Sherlock Holmes and the Queen of Diamonds (3 page)

‘I’ll do that,’ said Howard, rising. ‘Sorry we wasted your time.’

‘My time is never wasted, sir,’ Holmes said, also rising.

Elaina frowned at Howard. ‘Hold on. Let’s not be so hasty. It’s been quite an evening. Maybe we should discuss this again tomorrow, when we’re all a bit fresher. Holmes, please … consider yourself invited to my tea party tomorrow. You too, Watson. Mr Howard, you’ll be there, won’t you?’

‘Well, I—’

‘Good,’ she said, cutting him off. ‘That’s settled, then.’

At the door Howard regarded Holmes coolly. ‘One last thing. I can see how you came to your conclusions. But that business about me veering from wealth to poverty an’ back again … that’s got me stumped.’

‘It is quite simple, sir,’ said Holmes. ‘When in funds you had the suit you now wear tailor-made for you. When you lost the third of its four jacket buttons you were so poor that you had to replace it with an odd one – and judging from the amateur quality of the stitching, you sewed it on yourself.’

‘And comin’ back into “funds”?’

‘Simplicity itself, Mr Howard,’ Holmes said with a rare smile. ‘Had you not come into money again, you would not have been able to buy your passage to England.’

CHAPTER 3

The Poacher's Pocket

I
n the Poacher's Pocket, a notorious public house just a stone's throw from the Pool of London, Blackrat Lynch and his three pals sat at a knife-scarred corner table and commiserated over mugs of ale. The scratches on Blackrat's craggy face had already excited much raillery from the
regulars
– ‘What's'a matter, Blackrat? The old woman givin' you grief again?' – and he was in a foul mood.

Around them, by contrast, the pub's other patrons were thoroughly enjoying themselves. They crowded around tables to play shuffleboard or put 'n' take, sat on rough-hewn benches and leaned against the bar, while mingled with the constant chatter were great howls of laughter. Occasionally there were cheers and someone broke into slurred song. The smoky air stank of fried fish, cheese and pickles.

‘We should'a rushed 'im,' said Alfie, wiping his runny nose on his sleeve.

‘Aye,' O'Leary agreed. ‘Y'know, the more I t'ink about it, the more I t'ink he was bluffin'.'

Blackrat took the hand-rolled cigarette from his mouth and said: ‘Well, think what you like. But I knows we did
the right thing, givin' 'im the benefit of the doubt. Still,' he grumbled, ‘it do leave a rotten taste in the mouth.' He shook his head and added through gritted teeth: ‘What I wouldn't have given to slip a blade 'tween that bastard's ribs.'

At just that moment a shadow fell across him, and a soft voice said: ‘Buy you a drink, pal?'

The American accent sent a stab of alarm through Blackrat. He twisted hurriedly in his chair, expecting to see the man who'd held them at gunpoint. Instead he saw two strangers in belted mackinaws buttoned to the throat – a pock-faced man, who'd asked the question, and a younger, darker-haired man standing just behind his left shoulder.

Blackrat relaxed, but thought:
Another bleedin' American. This city's full of 'em tonight
. ‘An' who're you?' he asked.

‘Someone who's heard about what happened to you earlier tonight and wants to hear more.'

Blackrat frowned, surprised that the news had travelled so fast. But then he remembered that he and his lads had been bemoaning their fate all the way from Green Park to Cable Street and the Poacher's Pocket.

Still, who were these two Yanks who'd come out of nowhere to hear them tell the story one more time? And why should they be so interested?

‘Jack,' the speaker said over his shoulder, ‘go buy a round for our new friends here.'

The dark-haired one, Jack, nodded and went to the bar.

The pock-faced man helped himself to a chair, turned it around and straddled it so that he could cross his arms on 
its back. He was big and brawny, perhaps thirty, with unkempt fair hair above a creased forehead, a heavy brow, deep-set hazel eyes and a long nose. ‘I'm Micajah Liggett,' he said.

‘That's nice for you,' Blackrat said disparagingly.

The pock-faced man smiled, not a pretty sight, and taking no offence, said: ‘My friends call me Cage. That feller with me, that's my brother Jack. And you're Blackrat Lynch, right? Right – so now we know each other. So let's hear your story again.'

Blackrat was happy enough to tell it, but didn't much care for the way this Liggett character made it sound like an order. ‘Why?' he demanded. ‘What's your interest in it? Mate of yours, is 'e, this other Yank?'

‘Not if he's the man I think he is.'

Jack returned and set a tray on the table. Blackrat and his men helped themselves to tall glasses of black, bitter ale. Jack sat beside his brother, though it was hard to think of them as such. Where Liggett was fair Jack was dark. Where Liggett was tall and powerful, Jack was short and slight. Where Liggett wore a thick handlebar moustache, Jack was clean-shaven. The only thing they seemed to have in common was the same shifty, hazel eyes.

‘I'm waitin',' Cage Liggett said.

Blackrat shrugged and told his version of the story. He made the man with the pistols seem like a bully, while he and his pals came off like victims. At the end of it, Liggett said: ‘What did he look like, this stranger?'

Blackrat peered at him. ‘It strikes me, mate, that you're expectin' an awful lot for one lousy pint of ale. If this man's 
so important to you, you oughta be 'appy to
pay
for 'is description.'

Liggett's eyes hooded. ‘Don't go wakin' up the wrong passenger, Blackrat,' he warned softly. ‘Let's just keep this nice an' friendly.'

But Blackrat was in no mood to keep things nice and friendly. Though they hadn't said as much, he felt that he'd lost standing with his companions tonight and needed to reassert himself. So he said: ‘I got a better idea. You make it worth our while to talk, or you sling your bleedin' 'ook while you still can.'

Liggett sighed regretfully. ‘Sorry you feel that way, friend. 'Cause now I got to teach you a lesson.'

‘You an' whose army?' snarled Blackrat.

Whipping out his knife, he lunged at the big American, but Liggett moved faster, flinging the ale in his tankard into Blackrat's face. Momentarily blinded, Blackrat pawed at his eyes and then stumbled backward, falling over the table.

Seizing the advantage, Liggett knocked the knife from the Londoner's hand. Then, pulling Blackrat's cap down over his eyes, Liggett belted him on the side of the head. The blow sent Blackrat sprawling on the floor.

Instantly, all the other customers turned to watch the fight.

Brawls were common in the Poacher's Pocket and
friendships
were few. When two men quarrelled over something the matter was invariably settled with knuckles or blades. Those around them seldom interfered. But as Liggett kicked his chair away and closed in to finish his opponent off, 
Blackrat's companions jumped up, intending to attack the American.

Jack quickly drew a Colt .45 and cocked the hammer back. ‘Stay out of it, you buzzards,' he warned them. ‘Just sit down and keep your hands on the table, where I can see 'em.'

Alfie, O'Leary and Wadlock grudgingly obeyed.

The rest of the patrons immediately cleared a space for the combatants and Liggett danced forward, determined not to disappoint them. He waited until Blackrat got back to his hands and knees and then kicked him in the ribs. The impact lifted Blackrat off the floor. He rolled over, grunting. But he recovered faster than Liggett expected, grabbed the American's boot by heel and toe and twisted. Forced off balance, Liggett stumbled back against the table, sending table and chairs flying across the sawdusted floorboards.

Blackrat jumped up, fists swinging wildly. Liggett blocked his blows and then jabbed Blackrat several times in the face. Blackrat staggered back, blood streaming from his nose. Liggett charged in, hammering him with punches, forcing Blackrat to retreat still further.

He stumbled against a table. He grabbed a bottle from it, smashed the bottom off then brandished the jagged neck in Liggett's face.

Liggett fell back, watching him warily. The onlookers abruptly fell silent. Liggett tore his mackinaw off and wrapped it around his right hand and forearm.

Blackrat lunged at him before he was finished. At once the crowd roared. Liggett quickly snaked the jacket out so that it wrapped itself around Blackrat's knife-arm. He yanked 
back on the coat, pulling Blackrat forward, into a
bone-shattering
left hook. Blackrat's legs went wobbly and he collapsed on the floor. Liggett kicked the broken bottle away, then dropped to his knees beside Blackrat and started punching him repeatedly in the face. He kept up the onslaught, blow after vicious blow, until Blackrat's face was so much raw meat.

Helpless, Blackrat was soon beaten unconscious. The onlookers, accustomed to seeing Blackrat the victor, again fell silent. No one had ever seen any man destroy his
opponent
so thoroughly, and a grim hush settled inside the pub.

At last Liggett stopped punching and just stood over Blackrat, his powerful shoulders heaving as he sucked in air. Then, retrieving his jacket, he turned to Alfie, O'Leary and Wadlock and said: ‘Gentlemen … I give you your … fearless leader.'

Alfie looked down at Blackrat, his weasly face a portrait of disappointment. First the man with the guns, and now
this
. ‘Forget it,' he said, sniffling and wiping his nose. ‘'E ain't our leader no more.'

‘That go for all of you?' Liggett asked the others.

The trio exchanged looks. Then, as one, they nodded.

‘Then take the trash out before it stinks up the place, boys. And get back in here soon as you can.' He turned to his brother. ‘Jack – set 'em up again. We got some talkin' to do, and we're gonna start with a description of the man with the guns.'

‘You got it, guv'nor,' Alfie said.

‘An' I'll hear the straight of it,' Liggett warned. He spotted the fallen knife and picked it up, admiring its unusual
screw-horn handle before closing it up and slipping it into his pocket. ‘No lies, no exaggerations. You guys play fair with me and I'll play fair with you. Got that?'

Three heads nodded eagerly.

CHAPTER 4

The Crippled Acrobat

H
olmes, who normally slept till noon or beyond, was woken early the following morning by a persistent rapping at his bedroom door. When he answered it, he found Watson standing there holding a yellow telegram envelope.

‘This has just arrived. I didn’t know if it might be
important
.’

Holmes took the envelope, tore it open and quickly scanned the contents. A moment later he vanished back into his room, calling through the now-closed door: ‘Get your coat, Watson, and ask Mrs Hudson to summon a cab at once! We’re off to Surbiton.’

‘Surbiton?’

Holmes’s door opened again and he looked out. ‘Yes. That telegram was from our old friend Rosier of the Yard. Our jewel thief has struck again, this time at the home of Lady Bingham!’

While Holmes saw to his ablutions Watson collected his coat, pulled his cane from the rack by the door and hurried downstairs. As always, Mrs Hudson was busily engaged in her domestic chores, so he went outside, dug his cab-whistle
from his pocket and gave a single shrill blast. A hansom soon drew up and Watson was just about to ask the driver to wait when Holmes, now washed, shaved and dressed, brushed past him. ‘Witton Abbey, Surbiton,’ he told the driver. ‘And there’s a bonus in it for you if you can get us there in half the time it normally takes!’

The driver saw this as both a challenge and an
opportunity
to earn some extra money, so the journey was almost as reckless as it was fleet. As Watson was jostled back and forth inside the cab, he chided Holmes for endangering their lives. ‘After all,’ he grumbled, ‘is there really any call for such speed? The crime has already been committed. We’re too late to do anything now but investigate such clues as may have been left behind.’

‘That is precisely why we
must
hurry, Watson. Rosier is an admirable chap, quite one of the brightest men Scotland Yard has to offer, but even
he
runs the risk of contaminating or quite possibly eliminating altogether what little evidence there may be. If we cannot prevent such damage, the least we may do is limit it.’

The journey took them through the fashionable sprawl of Mayfair, past the gasworks and breweries of industrialized Wandsworth and at last to the historic market town of Kingston-upon-Thames. It had rained during the night but now the sun started breaking through the louring clouds, and everything looked as fresh and clean as a picture postcard.

From Kingston-upon-Thames it was a relatively short hop to the picturesque lanes and meadows of Surbiton, and presently they came within sight of Witton Abbey, as the Bingham estate was known. 

It was a large Gothic-style house built from big
white-stone
blocks, with long, rectangular windows running along the ground floor and smaller sash windows along the second. As the hansom turned off the lane on to the gravel drive they saw a black carriage that doubled as transport for police or mobile cells in which to remove criminals, and a separate hansom.

Barely waiting for their cab to stop, Holmes sprang from the vehicle and hurried to the front door. Telling the cabby to wait, Watson limped up the steps to the front door just as it was opened by a soberly attired butler.

Before Holmes could introduce himself an authoritative voice behind the butler said: ‘It’s all right, Draper. Come in, Mr Holmes. I knew you’d want to be in on this.’

The speaker was Inspector Maurice Rosier, a tall,
tow-headed
man dressed in a black herringbone suit and a striped school tie. Holmes held him in some regard, for unlike many of his ilk he had courage, tenacity and no small intelligence. He came forward, moving in a peculiar,
predatory
manner that was unique to him, and shook hands. ‘The bugger’s really outdone himself this time,’ he confided. ‘Stolen a necklace valued at five thousand pounds, and I’m at a loss as to explain exactly how he did it.’

‘You have your men out searching the grounds?’ asked Holmes.

‘Of course, sir.’

‘Then ask them to stop at once. Nothing further is to be moved, examined or inspected until I say so.’

Rosier raised his eyebrows. ‘Very good, sir. I’ll pass the word.’ 

He disappeared for a few moments, then came back and led them into a large sitting room, where Lady Bingham, a tall, thin woman who wore her grey hair in ringlets, sat on a sofa, dabbing at her eyes.

‘Mr Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson, my lady,’ he announced. ‘Mr Holmes has followed the case from the first and kindly offered his services in order to bring the thief to justice.’

Lady Bingham stood up and allowed each of them to take her fingertips and nod respectfully. ‘It’s terrible,’ she said. ‘That necklace has been in my family for two generations. It is made up of three strings of stones of various sizes and shapes, all of which are black – jet, onyx and jasper. I have worn it ever since my husband died, for that is its primary purpose, to denote mourning. It is irreplaceable.’ Her voice cracked a little, but with effort she managed to retain her composure.

‘Then between us, Lady Bingham, Inspector Rosier and I will endeavour to return it to you as quickly as possible,’ replied Holmes. ‘If I might ask you a few questions, my lady?’

‘Of course.’

‘When did you first notice the necklace was missing?’

‘Last night. My husband died some seven months ago and I have worn it as a sign of my great sorrow ever since. I did not go out yesterday, so there was no need to wear it. However, when I retired last night I noticed that the box I kept it in had been moved.’

‘Moved?’ Holmes repeated.

‘I like things to be orderly, Mr Holmes,’ Lady Bingham explained. ‘A place for everything and everything in its 
place. So naturally I noticed at once that it had been moved, if only fractionally, and when I checked inside the box—’

‘—the necklace was gone?’

‘Yes.’

‘And that was the only piece of jewellery that was missing?’

‘Yes.’

‘No attempt was made to take anything else of value?’

‘No. Everything else was just as I had left it.’

‘Neither you nor any of your servants happened to see the thief or scare him off?’

‘Certainly not.’

‘May I ask what time you retired last night?’

‘Half past nine, exactly,’ Lady Bingham said. ‘I know because the grandfather clock in the main hall was striking the hour as I climbed the stairs.’

‘And the house was occupied during all that time?’

‘Of course.’

‘You have questioned the staff, Rosier?’

‘Naturally,’ the inspector said. ‘The kitchen, where the back door is situated, is overlooked by the servants’ hall, which was occupied all evening by the wine steward, the butler, the housekeeper and the lady’s maid. No one could have entered or left by that way without being seen. Neither were there any callers.’

‘And nothing out of the ordinary occurred, that might have served as a distraction?’

‘Nothing.’

‘And your staff, Lady Bingham – you trust them?’ 

‘Implicitly. They have been with me for years, Mr Holmes, and their loyalty is beyond question.’

‘Quite so.’ Holmes paused. ‘May I have your permission to examine your bedroom, my lady?’

‘If you must,’ she said reluctantly. ‘If it helps you to find my necklace.’

‘It may well do.’ Holmes smiled. ‘Will you lead the way, Inspector?’

They bowed courteously and then Rosier took them up a wide flight of stairs to Lady Bingham’s bedroom, which was at the back of the house. It was a large, airy room that
overlooked
landscaped grounds, and everything was indeed in its place, as her ladyship had assured them. Holmes went first to the dressing-table, where he opened the lid of the engraved sterling-silver jewellery box and examined its contents. Lady Bingham’s jewellery was stored neatly in two tiers of blue velvet-lined compartments. Only one of them was empty. He brought the box to his face and appeared to sniff the contents. Accustomed to Holmes’s unorthodox and often seemingly eccentric methods as Watson was, even he had to frown.

Holmes set the box back on the dressing-table, then went over to the first of the two windows. Each was of the sash type and secured by a two-piece brass fastener. First he inspected the fastener, then unlatched it, threw up the window, leaned out to the waist with his thin-fingered hands on the sill and surveyed the terrace and gardens far below. There was a folly, an orangery, neatly maintained trees and shrubs all the way down to the river at the bottom of the field. A fine mist obscured the tops of the trees. 

Holmes studied the sill and then twisted around so that he could examine the outside of the frame. A moment later he closed the window, and repeated the procedure with the second window. At last he nodded to himself.

Next he took off his jacket and handed it to Watson, then climbed unhesitatingly out into the sill.

Watson immediately panicked. ‘I say, old man, hang on. What on earth are you—?’

Holmes ignored him. Holding on to the window frame, he straightened to his full height on the outside of the glass, seemingly oblivious to the precarious position in which he had placed himself. He reached up, the expression on his lean face intense. Watson watched with concern,
uncomfortably
aware that one slip or a stray gust of wind and Holmes would plunge to the flagstones below.

But at last Holmes calmly withdrew his right hand, sniffed at his fingers and allowed himself the briefest smile. He then climbed back into the room and collected his jacket from Watson, who shook his head disapprovingly.

‘Holmes,’ he said, concerned, ‘without a doubt there are times when you completely confound me.’

Holmes beamed, as if he’d been given a compliment. ‘If I may quote from Sir Walter Scott,’ he countered, “Faint heart never won fair lady.” Now – I believe we have discovered everything this room has to offer.’ Leaving his companions to exchange a puzzled glance, he marched out of the room.

They followed him downstairs and through the kitchen to the back door. Outside, under the curious gaze of the
assembled
police constables, Holmes turned to face the rear wall of the mansion and then hurried to the far end, where a
galvanized 
iron drainpipe climbed towards a hopper and a line of guttering above. He inspected the drainpipe with great care, seemed to find something that piqued his interest and
examined
it more closely with the help of a magnifying glass. After taking a penknife and an envelope from his pocket he carefully scratched at a small black mark that was just below eye level. Watson and Rosier watched as the mark came off the drainpipe in a series of soft black flakes.

‘What’s that?’ asked the inspector.

‘I expect that closer examination will reveal it to be
high-grain
leather.’

‘Then it’s a clue?’

‘Rather a confirmation,’ said Holmes.

The evidence collected, he placed the envelope in an inside pocket and then set off across the grass toward a row of hedges in the distance. Intrigued, Watson and Rosier hurried after him. By the time they caught up, Holmes had reached the bank of the river and was creeping slowly through a cluster of bushes. Next he walked down toward the riverbank, where he bent double in order to study the dewy grass. A few moments later he straightened up, cocked his head at the ground as if making some sort of calculation. Then he peered into the murky water before dropping to his stomach, so that his face was mere inches from the surface.

They watched him move along the bank in this fashion for a few minutes, until at last he sat up again, once more removed his jacket, rolled up his sleeves and took a tape measure from his waistcoat pocket. With the tape held between the thumbs and forefingers of both hands, he plunged his arms up to the elbows into the cold water. 
Shortly, he brought them out again, studied the dripping tape measure closely, then nodded.

Eventually he regained his feet and dried himself off with a handkerchief. ‘Most instructive,’ he remarked.

‘What have you discovered?’ asked Rosier.

‘Almost everything, Inspector.’

‘
What
?’

‘There were two thieves,’ said Holmes. ‘They arrived by rowing boat. From the indentations left in the mud as they came ashore I should say the clinker-built construction points to a simple skiff. They made the vessel fast just there—’ he pointed ‘—by tying a hemp rope to yonder bush. One of them was a largish man, perhaps fifteen stone in weight. The other was much smaller, barely seven stone, who walked with a limp. A
limp
, Watson,’ he added, as if it should mean something.

‘How can you possibly know that?’ Rosier asked.

‘By measuring the depth to which the bow sank into the mud when they climbed out, I calculate that their combined weight was somewhere in the region of twenty to twenty-two stone. Their footprints, as they came ashore, indicate that one was considerably heavier than the other – the depth of his footprints is approximately twice as deep as those of his companion. As for the limp, look here. Can you see where the stride is uneven? At no time does the stride of the left foot ever overtake that of the right. It merely draws level with it.’