Sherlock Holmes and The Other Woman (15 page)

“But how was it arranged? How did he know where to find her? And how did he get the message to her?”

“The butcher shop?”

“Filled with maids and housewives it may have been, but a man, a tall man would have attracted even Mary Dobbs' attention.”

“So he has an ally?” He thought about it for a moment while I sipped the scotch. “But, no, not necessarily. He could have seen her in the street and just asked some woman to do him a favour. Perhaps he paid her to do so.”

“Yes,” I said slowly. “I cannot find fault in that theory.”

“Then again,” Watson added, now warming to the theme, “Perhaps there was no note. After all, we did not find one in her belongings or on her body.”

“Neither signifies,” I replied. “He may have told her to destroy anything in writing, or he could simply have taken it off the body after he killed her.”

“You don't suppose...” Watson began.

“What?”

“Well, we are assuming Rickman is the killer and I'll grant you he seems the most likely culprit. All the same-”

“All the same, we cannot rule out the possibility that she was murdered by someone else. I agree. But there was a rendezvous. Coincidence may work in novels, but real life is seldom so lazy. No, much more likely there was an assignation. It seems unlikely Connie Kidwell should have found another paramour so swiftly, particularly not in her situation.”

“Pregnant, you mean?”

“Quite so.”

I downed the rest of the whisky and said, “I'm sick of the whole thing. What do you say to us going out to dinner and then perhaps a concert?”

Chapter Fourteen

Monday 2 May 1898

I slept late but felt much more refreshed when I awoke. Last night's music, though of far inferior quality to my wife's playing, was stirring and enabled me to set this troublesome case aside for a few hours. After breakfast, Watson and I set out for the British Museum to meet with Doctor Basil Bazalgette.

At least one advantage of being the “famous Sherlock Holmes” is you can command attention even from busy experts.

“I appreciate you taking the time to speak to me, Dr Bazalgette,” I said. “I wanted to ask you about a telephonic conversation you had last week with Mr Mordechai Schwartz.”

“Schwartz, yes, yes. But he did not telephone; he came to see me. We are old friends. He is very learned you know. A broad knowledge rather than a deep, but one always appreciates an enthusiast.”

“He asked you about the Coptic Patriarchs?”

“That is so.”

“May I ask what you told him?”

“Just the obvious. They do not exist. They are a myth.

“You are sure?”

“Positive. I am an expert in my field, Mr Holmes, just as you are in yours. Certainly they are a myth.”

“Miraculous objects do exist,” Watson said.

“Nonsense.” Bazalgette leaned forward and placed his hands on the table. “Truly miraculous objects do not exist except in story books.”

“And yet a man has murdered three people apparently because he believes he has found these coins. One of the victims was your friend, Mr Schwartz.”

“Schwartz? Dead?”

Bazalgette's face drained of all blood. Watson poured him a glass of water and helped him drink it. “Slowly, slowly,” he said. “You have had a shock.”

“But, but he was here. Just here last week. He sat in that chair where you are sitting now, Mr Holmes. Oh dear, oh dear, what a terrible thing. I am sorry to hear it. Yes, very sorry. He was a decent fellow, you know. Very knowledgeable and interested in so many things. In his own field, that is to say as a jeweller, he was quite exceptional. A master craftsman and creative, too. He once showed me a pin that he made of a bunch of daffodils all in gold. Quite exquisite. Oh dear. I shall miss him.”

“Can you relate your last conversation with him in as exact detail as you can recall?”

He loosened his tie and sipped more water before replying.

“I had a telephone call from Schwartz on Tuesday night and I agreed to meet him the next day. He arrived promptly at four o'clock and sat, as I said, in that chair. He said he was trying to learn as much as he could about the coins of the Coptic Patriarchs.

“I told him bluntly the coins were a myth and not worth his time. He said, as you did, Mr Holmes, ‘I suppose there is no doubt about that?'

“‘None at all,' I said. I reminded him of the particulars of the tale: Saint Mark had given a gift of the coins to a poor widow who lived in the city of Akhetaten and no matter how many times she spent them she always found them in her purse. These details never vary. However, the Royal City of Akhetaten was abandoned during the reign of King Tutankhamun. That king died in 1325 BC, while St Mark was martyred in the 64
th
year of Our Lord.”

“Akhetaten?” I said.

“Or Tell el-Amarna as the archaeologists call it. It was excavated some eight or nine years ago.”

“And you told all this to Mr Schwartz.”

“I did. I also pointed out the impossibility of proving that one coin is more special than any other of its type. Could you say with any certainty, Mr Holmes, that one of the pennies in your pocket is more valuable than any other penny?”

“And when you made this point to Schwartz he asked you about provenance?”

“Yes, that is correct. He said what if there was a document that outlined the tale of the coins and listed the names of all of its owners since the widow. I told him such a document would have to be a forgery. There was just such a case in Bavaria about twenty years ago. Someone had a couple of coins allegedly dating to the early Christian Church in Egypt. They produced the coins and a document much like the one Schwartz described. Of course, tests proved conclusively the thing was a forgery. The blackguard vanished before he could be arrested.”

“What was Schwartz's response?”

“That everything I said fit in with his own thoughts and recollections. That was all. We shook hands and he left.”

“Did he mention the name Demosthenes Jones?”

“Jones? No. Mr Schwartz would never have dealings with a villain like that, Mr Holmes. The man is a thief and a liar.”

“What of someone called Bashir?”

“There are several people of that name, but off hand I cannot think of anyone who has any particular expertise in this subject. Certainly, my old friend did not mention the name. Dear me, I am really very sorry he is dead. I wish I could be of more help.”

“On the contrary, your help has been inestimable,” I said.

Despite his elegant name, Demosthenes Jones is no more than a conduit through which stolen works of art are processed. He is a big man, only an inch shorter than I, but his girth... I vow it would take a full twenty seconds to make a circumference around him. He has a small shop in Soho and spends each day sitting in the back smoking some noxious weed that certainly is not
Nicotiana tabacum
.

Today his hooded eyes glinted as he looked up at Watson and me when we drew back the heavy velvet curtain and violated his inner sanctum.

“Mr Holmes,” he said, wheezing as always. The gap in his two front teeth gave a whistle to his ‘S's and the words sounded like Misster Holmess.

He was sitting cross-legged on a huge red cushion puffing on a hookah.

“I need to speak to you on a matter of business,” I said, sitting on a decidedly ill-advised statue of an Indian elephant. Watson stood at the doorway, his arms folded. Now and then, he turned his face away in order to inhale some of the slightly less noxious air of Soho.

“Always a pleasure to speak with you, Misster Holmess,” Jones replied. He offered me his pipe; I waved it away with a lazy hand.

“What can you tell me about a man called Schwartz?”

“Schwartz?” He puffed and avoided my eye.

I jangled the coins in my pocket. The puffing stopped.

“I met a Jew by that name a few days ago,” he said.

“What did you discuss?”

More puffing. I shifted my position and a china statue of Vishnu crashed to the floor and shattered into a hundred shards.

“Oh dear,” I said.

“Oy! Be careful!” Jones hissed.

“Schwartz,” I said.

“All right, all right, he wass here. Last week it wass, Tuessday or Wednessday. He were assking about ssometale. Egyptian coinss.”

“And what did you tell him?”

I rested my finger against the base of another statue, a plaster bust of Napoleon.

“Sstop!” cried Jones. “All right. I told him that ssome do ssay the coinss are a myth, though I have heard different.”

“What have you heard?”

“Iss it worth ssomething?”

“Goodwill, Mr Jones,” I replied.

“Your goodwill iss like money in the bank,” he said and bowed slightly. “All the ssame, it don't pay the rent now, do it?”

I took a guinea out of my pocket and showed it to him. “For the broken statue,” I said. “How much hashish can you buy for a guinea?”

He laughed and his laughter turned into a cough. “Not ass much ass you might think. Sstill, in the interesst of cooperation...

“I have heard from very good authority that the coinss are quite real and are in right here in London.” He reached out his pudgy fingers to take the coin but I covered it with my hand.

“What authority?”

He sighed, puffed on the pipe, and then said, “This must remain between uss, Mr Holmess. It could be difficult for me if it were known I talked to you.”

“You may rely on my discretion.”

“Well, then... There iss a man by the name of Bashir. An Egyptian by birth, it iss ssaid. He had some dealings with the estate of Ssir Nicholass Fleming.”

Fleming! Ah!

“And now?” I said, careful that neither my mien nor my voice betrayed my excitement. “I believe Fleming died some months ago. What happened to Bashir after that?”

“You'll find the gentleman in Chapel Market.”

“You told all this to Schwartz?”

He nodded.

“Thank you, Jones, you've been very helpful.”

“You, ah, won't mention my name?”

I slid the coin across the counter and his greedy hand grabbed it. “Not a word,” I said.

“Well, well,” I said as I climbed into a hansom with Watson. “Now the threads start to come together.”

“Do you think Bazalgette was wrong and the coins do actually exist?” my friend said.

“Not necessarily. It is entirely possible this Bashir gentleman was misled or duped by someone, or perhaps he's the one doing the duping. A clever fake could be worth a fortune. We still have a great many questions. What is the link between Bashir and Rickman, for instance.”

“You do not think they can be one and the same?”

“Unless a tall, fair man can pass himself off as an Egyptian...” I paused.

“Something has struck you,” Watson said. He lapsed into silence, understanding, as he always does, when I have a need for quiet contemplation.

As we neared Baker Street he said, “I say, Holmes, I think we should go to Camden Town.”

“Why so?”

“Someone ought to break the news to Mrs Prentiss about Connie's death. She ought to know.”

“Really? Oh, if you insist. Would you mind taking care of it, Watson? And since you will be in Camden Town anyway, see if you can find out anything about the newcomers to the area. There was an African man, I believe.”

“And a widow,” he said.

“Trust you to remember the woman.”

“And trust you to forget.”

“I forget nothing. It is unfortunate that Chapel Market is closed on Mondays. We shall have to delay our investigations into Bashir until tomorrow. I am anxious to see if there have been any further developments in Hatton Garden. We shall rendezvous in Baker Street later.”

I found Stevens on Saffron Hill. He was helping an old woman with her bags. He nodded towards me and then, with a jerk of his chin indicated I should meet him down the street.

He joined me a few minutes later. “Good afternoon, Mr Holmes,” he said, greeting me with a smile and a handshake.

Saffron Hill is a little too narrow, a little too overlooked for quiet conversation, and we headed for the wider thoroughfare of Hatton Garden.

“Well,” I said as walked down the street. “What news?”

“That fellow de Vine is a slippery customer and no mistake,” Stevens said. “I am glad to have a chance to talk to you, Mr Holmes, because I think I must report the fellow to Inspector Glaser, but I wanted to talk to you before I do.”

“Well?”

“I said he was lazy but, my word, that's not the half of it. He takes bribes; he uses his position to bully people. In all, he is a thorough disgrace to his uniform.”

“Does he know he has been so unfortunate as to lose your regard?” I asked.

The man was too distressed to catch my humour. “No,” he said, earnestly. “I have been very careful to play the part, wretched though it makes me.”

“If it is any comfort to you, Stevens, Glaser already knows de Vine was lying.”

“Oh, that is a relief. He's a fine gentleman is the inspector. As to de Vine: He tries to avoid discussing the murder but of course, he thinks I'm just some dolt who knows nothing, and I play that up.

“I told him I thought he was very brave to go into that house after hearing a gunshot. He admitted he didn't realise it was gunfire at the time. I do believe he was horrified by what happened. He says remembering makes him ill and from the way he looks when he remembers I'd say that much is true. He did say one very odd thing though. He said, ‘Old fool should have waited.'”

“‘Old fool should have waited?'” I repeated. “Ha! Excellent! Well done, Stevens, well done indeed.”

“What does it mean?” Stevens said.

“It means we need to find Inspector Glaser.”

These things never go as smoothly as one expects. Firstly, Glaser had to be found and informed; then Hill had to take over in Glaser's absence; Lestrade had to redistribute his own work; and then we had to rendezvous at Scotland Yard. An hour and a half passed before we could confront de Vine.

The fellow marched into the room the very model of a good policeman. On the outside, anyway.

I sat in the corner and let Glaser and Lestrade get on with it.

Seeing us shook the fellow and the good policeman façade began to crack.

“Have a seat, de Vine,” Glaser said.

“What's this about, Inspector?” he asked. His chair chattered on the floor in answer to his trembling.

“I think you know full well,” Glaser said. “Your only hope is to make a clean breast of it.”

“I should caution you,” Lestrade said, “If you attempt to lie you may face prison for obstruction of justice. Let's have it. The whole story. The truth, mind, or I shall march you down to the cells myself.”

The fellow's teeth chattered. “I didn't mean no harm,” he stammered. “It was just... I didn't know what was going to happen, did I?”

“Start at the beginning, de Vine,” Glaser said. “When Mordechai Schwartz asked for your help.”

The fellow was sweating profusely. His body emitted a terrible odour, the stench of fear. I had a flicker of sympathy and then I remembered Schwartz and my heart hardened.

“I didn't know him,” de Vine said. “I mean, I'm sure I'd seen him but I don't know those people. Those beards and the hats, they all look the same to me. Anyway, it was Friday afternoon and he was hurrying up the street. He stopped me and asked if I'd seen the inspector. I said I hadn't and he was probably on his patrol.