Sherlock Holmes and The Other Woman (23 page)

Chapter Twenty-Four

“Mr Holmes?” Julia Simms gave me an anxious look. I suppose my appearance spoke for itself. “Come in. Sit here in the parlour. Let me bring you a pot of tea.”

A moment later Davenport joined us. “How are you, Mr Holmes? Doctor?” he said shaking our hands.

“About as well as expected,” Watson said.

“Has something happened? I see that it has.” He motioned for us to sit. “Just a moment.”

Watson and I sat in silence. Outside, Pimlico was rattling into life. Shadows from the street passed the green concave panes of glass, becoming misshapen and not quite human. The inn smelled of spirits and sawdust. Despite the early hour, the place was immaculate. It was odd to find so public a place so still. It felt as if the building were holding its breath, waiting for its customers. Or perhaps it was I who was waiting.

Soft footsteps, a familiar foot, hurried down the stairs. The door opened and there she stood.

Beatrice.

Watson and I rose.

“You have news?” she said. She did not sit. She did not smile or even acknowledge me at all. I was a stranger.

“That fellow Rickman,” I said. “He's dead. He hanged himself in Schwartz's shop.”

“I wish he was alive so I could kill him,” Billy said, bursting into the room. I have known him since he was hardly able to reach my knees and that was the first time I ever saw him weep. His face was blotched and his eyes bloodshot. I thought he'd been weeping for hours, perhaps days. Was he weeping at the funeral yesterday? Was that only yesterday? I cannot remember. I was so lost in my own grief and anger I had no room for anyone else.

“So it is over,” Beatrice said. “A shame he did not kill himself before he murdered Tommy.”

Billy was sobbing. Beatrice put her arm around him and said, “Thank you for letting us know.” Then she turned and left us standing there. Dismissed.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Tuesday 19 July 1898

Zola has arrived in London after being found guilty in a second farcical trial. Better exile than imprisonment, I suppose.

Rickman's death has left me with too many questions. Watson suggests that the man became fixated on the ‘Patriarchs' and was determined to find them. Once he finally realised the coins were merely a myth he lost all hope and took his own life. It is reasonable enough as explanations go, so why can I not accept it? No, there are questions that remain without answers and it is these that haunt me. For instance:

How did Rickman first hear of the coins? What led him to Mrs Prentiss? Why did he never find her copy of the translation? Indeed, why bother with a translation when the original was of far greater worth? Why did he arrange the meeting with Schwartz and why kill him? Why kill Connie Kidwell? Was it merely because she could identify him or was there another reason?

I have no answers. I suspect, but cannot prove, that Rickman was no killer, not to begin with. Was it desperation that drove him to such extremes? What set him looking for the coins in the first place? Is there anything to suggest the coins really exist? All the experts say no and I share their scepticism. Then again, experts have been wrong before.

I have retraced my steps. I visited Bramley and Sons, the auction house that handled some of the late Sir Nicholas Fleming's Egyptian collection. They knew nothing about coins or documents. They showed me the catalogue of items they auctioned and their buyers. I have been working through the list, visiting or writing to everyone. The reply is the same: They always understood the coins were a myth but if I find evidence that they exist they would be extremely interested in that information. Assuming provenance can be established, of course.

Camden Town offers no help. The elusive widow Portnoy does not answer, though I have knocked upon her door several times, always in a variety of disguises. Neighbours believe she had to take a job as a governess and has sent her children to live with relatives. Probably there is no help to be had there, but I hate leaving some lead, however tenuous, unexplored.

So the matter seems to have stalled and I am out of avenues. I have resumed some of my scientific experiments.

4.00 pm

One new development: A telegram just arrived from Sir Jeremy Jeffrey, the late Sir Nicholas Fleming's friend and partner. He says he has only now received my letter and will be happy to assist in any way possible. He shall be back in England next week and shall call to Baker Street.

Perhaps it is foolish, but I retain hope he may know something about the peculiar document that ended up in Mrs Prentiss's document box.

Watson tells me Billy and B remain in Pimlico.

Wednesday 27 July 1898

A case. A veritable case.

I received a visit this morning from a gentleman by the name of Hilton Cubitt. He has been troubled by a series of messages comprised of hieroglyphic figures that Watson, in his poetic way, has called ‘The Dancing Men'. Cubitt seems a decent, guileless man. He has, as the saying goes, ‘No harm in him'. His worst failing is a distinct lack of imagination.

There is no doubt these messages are a simple substitution code. I cannot give the matter my full attention at present. I am most anxious to speak with Sir Jeffrey and see if he can finally solve the mystery of the Coptic Patriarchs. Nothing much to be done with Cubitt's case for the moment anyway. It does not appear to be pressing.

Thursday 28 July 1898

Watson is looking into another minor case that has come up. I cannot find the enthusiasm to participate. The case is not very interesting and I prefer not to be distracted. The curious hieroglyphs of Cubitt's case are intriguing. I make slow progress with it. Too much on my mind, Watson says, whatever that means.

Saturday 30 July 1898

Sir Jeremy Jeffrey arrived this morning and gave me a full and frank account of Sir Nicholas Fleming's affairs. Sir Jeremy is a tall, stately person who would not look amiss leading a cavalry charge. He strikes me as a man of intelligence and integrity.

“I was Sir Nicholas Fleming's business partner for eighteen years,” he said. “And we were friends for twenty years before that. I think I know his property as well as he did himself.”

“I understand the distribution of the estate was divided between Brahms Antiquities and Bramley and Sons. Can you explain why that was the case?”

“Well, Brahms prefers to handle the larger and most expensive items; objects of great historical significance. The smaller, cheaper things - clothing, costume jewellery, and Nicholas's coin collection - all went to Bramley and Sons for auction.”

“Coin collection?”

“A very unprepossessing set of coins from around the Empire. Nothing of any great interest.”

“What was the oldest coin in the collection?”

“A George the Third guinea dated 1799.”

“Nothing older? From ancient Greece or Egypt, perhaps?”

“It was a schoolboy's collection, Mr Holmes. Perhaps worth slightly more than the collections of most boys, but really its value was almost entirely sentimental. If you gave me some idea what you were looking for I might be better able to help you.”

“I am trying to trace a document that showed up in Sir Nicholas's documents that went to Brahms Antiquities. The page in question was in Greek. Ancient Greek. It may have something to do with ancient coins.”

He frowned and scratched his chin. “Nicholas had a fondness for ancient Egypt but he was indifferent to the Greeks.”

“The document was written in Greek,” I explained. “I assume because the Christian Church in Egypt was established by the Greeks.”

“Ah, I see.” He was silent for some moments then said, “Nicholas owned a few sculptures and artefacts, but not much. There were no documents, nothing such as you describe.”

“Is it possible,” Watson said, “that he had such a document and you did not know about it?”

He thought about that for several minutes and then shook his head. “I'm sorry, no. Nicholas was not the sort of man to keep secrets. One of his greatest joys in collecting was showing off whatever he had acquired. A curiosity such as the one you're describing - no, he would have been very eager to show me.”

He smiled, remembering. Then a look of sadness came into his eyes. “Poor old Nicholas, I do miss him.”

As he rose to leave, he added, “There's another reason why Nicholas would have shown me that document, Mr Holmes: He knew no Greek.”

“And you do?”

“Indeed. I am something of an expert.”

I walked him to the door and shook his hand. I said, “By the by, did you send any documents to Brahms Antiquities?”

“Yes, there was the inventory, a letter from me, a copy of Sir Nicholas's will...”

“And how were they sent?”

“How?”

“Were they delivered personally in a valise? Sent by post?”

“Ah, I see what you mean.” He frowned. “No,” he said. “Brahms picked them up himself when he came to oversee the removal of the items. The catalogue was part of the documents. They were all in a leather satchel, I remember.”

“And who was responsible for the documents?”

“I was. I mean, I had some assistants helping, but I had the primarily responsibility. Obviously, Nicholas's solicitor took care of the legal aspect of things, and Brahms himself made up the catalogue, but I oversaw all of it, and I was present when the documents were put together in that satchel.”

“And no one else had access to it?”

“I kept it in a desk in Nicholas's study and the drawer was locked. I'm sorry I cannot help you further, Mr Holmes.”

Wednesday 10 August 1898

A message from Hilton Cubitt: He will arrive this afternoon. His train gets into Liverpool Street Station at one-twenty. He sounds anxious.

Excellent!

7.00 pm

Cubitt has been. More messages that should help me crack this code, I hope. It has some peculiar inconsistencies that challenge the resolution. But it is a relief to have something real for my brains to work on. All the vagueness and the oddities of the Camden Town case lead nowhere. I spent the afternoon examining the various messages and I am satisfied, yes, I really am satisfied that I understand what is at the heart of this Norfolk mystery. I have sent off a telegram and if all goes well I should be able to resolve this matter tomorrow.

Thursday 11 August 1898

No reply yet. What is keeping them?

Friday 12 August 1898

Still nothing. I grow restless. All my decisions seem to have gone awry of late. I want to act, yet how can I when I have no confirmation? No, I must keep a cool head and wait.

Mycroft telephoned and asked me to dine with him this evening. He made it sound like royal command.

It is evident he has something to discuss. Something delicate. I am in no mood to dance to his tune and so I shall keep the conversation to the food and the weather.

11.00 pm

So much for keeping the conversation to trivialities. I began well enough; indeed, by the time the entrée arrived my dear brother was quite vexed. Well, I am pretty short of amusements at present.

Once the waiter left, however, there was no deterring him.

“Whether you would hear it or no, I have to tell you,” he said. “I have news which I believe will interest you,” he said. “It may even assist you in resolving one of your cases.”

I cut my roast beef. “Nowhere in London manages to get the meat this perfect shade of pinkness,” I said. “I do not understand why English cooks are so unkind to a perfectly fine cut of meat.”

“It concerns Beatrice,” Mycroft said.

I did not reply.

He placed his hand upon mine and I dropped my knife.

“Why do you insist on blaming yourself for that boy's death? You are not responsible for the actions of a murderer.”

“I gave my word I would keep them safe.” The rage was hiccupping out of me and Mycroft seemed startled by its intensity. “I gave my word, Mycroft, and I failed.”

“You did everything you could. No one else blames you, you know.”

“Beatrice does. How can she not? That day, the day he was shot, she could not even talk to me. And she has not spoken one word to me since.”

“She was distraught, Sherlock, and in shock. You both were. The two of you so wracked with guilt and grief you cannot face each other. Oh yes, she has discussed it with me. She thinks you will never forgive her.”

“It was not her fault. Not remotely. I was the one who said it was safe for her to return. It would have taken no more than one word to persuade her to stay in Windsor, but I am so punctilious about honouring our contract I let her take an unnecessary risk.”

“Everyone agreed Rickman had fled the country. It was a perfectly reasonable conclusion under the circumstances. You could not keep Beatrice under guard forever, you know. She blames herself because she thinks she said or did something to encourage those boys to wait on the steps for her return. That lad, Billy, keeps telling her she did no such thing and they were just looking forward to seeing her, and in the Queen's carriage too. Childish exuberance. No one could have anticipated an assassin shooting from a passing cab.

“Please stop twisting that napkin. You will have it in shreds.”

I dropped the napkin onto my lap. “How do you know so much about it?”

“My dear brother, I have more than a few acquaintances in Scotland Yard. I have dinner with Bradstreet from time to time. He says Lestrade and Glaser are full of self-reproach.”

“They are not to blame. All the evidence suggested Rickman had fled.”

“Why can you be so forgiving of them but torture yourself for making precisely the same error?”

“Because I hold myself to a higher standard. Please, let us talk of something else.”

Mycroft cut his beef before saying, “Certainly. That was not what I wanted to discuss in any case. I loathe these emotional upheavals. Very bad for the digestion. I wanted to discuss Zola. You heard that he was found guilty in his second trial? He came to London on the nineteenth with nothing but the clothes on his back. He brought some very interesting information concerning that Austrian fellow, Ferdinand Walsin Esterhazy.”

“Indeed? Esterhazy was the real forger of the documents that sent Dreyfus to Devil's Island, no matter what the courts say. How so many otherwise intelligent Frenchmen should continue to have faith in such a scoundrel is beyond my comprehension. I remember one of his letters was published last year and he was quoted as saying ‘I would not harm a puppy, but I would with pleasure kill one hundred thousand Frenchmen.' Yet those same Frenchmen would rather put their trust in him than in a poor beggar like Dreyfus.”

“Oh, he's a thoroughly bad lot. He was suspected of spying before, you know. In Tunis. He tells people he is a Count. Lord knows why.”

“There must be money in it. Everything he does is for money,” I said.

“That's true. Well, it seems Esterhazy has been receiving payments from Maximilian von Schwartzkoppen.”

“Ah, another man whose name was on that list of possible Porlock associates. Though as I recall, there was never any proof. I thought you had men keeping an eye on these fellows?”

“I have.” The expression that flashed across his face was so swift no one but a brother would have seen it. Someone has erred and will face my brother's wrath.

He leaned across the table and in hushed, urgent tones, said, “This situation in France can no longer be ignored. Initially I had hopes, high hopes that Colonel Picquart's investigation would resolve the matter, but as soon as he began to make progress the wretched man was himself arrested on a trumped-up charge. Whoever is behind this affair will not let anyone get too close to the truth. There is nothing they will not do to keep their secrets.”

“Well? It is an internal French matter you said, and so it is.”