Sherlock Holmes and The Other Woman (11 page)

Glaser didn't seem convinced and Solberg turned to me and said, “I know how it looked, Mr Holmes. Schwartz has a way of appearing - what's the word? - single-minded when he gets caught up in one of his passions. But he is an honest man and a kind one.”

“Mordechai is a very good man,” the rabbi agreed.”I would answer for his integrity, Mr Holmes. But he does love his mysteries and his treasures. If I may make a suggestion?”

“Please.”

“Include him. Ask him to help you. He knows people, experts that go far beyond our small world. He would not want the coins for himself; he would want to see them housed in a museum where the world could appreciate them. His interest doesn't come from avarice but from a passion of all that is rare. He would dearly love the credit of the discovery, if the coins were to be found.”

“Well, I can certainly understand that motivation,” I said. “I shall take your advice. And we shall see you on Friday, Beatrice, Watson, and I.”

We shook hands and left. Out on the street, Schwartz was showing gems to a couple of prospective buyers. When he saw me, he excused himself from the men and came over.

“I wanted to apologise if I seemed rude, Mr Holmes,” he said. “It's just...”

“That it is your business,” I said, shaking his outstretched hand. “More, it's your passion. You need not explain to me. I understand obsessions only too well. I would be extremely grateful, Mr Schwartz, if you would make discreet inquiries about the coins. Be careful not to arouse any suspicion, however. This man, Rickman, is very dangerous as I learned to my cost. I share your opinion that the coins are a myth, but whether that is the case or not, the fellow must be found.”

“I shall be very careful. Thank you again, Mr Holmes, and good evening.”

Glaser walked us to the end of Hatton Garden where we caught a cab. As we prepared to board, I said, “Thank you again, Inspector, for all your assistance. You are really quite invaluable.”

He flushed, caught between embarrassment and pleasure. “It is an honour to help a man like you, Mr Holmes. I'll look forward to seeing you and the doctor and Lady Beatrice again.”

“Yes... Do please be careful, Glaser. And keep an eye on your friend, Schwartz. No one knows better than I how a man's passions can lead him astray.”

“You have my word,” he said.

Monday 25 April 1898

Brahms Antiquities is a discreet and elegant building in Knightsbridge. From outside it looks like a private home. One must ring the bell and present one's card to gain admittance. Only then is the visitor escorted through a plush hallway to the back of the building where Ezekiel Brahms keeps his office.

He is a small, bald-headed man who speaks with the exquisitely precise intonation of one who is not a native speaker.

“You are an Austrian, I perceive, Mr Brahms,” I said as Watson and I sat on the elegant but uncomfortable divan.

“You have an acute ear, Mr Holmes,” he said. “A most acute ear. Yes, you are quite right. I was born in Salzburg, but I have lived in London for almost thirty years. Very few people can tell I am not an Englishman. Yes, yes, you have a very acute ear.”

“Holmes is a musician,” Watson said.

“Ah, then perhaps you would find this interesting...” He gestured excitedly. “Come, come,” he said.

Somewhat bemused, we followed him into a small drawing room. A harpsichord nestled between two long windows. I felt that frisson of excitement that I seldom experience outside the solving of a puzzle, but this piece was special indeed.

“It is very old,” I said. I let my fingertips caress the wood.

“It was Bach's. Yes, yes. Johann Sebastian Bach, himself. He composed
The Goldberg Variations
upon it.”

“How extraordinary. If true.”

He looked hurt. “Mr Holmes, I assure you, I have proof of provenance, unassailable proof. But perhaps you would like to play it?”

“I could not do it justice. I am a violinist.”

“Ah. A pity. We do have a number of rather lovely violins, if you are interested?”

“Thank you. I own a Stradivarius.”

“Do you indeed? I say, if you are ever looking to sell it, Mr Holmes, I hope you will let me make you an offer.”

“Thank you, Mr Brahms, but I have come to you today on rather different business. Tell me, was the thief successful in his attempts to gain access to your premises?”

“How in the world did you know about that, Mr Holmes? You are quite right. We have had three attempts made in the past couple of weeks. Three. And never any bother in as many years previously. How in the world did you know?”

“The bars on the windows outside are less than a week old. There are no fewer than three gouges around the door lock and I see these locks have been changed in the past week.”

“Dear me, yes, you are quite right. We have so many valuables here, you see. It's not simply a matter of financial worth, but we are custodians of the world's treasures. We must be good stewards. But to answer your question, no, the premises were not violated. Our security is always excellent and we have, as you observed, added further levels of protection.”

“Do you have a security guard on the premises after hours?”

“We didn't until recently, but we do now. He's an upstanding man, above reproach.”

“I hope he is armed.”

“He is, Mr Holmes. You know, I worried that I might be overreacting but you do not think so?”

“By no means. As you say, these treasures belong to the world. It is only right you should protect them by any means possible.

“Now, I need to ask you about your records of Sir Nicholas's estate...”

We spent the next forty minutes discussing the life and adventures of Sir Nicholas Fleming. The man's time in Egypt, his knowledge of antiquities, his generosity, all these were covered in excruciating detail.

Sir Nicholas died in January after a long illness (“bravely borne”). In June last year he arranged with Brahms to sell off his various art collections immediately after his death. The proceeds were to be divided among his heirs. I forestalled Brahms' discussion about the various nieces and nephews who stood to inherit.

“Were any coins listed among the inventory?” I said.

“Coins? Not that I recall. I would need to check my files.”

“May we see your records?” I said.

“Of course.”

He rose. A chiming collection of keys hung from his waistcoat and he selected one of these and opened a door behind us. It was a file room some twenty feet long and almost as wide. The walls were lined with shelves that went to the ceiling and these were packed full of files. There were five additional rows of cabinets cutting the length of the chamber. Everything was neat and orderly but exceedingly dull. Watson gave me a glance. I shared his dismay.

“Where are the documents from Fleming's estate?”

Brahms indicated a pair of boxes at the bottom of the back wall. “Here,” he said.

Watson whistled. “Good grief. There must be hundreds of papers here.”

“Six hundred and twenty-nine,” said Brahms. “A separate record for every item and every transaction.”

“You have a master list?”

He pulled out a thick folder at the front of the drawer and handed it to me. “Here you are, Mr Holmes.”

The document was 35 pages long. I read it twice.

“I do not see any mention of the Coptic Patriarchs,” I said.

“The what?” Brahms looked bewildered.

“Egyptian coins. Do you recall if there was a document in Greek? It would have looked like a list of names and numbers. Mrs Prentiss translated it and returned it here.”

“And it concerned some patriarchs?” Brahms' confusion seemed to have deepened, rather than lessened.

“Apparently. At present we are concerned only with the document.”

“How very odd,” he said. “Usually I try to keep a close eye on all the items that pass through here, but given the size of Sir Nicholas's estate, I'm afraid we got a little lax.” He took the folder from me and peered at it. “I am very sorry, Mr Holmes. The only possibility is the document was part of a larger number of papers that we had been requested to translate. If that is the case, they would have been sent directly to the interested party.”

“And you retain no record?”

“Under the normal way of things we do, of course we do. However, in this instance... I'm afraid not.”

“Would Sir Nicholas's partner have any further information?”

“Very possibly, but I'm afraid Sir Jeremy left for Africa immediately after the funeral. I can write to his agents, but the reply may take some time.”

“That is unfortunate. Possibly, Sir Jeremy will have little to add. Still, send the letter. It is always best to be punctilious.”

Chapter Ten

Friday 29 April 1898

Beatrice, Watson and I, slightly cramped in a cab, made our way to Hatton Garden a little before eight o'clock. The lady was demurely dressed with a high-necked gown and a veil of some silvery, shimmery material on her head. She was in high spirits and I knew I could expect some teasing throughout the evening.

I could feel her warmth through my coat and her hand briefly touched mine. Sitting opposite, Watson continued his dissertation on the traditions of the Jewish Sabbath.

“It is very particular, you know,” he said. “I read up on it. There is no work permitted, not so much as a candle may be lit. Still, it is considered a time of great joy and celebration.”

“It is indeed,” my wife said. Her voice sounded mirthful. “I dined with the rabbi once, many years ago. Possibly he does not remember.”

“I cannot imagine anyone ever forgetting you, Beatrice,” I said.

She released one of those gurgling laughs that for some reason makes me feel quite giddy.

We arrived promptly at the chimes of eight. The door of the rabbi's house opened before the cab left and our host came to greet us.

“You're very punctual,” he said. “I am so happy to see you again, Lady Beatrice.”

“Thank you, Rabbi,” my wife said. “But I think you should just call me Beatrice. There is no formality between friends.”

In the small house, the rabbi introduced us to his wife Miriam and their daughter Esther.

“I wish we'd been here for candle-lighting,” Beatrice said. “I do love that prayer.”

“You are familiar with the
bracha
?” Solberg said. “That's what we call ‘blessing'.”

“Oh yes,” Beatrice replied. “My father had many Jewish friends and we often joined them for the Sabbath.”

“Your father was a good friend to our people, Beatrice,” the rabbi said. “He was a benefactor, a man of great generosity and kindness.”

“Thank you, Rabbi. I had no idea how altruistic he was until after his death. I received so many letters of thanks and condolence.”

“I regret I had not heard of his passing,” the rabbi said. “Not until young David told me. Speaking of David, where is that friend of yours, Daniel? I missed him at services.”

“He and my daughter had things to discuss, so he said.” He grinned. “I am hoping for news of a wedding.”

“That would be lovely,” the rabbi's wife said. “It's about time that boy settled down.”

“Time who settled down?” Glaser said, joining us. The girl at his side gazed up at him with such longing I think we all held our breath.

“You,” Solberg said. “That is, you and my daughter.”

Glaser gave his friend an affectionate, long-suffering look. “I'm sorry we're late,” he said. “It was entirely my fault. We were talking and I forgot the time. We even missed candle-lighting and the services.”

“If you were any other man I'd have to chastise you,” Solberg said. “But I know I can trust you. Even with my only child.” He glinted at his friend and tried to look dangerous. He added, “Right?”

“Right.”

“David is a perfect gentleman, Papa,” Rivkah said. “How can you doubt it?”

We sat at the table and the rabbi said a blessing over the food. Watson was in his element. He asked an endless litany of questions about the prayers, the food, and the traditions. The rabbi answered with admirable patience.

Beatrice was in a giddy mood and rather than discouraging my friend, she seemed determined to egg him on.

Glaser sat opposite me and did not speak very much. His attention seemed focused entirely on Solberg's daughter. The girl hovered near him ready to fill his cup or his plate at even the slightest gesture. Sitting beside his friend, Solberg could barely control his amusement. Indeed, from time to time, little chuckles of laughter erupted from him. Then he raised a hand as in apology while he forced his glee back into submission. At least for a few minutes until it bubbled up again. Between his mood and my wife's we were in for a giddy evening.

“Sit, Rivkah,” Solberg said at last. “You are a guest in the rabbi's house. It is not right that you should attend his guests.”

He spoke kindly but the girl's cheeks turned a deep pink.

“Let her be, Daniel,” the rabbi said. “What a thing it is to be a young woman and in love. I suppose you know something of that, Beatrice?”

My wife smiled. “I don't think I've ever been one to behave quite the same as other women, Rabbi,” she said. “I fear I'd shock you with my modern ideas.”

“My husband is not easily shocked,” the rabbi's wife said. “Though you may not think it to look at him.”

The two exchanged a look of fondness and I wondered what it must be like to have someone be so part of your life for so many years. It is a measure of the old couple's warmth that it suddenly seemed an enviable state.

Again, I became acutely conscious of the woman at my side. My wife. I think I shall never get used to calling her that.

We ate our excellent meal with great enthusiasm. The conversation was lively and entertaining. There were no airs in this house. It seemed a warmer and more delightful environment than many of the great mansions in which I have dined. The rabbi spoke with considerable insight about politics. Inevitably, the subject of the Dreyfus affair arose.

“Beatrice has just recently returned from France,” I said.

“A bad time to visit,” Solberg said. “What were you doing there?”

She hesitated and I said, “She went to aid M Zola.”

“A great man, Émile Zola,” Solberg said. There were murmured assents around the room. “A man with a great sense of justice.”

“Do you know him, Beatrice?” Glaser said.

“Zola was another friend of my late father's,” she said. “If a man was wise or learned, my father knew him or knew of him. When I heard Zola had been arrested I went to see if I could help him or his family in any way. There was little enough I could do for them, I fear.”

“You went on your own?” Rivkah asked. She seemed astonished.

“Certainly.”

“But no male escort?” Esther seemed equally dumbfounded.

“Beatrice never does the expected,” I said. “She is the most independent thinker I have ever encountered.”

“Why, thank you,” my wife said.

Watson said, “Beatrice is remarkable in many ways. She has a profound sense of justice.”

I reflected that my friend has come a long way in accepting my wife's brand of justice since our dreadful time at Rillington Manor last year.

Glaser said, “There's a lot to be said for intelligence, no matter whether the thinker is a man or a woman. Take Rivkah, for instance: she speaks six languages, studies history, and is an accomplished seamstress. Why should her accomplishments be considered any less valuable because she is not a man?”

“You're going to corrupt my daughter, David,” Solberg said, chuckling.

The conversation was interrupted by a knock at the door. The maid came in a moment later and said, “There's a boy asking to speak to Inspector Glaser, Rabbi.”

“Will you excuse me?” Glaser said, rising.

He left the room but returned almost immediately. “I have to go, I'm afraid.”

“A problem, David?”

“I don't know yet, Rabbi...” he seemed about to say more but a glance at the ladies' expectant faces silenced him. “I need to investigate. I'll be back as quickly as I can.”

I itched to join him, to see what was going on, but courtesy compelled me to keep my seat. Softly, Beatrice whispered, “Poor Sherlock. Held prisoner by social convention.” She squeezed my hand in sympathy.

I did not have to sit for long. About fifteen minutes later, there was another knock at the door. Now the maid returned and, with an anxious look, said, “I beg your pardon, Rabbi, but Inspector Glaser asks if Mr Holmes might join him.”

“What has happened, Sarah?”

“I'm not certain, rabbi, but I think someone's been killed.”

“
Mein Gott
! Who is it, do you know?”

“I do not know, Rabbi. The boy will take you to the address, Mr Holmes. It's not far away.”

“Will you forgive me?” I said as I tossed my napkin on the table. “I hope I shall return shortly but...”

“Go. The cause of justice continues even on the Sabbath, Mr Holmes. I send my blessing for your safety and for David's, too.”

“Holmes?” Watson said.

I shook my head. “I'd prefer you stay and look after Beatrice, Watson.”

“I'm perfectly capable of looking after myself,” she said giving me a scolding look.

“We shall see to the lady's safety, Mr Holmes,” Solberg said.

“Indeed, Beatrice can stay here for the night if need be,” the rabbi's wife said. “Esther will not mind sharing her room.”

“Oh, please say you will,” the Rabbi's daughter said.

My wife, none too pleased at being managed, said in a tone that belied her words, “Thank you. I should be delighted.” Then she made a face at me.

The body that had been Mordechai Schwartz lay face down in a sea of still-wet blood. Glaser glanced up at me with anguished eyes.

“Stupid old fool,” he said. “What in the world had he been up to? Why would anyone want to hurt him?”

Watson, careful to avoid any of the bloody tracks on the floor, knelt down and examined the body.

“Still warm,” he said. “Rigor has not set in yet. Dead considerably less than an hour. Possibly no more than twenty or thirty minutes.”

We were in the room where I had first met Schwartz. Now he lay not eight feet from the long bench where we had drunk tea sweetened with cherries. The air tasted of blood and death and violence.

“Shot at point blank range,” I said. “Through the left temple. You see the stippling around the wound. Death would have been instantaneous.”

“Are you all right, Glaser?” Watson said looking up at the inspector. “Do you need to get some air?”

The policeman shook his head but his hand squeezed Watson's shoulder as if to steady himself. “Thank you, no. I'll be all right.”

His blue eyes were almost violet in the gaslight, intensified by the redness of his sclera. His cheeks were damp with tears I doubt he even knew he'd shed.

“Who found the body?” I asked.

“Constable de Vine. He's outside; I knew you'd want to talk to him. I sent the other constable, Bing, to start the search.”

“Excellent. Ask de Vine to step in, would you, Glaser?”

The policeman hesitated. “Is that really necessary, Mr Holmes? He's never seen a murdered body before. He's pretty shaken.”

“He'll have to get used to such things if he wants to be a police officer,” Watson said. “Still, maybe it wouldn't be too bad an idea to talk to him outside, Holmes.”

Such squeamishness! True, the impact of the bullet had shattered the skull and the wound was dreadful. The arterial spray drenched not only the floor but also the walls and the ceiling. Gobbets of bone and brain tissue spattered the leather tobacco pouches that hung from the big black beam. Dreadful, I admit, but as Watson said, a policeman surely must get used to such things.

He and Glaser were looking at me with such, I don't know, hope, I suppose. In the end, I submitted and went outside.

The young officer, Charlie de Vine, was a sickly greenish colour and he was shaking so hard his truncheon and keys beat a dissonant rhythm against his hip.

“This gentleman is Mr Sherlock Holmes,” Glaser said. “He wants to ask you some questions.” He spoke matter-of-factly, thank goodness. I can make some concessions to a man in shock but I draw the line at mollycoddling.

“Yes, sir,” the fellow stuttered.

I suddenly had a memory of my case last year and another man who died of a gunshot wound to the head. I remember B standing at the doorway looking at him. She was shaken and pale but ten times calmer than this supposed officer of the law.

“Tell me what happened from the moment you arrived, de Vine,” I said.

“Yes, sir,” the young policeman stammered. “Well, it was a quiet night. I mean, this area on a Friday evening tends to be very dull. Anyway, about...” he glanced at his watch. “About thirty minutes ago I was coming down Hatton Garden and I saw a light in the window of Mr Schwartz's building. It was just a glimpse and I thought at first I'd imagined it.”

“It was not the gaslight?” I said.

“No, sir. It was a torch. I saw the beam of light move about.”

“Good. Continue.”

“I was just crossing the street when I saw a flash through the window and heard a bang, all in the same second like. I blew my whistle and started up the steps. I could smell something, too, something pungent like chemicals or burning.

“I used my torch and made my way down the hall. Then the door at the end burst open and someone came rushing out. He knocked me over. I blew my whistle again and I think I shouted.”

I stared hard at the young man and he continued to jangle.

“What happened next?” I said.

“Next?”

“Did you give chase?”

“No.” The word came out flat and pallid. “I'm sorry, sir. I know I should have.”

“What did you do?”

“I went inside to see where the man had come from. It's that confusing in there. I fell over twice on the flagstones and I bumped my head on one of those beams. Anyway, after a few minutes I found him, that Mr Schwartz gentleman. Gave me a right turn to see all that blood.”

I gazed at the man for several moments in silence. Watson knows me too well to interrupt. Glaser remained silent, too.

“Is there anything else you haven't told us?” I said. “Think carefully.”

The man looked in my eye and said, “No, Mr Holmes. Nothing.”

“What did the man look like? The one who knocked you down.”