The Midwinter Mysteries of Sherlock Holmes: Three Adventures & The Grand Gift of Sherlock (4 page)

“About six o’clock by the St. George’s
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bells.”

“Then what happened?”

“Well, sir, we were travelling down Regent Street when a milkman’s wagon got run into by an omnibus. Bottles rolled everywhere and the street was blocked from both directions. I know how long it takes for these sorts of obstacles to clear, so was about to jump down to help, but the men got it all fixed up lickety-split, even before the local constable could arrive. Soon enough I was on my way, and it wasn’t ‘til I got to the station that I realized my passenger had vanished. I figured he must have hopped out while we were stopped, worried about an excessive delay, and tried to find a cab on Argyll Street. But then I found the coin and knew that something smelled funny, if you catch my drift. It is said that you are the only man in London who can figure out the meaning of peculiar happenstances.”

Holmes’s head sank back into his pillow and he gazed at the ceiling above him. “Your case is not without interest, Mr. Fenwick, but I am afraid that I cannot help you. As you can see, I am confined to my bed.”

The man looked quite disappointed. Meanwhile, I started coughing violently.

“Whatever is the matter with you, Watson?” asked Holmes irritably.

“I say, Holmes, I thought you had suffered only a break in your femur?”

His eyes narrow dangerously. “Yes…”

“You must have neglected to mention the blow to your brain.”

“Whatever are you talking about, Watson?”

“I would think that this is the ultimate challenge to your method of reasoning, Holmes. Can you solve a crime purely from the description of it, without seeing it for yourself?”

“That is impossible,” said he, dismissively.

“No,” I replied, smiling. “Merely improbable. But did you not already do so once today with Mr. Sexton? And what about the case of the albatross drawing?”
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He shook his head. “It is a question of getting details, Watson. It is not my
métier
to sit by idly while others search for clues. How can I be certain that they will not miss something of critical import, without which the whole chain of my deductive logic might be built of faulty links? I am afraid that I cannot put this in the hands of the police, who first of all will never believe that there is even anything illegal here to investigate, and who most importantly have not been trained in my methods.”

“There is one man who might serve,” I said quietly.

He glanced up at me keenly. “Ah, Watson, do you miss the game so much that you would be willing to be away from your wife the entire day?
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It is Christmas, you will recall.”

“She will understand.”

He laughed. “You have great faith.”

“I do indeed.”

He studied me intently for a moment. “So be it, Watson. You may be my eyes, and ears, and do not forget, nose.” He turned back to the cabby. “Now, Mr. Fenwick. You have been most kind to bring this matter to my attention, and I fear your concerns about foul play may be justified. It will take some time to get to the bottom of this case, but I do not wish to send you away empty handed. I think it best that we maintain this sovereign you discovered, so if Watson will be so kind as to remove two from the drawer of my desk, we will see that you make a one hundred percent return upon your investment to recompense you for your time and lost wages.”

Fenwick’s eyes bulged at this largesse, and he took it gratefully. Once I had seen the man to the door, I resumed my seat in front of Holmes. “So you believe the man was kidnapped?” I inquired.

“Do you have an alternate suggestion, Watson?”

“Perhaps he stage-managed his own disappearance?”

“No, no, it will not do, Watson. If a man wishes to vanish, he does so only after ensuring an adequate set of witnesses, such as was managed by Mr. James Phillimore.
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You don’t enact it in front of a lone cabby who is not even aware of your identity. And the blockade of the road was the product of a subtle intellect.
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It was expertly managed, having produced a stoppage of the man’s carriage for a sufficient length of time so as to remove him from the cab while Mr. Fenwick’s attention was focused elsewhere, while simultaneously being cleared with sufficient rapidity so as to not attract the attention of the constabulary. There are few men in London capable of coordinating such an action,
[59]
but it remains to be seen if they were acting for their own gain, or whether this was done under contract to some other power.”

“Such as whom?”

“It is too early to tell, Watson. You must bring me more data to work with. And where do you propose to start?”

I thought about this for a moment. “From the description of Mr. Fenwick, it appears that our man was a foreigner to this isle. As Portland Place is home to numerous embassies, it seems likely that he might be affiliated with one of them, perhaps as an attaché.”
[60]

“Very good, Watson. I agree with your logic so far. Can we narrow it down further?”

“Yes, I believe we can.” I rose from my seat and strode back out into the sitting room. There I availed myself of a volumes from Holmes’ bookcase. “First, we may consult Bradshaw’s. The man left Portland Square at six in the morning, and given the typical transit time, unless he intended to spend an exorbitant amount of time in one of the waiting rooms he was likely attempting to catch a train that departed between roughly half-past and seven o’clock. I see here that there was a direct to Liverpool leaving at six fifty-eight which fits our schedule well. Bradshaw’s also kindly lists all sailings from our ports. We can therefore find that there are several vessels expected to ship out today from Liverpool, but one is of particular interest. The
Gannet
is a passenger ship sailing to Cadiz, Spain. I think I should begin my efforts at the Spanish Embassy.”

Holmes laughed delightedly, and I awaited the inevitable dismantling of my reasoning. “You are scintillating today, Watson,” said he, to my surprise.
[61]
“I could not have worked it out better myself. I recommend you present yourself there at once. Bring the sovereign with you. Its role in this mystery is not yet clear, but I have little doubt that it is linked to the reason for the man’s disappearance. It is far too unusual a coin to be carried on a man’s person without some end in mind. You may find that it even serves as a magic key to open the door of the ambassador himself.”

§

I was soon on my way via brougham to 49 Portland Place, the home of the Spanish Embassy for many years.
[62]
I was met at the door by a minor functionary, whose name was provided as Señor Sebastian Fernández de Calderón. His dark eyes showed little interest in my admittedly unusual request to interview the ambassador.

“His Excellency is an extremely busy man, Mr….” he glanced down at my calling card, “Watson.” The man’s cold dismissal was delivered with a thick accent that spoke loudly of his small desire to accommodate the sounds of our English language upon his Latin tongue. “If you wish to make an appointment, I believe that he has a five-minute block sometime this June.”

“I think he will wish to see me now,” I replied calmly.

The man’s eyebrow rose in an expression of grave doubt. “Oh, yes, and what makes you think that? You have already admitted that you have no official authorization from the British government.”

“I have this,” said I, simply, holding up the gold sovereign.

The man made a valiant attempt to maintain a mask of cool indifference, but I could tell from the slight tightening of his eyes that I had hit the mark. “One minute, sir,” he said with a modicum of greater civility. “I will speak with his Excellency. Please have a seat,” he waved to a series of straight-backed chairs whose exorbitant elegance implied great discomfort.

As I suspected, he was not long in returning, and his tone had changed. The dismissive attitude had been replaced with a wary caution. He did not know my game. Of course, I too had little idea of why this small coin contained such power, but he did not know that I was completely bluffing.

“This way, sir,” he said, leading me down an ornate hallway, its walls covered by dark paintings in gilded Baroque frames and lined by a plush carpet. Four doors lined the passageway, three of them standing slightly ajar, with Spanish voices echoing from the chambers within. At the end we came to a thick wooden door, where the man rapped softly before opening. He stood aside, and allowed me to enter. As I passed, he announced, “His Excellency, Don Francisco Tomás Velásquez y Reales, the Spanish Ambassador.”
[63]

Once I stepped inside, I found myself in a magnificently appointed office. Everywhere I looked I saw some piece of art originating in the far reaches of the former Empire of Spain, from a Formosan
[64]
spear, to a large intricately-carved stone disk of the Aztecs. A graying, grim-faced man sat behind a behemoth oaken desk. His appearance was austere, with a strong nose below the eyes of an eagle, radiating power and dominance, while his suit was equally somber and cut from the finest silks. As I approached the desk, Señor Fernández de Calderón closed the door behind me and stood guard inside the room. Don Francisco himself made no move to stand, and held no hand out for greeting.

After studying me for a long silent stretch, he motioned to one of the chairs in front of his desk. “You wished to see me, sir?” Although perfectly civil, the ambassador’s frigid tone made that of Señor Fernández de Calderón seem like a crackling hearth.

I seated myself in the proffered chair. “Indeed, Your Excellency. And thank you for doing so on such short notice. However, it has come to my attention that you are missing one of your attachés. I would like to know more about him, in hopes that we can assist in the locating of his whereabouts.”

I thought I saw his left eye tighten slightly, but it was difficult to say for certain in the gloom of the study. He stared at me for a few moments before responding. “I know not of what you speak, sir. All of my staff are present and accounted for.”

I frowned. “Are you certain?”

His brows contracted. “I assure you, sir, that I never speak without being assured of the accuracy of my statements. Rash individuals do not last long in the field of international diplomacy.”

“And your interest in this coin?” I asked, holding up the sovereign in question.

He shrugged. “I am both an ambassador and a historian. I collect rare items of particular note,” he said, waving to the walls of the room. “I assumed that you wished to sell it.”

“I see,” I said slowly, though of course, nothing was further from the truth. I hurriedly reviewed my options. Could the ambassador be lying to my face? It was certainly a possibility. If so, he held the stronger hand, for he understood what was at stake, and now realized that Holmes and I possessed a portion of the puzzle. While I was thus far none the wiser for my visit to Portland Square. “No, I don’t think that I am interested in selling at this moment. I will keep you in mind should my plans change. Thank you for your time, Your Excellency.” I rose and turned back to the door. If I had hoped that the Ambassador might call out and stop me, to provide some modicum of light with which to illuminate the darkness of this case, I was sorely mistaken. He spoke not another word, though I could feel his eyes boring a hole in my back until the door was safely closed behind me.

The functionary began to lead me back down the corridor towards the exit of the building. However, about half-way along the hall, a sudden inspiration struck. I had noted that the same three doors were open, while the fourth door remained closed. This door was labeled in gold paint, evidently with the name of the occupant of the office behind it. It read: ‘Diego Márquez,’ and I suddenly knocked on the door. The functionary stopped in his tracks and spun around to confront my actions.

“What are you doing, sir?” he asked, suspiciously.

“I simply wished a quick word with Mr. Márquez,” I confabulated. “I recalled that I met him once at the Savage Club
[65]
and wanted to pay him the compliments of the season.”

“Señor Márquez is not in the Embassy today, sir. I am afraid that he is at home ill with the Russian Flu.”
[66]

“Indeed?” I said with as much innocence as I could muster. “I was not aware that London had experienced an outbreak of the Russian Flu yet this year. As a physician, I am of course quite familiar with various effective remedies for influenza. If you will provide his address, I would be happy to stop in and ensure that he is effecting a speedy recovery.”

He studied me. “That is most kind of you, sir, but I assure you that it is unnecessary. Señor Márquez is under the care of one of the top physicians in London. We have been notified that he is already beginning to improve.”

I smiled as best I could, though I inwardly seethed that he had deflected my attempt to gain more information. “That is excellent news indeed.”

He motioned towards the door, and I could see no other option but to be led out of the building. Once on the street, I hailed a passing brougham. As I climbed in, I looked back and noted the man watching me from the open door of the Embassy. Something told me that he was intently listening to hear my destination, so I suddenly decided to tell the driver to take me to Westminster Abbey. Not until we were far out of sight of the Embassy did I amend that direction to 221B Baker Street. Of course, the cat was already out of the proverbial bag,
[67]
for I had not thought
a priori
to disguise my name. It would not take them long to discover my connection to Sherlock Holmes.