Holmes said nothing in response and raising his nose ever so slightly looked back at St. Simon, who caught Holmes’s unspoken message. “Very right. Of course. All matters must remain confidential. Very right.”
“Your case,” said Holmes, “and all cases will be treated with utmost secrecy, or, at least, it will be if you will get on with stating it.”
“Right. Well then, you may know that I have been pilloried by the blood-sucking parasites of Fleet Street; cut to the quick for over a year now with respect to my marriage.”
“If what you are saying is that there have been salacious stories about you and your wife both having illicit affairs outside of your marriage then yes, I do know of those matters. It would be helpful, however, if you would start at the beginning and explain the unusual events that led to your marriage to a younger woman. You had already reached a mature age and were on your way to being a confirmed bon vivant bachelor when your life changed.”
“That is true. My wife is much younger than I. Her family was from the West of America and I met her on board ship as both of us were traveling to London from New York; she for the first time, I for the tenth. I was amused by her society and we struck up a delightful friendship that blossomed into a pleasant romance.”
“Which is to say,” said Holmes, “that she became your mistress.”
“That is a vulgar and common way of putting it, but factually correct. The romantic friendship continued and I was moved by love to propose marriage and she accepted. We had a pleasant wedding in St. George’s, Hanover Square.”
“Which is to say that after having impregnated her and being berated by the honorable members of your family, you acted in the only way available to you that would avoid personal and family disgrace.”
His Lordship dropped his folded arms and sat up straight in his chair. “Now look here, Mr. Holmes, I will not tolerate being shown disrespect by a commoner. Kindly change your manners immediately.”
“And I,” shot back Holmes, “have no respect, and will show none to a client who lies to me. If this conversation is to continue, then one of us will have to change his behavior, and I assure you it will not be me.”
There was a minute of high tension as two forceful personalities glared at each other. St. Simon gave in and nodded. “Right. Backwater warned me that you might be a bit on the prickly side. So yes, bother it, pressure was applied, especially by my priggish younger brother and his harpy wife, and we were married. My wife, Harriet, now Lady St. Simon, had already been married when she was just sixteen years of age, and had a child, and had become a widow. Four months after our wedding she bore another son and I am now the proud father of two fine young boys, and a blessed husband to a beautiful and brilliant young wife.”
“Although,” added Holmes, yawning, “you neglected to mention that while she was still carrying your child you acquired another mistress.”
“Confound you!” exploded St. Simon. “How in Hades were you aware of that?”
“Please Watson,” said Holmes, turning to me. “In your record kindly paraphrase your fellow scribbler, Lady Jane, and note that it is a truth universally acknowledged that when a man marries his mistress, he creates a vacancy.”
Turning to His Lordship, he continued, “So it appears that your wife believes that what is good for the goose is good for the gander and has gone and done likewise. What did you expect from a spirited young American woman?”
“It is possible,” he replied, “that, like many men, I am more skilled in hindsight than in foresight. In hindsight, however, I have come to acknowledge that for all my faults I am truly in love with my wife and wish to do whatever is required to restore the marriage.”
“Which is to say, that you have come to see that she has brains as well as beauty and will enhance the bloodline and provide all the heirs and spares needed for a prestigious noble family, as well as a dowry that runs into six figures with expectances for the future. Is that what you mean when you say you are in love with her?”
“Exactly. There is no difference. And now I am in need of your confidential assistance to find her and convey my honorable intentions to her.”
Holmes shook his head, rose from his chair, walked across the floor, and opened the door to the stairway. “I regret sir that I am not in the business of repairing marriages of people whose animal instincts have led to their ruin. I suggest that you post a note in the agony column and hope for the best. Now, sir, it is best if I bid you good-day.”
St. Simon did not move. He looked at the chair where Holmes had been sitting and spoke to it. “My wife, sir, has been kidnapped. I fear she will come to harm. I did not wish this fact to be known, since if the press get hold of it they will feast on it like flies chasing horses. I abhor being subjected to such humiliation. Just think what would be said about me amongst my peers.”
He spoke quite forcefully. Holmes slowly closed the door and returned to his chair.
“Please, sir, what proof do you offer for your conclusion? It is indeed quite a serious statement to make.”
“We may have had our flaws as husband and wife, sir, but both of us are devoted to our children. Our sons have had no contact with their mother during her prolonged absence. The older lad, my stepson, Georgie, brave young six-year-old that he is, has been beside himself with panic and fear. Hattie would never do that to him of her own free will. Furthermore, she has left behind all of her most precious possessions including letters from her father while she was a child, and her wedding pictures, and small gifts from her first husband before he was killed in Oklahoma. She also left her diary in which she secretly wrote about our love affair. That sir, is why I know that she has been taken against her will.”
Holmes closed his eyes and for several seconds made no sound or movement. Upon opening them, he said, “All of her personal effects, sir, I presume you could deliver to me?”
“I could. They are all at the Hall in Buckinghamshire, but I could have my staff box them up and bring them to London.”
“Excellent, then I shall meet you in the morning, three days hence, and begin to examine them for clues they might provide us. That would be the logical place to begin. And where, sir, are you residing?”
“I have rooms at the Metropole.”
“Ah yes. That select new hotel on Northumberland. I shall see you there on Friday morning around nine o’clock. Would that be acceptable?”
“That will be quite acceptable, Mr. Holmes.”
His Lordship rose and departed.
“Watson,” he said, “I suggest that we request Mrs. Hudson to organize some dinner, after which I beg you to excuse me as I may be rather occupied until Friday.”
Chapter Two
Exit His Lordship
I SAW NOTHING OF HOLMES FOR THE NEXT TWO DAYS. I ate my breakfasts and my supper alone and spent my days attending to my patients. At six o’clock on Thursday afternoon, I wearily climbed the stairs, entered our rooms and saw a smiling Sherlock Holmes sitting at the table, and waiting on me before ordering up supper. I smiled back and could not contain my curiosity.
“What news?” I asked. “I assume that you have been turning over every stone you can find concerning our aristocrat and his adventuress?”
“Indeed, I have,” Holmes replied. “Pray be seated, fill your glass of wine and allow me to impart what I have learned. Once we have found our fascinating American lady and returned her to her husband, it should make for yet another one of your romanticized stories in The Strand.”
“Excellent,” I said. “So, who is this Lady St. Simon?”
“I had,” said Holmes, “some help from abroad in tracking done her past, and she does indeed have a past. I contacted our dear friend, Reverend Mr. Ezekiel Black, in Kansas City and asked if he had heard anything concerning her. Not only had he heard of her, he was quite familiar with her story and sent back an extensive telegram.”
“Excellent,” I said again. “And what did Zeke tell us?”
Holmes
settled back in his chair, took a sip of his wine, and handed me a lengthy telegram.
“You might enjoy reading it, as it contains not merely the facts but also our friend’s assessment of same.”
I took up the document. The salient facts and opinions were as follows:
Miss Harriet Doran, known by friends and family as Hattie, was born in Chicago, but while still a child her mother died. Her father, Mr. Aloysius Doran, Esquire, left the city and traveled by covered wagon to the Oklahoma Territory. He was an ambitious sort and dashed across the line into the new territory before the official opening date and joined the Sooners — those who arrived sooner than they were supposed to. Notwithstanding her father’s bending of the rules, he was granted a large tract of land along the Canadian River and began to raise cattle. Within five years he had well over one thousand head of the beasts, and by the time he retired to California he was one the richest men on the Pacific slope. Miss Hattie grew up amidst the life on the open range, wandering through the prairies, the woods, and the mountains. She was what we might call a tomboy and even in her early teens became quite the accomplished horsewoman and marksman. Not only that, but she had the face and figure that would turn Aphrodite green with envy. She had already begun to attract attention when a dashing Major in the US Cavalry, a chap named Francis Moulton, took a fancy to her and, even though at least ten years her senior, wooed her and married her when she was no more than sixteen years of age. He was from a very well-to-do old family in Connecticut and it was expected that they would move there and join the respectable upper classes of New Haven. They had a son and named him George after his grandfather, a state senator in Connecticut.
Tragically, Major Moulton was killed in a sortie between his troop and some local Apaches and, to make matters worse, it was by “friendly fire” from a line of his own men. Young Hatttie managed bravely as a devastated young widow and had the respect and support of the settlers in the Territory until a newspaper in Kansas City released a file of letters. It was claimed that they were sent by her to one of the soldiers in Major Moulton’s outfit, and they were horribly incriminating. They made it obvious that she was engaged in an illicit affair with a soldier in her husband’s regiment, and had encouraged him, perhaps even paid him, to shoot her husband.
The scandal exploded all over the West and was picked up by every newspaper from St. Louis to San Francisco. She was arrested and tried for the murder of her husband and become a despised pariah amongst all and sundry. The trial dragged on for weeks as they had to wait on the visits of the itinerant judge, so the press continued to have a field day covering “the last and greatest scandal of the nineteenth century.” At the trial she claimed that the letters were forged and with the help of a diligent defense attorney was able to cast sufficient doubt on their authenticity that she was allowed to go free, although in the press and the minds of her neighbors she had been tried and condemned. Even though no one could testify as to having observed any conflict in the marriage, she was known by all to be a free-spirited cowgirl, and that was enough to establish her guilt.
Once the trial was finally over, she packed her bags and, with her son, left Oklahoma forever, and went west to San Francisco to start a new life.
Reverend Mr. Black, being a US Marshall, was very pleased that Sherlock Holmes had picked up, at least, a part of the trail. As a marshall he had responsibility for the new Territory of Oklahoma, and the death of Major Francis Moulton remained unsatisfactorily resolved. He had never met Hattie Doran and could not say one way or the other concerning her temperament but thought it would be very strange that a sensible frontier woman would shoot a perfectly good husband in exchange for a lover of lesser rank.
“I dare say,” I said to Holmes, “our Lady has a bit of a history for someone still so young. Given her independent spirit, there is no telling with whom she might have gotten mixed up.”
“Ah yes. Quite true. But if she is anything like an English woman she has no doubt poured out her soul to her diary and provided us with a barrel load of clues as to her connections and likely whereabouts. I will wager you a fiver, Watson, that we shall find her within a week and return her to her newly-loving husband and children.”
“You are on, Holmes.”
The weather had taken a sudden turn to rain, with high autumnal winds. A cool morning dawned the next day and we took a closed cab down to Oxford Street, and then over past the basin and fountain of Trafalgar Square by way of Regent Street. I gave a nod to Lord Nelson and his lions, and we continued south on Northumberland until we reached the Embankment and the opulent new Metropole Hotel, where a bed for the night cost a bloke, at least, eight shillings and a single glass of sherry was eight pence. One of Scotland Yard’s instantly recognizable unmarked carriages was parked on the road in front of the main door, which was not surprising since the hotel already had a reputation for being the locus of all sorts of wild carryings-on by London’s hoi polloi.
We approached the desk and Holmes told the uniformed bell captain that we had an appointment with Lord St. Simon, so could he kindly tell us in which room he was staying. A bit of a strange look came over the chap’s face. He lowered his voice and brought his face close to Holmes’s ear and said, “Sir, I must ask you to speak to the constable over at the foot of the stairway. He can direct you.”
“Odd,” I said to Holmes.
“Very,” affirmed Holmes.
We walked across the ornate lobby, festooned with potted palm trees, and over to the foot of the grand staircase. A constable was standing there and Holmes walked straight up to him.
“My name is Sherlock Holmes and I have an appointment with Lord St. Simon. I have been told that I must inquire of you as to his room number.”
The policeman looked a bit surprised and then nodded. “Right. Of course, Mr. Holmes. Hadn’t no one told me that you were called in already. But right, sir. Lord St. Simon was living in the suite number 403. Just go right on up and then turn left at the fourth floor. Last door on the right side, sir.” He nodded and looked away.
Holmes and I gave each other a very apprehensive look and climbed the stairs.
Two more constables were standing outside the door marked 403. One of them recognized Sherlock Holmes, said hello in a friendly way, and opened the door. Once inside we stopped immediately. We were stared at by the familiar ferret face of Inspector Lestrade.
“Thought you might show up, Holmes. Your name and address were sitting out on the writing desk. Was His Lordship a client of yours? Needing your help keeping his dirty laundry hidden, was he?”
“Not wishing to offend by correcting you Inspector, but His Lordship is a client of mine,” said Holmes.
“Well, then, not wishing to contradict our most famous amateur detective, but if I had meant to say is I would have said is. What I said was was. And unless you have some way of bringing him back from the dead, I will just stick with my was.”
Holmes said nothing and Lestrade continued. “Your client, Holmes, is in the bedroom with his backside on the floor and the rest of his body leaning against his wardrobe. What with four bullets in him, he’s looking pretty much of the was to me. There’s a little nut for you to crack, Mr. Holmes. Go and see for yourself.”
Holmes cast an apprehensive eye around the room and Lestrade appeared to read his thoughts. “Nothing has been touched Holmes. We are not complete incompetents, even if you like to think we are. Everything is just as it was when we got here an hour ago. I see no objection in your cooperation. You might be of some assistance. You’re not very practical with your deductions and inferences but go and do your inspection. I will compare notes with you afterward.”
I followed Holmes into the bedroom. Another constable was sitting in the corner of the room across from the body of Lord Robert Walsingham de Vere St. Simon. His Lordship’s feet were bare and he was wearing only a dressing gown, still tied tightly, and his night clothing underneath. The shirt and briefs were drenched with blood. Holmes bent over the
body and examined the bullet wounds and the other parts of his clothing. He beckoned me to examine the body. It was immediately obvious that the bullets, four of them in various parts of his torso, had killed him. His hair was unkempt and he was unshaven. The body was cool to the touch but not yet cold or stiff, indicating that he had been dead little more than an hour or two. I could see no indication of any struggle and rose and stood back while Holmes took out his glass and looked around the room, stopping for some time to examine the bed.
There were glass doors leading to a balcony and they were wide open. I looked out and saw that there was a drainage pipe immediately beside the balcony. Reaching as far as the second floor was a young elm tree, its branches spread against the wall of the hotel.
“I have seen enough,” said Holmes. “I will examine the courtyard before we leave. For now, let us compare notes with Lestrade.”
The inspector was sitting by the writing desk with his notebook in hand and gestured to us to pull up chairs and be seated across from him.
“Here’s what we have so far, Holmes,” he began. “The staff and other guests heard shots and a man screaming at about half-past seven.”
“How many shots?”
“Right. Good question, Holmes. Now when folks start hearing shots and screams, they don’t generally pull out their fingers and start to count, but everyone says that they heard several and six seems to be the agreed-on number, give or take. Well then, the guests in the next room come running, but the door is locked. So, they shout for the staff and within less than a minute, this being An elite hotel with all sorts of attentive staff, the door is opened and they see His Lordship lying up against the wainscoting just where you found him, but he is still a bit of the is and not yet was. They shout for someone to fetch a doctor and try to give a bit of first aid and stop the bleeding, but he’s a goner and doesn’t last long before losing consciousness, and then he dies.”
Sherlock Holmes Never Dies - Collection Three: New Sherlock Holmes Mysteries - Second Edition (Boxed Sets Book 3) Page 9
