Sherlock Holmes and The Other Woman (24 page)

“Sherlock, you cannot be so naïve. France is not the only country at risk. The world's stage has changed considerably in the past few months. If France falls to civil war, the repercussions will spread throughout the Empire and beyond. I need you to go to Paris and see what you can learn. My friends in the statistical section of the French military tell me unofficially they would welcome your assistance.”

“No.”

“Sherlock-”

“When I wanted to go to France in March you refused. In fact, you made a point of forbidding me. Now you expect me to drop everything and rush across the Channel to do your bidding? No, no, Mycroft. I am not your puppet. I have other obligations. Send that chap who's so good at such things, what's his name, Mansfield Smith-Cumming.”

“This is important.”

“So is what I am doing.”

His expression of displeasure has not changed since our childhood. The only difference, in fact, is my ability to resist it.

“Is it important, this case?”

“It is to my client.” I rose.

“There is more.”

I focused on buttoning up my coat. Well, one should be deliberate about even minor tasks. “Well?” I said as I slid the last button into the buttonhole.

“Zola has identified the man who followed Beatrice from Paris as
Émile
Casonne.”

“Casonne?” I whistled. “Another man I believe was involved with that gang, though I could never prove it. He is Austrian by birth, I think, but has a French mother. Who has his allegiance, I wonder?”

“The highest bidder.”

I tied my scarf and said, “I thought it curious at the time that he should follow Beatrice all the way from Paris and then vanish as soon as he confirmed she was coming to see you. I assume he returned to France.”

“He did.” Mycroft rose and came around the table to face me. “I have a man keeping an eye on him.”

“I hope this one is reliable. Thank you for dinner, Mycroft.”

“Beatrice and Billy are staying at Davenport's Inn for the moment. I am to dine with them tomorrow. Would you like me to pass on some word from you, Sherlock?”

I shook my head. “One word is too much; a dictionary is inadequate. No. No word.”

I returned home to find two messages. The first was a reply to my telegram confirming my suspicions. The second, a letter from Hilton Cubitt with yet more ‘dancing men'. The content made me quake. I do not want another death on my conscience. We must hurry to North Walsham if we are to prevent a tragedy. Alas, we have missed the last train and must now wait until tomorrow morning.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Saturday 13 August 1898

It has been a long and miserable day.

I arrived too late at Riding Thorpe Manor to save my client. His wife still lives, no thanks to me. At least I was able to save her from the gallows by revealing the truth behind the mystery. The true killer, too, Abe Slaney has been identified and placed under arrest. I suspect he shall avoid the noose; there is little doubt he fired in self-defence...

Ah, I am rambling. A combination of fatigue and distress.

I will say the local constable and Inspector Martin, once they accepted I was there only to help, were very willing to hear what I had to say. There is something to be said for being the ‘elder statesman', I suppose. Martin seemed singularly impressed by my deduction that the window had not been left open a long time because the candle had not guttered. A very simple observation, but in my experience it is these simple observations that most people miss.

In the end, it was a simple matter to copy the code of the ‘dancing men' and send word to the farm where the gunman was staying. He came promptly enough, believing it was his former lover who beckoned, for who else knew the code? Once he arrived, he admitted the truth and that was that.

Watson and I took the train back to London a little later than I had hoped.

My friend is still exuberant about the case despite the tragic outcome. He reminds me that without my involvement, Mrs Cubitt would be under arrest, assuming she survives her injuries. As to that, he seems confident that she will, in time, make a full recovery. He has visions of her taking over the administration of her late husband's estate. When I seemed sceptical that a woman might do such a thing he replied, “Well, Mrs Schwartz seems to be doing very well running her late husband's jewellery business. In my opinion, women are just as capable as men of doing anything a man might do.”

At that, I closed my eyes and went to sleep.

Monday 15 August 1898

With the greatest reluctance, I allowed Watson to help me dress for the first of this week's three weddings. My friend tutted as I lingered over my choice of necktie, he remonstrated when I said I had not thought about getting them a gift (he anticipated me and has already bought some trifle from both of us), and he became almost apoplectic when I suggested it would hardly end all civilization if I did not go.

“Not go?” he spluttered. “Not go? Of course you must go. Why on earth wouldn't you want to? You like Daisy; you have great respect for Stevens...”

“I dislike these events. Could you not go and represent me?”

“Absolutely not. Finish dressing.”

By heaven, the man can be exceedingly tiresome at times.

At last, we were ready and climbed into a cab. My stomach churned and I focused on some mental techniques I learned in Tibet. By the time we reached the church, I was somewhat calmer.

I was surprised to see so many people I recognised in attendance: Lestrade and Hill with their wives, looking very smart. Glaser and Rivkah looking uneasy but brightening when they saw Watson and me enter.

“Oh, it is good to see you, Mr Holmes, Doctor Watson,” Glaser said, shaking our hands. “I confess Rivkah and I are feeling a little strange. Neither of us has ever been in a church before. Still, young Maurice is a good man and we could hardly refuse.”

“It will be your turn on Thursday,” Watson said. “Are you ready?”

“Oh yes,” Rivkah said. She gave her fiancé a look I can only describe as triumphant. He smiled at her. Love. Such a blasted toxin.

As if heralded by the thought, my wife entered the church. She looked resplendent in blue silk. Almost, she shimmered.

Billy was with her. Not the Billy I have known since his earliest days; this was a youth on the cusp of manhood. Such a transformation she has wrought in him. He wore a morning suit and a clean shirt and tie. He hovered at her side as if afraid to lose her.

Rivkah waved and called, “Beatrice.”

Beatrice stopped and managed a smile. Almost managed. She joined us and said a generic hullo to no one in particular.

“You look lovely,” Rivkah said, kissing her cheek.

Beatrice said, “Thank you, as do you. As do we all. Sherlock. Doctor.” She acknowledged us. For a moment I thought she would shake hands, but she did not even do that much.

The music began and we all slid into the pew and waited for the bride to make her entrance.

I have erased the service from my mind. It was like any other wedding: sentimental, excruciating. I vow the only wedding I have ever enjoyed was my own. What a day that was.

This one followed the usual course and we made the usual responses and sang the usual hymns. Glaser and his fiancée only listened but they seemed enchanted. Now and then, they stole a look at one another, once her fingers curled around his hand and I saw him smile.

Milan... other hands, other smiles, an equal share of joy. At that stage, we had been married for several months. Our peculiar arrangement that allows for mutual respect and support but no imposition upon one another. Nor had we made any, not then. What a giddy, joyous thing that early marriage was. Truly a bliss. No, bliss did not come until Milan, two weeks into our holiday. The opera and the carriage ride, her hand in mine, and that sudden, utter surrender to my long-denied nature. Intoxicating.

No, toxic.

The vows exchanged, the parson droned on about duties of husbands to wives and vice versa. I amused myself by analysing Lestrade's bruised left index finger and calloused right palm. His wife was wearing a new hat and kept giving him coquettish looks. It was obvious: she has just had a birthday. He surprised her with that hat. But why the bruised finger? Ah, he also gave her a picture and tried to hammer a nail in the wall in order to hang it. I smiled. He would be vastly entertained when I congratulated his wife after the service.

The organist began to play a tune and we rose to sing. Then I recognised the melody. There was a sudden sharp intake of breath and I saw Beatrice blanch. Billy stifled a sob. The congregation began to sing:

Amazing grace, how sweet the sound,

That saved a wretch like me.

I once was lost, but now am found,

Was blind, but now I see...

My hand of its own volition reached out and grasped hers. Beatrice squeezed it and though we did not look at each other nor speak, I felt the old affection reassert itself and the despair that has engulfed me these past weeks suddenly lifted.

The wretched tune ended at last and the service moments later. We gathered outside, but Billy pulled away and ran off towards the cemetery. Beatrice gave me a helpless look. I hurried after the boy.

He was sitting on a gravestone sobbing.

I sat beside him and put my arm around him. For a moment, I thought he would shake me away, but he just buried his face in my shoulder and wept like the small boy he still is.

“It's not right,” he said. “It's not right...”

“No.”

“'e was just a kid. A year younger than me. You know? Why'd they 'ave to play that ruddy song?”

“I do not know. Probably the parson selected it. Stupid song to play at a wedding.”

“Very stupid,” he agreed. He stopped weeping and I offered him my handkerchief. He shook his head. I used it to wipe my own face.

Billy took a crisp white square from his pocket. “Aunt Julia has me all sorted,” he said.

“Aunt Julia?”

“Mrs Davenport. She said I might call her Aunt Julia. And Mr Davenport is just ‘pops'. I'm staying with them; well, me and Lady B. We couldn't go back to Wimpole Street. Not yet. Every time we go there I see it all again: the hand at that carriage window with that gun; Tommy screaming for us to get down, then blood all over the steps and Tommy lying in Lady B's arms. Poor bugger. Mind you...” He managed a smile. “I reckon there's no place 'e'd have rather died than in 'er arms.”

“I think you're right.”

We sat in silence for a few minutes. He took a deep breath and said, “We ought to get back.”

As we rose I said, “I am truly sorry, Billy. I should have protected Tommy better.”

He looked surprised. “Ain't your fault, Mr H. Ain't no one's fault but that bastard what shot 'im. 'E better not let me get my 'ands on 'im. I'll swing for 'im.”

Back at the church, people were milling about, talking to one another. Lestrade and his wife were having an animated conversation with Beatrice. She turned and smiled at us, at both of us.

Lestrade said, “Lady Beatrice will be putting you out of business, Mr Holmes. Just now she congratulated my wife on her birthday. And how did she know that-”

“Because of your left index finger,” I said. “Obviously.”

“Oh, you're a pair,” he said. “You ought to get married.” Glaser's laughter was infectious and we all joined in.

Later, as I walked Beatrice to her carriage I said, “I should like to talk to you.”

“I would like that, too, but can it wait? Julia and Edward are getting married tomorrow and I'm her matron - maid - of honour. It will be a very busy evening and I should prefer to give you my full attention. Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” I said.

I am a patient man. But I wish it were tomorrow.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

It was still early when we returned to Baker Street. Watson was full of the service, the vows, and memories of his own wedding.

“Mrs Lestrade is not at all what I expected. They're a bit like Jack Spratt and his wife: He's small and thin, and she's... big.”

“True,” I said. “And there's no doubt who runs that household either.”

“Not just the household, she also runs her own business.”

“Does she indeed?”

“She's ‘Mrs Legrand'.”

“I thought she was Mrs Lestrade.”

“Oh really, Holmes, you must have heard of Mrs Legrand. She makes cakes. You know, those little teacakes that Mrs Hudson serves from time to time. Yet another woman managing a business without a man's input. Well, not unlike Mrs Hudson herself. You see, it does happen. You are surrounded by adventuresome women and ignore them because they are not men.”

I said nothing and he changed the subject. “How is Billy?” he asked. “Unfortunate the parson chose that song. I think it must always remind us of Tommy.”

“Billy is still mourning his closest friend. They were all but inseparable, those two.”

“Terrible for him to see his friend die in such a ghastly manner. I am glad the Davenports are looking after him. Mrs Davenport is past childbearing so it is good that they will have a more or less adopted son. Good for everyone.”

He picked up the newspaper and said, “Beatrice looked well, I thought.”

“Blue suits her,” I said.

He gave me a look over the top of the paper. “I meant she looked happy to see you.”

“Did she? I didn't notice.”

He shook the newspaper and it crackled. “We've just come from church, Holmes,” he said. “Do you think you should be lying?”

“Anything in the paper?” I said.

He smirked and said, “More about the Dreyfus Affair. That Esterhazy fellow seems a thoroughly bad character. The word ‘debauchery' seems to be attached to his name quite a lot.”

“Oh, he is a fiend of the highest order, but he has influential friends who protect him, as the unfortunate Colonel Picquart discovered to his cost.”

Watson tutted. “It seems endless. You really would not think the whole affair could continue so long, and yet on it goes with no end in sight. I suppose that poor beggar Dreyfus does not even know what a hullabaloo has been going on in his name.”

“Probably not.” I would have said more, but was interrupted by Mrs Hudson.

“Sorry, Mr Holmes,” she said. “A gentleman left this for you a short while ago.”

I examined the letter. A curious thing it was. “No envelope?” I said.

“No, Mr Holmes,” Mrs Hudson replied. “It was dropped off by that tall, distinguished-looking gentleman who was here the other day. Sir Jeremy. He said he was on his way to the railway station and he suddenly remembered something. He thought it might be of interest to you and jotted it down on a page from his notebook. He said he'll be in Dublin for a few days before he heads off to America, and you may contact him there if you have any further questions.”

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson.”

Watson folded the newspaper and said, “Well, it's a good thing for this Esterhazy person that you were not investigating the case. You'd have it sorted in a just a few hours and then where would he be?”

“Yes, indeed... Watson!”

“What? Holmes? What did I say?”

“You've solved the case.”

“What, the Dreyfus Affair?”

“Watson! My dear fellow, you never cease to amaze me. You are really quite astounding. Get your coat.”

It was late afternoon and all of London seemed bathed in an apricot-coloured glow. It was a day for weddings, I thought, or for picnics in the park, for holding hands with a lover. Not for confronting an insidious enemy.

Watson read Sir Jeremy's letter and handed it back. “I don't follow,” he said.

“Read it again.”

My dear Mr Holmes,

I just now remembered something that happened while I was putting Nicholas's estate in order. It was quite a small, fleeting thing, so I hope you will not think less of me that I forgot it until now.

I was finalising all the details for the auction, the sale, and so forth. It had been a long day and I was thinking about going home
. There was a knock on the door and I was surprised to find a woman there. She was dressed in mourning and said she had met Nicholas briefly and he had done her a great favour. She gave her name as Mrs Poole. She said she had only just heard of my friend's death and wanted to know the funeral arrangements.

It is only now, months later, I find myself wondering why she had not gleaned that information in the papers, but at the time it did not occur to me.

In any event, the woman seemed very distressed and for a moment, I thought she would faint. I left her in the study while I went to fetch her a glass of water. By the time I returned, she was much improved and she departed. I should add that the satchel and Nicholas's papers were on the desk
.

Probably this trifle is nothing at all, but since you asked particularly about Nicholas's papers, I thought I should tell you.

I am afraid I cannot identify the woman. She was dressed all in black from head to toe, with a heavy veil. Oh yes, she wore an exquisite sapphire ring on her wedding finger.

You can reach me in Dublin at the Grafton Hotel until Saturday the 20
th
inst, when I depart for New York.

With sincere regards,

J
. Jeffrey

“I'm still not following,” Watson said. “This woman would seem to be Mrs Portnoy, the widow in Mornington Crescent. And I gather you think she took the opportunity to slip that paper into Mrs Prentiss's files. But why?”

“Why indeed?” I smiled at him. “Let me ask you something: When you saw her how was she dressed?”

“All in black.”

“You said she'd been weeping.”

“Yes.”

“Did you see it? Did you see her tears?”

“Well, no... she wore a veil, a widow's veil. It's not unusual, especially if a woman is trying to hide her grief.”

“Or hide her face.”

I sat back and closed my eyes. We would be in Camden Town in a just a few minutes and I wanted to gather my thoughts. Watson, sensitive to my mood as always, fell silent.

We arrived at Mornington Crescent and I followed him up the stairs.

I knocked and called, “You will speak to me this time, Mrs Porlock.”

A moment later, the door opened.

“Mr Sherlock Holmes,” she said, “And his cretin of a friend.”

“May we come in?” I was determined to be civil. There were still things I did not know and I hoped to beguile her into revealing all. I was hideously conscious of the fact that we have no evidence, not one jot, to incriminate her.

“Come in,” she said. She stood aside and we entered a cramped room. There was a bed, a table and two ramshackle chairs. Through the uncurtained window beyond, I could see across the park and had a direct view of the Prentiss house.

The woman stood with her arms folded. Waiting. She reeked of malevolence and hate.

“Where are your children?” Watson said.

“Abroad.”

“In Munich with your family?” I said.

“My only family was my beloved Albrecht, whom you sent to the gallows. My mother died because I could not care for her, since I had to flee with my poor husband. All that I had left was my brother and you drove him to suicide.”

I heard Watson's intake of breath. “Rickman,” he said. “Avery Rickman was your brother?”

“Albert,” she corrected. “Albert Richman. He was a gentle boy, an innocent. Wounded to the very marrow by his sister's loss. There's nothing he would not do for me.”

“Even murder?” I said.

Her smile was an evil thing to behold. “He wasn't a killer, not by nature. He had a good and sweet heart. Even as a small boy he adored his big sister.”

“You wanted vengeance,” I said. “You knew Gillespie's daughter was a translator; you knew she lived here.”

“And once you discovered the Amuns had moved into this area you thought you could throw suspicion on them if Holmes came asking questions,” Watson added.

“Well trained, isn't he?” she said.

“Animals are trained. People are educated,” Watson snapped.

“Like I said, well-trained.”

“Your brother was well-trained, Mrs Porlock,” I said. “You had him court that unfortunate Kidwell girl so he could gain access to the Prentiss house and pull pranks that would draw my attention. You planned it so I would wait there in the dark for him. He was supposed to kill me that night, only his courage failed him.”

“Not courage,” she snapped. “He never wanted for courage did Albert. He was decent. More decent than an interfering busybody like you could ever understand.”

“And when he failed you needed to make another plan. You could still make use of those fake Greek documents and the story of the Coptic Patriarchs so you had Albert contact Schwartz and arrange a meeting. You deliberately let your brother walk into a trap hoping it would end as it did, with him killing Schwartz.”

“Ghastly woman,” Watson said. “You gave your own brother a weapon and told him he must be prepared to defend himself. You set the whole thing in motion so he would become a killer.”

“You needed Albert to overcome his natural revulsion of murder if he was to do your bidding,” I added.

“That old Jew was a liar,” she said. “He deserved to die. Him and all his kind.”

The ugly plan was falling into place now: She had lived in Bavaria for years with her monstrous husband. She knew the story of the fake coins; knew about the Greek documents that supposedly confirmed their
bona fides
. Perhaps Porlock, himself, was behind the original scheme; or his friend and mentor Professor Moriarty before him. What a legacy of evil.

Frau Porlock could have simply shot me at any time, but that did not appeal to her sense of the theatrical. This whole charade was a plot to manipulate me. It was a game of chess that deprived me of half my pieces.

Zugzwang.
Just like Mycroft's telegraph that drew me back from Italy, Frau Porlock forced me to act with no good options. But she did not do it alone.

“This time,” I continued, “Your brother did not botch the job. At point blank range he could hardly miss, and fear of capture meant he would not fail. Was it easier for Albert to kill this time because Schwartz was a Jew?

“But he did not have a killer's temperament, did he? He had to fortify himself with alcohol. Then, in his panic, he murdered a policeman. This was unplanned and he was so affected that he vomited.”

“Started drinking heavily, poor lad,” she said. “That's on you, too.”

I could not afford to bait her, not yet. I let the condemnation pass.

“The fellow's nerves were shattered and you could not depend on him, so you contacted your old friend Michel Watteau to assist. You promised him diamonds. Albert was supposed to rob Schwartz's workshop, wasn't he?”

“Damned fool,” she snapped. “He panicked and fled.”

“Watteau was willing and was efficient, but he was dying. You could not be sure he would live long enough to do the job. So you told Albert he had to redeem himself by killing anyone who might be a witness against you. He killed Demosthenes Jones, and attacked Watson. He must have been in such terror of you, that young man. ‘Not very bright,' Connie said. He was no more than a tool for your use.”

“If my brother ever did anything it was to protect me.”

“From my blameless friend?”

“He's not blameless because he is your friend.”

“What of Connie Kidwell?”

“He never laid a hand on her,” she snapped.

The butcher's shop. All women. A man would stand out...

“No, that was you. You killed her.”

Her eyes gleamed. The apricot light was turning to plum and long shadows turned her angular face into a mask. Her blonde hair seemed like flame. The entire conversation felt unreal.

I took a shuddering breath and said, “It was you who killed the boy. Tommy.”

She smirked. Never in all my life have I so wanted to strike a woman.

“It would be better if it had been you,” she said. “But hurting you works, too. A shame that gunman, whoever it was, didn't kill her, that snooty bluestocking bitch. Oh, there would be tears aplenty then, wouldn't there, my dear?”

My fist was iron and would have flown, but Watson grabbed me and all but dragged me from the room.

“Come away, now,” he said. “Come, Holmes. She's quite mad.”

As he dragged me down the stairs, her voice echoed and ricocheted through the building. “You think we don't know about the two of you? You think we didn't see her spying for you in France? Jew-loving strumpet...”

“Holmes, come on. Don't listen.” Watson had a firm grip on me, which was as well, or I would have throttled her and the devil take the consequences.

“She'd better watch herself,” the harpy shrieked. “Next time someone goes looking for her they won't miss... And you had better stay out of my way or I'll make sure the whole world knows about the two of you. No corner of the world will be able to hide you then.”

Watson half-dragged, half-carried me down the stairs. I had no idea of his strength.

That was four hours ago and I have not yet stopped shaking with fury. I despise these passions. Nothing destroys reason more thoroughly than pure - or impure - passion.

It was Watson who thought to call Lestrade and have two officers keep watch on the woman. No, not
the
woman. Irene Adler woman was a creature of integrity and possessed a certain nobility. This other woman is a monster of madness, of spite and of malice.