Sherlock Holmes and The Other Woman (8 page)

“You think a man has an obligation to put his family before his conscience?”

Her shoulders dropped and she released a long sigh. “No. No, of course I don't... Ignore me, Sherlock. I am out of sorts and cantankerous.” She stifled a yawn. “The journey home was not pleasant. Zola was very alarmed for my safety and insisted that I have an armed escort all the way back to England. It did not make for a relaxing trip.”

“I am grateful to him for taking such pains,” I said. “You do look very tired. Perhaps you should lie down for a while.”

“I will. Later, I will. I have not seen you for so long. It feels like an age instead of just a couple of weeks. How are you? What have you been working on? You have a case, I see.”

“Ha! How well you are able to read me. I vow between you and Watson I feel utterly transparent.”

I told her about the events in Harrington Square. She listened in silence.

“Oh, how delicious,” she exclaimed. “But I fear it will turn out to be no more than some sordid tale involving a scullery maid.”

Frankly, I was a little vexed that she hit upon it so quickly.

She smiled at my chagrin and said, “Tell me, what title has Watson given it?”

“‘The Case of the Camden Town Poltergeist',” I said.

“It lacks poetry.”

I smiled. “It does indeed. I suspect he is attracted to the Gothic nature of the thing.” I went on to tell her about the mysterious Avery Rickman, my visit to Hatton Gardens and my increasing concern for the Prentiss family. Like Watson, B has a talent for silence. She does not interrupt and when she poses a question or offers an opinion, she is always on point.

“These are deep waters, Sherlock,” she said when I concluded. “From what you say, I have no doubt there is more to the matter than a mere love affair...”

She stopped and flushed. I knew she, too, was remembering that night at the opera. The glory of La Scala, the exquisite music, our journey through charming streets with her hand in mine and then later in the hotel...

Beatrice rose again. For all her weariness, she was as restless as a puppy. She stood by the window gazing out into the street. “I have missed this view, this house. I have missed speaking English,” she said. She turned and smiled at me. “It is very good to be home.”

“I confess I am relieved to have you back here. I have seldom seen Mycroft so concerned.”

“He is right to be. There have been violent clashes and the streets are no longer safe. Jews are beaten or stoned, as is anyone who speaks for Zola or Dreyfus. There are whispers on the streets of Paris. One word, a bloody word, said in hushed in terrified tones...”

“Revolution?”

“
Exactement.
”

“Mycroft would be very interested to hear your observations,” I said. “Perhaps I could arrange a meeting?”

“I would like that. Tomorrow, perhaps. Oh, and might we meet in his office? He has told me so often of the view from his window. I would love to see it for myself.”

I smiled. “I shall see what I can do.”

Later, as she helped me put on my coat she said, “You will keep me informed about this case, Sherlock? It sounds too benign for my comfort.”

“Indeed, some of my most notorious cases have rested upon details no more extraordinary than parsley on butter.”

“At least it will keep you properly entertained for a while.” She smiled sweetly and I realised she was again teasing me.

“I am glad you are home, safe and sound, Beatrice,” I said.

“As am I.” Then, more sombrely, she said, “You will be careful, won't you?”

“You have my word, I shall take every precaution. Besides, I have Watson. He's as dangerous as a tiger and loyal as a bulldog.”

“True. Please send him my regards. Good afternoon, Sherlock.”

Chapter
Seven

Friday 8 April 1898

Mycroft was outrageously pleased to see Beatrice. Whether this was because he was relieved to have her safely home, or because of his genuine regard, I cannot say. He showed her around his prestigious building, introducing her to a few trusted colleagues, and to my astonishment, cleared an entire hour from his schedule.

Gillespie brought out the sherry - something I have never seen before except when the Prime Minister comes to call - and some of his oldest daughter's fruitcake. B bore all this attention with grace and good humour, inquired after Gillespie's family, and essentially made conquests of every male heart in Whitehall.

“Why so gloomy, Sherlock?” Mycroft said. “I should have thought you'd be pleased to see Beatrice safely home.”

“I am delighted,” I said through tight lips. “But I do have other demands upon my time.”

We sat by the fire - Mycroft seems to have an intolerance to the cold of late - and B told her tale. My brother listened with his eyes closed and his fingers forming a tent. Anyone might think he had fallen asleep.

“You met with some government insiders?” Mycroft asked when B was done.

“Yes.” She listed several names and he whistled. “Either you or your friend Zola are well connected. What do they make of this matter?”

“There is no doubt there is a traitor, a real one, and it is not Dreyfus.”

“And their reasoning?”

“There is evidence the theft of documents continues even now. A fellow by the name of Esterhazy has drawn attention.”

“He was brought to trial in January,” I said, “and acquitted in a closed session.”

“And another suspect, Lemercier-Picard, was found hanged in suspicious circumstances last month,” Mycroft added. “Quite a mess.”

“It is,” Beatrice said. “There is paranoia and suspicion at every turn. Many of the government know there has been a grievous miscarriage of justice, not that they'd admit it publicly.”

“But they told you?” My brother's eyes stared sharply at B. I have seen cabinet ministers quake before that look. B merely nodded.

“France is on the brink of civil war. Those gentlemen I named are anxious to avoid that at all costs. They want to know how England might respond to this crisis. They cannot ask openly, of course, but through an unofficial channel like myself something might be accomplished.”

Mycroft sat up straight. “Did they mention my brother or me? No? You are quite certain?”

“My dear Mycroft,” she said. “Is it really so difficult to believe that I may have a reputation that goes beyond the name ‘Holmes'? They confided in me because I have impeccable credentials in my own right.”

“Ah, of course,” Mycroft said, sinking back into the bosom of his chair. “Yes, being the Queen's goddaughter must afford you considerable prestige. Forgive me if I was too harsh.”

“Were you harsh?” She smiled at him and he chortled.

“I would have you work for the government, Beatrice. You have a knack for learning things mere men cannot discover on their own.”

“Of course. Men tell their wives all sorts of things and women will tell other women things they would never tell a man. I do have something for you. I promised I would place it into your hands alone.”

She handed him a sealed letter and he whistled when he saw the signature. He handed it to me and I understood his reaction.

“Well, well,” Mycroft said. “This is of enormous interest. But you say you never mentioned me?”

“I did not have to. The illustrious gentleman who gave me that letter asked if I might be able to locate you. I said, truthfully, that I had met you at dinner on one or two occasions. The gentleman was kind enough to give me your office address. That is why I asked Sherlock to bring me here. Just in case.”

“In case you are being watched? Do you think you might be?” I asked.

“I was certainly followed from Paris by a slight man with a curiously brachycephalic head. Which reminds me, Sherlock, I read an article about the racial geography of Europe in
Popular Science
. I would be curious to hear your opinion. As to my Parisian shadow, I can tell you only that he has been married for at least ten years, has two children, and suffers from arthritis. Beyond that I know nothing about him.”

Watson coughed on his fruitcake. When he was able to speak he said, “Surely many people travel from Paris to London? Could it not have been a coincidence?”

“If I had travelled by the usual course I might agree with you, Doctor. However, in the interest of safety my friends took a peculiarly convoluted route. No, I am not mistaken.”

An hour later, all our business concluded, B rose to return to Wimpole Street. She would travel alone, she said. I was not happy about this, particularly in light of the news that she had been followed. However, she insisted it would look less suspicious if she did so and Mycroft agreed. “No point in tipping off people about your relationship, Sherlock, if you do not have to. It is bad enough you were together in Paris in January. Go and watch from the window and observe if the lady is followed.”

“I don't like it,” Watson said. “It seems unnecessarily dangerous.”

“If someone wanted to injure me, Doctor,” said B, “they have had plenty of opportunity to do so. I was most at risk before I completed my task. I suspect my follower will now return to France with his report.”

Watson and I walked her down the stairs and then stood at the window that overlooks Horse Guards Avenue. As B crossed the road, a small man with an unusually short and wide head followed behind her at a distance of some fifty yards or so.

“Watson,” I said. “You go follow that fellow. Do not reveal yourself; we cannot let him know we have uncovered him. But make sure you do not lose him.”

“I do not understand your alarm, Sherlock,” Mycroft said when Watson had left. “The girl is not concerned and her reasoning is sound. Now, read this letter and tell me what you think...”

7.00 pm

Confound it! Must I do everything myself?

Easter Monday 11 April 1898

The church bells have just chimed nine o'clock and the street outside is dark. The family has left and there is nothing now for Watson and me to do but wait.

George Prentiss is working, so it is only his wife, children, and Agnes who have gone to Gillespie's. Bessie has been given permission to return home for the night.

As the family left by the front door, Watson and I arrived by the back. We are now sitting in the kitchen. I suspect it may be some hours before our prey arrives. If he arrives.

I made sure all the doors were locked and the windows secured. Upon reflection, I decided not to slide any of the bolts. If our ‘poltergeist' should try to access the house by another route, I do not want him alerted to our presence. No, best maintain the illusion that the place is empty.

Watson and I have made ourselves as comfortable as we can in the kitchen. I expect our intruder will enter via the cellar window, as usual. Once he comes up those stairs, he shall find us waiting for him.

Watson says, “But what if he does not come?”

I am loathe to consider the possibility. Patience will out, I think.

Watson is sucking humbugs.

“Must you?” I said.

“I said I was sorry.”

“Yes, but that does not avail us.”

“Well, honestly, Holmes, I appreciate your concern but you really might have been more explicit in your instructions. You said to follow the fellow; how was I to know I was to keep on following him after Beatrice reached home? I assumed the whole point was to ensure her safety.”

“There's the flaw in your reasoning: you assumed.”

More silence. More humbugs.

“Holmes?”

“Yes?”

“I really am very sorry. Did I do so badly?”

“Yes.”

11.00 pm

It's getting very cold. I must have shivered because Watson just tossed me my scarf.

Midnight

Still nothing. The streets remain remarkably busy for so late an hour. Possibly some people are dragging the Easter holiday out as long as they can. The sounds of inebriation filter through the house. The clip of footsteps and horses' hooves. We may have some hours left to wait.

I can see my breath but we dare risk a fire. Watson is dozing on the chair but despite his great coat and his hat, he is still shivering. I found a rug in the parlour and tucked it around him. He gave me a sleepy but appreciative grin before settling into sleep. I know the instant he is needed he will shudder into action, prepared to do whatever is necessary to protect me and himself and capture our intruder. This ability to switch from sleep to complete wakefulness is a skill familiar to both the medical and the military professions, so in this instance my friend is doubly blessed.

I am reminded of that night we sat watch in Stoke Moran waiting for the “speckled band” to appear. That was a dreadful watch too. Worse than this, in fact, because the environment was wholly unpleasant. At least here there are some domestic comforts.

I wish he'd come.

Tuesday 12 April 1898

Watson counsels calm but how can I be so when I have been the biggest dunderhead of all time? I had him. I actually had my hands on him. Damnation!

“It's not your fault, you know,” my friend says. “You did everything you could.”

“I should have anticipated better. I should have realised he'd be armed. I should-”

“My dear Holmes, you really ask far too much of yourself at times. Even if you had known the fellow would have a weapon, how could you have done anything differently? He was a monster. I've never seen such strength, nor such speed.”

For several moments, we sat in silence. He finished dressing my wound and said, “I think you should get to bed, old fellow.”

“The injury is not as severe as all that,” I said. Yes, I will admit to some petulance. I was aware of it but could not keep it from seeping into my voice. I can add another layer of guilt to my sins.

“That the bullet did no irreparable damage is insignificant,” Watson said. “You need rest and your body needs time to heal. Come on, old friend, lean on my shoulder.”

So like an old pair of codgers he helped me into my bedroom and eased me into my bed. I groaned as I lay down.

I said, “Watson? Am I getting old?”

“Yes, Holmes.”

He insisted that I drink a draught of some horrible stuff. In less than a minute, I was sound asleep.

I awoke this morning with a headache, a dry mouth, and a throbbing in my left arm. From the other room, I could hear voices.

I threw on my robe with some difficulty, and shuffled into the sitting room.

Watson said, “Ah, there you are, Holmes. I trust you slept well. Lestrade came to give us an update on the Camden Town incident.”

I sank into my usual chair. Watson brought me coffee and I drank the whole cup almost in a single gulp. Then I held out the cup and waited for him to refill it before I nodded to Lestrade that I was ready to converse.

“The doctor has been telling me about your adventures, Mr Holmes. You are lucky that bullet did not kill you. You know, if you'd told me in advance what you were planning we could have had some constables standing by.”

“That would not have availed, Inspector. The man has obviously been keeping a close eye on the Prentisses' home. He would not have acted if he'd known it was being watched by the police.”

“Perhaps,” Lestrade said. “Nonetheless, I am very sorry to hear you've been injured.”

“I was too slow,” I said. “Much as it galls me to admit it. I misjudged his speed and I underestimated his size. Well, at least now I know what we are up against. I will not misjudge him again.

“But you have news for me, Inspector?”

“Yes, I'm afraid it's not much. The man was spotted a few hours ago in the Holborn district, but then we lost him.”

“Holborn again?” I said.”The diamond district, the Hatton Garden area... Something is going on there, Lestrade.”

“I recall I referred you to Inspector Glaser. Was he of any use to you?”

“Indeed, he was extremely helpful. I must say, Lestrade, your recent additions of policemen to the service have been exceptional. There was Tavistock Hill who worked on the Hacker and Smiley case, and young Stevens... How is Stevens, by the way?”

“He's doing very well, Mr Holmes. He's a bright lad and a willing one. He's already become a favourite among the other officers.” Lestrade grinned and added, “Of course, he can at least say he helped the great Sherlock Holmes. That must set him apart from his peers.”

“Soon I shall be obsolete,” I said.

A long silence ensued and it continued beyond a comfortable period. After several moments Watson said, “You must forgive Holmes, Lestrade. I'm afraid he's feeling a bit morose at present. It's not uncommon when a man has suffered a bullet wound.”

“Well,” said Lestrade as he picked up his hat. “You're certainly not obsolete to me. No matter what advances we make, there's only one Sherlock Holmes and the world is not done with him yet.” He extended his hand and I shook it gratefully. He's really a very good sort of chap and at least he has the sense to recognise genius though he possesses none himself.

He added, “Don't forget, Mr Holmes, if our young officers excel it's largely because of you. We've made great advances since you first invented the job of Consulting Detective, and those advances came from studying your methods. Now, do look after yourself, won't you, old friend?”

I nodded. I confess I had quite lost the power of speech. Lestrade said his goodbyes and departed, leaving me in a most perplexed state.

“I think you should go back to bed, Holmes,” Watson said. “You're looking very pale. A nice long sleep will do you good, I think.”

“I need to know more about those documents of Mrs Prentiss. Rickman returned, as I knew he would, because there is something in that house he wants. We have ruled out jewels and other valuables; Kidwell is no longer there so we can eliminate the carnal factor.”