The Sherlock Holmes Megapack: 25 Modern Tales by Masters: 25 Modern Tales by Masters (4 page)

“One more question, please, Doctor.” He waited until I nodded before continuing. “Do you think it significant that she asked to see the emeralds?”

“Not at all. They are unparalleled in Europe and justifiably famous. I would think it odd if she did not.”

Before he could respond, a shriek pierced the air, followed by heavy thuds and a sharp crack, then the sound of shattering glass.

I whirled toward the closed door. “Good God, what is that!”

My exclamation overlay Denbeigh’s cry of “Mother!” We dashed to where Stanislaw, startled from his impassivity, pulled upon the door handle without effect.

“Locked!” he grunted.

I motioned him away.

“Your Grace! Your Grace, can you hear me?” I pounded upon the heavy oak with my fist, then pressed my ear against the panels. My heart sank at the silence within. What could have happened to her?

Suffused with anger at myself, I bit back my curses. I had failed in my duty; I should have ignored Denbeigh’s request and attended her! I raised my fist, raining blows upon the panels.

“Watson!” From seemingly out of the æther, Holmes appeared at my side.

“Her Grace may be in danger!” I cried, continuing my battery upon the door.

“She and the count are within?” His quicksilver intellect grasped the situation immediately. “Do not blame yourself, Watson,” he said, drawing me away.

With a glance and a nod at Stanislaw, Holmes doffed his coat and handed it to me.

Denbeigh raised his hands in supplication. “Do something, Mr Holmes!”

Holmes’s expression hardened. “Stand back,” he ordered.

Upon a word from Holmes, he and Stanislaw pressed their shoulders to the oak. The wood creaked, but did not give. They tried again with the same result.

The room grew crowded with the concerned and curious, and I instructed several footmen to encourage the onlookers to return to the ballroom, or at least to keep clear a space for Holmes and Stanislaw.

They hurled themselves against the door again. With a loud crack, the latch at last gave. Thrusting Stanislaw to one side, Holmes darted into the dark room. I followed, ignoring Denbeigh’s breathless cries and clutching fingers.

For a moment, sufficient illumination spilled across the threshold to show the overturned table. Before I could discern further details, Denbeigh and Stanislaw crowded the doorway, blocking the brightness.

“Let no one else enter!” ordered Holmes.

Stanislaw turned to face the outer room, a more effective barricade than the violated door.

“Take care, Watson!” Holmes’s voice came from across the room. “Let me light the lamp before you venture further.”

Although wild with concern for Her Grace’s safety, I saw the sense of his request and followed his bidding. He struck a lucifer and the small flame flared in the darkness, sending dreadful shadows dancing across the walls and illuminating Holmes’s grim expression. He stepped to the fixture, and in the still room I could briefly hear the hiss of gas before the sudden burst of light caused me to shade my eyes.

Blinking as I adjusted to the light, I needed only a single glance to take in the room’s utter confusion. As I had observed earlier, the table was tipped on its side, the legs facing the open door. The glass case containing the emeralds lay overturned on the floor by the fireplace. Curtains, now torn, sagged, and light glittered off the shards of several smashed window panes.

A soft moan startled me. I turned to the window, my breath catching: There, half-hidden by a swath of damask pulled from its hanger, lay the dowager duchess.

“Good God!”

In an instant I knelt beside her, gently lifting her limp, ungloved hand. Her pulse, weak and thready, strengthened as she stirred. Minute pieces of glass glistened in her hair and upon her bodice.

“Do not attempt to move,” I said, carefully touching her temple, then lifting my hand to the light. Blood, dark and viscous, stained my fingertips.

She groaned, then appeared to slip back into unconsciousness.

“Holmes, she is in need of immediate assistance.”

Holmes bent over the far end of the table, which almost touched the opposite wall. He grasped one corner and tugged it from the wall.

“I fear she is not the only one,” he said, his voice grave. “Count? Count von Kratzov? Can you hear me?”

I reluctantly released her hand and stood. My medical vows required me to ascertain the count’s condition, although I was still concerned about the dowager duchess. I walked to Holmes’s side and gasped. The count lay sprawled in the corner, his face and shirt-front spattered with blood. I bent over him and rested my fingers on his pulse.

A sudden commotion at the door drew my attention.

“Grandmama! Grandmama!” Sheppington cried. “Let me through, you rogue!”

A scuffle ensued at the door, ending only when the young man dodged beneath Stanislaw’s outstretched arm and darted into the room. His wild gaze roamed over Holmes and me, coming to rest upon the form of the dowager duchess.

Falling to his knees before his grandmother, he caught her hand in his.

“I am too late! The count has killed her!” He choked back a sob.

“Pull yourself together,” said Holmes. Bent over from the waist, he was carefully examining the ruined jewel case on the floor beside the fireplace. A rough circle of shards and patches of glass ground to powder glinted upon the carpet and planks. “She is nowhere near death.”

“Do not move her yet,” I said, turning back to my patient. “Holmes, I require more light.”

“Maryja, matka Boga!”

I glanced up. Carolus entered the room, carrying an oil lamp.

“Bring the lamp here,” I ordered, loosening the count’s cravat.

He placed the lamp on the floor beside me, then clasped his hands behind his back.

“What has happened? Who has done this to my master?” he asked.

“That is what we are trying to ascertain,” replied Holmes. He picked up the shattered jewel case and held it to the light.

Carolus gasped. “The emeralds!”

I finished my examination of the count, then rose stiffly, retrieving the lamp.

“The count has been badly beaten and appears to have fallen and struck his head, resulting in his current state of unconsciousness. However, I do not believe he has any broken bones, nor any internal injuries.” I turned to Carolus. “Have two or three of your strongest footmen carry him to his bed. Does he have a private physician?”

“Yes. He consults Sir Theobald Western, of Harley Street. Sir Theobald is in attendance tonight.”

“Excellent. Send a footman to find him and take him to the count.”

The dowager duchess stirred, groaning softly.

“The devil with the count and his emeralds! What of Grandmama?” cried Sheppington. “She is bleeding!”

“I will also require a bed or chaise in a quiet room for Her Grace,” I continued, ignoring Sheppington’s outburst.

Carolus hurried from the room. I heard him shouting instructions in another tongue. Stanislaw and another footman entered the room, gathered up the count, and carried off the portly figure as easily as a young lady holds her fan.

“Be still, Your Grace,” I said, setting down the lamp beside the dowager duchess and bending to examine the wound on her scalp. “Your Lordship, please allow me room to work.”

After a moment, he sat back.

I took her hand in mine, although I knew what I would see. The empty fingers of her glove depended from her wrist and quivered as I lifted her hand to the light; she had, at some point before she was injured, unbuttoned her glove at the wrist and drawn her hand out through the opening. The better to admire the emeralds? Yet she had not had time to fold away the surplus kidskin. I finished my examination of her hand and gently encircled her wrist with my fingers. Her pulse remained strong. As I probed the wound on her temple, she winced and drew in a sharp breath.

“You may have a head-ache for a few days, but the injury is superficial,” I said, the tightness in my chest easing. I gave her a reassuring smile. “Is it possible for you to sit up?”

She breathed deeply, then nodded. “Of course.”

With the assistance of Sheppington, she sat up by degrees.

“Do you remember what happened?” I asked.

Holmes paused in his examination of the jewel case and glanced in our direction.

She frowned. “As we entered the room, my attention was upon the glass case. I stepped to the table…” She hesitated for only a moment, a faint glow touching her cheeks. “I did not notice anything amiss before the lights were extinguished. And then…” Her brows drew together. “I…I do not remember anything more.”

A soft cough announced Carolus’s return.

“I have prepared a room for Her Grace,” he said. “And sent a messenger for the
policja
.”

“If you cannot stand,” I said, “the footmen can carry you—”

She lifted her chin. “Hilary will assist me.”

“Certainly, Grandmama.” The viscount leaned over, his arm encircling her shoulders.

I lent my strength on her other side. At one point she bowed her head as if overcome. Holmes uttered a brief exclamation and swooped in, but his concern was unnecessary. She gained her feet without experiencing any further weakness.

Despite Holmes’s obvious impatience, I insisted she pause a moment before proceeding. Once assured that she would not succumb, I allowed her, supported by her grandson, to leave the room.

From outside, I heard Denbeigh cry “Mother!” before Holmes drew me toward the broken window. Cold air poured into the room. I took a deep breath.

“Quickly, Watson! The police will arrive any moment. I am certain you observed several deep scorings raked across the count’s face, as if from fingernails. Is it possible that she inflicted such wounds?”

The question did not surprise me. Naturally, Holmes would have noticed my reaction to the evidence on her fingers and wish to ascertain the cause. That did not mean I welcomed his enquiry, however.

I sighed. “Yes.”

“As I suspected.” Holmes sounded extremely satisfied.

“Her actions must have been defensive!” Any other option was simply unthinkable. “Surely the count attacked her…”

“Do you truly believe a lady of her years was capable of repelling his determined attack?” His voice was hard as flint. “And what of the emeralds?”

I looked from the empty jewel case to the broken window.

“No. No, it cannot be, Holmes. She cannot be responsible.”

“You are thinking with your heart and not your mind, Watson! Does not the evidence point to Her Grace surprising the count with a blow of sufficient force to stagger him?”

“With what?” I gestured to the room. “There is nothing she could use as a weapon.”

Holmes pointed to a brass poker lying in a shadowed corner. I had not noticed it before.

“There is blood upon the end,” he said.

How could this be? In her right mind, the dowager duchess would never be capable of such actions. Was Denbeigh correct to be concerned that his mother suffered from kleptomania? If so, could her disease have progressed to a violent manifestation with such rapidity?

Holmes continued. “After she removed the jewels from their case, the count must have recovered enough to lunge at her. She fended off his attack, in the course of which he fell and struck his head. Either she was already in the process of ridding herself of the jewels before this occurred and lost consciousness immediately, or she was able to break the window and toss the jewels outside before succumbing to her injury.”

“If what you say is true, Holmes, and I must admit that I fervently hope you are wrong, it must be a direct result of this insidious disease. She is most certainly not at fault, and it might be possible to salvage her reputation.” I turned toward the door. “Let us retrieve the emeralds before the police arrive.”

“Too late, I fear,” replied Holmes as voices rose in the receiving room. “However, we do have one further clue as to what occurred.” He thrust his hand into his coat pocket and withdrew it far enough for me to catch a glimpse of glittering emerald and fiery diamond against his palm.

I started at the unexpected sight. “Good gracious! But where …”

He returned the gem to his pocket and smoothed back his hair.

“The least of the jewels,” he said softly. “It lay beneath her, and I was able to retrieve it without her knowledge.”

Misery kept me mute.

A hoarse cough from the door caught our attention. A large constable stood on the threshold, holding his hat and frowning.

“Now, wot’s all this then?”

* * * *

I excused myself and left Holmes to explain the situation to the constable, for I still had my patient to attend. Her Grace rested in a cheerful morning room, while Sheppington sat on a footstool by her side. With a thunderous expression, Denbeigh paced the length of the room.

There was little I could do save admonish Denbeigh for worrying his mother, assure myself that her pulse remained strong, and vow to return again in a quarter hour to ensure she continued to improve.

I closed the morning room door behind me and turned to face a tremendous bustle and clamour. Apparently the police had arrived in force while I attended the dowager duchess, for a handful of constables were endeavouring to contain the count’s guests in the ballroom. I returned to the receiving room.

“There you are, Watson,” said Holmes. “You remember Mr Athelney Jones of Scotland Yard.”

He indicated a stout, ruddy-faced man, whose small, bright eyes nearly disappeared into heavy folds of flesh.

“Of course I do,” I replied, as Jones wheezed a greeting.

“Bad business, this,” said Jones. “Dowager Duchess of Penfield attacked, eh? Not to mention that foreign count. I’ve examined the room and will need to ask them a few questions, of course.”

“Her Grace is still quite shaken and should not be disturbed,” I said firmly. Certainly too shaken to be questioned by Jones. “I believe Count von Kratzov’s physician is attending him now. He will be able to answer as to the count’s current condition. When I last saw the count, he was unconscious.”

“Ah.” Jones pursed his lips. “You were there when the attack occurred?”