by Geri Schear
A case. A veritable case.
I received a visit this morning from a gentleman by the name of Hilton Cubitt. He has been troubled by a series of messages comprised of hieroglyphic figures that Watson, in his poetic way, has called ‘The Dancing Men’. Cubitt seems a decent, guileless man. He has, as the saying goes, ‘No harm in him’. His worst failing is a distinct lack of imagination.
There is no doubt these messages are a simple substitution code. I cannot give the matter my full attention at present. I am most anxious to speak with Sir Jeffrey and see if he can finally solve the mystery of the Coptic Patriarchs. Nothing much to be done with Cubitt’s case for the moment anyway. It does not appear to be pressing.
Thursday 28 July 1898
Watson is looking into another minor case that has come up. I cannot find the enthusiasm to participate. The case is not very interesting and I prefer not to be distracted. The curious hieroglyphs of Cubitt’s case are intriguing. I make slow progress with it. Too much on my mind, Watson says, whatever that means.
Saturday 30 July 1898
Sir Jeremy Jeffrey arrived this morning and gave me a full and frank account of Sir Nicholas Fleming’s affairs. Sir Jeremy is a tall, stately person who would not look amiss leading a cavalry charge. He strikes me as a man of intelligence and integrity.
“I was Sir Nicholas Fleming’s business partner for eighteen years,” he said. “And we were friends for twenty years before that. I think I know his property as well as he did himself.”
“I understand the distribution of the estate was divided between Brahms Antiquities and Bramley and Sons. Can you explain why that was the case?”
“Well, Brahms prefers to handle the larger and most expensive items; objects of great historical significance. The smaller, cheaper things - clothing, costume jewellery, and Nicholas’s coin collection - all went to Bramley and Sons for auction.”
“Coin collection?”
“A very unprepossessing set of coins from around the Empire. Nothing of any great interest.”
“What was the oldest coin in the collection?”
“A George the Third guinea dated 1799.”
“Nothing older? From ancient Greece or Egypt, perhaps?”
“It was a schoolboy’s collection, Mr Holmes. Perhaps worth slightly more than the collections of most boys, but really its value was almost entirely sentimental. If you gave me some idea what you were looking for I might be better able to help you.”
“I am trying to trace a document that showed up in Sir Nicholas’s documents that went to Brahms Antiquities. The page in question was in Greek. Ancient Greek. It may have something to do with ancient coins.”
He frowned and scratched his chin. “Nicholas had a fondness for ancient Egypt but he was indifferent to the Greeks.”
“The document was written in Greek,” I explained. “I assume because the Christian Church in Egypt was established by the Greeks.”
“Ah, I see.” He was silent for some moments then said, “Nicholas owned a few sculptures and artefacts, but not much. There were no documents, nothing such as you describe.”
“Is it possible,” Watson said, “that he had such a document and you did not know about it?”
He thought about that for several minutes and then shook his head. “I’m sorry, no. Nicholas was not the sort of man to keep secrets. One of his greatest joys in collecting was showing off whatever he had acquired. A curiosity such as the one you’re describing - no, he would have been very eager to show me.”
He smiled, remembering. Then a look of sadness came into his eyes. “Poor old Nicholas, I do miss him.”
As he rose to leave, he added, “There’s another reason why Nicholas would have shown me that document, Mr Holmes: He knew no Greek.”
“And you do?”
“Indeed. I am something of an expert.”
I walked him to the door and shook his hand. I said, “By the by, did you send any documents to Brahms Antiquities?”
“Yes, there was the inventory, a letter from me, a copy of Sir Nicholas’s will...”
“And how were they sent?”
“How?”
“Were they delivered personally in a valise? Sent by post?”
“Ah, I see what you mean.” He frowned. “No,” he said. “Brahms picked them up himself when he came to oversee the removal of the items. The catalogue was part of the documents. They were all in a leather satchel, I remember.”
“And who was responsible for the documents?”
“I was. I mean, I had some assistants helping, but I had the primarily responsibility. Obviously, Nicholas’s solicitor took care of the legal aspect of things, and Brahms himself made up the catalogue, but I oversaw all of it, and I was present when the documents were put together in that satchel.”
“And no one else had access to it?”
“I kept it in a desk in Nicholas’s study and the drawer was locked. I’m sorry I cannot help you further, Mr Holmes.”
Wednesday 10 August 1898
A message from Hilton Cubitt: He will arrive this afternoon. His train gets into Liverpool Street Station at one-twenty. He sounds anxious.
Excellent!
7.00 pm
Cubitt has been. More messages that should help me crack this code, I hope. It has some peculiar inconsistencies that challenge the resolution. But it is a relief to have something real for my brains to work on. All the vagueness and the oddities of the Camden Town case lead nowhere. I spent the afternoon examining the various messages and I am satisfied, yes, I really am satisfied that I understand what is at the heart of this Norfolk mystery. I have sent off a telegram and if all goes well I should be able to resolve this matter tomorrow.
Thursday 11 August 1898
No reply yet. What is keeping them?
Friday 12 August 1898
Still nothing. I grow restless. All my decisions seem to have gone awry of late. I want to act, yet how can I when I have no confirmation? No, I must keep a cool head and wait.
Mycroft telephoned and asked me to dine with him this evening. He made it sound like royal command.
It is evident he has something to discuss. Something delicate. I am in no mood to dance to his tune and so I shall keep the conversation to the food and the weather.
11.00 pm
So much for keeping the conversation to trivialities. I began well enough; indeed, by the time the entrée arrived my dear brother was quite vexed. Well, I am pretty short of amusements at present.
Once the waiter left, however, there was no deterring him.
“Whether you would hear it or no, I have to tell you,” he said. “I have news which I believe will interest you,” he said. “It may even assist you in resolving one of your cases.”
I cut my roast beef. “Nowhere in London manages to get the meat this perfect shade of pinkness,” I said. “I do not understand why English cooks are so unkind to a perfectly fine cut of meat.”
“It concerns Beatrice,” Mycroft said.
I did not reply.
He placed his hand upon mine and I dropped my knife.
“Why do you insist on blaming yourself for that boy’s death? You are not responsible for the actions of a murderer.”
“I gave my word I would keep them safe.” The rage was hiccupping out of me and Mycroft seemed startled by its intensity. “I gave my word, Mycroft, and I failed.”
“You did everything you could. No one else blames you, you know.”
“Beatrice does. How can she not? That day, the day he was shot, she could not even talk to me. And she has not spoken one word to me since.”
“She was distraught, Sherlock, and in shock. You both were. The two of you so wracked with guilt and grief you cannot face each other. Oh yes, she has discussed it with me. She thinks you will never forgive her.�
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“It was not her fault. Not remotely. I was the one who said it was safe for her to return. It would have taken no more than one word to persuade her to stay in Windsor, but I am so punctilious about honouring our contract I let her take an unnecessary risk.”
“Everyone agreed Rickman had fled the country. It was a perfectly reasonable conclusion under the circumstances. You could not keep Beatrice under guard forever, you know. She blames herself because she thinks she said or did something to encourage those boys to wait on the steps for her return. That lad, Billy, keeps telling her she did no such thing and they were just looking forward to seeing her, and in the Queen’s carriage too. Childish exuberance. No one could have anticipated an assassin shooting from a passing cab.
“Please stop twisting that napkin. You will have it in shreds.”
I dropped the napkin onto my lap. “How do you know so much about it?”
“My dear brother, I have more than a few acquaintances in Scotland Yard. I have dinner with Bradstreet from time to time. He says Lestrade and Glaser are full of self-reproach.”
“They are not to blame. All the evidence suggested Rickman had fled.”
“Why can you be so forgiving of them but torture yourself for making precisely the same error?”
“Because I hold myself to a higher standard. Please, let us talk of something else.”
Mycroft cut his beef before saying, “Certainly. That was not what I wanted to discuss in any case. I loathe these emotional upheavals. Very bad for the digestion. I wanted to discuss Zola. You heard that he was found guilty in his second trial? He came to London on the nineteenth with nothing but the clothes on his back. He brought some very interesting information concerning that Austrian fellow, Ferdinand Walsin Esterhazy.”
“Indeed? Esterhazy was the real forger of the documents that sent Dreyfus to Devil’s Island, no matter what the courts say. How so many otherwise intelligent Frenchmen should continue to have faith in such a scoundrel is beyond my comprehension. I remember one of his letters was published last year and he was quoted as saying ‘I would not harm a puppy, but I would with pleasure kill one hundred thousand Frenchmen.’ Yet those same Frenchmen would rather put their trust in him than in a poor beggar like Dreyfus.”
“Oh, he’s a thoroughly bad lot. He was suspected of spying before, you know. In Tunis. He tells people he is a Count. Lord knows why.”
“There must be money in it. Everything he does is for money,” I said.
“That’s true. Well, it seems Esterhazy has been receiving payments from Maximilian von Schwartzkoppen.”
“Ah, another man whose name was on that list of possible Porlock associates. Though as I recall, there was never any proof. I thought you had men keeping an eye on these fellows?”
“I have.” The expression that flashed across his face was so swift no one but a brother would have seen it. Someone has erred and will face my brother’s wrath.
He leaned across the table and in hushed, urgent tones, said, “This situation in France can no longer be ignored. Initially I had hopes, high hopes that Colonel Picquart’s investigation would resolve the matter, but as soon as he began to make progress the wretched man was himself arrested on a trumped-up charge. Whoever is behind this affair will not let anyone get too close to the truth. There is nothing they will not do to keep their secrets.”
“Well? It is an internal French matter you said, and so it is.”
“Sherlock, you cannot be so naïve. France is not the only country at risk. The world’s stage has changed considerably in the past few months. If France falls to civil war, the repercussions will spread throughout the Empire and beyond. I need you to go to Paris and see what you can learn. My friends in the statistical section of the French military tell me unofficially they would welcome your assistance.”
“No.”
“Sherlock-”
“When I wanted to go to France in March you refused. In fact, you made a point of forbidding me. Now you expect me to drop everything and rush across the Channel to do your bidding? No, no, Mycroft. I am not your puppet. I have other obligations. Send that chap who’s so good at such things, what’s his name, Mansfield Smith-Cumming.”
“This is important.”
“So is what I am doing.”
His expression of displeasure has not changed since our childhood. The only difference, in fact, is my ability to resist it.
“Is it important, this case?”
“It is to my client.” I rose.
“There is more.”
I focused on buttoning up my coat. Well, one should be deliberate about even minor tasks. “Well?” I said as I slid the last button into the buttonhole.
“Zola has identified the man who followed Beatrice from Paris as Émile Casonne.”
“Casonne?” I whistled. “Another man I believe was involved with that gang, though I could never prove it. He is Austrian by birth, I think, but has a French mother. Who has his allegiance, I wonder?”
“The highest bidder.”
I tied my scarf and said, “I thought it curious at the time that he should follow Beatrice all the way from Paris and then vanish as soon as he confirmed she was coming to see you. I assume he returned to France.”
“He did.” Mycroft rose and came around the table to face me. “I have a man keeping an eye on him.”
“I hope this one is reliable. Thank you for dinner, Mycroft.”
“Beatrice and Billy are staying at Davenport’s Inn for the moment. I am to dine with them tomorrow. Would you like me to pass on some word from you, Sherlock?”
I shook my head. “One word is too much; a dictionary is inadequate. No. No word.”
I returned home to find two messages. The first was a reply to my telegram confirming my suspicions. The second, a letter from Hilton Cubitt with yet more ‘dancing men’. The content made me quake. I do not want another death on my conscience. We must hurry to North Walsham if we are to prevent a tragedy. Alas, we have missed the last train and must now wait until tomorrow morning.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Saturday 13 August 1898
It has been a long and miserable day.
I arrived too late at Riding Thorpe Manor to save my client. His wife still lives, no thanks to me. At least I was able to save her from the gallows by revealing the truth behind the mystery. The true killer, too, Abe Slaney has been identified and placed under arrest. I suspect he shall avoid the noose; there is little doubt he fired in self-defence...
Ah, I am rambling. A combination of fatigue and distress.
I will say the local constable and Inspector Martin, once they accepted I was there only to help, were very willing to hear what I had to say. There is something to be said for being the ‘elder statesman’, I suppose. Martin seemed singularly impressed by my deduction that the window had not been left open a long time because the candle had not guttered. A very simple observation, but in my experience it is these simple observations that most people miss.
In the end, it was a simple matter to copy the code of the ‘dancing men’ and send word to the farm where the gunman was staying. He came promptly enough, believing it was his former lover who beckoned, for who else knew the code? Once he arrived, he admitted the truth and that was that.
Watson and I took the train back to London a little later than I had hoped.
My friend is still exuberant about the case despite the tragic outcome. He reminds me that without my involvement, Mrs Cubitt would be under arrest, assuming she survives her injuries. As to that, he seems confident that she will, in time, make a full recovery. He has visions of her taking over the administration of her late husband’s estate. When I seemed sceptical that a woman might do such a thing he replied, “Well, Mrs Schwartz seems to be doing very well running her late husband’s jewellery business.
In my opinion, women are just as capable as men of doing anything a man might do.”
At that, I closed my eyes and went to sleep.
Monday 15 August 1898
With the greatest reluctance, I allowed Watson to help me dress for the first of this week’s three weddings. My friend tutted as I lingered over my choice of necktie, he remonstrated when I said I had not thought about getting them a gift (he anticipated me and has already bought some trifle from both of us), and he became almost apoplectic when I suggested it would hardly end all civilization if I did not go.
“Not go?” he spluttered. “Not go? Of course you must go. Why on earth wouldn’t you want to? You like Daisy; you have great respect for Stevens...”
“I dislike these events. Could you not go and represent me?”
“Absolutely not. Finish dressing.”
By heaven, the man can be exceedingly tiresome at times.
At last, we were ready and climbed into a cab. My stomach churned and I focused on some mental techniques I learned in Tibet. By the time we reached the church, I was somewhat calmer.
I was surprised to see so many people I recognised in attendance: Lestrade and Hill with their wives, looking very smart. Glaser and Rivkah looking uneasy but brightening when they saw Watson and me enter.
“Oh, it is good to see you, Mr Holmes, Doctor Watson,” Glaser said, shaking our hands. “I confess Rivkah and I are feeling a little strange. Neither of us has ever been in a church before. Still, young Maurice is a good man and we could hardly refuse.”
“It will be your turn on Thursday,” Watson said. “Are you ready?”
“Oh yes,” Rivkah said. She gave her fiancé a look I can only describe as triumphant. He smiled at her. Love. Such a blasted toxin.
As if heralded by the thought, my wife entered the church. She looked resplendent in blue silk. Almost, she shimmered.
Billy was with her. Not the Billy I have known since his earliest days; this was a youth on the cusp of manhood. Such a transformation she has wrought in him. He wore a morning suit and a clean shirt and tie. He hovered at her side as if afraid to lose her.