by David Marcum
“Surely not the Colonel?” I whispered aghast, as we watched the sad drama.
“In spite of the disparity in age,” said Holmes, “Temperley has a certain attraction for a young woman. An attraction which, I grant you, is invisible to us. But the girl will soon find herself abandoned in some cheap Continental lodging house. One shudders to think what her end may be, for you can be sure, Watson, that he will never make her his wife - he is not a marrying man.”
“The Earl of Winchester’s daughter obviously made Temperley’s acquaintance at Buck House,” I said. “But, as I asked earlier, what was he doing there?”
“Planning to steal the Crown Jewels.”
“But they’re in The Tower of London!”
“Where he went periodically with his superior, the Queen’s Comptroller, to check that all was well. He thus knew the exact location of the Jewels, and what he would be up against in preparing to pinch them.”
“A second Colonel Blood,” I cried, referring to a seventeenth-century Irish Adventurer whose attempt to steal the Crown Jewels in 1671 was foiled by their Keeper.
“Yes,” said Holmes with a smile. ”But Blood was captured and brought before King Charles, who is said to have found the whole affair very amusing. It was even rumoured at the time that he was so short of money that he put Blood up to it. At all events, the Colonel was pardoned and became quite a noted figure about Town.”
“So much for that,” I said. “But Temperley has now lost both the Koh-i-Noor and the chance to steal the Crown Jewels himself. This alone would make him disregard the Earl’s daughter, or care a fig for her, since she can be of no further use to him. By the way, shouldn’t the Koh-i-Noor be in the Tower with the rest of the stuff anyway?”
“It was a personal gift to the Queen, who can thus use it as she pleases, although I believe plans are afoot to make it part of the Crown Jewels. Which would mean, of course, passing it down from Monarch to Monarch, even though worn only by one who ruled in her own right, as now, or by a Queen-Consort. Prince Albert had the jewel cut down and put into a brooch so that his wife could wear it comfortably, but from what we saw very early this morning by the light of my torch, the Earl of Winchester’s daughter must have somehow separated it forcibly from its surroundings before bringing it down to the country.”
“Why didn’t she give it to Temperley in London, as she herself angrily asked the scoundrel when they were together in the Summer House?”
“From what we heard, he must have felt that would be unwise. It was of the utmost importance that they were not seen in public as being even slightly acquainted in case this caused people to suspect them once the theft was discovered. ‘Let not your right hand know what your left hand is doing’, as the old adage has it.”
“She, after all, was the one who stole the jewel, and could have slipped it to Temperley in the Palace.”
“Yes, but if the theft was discovered at once, as it was likely to be, everyone would be searched immediately, and because of her proximity to the Queen, Lady Geraldine St. Giles would equally be likely to become one of the prime suspects, especially as she was about to leave the Court. These facts, by the way, wouldn’t pass unnoticed by the Colonel and, since he can now have no further use for her, I suspect that when the girl reaches London and her proposed rendezvous with the man, she will find that the bird has flown.”
After this conversation, Holmes and I considered what should be done next and, since it seemed impossible for us to help the Earl and his wife, decided to slip quietly away. We therefore walked to the nearest station, where Holmes paused to send a wire, and then we caught the train back to Baker Street.
The return of the jewel was an interesting event, as it had not yet been realised it had been stolen. Holmes was thanked effusively, and some praise was directed my way as well. My friend’s reputation was only enhanced by the successful resolution of the matter, but Holmes was of the opinion that we would soon hear from Lady Geraldine again.
“Jealousy prompted her first visit here,” he said. “But revenge may be behind the next. And, as she doesn’t yet know we have seen her in the flesh, she may come as herself. If I am right, or if she does come disguised - as she did when pretending to be a charwoman - it will be for a dangerous purpose.”
At that moment there was a ring at the doorbell. When I went to answer it, I saw a young woman whom I recognised, but with some difficulty, since I had only seen her fleetingly by the light of a fitful moon.
“Well,” I said to myself, “she certainly hasn’t wasted much time,” and showed her ceremoniously into our sitting-room to introduce her to Holmes, who I knew of course had seen her at least twice. But since it was not yet ten o’clock in the morning, I was puzzled to see he was in the process of pouring wine into a couple of glasses. He greeted our unwelcome visitor in his usual courteous manner and then asked if she would like to join us. The girl agreed, and he fetched a third glass.
We took our seats and listened carefully as she began to speak, identifying herself by a false name and describing a long tale of theft. Holmes asked what exactly had been stolen, took down some personal particulars, along with an address we both knew to be fictitious, and promised to do his best to find the culprit. He then rose and stood with his arms behind his back looking into the mirror above the fireplace, while I showed our visitor out. When I came back, I casually picked up one of the wine glasses, intending to take a drink after what had been a somewhat stressful half-hour. But before the rim of the glass could as much as touch my lips, my friend put out a hand to prevent my arm from rising.
“I have to tell you,” he said gravely, “that a small tablet likely containing a very dangerous alkaloid is in each of those wine glasses. From my vantage point by the fireplace, I saw exactly what that incredibly swift lady was up to while you, Doctor, in your usual gentlemanly fashion, were fetching her coat prior to seeing her off the premises, and my suspicions were confirmed when she changed her mind about drinking any of the wine before leaving, saying she was in a hurry to catch a train.”
I shuddered at my narrow escape from death and asked Holmes how he knew such a thing was going to happen.
“I didn’t,” he said. “But something told me we should be on our guard, and I kept a very close eye on our visitor. The poison, whatever it is, must - I think - work extremely quickly. If she had stayed and pretended to drink, she would have been up and out of the house within seconds, just as we were drawing our last breath. Ah, but that sounds as if someone has something to tell us.”
The inspector who knocked at our sitting-room door proved to be none other than our old friend Inspector Lestrade. “I received your wire,” he explained.
Holmes greeted him warmly and said, “Do you have her?”
Lestrade shook his head with embarrassment. “She managed to get away. I’m sorry, Mr. Holmes. But be sure we’ll find her eventually. She is the jewel thief then?”
Holmes nodded and said quietly, “Along with Colonel Temperley. But perhaps, instead of simply laying the larceny at her feet, a charge of attempted murder might be more fitting.” He gestured towards the three wine glasses and said, “She tried to poison us both when she thought we weren’t looking.”
Lestrade carefully gathered up two of the wine glasses, still holding their contents, for evaluation in the police chemical laboratory, while Holmes took possession of the third to conduct his own tests. It was later confirmed that they did contain a deadly poison which would have caused death with a simple touch to our lips or tongue.
A few days later and having first telephoned, Lestrade came back to Baker Street with some interesting news: All ports were now being watched, and a man strongly resembling Colonel Temperley, accompanied by a young boy in a sailor-suit, had been seen boarding a packet-boat bound for Antwerp.”
“So they have decided to stay together after all,” mused Hol
mes. “Or at least for the time being.”
“A young boy?” I questioned sharply.
“Slim, of middling height, and with dark cropped hair?” asked Holmes.
“Yes, although it was a bit difficult to tell about the hair, as the youth was wearing a sailor-hat.”
“No youth,” said Holmes, “but rather Lady Geraldine St. Giles. However, since she is of age, and apparently went with the Colonel of her own free will, a kidnapping charge won’t stick. You will get her for larceny, however, since it was she who actually stole that most famous jewel.”
“The man is as cunning as a fox,” said the inspector. “We’ve tried to nail him several times, but he always manages to avoid a definite charge.”
“Our part - that is mine and Doctor Watson’s - in this sordid affair is now over, and now I’m off to get ready for this evening’s concert at St. James’s Hall, where the Spanish virtuoso Pablo de Sarasate will play, among other things, his wonderful ‘Fantasia’ on Bizet’s Carmen.
“Before the concert that I spoke of, Watson and I will partake of a little dinner at Mancini’s. I wonder, Lestrade, if you would care to join us?”
This was so unlike Holmes that I could hardly believe my ears. I was used to going to concerts with him and watching as he sat in the stalls, rapturously beating time to the music, but I wondered what Lestrade would make of it all. Fortunately, (and I thought with a rather relieved air,) the inspector suddenly recalled that he had a prior engagement and went off in high glee - probably to tell Gregson, his colleague at Scotland Yard, that although he had been unable to accept it, Mr. Holmes had invited him to dinner and a musical entertainment.
As for my friend, he shrugged his shoulders humorously and went into his bedroom to hunt for concert-going gear and to find a copy of that evening’s programme. “It’s a rum world, old fellow,” he called out as he disappeared, “with dreadful crimes existing side by side with beautiful music and outstanding art. But - ”
“But,” I echoed, “thank goodness there are men like your good self always ready to combat the former. To combat it, and win.”
Holmes left off hunting for a clean shirt and put his grinning head round the door. “Ably assisted by a loyal and level-headed friend,” he said jovially.
With that, he went carolling once again in the direction of his wardrobe, already happily anticipating the music to come, while I sat in deep appreciation of what he had said. After all, the work was sometimes difficult, but to me his rare praise made being out on dark and often cold nights, narrowly missing being shot at, having to hide in almost inaccessible places, and going without sleep, all well worth it. I got up from my chair to fetch pen and ink. There was still some time to go before I need get ready for the evening’s outing. How better to spend it than by roughing out an account of our latest “Adventure”?
The Unwelcome Client
by Keith Hann
In the many years I have spent as the chronicler of Sherlock Holmes, I have witnessed every imaginable sort of client cross the threshold into our sitting-room in Baker Street. Stout yeomen and perfumed courtesans, dukes and dairymen, engineers and earls. From the loftiest heads of state to the lowest denizen of the alleyways, all were united in need of the singular talents of that incomparable detective. About the only claim I could make of such a motley grouping was this: That I sympathised with each of them and sincerely hoped that Holmes could root to the bottom of whatever had prompted their visit.
That is, all but one.
I see it was a night shortly before the death of our beloved Queen that a knock at the door disturbed our perusal of the evening papers. Our landlady, Mrs. Hudson, appeared, bearing a card upon her salver.
“Begging your pardon, sirs, but there’s a gentleman wishing to see you.”
“At this hour?” I said.
“It must be of some importance for him to come so late,” said Holmes from his chair. “What does the card say, Watson?”
I crossed over to examine it. Upon the fine cream stock was printed a cryptic announcement. “‘Julian Thorn, Claviger’. What the deuce is a claviger?”
“I don’t know, sir,” said Mrs. Hudson, “but he’s as ghoulish a fellow as ever I saw. Sends shivers down my spine just to look at him.”
“Mrs. Hudson, would you be so good as to show the gentleman up?” said Holmes with a smile.
Moments later, the door swung open to reveal our prospective client. “Ghoulish” was an understatement. Swathed head to toe in such an array of rich blacks as to draw the envy of any undertaker, Julian Thorn was a tall and slender man, black-haired, cadaverously angular, and with a complexion paler than any consumptive. It was a sort of sinister sartorialism, and only magnified by the fellow’s intense, disquieting bearing. I disliked the man immediately.
“Mr. Thorn, do come in,” said Holmes. “The evening is late, but I suspect your visit will prove of sufficient interest that the hour might be excused. I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my friend and companion, Dr. Watson.”
“Thank you. A pleasure,” he said in a soft, refined voice. Thorn hung his coat and hat, but held onto his walking stick. As we seated ourselves, I recalled the unusual occupation listed upon his card.
“Forgive my ignorance, Mr. Thorn, but I’m afraid I don’t recognise your trade. Just what is it that you do?”
His was a face unsuited to a grin; the rictus prompted by my question reminded one of a hyena or jackal.
“Oh, it’s quite simple, Dr. Watson. I kill.”
The silence within our quarters at this incredible reply was palpable. I looked over to Holmes, disbelief etched upon my face, but he said nothing. The ghost of a smile flitted across Thorn’s features, but he too held his tongue.
“Is this some sort of joke?” I asked. “If so, it is in rather poor taste, sir.”
“No, my good Doctor.” He turned in his chair to face me, and an almost reptilian gaze rooted me to the spot. I felt as though I were some insignificant creature splayed upon the dissection table. “My profession truly is that of a claviger. The title is a bit cryptic, I confess, but ‘Bloody-handed avatar of retribution’, though impressive on one’s card, tends to give up the game.”
“A claviger is, broadly, a janitor, or perhaps a caretaker,” said Holmes at last.
“Very good,” said Thorn, returning to Holmes. “In the strictest of senses, it also means ‘one who carries a club’. When one is engaged in a singular business, one needs a singular title. Surely the world’s only consulting detective understands.”
“To the blazes with your title, sir!” Freed from that mesmerising stare, I bolted upright. “Do you mean to tell us that you slay your fellow men, and for no more than common coin?”
“Au contraire. I accept only the most uncommon of coinage. Rare books, beautiful jewels, exquisite works of art.” He kissed his gloved fingertips. “I have had some small measure of success in my trade, and have found myself able to ask for increasingly exceptional recompense.”
Holmes let loose a sigh. “Mr. Thorn, I tire of your theatrics. Dispense with this penny-dreadful melodrama and come to the point of your visit.”
Thorn abruptly stood, walking stick in hand, and turned the full force of that debilitating gaze upon my friend. The two stared intensely at one another for what seemed like minutes, exchanging no word or signal, two powerful wills clashing in the deafening silence.
Suddenly Thorn threw back his head and laughed, a boisterous, barking thing which filled the room with heartfelt mirth.
“I should have known better than to try and intimidate the likes of you, Mr. Holmes. But I could not resist the temptation to play the game, even as I come pleading for my life.” His entire mannerism had changed remarkably, so that where before there was only a chill, now there was warmth and even comradery. “How did you know?” he asked cheerfully.
>
“I had already established your mala-fides, Mr. Thorn, for your alias is familiar to me. However, I observed that you had some difficulty in removing your coat, and you have retained your walking stick. Your right arm - your primary - is somewhat enfeebled. Not a long-distance shooter then, for you would find a rifle too unwieldy. You thus must close with your quarry. But a man cavorting about like Varney or Dracula would be noticed at once, and remembered afterwards - wretched qualities for an assassin. When we couple these elementary observations with the fact that you bear traces upon your collar of the face powder otherwise expertly applied in order to heighten your corpselike pallor, I deduced that you are - amongst other things - an actor, and this garish routine an artifice.”
Thorn crossed to his coat and fumbled around in its pockets. As he did, I observed the infirmity that had escaped me prior, which our guest no longer attempted to hide. Producing a fine cloth, he wiped at his face. Beneath the paint and powder was a visage which, while still rather pale, was recognisably human.
“You do not disappoint, Mr. Holmes. This is indeed but a role. Most of my trade is actually spent in various garrulous guises, for typically it is far better to earn your quarry’s trust than it is their fear. If I may allow myself a moment of vanity, however, my hair truly is this black.
“But enough of that,” he said, taking a seat once more. “I am here because I, executioner extraordinaire, wish to employ the greatest sentinel of justice known. I have made an enemy of a powerful member of the underworld. He wishes me dead, and has contracted to see it done. At the root of the problem is a misunderstanding which, in any other circumstance, I might have found amusing. You see, someone is dead, I am blamed, but it is not I who am responsible. In short, for once in my life I might claim the mantle of innocence.”