Sherlock Holmes and The Other Woman (13 page)

“Two?” she said. “Who?”

“A jeweller by the name of Schwartz, and a young policeman by the name of Bing.”

“How dreadful,” she said, but I could see the same excitement in her eyes that burned in my own heart. She sat at the table beside me and asked, “What have you learned so far?”

To Tavistock Hill's astonishment, I related the details of the murders. Beatrice listened intently then said, “So the killer apparently met with Schwartz, killed him, and then fled. Why kill the second policeman? Surely he could have hid. Would that not have been easier than murdering a policeman? And why kill Schwartz... Inspector Glaser, you said your friend was fascinated by the Patriarchs. Is it possible his inquiries attracted the attention of the killer?”

“I think that's probably what happened, yes.”

“But if Rickman is looking for the coins, wouldn't Schwartz be more valuable to him alive? How many people would be able to authenticate them? Why kill one of the few people who seemed able to help him?”

I slapped the table and chuckled. “As always, Beatrice, you get to the crux of the matter. All excellent questions.”

“They could have argued over money,” Hill said. “Perhaps Schwartz wanted a larger share of the profits than Rickman was willing to give him.”

“No,” Beatrice said, firmly. “No observant Jew would haggle on the Sabbath. You'll correct me if I'm wrong, Inspector Glaser.”

“No, you are quite correct,” Glaser said. “
Reb
Mordechai was very observant. He would not have discussed money on the Sabbath.”

“Which brings up a point Watson made earlier,” I said. “Why choose Friday night for a meeting? Unless...”

“Unless?” Hill urged.

“Rickman knew enough about the area to expect most of the community would be indoors. Once people got home from Friday evening services they would be inside having dinner...”

“Which means there would be no one around to identify him,” Beatrice said. “Still, even in a community like this there must be people who are not observant?”

“True,” Glaser said. “We have our share of the irreligious just like any other community, not to mention it's not only Jews who live in the area. Still, it would lower the risk considerably.”

I was tired and I suddenly wanted to be gone, to be back home in my familiar seat and able to just think my thoughts without interruption.

Watson, glancing at me, said with eerie prescience, “Well, I think we should head back to Baker Street, Holmes. We all need some rest.”

“If you do not mind, Sherlock, and if the rabbi has no objection, I think I will stay here.” Beatrice said the words so innocently. I have learned over the past several months that it is when my wife sounds innocent that she is most dangerous. I had a sudden ghastly surge of unease. I said, “For what reason?”

Watson and the two policemen made some excuse and left the room. B and I faced each other.

She said, “I thought I should call upon the wife of the dead man. I'll go with the other women so you need not worry about me.”

“Beatrice-”

“Sometimes a woman will tell things to other women that she will not tell a man. Especially if the man is a police official.”

“Beatrice-”

“No reflection on Inspector Glaser, of course. He's perfectly charming. Handsome, too. But he is still a policeman.”

“Beatrice!”

She seemed not at all dismayed by my sudden shout. “Please, Sherlock,” she said calmly. “You'll wake the household.”

From the sounds above it was evident we had already done so.

She rested her hand on mine and said, “Please do not worry. I promise I will do nothing dangerous. I shall merely be one of several women who makes a condolence call upon a widow.”

I took a deep breath then slowly nodded. “I have no right to tell you what to do,” I said. “But I must confess I am not easy about you staying here when there is a murderer at large.”

“You've never told me what to do,” she said. “You have followed the terms of our contract to the letter. And you are not telling me now; you are expressing concern, which you are perfectly entitled to do as my friend if nothing more. But, my dear Sherlock, you must see there is no cause for worry. It is broad daylight, I shall not be alone, and I give you my word I shall be careful.”

I swallowed back my irrational fears. “That is all I ask,” I said.

We both took a breath as if we had just overcome some great challenge. After a moment I said, “Something about this case does not ring true. There are too many oddities, too many things that do not seem to belong to the same puzzle.”

“Like someone mixed up a box of chess pieces with draughts?” she said. “Yes, I see what you mean. And it's even worse than that, isn't it, because there are still pieces missing?”

“True. I have a knight, a couple of bishops and some draught men...”

“But you're missing a pawn and a queen.”

“Exactly.” I couldn't help but laugh at her description.

“Never mind,” she said. “You'll sort it out.”

“You will not forget this man has killed twice? He seems to have adjusted to the terrible deed with unsettling ease.”

“I forget nothing, my dear,” she said. She kissed my cheek.

Chapter Twelwe

Saturday 30 April 1898

About an hour after we returned to Baker Street there was a knock on the door. Stevens arrived, still resplendent in his uniform, and as cheery as he was last night.

“Well,” I said. “How did you get on?”

“Not as well as I would have liked to be honest, Mr Holmes, but it wasn't a total loss.

“I spent the night keeping watch with de Vine, just as you said. He was a bit bossy at first, saying he knew what was what, but after a while he started to relax. He told me about the borough - he hates it, by the way, and thinks it's beneath him.

“I asked him about the dead man and he said he didn't know him. ‘All those black-hatted fellows look the same. They wouldn't give you a cup of water if you were parched, not unless you could pay for it.'

“I swallowed all this nonsense down and acted like I just wanted to learn from his experience.”

“You sound sceptical about what this fellow had to teach you, Stevens,” Watson said with pretended surprise. “Not an ideal mentor then?”

“Hardly! Lazy as sin if you want my opinion. He can't stand Inspector Glaser because he keeps after him and makes him do his work. De Vine has a secret place down on Saffron Hill where he skips off for a ‘rest', as he put it. In the middle of his shift!”

The young man's outrage was delicious. Watson and I suffocated our laughter with the greatest difficulty.

“But you were spot on about this fellow, Mr Holmes,” he continued. “He knows something about Schwartz's murder that he's not saying, and no mistake.”

“Has he given you any hints what it might be?”

“Only that he feels guilty about something. He started to say he was to blame but then the inspector came back to check on us and he clammed up. I wasn't able to get him back on the subject, I'm afraid. Oh, he did say the deceased was an old fool to think it would work.”

“To think what would work?”

Stevens shook his head. “I'm sorry, Mr Holmes. That's as much as I got.”

“You did very well, Stevens. There were too many holes in his initial statement to be credible. He feels guilty, then. That is very interesting.”

“Begging your pardon, Mr Holmes, but what sort of holes?”

“Hmm? Oh, well he said, for instance, his attention was drawn by the light of a torch in the window. He was in the process of crossing the street when he heard the gunshot. But if that is true it means Schwartz and the killer were already in that inner room, and it doesn't have a window that looks out on the street.”

“So how could he have spotted the torch?” Watson said. “Ah, I missed that. Very well reasoned, Holmes.”

“De Vine also claimed to know none of Schwartz's neighbours, and yet he seemed to know the dead man by sight.”

“He didn't know him, not by name, before last night,” Stevens said. “He told me he'd never so much as exchanged a word with the man before yesterday.”

I sat upright in my chair. “Were they his exact words? Be specific, Stevens.”

“He said, ‘They all look alike, those Jews, and they'd never give you the time of day. That fellow, Schwartz, I never even got so much as a hullo out of him before yesterday.'”

“Sounds like he and Schwartz had a conversation some time yesterday, then,” I said. “You have no idea what it was about?”

“I said wasn't that an odd thing. I got the feeling de Vine was about to say something but shut right up and I got no more out of him.”

“You've done very well, Stevens. My trust in you was not misplaced. Can you shadow de Vine again this evening?”

“If you wish it, Mr Holmes.”

“But you'd rather be in the thick of things, eh?” I said. “I sympathise. Never fear, Stevens, we shall find better use for your talents. Just stick with de Vine for now. I would dearly like to know what he's been up to.”

Stevens rose to leave. “I'm glad to be of help and I shall do as you ask. There's just one thing...”

“You're wondering why I have kept Inspector Glaser in the dark? Yes, I understand. The inspector is a good man and I have great faith in him. But he is an inspector and has protocols that he must follow. Besides which, Schwartz was his friend. If he had a suspicion that de Vine had been even tangentially involved, he would react with great passion and I am not sure that is wise. Best stay with this lazy policeman for a while. Become his friend, Stevens. I shall deal with Glaser.”

After Stevens left, I spent several hours sitting in my chair by the fire. The morning turned into afternoon and then into a russet-coloured evening. Watson dozed and finally decided to surrender to his bed.

At the door, he turned and said, “She'll be all right, Holmes. She's a clever girl and won't take any unnecessary risks.” That word, unnecessary, stuck in my brain and it was some time until I was able to ignore it and move on to the case in hand.

I went back to the beginning and pondered the questions that were in the forefront of my mind:

Assuming Rickman, or whatever his name was, had courted Connie Kidwell simply to gain access to the Prentisses' house, why had he not discovered the document he was looking for? True, Mrs Prentiss had already returned the original document to her employer, but she had kept a copy. Did Rickman simply not know about that? Perhaps. It is doubtful Kidwell knows much about her former mistress's business. In any case, it certainly seems likely that Rickman was looking for information on the Patriarchs. Nothing else appears to fit. But how did he know that Mrs Prentiss had that document in the first place? Well, I obviously need to learn more about that peculiar paper. Does it serve as provenance of the coins? I shall proceed with that as my hypotheses until evidence proves otherwise.

Why did Rickman fail to kill me in the Prentisses' house? He had a weapon and, for the briefest of moments, had the opportunity. Yet he failed. Was he merely squeamish? Surely I prove a far more dangerous threat to him than Schwartz or the unfortunate Bing. These were my thoughts. I closed my eyes, puffed on my pipe, and replayed that unpleasant night in my mind.

It was cold and dark, I remember. Around one o'clock I was alerted by the sound of the front door opening and by a sudden draft. Watson woke the instant my hand touched his shoulder. He frowned at me, as surprised as I that the sound came, not from the cellar, but from the front hallway.

So Rickman had a key to the front door. I was taken aback by that at the time; though in hindsight I should probably have anticipated it. I assume he stole Kidwell's and made a copy. I doubt she knew; why else would he continue the charade of entering through the cellar? Was it that it seemed mysterious and therefore romantic? That sort of thing might appeal to a gullible young woman.

Then he flung open the kitchen door... He was expecting us, surely? That grimace on his face, the way the pistol was ready to be fired... No, he knew we were there. So was he really looking for a document or did he intend to frighten us off and return later? Or was it his plan to kill me, only to fail at that instant? Something does not fit.

As to the murders in the diamond district, I am even less certain. Why kill Schwartz? Was he a serious threat or had there been a quarrel of some sort? It is unfortunate Mrs Schwartz claims to know so little of her husband's dealings. Perhaps Beatrice will fare better.

I hope she will be careful.

At around half-five Watson came back into the living room.

“I can't get to sleep,” he grumbled. He went downstairs and brought back a carafe of coffee. I did not move. I sat in my same spot following all my thoughts. Around and around I go. Perhaps I am ascribing too much intelligence to the man. Or too little. There may be a dozen explanations for his actions. Something gnaws at me. Something I have overlooked.

Around six o'clock my wife arrived. Mrs Hudson fussed about her as if she was a royal instead of merely the Queen's goddaughter. Beatrice accepted my housekeeper's plea that she stay for dinner with good nature, and then she joined me in the sitting room.

“You have news,” I said.

She grinned at me and I could feel her excitement. Watson rose and said, “I think I'll go for a walk.”

“It's not a very pleasant day, Doctor,” Beatrice said. “Please stay. I've no doubt Sherlock will find your observations helpful as always.”

“That weather will play the devil with your war wounds, Watson. I beg you sit. Well, then, Beatrice, tell us your news.”

“After this morning's services, I went to see Mrs Schwartz in the company of the other ladies. There was much conversation about what a good man her late husband was. For the most part, I believe it was true. A man easily carried away by his passions, but with a good heart. That was my impression.

“At length, the rabbi's wife Miriam asked what I as a stranger could not: What Schwartz was doing in his business building at that hour.”

“Ah,” I said, rubbing my hands together. This was what I had been waiting for.

“The widow said Schwartz had been making inquiries about some Egyptian coins. On Friday afternoon he received a telephone call and was very excited afterwards.”

“Did he tell her the nature of this call?” I asked.

“He told her the man had a Germanic accent. Schwartz seemed to think that was significant, according to his wife. He was very excited and said, ‘We have him.'”

“She was sure those were his words?”

“Yes. She added that he arranged to meet the man at his work premises after evening services.”

“Schwartz had no reservations about that?”

“None at all, apparently. He evidently did not expect the meeting to take long because he told his wife he would be home in time for dinner.”

I said with as much cheer as I could muster, “Thank you, Beatrice. That is something at least.”

“Oh, don't fob me off with that, Sherlock, it doesn't become you. That is not all the news.”

The glimmer in her eyes should have told me so. I smiled, genuinely this time, and said, “So what other treasures do you bring?”

She stared at the ceiling and said, “Do you know, it is a long time since you played the violin for me. I think you owe me a tune after we have dined.”

“Beatrice-” I stopped and made an exaggerated sigh. “You may have anything you wish, but please tell me what else you have learned.”

“Anything?” she said in a dangerous tone. Then, laughing, “It is not fair to tease you when you are so vulnerable. Yes, vulnerable, Sherlock. You would offer anything in order to get the information. Very well. Schwartz kept a diary. Mostly it was to record his transactions, sales and acquisitions, that sort of thing. But from time to time he also made notes about other things.”

“Ah! Do you have it?”

“No,” she said. “I could not read it and neither could you. It is in Yiddish. At my request, Miriam got it from Widow Schwartz and gave it to David. He will translate it and come here this evening with his report.”

David?

“Well, that will do,” I said. “Did he tell you what time?”

“He said after he had slept for a few hours he would read it and bring it to you. I imagine he will be here by the time we finish dining.”

For the next hour, I forced myself to be genial company. As promised, I played a few pieces on the violin to the lady's great pleasure (or so I tell myself), and managed to eat enough of my meal to satisfy both my friend and my wife.

Around eight o'clock there was a knock at the door and a few moments later Glaser came into the room.

“Come and sit here, Inspector,” I said. “It is a filthy evening. Can I pour you some coffee? Or perhaps a brandy might be preferable?”

“A brandy would be just the thing. Thank you, Mr Holmes.”

His eyes were shadowed with fatigue and even his curly hair seemed to lack its natural buoyancy.

“You did not sleep?” Watson said. “You look done in, poor fellow.”

“I should not have asked you to come here, Glaser,” I said. “I should have come to you.”

“You did not ask; I did,” Beatrice said. “And I agree it was a very thoughtless thing to do. I apologise.”

Glaser smiled and took the snifter from me. “Thank you,” he said, and downed a mouthful. “Ah, that's the ticket. But there's no call to apologise, Beatrice. I made the choice to come here. To be honest, I felt like I needed to get away from the diamond district for a while. There is so much alarm and distress. I can hardly walk five paces without someone stopping me and needing reassurance.”

“And in the meantime, you're still dealing with the loss of one of your friends and a fellow police officer,” Watson said. “You need some time on your own to grieve.”

Glaser's smile was unconvincing but I gave him credit for the attempt. “I shall grieve when we catch Mordechai's killer,” he said. “I think my friend's own words might help.” He pulled a small journal from his pocket and showed it to me. As Beatrice said, I could not read it. Such a deficit in my education.

“I have not had a chance to study it properly, but I skimmed some parts on my way here. Up until last Sunday when you spoke to him about the coins, Mr Holmes, the journal is fairly straightforward,” Glaser said. “Mordechai registers the receipt of various gemstones, as well as their quality and appearance. He writes about sales, customers and amounts received. This isn't his official business ledger. It is a personal log of the precious things that he handled or hoped to acquire. Almost a love letter. Schwartz once told me that he remembered every stone he had ever held. He could describe the cut, the colour, and the flaws the way a proud father might describe a child.”

“And since Sunday?” I asked.

“He notes your conversation, writes the word ‘
Abba
', father, and a question mark. See, here? Now,” the inspector continued, “He lists the names of - I am not sure if it is two or three people who might be able to tell him more about the coins. There's a Dr Bazalgette.”