by J. R. Trtek
Miss Adler thought to speak but did not.
“I should tell you,” Holmes continued during her hesitation, “that I observed the message you had scratched upon the pillar-box.”
“Ah,” the woman said. “I could not be certain, but you never mentioned it. Yes, the impulse to betray Jasper and Godfrey was mine. I made the plans, not Robert, and he followed them. We travelled to Paris without informing the other two and there sought to steal the statue from Konstantinides’s shop.”
“The result of which was that you obtained the falcon and had it sent to Aberdeen Shipping in Fresno Street.”
“Yes.”
“From there, if you could elude your two betrayed partners and claim the statue, your fortune was assured,” declared Holmes. “However, complications ensued.”
“The shipment was delayed.”
“That was not the complication I was referring to,” said my friend. “I did not know of it until just now, and I thank you for that bit of truth. The delay added to your worry. The longer you had to wait in London, the more likely your husband and brother would find you.”
“The complication was the separation then?” I asked on impulse, before abruptly putting my hand to my mouth. “My apologies, Holmes. In my anxiety, I interrupted.”
My friend gently smiled. “Your exemplary conduct in this affair has more than won you a place in the discussion, Watson. And, though you do not realize it, your comment was most apt.”
He turned again toward Irene Adler. “For the parting between you and Hope Maldon in Paris was, indeed, the complication I was referring to. Except, old fellow,” he added, once more glancing in my direction. “It was not as the lady first told it.”
Holmes then leaned back in his chair. “The man who rang up this house and spoke to Mrs. Hudson was not Robert Hope Maldon, though Miss Adler tried to convince us that it was.” He stared at the woman.
“It was Godfrey,” admitted Irene Adler.
“The card with the printed word ‘Soon’ that arrived here at 221 was not sent by Lord Monsbury’s son.”
“Godfrey sent it,” the woman said.
“Robert Hope Maldon neither called by telephone nor sent a message, because he never returned to London. The person who called upon the office of Solicitor Lucius Crabbe—”
“Was I, in men’s garb,” confessed Irene Adler. “I came back from Paris with some of Robert’s possessions and then obtained some few additional items from his rooms when I visited there briefly. It was then that I found Godfrey had apparently searched it, leaving the damaged photographs as a warning. I dressed as Robert and travelled to Crabbe’s office simply to make an appearance, to make it seem as if Robert had, indeed, returned.”
“But he did not?” I asked.
“No, he did not,” said Holmes in a mournful voice. “At first, all I had was conjecture, but conjecture I found rather compelling. Always we just failed to catch up with the young man. He was seen at Solicitor Crabbe’s office but appeared no more. He seemingly communicated by telephone once and never again. He sent a card with a word cut from a newspaper rather than writing the message, when I should think the evidence of his hand would reassure his presumed fiancée. Why? It was as if the foregoing had no purpose other than to support a belief in the young man’s continued existence.”
“A belief?” I said. “A belief in his existence?”
“Yes. For you see, Watson, the Honourable Robert Hope Maldon met his death before we ever took up this case.”
I sat in the familiar basket-chair and yet felt as if I now inhabited a foreign world.
“Once in Paris,” Irene Adler began quietly. “We surveyed the shop of Konstantinides and planned to steal the statue of the falcon. It was to be a burglary, and perhaps it would have worked, had it not been for Robert’s complete inexperience and the fact that Konstantinides came back to his shop that evening, whether by chance or design I know not. No matter, he confronted us there. The two men fought. Robert struggled as best he could, but he had not led a rough life, and it was clear to me that he would lose the battle. As they were preoccupied with one another, I simply seized the statue and fled. As I went out the shop door, however, I turned and saw Konstantinides strike Robert with what would have had to have been a fatal blow upon the skull. I darted out before the shop owner noticed me. From there it was as I have previously said, and as you noted, with me sending to statue to London.”
“For reasons of his own,” Holmes added, “Konstantinides must have further mutilated the young man’s body to disguise it as his own then set fire to his shop to further mask the identity of the victim. The motive is not obvious, but certain facts obtained by Shinwell Johnson in Paris lead me to that conclusion.”
Irene Adler placed her head in her hands and said nothing. Holmes contemplated her for a moment before continuing.
“I thought it all rather odd from the very beginning,” he said calmly. “Every photograph of Hope Maldon in his rooms that contained his adult image had been thrown to the floor, save for the one that included you. We knew two people had entered the flat, and so it seemed to me that the second had placed that photograph upon the table after the others had been scattered. You did not notice the pattern I have mentioned?” Holmes asked the woman.
“No,” came the muffled voice of Irene Adler. “I am not as observant as you, obviously.”
“You placed the photograph upon the table believing I might be called upon to investigate the young man’s disappearance?”
“Yes. I thought it might intrigue you and motivate you to assist me should you enter the picture.”
“I may be the more observant,” commented Sherlock Holmes. “You, Miss Adler, are surely the more perceptive.”
The woman did not answer.
“Our visit to the pillar-box, where the young man had read your message and responded, also aroused my suspicions, for you gave us the impression that it was Hope Maldon who had planned and directed the betrayal of Girthwood and your husband, yet, clearly, the actions at the pillar-box indicated the direct opposite.”
The woman lifted her head from her cupped hands. “I did not know you had that knowledge, as I have said.”
“The fact that you were alive immediately brought forth the possibility that your husband still breathed as well,” Holmes said. “I remarked so to the doctor here. As Girthwood clearly could not have been the person who had initially broken into the rooms at Breton Mansions, there was obviously another player lurking in the wings, and Norton was a prime candidate for such a role. Moreover, when Girthwood first visited 221, I informed him that I had been engaged by a man to find Robert Hope Maldon, but I did not identify that man as his father, Lord Monsbury. Girthwood seemed to have a most antagonistic attitude toward this anonymous client, and I began to wonder who he assumed it was—Godfrey Norton? As I became doubtful of the evidence for Hope Maldon’s presence, I also began to question the corresponding likelihood of Norton’s absence.”
“But, Holmes?” I said at last, while still in the midst of digesting these revelations. “Robert Hope Maldon hurled Norton to his death, did he not?”
My friend glanced at me with a kindly smile then let his expression become impassive as he turned back toward Miss Adler and simply waited, an expectant look in his eyes.
“I knew it was inevitable that Godfrey would come to Baker Street,” the woman said, looking neither at Holmes nor me but rather staring into open space. “He had surmised I had come here, and from the telephone message—which was his—and the message on the card—also his—I knew that appearance would be, as indicated, soon. The kerchief in the window had been a well-used form of silent communication between us, indicating that he should attract my attention when he thought it safe.
“He came that night, tossing small pebbles against the pane. From my now-open window, I whispered for him to climb the tree and enter through the lumber room. He did so, and we talked there. Godfrey revealed to me that he had since broken with, a
nd he suggested that I, in turn, discard my alliance with Robert—he, of course, had no knowledge that Robert was already dead.
“I was unwilling to comply with his suggestion,” Miss Adler continued. “Godfrey began to threaten me. He began to lay hands upon me and—”
Holmes cleared his throat. “Please do not disappoint me, madam,” he said.
Miss Adler looked at him steadily then gave him a wan smile. “Godfrey did threaten me, but I quickly acceded to his demands or at least pretended to do so. I gave him assurance I would return to him, and, satisfied with my pledge, he turned to climb out the window. It was as he stood in the frame, about to reach for a tree branch, that I pushed him sharply in the back. He fell onto the stone walk.”
“And it was only after you had watched his form for a short while, sensing no motion, that you screamed in order to summon the two of us.”
“Yes. Yes, Mr. Holmes. That is accurate.”
I no longer felt myself upon an unfamiliar world but rather inhabiting a different universe altogether.
“People falling freely may, of course, twist and turn, but the position in which Dr. Watson and I found the body suggested that Norton’s fall had involved no such motion. I have performed numerous trials, stretching back many years and including venues as novel as a lawn-tennis green,” he said. The last remark evinced from Miss Adler a quick, bitter nod of the head. “From all appearances, it seemed to me that Godfrey Norton must have plummeted straight down from the lumber room window while facing toward the back yard.
“Had Robert Hope Maldon hurled him out that window during a struggle, I should have expected to find evidence of twisting motion, yet there was, effectively, none. Norton appeared to have fallen while facing the back yard, yet he certainly would not have turned his back on the young man during a fight. But he would, perhaps, have been willing to turn his back on you, madam, after your assurances had won his trust. Placing himself in that vulnerable pose, he paid the consequences.”
“He paid the consequences for his past actions!” declared Miss Adler. “You’ve no understanding of the type of monster he was.”
“I can surmise,” said Sherlock Holmes. “As I can surmise the depth of your hatred for him. Why else would you have taken that glove of Robert Hope Maldon with you into the lumber room, unless you were praying for murderous opportunity even as you ascended the stair to the lumber room?”
Irene Adler, her eyes free of tears, nodded her head as I found myself slowly shaking my own.
“I commend your thoroughness in preparation,” added the detective. “You even put your hand into the glove so as to warm it and make it appear as if only recently worn by Hope Maldon. Of course, as your own hands are somewhat large for a woman, that warmth extended all the way to the fingertips. Well done.”
The woman turned away as her grey eyes began to fill. “Godfrey was a monster,” she repeated. She covered her face and did not see the detective give silent agreement.
“Holmes,” I said numbly. “What ensues next? The door below has just opened.”
“We have touched one of Indra’s jewels,”12 Holmes replied in a hollow voice as we heard the tread of Stanley Hopkins upon the stair. “Let us see what reflections we behold.”
“Greetings, Mr. Holmes,” said the inspector as he entered the sitting room. “Dr. Watson. I believe”—Hopkins stopped as he watched Miss Adler uncover her eyes.
Miss Adler, in turn, stared impassively at Holmes. There was a moment of silence that seemed an eternity.
“Hopkins, this is Irene Adler,” said Sherlock Holmes suddenly. “She is one of our many agents who played a role in this matter. Miss Adler, I present Inspector Stanley Hopkins of Scotland Yard.”
The woman looked at Holmes and then toward the inspector, suppressing an expression of disbelief.
I simply gazed silently at my friend, who calmly smiled.
“Irene Adler?” Hopkins said. “Miss, I’ve just heard your name uttered more than once down in the street, from the man we just apprehended.”
“No doubt,” interjected Holmes. “But, Hopkins, here is a more important detail: Miss Adler has identified the man who slipped and fell to his death here the other night. He was her estranged husband, Godfrey Norton.”
“And have you determined why he was climbing about the roofs of Baker Street, this one in particular?”
“We have no firm conclusion, but I believe he and Mr. Girthwood below were criminal associates. I have had my eye upon them for some time and enlisted Miss Adler, who, by coincidence, had family associations with both men.”
“I see,” replied Hopkins hesitantly. “But our Mr. Girthwood insists—”
“That Miss Adler was a partner of his as well? Yes,” continued Holmes. “That was a pose I had her assume for the purposes of my investigation. The man will, no doubt, assert many tall tales in the next several hours. Rest assured,” he added, without glancing at the woman. “I will vouch for Miss Adler.”
I stared at the bearskin rug, those words echoing in my mind.
“Well, that will satisfy me, I daresay,” Hopkins declared. “Mr. Girthwood is being carted away as we speak.”
“Inspector, I thank you. Another performance brilliantly executed!”
Silently, I agreed.
A policeman entered then, carrying the falcon itself. He handed it to Hopkins, who set it upon the dining table.
“Ugly thing,” the inspector said, laying his hand upon its head. “What’s the material, do you think?”
“The substance from which fantasies are spun,” replied Holmes, contemplating the dark avian shape. Under his breath, I thought I heard my friend add, “Le coeur a ses raisons...”
With that, Hopkins bade us farewell and departed with the policeman. The house door to 221 had just shut when I rose and strode toward the open sitting room door. “I believe I shall go out for a time, Holmes,” I said gruffly.
“Of course,” my friend replied as I began my descent. Possessing an urge to fill my lungs with clear, fresh air, I donned hat and coat and stepped out into a sunny morning that seemed to hold an enticing hint of summer around a far corner. I set off to the south then strode along Oxford Street and did not stop until I was three quarters of the way to Holborn.
It was there I found a chop-house new to me and, once seated, ordered the most expensive offering possible from the menu. I savoured each succulent morsel and then took a cab to Northumberland Avenue for the catharsis of a Turkish bath. At last, somewhere in the middle of an afternoon that had no seeming prospect of ending, I returned to Baker Street and trod, as I knew I wished to for the remainder of my existence, the familiar seventeen steps to 221B. There I found Holmes as I felt he should eternally be, sprawled across the hearthrug in his dressing-gown, cutting out articles from newspapers, a glass of claret sitting nearby.
“Your guest has departed?” I asked without emotion.
“The one, yes.” He looked up at me and smiled, clay pipe between his teeth. “I am, of course, obliged to travel to Lennox Square later today,” he said. “To inform the Earl of Monsbury’s household that Robert Hope Maldon is deceased, and I think it best to take that opportunity to make right Mr. Stephenson’s predicament as well. Are you available to join me in those endeavours, Watson?”
Without uttering a word, I collected his unopened correspondence from a tabletop and then strode to the mantel, upon which lay his old jack-knife, and, with a firm, overhand thrust of that blade, pinned the letters firmly to the wood.
I turned round and saw him staring up at me with an expression as close to stupefaction as I was ever to witness in his eyes, and after a moment, we both smiled the smiles of twenty-two years.
“I shall presume that to be a reply in the affirmative,” said he.
As Holmes studiously returned to his clippings, I stood before the mantel to survey its diverse collection of curios: remains of the day’s pipes, set out for the detective’s reuse before breakfast tomorrow; foreign medals hung
as if they were Christmas decorations; and the Hapsburg falcon itself, a new member of this odd little club.
Yet suddenly I realized that one object was now missing. I searched from one end of the mantelpiece to another but failed to uncover it.
“Holmes?” I said, turning toward him. “Where is the snuff-box? Has it been misplaced?”
“Misplaced?” said he, scrupulously setting down his papers and reaching for the claret. “No, Watson, I think not.”
Appendix A :
On the Details of the Find
Each new announcement of yet another manuscript claiming to be a narrative from the pen of Dr. John H. Watson must inspire in many present-day Sherlockian readers a weary mix of anticipation and doubt. So many such works have appeared over the course of the past century and more, that based on sheer number—let alone style and factual errors—the vast majority must be relegated to the category of unabashed forgery. The Hapsburg Falcon, of course, cannot escape such jaundiced suspicion, and this addendum and two others are meant to place its supposed addition to the Holmesian record in perspective.
The preceding narrative was discovered in the form of a 276-page typed manuscript, the first twelve sheets of which are original typescript, with the remaining 264 being carbon-copy typescript. Numerous corrections in pencil have been made to most of these pages, almost all involving the substitution of British spellings for American ones. Accompanying these pages are seven sheets of foolscap containing a handwritten narrative roughly equivalent to the first five pages of the typed copy, with the phrase, “The Black Falcon of Malta,” written at the top of the first of these sheets. These seven pages and the corresponding portion of typescript do not match precisely, there being slight differences in phrasing between the two. It should also be noted that the handwritten pages employ British spellings but do not appear to have been composed by the individual responsible for the penciled corrections to the typed manuscript.