Steampunk Holmes: Legacy of the Nautilus (12 page)

“There is no room for error, Watson,” said Holmes with a sigh, lowering his feet and straightening his posture, with an air of gravity and resignation to a distasteful task. “As usual, the romantic streak in your character has overridden the evidence of your own eyes and senses. It was obvious that her tale of having received a farewell note from Sir James was the purest fabrication. He did indeed write to her, but it was a demand for instant confession, and not a suicide letter, as she would have us believe.”

“But how can you know this, Holmes?” I expostulated. “Surely ...”

“I shall tell you my observations and deductions, Watson. Let us begin by examining the character of the elder brother. Sir James Valentine was an astute man of the world, as well as a brilliant scientist and engineer; meticulous and cautious to a fault, and above all highly protective of what he considered to be his special pet project. I have no doubt that he well knew his young sister's character, and took pains to keep any knowledge of his work out of her reach. He may have mistrusted her encouragement of Cadbury's suit, for it appears that from the time of his sister's engagement, he kept her and her correspondence under constant surveillance. It must be said that Sir James dearly loved his sister and doted on her in every way, but he did not trust her. I'm inclined to believe that Sir James may have hinted as much to Cadbury, for the behavior of the latter towards his fiancée suggests that he was not a man confident in his suit.”

“All this is speculation, Holmes,” said I reprovingly. “You have not yet stated any real evidence against Miss Valentine, though you cast aspersions upon her character.”

“You are right, Watson,” said Holmes. “I shall come to that. I had no reason to suppose, during our visit to the Valentine residence, that Miss Valentine was involved in any way in the case. Her statement struck me as singularly flawed, it is true, but I imagined at the time that she might be attempting to shield her brother, or her fiancé, or perhaps both.”

“You did mention something to that effect on that occasion,” I said, “and yet even now as I recall our interview I fail to recognize an element of falsehood in her words or manner.”

“I am not, I admit, the world's greatest expert in psychology, Watson, but the art of being able to recognize a good liar in performance is one which I have devoted some pains to cultivate. I had no idea then which of Miss Valentine's statements were false; I only knew without a trace of doubt that she had not been completely truthful. There is some twitch about the fingertips, some unnatural rigidity or lassitude about the posture and facial muscles, some elusive brightening of the eyes and stirring of the pulse, that transmits 'deception in progress' aloud and plainly to those senses trained to catch the signals.

“The first hint,” continued Holmes, “that some woman had been involved in the case came to me whilst inspecting the offices of the Arsenal. You must remember, Watson, that the day preceding the theft had been muggy and damp, with a film of moisture upon every surface in London that was not already smeared with snow. While inspecting the floorboards of the Office and corridor, I distinctly noticed several oddly-shaped impressions, which I suspected to have been made by the heel of a lady's shoe, though by a wide stretch of imagination it might have been the base of a walking stick. Outside the door, however, just before Lestrade made his unwarranted intrusion, I found several very clear imprints of the entire shoe; an arrowhead shape followed by an irregular circle with its northerly rim cut clean off. Obviously a lady's high-heeled pump, and what is more, a lady of small stature, dainty of foot. More tracks of this cast led through the lawn beside the path towards the gate. The fact that the footprints were beside the path and not on it was suggestive. The lady who made those tracks apparently did not wish her steps to be overheard on the gravel path, and so she subjected her shoes and petticoats to the inconveniences of a trek on a muddy border. Fresh tracks they were, too, Watson; and yet upon inquiry, we discovered that the only female who ever entered the Office grounds was the elderly charwoman, whose last visit had been on the previous Friday. Therefore, those footprints could not possibly have been hers.”

“Then, too, I discovered other tracks outside the building, pointing to the fact that some man had entered the Office compound through the yew hedge, and stood outside the window with the ill-fitting shutters for some time. The prints I found did not correspond with the cast of boots worn by the night guards; they were pointy-toed patent leathers, of the sort used by gentlemen of modest means on an evening sortie. Arthur Cadbury, as you may recall, was supposed to have taken Miss Valentine to the theater that night. I ordered a plaster impression to be taken of the print in the mud, by the way, and it corresponds exactly with the shoes Cadbury wore that night.

“Inspection of Sir James' possessions revealed that a wax impression had recently been taken of his keys. The set owned by Sidney Johnson, on the other hand, was perfectly clean. This narrowed my range of suspicion yet further, for who but someone very close to Sir James could gain access to his keys, which he apparently guarded with greater attention than any other of his belongings? The evidence I had seen, coupled with the falsehood of Victoria Valentine's story, instantly bonded together to place her in a highly suspicious category in my mind. When later that evening I discovered traces of her presence inside von Oberon's house in Kensington—the very same footmarks as those I had detected in the Offices—I had no further doubt about Miss Valentine's participation in the affair. It only remained for me to probe how deeply she had been involved, and what her exact relationship was to Peter von Oberon. I explored every possible avenue of reasoning, and the conclusions I reached during my wakeful night of meditation were entirely confirmed by the statement given to us by Pierre Nemo himself, with the small exception that Nemo actually had no idea what Miss Valentine's true character really was. She was, in effect, his lover, and had used Cadbury in order to gain information. In Nemo's mind, however, she was not an accomplice, but an innocent, charming and noble young girl, willing to stoop to any depths to ensure the restitution of his rights. He was, to put it plainly, entirely duped by her beguiling ways, poor sap.”

“But whatever caused you to believe that Miss Valentine killed her brother?” I persisted.

“Oh, didn't I mention that? It was very simple. When Sir James received the news of the theft at the Arsenal Office early the next morning, he immediately sent for his sister, telling her in his summoning note that she had better be prepared to confess all, or else deal with public exposure and disgrace. He would disown her completely, he wrote, and she would be made to pay the lawful price for her actions if she refused to cooperate. She destroyed the note, of course, and went to her brother's room, prepared, not to confess, but to kill. She knew, you see, that he would carry out his threats. Possibly he had warned her in the past.”

“Where is your proof?" I asked warmly.

"In the pocket of Inspector Lestrade."

"What? Do you mean that piece of blotting paper?"

"The very same. It was, as you have probably guessed, the slip that blotted Sir James' actual note to his sister, written in a hasty hand immediately upon hearing of the theft, and thereby proving that he not only suspected Miss Valentine, but that her guilt was a certainty to him."

“The letter indeed proves that Sir James suspected his sister of the theft, Holmes; it does not, however, prove that she did murder him.

“In my opinion, Holmes, the man was mentally unhinged; having gotten it into his head that his sister might betray his secret, his passionate protectiveness overcame his reason, and he hounded her in fear. Naturally, upon hearing that the cards had been stolen, he acted instantly in the manner you have described, and his letter to her was bold and unquestioning in its accusations. She refused to see him, which so stirred the man's madness as to cause him to commit suicide. Miss Valentine, however, may well have long resented her brother's undue suspicions against her honesty, and, had I been in her place, I too might have burned his recriminating note, refused to see him, and heartily denied any participation and knowledge of the affair, even to the point of frank deception.”

“Doubtless, Watson, and with good reason,” said Holmes. “But if, leaving aside the note, your chambermaid testified to having seen you slip furtively out of your brother's room at the exact time in which he was supposed to be committing suicide, and if a later search revealed traces of concentrated hydrogen cyanide in the sleeve of your dressing gown, you too might justly be accused, to use the crude vernacular, of having done him in.

"Hydrogen cyanide?"

“Yes, Watson. One can easily picture the scene. The stern brother, the feigned show of penitence and anguish on the part of the sister, her hysterical rush into her brother's arms, the clenched handkerchief suddenly clasped against his nose—remember that the quick action of the poisonous vapor would scarcely allow time for resistance—the callous expectoration upon the dying man's face, the quick fruitless search for any incriminating documents, the rapid destruction of the little lacy handkerchief in the hearth, and the stealthy exit from the scene of the crime, never noticing the curious eyes of the chambermaid, nor the incriminating residue left upon her sleeve by the venomous liquid. The subsequent farce of surprise, grief, and tragedy. I can see it all as if I had been there myself.”

“She may have attempted in vain to restrain her brother from committing suicide in her presence. Would that not account for the stain on her gown?”

"Perhaps, but then, having just painfully witnessed her brother's calamitous end, why would she find it necessary to spit on her brother's head and toss her handkerchief in the grate? Why take away the bottle of prussic acid and lock the door on the outside? Why bribe her maid-in-waiting to declare that the note had not been delivered to her until some time later? Her behavior, no matter which way you look at it, is strange, devious, and untruthful to the last."

"You neglect to take into account the strange reactions which might have seized the poor girl, Holmes. If you allow for the terrible strain she must have been under..."

“Alas, Watson," Holmes broke in with a yawn, "if I cannot convince you, I cannot. I have merely submitted the facts, the evidence, and my own reasoning and deductions. You maintain that there is yet a chance that she was a woman as innocent as her outer appearance would suggest—perhaps you are right. I, however, do not believe that.”

“Even so, Holmes; I cannot help but reproach you for your utter want of respect towards her when we met at the Stinking Wharf. It is hardly to be wondered at that she threw her pin at you in her shock and disgust.”

Holmes laughed in his slightly sinister way. “Oh that,” said he; “yes, that was altogether unexpected, wasn't it? She almost had my head nailed to the wall. But it was not complete disrespect on my part, Watson; it grieves me to say it, but that lady was as unworthy of our respect as she was reprobate in her actions. Both Cadbury and Nemo had been, I regret to say it, entirely hoodwinked and bewitched by that cunning and wicked woman.”

“How can you even suggest such a thing, Holmes?” cried I, feeling both embarrassed for Holmes, and ashamed of him.

“Easily, Watson. On the day of our confrontation with Nemo, having gathered from the advertisements that the duo were accustomed to using the Stinking Wharf as a rendezvous and Poste Restante, I briefly visited the club in the early afternoon, intent on learning what I could of the habits of these particular patrons. With some metallic help that served to loosen the tongues of the resident servants, I learned that our angelic-looking little Miss Valentine was a frequent guest, and not only in company of the gentleman I described.

“One helpful steward mentioned that the lady in question rented a small locker on the premises under the name “Grim, Vickie,” where she apparently kept some personal papers, and occasionally received letters and small parcels, to be left till called for. I admit I never felt myself more of an ass in my entire life, Watson, as at that moment. Grim Vickie and Captain Basil had long been acquaintances.”

“What?”

“I had not, until that time, realized that Grim Vickie and Victoria Valentine were one and the same person, but I admit that the knowledge was somewhat less than shocking.”

“But who is Grim Vickie? I mean to say, what on earth...” I sputtered.

“Grim Vickie, to put it plainly, was a gentlewoman blackmailer; not long in the business, but already racking up points as a first-class crook. She always wore the same black veil over her face, and I had observed her on more than one occasion plying her grim trade upon pale, frightened young girls, no doubt young ladies of her own social circle, against whom she held certain secrets. It so happened that I once sat quite near her table, and I overheard most of the conversation. It was not a very pretty one, I can assure you, and the terms presented to the desolated young victim were somewhat beyond steep. A short whispered conference with one of the waiters gave me the name of my veiled neighbor—Grim Vickie. It struck me, occupied though I was with pressing matters of my own, that a timely word from a hardened man of the world such as myself might put a bit of the fear of the Lord into this Miss Grim Vickie, whom I perceived to be a much younger lady than her apparel tried to suggest, and help her along the straight and narrow once again. With this purpose in mind, after observing the stormy departure of the victim, I rose and passed by her table, shooting, as I did so, a few sardonic remarks. Her reply, though quite whispered, was stinging. After that we often bandied a word or two whenever we chanced to meet. I tell you, Watson, I can think of hardly anything quite as revolting as a respectable woman posing as a hard-cash blackmailer to the gentle, trusting members of her own sex. I had never had occasion to probe into her affairs, but I have had my eye on her all the same.