The Return of Sherlock Holmes Page 3

  Holmes and I exchanged a small glance. That old thing we discovered in Clara’s drawer must have been this! The girl could indeed have hung for such a theft. I had sensed at the time that Holmes knew more but had explained nothing to me. I had no idea what he had up his sleeve.

  “Shakespeare’s inkwell!” said my friend with a smile. “Now that would be a treasure. Acquired by you, I understand?”

  “Gone! Gone! It was there when I retired,” shouted the count.

  “Darling, I think I know who might have taken it,” said the countess. “Mr. Holmes, will you please report what you have found about the missing silver?”

  The count looked up from his despair, to bark at her, “Peterson already has your damned silver. Yes, I know that he found it, Elena. That is nothing compared to this inkwell. Nothing!”

  “But, darling, our silver was sold in London, and Mr. Holmes can describe the person who did so. Perhaps the same thief stole both! Mr. Holmes?”

  “I can indeed describe the seller of your silver, sir,” said Holmes. “The buyer identified her as a delicate, dark-haired lady.”

  “That could be anyone—” moaned the count.

  “But…with a distinctive mole on her right cheek,” added my friend.

  The count looked up in surprise.

  “I told you, darling. Clara! She is a thief,” said the countess.

  “If so, you may find the inkwell in her room, I would imagine,” said Holmes.

  I grew nervous at this, but had learned to keep faith with Holmes’s odd plans.

  “Yes, of course,” said the countess. “It must be there!”

  “Everyone, follow me. Peterson, call the police!” shouted the count. I noticed the hint of a secret smile from the countess as her husband dashed off.

  In a minute the four of us, followed shortly by Peterson and a footman, arrived in the secret room. It was empty!

  Stripped bare. Drawers open, armoire gaping. No clothes. Nothing.

  The girl was gone, along with all of her things. Even I was surprised at this.

  The count and countess stared at the empty room, united in their dismay. The count sank down upon the bed, covering his face. The lady was first to recover. “We must search. Perhaps she…perhaps she left it behind!”

  Holmes had positioned himself in front of the small chest of three drawers. The top drawer lay on the floor, empty, the second was wide open and also empty. The bottom drawer remained closed. The countess edged toward it, mesmerized.

  “It is of no use, Madam, the girl has gone,” said Holmes, as if he did not notice her strange attention to the one closed drawer he was blocking. “If she stole it, she would have taken it with her.”

  “But…we have not looked everywhere!” cried the countess. “That drawer, closed, behind you.”

  “The girl has gone, Elena. Gone with my treasure,” moaned the count.

  “She will head for London, no doubt,” said Holmes.

  But the countess continued to stare at the chest of drawers. “But that drawer. The one closed behind you. Step aside, Mr. Holmes. Step aside, I say,” said she.

  Holmes did not move. “Really, Madam, do you think she would clean out the room entirely and leave this one drawer?”

  “Step aside!” she shouted.

  Holmes was strangely calm. “Yes, Madam.” He moved off.

  She ran to the drawer and yanked it open. It was empty, except for a small envelope of pink paper. She grabbed it, read what was printed upon it, and went white. She closed her eyes and staggered to the bed, sitting down upon it next to her husband. Then, as if realising where she sat, she leapt up, horrified.

  “Pull yourself together, Elena. What does that say?” asked the count. He stood and snatched the pink envelope from his wife’s hands. “Oh, just some advertisement.” He dropped it on the floor. “Dear God. That girl absconded with my…how could she…” his face suddenly lit up with the force of a brilliant idea.

  “Mr. Holmes! You found the silver. Do you think I could employ you to find the inkwell as well? Do you think you could? Oh, please! I would pay anything to get it back. Name your price. Anything. She cannot have gone far. You could trace her, could you not? If you start at once?”

  Holmes paused and eyed the tearful count and countess. “I believe I could,” said he. “But is it the inkwell, not the girl, that most interests you? Would you pay two hundred pounds for its return?”

  “I would pay you five hundred pounds! More! Name your price!”

  “Five it is, then. Please write your check now, and arrange for our ride to the station. Unless it has disappeared into thin air, I will be able to deliver the inkwell to you in short order.” The count and countess swept from the room.

  “Watson, bring that little pink envelope, if you would?” said Holmes, with a quick smile. I retrieved it from the floor and followed him, still in the dark as to his plans.

  Moments later, we stood in the count’s study as he tearfully wrote out a check to Holmes. My friend took it, folded it in half, and placed it in the one dry spot in his clothing, the inside pocket of his jacket. “Thank you.” He smiled.

  “Peterson, the carriage! Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson must be on the next train to London,” said the count. He looked up at Holmes. “You feel certain she went there?”

  “If I were to sell the authentic inkwell of William Shakespeare, that is where I would go. Within days, hours perhaps, it might be en route to the Continent, or even to America.”

  “You could trace such a thing?”

  “I make it my business to track many aspects of criminal London, sir.”

  “If it leaves the country, I would never see it again!” cried the count. “Hurry, please. Peterson, the next train is in an hour! Gentlemen, you can just make it.”

  Holmes patted his pocket. “This fee is for the return of your item, correct?”

  “Yes. I said so. And I must know the thief.”

  “No matter when? No matter who?”

  “Of course! But the sooner the better. I’ll see her hang for this!” cried the count.

  Holmes and I looked at each other. He turned back to the count. “Miss Smith could indeed hang for stealing an item of such apparent value. But, of course, she is of no concern to you. What about you, Madam?”

  “What do you mean?” said the count.

  But Holmes stayed fixed on the lady. “I understand several of the count’s young ‘friends’—er, your lady’s maids—have been through a similar adventure to Miss Clara Smith. A Miss Isabel Christie? And, oh, yes, a Miss Caroline O’Herlihy. Do you know what happens to a maid when she is dismissed without a reference? They are often condemned to living in destitution on the streets. As those two currently do.”

  “What? How do you know this?” said the countess.

  “What has this to do with my inkwell?” shouted the count.

  Holmes continued staring at the lady. She cleared her throat. “Henry!” said she, accusation in her tone. “You were to provide references for them.”

  Her husband waved her off. “I may have forgotten once or twice. That is not my concern.” He turned to Holmes. “But your spying on me is! How do you know about these girls? What is your game, sir?” said the count, staring at Holmes in growing fury. “Give me back my check.”

  “I made it my business to understand your family’s patterns, Count. You and your wife are well-known in London. Many people follow your adventures avidly. Whole columns in the papers have been devoted to them. But I think you are aware. You cultivate notoriety…because you can. Even your inkwell has been written up and pictured in the papers.”

  “What? Are you attempting to blackmail me? It is of no use. I hide nothing.”

  “Blackmail you? No.” Holmes held back a laugh. “Even if I were to stoop to such tactics, there is little I could reveal which
would exceed your actual reputation.”

  The count paused, took a deep breath, and composed himself. The countess put her arm through her husband’s, as if to present a united front. “But the inkwell, Henry, the inkwell. It is missing. The girl is gone. Clara stole the silver. She must have stolen that!”

  “Madam, you stole the silver,” said Holmes. “Will you confess, or need I go on?”

  “Darling, you stole your own silver?” said the count.

  “No, of course not. Mr. Holmes has identified the seller. She had a mole. It was Clara!”

  “Madam, you force my hand. And since you have not made the inference, Count, the pink envelope, if you please, Watson. Kindly read what it says.”

  I pulled it from my pocket. I read that inside are “Twelve Fancy-Dress Ball ‘Mouches’ or ‘party patches.’ ”

  “What are those? And what does this have to do with anything?” asked the count. I was wondering the same.

  “These are false beauty marks—or moles—made of velvet,” said my friend. “In vogue in the last century and used today for fancy-dress balls.”

  The count looked confused. “I thought Clara’s beauty mark was real! The duplicitous little wench!”

  Holmes laughed. “Clara’s? No, hers was real. These false patches were in Madam’s cosmetic case. She used one when she sold the silver.”

  But of course!

  The import of this gradually dawned. The count turned to his wife. “You were the seller? You stole your own silver?”

  The countess shrugged. “Oh, darling. I was justified. You crossed a line with Clara. You know you did. Bringing her to your own room. But the girl is a thief, after all. She took your inkwell. I certainly didn’t.”

  “Ah! Madam, you persist beyond all logic!” cried Holmes. “All right. I saw you place the inkwell in the drawer last night. The drawer you so insisted on opening just now.”

  “That was odd…” said the count.

  “Liar! You have no proof. Your word only.” The countess stood firm, defiant. “Why would I deign to come to that room in the middle of the night?”

  “Why indeed? And yet I watched you do so while the occupant was elsewhere.” Holmes reached into the carpetbag, which lay at his feet, and unwrapped a dainty green embroidered shoe, stained badly with mud. “This shoe matches a print under the stable house window. Yours, Madam.”

  “You have been inside my room!” cried the countess.

  Holmes laughed. “You already know this, Madam. Where else would I have retrieved the pink envelope?”

  “I shall have you up on charges for trespassing!” she snarled.

  “Interesting,” said Holmes. He turned to the count. “You must have noticed your wife’s great concern with the drawer. That is where I saw her place it.”

  “Oh, Elena, why?” cried her husband. “Why would you take the inkwell?”

  The countess paused. But she was not finished. “Fire with fire. I know you, Henry. You fell in love with this one. I had to do something.”

  Exactly as Holmes had surmised.

  “But then, where is it now? Elena, where is it now?”

  “That little strumpet must have found it and taken it. Because, oh, all right, I admit, I left it there. But you cannot deny, the girl is gone, and so is the inkwell! Was the inkwell still there in the drawer when you placed the pink envelope in it, Mr. Holmes?”

  “Yes. When I opened the drawer, there it was.”

  “So you see. The girl is still a thief!” cried the woman.

  “I shall never see it again!” moaned the count.

  “I dare say you will,” said Holmes. “It was in the drawer when I opened it, but not when I closed it.” He reached into his carpetbag, removed the inkwell, and set it on the table. It was a small brass item, struck from a mould. Ornately carved, originally, but quite worn, and with a sizeable dent.

  The count snatched it to his bosom with a gasp, which turned into fury. “What? You trickster! Give me back my check. I’ll have you arrested for theft. And perjury! My wife is no thief. We are just playing a game. The courts will uphold this. Peterson, call the police!”

  “I have done so some time ago, sir,” said Peterson, calmly.

  “I have produced your item and named the thief. Those are the terms. There are witnesses,” said Holmes. He gestured to me, and to the butler. I nodded. To my surprise, so did the taciturn servant.

  “But you had it all along!” cried the count.

  “So did many others.”

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “You will recall that the London papers mentioned your great family treasure. It took me but two hours yesterday—while Madam enjoyed the company of Dr. Watson here at an auction—to learn what I needed. Let me clarify. Here, too, is your inkwell.”

  Holmes reached into his bag and placed a second, identical inkwell on the desk. “And here.” He reached in again and retrieved a third, placing it next to the first two.

  The count gasped. He set down his precious inkwell next to those on the table and stared open-mouthed at three precisely identical items. I could see even from where I stood that the dents in them were perfectly matched.

  “ ‘Shakespeare’s inkwell,’ ” said Holmes, “is a specialty item known among certain dealers of antiquities along the Portobello road. They are a relatively cheap reproduction. The maker of these keeps the price high by only releasing them very, very selectively to…certain types of buyers, such as yourself. Another inkwell resides with a man in San Francisco, and a third in Moscow.”

  “I paid a king’s ransom for that!!”

  “Oh, darling!” cried the countess.

  The count wheeled on us, his face a bright red. Not like a robin, but rather like a cardinal, I thought.

  “Get out of here! I never want to see either of you again!” he shouted.

  “Nor I,” chimed in his mate.

  But the count did not demand the return of his check, and within a few minutes we were climbing into the couple’s finest carriage, which had been brought round to the front of the house on the butler’s command. Just before the door shut, Peterson handed in a large picnic hamper. I opened the top. Inside was a veritable feast of pâté, cheeses, cakes, chocolates, and wine.

  “For the ride, gentlemen,” said he with a small bow. “And thank you.”

  A week later, Holmes and I sat before a roaring fire at 221B, an icy rain again bucketing down onto the street below. Winter was full upon us. My friend had been out often in the intervening days but had spoken not a word to me of where or why. We were perusing the newspapers when I read aloud a small mention of the Count and Countess Rameau having left England to winter in the south of France.

  “There to wreak more havoc,” I said bitterly, feeling the pair had gotten off unscathed from their callous and criminal behaviour. I thought again of the Rameaus’ three young maids—without work, without references, bereft in the freezing London winter.

  “That couple is largely untouchable, I am afraid, Watson. However, there is a silver lining to this case after all. Take a look.” He handed me a paper, and I laughed at the choice of periodical. Of course I’d seen him read them all, from Ally Sloper, Lucifer, Horse and Hound…to the Times. Today it was the Lady.

  A small advertisement in the lower left corner of one page, read “Silver Lining: A Royal Fashion Service. For the discerning woman who would like to be treated and attired like royalty. Three former lady’s maids offer a private service to update and maintain your dress, cosmetics and coiffure on a daily, weekly, or monthly basis. Be exquisitely groomed, beautifully au courant, and the envy of all your friends, while we remain your secret! Taste, discretion, and impeccable references. Ask for Miss C. Smith.”

  “Holmes! Is this what I think? Clara Smith?”

  He nodded. “I approached Miss Smith to offer her
a large share of our fee. The business was her idea, and I convinced her to take on the other two maids as well. I also secured references in writing from both of the Rameaus, and several of their friends.”

  “Well done, Holmes!” said I. “You have been a busy man. A toast, then, to this new enterprise!” I moved to the sideboard and poured us both a celebratory whisky.

  “Yes, a toast, Watson.” Holmes smiled as he raised his glass. “To the Silver Lining!”

  The Curse of Carmody Grange

  By Eric Brown

  On referring to my notes, I am reminded that the winter of 1890 was exceedingly severe, with a cold snap gripping the land and a fall of snow covering the city of London to a depth of six inches. On the morning of January 23, having been called out in the early hours to minister to the needs of an ailing major in Bloomsbury, it was almost eleven by the time I returned to find Holmes toasting his thin hands before the blazing fire.

  “There’s breakfast on the sideboard,” said he. “I would ask Mrs. Hudson to reheat it, if I were you. She was all for taking it away, as punishment for an assumed drink-fuelled late night, but I prevailed upon her to show mercy and explained that you had been called out to Major Fotheringay.”

  “How the deuce do you know I was over at Fotheringay’s, Holmes?”

  “Simplicity itself. You mentioned the major’s gout last week, and when I arose I observed that your bag was not at its usual station in the hall, and that the magnesium was absent from your rack of medical supplies. The deduction was therefore obvious: you had been summoned by the major.”

  I glanced at Holmes as I sat down and tucked into the bacon. “I won’t bother Mrs. Hudson,” I said. “Cold breakfast never harmed anyone. Got quite accustomed to lukewarm kedgeree in Afghanistan.”

  I paused, chewing thoughtfully, and observed a certain vim in my friend’s demeanour as he rubbed his hands together and turned to roast his backside before the flames.