The Sherlock Holmes Megapack: 25 Modern Tales by Masters: 25 Modern Tales by Masters (5 page)

“Not in the room, no.” I explained what I had seen. “I cannot tell you more.”

“Just so, Doctor.” Jones nodded vigorously, his jowls quivering like the dewlaps of a dog on the scent. “Mr Holmes showed me the smashed case. No sign of the jewels. What were they? Diamonds?”

“The von Kratzov emeralds are priceless and renowned throughout Europe,” replied Holmes.

“Are they, indeed?” Jones did not appear impressed.

“That is why the count instituted so many precautions: the locked door, the trusted servant stationed outside, the jewels themselves housed in a case,” I added.

“Which did nothing to prevent the theft,” Jones said bluntly. “So although the window was broken, the iron bars are too closely spaced to allow even a child to enter or exit. Common sense tells us the glass was broken by accident.” He tugged at the waistcoat of his grey suit. “The facts are clear, gentlemen. The thief slipped by the count’s man and entered the room. He then pocketed the emeralds, but before he could leave, the count and Her Grace surprised him. The thief attacked them, and after you and Mr Holmes here entered, he escaped in the confusion.”

“A most interesting theory,” said Holmes. I met his gaze, but did not speak.

“Facts, Mr Holmes! Facts! As I’ve had occasion to remind you before, you should avoid theories and focus strictly on the facts. There can be no other explanation that fits the facts you and the doctor have presented.”

As he spoke, a constable approached and waited to one side. Jones lifted a finger and directed his attention to the young man. Frowning at Holmes and me, the constable murmured to Jones.

“Good, good!” said Jones, then turned to us. “Excuse me, gentlemen.”

Holmes waited until Jones and the constable hurried off in the direction of the ballroom.

“Now is our opportunity, Watson. Let us see what is outside the broken window.” He caught up a lamp and hurried toward a baize-covered door.

Fortunately, we were unobserved as we entered the servants’s hall. I glanced about the dimly lit corridor with dun-coloured walls and cocoa-nut matting on the floor—a stark contrast to the richly appointed apartments that lay on the opposite side of the door. The air smelt faintly of cabbage and beer.

“Do you truly believe we will find the jewels?” I asked, following him closely.

“I most certainly do not believe in Mr Athelney Jones’s theory of a thief who, through no doubt supernatural means, entered the room, stole the emeralds, attacked Her Grace and the count, and then disappeared into the
Ewigkeit
.” Holmes paused as a young woman with a doubtful expression, carrying an armful of linens, hurried past.

After several turns and one brief detour, we gained entry to the cobbled yard. Several grooms bustled about purposefully, while a few others leaned against the wall, smoking their pipes. I gasped as the cold struck me like a blow and wished I had collected my coat and hat first.

“This way,” Holmes said, as always indifferent to the temperature.

I hurried to follow his long strides as he crossed the yard and turned onto Chapel Street. After a glance at the façade to locate the broken window, he handed me the lamp. A locked iron gate guarded the stair that gave access to the deep channel between house and pavement. Holmes nimbly leapt over the gate and made his way down the stair.

I raised the lamp, illuminating the narrow well. Holmes dropped to his knees, heedless of the decaying leaf mould and spots of damp on the pavement.

“Where are they?” he muttered as he ran his hands through the debris. “They
must
be here. Watson, examine the street and the kerb.”

I did as he bade, but saw nothing save the usual effluvia.

“There is no trace of the jewels here. Unless they were discovered by a passerby and taken away.”

“Or retrieved by an accomplice,” he replied. “Which would belie the diagnosis of kleptomania.”

“You have gone too far, Holmes. I refuse to countenance such nonsense! Why, she could no more plan and execute such a devious and audacious theft than I could!”

“I fear you underestimate your capabilities, my dear fellow, as well as those of Her Grace.” He climbed the stair and vaulted the rail again. “However, the fact of the matter is the emeralds are not here.”

“I must admit that I am relieved.” I cast a despairing eye over his stained knees and filthy hands. Holmes followed my gaze. He raised one brow and withdrew his handkerchief, wiping his hands. I sighed. Mrs Hudson would have something to say when she discovered the damage to his evening clothes.

“I have gone wrong, Watson. Very wrong.”

Holmes thrust his grimy handkerchief into his pocket, and we returned to the house in silence.

Slowly we retraced our steps through the corridors. As we turned a corner, Holmes suddenly cried out and fell to his knees.

“Light, Watson!”

I held the lamp near. Nose almost to the floorboards, Holmes extended a finger and delicately brushed a small spot of white powder at the edge of the cocoa-nut matting. It glinted in the light.

“Holmes, is that glass?”

“Yes, Watson!” He raised his face, eyes shining with excitement. “I have been a fool, and you may remind me of the fact whenever I become enamoured of my own genius. In this matter we are now in complete agreement: the Dowager Duchess of Penfield is innocent of this crime.”

“You are truly convinced of her innocence because of a dusting of powdered glass?” I cried. “But how?”

“Through the application of logic, my dear fellow.” Rising, Holmes snatched the lamp from my hands and scrutinized the corridor. “Ah!”

Lamp held high, he strode down the hall until he reached a corner. Bending low, he examined another small spot on the matting.

“More glass?” I asked, frowning. “How can this be significant?”

He glanced up at me. “Where have we recently encountered a quantity of such glass?”

“In the drawing room where the emeralds were displayed.”

“This pulverised glass is the very same glass used in the jewels’s display case.”

“Can you be certain it is that particular glass? Perhaps a servant broke a goblet or bottle, and a shard was crushed underfoot.”

“You may remember the monograph I wrote on the chemical composition of varieties of glass as evidenced through the spectrum, Watson. This is not crystal, nor common pressed glass, nor is it the glass generally used for window-panes. It displays the identical colour signature as the crushed remains of the case.”

We followed the faint traces of powdered glass through the house. His gaze fixed upon the floor, Holmes cast about with the lamp, as if he were a modern-day Diogenes. Passing servants looked upon us with confusion, but none dared interrupt.

“What have you found?” I asked as he bent over at the back of an odd little alcove.

He straightened, his keen eyes glinting in the lamplight, and raised his arm. A length of heavy, dark fabric cascaded from his hand.

“It is a cloak,” he replied, folding it over his arm. “With a hood.”

“Perhaps a servant dropped it,” I said, although my assertion sounded feeble even to my ears.

“Perhaps. But does its presence here not suggest another possibility?”

I frowned. “Not to me. The cloak cannot be germane to the problem at hand, for this niche does not lead anywhere. Look about you; there are no doors or windows, nor even a cupboard where the thief could hide.”

Holmes turned and started back the way we had come. “Watson, recall the words of our colleague, Mr Athelney Jones. We must deal with facts.”

I trailed behind him. “Even if those facts are meaningless as a whole?”

“Ah, but are they truly meaningless?” He glanced back at me over his shoulder. “Come, Watson. You know my methods; use them. There is only one way to assemble these facts into a meaningful pattern.”

He stopped before the baize door leading to the receiving room and set down the lamp. I folded my arms. “What does the evidence reveal to you?”

“Why, everything,” Holmes replied lightly, as he opened the door.

“Everything? Including the name of the thief?”

“Everything, Watson. Including the names of the thieves.” He walked into the receiving room, the door swinging closed behind him.

“Wait, Holmes!” I dashed through the door. “Thieves?”

Much to my aggravation, Holmes refused to say more. Instead of answering my questions, he sent a young constable for Mr Athelney Jones.

Before Jones arrived, I heard a quiet cough at my shoulder and turned.

Carolus bowed. “I beg your pardon, Doctor.”

“Yes?”

“Her Grace requests your presence.”

“Certainly.”

I excused myself and followed Carolus to the chamber where the dowager duchess rested. Sheppington still sat by her side.

“At last!” he cried, leaping to his feet.

Denbeigh ceased pacing and looked at me expectantly.

“My mother wishes—” began Denbeigh, breaking off when Her Grace raised her hand.

“Thank you for responding so promptly, Doctor,” she said. “Has Mr Holmes any solution to the mysterious events surrounding the theft of the emeralds that will clear me of suspicion?”

I sat beside her in the chair vacated by the viscount.

“You understand I cannot speak for Holmes,” I said. “Rest assured, however, that his investigations will soon be concluded, and they are leading in an entirely different direction.”

“I should hope so!” Denbeigh said, posture rigid.

“I am glad to hear it.” She sighed, and for an instant I glimpsed the deeply troubled woman beneath the public persona. The moment passed quickly as she exerted her iron will and continued: “I am certain that I have recovered sufficiently to return home, yet agree with Maurice and Hilary that it would be prudent to request your opinion before venturing forth.”

“Very sensible,” I replied. My examination was of necessity superficial, and when I had finished, I released her wrist with a smile. “You are a remarkable woman.”

She laughed. “You forgot to add ‘for my age,’ Doctor.”

“For a woman of any age,” I asserted and helped her to rise.

Although her step was firm and her carriage erect, she leaned heavily upon me as we slowly walked down the corridor, followed closely by Denbeigh and Sheppington.

We gained the receiving room, where Holmes, no longer carrying the cloak, stood deep in conference with Jones. Carolus listened at a respectful distance.

“A moment, Doctor,” she said, releasing my arm. “Mr Holmes, I believe you have made progress in your investigation?”

“I have indeed,” said Holmes. “If you will permit me to detain you for a few minutes, I would like to demonstrate how the attack upon you and the count, as well as the theft of the emeralds, occurred.”

I glared at Holmes and turned to my patient. “Your Grace, I believe this is most unwise!”

My exclamation was lost amidst the chorus of voices evincing surprise and disbelief at Holmes’s request, which continued until Her Grace nodded once.

“Very well, Mr Holmes.” She quelled Denbeigh’s vehement objections with a glance.

Jones entered the drawing room first, while a constable remained stationed by the door. Holmes quickly ushered in Her Grace, Denbeigh, and Sheppington, followed by Carolus. When Jones questioned the latter’s appearance, Holmes raised his hand.

“In the absence of Count von Kratzov,” Holmes said, “I have requested that his private secretary attend us, so that he may correct any errors I might make regarding the details of the display.”

“Get on with it, Mr Holmes,” Jones grumbled.

I have always maintained that Holmes, despite his protestations to the contrary, is a consummate showman. To set the stage, he lowered the light until the room was cloaked in shadows. Then he positioned Her Grace in the centre of the room by the overturned table and asked Carolus to take the count’s place opposite her.

“Play-acting!” muttered Jones, but he did not object further.

“Upon your entry into the room, your attention was immediately caught by the sight of those magnificent emeralds,” Holmes said, addressing Her Grace. “As you admired them, the count stood by your side. His remarks became more personal and intrusive. When he pressed close, becoming increasingly familiar, you struck out at him and withdrew to the window.”

The colour drained from her face, and I hurried to her side. She waved me away.

“Continue,” she said, her voice firm.

Holmes lifted one brow. “Before he could pursue you, the lights were extinguished and there was a sudden commotion: the sounds of a struggle and breaking glass, the grunts of the combatants. In the faint illumination from the window, you watched as indistinct shapes wreaked havoc in the room.”

Her hand crept to her throat and she nodded, her eyes dark with the memory.

“I recall it all now,” she whispered. “A man stumbled toward me. It was the count, his face streaming with blood, his hands reaching…” She shuddered. “He struck me on the temple, a blow that sent me reeling. I fended him off, and he moved away with a cry, but my head swam and I staggered, grasping at the curtains for support.” She looked at Holmes, her brows drawn together in bewilderment. “I do not remember more.”

“That is hardly surprising,” I said, stepping to her side. “Holmes, I really—”

“No, Doctor,” she interrupted. Her voice trembled. “I must know what happened. Mr Holmes, can you tell me who attacked the count, and how did he enter and leave a locked room?”

“Certainly, Your Grace.” By some trick of the light, Holmes’s eyes shone like a cat’s. “I shall answer the latter first.” He strode to the far wall and ran his long fingers across the moulding.

“Mr Holmes,” began Jones. “What are you—?”

His question died upon his lips as, with a soft creak, a portion of the wall swung open. A secret panel! I was scarcely able to believe my eyes. Beyond the opening, I could make out the small niche that Holmes and I had explored earlier.

“Good God!” cried Denbeigh. Sheppington bit back a ripe oath.

“Capital, Holmes! A palpable fact!” Jones smiled and tugged on the lapels of his coat. “I asked for facts, and you have provided me with a corker!”