by David Marcum
“I assure you, Watson, that was the one contingency for which I did not plan. Women are becoming Amazons these days. I blame the suffrage movement. Once they acquire the vote, they will become desperadoes of the first order.”
I shook my head at his incurable misogyny. “How did you find the gem so quickly?”
“The moment we entered the dwelling and I saw what a labyrinth it was, I had a dark moment of doubt. But when Mrs. Ames opened the palace doors, my spirit soared.”
“You looked there immediately.”
“As I said on the first leg of our journey, the imagination is perhaps the detective’s greatest tool. I imagined myself in the role of Miss Templeton, rising from my well-staged attack as the constables ran into the garden. I would have only seconds to hide the stone, and I might not have the luxury of being left alone again for some time. Inevitably, big, loutish men in blue uniforms would come tearing through the house, upending everything. Where could I conceal the diamond?
“Then it struck me, as it surely struck her when she planned this deed - she must put the diamond in plain sight, yet in the one place a man would never think to look.”
I cast my mind back to the scene within the miniature palace. “All the dolls were wearing gems.”
“Precisely. There were so many artificial stones - rubies, emeralds, garnets, diamonds, all made of paste - that even if a policeman paid attention to the gala gathering of little people, he could hardly sort them out. Imagine how foolish the average policeman would feel, picking up and examining each of the figures, maybe even undressing them. It was bad enough to have to pilfer through the underthings of three ladies, much less play with their toys!”
“And Miss Templeton chose the Marie Antoinette doll because of the connection to the real queen?”
Holmes shrugged. “I doubt our thief is that romantic. More likely, it was because she could easily identify the queen, should the dolls be shuffled by careless hands. As the doll possessed a strikingly long neck, it was simplicity itself to wind the chain around the doll’s throat and lay the gem on its bosom. The gem was now effectively invisible inside the tableaux. Had Lestrade not called in my services, the doll would have eventually left the premises as a ‘gift’ or ‘token’, and the curse of the Queen’s Tear, if there is one, would have passed to another continent.”
“Still... if you identified the diamond while we were upstairs, wouldn’t it have been much easier to simply let Lestrade put Miss Templeton in handcuffs and be done with the thing?”
“It would have been easier, but it would also have given Miss Templeton the opportunity to cast suspicion on Mrs. Ames or the unattractive but heroic Agnes. By forcing Miss Templeton to acknowledge her perfidy and try to escape, we have tied the case up in a neat bow. Mrs. Ames and her trusty Agnes may depart in peace. And besides - once I informed Mrs. Ames of what I had found, she was eager to assist in my little charade. She found it quite an adventure, and I am gratified that she escaped unharmed but with an exciting story to tell her son.”
“And you have another souvenir of a case.”
Holmes pulled the Marie Antoinette doll from his pocket. Unfortunately, in the scuffle, the queen’s head had come free of her neck. Holmes’s lips twitched.
“Thank you for not giving the game away when I invented a phantom niece. And please do not tell my brother Mycroft that I have provided him with a wife and child... or the lady here might not be the only one without a head!”
It was only a few days later that I drew Holmes’s attention to an article in The Times which credited the “intrepid and brilliant Inspector Lestrade” with solving the case, thanks to “timely assistance from Mr. Sherlock Holmes.” The article concluded with a note that the Comte du Castlenau had just negotiated the sale of the Queen’s Tear to the Tsar Nicholas II, who intended it as a gift for his wife, the Tsarina Alexandra.
“Let us hope it gives her no reason for grief,” Holmes said, and turned to his violin, picking out a haunting Russian air.
The Curious Case of the Charwoman’s Brooch
by Molly Carr
Having once embarked on my self-appointed task of writing up the investigations of my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes, a man whom I have no hesitation in calling the greatest detective the world has ever known or is ever likely to know, I realised that some of the said investigations could not be presented to the public at the time they took place without deeply distressing a number of persons, including many of the Highest in the Land. So, although the happenings I am about to relate were not recorded until recently, they actually occurred a considerable number of years earlier.
It transpired that on one cold, wintry day that had kept us indoors reading the newspapers and, in Holmes’s case, engrossed in chemical experiments, I answered a hesitant ring at our door bell, and a moment or two later entered our shared sitting-room to announce, “A woman to see you, Holmes, who says she’s from Bermondsey.”
“Show her in, Watson. I’m expecting an emissary from the Earl of Winchester about something strange going on at his house in Hampshire, and it will help to pass what is already becoming a rather tedious wait.”
“I gather that she wants you to find her cat.”
“Find her cat? We have, my dear fellow, reached a new low - for what have I to do with a foot-loose feline?”
With a slight smile, Holmes (who had by now finished with chemistry for the time being,) leaned forward in his comfortable armchair and casually knocked the ashes from his pipe into the fireplace before getting up and helping himself to fresh tobacco from his Persian slipper.
“Something she said led me to believe it isn’t a real animal. But here is the lady herself to tell you all about it.”
The woman who entered the room was middle-aged, of medium height, and dressed neatly in what were obviously her best, if somewhat shabby, clothes. She was also a little damp, so I guessed it must be something important to have caused her to venture forth in such weather. At a sign from Holmes, she gingerly took her seat on the very edge of the nearest chair and gazed at him with a most forlorn expression on her lined face. He, for his part, regarded her kindly but intently and asked her name.
“Greene, sir. Mrs. Bertha Greene.”
“And your job, if any?”
“I clean for various gentlemen, bachelors mostly, who prefer not to fend for themselves.”
“A veritable Mrs. Hudson, I’ve no doubt.”
Mrs. Greene seemed puzzled, and I shot a reproachful look at Holmes, for what would our visitor know about our own landlady? He, however, ignored the look and asked for details of the missing quadruped.
“It’s not a real cat, sir, as I told this gentleman here as soon as I arrived, but a lovely brooch in the shape of a cat, given to me by one of the Queen’s Ladies-in-Waiting.”
Holmes suddenly sat upright in his armchair and stared hard at our visitor. He then said, in a voice quite unlike his own, “And who is this generous gift-giver?”
“Lady Dorothy Fitzsimmons.”
“And you know her from - ?”
“I worked for her long ago, and she recently sent gifts to several of her former employees.”
“I gather the thing is lost?”
“That’s the trouble, sir. A note came asking me to take the brooch to Appledore Towers, but when I got there, I discovered it wasn’t in my pocket. Of course, I carefully retraced my steps, and then made a thorough search of my humble dwelling. But the cat was nowhere to be found.”
“Did you meet anyone on your way to Appledore Towers?”
“Not really. Not anyone I could say I actually met. But a man did accidently bump into me. A proper gentleman he was. Apologised very nicely, and raised his hat before continuing his walk.”
“Highly significant,” muttered Holmes. “Do you still have the note asking you to bring the broo
ch to Appledore Towers?”
“I’m sorry to say I threw it away.”
“That was very remiss of you. It might have given us some clue. But what could the note say that would entice you to journey there?”
“It was an offer to buy the brooch.”
“Do you think so little of Lady Dorothy Fitzsimmons that you would so quickly sell her gift?”
Mrs. Greene looked uncomfortable. “Well, sir,” she said, “I don’t know that I would have sold it. But I was curious to know what the gentleman might offer.”
Holmes took a small notebook from his trouser pocket and said, “If you would be so kind as to give me your address, Mrs. Greene, I will do my best to find the brooch and return it to you. But now we must part company, as I hear the wheels of a carriage approaching. Doctor Watson will see you out, while I deal with the Winchester affair.”
When I came back, I found that Holmes had already dismissed the emissary of the Earl of Winchester, the heavily muffled man already coming back down the seventeen steps to our front door as I was saying goodbye to Mrs. Greene. However, not a word was said about him by my friend as I entered the sitting-room. Instead, he listened abstractedly as I remarked with a smile, “Well, I’m glad it wasn’t a real cat. That would make you the laughing-stock of the whole of London. As it is, investigating the loss of a brooch, however valuable, may make quite a dent in your reputation!”
Holmes uncrossed his long thin legs and, with a wry look, got up, and went to the mantel-piece, where a jack-knife skewered his latest correspondence.
“I’m not sure it’s as simple as you think,” he murmured. “After all, one does get a feel for these things. There may be more to this business than meets the eye.”
“Do you suspect a connection to one of Her Majesty’s Ladies- in-Waiting?”
“There can be crime in High Places just as much as anywhere else - perhaps more, and of a more sophisticated kind. But what do you make of Appledore Towers?”
“Charles Augustus Milverton’s old home? I confess I was somewhat startled.”
“As we know, he is dead. Shot by a woman he was trying to blackmail. But someone else must be living there now. I suggest that tomorrow we visit the house. That is, if you want to be involved. Otherwise...”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I said. Which was why, after lunch the following day, we took a hansom cab to Appledore Towers, skirting Hampstead Heath as we did so. Drawing near to our destination, we recognised the familiar house standing well back from the road, the laurel trees and the veranda outside what had once been Milverton’s bedroom. To our surprise, the door was opened by a man bearing a strong resemblance to the Milverton we had known. There was the same lack of inches, the same Pickwickian figure - and the same gimlet-grey eyes.
“Mr. Merryweather?” asked my friend.
“That is correct,” said the man stiffly.
We were shown into the study, which was exactly as I remembered it, except that the red leather chair was missing and had been replaced by a newer one of a different colour.
“Too bloodstained,” muttered Holmes, referring to the original chair. But the green safe where Milverton kept his incriminating documents was still there, and the fireplace redolent with hot coals into which my friend had thrown them.
“You are, I imagine from your appearance, related to the late owner of this house,” he said after we had shaken hands with our new acquaintance.
“I am, as it happens, very distantly related,” the man replied coolly. “Nevertheless, I inherited this property immediately after his dreadful death. How this came about and whether or not the murderer was ever found I have no idea. But I am very busy at the moment, and would like to know the reason for your telephone call - as well as why there are two of you.”
Holmes glanced sideways at me, and I gathered from the grim look on his face that he was remembering the figure we had once seen in that very room from our hiding place behind the window curtain.
He now turned to Merryweather and said curtly, “I have been asked to look into the loss of a valuable brooch in the shape of a cat, which I understand was being brought to you by a charwoman. And this gentleman is my friend and colleague, Doctor John Watson, who is a great help to me in my work. But if you object...”
Merryweather moved his mouth in what he obviously thought was an affable way, reminding me more than ever of our old enemy, Milverton, and the insincerity of his perpetually fixed grin. He said, “Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I have heard of you both, of course. But it’s as well to know exactly with whom one is dealing. As for the brooch - no such thing as you describe has arrived here, to say nothing of a wandering charwoman who I would have thought better employed in wielding a broom.”
“No brooch got as far as this house because someone picked the woman’s pocket.”
“If whatever had come here, be it brooch, bangle, or some other bauble, and been offered for sale, then of course I would have first tried to ascertain what it was worth before deciding whether or not to buy it. Having done so, and made up my mind it was worth purchasing, I would then arrange to sell it to one of my many clients. As it is...”
“So you sent no note to my client requesting her to bring the brooch?”
“That is not my way of doing business.”
Holmes took out his case and, after asking permission to smoke, offered us both a cigarette. I, of course, knew that he only smoked outside our rooms when extremely puzzled and needed to think. After all, this was not 221b Baker Street, where he could relax with his familiar pipe for as long as he liked. However, suddenly throwing the end of his spent cigarette into the grate and refusing a glass of wine with the words, “It’s a bit early in the day,” Holmes signalled to me that he was ready to leave, and we quitted the house to the sound of insincere lamentations from the spurious Mr. Pickwick because he had not been able to help us further.
“If you ask me,” I said as we walked alongside the Heath, whistled for a hansom, and finally, after a ride during which my friend sat moodily silent, entered our rooms, “that man is as big a rogue as his so-called relative. He buys things, probably at a huge discount, from those in distressed circumstances and then sells them for what they are really worth.”
“Thus making for himself a very comfortable living,” said Holmes. “No doubt you are right, Watson, since anyone in desperate need of money always seems to know instinctively where to go to get it.”
We had entered our sitting-room to the comforting sound of a crackling fire which Mrs. Hudson had obviously lit earlier, and for some time Holmes sat deep in thought, totally ignoring me and letting his pipe go out. I, for my part, attempted to read the evening paper, but found I couldn’t concentrate with such a knotty problem occupying my mind. Suddenly Holmes stood up. “I must have more data,” he said, throwing on his coat and departing without a backward glance.
He returned several hours later, his face alight with fresh information, and said that he believed Mrs. Greene was acting as a go-between. I waited breathlessly for what might, or might not, come next, while Holmes stood warming his coat tails in front of the fire. “Not deliberately, you understand, but perfectly innocently. It has puzzled me all along why a Lady-in-Waiting should give such a valuable object, or indeed any object, to a char - someone she would hardly know existed, even if Mrs. Greene did say she used to work for her. That part of the story doesn’t quite ring true, my dear fellow. But in any case, I think she knew she wasn’t being given the brooch to keep, and when she was asked to take it to Appledore Towers, she must have received explicit instructions on how to get there, since it’s hardly likely she knew the area personally.”
“By the expression ‘go-between’, I assume you mean that the Lady-in-Waiting, Lady Dorothy Fitzsimmons, stole the brooch and used Mrs. Greene in order to get it as quickly and as anonymously to Milverton’s re
lative before she was found out?”
“Not necessarily, Watson. A likely hypothesis is that Lady Dorothy owned the cat brooch, may simply have been short of money, and needed to raise some cash as soon as possible without revealing her identity.”
“And the passing man who turned out to be a pick-pocket?”
“No ordinary thief of the light-fingered kind. I suspect he had orders to retrieve the trinket in any way he could and without raising the woman’s suspicions, or indeed anyone’s suspicions.”
I got up to stir the fire, feeling that this was becoming altogether too much. “Who on earth was the man?” I asked querulously. “For that matter, who could possibly have sent him and given him such instructions?”
“That is something that cannot be answered immediately, and threatens to be at least a three-pipe problem,” said Holmes with a laugh. “As usual, you want to know everything at once, my dear fellow. I verified some information about Lady Dorothy, although not a great deal, I’m afraid. For instance, it is still only an assumption that she owned the cat brooch, and thought that selling the jewel was the quickest way of getting some urgently needed money. It’s also a possibility that the thing itself is something quite out of the ordinary, and given to her by no ordinary person, for unless this is so, why would anybody be sent to steal it?”
“Rather a large number of assumptions, Holmes.”
“Nevertheless...”
“If you doubt parts of Mrs. Greene’s story, why believe any of it? What if there was no pick-pocket, and she simply kept the jewel to sell on her own account?”
“Ah, but in that case why bring the matter to me at all? She could have reported it stolen to Lady Dorothy and then it would have been up to the Lady-in-Waiting to believe her or not, and to report what had happened to the police, or even to hire my good self. I am proceeding on the assumption for now that there was a pick-pocket, but I don’t accept it as an absolute fact.”
“The pick-pocket, if he exists, was described by Mrs. Greene as ‘a proper gentleman’ who was very polite, even to a female obviously of a lower class.”