by Geri Schear
And Watson thinks I have no social graces.
It did not take us long to reach the prison and, thanks to the inspector’s presence, gained entry easily enough. There was none of the customary wrangling about whether I had any right to visit a prisoner. I must say Lestrade seemed happy enough merely to be my attendant. He has, after many years practice, learned to melt into the background and let me work. As he said, we have come a long way since the early days of our association.
We were led through the sour and fetid warren of corridors to Watteau’s cell. It is as dismal a place as any on earth and I might pity any man who finds himself in such straits. Under normal circumstances.
This man neither warranted nor wished any sympathy. He was sitting on his cot reading the Bible with a sardonic expression on his yellowish face.
“Oh, if it isn’t my old friend, Holmes the busybody,” he said as I entered. “And who are you, sir?”
“I am Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard,” said the policeman.
“He is my friend,” I said. (I shall probably never hear the end of that.)
“Well, Monsieur,” I continued. “So you face the hangman?”
“In time. Anything might happen. I might die in my sleep.” He smirked at me. Really, he had no fear whatever. In other circumstances, I might admire his stoicism.
“Do you come here to hound me again for answers, Holmes? You shall have none from me, I vow.”
“It was merely an act of charity,” I said.
“Charity?”
“To give you the opportunity to clear your conscience before you meet your Maker.”
“I do not believe in such things.”
“A Maker? Or conscience?”
He smirked again. “Either one. Still, I am bored and happy to entertain you. I will not tell you who hired me, or what I was to do, but we may discuss other matters. Art...”
“Jewels.”
“Ah, jewels... I do rather like a well-cut diamond. There is a newer cut becoming popular, the round brilliant. Are you familiar with it? Your Jewish friends could explain it to you. I am no jeweller but I dabble... New tools allow for greater precision. You might say jewellers are now doing for gemstones what you have done for police work.”He laughed. “Some prefer the old European cut but I find it flattens the stone and does not allow for the same brilliance as this newer variant.”
“Is that how you expected to be paid? In diamonds?”
“Paid? Who said anything about payment?”
“You did. You said you had been hired. One does not accept a job without first negotiating payment.”
“Oh, very good! Very clever. I tend to forget, you know. I think of you as just an ordinary man but you are really nothing of the sort, are you? Not like the lapdogs who follow you around.” He gave Lestrade a mocking smile. Lestrade, to his credit, did not react.
“Not that you’re as clever as they think you are,” Watteau continued. “You’re not even as clever as you think you are.”
“And yet here you sit in gaol awaiting death.”
“Enjoy your freedom and your life, Mr Holmes.”
There was something sinister in the way he said it, and I was revolted by his malevolence. I kept my features in check, however, and said mildly, “I do and I shall. Sadly, you shall enjoy neither.”
As I reached the door, a thought struck me. I turned and said, “You are dying in any case. That is why you can face the hangman with so little regard. Why you offered no defence at trial. What is it? Liver failure?”
“Cancer.” For the briefest of instants his stoicism failed him and I could smell his terror.
“Of the bowel?” I asked.
“It started there but it has spread. I am rotten inside, but then I think you knew that.”
I cannot, even now, explain why I said it. The words spoke themselves. “Is there anything you need?”
He shook his head. The cell door was unlocked and he said, suddenly, “You should not have gone to France, you know. You make people nervous. Do be careful, my old friend.”
With that, he turned his back and picked up his book.
As we left the wretched building Lestrade said, “You cannot take anything he says to heart, Mr Holmes. It’s all bluster.”
“Is it? And yet Watson only narrowly evaded death no more than a week ago. I have missed something.”
“You?” The inspector could not have sounded more astonished. “I find that hard to believe, Mr Holmes.” I was too deeply engrossed in my thoughts to pay him much heed. His yammering was just enough to irritate. Not for the first time I appreciated Watson’s capacity for silence.
We reached Baker Street and I hopped out. I was halfway up the steps to the door when I realised I should pay Lestrade some compliment for accompanying me.
“Ah, thank you, Inspector,” I said, returning and shaking his hand. “I very much appreciate your assistance.”
“My very great pleasure, as always, Mr Holmes. May I ask what will you do next?”
“Next? I shall think. Goodbye.”
Tuesday May 17 1898
I have not been to bed. All night I sat with my knees to my chin and my pipe dangling from my lips, yet no progress have I made.
There is a piece of this story missing. Some piece that ties all these strange events together: the Camden Town ‘poltergeist’, the murders in Hatton Garden, the deaths of Bashir, Jones, and Kidwell. In addition, what of the coins? No reputable Egyptologist believes in their existence and yet they seem to be at the heart of the mystery. Then, too, there’s Watteau’s hint about France. You should not have gone to Paris. You make people nervous.
Why should I not have gone to Paris? Whom do I make nervous? Those words seemed sincere insofar as anything that villain ever said could be called so. Certainly more than his well-practiced comments about diamonds. These are the puzzles that perplex me. Just when I think I have snatched them by their shrivelled spines they crumble into nothingness.
Why did Watteau put so much emphasis on diamonds? Almost I feel I am being lured to Hatton Garden, but for what purpose?
Where was I last sure of anything? Before Watson was injured... yes, I should go back to my thoughts of that period. I lost my way when I came back from Camden Town and saw all that blood. I shudder now to remember.
What did I learn that night? What was it that Watson’s injuries shook out of my brain?
There was the African gentleman who moved into the area, who is so genial but so mistrusted for no better reason than his race. Tommy was right: England is just as capable of bigotry as any other nation.
I must see what I can learn about this gentleman, Mr Amun. And there was someone else new to the area, oh yes, the pretty blonde widow. If only Beatrice were here, she would do a fine job of following that particular lead. Heaven keep me from widows!
No, I must let Beatrice stay where she is, at least for the moment. At least I know she will not complain about her exile. Once she has committed to a thing she sticks with it. I received a letter from her this morning. She and Mycroft spent much of the day at the beach. The weather is pleasant and the fresh air is good for the boys. Quite a domestic arrangement they have there, with their food and long walks and intimate conversations.
Tommy continues to improve on the piano and Beatrice suggests I might teach him the violin, too, when they return to London. Me, teach violin? Does the woman not know me at all?
She has gifted me with a photograph, and a stunning work it is, too. She took it one morning when I was sitting on the Downs looking out towards the sea. I must have been completely lost in thought for I had no idea she had photographed me. The image is clear, beautifully framed, and precise. Watson, taking it from me, whistled and said, “If there was ever any doubt how that woman feels about you, Holmes, you have y
our proof right here.”
“Whatever do you mean?” I said.
He smirked. He never lets me forget that he has an understanding of women that I shall never attain. “She has captured you at your finest: The light on your face makes you almost handsome.”
“Almost?”
He laughed and handed the picture back to me. “Where shall you hang it?”
“In my bedroom.” He said nothing but I think he understands there is in that photograph something naked in my expression that I would not want visitors or strangers to witness.
In the normal course of events, I should like Watson to follow up on the widow, but I am reluctant to let him out of my sight. I think today we shall visit the diamond district and see if there have been any developments. Yes, overall I think that is the best course.
Wednesday May 18 1898
Watson is sleeping. Only nine o’clock and he is in bed. I forget sometimes that other men get weary. I am fortunate in my constitution.
We ended spending the night in Hatton Garden. The rabbi was delighted to see us, shook our hands, and commiserated with Watson over his injuries.
“You have not given us any new tales for some time, Doctor,” the rabbi said. “I do hope you have not given up your writing.”
“Not at all,” Watson replied. “But in recent years Holmes has been engaged on cases that tend to be far more sensitive than in the past. There are stories and I have written them, but they cannot be released until certain parties are no longer with us.”
“‘Discretion shall preserve you; understanding shall keep you,’” said the rabbi.
“Proverbs,” said Watson. “I remember from Sunday school. Wise words.”
“And plenty more where that came from,” the rabbi said, smiling.
Glaser and I sat in the corner discussing our work. Things had settled down and were quiet enough, beyond the usual petty crimes. We had been speaking for more than a few minutes when the rabbi’s wife said, “David, have you told Mr Holmes your news?”
“My news? Oh.” He flushed.”Yes. Rivkah and I are to be married.”
“Mazel tov!” I said.
They all chortled. The rabbi said, “Are you sure you’re not Jewish, Mr Holmes?”
“When is the happy day?” Watson asked Glaser.
“August eighteenth,” Rivkah said.
The rabbi poured wine and we drank a toast to the happy couple.
“Where is dear Beatrice this evening?” Miriam asked.
“In Sussex...” I did not want to alarm any of our friends and so said no more.
“We hope you’ll come to the wedding,” Rivkah said at a nod from Glaser. “You and Beatrice and the doctor.”
“We shall put it on our calendar,” Watson said. He made a note in his journal then said, “Do you know, Holmes that’s three weddings we shall attend in the same week.”
“Three?”
“Yes, there’s Daisy and Maurice Stevens on the fifteenth; Miss Simms and Mr Davenport on the sixteenth, and now David and Rivkah on the eighteenth.”
“Oh, good grief,” I said.
“An abundance of joys,” Miriam said.
“You do not care for weddings, Mr Holmes?” the rabbi said, his eyes twinkling.
“Holmes doesn’t care for social engagements, generally,” Watson said.
“Oh.” Rivkah looked crushed.
I hastened to say, “That is true as a rule, but I shall be very happy to attend the festivities of your nuptials.”
“I’ve never been to a Jewish wedding,” Watson said. “Is it very different?”
The conversation turned to things matrimonial and I sank back into reverie.
Later, Glaser took me aside and said, “You are worried about Beatrice?”
I admitted as much and told him everything that had happened since I had last seen him.
“I understand your concern,” he said. “It’s wise to have her stay in the country for a time. You do not think Lestrade is right, that Rickman has fled the country?”
“All my instincts tell me Rickman has not yet completed his task, whatever that may be. Watteau’s smugness suggest this is not yet over.”
“Watteau... When does he hang?”
“Next Tuesday, the twenty-fourth.” I tried and failed to suppress a shudder.
“You are required to attend?”
“Required? No; but I feel a sense of obligation. Perhaps it is unworthy of me, but I will not rest easy until I see him hang from the end of a rope. I have not forgotten the great misery he inflicted. No, I must attend.”
“And Beatrice? How long shall she stay in Sussex?”
I fought down a truly irrational annoyance. The man was not prying into my private affairs and yet I felt irked.
“Until I deem it safe,” I said.
“Mr Holmes, if I have offended you-”
“You have not. Forgive me. I am concerned for the safety of my friends, for Beatrice, and even for those boys who have no idea what risks they take... I mean no discourtesy, Glaser. It is simply my way.”
“I understand. I hope you know you can count on my help at any time.”
“Thank you. I shall keep it in mind. Now, you were telling me what has been happening here.”
“We trudge along the same as always. The same pickpockets, the same drunks, the same brawls. Only we do not have Mordechai or Bing...”
“There have been no thefts - major thefts, I mean?”
“No, nothing. We have been extra vigilant ever since those murders. The merchants are very careful with their merchandise, although you would not think it to see the cavalier way they conduct business on the street or in cafés sometimes.”
“What happens to the gems when people go home at night?”
We sat by the window looking out into the street. Even off-duty Glaser never relaxed.
“Well, many of the merchants live above their workrooms. Not all, of course. Mordechai used the entire building for work: one floor for working metals, one for gems, one for design and so on, but he was exceedingly busy and energetic in his craft. He was one of life’s learners and never happier than when he was discovering something new.
“But to answer your question, the windows are blackened out, as you observed, and are covered with bars. There’s also the vault where the gems and metals and dust are locked for the night.”
“I’m sorry, did you say dust?”
“Gold dust,” he said, smiling. “Nothing goes to waste. That wasn’t just Mordechai being parsimonious; it’s standard practice for the jewellers. The dust from engravings and filings are all carefully swept up at the end of the day and are melted into pieces of gold.”
“Extraordinary,” I said. “You’re a font of information, Glaser.”
“Not really,” he said. “I only know what I do from hearing Mordechai and Daniel talking about it over the years.”
As if on cue, the door opened and Solberg came in carrying three glasses of wine. “Talking business, eh? I thought as much. Here, in case you get thirsty.”
He handed us the glasses and we sipped the excellent vintage.
“So you and Glaser shall be related, Mr Solberg,” I said. “How shall you like having a policeman for a son-in-law?”
“A policeman?” he said. “Not so much... But David? Ah, David is a joy. Listen, if it were up to me he’d have an honest job, but a policeman is what he is and I must accept that.”
The two old friends laughed together. It was obviously a very old joke between them.
“My daughter loves him and he makes her happy, that’s all any father cares about. Besides, he’s the closest friend I have in the world so what more could I wish?” He hugged his friend and kissed his cheek.
“Just as lo
ng as you don’t expect me to call you ‘papa’,” said Glaser.
Thursday 19 May 1898
I spent the morning with the Irregulars and then visited Scotland Yard. Lestrade was out but Hill assures me they are doing everything they can to locate Rickman. He shares Lestrade’s opinion that the man has fled the country.
I returned home to a telegram from Mycroft. “Urgent business demands my return. Will call.”
Impatient, I could not wait for him to telephone me and so I left a message with Gillespie asking my brother to contact me the instant he arrived. I tried telephoning Beatrice but she went out with the boys early this morning. Mr Fallon assured me her ladyship was in excellent health and would call me as soon as she returned.
Watson said, “He would not have left Beatrice unless he were assured of her safety, Holmes. You knew he could not stay in the country forever.”
“I know, I know-” Still, I fretted and paced and fretted some more. Finally, a little after two o’clock, I heard the telephone ring and I leaped down the stairs to answer it.
Mrs Hudson gave me a reproachful look but I shied her away.
“Mycroft-” I began, but he forestalled me.
“She is perfectly safe, Sherlock, calm yourself. Surely you did not think I would just abandon her without first seeing to her welfare?”
“No, but-”
“But, nothing. I am sorry; I was rather enjoying myself and I did not take too kindly to having to return. Still, there are urgent matters that demand my attention. I can say no more than that, at least not over this contraption. I must also review some funeral arrangements. No, no, nothing that need trouble you. Lord Gladstone: We have been expecting it.
“As for Beatrice and those boys, they are all perfectly healthy and in excellent spirits.”
“But are they safe, Mycroft? Fallon is a fine man but he is nearly as old as Gillespie...”
“I would stake Gillespie against any dozen men,” Mycroft snapped. “And so would you. Those old soldiers are a treasure beyond all counting, as you yourself ought to know.”
“Yes, but-”
“Beatrice keeps a gardener and a man for the stables. I have spoken to them and asked them to keep an eye on things. I have also had a word with the local constabulary and they are to check in twice a day. I really think you are worrying unnecessarily, Sherlock. The girl is no hothouse plant who will shrivel up in a tender breeze. She’s very capable and, I may add, running out of patience with your mollycoddling.”