by Anna Elliott
“Pray, sit down, Miss Lovejoy. You have come from Mr. Richt?” Holmes asked.
Clarissa settled herself on the chair Holmes had indicated. “Günter, yes. Or rather, he says that isn’t his real name, but I can’t seem to think of him as anything else. He saw in the papers that the danger was over. So he told me to come here. And he asked that I give you this.”
She took a small blue envelope from her reticule and handed it to Holmes.
Watson was staring at her, plainly dumbfounded. “You weren’t kidnapped?”
Clarissa’s eyes widened a fraction. “Oh no. Günter was afraid that I would be in danger from Eric.” She bit her lip. “I still can’t believe how terribly wrong I was about him. That he could do such wicked things! So Günter took me away. He knew that it was no good speaking to the police himself because he wouldn’t be believed. But it’s all there, in that letter.” She gestured to the envelope in Holmes’s hand.
Holmes slit open the wax seal, drew out a sheet of paper, and read aloud. His voice was nothing like Günter’s, but all the same I could hear in the words the young German man’s accented, slightly pedantic tones.
My dear Mr. Holmes, the letter began.
If you have the intelligence and the resources for which I give you credit, you will already have discovered that I am Hans Wagner, former officer of the Imperial German Navy. I deserted my post because I found that I could not stomach being vaunted as a hero for participating on the oppressor’s side of an unjust war, a war caused by my country’s determination to possess and subdue with military force a land which was not theirs to own.
I abandoned my position and made my way to London. There I took a job with a seller of antiquarian books, as you know. I wished only to forget my old life as Hans Wagner, but chance—or perhaps it is Fate that governs such matters, who knows?—was not to allow me that luxury.
I became aware that my fellow assistant at the bookshop, Eric Brown, was involved in some covert scheme of which he did not wish either myself or Mr. Lovejoy to be aware. Certain messages would arrive for him at the shop which he took care never to show to anyone. More than once, I noticed him deep in conversation with a stranger in the street outside, but then when questioned he would claim that the stranger had stopped him to ask for directions, nothing more. But my suspicions were roused, and by following him to work one day and observing him at the Reading Room, I saw him meet several times with Adolph Meyer, a man whose identity as a spy was known to me from my days with the Kaiser’s navy. Herr Meyer has earned himself a widely known reputation in military circles. I therefore kept an even closer watch on Eric Brown, but was powerless to do more. Approaching the British officials could expose the fact that I had entered England under false pretences and bearing identification documents belonging to my mother’s second cousin in Hamburg.
Then came the night before last, when Eric was attacked and shot at during his shift at the reading room. Eric had received no messages that day, so I did not believe that he would be meeting with anyone at the museum.
What I did not know was that even as I had become suspicious of Eric, his suspicions of me had also grown. I had been careless in my watching of him, and he must have realised that I knew too much about his involvement in Meyer’s plans.
When I returned to the bookshop, an assassin was waiting for me, armed with a knife. We fought. The end of that struggle, you already know. I fled. I make no excuse for my cowardice in running away, except to say that I believe that I was not entirely in my right mind. The attack had brought back memories of the battles fought in China, and I was temporarily overcome. I did return, though, for I could not live with the knowledge that I had left the body of the assassin to be found by Clarissa, perhaps, or Mr. Lovejoy, who had both treated me with such kindness.
I arrived in the street outside of the shop in time to see Mr. Lovejoy arrested and taken away by the police. I beg of you to believe the agony of conscience I suffered in that moment. I wished to turn myself in, to confess to the crime and declare Mr. Lovejoy innocent. But I was afraid that I would not be believed. And even if the police believed that I had killed the man who had tried to murder me, would they take my word for it that Eric Brown, a seemingly upstanding young citizen, was in fact, a dangerous criminal involved in international espionage? If I could not convince them, Eric would be allowed to go free and continue on with whatever nefarious scheme he and Meyer had planned.
I felt that I could not take the risk. But I feared for Clarissa, who, with her father arrested, had no protector. Eric would, the moment he heard of the assassin’s death, know that I had escaped. I feared he might try to use Clarissa as a hostage, threaten to harm her in order to ensure that I did not interfere with his plans.
Also, I think perhaps I was still slightly verrückt, my mind a storm of anger and fear.
I waited my chance outside, and took Clarissa from the back room of the shop while you, Mr. Holmes, were awaiting her in the front room. She was afraid at first, as who would not be. But I explained all, laying out the whole truth before her, and she, thank God, believed me.
I brought her to a highly respectable hotel in Mayfair and engaged a room for her where she could stay, safe and unharmed. Now that the danger has passed, I am sending her to you with this letter, which I hope will serve to explain my actions.
I wish also to inform you that I kept records of the days and times at which Eric received messages, together with descriptions of the messengers who brought them.
These I secreted under the upholstery of Mr. Lovejoy’s chair, which I offered to mend for him. I hope that they may be of some help in building the legal case against Eric and Mr. Meyer.
I realise that I deserve no favours from you, but I would be grateful if you did not search for me. Günter Richt will now go the way of Hans Wagner. I will pass out of Clarissa and her father’s lives and start again. Though I am certain that in whatever walk of life I next find myself, I will meet with no better friends than they.
That explained Clarissa’s reddened eyes.
She spoke as Holmes stopped reading and looked up from the page.
“It’s all perfectly true, Mr. Holmes, everything that Günter wrote. Can anything be done to help him?”
“On that front, Miss Lovejoy, we shall have to see. For now, I believe that your father will have been released from prison and will be on his way home. I am sure that you will wish to be there to meet him. If you so choose, Watson will summon a cab to take you back to Great Russell Street.”
“Oh, father—yes, of course.” Clarissa wiped her eyes. “Thank you, Mr. Holmes, for all that you have done for him.”
“I wonder which literary hero Mr. Lovejoy will quote upon his release from prison,” Watson said, when Clarissa had taken her leave and departed. “Shakespeare, perhaps? Or Tennyson again? There is the line about ring out the false, ring in the true.”
Holmes smiled faintly, but I sat up straight, jarred by the remembrance that had just struck me.
“What did you say, Uncle John?”
Watson looked at me, startled. “I was merely speculating on whether Phineas would find an à propos quotation from Tennyson to celebrate his release from jail.”
“Tennyson.” I let out my breath. “Of course.”
Jack was watching curiously, but I shook my head. Before I spoke out, I needed to think through the potential ramifications for sharing a secret that arguably wasn’t mine to tell.
“What about Richt—or rather, Wagner?” Watson asked. “Can anything be done for him?”
“Ah, Watson, ever the sentimentalist.” Holmes’s voice was milder than usual, though. “You perhaps hope one day to see Wagner and Clarissa united in wedded bliss? I fear that may be an ending better fit for the pages of one of your stories than true life. However, we shall consult with Mycroft on the subject of Mr. Wagner. He may succeed in his wish not to be found. But should we locate him, it may be that, given the service he has rendered for this country, arrangem
ents could be made to bestow citizenship upon him.”
“I shall be content with that.” Watson leaned back in his chair. “In that case, I believe all of this problem’s loose ends have now been satisfactorily tied.”
“No.” I had made up my mind. “Not quite all.” I turned to Jack. “Do you think you could use your influence at Scotland Yard to get me an interview with someone?”
CHAPTER 19: LUCY
As it happened, Mrs. Arden hadn’t yet been transferred to Holloway Prison. Likely because no one, Inspector Lestrade included, was entirely sure whether she ought to be committed to prison or to an institution for the mentally unsound.
We found her in one of the small holding cells at New Scotland Yard.
She looked as though she had been dozing on the narrow wooden bench that served as both chair and bed in the cell, but sat up at our approach. I thought her eyes flashed at me in a sharp, wary glance before a shutter seemed to come down across her features and she gave me one of her fixed, bright smiles.
“Och, hello there, lassie. I didna think I’d be seeing you again. And your husband.” She looked past me to Jack, who was in uniform. “Ye didna tell me that your man was a policeman.”
“No.” Jack stayed by the door to the cell block, but I stepped close to the bars that separated me from Mrs. Arden. “You know, all along, I’ve felt as though you reminded me of someone.”
“Really, lassie?” Mrs. Arden gave me another quick, wary glance, though it, too, was instantly veiled. “I canna think who that would be.”
“Can’t you? At first I thought that perhaps it was your name. Something about your last name kept tugging on my attention. That was part of it. It’s a poem by Tennyson, isn’t it? Enoch Arden. Enoch Arden is a happily married fisherman who becomes a merchant seaman. He’s shipwrecked, spends ten years on a desert island, during which time his family have given him up for dead. He comes home to discover that his beloved wife has married another man.”
“I dinna—” Mrs. Arden began.
“Clarissa told me that her mother was on the stage,” I said. “But that didn’t do you enough justice. You’re a very, very good actress. So good that your act took in Inspector Lestrade and everyone here at Scotland Yard. You were so convincing that you almost took me in, and I’m an actress myself. If it hadn’t been for the detail about your last name, I might never have realised that you were putting on an act, although the cases aren’t exactly parallel. Unlike Enoch Arden’s wife, Phineas never married again. But that is who you are, isn’t it: a traveler, who’s returned after years away from her family? You’re Clarissa’s mother.”
Mrs. Arden looked at me, and for a brief instant I could see the impulse to deny it hovering on her lips. But then she bowed her head and said, simply, “Yes.” When she raised her gaze once more to mine, there was a faint smile on her lips, and the Scottish accent was gone. “When I first went on the stage, I saw myself gaining fame as a great tragic actress. The next Sarah Siddons, perhaps, or Ellen Terry. Imagine my disgust when I was persistently cast in comedic roles. But I ultimately found that they were my forte, and that there was no sense in fighting against it.” She shrugged thin shoulders. “I haven’t acted in quite some years, but it is I suppose gratifying to discover that I still have the gift for it.”
I hesitated, unsure of what to say next. “Phineas had a rather large sum of money hidden in his shop—” I began.
“Not for me!” Mrs. Arden’s posture went rigid, and her voice snapped with sudden vehemence. “Or rather, he tried to give me money, but I refused to take a penny. As though that was why I had come back—to beg and sponge off him!”
“Why did you come back?” I asked.
“To see Clarissa, of course.” Mrs. Arden sagged, and she brushed tiredly at her cheek with one hand. “I suppose it will be difficult for you to understand. It is difficult even for me to understand, and it’s my own life that I am describing. But when Clarissa was born, I—it was not that I did not love her, or that I did not wish to be a mother to her. I did. But Clarissa came to Phineas and me when we were already late in life. When we had both of us already given up hope of ever having a child. Phineas was overjoyed, but I—I felt as though I had already created for myself a life in which a child had no part. After years of wishing for what apparently could never be, I had changed myself into someone who no longer wished for a child. And now that I had one, I did not know how to change myself back. Perhaps I was afraid, afraid that I did not have it in me to be the mother that Clarissa deserved.” Mrs. Arden gestured with one hand, dismissive. “I will spare you the reasons and excuses that I made at the time. Suffice it to say that I left Clarissa and Phineas. I took another name and joined a touring theatre company. I travelled the world. Then, finally, I came home. I wanted to see my daughter. Not to be a part of her life, you understand. I knew I did not deserve that. I just wished to see her from afar, to know the sort of girl she had become. I hoped that I would find her well, and happy.”
Mrs. Arden’s voice trailed off, and she stopped, looking down at her own hands.
“I can understand all of that,” I told her. “But I still don’t see how you came to be in the British Museum’s library, shooting at Eric Brown.”
“I wanted to protect Clarissa, of course.” Mrs. Arden set her jaw. “I never went into Phineas’s shop while he was there. I couldn’t risk that, not when there was a chance that he might recognise me. In fact, he did recognise me. I used to walk along Great Russell Street and past the shop, just to catch a glimpse of Clarissa inside. One day, Phineas saw me and came out. He was still furious with me for leaving him. I cannot blame him for that. But I think he felt sorry for me, as well.” She looked down at her threadbare gown, her mouth twisting. “However angry he was with me, Phineas is a kind man at heart, and he could see well enough that I was not precisely existing in the lap of luxury. He brought out a metal cashbox and tried to offer me some money he had saved—though he stipulated that I must go away and never see Clarissa again. He had raised her with the belief that I was dead, and as far as he was concerned, he wished her to continue in that belief. I could not argue with that—believing me dead would be far less painful for Clarissa than the truth. But I refused the money he offered. Neither could I agree to never see my daughter again, if only from afar. After that, I was simply more careful when I walked near the shop. I made myself up to look quite different—hats, wigs, that sort of thing.” She smiled again. “That part was almost rather fun. Twice I actually went into the shop when I had seen Phineas go out. I didn’t speak to Clarissa, but I was able to see her, to watch her a little. She was so happy and kind to everyone and entirely free of care. And that man admired her, it was clear enough.”
“Eric?”
“The dark-haired one, yes. I could tell that he was falling in love with her—or as much as any man of that kind is capable of being in love with anyone save for himself.” Her voice hardened.
“How did you know what sort of man Eric really was?”
“I followed him. From the first, I didn’t like the look of him, or the expression in his eyes when he looked at her. But I wanted to be fair, and if Clarissa did care for him, I needed to know more about him. No one really notices an elderly woman, especially if she’s shabbily dressed. I was able to follow him about quite closely without his ever suspecting that he was being watched.”
“And you realised that he was involved in espionage?”
“Espionage? Spying, do you mean?” Mrs. Arden’s brows lifted. “So that was it. I didn’t know exactly what his game was, but I knew that he was up to no good—and that he was far from a good man. I saw him going into places where no respectable young man would venture, and meeting with other men who were clearly criminals of the lowest order. Once, I dressed myself up as a beggar woman and begged him for a penny coin.” Her lips thinned. “He responded by trying to knock me to the ground. That alone told me everything I needed to know of his real character.”
&n
bsp; “So you decided to shoot him?”
I was trying to keep all judgment out of my tone, but I must not have entirely succeeded because Mrs. Arden gave me another crooked smile.
“I know, it sounds demented, does it not? But what could I do? I had no proof that this Eric Brown had done anything wrong. Going to low places and meeting with the sorts of people who frequent those places is not a crime; nor is having a heart lacking in human charity. I was desperate, though. I even broke into the shop twice, hoping to find some sort of proof of whatever he was involved in. But there was nothing. I thought of approaching Phineas again, but he had made it clear that he did not wish to see or speak to me. And besides, would he accept my word over Eric’s? Yet I could not bear that he should have Clarissa. I had never been there to comfort or protect her while she was growing up; I could offer her this one protection now. I had the service revolver already. My brother was in the army, and I inherited his things when he died. I followed Eric Brown to his work at the museum, and—”
Mrs. Arden stopped, raising her blue-eyed gaze to meet mine. “I do not know that I could have actually killed him, when it came to it. My first shot missed altogether; my second hit him only in the arm. And standing over him I learned that there is a vast deal of difference between planning to take a human life and committing the act of murder. If you had not interrupted me … well, it hardly matters, does it? You did interrupt. I told my story and played my part—wishing only to keep Clarissa and Phineas entirely out of it, and to let no one suspect the connection between us. But please, now, will you tell me—” she clasped her hands more tightly together in her lap—“I have been locked up here and know nothing at all of what has gone on since the night before last. You spoke of Eric Brown being a spy. Does that mean that he has been found out and arrested for his crimes?”
“Yes. You need have no more fear on that account. Clarissa—and the rest of the world—are safe from Mr. Brown for the foreseeable future.”