by J. R. Trtek
No other woman had so completely outwitted him, a fact which my friend had often appeared to savour with an odd pleasure in the years that followed. There was no doubt that he admired her as the best of her sex, and he had never since spoken any but kind words on her behalf. It should be understood most emphatically that his attitude was not grounded in romantic love, for such passions were alien to Holmes’s nature. Yet her portrait—taken as payment from the Bohemian king—had graced his mantelpiece ever since, beside a jewelled snuff-box, also given to my friend by the grateful monarch.
And here, in my hands, I held yet another picture. It showed the face of a now older woman, whose smile seemed posed and not the expression of youthful optimism she’d once had. But time and changing fortune were immaterial to me; in my own eyes, at that moment she was still very much, as my friend had so often termed her, the woman.
“We have arrived.”
Holmes’s words interrupted my reverie. Glancing out the window of our hansom, I saw that far more time had elapsed than I had sensed, for unnoticed by me, the cab had crossed Westminster Bridge, passed through Trafalgar Square, and delivered us to our destination—Lennox Square. Holmes paid the driver, and within seconds, we were standing at the entrance to the imposing London home of the fifth Earl of Monsbury. Moments later, after ringing, we offered our cards to a pale, elderly servant.
Holmes leaned upon the area railing as we waited outside. “It is necessary to proceed delicately here, Watson,” he said.
“Because we believe the father and son do not get on well?”
“Yes.” My friend stepped away from the railing toward the front steps. “We noted the absence of any paternal memento in the young man’s rooms, and consider in addition this: why else would the son move from this magnificent house to live in the dismal quarters we just visited?”
The servant returned to lead us inside, where we gave up our coats and hats, passed through a hall lined with a procession of family portraits in oils, and gained admittance to the study of Parliament’s renowned eminence grise. The earl was a tall, dour man who greeted us with stiff formality.
“I told the Yard you were the one I wanted,” he said to Holmes in a stirring sotto voce. “And you’re the secretary, aren’t you?” he asked of me. “Supposed to have been a medical man at one time, I believe. War hero in Natal as well, I was led to understand.”
“This, indeed, is Dr. John H. Watson,” said my friend. “A man famed as my accomplished partner in detection, a distinguished veteran of the late Afghan war, and a struggling biographer for almost two decades. What you wish to relate to me shall be for his ears also.”
The old man nodded while surveying me with a cocked eye, an action which increased my embarrassment at Holmes’s exaggeration. “Yes,” the earl went on. “That inspector from the Yard—Hopkins it was—he said you might insist on that if your man was along. Well, do you know where Robert is? Take chairs, gentlemen. Please forgive me, but could you do with a drink also? No? Very well. I apologize, for my mind is occupied with the Estimates3 these days—but do you know where he’s gone to?”
“At this moment, I fear I do not,” Holmes replied, leaning back in his chair as I took to mine.
Our host nearly dropped into his own chair and sighed. “That is hardly what I expected to hear. Your reputation for efficiency seems not in accord with the reality.”
“Lord Monsbury,” said Holmes, “I said I did not know your son’s whereabouts; I did not say I could not discover it. My own investigation is not quite two hours old, and as for my reputation”—he gave me a look of mock reproach—“well, my prestige among the readers of sensational literature notwithstanding, I am only mortal.”
The cabinet minister lowered his head. “I apologize for my presumption, sir. I thought you had been engaged in the matter since yesterday.”
“Inspector Hopkins came round to us only this morning with news of the disappearance and your request for my services. That misunderstanding aside, the inspector also said you yourself possessed additional facts vital to the case, which you wish revealed only to us.”
“Indeed,” said the old man, transfixing me again with the severe gaze of his intense blue eyes. “The information is most confidential.” He paused, as if reluctant to go on. “Of course, Mr. Holmes, your reputation for discretion is well-known in high circles, both here and on the Continent.” He paused yet again, as if in deep thought. “Five continents, I am given to understand. I trust that has not been exaggerated.”
Holmes raised his chin almost imperceptibly. “Rest assured it has not.”
The earl clasped his hands together. “Robert, you see, has taken with him certain corporate shares from this house. In point of fact, he has stolen them; that’s what he’s done.”
Holmes appeared unmoved by the disclosure. “Is that all?”
“Is it not enough?” pleaded the father. “They were entrusted to my care last year by a colleague in Parliament. Think of the effect upon my reputation, gentlemen, if I cannot produce them on demand. Those shares must be found at once, and they will be found in Robert’s possession!”
Holmes remained impassive. Quietly, he said, “Do you believe your son took these shares to pay his gambling debts?”
“Ah, so you do know something after all!”
“I’ve examined his rooms, and his desk held notes and letters which suggest he may no longer fully control his financial destiny,” replied Holmes.
“Well then,” said the cabinet minister. “Since you’ve already divined the boy’s character, there’s no need to mince words with you. Robert’s a wastrel. He’s never understood the concept of proper behaviour, never followed my wishes from the day he was brought into this world. Worried his poor mother right into the next one, he did.”
Lord Monsbury’s veined hands clenched each other ever more tightly. “He has no sense of responsibility or honour, sir. We share a family name, the two of us, but nothing else, and I must confess I can find in myself no honest affection for the boy. Condemn me if you will for my sentiments, but there they are, and there they stand. I require only one thing,” he said, pounding the arm of his great wooden chair. “And that is the return of those shares.”
Sherlock Holmes brushed his coat sleeve, and for several seconds, there was an uncomfortable silence among us. At length, the detective spoke.
“May I ask where these shares were kept?”
“They were in a wall safe behind that picture there, between the busts of Tacitus and Petrarch.”
“Have you any idea how your son might have had an opportunity to take them or even to have known of their existence? From what you have said, I should not think he would be welcome in this house.”
“He is not. The boy comes round every three months to obtain his allowance and visit his former rooms, as his mother asked upon her death-bed. It is an obligation I undertake in memory of her.”
“He receives this allowance from you personally?”
“Of course not, Mr. Holmes. I’ll not speak to him. Stephenson, my secretary, gives it him. I make certain I am not at home when Robert calls.”
“And yet he knew of the shares?”
“Obviously he did. He took them when he received his last allowance, did he not?”
“Tell me, Lord Monsbury, have there been recent changes in your household staff?”
“None of a major nature in over two years, sir. I pride myself on this house’s efficiency and stability—and on the honesty of those who work here.”
“When did your son last pay his quarterly visit?”
“It will have been three weeks come Friday.”
“And when did you realize the shares were gone?”
“Two days ago, Mr. Holmes. If you mean to fix whether they were in this house between Robert’s visit and then, I cannot say. The last time I confirmed possession of them was a month ago.”
“Can you then be confident your son is, indeed, the thief? Perhaps another—”
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“It was Robert,” maintained the old man. “I know it was Robert. I say it was Robert, and it is Robert I engage you to find.”
“Please pardon me, Lord Monsbury. I mean no effrontery but seek only to clearly establish my precise charge from you—whether it is to find your son or the missing shares. If it is the latter, then I shall not presume your son to be the thief; indeed, I shall not presume the shares were necessarily stolen at all. On the other hand, if your son is to be the quarry, then I shall endeavour to locate him directly, with the shares of secondary concern. Now, with those choices before you,” said the detective, his arms outstretched in a subtle supplication, “am I to cast my net for your shares or your son?”
The old man’s face flushed with anger as he said, “I desire you to find the latter, sir.”
“Very well,” replied Holmes, rising to his feet. With more than a bit of embarrassment, I followed the lead of my friend.
“Find him,” the earl repeated, glaring at Holmes, his creased neck pulling up from his stiff white collar. “Find him, and you will find those shares at the same time; I tell you! Discussion of your commission is, of course, unnecessary,” he said with a palsied wave of one hand. “You may name your price, Mr. Holmes.”
“My fees, Lord Monsbury, are on a fixed scale. I do not vary them, save when I remit them altogether, which I shall not do in this instance. Trust that your bill will come due in time. I wish to ask only one thing of you at the moment. Is your secretary in the house?”
“Stephenson? Yes, of course. You wish to see him?”
“I wish to have him see us out, if he might.”
“Of course. I shall ring him,” said the old man, rising from behind his massive desk. “You understand, of course, that Stephenson is unaware that the shares are missing. I leave myself to the mercy of your discretion, sirs.”
“That trust will not be betrayed,” replied my friend. “I assume, however, that the disappearance of your son may be mentioned in the man’s presence.”
“It was he who first called my attention to Robert’s vanishing,” Lord Monsbury replied as the study door was opened by a thin, young man, whose prodigious head of blond-red hair contributed in no small amount to his total height. The earl introduced him to us as Diarmund Stephenson, his secretary.
“Mr. Holmes wishes your escort from this house,” the cabinet minister continued. “You shall soon call with definitive news in this matter, I do hope,” he told the detective.
“I fear I cannot assure you as to that point,” replied Sherlock Holmes as we left the study. “Detection is more akin to cricket than rugby; we do not play by the clock.”
With that, we left our client to himself and were led past the family gallery and down the stair by Mr. Stephenson, who chatted constantly about the disappearance of young Hope Maldon.
“That is the reason for your coming here, isn’t it?” he asked anxiously. “I caught what I supposed to be an allusion as I entered the study. If I may say, Mr. Holmes, Robert’s vanishing is most shocking and disturbing. Believe me when I say my own concern for him must rival that of his father.”
“That I do not doubt,” replied Holmes as we reached the ground floor. “You are well acquainted with the son then? Indeed, the earl indicated that it was you who first learned of the young man’s disappearance.”
“Well, yes, I did inform Lord Monsbury that Robert was missing from his rooms.”
“One can conclude then that your relation with the earl’s son is not limited to the transfer of his allowance,” declared Holmes. “His last visit for that purpose was three weeks past.”
The young secretary gave a start. “Yes, I get your point, sir. Well, in truth, Robert signs for his allowance, and by my oversight, he failed to do so on the occasion of his last distribution. I sought him at his rooms but to no avail. It was then that I reported his absence to my employer.”
“Hum. My impression is that the two of them are not on the best of terms.”
“The earl and Robert? Yes, that, unfortunately, is true,” replied Stephenson, watching the approaching servant as we reached the house entrance. “It’s not hard for an outsider to tell that, is it? Tragic—the misunderstandings, I mean.”
Holmes cocked his head while accepting his coat from the servant. “What misunderstandings?”
“Robert has always believed that he has been wrongfully judged—with respect to his character, you see.”
“Tell me again, Mr. Stephenson,” Holmes said, taking his topper in hand, “and this time, most truthfully; how close are you to Mr. Hope Maldon, to whom you repeatedly refer by his given name?”
“Allow me to be very circumspect here, Mr. Holmes. In my capacity, I must be. You understand.”
“Of course.”
Stephenson watched as the servant handed me both my coat and hat, and then he dismissed the man and began to hesitantly explain. “In truth, we have, for some time, met socially. Soon after coming into the earl’s employ, having first met Robert when he called for his allowance, I chanced upon him one day at a wine lodge in the Strand, and we fell into a most enjoyable conversation. Discovering much in common, we thereafter dined together regularly, and upon occasion I joined him at the music hall or for a game of cards. All this has been without the knowledge of the earl, of course. You will not inform him of these things I tell you?”
“Be assured of my discretion,” said Holmes.
“Then please accept my apology for misstating matters only a moment ago. The story of Robert not signing for his allowance was somewhat a lie. Well, perhaps more an omission of sorts. Almost two weeks ago, after his return from a tour of America, we had an appointment to meet at the St. Pancras Hotel, but Robert never appeared. I called later at his rooms, but he was not in. I left messages numerous times, but they all remained unanswered. It was then that I began to fear for his safety. In fact, whenever Robert received his allowance, he never signed for the money. He refused to do so out of pique, I suppose. Afterward, I would always initial for him. In this last instance, I had neglected to and so used that blank space as my pretext for calling Robert’s absence to the earl’s attention.”
“Mr. Stephenson, are you aware of any problems Mr. Hope Maldon may have in his private life?”
The secretary paused. “Yes,” he said, “and from the sound of your voice, I’d say you’re aware of them as well, sir. The gambling, I mean.”
Holmes nodded. “Tell me, would you expect your friend to act rashly upon his problems?”
“To steal or embezzle, you mean? I should like to think that Robert would never consider such extreme possibilities.”
“Thank you then,” said Holmes, boldly opening the house door himself. “Should you learn of anything relevant, I trust you will inform me?”
“Of course,” said the secretary, accepting Holmes’s card. “Please excuse my repetition, sir, but I do fear for Robert’s safety. An absence of this sort is very much out of character with him.”
“Try to replace fear with uncertainty, if you can,” said Holmes. “That will not provide comfort, but it may allow you moments of relative peace.”
We both strode past Stephenson and bade him farewell. Stepping once more out into the street, I hailed a cab for the return to 221.
“The mighty present a different picture in private life,” I observed as we boarded a hansom. “That was not the Lord Monsbury whose speeches one reads in the Times.”
“Indeed, it was not. Cabby,” called out Holmes, “to St. Glevens Hospital!”
“Not Baker Street?” I asked.
“Not directly, old fellow,” said my companion as our vehicle turned round. “St. Glevens is not far removed from our way home, and I strongly wish to examine the scene.”
“I thought it odd we were not longer at Lennox Square,” I said.
“I wished to leave that place,” Holmes replied simply. “An unhappy house is difficult to endure, even for those who are merely visitors. Moreover, the earl was a mo
st unhelpful witness. Did you notice that it only was at the end of the conversation, and then merely in passing, that he revealed that his secretary had informed him that his son was missing? And what did you conclude concerning Diarmund Stephenson, by the way?”
“Rather an earnest young man,” was all I could muster.
“He is that,” replied Holmes. “And perhaps a bit more.”
“Where does our hunt for the shares begin then?”
“Please recall that the father asked for his son, and thus, the shares are to be of secondary concern.”
“But those shares could mean the man’s career!”
Holmes made no comment and merely tilted his topper over his eyes as the cabman drove on. Minutes later, we arrived before St. Glevens Hospital.
“A familiar sight to you, I believe,” Holmes said as he stepped out onto the pavement.
“Yes,” I replied, following my friend from the cab. “Blanding was a resident here some years ago. My, the place does not appear much changed since that time.”
The driver waited as Holmes directed, and we walked along the kerb to the south end where, as Hopkins had described, a red pillar-box stood at the entrance to a wide court, in which several nurses in heavy coats were taking the air.
“You said Hope Maldon’s mere standing beside this letter-box is of importance,” I remarked.
“Indeed,” said my friend as he walked round it. “Now, Watson, we know the lad displayed a kerchief in the air from this point. What does that suggest?”
“A signal.”
“Well, yes, of course. But answer me this, my young Plato: why stand precisely here? What is gained by coming to this box to give a signal?”