Sherlock Holmes and The Other Woman (10 page)

I tried not to sound too disappointed. Even a copy can be of extraordinary interest if one knows what one is looking for.

“You said you took the papers out of a satchel,” I said. “Where did the document come from?”

She took the copy back from me and held it, as if the tactile connection could stimulate her memory.

“It was in between two pages of a letter,” she said.”I'm afraid I cannot tell you anything about that letter; I did not record the information.”

“You did not translate it?”

“No...” Her hand caressed the page and she frowned. “Now, why didn't I? I see I noted receipt of the document on the twentieth-fourth of January and that I returned it on the seventh of February.”

Watson and I waited as she continued to ponder. “It was in English... Yes, that's right. It was a bill of sale from the Fleming estate and spoke of the death of old Sir Nicholas Fleming... He had died only two days earlier and I remember I was surprised that his heirs acted so promptly to discharge his affairs. I suppose he had been ill for some time and they were waiting for it. What a horrible thought. But I remember that I thought it was odd to find a document like that in my box of papers.”

“Odd?”

“For two reasons: in the first place I don't get documents in English. Sometimes there may be some direction from Mr Brahms, ‘I need this urgently'; or ‘M Brel sends his regards', sort of thing.”

“I understand. And the second reason?”

“Well, Sir Nicholas wasn't someone we would normally do business with. He was an English gentleman and if he had affairs with foreign correspondents, he dealt with them himself. He used to come to the shop from time to time; he and Mr Brahms were acquainted. Yes, I remember that Mr Brahms was very anxious that everything to do with the estate be handled as quickly as possible.”

“Sir Nicholas Fleming, the explorer?” Watson said. “He and his partner, Sir Jeremy Jeffrey made their name in North Africa, if memory serves.”

“Yes... Tell me, Mrs Prentiss, is there anything else you can tell us about the gentleman?”

“Not really, I'm afraid. I met him once, no, twice. He was very elderly and not in good health. He had three sons but I got the impression he was not on good terms with any of them. He was an antiquarian with a taste for the exotic. He had a particular fondness for documents of the ancient world: Greece, Egypt, and the Middle East. Now and then Mr Brahms received an object associated with one of those places and he always let Sir Nicholas know.”

“Did Sir Nicholas ever purchase items from Brahms?” I said.

“From time to time, I think, but only after his health prevented him from going on his travels. I suspect dealing with foreign antiquities helped him remember the places he'd seen. From time to time, Mr Brahms would ask him to appraise rare artefacts. His was a highly specialised knowledge and there really are not many men, not in this country anyway, who shared his expertise. His death is a sad loss.”

It seemed Mrs Prentiss had told us all she knew. “Your assistance has been invaluable,” I said. “Rest assured we shall get to the bottom of this strange matter as soon as possible.”

“Thank you, Mr Holmes,” she said. “I hope I have been of some service. It is in my interests and that of my family to assist you any way I can. May I ask how you will proceed?”

“I will take this copy with me, if I may. I should like to study it further. And I think you and I, Watson, should pay Mr Brahms a visit without delay.”

Mrs Prentiss glanced at the clock. “I'm afraid you're too late for today, Mr Holmes. The offices closed at five o'clock. It is now five minutes past. Moreover, Mr Brahms does no business on the weekend. You'll have to wait until Monday morning.”

“Confound it,” I muttered. “Well, we have other business to detain us today. Mr Brahms will keep, I expect. Never mind. Let us see if Connie Kidwell can shed any further light on these peculiar events.”

Connie Kidwell was in a sullen mood.

“I was having my dinner,” she said. “Little enough they feed us here without you making me miss my meal.”

“I'm sure they'll keep it for you, under the circumstances,” Watson soothed.

She was not appeased. “You could at least have called when I was doing that bloomin' laundry. Wouldn't mind missing that, I can tell you. Well, get on with it.”

“We are still trying to find this Rickman fellow,” I said. “If you can you give us some idea of the sort of things that interested him it may narrow the field of search. You mentioned gemstones, I think?”

“Yes, diamonds in particular,” she said. “He talked about gems the way most men talk about women, but anything valuable made his beady eyes light up. Greedy bloody bastard.”

Watson raised an eyebrow. We were in the matron's office in the home for ‘unfortunate' women. The uncompromising white walls held no ornamentation beyond an enormous black cross and a painting of the Madonna and with her fat baby. In this environment, Kidwell's language seemed inappropriate to the extreme. I myself was not offended but I fear it rather put Watson's back up. He bristled like a wet cat.

“Quite,” I said. “I don't suppose he showed any interest in artworks or antiquities?”

She shook her head. “We didn't do much talking and to tell the truth, he's not so bright. He did say there were some coins that would be worth a fortune if he could lay his hands on them. Said the fellow who owned them had no clue what they was worth.”

“Really? Can you tell us anything more about these coins?”

“Nah. What would I care about some silly old pennies?” She shook her head and rubbed her back. “They've got us up since five in the morning to start our prayers. Fat lot of good it does.” She pointed at her belly. “I just want this thing gone.”

Watson snapped, “It's a bit late for that. What happens when the child is born?”

“I'll give it up,” she said. “I don't want it. I hope it dies.”

We rose to leave. Watson, white-faced, shaking with fury, strode from the room. It seemed we would learn no more. Then, at the door, the girl's mood abruptly changed and she said, “You mustn't mind me. I'm just angry. Not at you. Not even at him. I'm angry with myself for throwing away such a good situation. What a bloody fool... This baby - what's to become of it, eh? Even if you find Avery, he's not going to want me or his kid. Still, I hope you do find him. Make him marry me like he promised.”

“You'd still have him?” Watson seemed aghast.

“I know what you think of him, of both of us, but he treated me like a lady.”

“Thank you for your time, Miss Kidwell,” I said, opening the door.

“They was Egyptian,” she said, as she opened the door. “Those coins. I remember that much. The ‘fathers', he called them. Isn't that a laugh? A man like him all anxious about fathers. I could laugh.”

“Insufferable, foolish girl,” Watson seethed as we hurried up Islington High Street. There were plenty of cabs in the area, but I decided it would be wiser to let my friend walk off some of his spleen for a while. It did not take too long.

About ten minutes later, he stopped abruptly and said.

“Where are we going, Holmes?”

“Back to Baker Street. We can accomplish no more this evening. On Monday we shall visit Brahms and perhaps that will clear up some of our current confusion.”

“And what will we do in the meantime?”

“Think!”

Chapter Nine

Sunday 24 April 1898

This morning - it may have been closer to the afternoon - Watson gave me a look a teacher might give a child who has failed to study his times-tables.

“What time did you get to bed, then?” he asked as he poured the coffee.

“Late,” I said. I may have groaned. My head, mouth and ears all felt full of cotton wool.

“And did you get anywhere?”

I gulped down the coffee. “No... There are still holes, Watson. There are vast empty spaces where information ought to be and is... not. It's like trying to read a book when the pages are made of Italian lace.”

“So it's a dead end, then?” he said.

I downed a second cup of coffee and shook off my lethargy.

“No, not quite. We still have the coins.”

“What, those coins of the fathers or whatever they're called? But we don't know anything about them.”

“Then it is time we learned.”

The rabbi, pleased enough to see me, was positively thrilled to make the acquaintance of his favourite writer, Dr John Watson. My friend, for his part, was equally fascinated by the rabbi. For several minutes, they sat together in a cosy tête-à-tête while the rest of us looked on in amusement. We were in Schwartz's workroom, sitting where the red-haired girl served us tea and cherries. She was not present today.

“I was sorry to hear you had been injured, Mr Holmes,” Solberg said as he polished an impressive emerald. “I hope the wound does not trouble you too much.”

“It is mending, thanks to Watson's ministrations.” So Glaser told them about my little adventure. Well, no harm.

“I am curious about Rickman's continued interest in that house,” I said. “I wondered if perhaps he might have thought there was something of value there. An antiquity, perhaps.”

“Schwartz is your man for any questions about antiquities, Mr Holmes,” Glaser said. “No one can rival his knowledge on the subject.”

Schwartz shrugged and presented the palms of his hands in a gesture of humility. Still, there was no denying he was pleased by Glaser's acknowledgement.

Solberg added, “It's true, Mr Holmes. Mordechai is like an encyclopaedia when it comes to all things ancient.”

“A poor knowledge,” the man said with a scolding look at Solberg for the gentle tease. “But I am happy, very happy to help you in any way I can.”

“Well then, have you ever heard of the Egyptian Fathers?” I said.

“Ah, there's a term I have not heard in many years,” Schwartz said. “Better known as the Coptic Patriarchs. They are a myth much like the Holy Grail of Christian lore.”

“Yes, but what are they?”

“They are coins from fourth-century Egypt. A
nummus,
if memory serves; that is to say, at the time they were in currency they would have been worth about a penny, perhaps less. The ‘Patriarchs' were unusual: they are said to be made of copper instead of the usual bronze. It is claimed that they bear the image of a male figure on one side - opinions vary about who it is - and a winged lion on the other.”

“A winged lion?” Watson asked. “My Egyptian lore isn't very good, I'm afraid. Is there some significance to that?”

“It's the symbol of Saint Mark the Evangelist,” the rabbi said.

Watson and I stared at him in some astonishment. The rabbi chuckled. “Does it surprise you that I am versed in things that go beyond my own religion? A man has a curious mind. He reads; he learns many things.”

Schwartz added, “The rabbi is quite correct. I am no expert, but I believe St Mark is considered the founder of the Coptic Church in Egypt. The coins are claimed to have some sort of mystical property, not unlike the Grail. They are shrouded in myth and legend. Who knows what the truth really is. Their story is well enough known in certain circles.”

“Indeed,” said the rabbi. “Even I have heard of them. It is a charming story.

“It is said that one day St Mark came upon a destitute widow who was begging for alms. He gave her two coins and the woman immediately spent them on food. However, upon returning home she found she still had the coins. Being an honest woman, she went back to the shopkeeper but he assured her he had been paid in full. Thereafter, no matter how often she used the coins, they remained in her possession.

“It is a delightful variant on the endless wealth legends, is it not? Some stories tell of people asking genii for a vast store of wealth. Their wish is granted, but always in a way that brings unforeseen negative consequences. There is something charming about having only two coins that always return home.”

“How delightful,” Watson said. “The spender will never go hungry, but neither can he squander his wealth on extravagant items like...” He fumbled for an example.

“Like carriages or horses,” the rabbi said, helpfully.

“What happened to the coins after the widow died?” I asked.

“The story claims they were passed on to her oldest son. After that, they faded into obscurity for several centuries. The next account came from the Holy Roman Empire. It was said that Charlemagne owned them for a period around the eighth century of the Common Era. Then they allegedly showed up again during the siege of Jerusalem in 1187.”

“That's very specific for a legend,” I said.

“Oh, such stories have a way of recurring over the years.”

“I assume if they were found they would be valuable?” I said.

“I doubt they actually exist,” Schwartz said. “But, yes. If they were found and could be authenticated they would be priceless. Not only in monetary terms, but in historical interest.”

“How would one go about authenticating such a thing as coins?” Watson asked. “I mean, wouldn't it be like trying to distinguish one penny from another?”

Schwartz shook his head. “An enormous difficulty, I agree. There have been fakes, even fakes of the coins. Some appeared in... where was it now? Somewhere in Bavaria, I believe...”

He turned to his friends and a brief, bewildering conversation in Yiddish ensued.

“Rosenheim, we think,” Schwartz said, turning back to us. “About twenty or so years ago there was a small outcry because someone claimed he had found the coins. There was a great deal of excitement.”

“My wife's brother lived in Bavaria at the time, may he rest in peace,” said the rabbi.”And I remember him writing to us about it. Yes, I think it was Rosenheim, near Munich.”

“How was the fraud proved?” I asked.

More excited conversation. Schwartz said, “We can none of us really recall. I think it was something to do with the provenance.”

“Provenance!” I slapped my knee. “Of course. If you wanted to prove such a thing were authentic you would need to be able to trace it back to its origins. I suppose a list of names of the previous owners and the dates the coins were in their possession would serve, yes?”

“Of course,” Watson said. “The list!”

“List?” Schwartz was full of curiosity and excitement. “Certainly that would be of immense use. A record of names and dates, so long as it was sufficiently current, could indeed support the authenticity of these relics, assuming they exist. You have seen such a list?”

I shrugged. “I have heard rumours. Tell me, if such a document did exist I suppose it would be in Egyptian?”

“Or Greek,” the rabbi said. “There was a great deal of Greek influence over the Egyptians, I believe. Not that I'm an expert, of course. Do you think the coins are what this crazy man is looking for, Mr Holmes?” the rabbi asked. “Is that why he broke into that poor woman's house?”

“There may be no connection at all,” I said. “I suspect Avery Rickman heard the term and for some reason thinks this unfortunate woman knows something about them.”

“But she does not?” Schwartz asked. It didn't sound as casual as he intended and I saw Glaser stare hard at him.

“Beyond the fact that she has heard the term,” I replied, “She knows nothing at all on the subject. She is just an ordinary English housewife. Perhaps better educated than most.”

“I think,” Watson said, picking up my cue, “The problem lies with her maid. The girl was trying to ingratiate herself to this Rickman character and probably told him all sorts of nonsense. It's likely she said the house was full of jewels and she herself was a lady's maid, rather than a scullery maid. Even in the serving classes there is a hierarchy.”

I forced myself not to smile. Watson is such an expert in reading people and situations, and his explanation sounded perfectly plausible. However, Schwartz was too canny to accept this interpretation of events at face value and he continued to tug at the puzzle.

“But how would a scullery maid have heard about the Patriarchs?” he said.

“From her mistress's reading, perhaps? Possibly from some comment made by Rickman himself.”I suddenly felt we were all in a play each portraying a character. What a tableau we formed as we stood there, caught in the sudden unexpected tension like an insect preserved in amber. There was an unease in the air that had not been there before. Schwartz stood before me in a halo of sunlight; his white frothy hair glowed under his black skullcap, and the sharp light turned his head into a skull. Only his dark eyes were alive and these stared into mine. The rabbi, a troubled look on his face, stared at his old friend, and Glaser had been transformed from a genial guest into a policeman. Only Solberg seemed untroubled. He sat at the long bench and sipped his tea.

I continued, “I may be completely wrong of course. This fellow, Rickman, may have been visiting the house in Camden Town for some other reason entirely. Perhaps he had not heard that his, ah, paramour had been discharged and his interests lay somewhere else entirely...”

“Then why would he have arrived with a pistol?” Glaser said. It is most unsettling when policemen display wit. On the way home, I commented to Watson it was like hearing a dog suddenly start to talk. He said I was being unkind.

At any rate, I was forced to respond to Glaser's reasonable observation. I said, “I suspect you may be right. As Watson said, perhaps the maid had misled him into thinking there were jewels in the house. However, since these coins were mentioned it would be foolish not to learn what we might about them. There seems little doubt Rickman is interested in arcane treasures.”

“It's not unusual,” Watson said, “for a young woman to pretend an interest in a man's concerns in order to win his affection. The young woman Holmes speaks of was very obviously deeply infatuated with the man. And given how many lies she told her employer over the past few months I think it's evident the glib falsehood comes naturally to her.”

Solberg said, “The tea is getting cold. Sit, gentlemen, and let us talk of more civilised things.”

“Spoken like a true Talmudic scholar,” the rabbi said, easing his creaking bones down onto the bench.

A young man, thin and unpleasantly pale, stood at the door and waved at Schwartz. The old man rose and said, “Excuse me, gentlemen. Business.”

We all sat and sipped our tea. The conversation dried up and after some moments the rabbi said, “I understand, Mr Holmes, you are acquainted with the daughter of my old friend Benjamin Jacoby, may he rest in peace.”

“Yes.” I hesitated. I do not like to be deliberately deceitful with good men unless there is some justification. On the other hand, my relationship with B is known to so few and then only my closest intimates. “She is a very dear friend,” I said. “But our friendship is not common knowledge and I would greatly appreciate it if you would keep the matter confidential.”

“Of course, of course,” the rabbi said.

“You are afraid the lady might become a focus for your enemies if her friendship with you was known,” Glaser said. “Yes, there's sense in that.”

The rabbi said, “Perhaps one day you might bring the lady here? If it would not cause you too much discomfort you could join us on Friday and share our Sabbath dinner.”

“I would be delighted. I will see if Beatrice is free, but I'm sure she would very much like to spend time with old friends of her late father.”

“Ah, I was very fond Benjamin Jacoby,” the rabbi said. “He was a good man. In fact, you remind me of him a little.”

“Do I? How so?”

“You both have the minds of a scholar. It is a rare thing, far more rare than the most precious gem: a man whose only interest is the truth. A man of integrity who is incorruptible.”

“You seem to have got Holmes's measure more swiftly than most, Rabbi,” Watson said. “I think it's because you have the same values.”

The rabbi smiled and sipped his tea. “Perhaps, perhaps,” he said as he placed his cup back in its saucer. “Or perhaps it's because I've spent so many years reading your delightful stories, Doctor.”

Watson was charmed at this. “I do have to take some poetic license from time to time,” he said. “But I try to be honest in the narrative.”

“You do exceedingly well.”

Glaser said, “I don't suppose you have room at your table for an impoverished policeman this Sabbath, Daniel?”

“It's less me than my daughter you want to see, my friend,” Solberg said, laughing. “But we are dining with the rabbi, too.”

“Please join us, David,” the rabbi said. “The more the merrier. We will drink a toast to old friends and new. What
tsimchas
we shall have!”

“Tsimchas?” I asked.

“Joy.”

After a while, we rose to leave. At the door, Glaser hesitated, turned to the rabbi, and asked the question that had been vexing him: “What is
Reb
Mordechai's interest in these coins, rabbi? Come, you saw how he reacted. You know him better than anyone.”

Solberg placed a gentle hand on Glaser's arm. “Be calm, David, there's no mystery, it's just
Reb
Mordechai's way. You know how he gets when he hears of rare treasures. They fascinate him much the way Mr Holmes's most unusual cases fascinate you. He's a good man.”