The Sherlock Holmes Megapack: 25 Modern Tales by Masters: 25 Modern Tales by Masters (3 page)

“You asked about my activities today,” Holmes began. “You will be pleased to know I performed honest labour and a little reconnaissance. With the assistance of Mary, the youngest and most imaginative of Her Grace’s housemaids, I repaired several broken panes in Her Grace’s dressing room.”

I glanced at Holmes. “How convenient that there were broken panes which required repair.”

He did not reply, but simply flashed a small smile and folded his hands upon his knee.

“And how were those panes broken?” I continued. “Your young colleagues throwing rocks, perhaps?”

“It is positively shameful how these hooligans run wild.”

I was not at all surprised Holmes had arranged such an event. In the interests of justice, he maintained that to prove the greater crime, one could be forgiven the lesser. I generally agreed.

“And what about young Mary?” I turned a critical eye on him. “I hope you did not play upon her expectations.”

“Never fear, my dear fellow. I assure you that our relations were entirely proper. Her eldest brother is a glazier in Plymouth, and we spoke of the demands of his trade after the fleet has returned to port.” He lifted an eyebrow. “You would be surprised at the amount of destruction perpetrated by Her Majesty’s forces whilst in their cups.”

“I assure you, I would not.” I suppressed vivid memories of the actions of my military brethren during leave. “And what news did Mary convey?”

“A great deal of commiseration for Her Grace and Lord Maurice regarding the activities of Viscount Sheppington, some of which were conveyed in a whisper, with hints of others that were far worse and could not be spoken of.”

I shook my head. “Is the young man truly so far sunk in vice and dissipation?”

“Apparently so, although when I enquired if she had witnessed any of his dreadful behaviour, she denied it.”

“Then how did she know of it?”

“Ah, there’s the question, Watson. Rumour amongst the other servants is the most likely cause; however, I have identified a few other possibilities.”

Before I could ask him to elaborate, our cab came to a halt.

“Number sixteen, sir,” said the driver.

As Holmes paid, I wrapped my scarf closer around my neck and stepped to the pavement amidst the confusion of a dozen cabs and carriages disgorging their passengers.

The count’s house sat at the end of the row, brightly lit windows facing both Grosvenor Place and the side street. The façade was of fine Portland stone with elaborately carved lintels. A heavy granite wall bordered the pavement, leaving the narrow well between wall and house immersed in a pool of black. During the day, those subterranean rooms whose windows faced the wall would receive scant illumination; at night, the darkness was Stygian.

Gentlemen and ladies hurried by and quickly mounted the steps. The open front door welcomed guests as the music from within wafted to the street.

“This should prove an entertaining evening, Watson.” Holmes joined me on the pavement. “I have already spotted one jewel thief in the crowd, and there may very well be more.”

I turned to stare at the passersby. “So your suspicions were correct! What dreadful news!”

“Calm yourself, my dear fellow. Come, let us join the others and see the legendary emeralds for ourselves.”

We were ushered inside and shortly thereafter presented to the Count von Kratzov, a portly little man with eyes as black and round as shoe buttons.

“Welcome, Mr Holmes, Dr Watson.” He spoke perfect English, despite a heavy accent. “Your reputation precedes you, Mr Holmes. Should I be concerned about the safety of my jewels?”

Holmes bowed. “That depends upon the security of your arrangements.”

“Ah, of course. You shall judge for yourself.” He glanced at a thin, sharp-featured man with the stooped shoulders of a scholar who stood to one side, and addressed him in what I assumed to be Polish. “My private secretary will accompany us.”

Excusing himself from his other guests, the count led us down the corridor toward the rear of the house to a receiving room where a burly footman stood beside a door. The count drew out a key hanging on his watch fob, unlocked the door, and preceded us into a small drawing room. A glass case rested atop the polished mahogany table. On the other side of the room sat a broad fireplace. The hearth was cold, and the chamber’s sole illumination came from a gas fixture arranged to shed its light upon the table, leaving the rest of the room in shadow. Once inside, the count closed and relocked the door and then gestured toward the closed windows that faced Chapel Street. Through the glass, I could see closely spaced iron bars.

“This door is the only means of entering or exiting this room, gentlemen, and I myself hold the sole key. Only a few select guests will be invited to view the stones, but in case anyone tries to slip in unobserved, Stanislaw is on guard outside. He has served my family for many years and is completely trustworthy.” The count lifted his eyebrows and looked at Holmes. “As you can see, I have taken every precaution.”

Holmes studied the room for a moment. “Your secretary does not have a duplicate key?” he asked.

The count chuckled and turned to the man who stood as still as a statue just inside the door. “Carolus, explain please.”

Carolus gently cleared his throat. “This morning, before we brought the jewels from the bank where they had been housed for safekeeping, I oversaw the installation of a new lock on the door. The locksmith himself handed the only key to my master.”

“I see.” Holmes turned to the glittering gems, nestled on black velvet inside the case.

I leaned forward. The emeralds were magnificent, with brilliant colour and unparalleled clarity. There were eight stones in all, each cut in a different style and displayed in an elegant setting, save for the largest and most spectacular stone. It lay in the centre of the case, loose and unadorned; it needed no other device to enhance its beauty.

Holmes nodded once, and we followed the count into the corridor.

“I commend you on your arrangements,” said Holmes, as the count closed and locked the drawing room door. Carolus bowed and slipped away.

The count smiled and rubbed his hands together. “Your words comfort me, Mr Holmes. And now, shall we join my other guests?”

As we entered the ballroom, an elderly matron approached and playfully batted the count’s arm with her fan.

“Count! You have been avoiding me!” she said as she neatly separated von Kratzov from Holmes, much as a dog would separate a lamb from the flock. They disappeared into the crush, and I turned to Holmes.

“Well, Holmes, the count has certainly established a secure location for the stones. I cannot see how anyone could steal them.”

“I wish that were the case.” He glanced at me, then clasped his hands behind his back and turned to contemplate the dancing couples moving about the floor. “I have identified five possible methods for surreptitiously removing one or more of the emeralds from their case and then from the room. I am certain, were I to exert myself, I could add half-a-dozen more.”

“Surely you jest!” I stared at Holmes in surprise. “The door is locked, the windows are closed and barred, and a guard is stationed outside. What more could be done?”

“What more, indeed.” A smile touched the corners of his mouth. “If all my adversaries were as straightforward as you, I would have no fears at all about the fate of the von Kratzov emeralds.”

His words stung. “If my contributions are so useless, I wonder that you include me in your investigations at all.” I accepted a glass of champagne from a passing footman and drank rather more deeply than usual.

“Watson!” Holmes turned to me, his brows drawn together, yet not in a scowl. “I beg your pardon, my dear fellow. My words were ill chosen. Do not ask me, however, to apologise for the sentiment. Your mind acts as a touchstone to that which is pure and good; although agile, it lacks the sordid depths and devious paths of the criminal’s mental processes.”

Somewhat comforted, I took another sip of the count’s excellent champagne.

“What would you have me do this evening?” I asked.

“Will you assume responsibility for following Her Grace? I shall concern myself with observing Denbeigh and Sheppington.”

“With pleasure. But do you think it possible that she could steal one or more of the emeralds and elude detection?”

“That, of course, is the crux of the matter, isn’t it?” With an enigmatic smile, Holmes disappeared into the crowd.

A few moments later, Her Grace was announced, along with her son and grandson. I could see no sign of Holmes, yet I had no doubt he knew the whereabouts of every individual in the room.

Mindful of my charge, I peered at the dowager duchess and her party over the rim of my champagne flute. Resplendent in diamonds and sapphires, Her Grace displayed an engaging vivacity. She smiled at the count’s attentions, which were so marked as to be offensively Continental; indeed he stood so close that he actually trod upon her skirts.

With a thunderous expression, Sheppington clenched his hands into fists, but a word from Denbeigh stilled him. Drawing the young man away with a firm hand upon his shoulder, Denbeigh led him toward the supper room.

Her Grace continued to smile as the count gestured and spoke, yet her gaze appeared to follow their retreating forms. It was only upon the announcement of the arrival of another guest that the count bowed and turned away, leaving the duchess alone.

I stepped forward and, catching her eye, bowed.

She approached and extended her hand. “So here you are, Doctor.”

I raised her hand to my lips and then, somewhat reluctantly I confess, released it.

Leaning close, she lowered her voice. “I assume Mr Holmes is also here?”

“He is, Your Grace.”

She nodded in abstraction. A young guardsman inadvertently jostled her, and after politely receiving his incoherent apology, she drew a deep breath and took my arm in a firm clasp.

“Let us remove ourselves from the throng,” she said. I led her to a quiet corner by a heavily curtained window, and she continued: “You mentioned that we had met before at the Smythe-Parkinsons’.”

“Yes, several years ago. At a fancy dress ball.” I smiled at the memory of that carefree country weekend.

“What were you wearing?”

“I went as Pierrot. Not very original, I am afraid,” I said, my face warming. A more elaborate costume had been beyond my means.

“I am certain you looked most handsome.” The duchess tilted her head inquiringly. “And do you remember what I wore?”

“Of course. An Elizabethan-inspired dress in blue,” I replied promptly. “I believe it was velvet. You were enchanting.”

Indeed, she had outshone women half her age. No one attending the ball that night could have failed to admire her verve and beauty. Even now, so many years later, I picture her clearly.

“Ah, yes. That costume did suit me rather well, did it not?” She smiled and pressed my arm. “I am flattered you remembered me.”

“You were impossible to forget.”

“Doctor, you missed your true calling,” she said with a laugh. “You are quite the diplomat.”

At that moment, the count appeared before us, flanked by the dowager duchess’s son and grandson. I could not help but see the trio as examples of the worst traits of modern man: Count von Kratzov, coarse beneath his veneer of urbanity; Lord Maurice, colourless and cowed, living his life in a perpetual state of nervous exhaustion; and Viscount Sheppington, whose youthful attractiveness hid, by many accounts, a dissolute character.

“Doctor Watson!” Denbeigh appeared startled. “I did not expect to see you here. Is Mr Holmes also in attendance?”

“Yes, he’s about,” I said. “We were pleased to accept Count von Kratzov’s invitation.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” said the count before turning to the dowager duchess. “Your Grace, I would be honoured if you would give me the next dance.”

She sighed, the exhalation so soft I am certain I alone heard it. With a final squeeze, she released my arm and turned to the men.

“Thank you, Count von Kratzov. However, I am a trifle fatigued. Might I prevail upon you to show me those magnificent emeralds instead?”

For a moment the tableau stilled, as if each player were frozen in time. Even the music paused, and during that short-lived quiet, I heard a soft, sharp inhalation, although I could not tell from whom it issued. Then a woman’s shrill laugh rang through the room, and the silence ended as suddenly as it had begun, movement and sound resuming.

The count’s expression briefly darkened, then his scowl disappeared as quickly as it had come.

“But of course, dear lady,” he said, bowing and offering his arm.

The dowager duchess hesitated only a heartbeat before resting her gloved hand upon his. She glanced at me over her shoulder, and I do not believe I mistook the plea in her gaze.

“Doctor, you will join us, won’t you?”

“It would be my very great pleasure, Your Grace.”

Von Kratzov escorted her across the room. Denbeigh and I followed in their wake, as cygnets paddle behind a swan. The four of us had gained the receiving room, and I saw that Stanislaw still stood guard before the door. Denbeigh plucked at my sleeve.

“Doctor, a word, if you please.”

The count ushered the dowager duchess into the small room that housed the emeralds as I turned to Denbeigh.

“Her Grace asked me to…” I began. Stanislaw closed the door and turned to face us, his broad Slavic features impassive.

Denbeigh’s grip tightened and he pulled me to the far side of the room. “I will only take a moment.”

“A moment, then.” I glanced at the drawing room’s closed door.

Leaning close, Denbeigh spoke low. “Where is Mr Holmes?”

“As I said before, he is somewhere about.”

“But why is he not here, observing my mother?” His fingers dug into my arm.

“You must ask Holmes yourself. I cannot speak for his actions.” I pulled from his grasp and stepped away.

“Of course not,” he said, the colour high on his cheeks. “Forgive me, I am simply concerned about my mother.”

“I understand,” I replied, my irritation fading. “Holmes and I both share your concern, and I am certain that, whatever he is doing, he is endeavouring to prevent any incidents from occurring that would involve Her Grace. Now, if you will excuse—”