The Final Page of Baker Street (11 page)

Between us, we managed to get Sterne up the staircase and into his bedroom. With its padded chairs of Russia-leather, elaborate mirrors, tall mahogany secretary's desk, and gold-banded fountain pens, it was easy to see that the room also served as the writer's study.

At the same time we were struggling to get the poor fellow into his bed, Elaine was dismissing the servants she'd hired for the evening. Mrs. Jenkins, her housekeeper, brought us some white towels, and I cleaned the wound - a small cut above his right ear, as it turned out - and then the butler and I prepared the patient for sleep with a pair of blue silk pyjamas. When Sterne looked settled, we left the room.

I found Elaine sitting at the dining room table with a small glass of port.

“What do you suppose happened to him?” I asked.

“What's the phrase?” she said with a quick, embarrassed laugh. “Falling down drunk? He must have tripped and hit his head.”

“Or maybe,” I suggested half-heartedly, “somebody hit him.”

“Don't look at
me
,” she said. “I wasn't in the vicinity.”

At least she and I were talking again.

That was when the gunshot roared through the house. The report so startled Elaine that she overturned her glass. The red wine pooled on the white linen like a bloodstain.

This time it was Elaine who took the lead, running up the stairs in fear and desperation to reach her stricken husband.

Bathed in electric light, Raphael Sterne lay diagonally across the bed in a sea of twisted sheets, right hand dangling over the edge, mere inches from where a pistol lay on the floor.

All that was missing from this
Grand Guignol
was the blood.

But you see, gentlemen, there was no blood because there was no wound. What there was in actuality was a bullet hole in the ceiling above the bed. It seemed quite apparent to Elaine and me that the poor fool lying before us had tried to blow his head off and missed. Talk about ineptitude! If I ever entertained such an act, I would bloody well be sure to aim more carefully.

Elaine was shooing away the maid and the butler who had arrived at the doorway together. Although Elaine was blocking the door, I'm certain they could see the entire ugly scene reflected in the mirror. In the flesh, they could see me picking up the pistol. I know very little about guns; this one seemed pretty large.

“Where did this come from?” I asked as we got her husband settled back in his bed.

“He kept it over there.” She pointed across the room to the mahogany secretary's desk. Just below the closed writing table, the top drawer gaped open.

Trying on the role of detective, I walked over to the desk. At the front right corner of the open drawer, I could see spots of blood. My fingers told me it was still sticky, but certainly not wet enough to be related to the immediate shooting. The open drawer was probably the place where Sterne had struck his head before ultimately stumbling out some back door and ending up in the bushes where we'd found him. I placed the gun back in the drawer, which I pushed closed.

Elaine sat down on the bed next to her husband. I took one of the padded leather chairs. Although Sterne was breathing deeply, he was still awake, occasionally searching the room from beneath half-closed eyes. But she was looking at me. Only at me.

“I'm hoping you'll spend the night,” she whispered, clutching the small coin at her neck. I'm doing my best to care for him, but he's pushing me to the brink. I'd greatly appreciate your help.” The cornflower blue eyes began to well up with tears. “I'm sorry about how I reacted before. You and your friends have been a great help. You deserve better.”

I raised my eyebrows. Her meaning could be taken in different ways.

“Of course,” I said. “I'd be happy to stay.”

She stood and took both my hands. An electric jolt coursed through me.

“Thank you,” she breathed. “We want to get Rafe back on his feet as quickly as we can. Then grasping the small doubloon, she left me standing by her husband's bedside. At the door, she turned back with a lingering stare. “I'll have the maid make up the room two doors down the hallway. Mine is the first door - in case there's an emergency. But could you wait with him until he falls asleep? I'm exhausted.”

I nodded, and she, brushing at a misplaced lock of golden hair, glided out of the room.

Sterne's deep breathing soon transformed into the stentorian rasps of sleep, and I rose from the chair and began the trek to my awaiting room. With no sliver of light showing at Elaine's threshold, I could tell her room was dark. But as I was passing the door, it swung open a few inches; and after deliberating for a moment, I pushed it open wider and walked in.

In the moonlight, I could make out Elaine's form near the window. Immediately, I caught my breath. At first glance, she appeared naked. But then I realized she was wearing a wispy sort of nightgown, which, thanks to the light behind her, I could see right through.

It didn't matter much because, as soon as I entered the room, she untied a bow and let the fabric fall to the floor. Then she held out her arms.

Stark images of another nude woman suddenly seared my brain. This one was sitting in a teakwood chair surrounded by windows covered with paper. A fetching smile seemed aimed in my direction.

Elaine had opened her door for me; that much was obvious. And when she stretched out her arms, it was I she was summoning. And yet, though I couldn't decipher the sound, it wasn't my name she was murmuring.

“Your husband's asleep now,” I said as I put my arms around her. Her body trembled at my touch, and I embraced her all the tighter.

“I knew you'd come back to me,” she whispered. “I've been waiting years for you. Shut the door.”

I did as instructed. I also did as instructed when she told me to lay her on the bed. I cradled her yielding form in my arms and carried her to the awaiting sheets, their whiteness glowing pale-blue in the moonlight. Here was the moment I had imagined when I'd first seen her, her soft flesh quivering under my fingers, her dark lips parting in expectation.

But just as I was about to envelop her, I heard the doorknob turn. Jumping up, I raced to the door and opened it - only to see Mrs. Jenkins scurrying back down the stairs.

I shut the door and looked down at Elaine. She was whimpering and mumbling at the same time, sounds I couldn't distinguish except to feel that they were not meant for me.

But the spell had been broken.

I quietly left her room and padded off to mine.

* * *

The next morning, sunlight pierced the chintz curtains in my bedroom as if they hadn't been there. In the daylight something had changed in my thinking. Maybe it was the way Elaine's mood had altered when she wanted my help. First, I hardly existed; then, I could do no wrong.

I dressed and walked downstairs. Elaine Sterne, clad in white cotton, greeted me at the breakfast table - as though what had occurred last night in her bedroom had never happened. As though she hadn't seen me in weeks. As though her memory had gone blank.

“I put the gun back in the desk,” I told her as she stared at the buttered toast on her plate. “But you really shouldn't leave him alone with it.”

“Gun?” she said, her large blue-eyes now staring at me. “Oh, yes,” she recovered. “I remember now,” and she twisted the golden doubloon on the chain encircling her sculpted neck. I leaned towards her and took hold of the coin still attached to the chain. The movement brought her face close to mine. I could feel her sweet breath on my lips. Fingering the coin, I examined it more carefully now: it borea patriotic design, vaguely militaristic - a lion engraved on a crown atop some sort of rosette.

“I'm glad Rafe is sleeping,” she whispered in my ear. “I hope he'll be fine from now on.”

“I wish I could believe you,” I said, “but the way you've been reacting to your husband - and to me, for that matter - makes me think that you're hoping to
appear
concerned - when maybe you're really not.”

She leaned back, forcing me to release the doubloon or snap the chain. “That is a beastly thing to say,” she hissed, eyes narrowing. Then she rose and walked out, leaving me sitting alone in the middle of the room.

Who is she? I wanted to know. But to be honest, gentlemen, at that instant, what I really wanted was to leave this so-called “writers' district” and get back to London.

Immediately.

VIII

There ain't no clean way to make a hundred million bucks.

- Raymond Chandler,
The Long Goodbye

Lord Steynwood's invitation arrived after I had completed my consultations that Friday morning, but before I had the chance to see Billy or to read his scandalous report. Lord Steynwood's communication was addressed to Holmes and me, bidding our attendance at tea that same afternoon at
Idyllic Vale
. A chauffeur would be sent to meet us by 3:00 at Bourne End if we could manage to arrange our railway transportation to that point.

I was sharing the invitation with Holmes, who had joined me in the sitting room, when both of us heard what by now had become the familiar hum of a motor-car engine. I am certainly no authority on the differences among automobiles, but the Daimler's soft purr was most distinctive, and Holmes and I peered through a front window to see what the vehicle and whoever was inside might be up to on this occasion.

This instance was clearly different. The car had stopped, and its front door stood agape. As we watched, the driver, the same hawk-nosed young man in dark livery we had espied before, stepped out and marched to the side door, which he opened for its occupant. It was the long white moustache we recognized first, and I must say that Holmes and I were both quite surprised to see the sinister figure who emerged: tall, dark, elderly, clad in formal dress with black cape, top hat, and ebony walking stick. In the brightness of the morning sun, his attire looked almost comical. Nodding at the driver who remained at attention by the Daimler, he strode determinedly to my front entrance. With the silver handle of his stick, he rapped loudly on the wooden door. No sooner had Mrs. Meeks opened it than he saw Holmes and me at the nearby window and, brushing boldly past her, marched directly for us. Despite the years, the vengeful visage was clearly recognizable. We stood face to face with Colonel Sebastian Moran, the prime disciple of the man Holmes used to refer to as the Napoleon of Crime, the late Professor James Moriarty. In point of fact, Holmes had once labelled Moran “the second most dangerous man in London.”

“I received word that you'd been released from prison,” Holmes said to him coolly, “but I had no idea you would come calling.”

It was obvious that Moran had aged. His defiant stance was now slightly stooped; the moustache was whiter, and the scowling furrows more deeply entrenched. Yet I could easily discern that thin, projecting nose and those cruel, blue eyes that had fixed on us almost two decades before when Moran had been apprehended in his abortive attempt to assassinate Sherlock Holmes. As the world will remember, Holmes had placed a wax effigy of himself in our Baker Street window; and from the empty house across the road, Moran had believed he was taking deadly aim with his air rifle at Holmes himself. It was the very tableau I had reprimanded Billy for falsely resurrecting in his version of Holmes' recovery of the Mazarin Stone.

Moran removed his hat and placed it carefully on a nearby chair. His high, bald forehead reflected the sunlight from the window. “The police,” he growled, “have warned meto keep my distance, Mr. Holmes. As if I fear anything the police have to say.” He punctuated his derision with a snort.

“H-how did you contrive to be released?” I managed to ask.

“Dr. Watson, the ever faithful lapdog,” he spat out. “Even you should know that, if one has the talented stable of solicitors and barristers that I do, one cannot stay imprisoned for long on the charge of shooting at a wax figure.”

“But Ronald Adair,” I said, referring to an actual murder he'd been charged with and that I had reported in “The Empty House.” “You killed him.”

“Circumstantial evidence, I'm afraid, Doctor,” Moran said, his lined face managing a smirk.

“As I heard it,” Holmes said, “you were offered a pardon if you agreed to serve with Her Majesty's forces in South Africa. As much as I may detest you, Moran, I cannot minimize your talents as a marksman. Couple that with your lack of scruples about killing, and you make quite the lethal weapon.”

Moran offered another twisted smile. “Rather than suffer a string of humiliating new trials, it is true that the Crown granted me a pardon in exchange for services rendered against the Boers - which, incidentally, brings me to the matter at hand.”

“Do tell,” Holmes said. “I've wondered why you've been following us in so obvious a manner.”

“The truth is, Holmes, I've taken rather a keen interest in your meddling into the suicide of Terrence Leonard.”

I was shocked, to say the least. For better of for worse, I thought we'd put that case to rest; obviously, Moran had not.
What could Billy's friend Terrence have to do with the rogue before us?
I wondered.
Could the Boer War serve as some sort of common denominator since both Leonard and Moran had fought for Her Majesty in South Africa?

“The poor man is dead,” Holmes observed. “A suicide in Loch Ness.”

“True,” Moran said. “Let Terrence Leonard remain at peace. That's what I've come to tell you.” Leaning on the stick, which he held in his right hand, he now pointed the long index finger of his left in my friend's face. “Stop your nosing about, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. And tell that bloody writer friend of yours to leave the story alone as well.”

“Billy,” I half-whispered.

“
All
of you,” Moran said, now waving his stick in a semi-circle before him. “Let the matter drop. Or” - quick as a flash, he shifted the stick to his left hand, whipped the handle from its base with the other, and jabbed a long, thin rapier under the chin of Sherlock Holmes - “or the dead of Loch Ness may gain some
new
company. You and I, Holmes, are not done yet,” he snarled. “One day I shall get level with you.”

Speech done, he replaced the slender blade. Then, abruptly seizing his hat, he pivoted on his heel like the military man he had been, marched out of the house, and returned to his place in the waiting vehicle. The chauffeur with the aquiline nose slammed the door shut, and in a moment the Daimler sped off.

I managed to exhale only after the motor-car had vanished down the road.

“Come, Watson,” Holmes said. “It's time to prepare for our journey to Marlow.”

“Holmes,” I sputtered, aghast at how easily he could dismiss the melodrama that had just unfolded.

“To Marlow,” he repeated with grim determination.

* * *

Although I could not so easily put from my mind the image of that fine blade poised at Holmes' throat, we had an appointment to keep. We boarded the G.W.R. at Paddington, changed trains at Maidenhead, and were met by chauffeur and silver Rolls Royce at East Bourne. The road we followed descended in the direction of the Thames along the natural curves of the verdant hillocks. Soon it straightened out and then narrowed, and we found ourselves on a long roadway lined on either side by grey poplars. Their branches formed a thin canopy that caused the sunlight to flicker as we motored along. In a few minutes, we were able to discern the end of the roadway and our ultimate destination -
Idyllic Vale
, the grand house of Lord Steynwood.

From the distance, I could make out only a large, simple square structure of honey-colour stone whose crenulated front wall was topped with a small tower and cupola. But as we got closer, I could more easily see the three storeys of windows, including the dormers below the roof. A black wreath hanging on one of the two massive doors of dark oak seemed the only sign of mourning for Lord Steynwood's daughter.

The automobile, crunching its way up the curved gravel drive, came to a stop before the entrance and immediately a footman in formal livery marched out to help us exit the car. Once inside the house, I could see that the building was laid out as a kind of square frame whose massive walls surrounded the angular designs of a geometrically-designed brick courtyard and green garden. The magnificent display formed an altogether appropriate representation of a man with the wealth of Lord Steynwood.

A footman took our coats, and the butler ushered us through the main hallway, which itself stood two storeys high, and into the sitting room. Holmes and I seated ourselves in two matching leather wing chairs beside one of the largest hearths I had ever seen. Despite the warmth of the day, a fire blazed within; had it not, one could walk comfortably within the dimensions of that cavernous fireplace. No sooner had we sat down, however, than we had to rise, for His Lordship was just entering the room.

“Unless you are in need of refreshment, gentlemen,” he said, motioning for us to sit, “I suggest we skip the tea and concern ourselves with the matter at hand. No sense in wasting time.”

“I believe I can safely speak for Dr. Watson,” Holmes replied, “when I say that we never thought of this meeting as a social gathering. Pray, let us proceed with the business at hand.”

Lord Steynwood seated himself in a small, wooden bow-back chair. It had been placed next to a butler's table on which stood a humidor full of cigars. Holmes and I declined the offer, but His Lordship extracted one and snipped off an end. He lit it with a match from an inside pocket of his frock coat.

As he manipulated the match, I had the opportunity to study the celebrated publisher. A modern man, he seemed somehow anachronistic. He was slight of stature with dark features although his black hair, parted in the middle, was going grey at the sides. In addition, his old-fashioned side-whiskers, which extended down to his thin lips, had also gone grey. Most obvious - and what added most to the sense of his coming from an earlier era - was the
pince-nez
that adorned his nose. They forced him to tilt his head back when he spoke to us. I felt like an object under constant examination.

A white cat peered out from behind a leather couch and padded in a straight line to His Lordship. With a small leap, it curled in his lap and allowed him to stroke its neck.

After a few moments of such petting, Lord Steynwood exhaled a large cloud of pungent smoke, filling the room with the sweet smell of costly tobacco. “It may be a cliché, gentlemen,” he said at last, “but time is indeed money. Shall we get to the point?”

“Yes,” said Holmes, showing great restraint in not pointing out that it was Lord Steynwood himself who had been delaying the conversation. “I'm quite interested to learn whatever it is that led Your Lordship to summon us. Of course, I have my own theories.”

“I'm sure you do, sir, and that is part of the problem. Simply put, I'd like you to stop meddling in my affairs.”

Holmes smiled. “That's the second time today I've been warned to stay away. And as in the first instance, I wasn't aware that the matters I and my associates have recently been-as you so kindly put it - ‘meddling in' are any part of your affairs.”

“Come now, Mr. Holmes,” he said, exhaling another cloud of smoke. “I know what kind of activities you are involved in. Solving crimes and so forth. I make it my business to find out what's going on in my world, and I know that Terrence Leonard, the murderer of my daughter Sylvia, came to Dr. Watson for help after fleeing the scene of his beastly work. What's more, I know that the blackguard fled to Inverness and graciously dispatched himself in some act of contrition - but not before sending a letter to another one of your so-called associates.”

“And which associate is that?” Holmes asked.

“The associate you persist in calling Billy the page - the associate, I don't have to remind you, who maintains direct contact with a man quite familiar to my late daughter.”

“And who might that man be?” I dared to ask.

“Raphael Sterne, Dr. Watson. Raphael Sterne.” He spoke the name with disgust. “Said to be a writer of some repute. ‘Infamy,' might be a better term. Judging from what I know of his alcoholic nature, probably not one whose work I would choose to read. Or publish. For that matter, not the type of man I would have reckoned for a pal of yours, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock Holmes smiled. “Not a ‘pal', Lord Steynwood.”

His Lordship let out a derisive laugh.

“I don't expect my opinions to change your mind, Lord Steynwood,” Holmes said, “but I don't believe for an instant that Terrence Leonard actually beat your daughter to death.”

I expected some sort of surprise from Lord Steynwood in reaction to Holmes's divergent conclusion. But His Lordship continued stroking the white cat. At the same time, he emitted another cloud of smoke, this one containing some accidental rings, which the cat tracked with its green eyes as the circles floated upward. “I am a trifle disappointed,” he said, “that a detective with the reputation of Sherlock Holmes did not discover that my poor Sylvia was actually shot first and then bludgeoned.”

“With all due respect,” Holmes said, “my ‘associates' - as you like to call them - can testify that I too came to that conclusion, the very same conclusion that helped convince me Terrence Leonard is innocent.”

Lord Steynwood stared at Holmes through those little glasses at the end of his nose.

“What's more,” Holmes said, “I personally never sought contact with Mr. Sterne - although you probably know that already as well. It was his wife who asked me to help her find him in some disreputable institution where he was supposedly ridding himself of his addiction to alcohol. I will confess, however, that until you just revealed it to me, I was not aware of any sort of relationship between Raphael Sterne and your older daughter.”

Lord Steynwood crossed a leg, careful not to upset the cat. “‘Relationship' is just the word. Perhaps you think me callous, gentlemen, in speaking so coldly of my daughter. But I've been forced to. Sylvia was not the most discerning of women. Especially when it came to the men in her life. Without a mother to guide her, she conducted numerous unwise liaisons. Raising concerns about blackmail, unwanted pregnancies and the like, she was driving me to distraction. Then she brought round this Leonard fellow, an apparently decent chap unfortunately disfigured in heroic service to the Queen. So when Sylvia actually fell in love with someone whose only major vice appeared to be pauperism, I encouraged her to marry him. Surely, Mr. Holmes, you can see the hope I had of a marriage to this Terrence Leonard bringing some sort of conclusion to her wild ways. But then the young man became a drunk, you see. And, later, worse.”