were unceremoniously asked to leave Shepperton Studios?”
“Of course, the day we encountered Miss Ransom.”
“Two men reading newspapers were standing near the studio entrance when we exited and hailed a taxi.”
“After our visit with Miss Ransom, the same two men were at the bus stop outside the teashop. I remarked that it was a wonder they did not collide with each other as their faces were buried in the newspapers they were reading.”
“Both men were reading identical issues of The Times of London.”
“On any given day all Londoners are reading the same issue of The Times.”
“Yes, but these gentlemen were reading identical issues that were at least two weeks old. I distinctly recall the headline.”
“That does seem suspicious.”
“It nags at me, Watson. Miss Ransom or we were being followed. The question is why? Loose threads inevitably lead back to the tapestry whence they came.”
“You amuse me, Holmes, when you wax poetic.”
“Miss Ransom’s plea for our assistance is cast in a new light. Someone else has an interest in this matter.”
“Let no challenge go unheeded, eh?”
“You yourself said we have nothing on the boil.”
“If I may sound a note of caution, if there are agencies at work here, might we not be stepping into a trap?”
“I am convinced of it. We shall leave for America within the week.”
“Holmes, you do realize that by taking on this case, we could well be taking on the government of the United States.”
“Of course. One only hopes the Americans are up for it.”
Rescuing Jenny Winston
Ohio
Having concluded arrangements for my indeterminate absence with my housekeeper, Mrs. Portland, I met Holmes at London Airport for our journey to America. The long flight allowed plenty of time for the two of us to work through a scheme for locating Jenny Winston.
“Shouldn’t finding this young woman be akin to searching for the proverbial needle in a haystack?” I asked. “Other than the newspaper photograph, we have nothing more to go on.”
“Then we shall begin with the photograph. Note the photo credit, Watson. It reads courtesy of The Dayton Herald. That means the photograph was shared by another publication. It is entirely possible the photographer who took this picture may have additional photos in his possession. If so, those photos could well provide us with useful information.”
“Of course,” I said to myself. So often there was no magic in Holmes’s methods. Simply, nothing escaped his notice.
Holmes and I overnighted in New York before flying on the next day to Dayton, Ohio. As Holmes was enough of a celebrity to enjoy name recognition, we both felt he should employ an alias for routine activities. For the immediate future, Sherlock Holmes would be Sherrod Hall. For my part, it was not necessary to assume an alias. My name was common enough. I would simply dispense with the title of Doctor. I would now go about my business as John Watson. After flirting with various cover ideas, we settled on insurance investigators for Lloyds of London, thereby allowing us to make inquiries and ask questions without arousing suspicion.
After arriving in Dayton, we arranged for a modest hotel near Wright-Patterson Air Force Base. Early the next morning we traveled by cab to the offices of The Dayton Herald.
After establishing our credentials, we asked to meet with the photographer who had taken the photo of Jenny Winston. A few minutes later we were introduced to Paul Martin, a young man who seemed barely old enough to shave. Holmes came quickly to the point.
“If this young woman is who we believe her to be, she is entitled to a substantial insurance settlement. We are attempting to locate her. She may be using an alias. Do you have a name and address? I assume you require a permission whenever an individual’s photograph appears in your newspaper.”
“In the case of individual shots, we require a release. But in a crowd shot such as this it is not possible to obtain a release from everyone.”
“What about the location? Is there anything you can tell us about the area where you took this photo?” I asked.
“Centennial Park. It has been an Independence Day parade route for years.”
“Is it possible the young woman lives nearby?” I asked.
“Mr. Watson, I wish I could help you, but I would have no idea. This parade is a tradition that draws crowds from all areas of Dayton. I couldn’t venture a guess.”
“Of course,” Holmes said. “Is this the only photograph you took that day?”
“Oh, no. I shot an entire roll of film. Truthfully, the photo chosen by my editor was the least interesting of all of the photographs I took.”
“Why do you think your editor chose that photograph,” I asked.
“You will have to ask him. He gave me the assignment. I wanted to take pictures of the parade. He said he wanted pictures of the crowd, lots of pictures. He was adamant. Beats me what he saw in it.”
I wondered if Holmes was thinking the same thought as I. Instead of a random photograph, was the photo of Jenny Winston intentional? If so, why?
“If you were given the assignment of taking photos, why did this photograph appear in the Wright-Patterson daily newspaper?” Holmes asked.
“It’s a common practice. Plenty of my photos have appeared in the base newspaper. News services make their photos available to other publications, especially if there is a specific interest. In this case, Wright-Patterson had a very impressive float in the parade.”
“And yet no photos of the parade appeared in that publication,” I pointed out.
“I shot
plenty of them. You’re quite welcome to have a look at my contact sheets.”
“Yes, we would like that,” Holmes said.
“Give me a minute.”
Mr. Martin went into an adjoining room, pulled open a large file drawer, and returned with two contact sheets. He spread both sheets onto a conference table and provided us with a pair of yellow grease pencils.
“You may use the grease pencils to mark on the contact sheets. I’ll leave you to it, then,” the youthful photographer said. “I will be in the lab should you need me.”
After thanking Mr. Martin for his help, Holmes and I sat and began poring over the contact sheets.
“What exactly are we looking for, Holmes?”
“Perhaps nothing.”
“Right, let’s get to it then.”
With a yellow grease pencil, Holmes circled some individual shots and put an X through others. Methodically he winnowed down the number of photos he was interested in to five. Jenny Winston featured prominently in four of the five photographs. “Hmm,” he said, sitting back in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin.
“Something?” I asked.
“Yes.” Holmes pointed to a young woman in the original photograph. “Notice this young lady standing near Miss Winston. This same young woman appears in the four additional photographs. In photos two, three, and four, the crowd has thinned considerably, yet both this young woman and Jenny Winston remain close to each other. What does that suggest to you, Watson?”
“Could be coincidence, or it could mean the young women are acquaintances.”
“Now consider this last photograph.”
In the fifth photo, the crowd had all but dispersed. Jenny Winston was nowhere to be seen. But the other young woman was leaning casually with her back against an automobile, as if she were waiting for someone. The driver’s side window was open. The young woman’s elbow rested on the open window panel.
Sherlock Holmes and The Roswell Incident Page 8
