by J. R. Trtek
“Godfrey Norton was one,” said Holmes.
“Yes,” replied Girthwood. “I believe you know the other—his wife. Along the way, we gained another compatriot—young Mr. Hope Maldon, the man whom I understand you are seeking. Well, the voyage did not agree with me, I must say, and so upon arriving in London, I was forced to remain there longer than I’d planned before going on.
“It was during that time that Mrs. Norton and Mr. Hope Maldon saw fit to scurry ahead to Paris, with the intention of taking the statue for themselves. I was understandably outraged, sir, as was poor Norton. And then, three days later, to compound matters, what should I read in the Times but an account of Charilaos’s own murder! The details of the story were monstrous, if I do say so myself. I went to Paris immediately, but not much remained of my old friend.”
“I take it the statue had been removed from his shop by that time?” asked the detective.
“I know it was not there, in whole or in part, following the murder,” our guest said. “Well, figuring that somehow my two disloyal associates had absconded with the bird, I returned to London, where Norton had remained. He believed that his wife might come to you for assistance. In the course of our discussions, however, our own alliance fell apart into argument. Norton abandoned me, vowing to find them on his own. We parted enemies, a fact I now regret,” Girthwood added. “Although he himself is no longer capable of feeling the same.”
“Apparently he succeeded in his quest,” said Holmes. “But at the cost of his own life.”
Girthwood stopped in the act of pulling a cigar from his pocket. “Oh? So Mr. Maldon and Mrs. Norton are here?”
“Not at the moment,” replied Sherlock Holmes.
“I see,” Girthwood said, his eyes narrowing. “Were you referring to one or the other or both?”
“Both.”
“So they are not in this house?”
“They are not…here,” said Holmes.
Girthwood smiled with amusement. “Well, that’s neither here nor there, I suppose,” said Girthwood, resuming his motions. He lit the cigar. “I’ve now given you the history of the Hapsburg falcon, sir. It doesn’t rival that fellow Gibbon in depth or wit, I suppose, but the sweep is nearly as grand, is it not?”
Holmes shook out his briar, placed it upon the table, and made a steeple with his fingers. “Tell me,” he said. “Do you believe Robert Hope Maldon has the statue at present?”
“If he does not, then Irene Norton does.”
“Or some other person,” suggested Holmes.
“If it is another person, I may have no hope of recovering the falcon,” said Girthwood. “It is Mr. Hope Maldon or Mrs. Norton or nothing, insofar as I am concerned.”
“You realize,” said Sherlock Holmes, “that to the extent that I become involved with this statue you speak of, I must see it back to its rightful owner.”
“And who might that be, eh? The present king of Spain? The Austro-Hungarian emperor? I believe I’ve already told you, sir, that rightful ownership is an invalid concept where the falcon is concerned.”
“You said several minutes ago that you had to possess this statue,” said Holmes. “What were your original plans to obtain it?”
Girthwood circumspectly trimmed the ash of his cigar. “I’m afraid you venture too far afield there, Mr. Holmes. You take a proprietary view of your own means; I have the same perspective on mine.” The man looked about the room. “Is there anything civilized to drink here, sir?”
“Dr. Watson perhaps might offer you a glass of his Beaune.”
“Ah, splendid! That would be most appreciated!”
Holmes motioned to me, and I rose to pour a modest glass for our visitor.
“Excellent!” Girthwood said, his doughy fingers encircling the offering. “Perhaps I failed to take full measure of you earlier, sir,” the portly man said, looking up at me.
I returned to my chair, catching Holmes’s bemused look.
“I believe you were discussing your means of acquiring the falcon,” my friend said.
“No, sir,” replied Girthwood, clicking his lips, “I was, in fact, avoiding it. The subject is not germane to our discussion. We need merely note that I wanted the statue. Means are irrelevant.”
“Mr. Girthwood,” said Holmes. “I fear means are of the utmost relevance. Mr. Konstantinides was murdered, and so our conversation encompasses capital crimes.”
Girthwood took a deep sip of the Beaune before replying. “Are you suggesting that I am responsible for the murder? Because if you are attempting to assert that point, I’ll have you know that—”
“I mean to imply no such thing. I am merely underscoring the need to, as you said, lay all the cards face up.”
Jasper Girthwood disposed of his cigar’s remains, set his empty glass upon the table, and laced his fingers over his enormous stomach. “For the third time, Mr. Holmes, I am offering to pay you to recover the falcon for me. Your fee, you must realize, will be almost beyond calculation.”
“My fees, as I am wont to remind people, are upon a fixed scale. I do not vary them, save when I remit them altogether, though in your case, an exception could, no doubt, be made. Still, I must, for a third time, refuse the crown you offer.”
“You will not reconsider?”
“How can I reconsider it, Mr. Girthwood, when I have never seriously considered it once?”
Our rotund guest frowned and, in a manner best described as a childish pout enacted by a grown man, rose and took his hat and coat in hand. “You have made me most unhappy, sir. I had hopes our talk would lead to something far different, and you disappoint me greatly.” He placed his hat upon his head and shuffled to our sitting room door. “You shall hear from me in the next few days, Mr. Holmes,” he continued as he left. “But it will be by indirect means.”
“That is some cheek,” I said to Holmes as the man reached the bottom of the stair and the house door closed. “After all, he did send that Starkey fellow here, did he not? Should we not go to Hopkins with a complaint? Should we not read that last comment as a—”
“A direct threat,” completed my friend. “Yes, Watson, we should consider it such, but I am still not inclined to grant Scotland Yard any greater role in this matter than it has already, which is virtually none.” Going to the bow window, he looked out into Baker Street then strode to the sofa and felt it with an outstretched palm. “Still warm,” he said, with an air of disgust. “Watson, I’ll retire to my room now. See that I am not disturbed, please.”
“You prefer that I leave the sitting room?”
“It is of no consequence. I suppose, however, that you should inform Miss Adler it is once again safe for her to come down.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN :
Shifting Courses
It was perhaps an hour later that Holmes emerged from his personal quarters into the sitting room, where I sat at my writing table. Despite my assurances to her, Miss Adler had remained, as she so often had, sequestered quietly alone on the floor above. My friend came to the window without a word, glanced at my work, and smiled. Striding across the room in his mouse-coloured dressing-gown, he sat in the armchair and stretched out his legs.
“Ha! I wonder who the worst man in London is now,” the detective said, resting his head upon the back of the chair so that his gaze fixed upon the ceiling above. “Moriarty, Moran, Merridew, Milverton, Milligan…Hum, is there something evil about that portion of the alphabet?”
“Not since you’ve finished with it, I should imagine. Is this the beginning of more reminiscences?” I asked, dipping my pen and holding it aloft. “I am ready.”
“By that tone, one might believe you think reminiscing to be a vice, Doctor.” He motioned toward my paper. “You are guilty of the sin as often as I. Indeed, you commit yours to paper.”
“And I am compensated handsomely for them,” said I, “both yours and mine.” I smiled and set my pen onto the foolscap to continue.
“There was an American named Barnum who had
something to say about your activities of these past many years, Watson. The remark concerns the naïveté of the public.”
“You have delivered that quotation to me frequently over the years,” I said while finishing a paragraph. “Twenty-seven times during our association, if my count is correct.”
“Doctor!”
I clicked my palate in dismissal, and we smiled briefly at one another.
“I realize this announcement is sudden,” my friend declared in a suddenly serious tone. “But I fear I shall be emigrating as I threatened to do as this affair began to unfold, though the move is temporary. Old fellow, I must travel to Paris.”
“Why?” I asked. “What has changed matters so dramatically that—”
“The death of Godfrey Norton for one,” replied the detective. “For another, I have received an answer to the telegram Shinwell Johnson sent to the Parisian authorities.” He motioned toward the mass of papers lying upon the mantel.
“When did that arrive?” I asked.
“This morning. I met the messenger as he was about to ring.”
“Are you certain you are required on the Continent? Cannot Johnson himself go? Or Langdale Pike, perhaps?”
“No, Watson, there are fine points of detail concerning the Konstantinides murder that have a crucial bearing on Robert Hope Maldon’s whereabouts, and neither agent would be equal to the task, I fear.”
“And so the presence of the master is desirable?”
“Yes,” said Holmes, rising to seek out his clay pipe. “But as my brother, Mycroft, is loath to travel, he cannot attend to it, and so I must stand in his place.”
“What of the continuing siege of Baker Street?” I asked. “Do you expect me alone to protect Miss Adler? I do not believe I can possibly—”
“I do expect that of you, old fellow. What other person has never disappointed my expectations?”
“But what might Girthwood now attempt?”
“As I have noted, the fellow is, at heart, of a vicious type,” said Holmes, coming to my side with his clay pipe in hand. “Yet he is, in practice, a youthful bungler and a bungler without allies in a strange land. You, on the other hand, will still have the assistance of our host of agents, as well as your own personal resources. No, Watson, I do not think Mr. Girthwood poses a fatal threat for the time being, though he needs to be carefully watched.”
“And you truly believe that travelling to Paris is a necessity?”
“I do, as much as when you first asked that question but a moment ago. Trust me when I say I would not leave were it not so.”
“When do you depart then?”
“Today.”
The imminence of my friend’s leaving took me sharply aback. With an attempt to sound unalarmed, I asked, “And what do you believe will come of your visit?”
He found his Persian slipper of shag and smiled. “Nous verons.”8
Lighting his pipe, Holmes vanished into his room again and emerged some time later, fully dressed. Taking his hat and coat in hand, he announced his intention of going out to make final arrangements for departure to the French capital.
“My passage is already booked,” he said. “A few minor loose ends must be attended to, however, before I am off to Paris. In the meanwhile, should anyone call or ring for me, take what message you can, but do not mention my trip to the Continent.”
“Not even to Miss Adler?”
“Exempt her from your vow of silence. Oh, and as before, allow no one above the ground floor.”
“Of course. Are there any other instructions concerning our guest?”
“She has shown the capacity to tend to her own needs,” Holmes said as he strode toward the sitting room door. “I expect she will know what to do and when to do it.”
With that, my friend left the room, departed 221, and set out across Baker Street. I spent the next several minutes alone, writing at the window, before I heard Miss Adler descend to the sitting room.
“Mr. Holmes is out,” she declared as a statement of fact rather than a question. “I heard the house door and assumed it was he leaving.”
“You are correct.” Gathering my wits, I came straight to the matter. “In the wake of all that has recently happened, he has fixed upon journeying to Paris himself.”
“Oh?” she said in surprise, taking to the basket-chair. “He has not yet begun that trip, has he?”
“For Paris? No, he is in the midst of making the last of his preparations. I do not see the need, myself. I am not, however, in possession of all the relevant facts.”
“When is he to cross the Channel?”
“Today, if he is to be believed. In truth, Miss Adler, I confess that I’d rather he not go, if for no other reason than that it leaves only me to assist you.”
The woman sat quietly thinking then said, “If Mr. Holmes deems it necessary, we must not question the decision. And as to my safety, Dr. Watson, I declare my complete confidence in you. You shall prove a faithful guardian; I do not doubt. And you will have all Mr. Holmes’s agents at your disposal, will you not?”
“Yes, that is true, as Holmes himself kept assuring me,” I replied, perhaps more to calm my worries rather than hers.
“I am certain it will all come right,” she responded. “And I know Mr. Holmes believes his course of action is the right one.”
“I assure you he is doing his best for your—”
“I know that, Doctor. As I have remarked before, he is the best at what he does.”
At that moment, as I had done so often in the past two days, I suggested ringing Mrs. Hudson for a bit of food, an idea that my companion accepted. And so, minutes later, we were presented with a delightful set of fried herrings. As our provider departed the sitting room, I passed a plate of lemon quarters to Miss Adler and then briefly looked into the sugar bowl.
“Do you always perform that act?” my dining partner asked. “I have seen you at it previously.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The sugar bowl,” the woman said. “You peek inside before starting almost every meal. Why so?”
“Yes, it is a little ritual of mine, I suppose,” was my reply. “In the early days of our association, Holmes’s domestic habits were not yet adjusted to account for a fellow boarder. He would, not infrequently, store dry chemicals in the sugar bowl, as well as other inappropriate locations.”
“He continues in that habit?”
“Oh, no. This bowl has contained nothing but sugar for well more than a decade, but I still make certain.”
“For luck?”
I shrugged. “I suppose it is my little charm, yes,” I said casually, not admitting my silent wish upon the bowl—that Holmes be delayed in his departure for France.
Miss Adler and I continued to talk amiably together, she steering our conversation to topics unrelated to her current troubles, matters as light as the joys of cycling and the public’s recently revived interest in the game of gossima. After we had finished the herring and Mrs. Hudson had cleared our table, I asked Miss Adler’s leave to return to my writing.
“The last thing I should wish to do is to keep you from your work,” the woman said. “Indeed, I fear my presence alone might be a distraction.”
“Your presence would, if anything, be an inspiration,” I boldly said. “Perhaps I might ask your advice in the matter of turns of phrase?”
“As you wish,” she said, smiling broadly. “I shall read by the hearth again, if you will permit.”
“It is not for me to allow or disallow,” I said. “Please recall that we are both guests here at 221. Though, if it will not offend, let me express a wish that you discard that drab book Holmes gave you.”
“Martyrdom of Man?” she replied. “Oh, I did eventually put that down, Doctor, though I would rather you not tell Mr. Holmes. I found this instead yesterday,” she continued, pulling a volume from the shelves. “It is a quaint historical romance.”
“Oh, yes,” I said. “It is a favourite of mine, a
true epic worthy of greater public attention. I am acquainted with its author, you know.”
“Truly?”
“Yes. There is another work of his there on the same shelf. I recommend it highly as well.”
“Thank you.” The woman sighed. “I must say, I should not think Mr. Holmes would enjoy such works as these.”
“Oh, he doesn’t. Those books there, the group from which you pulled the present volume, they are all my own, you see.”
“They remain here at Baker Street? Why are they not at Queen Anne Street with you? Have you no room for them?”
“It is an embarrassing confession,” I said. “But my future wife has no great affection for them. And, as I frequently find myself here at 221, Holmes generously allots me some space on his shelves.”
“Your wife does not enjoy historical literature?”
“She does not enjoy literature at all, considering it rather frivolous,” I said timidly. “She is of a more practical turn, you see. Her family’s business claims a great portion of her attention, as well as her brother’s, following the death of their father.”
“Does she not enjoy, for instance, the theatre?”
“No.”
“And probably not opera then, either.”
“That is correct.”
“I could not imagine life without either. But then, I have been on the stage. Does she not take even a little joy in music?”
“Oh, yes,” I said at once. “She especially enjoys those little mechanical music boxes. She is fascinated by what she calls their ‘intricate tinkling.’ I have given her three during our courtship.”
“How wonderfully nice of you,” Miss Adler said.
I smiled back at her, feeling somewhat uncomfortable and suddenly melancholy, and excused myself to return to my composition while Miss Adler again took up her fictional narrative of the Hundred Years’ War. Sometime later, I thought to ask her advice on punctuation.
“Oh,” she said with a laugh. “You’re the writer, not I! In any event, is that not the purpose of editors?”