The Disappearance of Alistair Ainsworth

by Leonard Goldberg

  “But Dunn specifically told us that members of the Admiralty Club were not allowed to take documents and notes from their offices,” I recalled.

  “When in heated pursuit of a code, we do not concern ourselves with Lieutenant Dunn’s instructions,” Mary said. “Nevertheless, I am not optimistic I have the entire message in my possession.”

  “But you must search,” Joanna implored. “We should keep in mind that Alistair Ainsworth is a master cryptographer, and he would be aware that most people would expect the key to the code to be located in the first line. That of course may not be the case.”

  Mary nodded at the notion. “That would be very much like Tubby. That is, let your opponent concentrate on the first line, while you orchestrate your move on the second.”

  “Or the third,” Joanna suggested. “As in the number three.”

  “Indeed.”

  I could not help but be impressed with Joanna as she matched wits with one of England’s finest codebreakers. But then again, I recalled her deciphering a most confusing code that consisted of only slanted lines. It was of such complexity that it even baffled Sir David Shaw who was knighted for his codebreaking accomplishments.

  “In addition, it would be most useful if you could obtain the sheet of paper that was secured in Geoffrey Montclair’s typewriter,” Joanna requested.

  “That might be quite impossible, for I am certain Scotland Yard will wish to hold on to it as evidence,” Mary said. “But I can copy it word for word if you like.”

  “No, no. It is the original I require, and it must be gotten at all costs.”

  “What makes the sheet itself so important?” Mary asked.

  “The blood upon it,” Joanna said and, taking my arm, strolled away from the Poets’ Corner.

  21

  A Strange Meeting

  We spent the entire afternoon trying to decipher Alistair Ainsworth’s message, but to no avail. The singular significance of the number 3 in the coded communiqué continued to elude us. It did not refer to the third letter of the alphabet, c, nor to the ninth letter, i, 9 being the number 3 squared. Neither the combination of the c and the i nor the reverse revealed any hidden meaning. There were no symbols or apostrophes, the latter being of great importance since they are always followed by the letters s, t, d, m, ll, or re. We even employed the Caesar shift using the number 3. In this sophisticated code, you shift the alphabet a certain number of spaces in one direction. For example, using 3 as a guide, a becomes d, b becomes e, and so on. Thus, the word boat would be decoded as erdw, which made no sense. As darkness fell and our fatigue set in, we decided to adjourn for dinner and start afresh in the morning.

  Taking our seats in front of a nicely burning fire, we enjoyed a richly flavored amontillado while Joanna gave us the detailed history of this fine sherry.

  “It is named after the town of Montilla in Andalusia, the region of Spain where its grapes are grown,” she told us. “The grapes are often dried up to twenty days prior to fermentation, which is known as the soleo process. The actual aging in casks can vary for different varieties, but all must be stored away in oak casks. The sherries are naturally sweet for the most part, but in some instances the winemaker adds ingredients to make it so.”

  “Is all sherry from Spain?” my father asked.

  “Without exception.”

  “But how did it become so popular in Great Britain?”

  “There is a merry history behind that,” Joanna said as she replenished our glasses. “It became quite popular after Sir Francis Drake sacked the city of Cadiz in 1587. At the time, Cadiz was a major port, and Spain was preparing an armada there to invade England. Among the spoils brought back by Drake after destroying their fleet were two thousand nine hundred barrels of sherry that had been waiting to be loaded onto Spanish ships. This event popularized sherry throughout the British Isles.”

  I was aware that Joanna was well versed in any number of subjects that were related to crime and criminal investigation, but on occasion she surprised me with her considerable knowledge of other, unconnected topics. Nevertheless, I wondered if perhaps her enlightenment on sherry served some investigational purpose. “Why this insight into sherry?” I asked. “Was there something that spurred your interest?”

  “I delved into the subject after reading Edgar Allan Poe’s short story, ‘The Cask of Amontillado.’ It was not so much a mystery as a tale of horrific murder.”

  “Was the cask of sherry the murder weapon?”

  Joanna shook her head with a smile. “It was the enticement.”

  There was a brief rap on the door and Miss Hudson peeked in. “I am sorry to disturb you, Dr. Watson, but the street urchins have returned and insist on being seen, even at this late hour.”

  “Please show them up,” my father said. “We shall not take long.”

  “I should hope not, for the goose you brought me is nearly done.”

  “Which we so look forward to.”

  As the door closed, Joanna said, “Something of the utmost importance must have transpired.”

  “New and unexpected visitors?” I wondered.

  “Most likely,” Joanna replied. “And they must have some unusual features that could not wait until morning to be reported. Keep in mind that, although the Baker Street Irregulars are young, they are streetwise and not easily moved. It is either the individual or an event instigated by that individual that has brought the Irregulars here at this unusual hour.”

  We heard racing feet coming up the stairs and quickly finished the last of our sherries. The trio of Irregulars sprinted into our drawing room, with Wiggins leading the way. He was dressed in workman’s clothes, while Little Alfie and Sarah the Gypsy were still in their Sunday finest.

  “What a tale we have for you, ma’am!” Wiggins exclaimed, catching his breath.

  “I want every detail,” Joanna said. “Start from the very beginning and leave not a syllable out.”

  “Well now, we took our positions early on, we did,” Wiggins began. “Little Alfie and Sarah paraded the street, while I pretended to be a laborer seeking a day’s wages.”

  Joanna asked, “Did that not make your presence obvious?”

  “No, ma’am. There was plenty of workers about the neighborhood—roofers, plasterers, painters, and the like. It was not easy to find a nearby position, but luck struck as the sun began to fall, for a crew appeared to repair the cracks in the cobblestones. I landed a job pushing a wheelbarrow and that gave me a good view of the house. And it was then that a carriage arrived at the house and the lady stepped out.”

  “What lady?”

  “Why, the fine lady you had us follow a few days back. Got right off, she did, without so much as a glance around, and entered the house.”

  “Did she make any effort to conceal her arrival?”

  “None that I could see. Pranced right in, like she had no concerns.”

  “Did Little Alfie manage to peek into the house once again?”

  “I did, ma’am,” Little Alfie said, stepping forward. “They met in the parlor as before, but this time there was no embrace or kissing. It was all business, it was, with serious talk. Then the phone rang, which I could hear through the glass window. And they just stared at it a bit, before picking up. It was most solemn, I would say. I did not stay longer, for fear of being seen.”

  “We thought that was the end of it.” Wiggins continued the story. “But we could not have been more wrong. For fifteen or so minutes later, a mighty military man arrived in a bloody big limousine.”

  “Mighty, you say!” I exclaimed.

  “And then some, with his uniform all covered with ribbons and decorations. He also had one of those gold strands across his shoulder, indicating he was of high rank. I would guess the couple inside the house knew he was coming because the door opened for him without a knock.”

  “I need an accurate description of the naval officer,” Joanna implored.

  “He was a big man, with broad shoulders, a
nd he carried himself very well indeed. His face looked royal, with high cheekbones and the like. I am guessing he was in his fifties because he had gray hair and thick, gray sideburns but no moustache.”

  “Was his head covered?”

  Wiggins nodded. “With one of those strange, peaked navy hats that sit high.”

  Joanna turned to Little Alfie. “Were you able to sneak a peek after the officer entered?”

  “That was a bit tricky, ma’am, for the officer’s driver remained standing by the limousine, like a man keeping a careful eye out. But I got around him with Sarah’s help. She walked by him, with a painful limp, which took his attention away from the alleyway, so in I went. It was quite dark by then, so I felt I could stay a bit longer without being seen. And there was this small crate in the alleyway that I could stand on, and this gave me an even better look.”

  “How many people were in the drawing room?”

  “Three,” Little Alfie reported. “The gentleman and the fine lady from earlier, and the new man in uniform who Wiggins just described for you. Now the talk continued to be quite serious. There were no smiles or handshakes nor any sort of refreshments. Then the old man in the uniform pulls out a map, and they all gather around it.”

  “Could you make out the details on the map?” Joanna asked quickly.

  “I was too far away for that, ma’am. But I can tell you it was a bloody big map, for he had to open and hold it with both hands.”

  “I take it that it was impossible to overhear any of the conversation.”

  “Only two words, ma’am, and that was because the old gent shouted it out.”

  “And the words?”

  “Damned spy!”

  Joanna’s eyes narrowed abruptly. “Are you certain?”

  “Loud and clear it was, through the glass,” Little Alfie replied. “And the old gent was bloody mad too. He had a tightly clenched fist to go along with his raised voice. Then, in a huff, the lady and old gent left. They were most unhappy, I can tell you that.”

  “The lady went directly to her carriage, and the naval officer to his limousine,” Wiggins continued. “There was no exchange of words that I could see.”

  “Was anything said or done to identify the naval officer?” Joanna asked.

  The three Irregulars shook their head simultaneously.

  Joanna thought for a moment before asking, “Wiggins, you mentioned the officer had ribbons and decorations on his coat. Could you make any of them out?”

  “No, ma’am. I was across the street at the time and the light wasn’t all that good.”

  “I did see some sort of scroll on his sleeve,” Little Alfie recalled. “When the gentleman was holding up the map, I had a clear view of his black sleeve. Near the cuff was a thick band of gold, with a circle atop it.”

  “Was the gold circle part of the band?”

  A puzzled look came to Little Alfie’s face. “I am not sure what you mean, ma’am.”

  “Now think back,” Joanna urged. “Was the circle partially buried into the top of the gold band or was it placed separately atop it?”

  “It was a bit buried,” Little Alfie replied.

  “Very good,” Joanna said. “You must now return to the house on Ovington Street and report all comings and goings without delay.”

  Once the Irregulars had departed, Joanna lighted a Turkish cigarette and began pacing the floor, obviously lost in thought. For some reason, she concentrated best while on the move, much like Sherlock Holmes according to my father. From outside came a loud clap of thunder, followed by cracks of lightning, which Joanna paid no attention to as she continued to pace back and forth. Finally she stopped and, on tossing her cigarette into the fireplace, said, “This goes to the very highest level of government.”

  “Is this based on the appearance of a naval officer in a limousine?” my father asked.

  “It is based on his rank,” Joanna said. “The insignia on his sleeve denotes a rear admiral in the Royal Navy, and such a man does not make clandestine meetings in the dark of night unless the need is urgent.”

  “That is obvious from the words damned spy being shouted by the officer,” my father noted.

  “Oh, it goes much deeper than that, Watson. We have Lady Jane Hamilton sneaking away to visit her husband who is supposedly at sea, yet resides on Ovington Street in Knightsbridge and remains out of uniform so as not to be noticed. Does that not strike you as being odd?”

  “But she made no effort to conceal herself this evening,” my father argued mildly.

  “That is because it was already dark and there was little chance she would be recognized. In addition, she was apparently in a rush and had no time to bother with unnecessary concealments. So we have Lady Jane Hamilton hurrying in the night to visit a hidden-away husband who should be at sea. Now, if that is not strange enough, add to the mix a rear admiral dashing in, carrying a large map and shouting ‘Damned spy!’ What a most odd confluence of events that needs to be explained.”

  “Apparently they are all involved in uncovering a spy,” I surmised.

  “Why would that require a rear admiral racing over to share such secretive information with Lady Jane?”

  “Because she is close to Roger Marlowe,” I replied at once.

  “And who is Roger Marlowe close to?”

  “Alistair Ainsworth!”

  “And so the circle tightens,” Joanna pronounced. “There is a common link among all these individuals and the events they are tied into.”

  “But what is the link?” I asked.

  “That remains to be uncovered, John. For therein lies the answer to the disappearance of Alistair Ainsworth.”

  “But everything seems so disconnected.”

  “It is not as disconnected as you believe,” Joanna said, reaching for a poker to stir the fire. “I only require one more piece of the puzzle and all will fall into place.”

  “Where is this piece to be found?”

  “In Geoffrey Montclair’s typewriter.”

  22

  Hyde Park

  My father awoke the following morning with his arthritic knee acutely inflamed, so he required assistance as we climbed into the carriage and traveled to see a rheumatic specialist whose office was located just off Park Lane. The specialist had devised a new topical treatment for such flare-ups, using heat and a cream that contained a high concentration of aspirin. This treatment was well suited to my father, for the increasing doses of aspirin he had been taking orally was causing him gastric distress. Rather than wait in the specialist’s office for my father to be seen, Joanna, Johnny, and I chose to cross Park Lane and take a leisurely stroll through Hyde Park.

  It was a surprisingly warm winter’s day, with a clear sky and a gentle breeze coming off the Serpentine Lake. Dozens of people were out and about in the park, enjoying the glorious weather that we knew would be all too brief. Ahead of us, Johnny seemed to be in constant motion, glancing from side to side as if in search of something.

  “Why does your son gaze around so?” I asked.

  “It is a game we have played since he was a little boy,” Joanna replied. “He searches for a scene at a distance and attempts to discern what is transpiring. We then compare our observations and match wits.”

  “With you winning, I would imagine.”

  “Yes, but the day will come when he is my equal.”

  “I truly doubt that.”

  “Watch,” Joanna said, and gestured for her son to come join us. “What in this park so interests you, Johnny?”

  “The two men by the lake who appear to be having a heated discussion.”

  “Do you envision it leading to fisticuffs?”

  “That is unlikely, Mother, for there is a woman standing close by.”

  “Perhaps she is attempting to intercede.”

  “Perhaps, but there is a dog near the woman and it does not seem concerned,” Johnny noted. “Dogs are very keen at anticipating trouble and would not simply sit back on their haunches an
d watch such an event.”

  “Pay attention to the dog and why it is not concerned with the obvious goings-on.”

  Johnny studied the scene once again before sighing under his breath. “I see a small hand feeding the dog. There is a child behind the woman, and were there the slightest hint of trouble the mother would quickly depart with her child in hand. Yet she stands in place, for the argument is apparently a friendly one.”

  “Well done, Johnny.”

  “I must learn to observe more carefully.”

  “You shall.”

  I asked, “Precisely how does one learn to observe more carefully?”

  “By seeing the obvious, but not concentrating on it,” Joanna replied. “You must then direct your study to the periphery where more clues await, which will allow you to see the whole picture rather than only a portion of it. Using this practice, you may well be able to connect all the clues and reach a sought-after resolution.”

  We walked across the expansive lawn until we came to the magnificent equestrian statue of the Duke of Wellington. It rested upon a tall stone pedestal, with only the name WELLINGTON engraved into it. Joanna slowly strolled around the statue and studied its every aspect, paying particular attention to the engraving.

  “Do you note anything of consequence?” I asked.

  “Nothing that will tell us why Waterloo was circled on the map.”

  Johnny inquired innocently, “Was it a map of Belgium that indicated where the battle was fought?”

  “Are you familiar with the battle?” Joanna queried, evading the reason for her interest in Waterloo.

  “Quite,” Johnny replied. “And even more familiar with the Duke of Wellington who stands as one of England’s greatest heroes.”

  “Which every English schoolboy will proudly state,” said I.

  “Yet with all their knowledge about the duke, not one in ten can tell you his given name.”

  “Which is?”

  “Arthur Wellesley.”