Sherlock Holmes: The Hidden Years

by Michael Kurland

  “Why, English, my good man. The finest tongue in the world, only don’t let the French hear me saying that. They still think theirs is the one tongue worth speaking.”

  “English.” The manservant savored the word. “Then I may once have lived in … England?”

  “You mean you don’t remember?” the major asked.

  “My entire past is a mystery to me. Until I heard you speaking in this tongue, I had thought myself to be mad.”

  “You should discuss this with the doctor. I understand he’s the expert on such things.” Major Watling-Smythe put a hand on the manservant’s shoulder. “Most interesting, old chap. But I can see that His Highness is anxious to get going. Can’t let the quarry slip away, can we?” He hurried to the prince’s side as the party headed out into the forest, accompanied by gun bearers and dogs. The manservant went to follow him, then remained beside the fence, staring after the departing hunters, a puzzled frown on his face.

  “English,” he muttered to himself. “I speak English.”

  The baroness patted the empty wicker chair beside her. “Come, sit beside me, Dr. Freud, and let us discuss your fascinating profession.” Dr. Freud sat, his eye moving with pleasure over the smooth green grass and the last roses of the season still blooming in well-manicured beds. This indeed was a small haven of civilization in the middle of the wilderness.

  “I have read about you, Herr Doktor,” the baroness said, “but maybe you should explain to the princess and the countess what it is that you do.”

  “I study the diseases of the mind, Highnesses,” Dr. Freud said. “We are still very much at the learning stage about how the mind works and how it controls the body. The more I learn, the more amazed I become.”

  “You have done work with the interpretation of dreams, I believe,” the baroness said. “That is what truly fascinates me.”

  “I am just beginning that study in earnest, but I am hopeful that dreams will truly prove to be a door to the subconscious mind.”

  “So tell me, Dr. Freud,” the princess Gisela said, “is it true that if I dream about riding a dark horse, I’ll come into some money?”

  “More likely that it represents your repressed sexual desires coming to the fore,” Freud said seriously.

  The princess gasped and clutched at her throat. “My dear man, such things are not to be spoken of in polite company. Women of my age and station are not permitted repressed sexual desires. I’ve never heard such nonsense.”

  The American countess looked away and smiled for the first time.

  “And what do you dream of, Countess?” Freud asked the young woman.

  She stared out past him. “Flying,” she said. “I am a moth, trying to get out of a closed room. I fly to the ceiling, the windows, looking for a way out.”

  “Interesting,” Freud said, but gave her no explanation, “and you, dear Baroness?”

  Baroness Vizkelety chuckled. “After your answer to the princess, I am rather hesitant to say. But I assure you that most of my dreams are commonplace, losing pieces of jewelry, forgetting to bring the right ball gowns, all the trivial things that occupy women’s minds.”

  “I am sure there is nothing trivial about your thoughts at all, Baroness,” Dr. Freud said graciously.

  “So tell me, how is Vienna this fall?” the baroness asked him. “Are there any exciting new operas that I have missed? We have been in London and New York and quite out of touch with European society.”

  “New York?” The American beauty looked up wistfully, then went back to her tapestry.

  “I’m afraid I can tell you little of society or operas,” Freud said. “When I am in Vienna my work is my life. That is why I forced myself to take a break and breathe some good mountain air.”

  “Quite right too. All work and no play make Jack a dull boy, don’t they?” the baroness said. Freud noticed that the princess had not said a word since his interpretation of her dream. Now she was staring around the garden. “Who is that strange fellow standing over there?” she asked. “Not one of Rudi’s servants, surely, in that ill-fitting attire?”

  “He is the servant at the inn where I lodge, Princess,” Freud said. “He drove me here today in the trap and waits for me.”

  “Tell him to go and wait somewhere else then. He makes me quite nervous the way he stares so.”

  “The fellow is doing no harm, Gisela. He can’t help his lugubrious appearance, I’m sure. Let’s me send for some fresh coffee and some honey cake, maybe?”

  Coffee and cake were brought, and the princess tucked in with enthusiasm. The young American beauty ate nothing but busied herself with her tapestry and only spoke when addressed.

  After a while she rose to her feet. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to fetch my cloak. I feel the cold terribly here.”

  “Sit down, my dear. One of the servants will get it for you,” the baroness replied.

  “Oh no, that’s not necessary. Besides, I also need to match up the yarn for my tapestry. No servant can do that for me. They always manage to get it wrong. Please excuse me, Baroness.” She stuffed the tapestry into her large needlework bag and hurried into the house.

  “No wonder she’s so cold,” the princess muttered. “Those bright silks are quite unsuitable for a hunting lodge.”

  “I suppose she has little chance to wear her Paris finery at home,” the baroness said, staring after the departing girl.

  The two women looked at each other. The princess sighed. “Poor thing. Quite the fish out of water, isn’t she? Her German simply isn’t good enough for conversation. I wonder how she converses with the count at home in Brazil?”

  “They don’t converse, I’d imagine. He orders, she obeys,” the baroness answered, with a smile.

  “Why on earth do you think she married him?” Princess Gisela leaned closer, although no servants were within earshot, except for the manservant unnoticed at the fence.

  “The title of course. Fancied herself as a countess. Discovered too late that titles are ten a penny in Europe. He married her for her proverbial American fortune, then discovered it didn’t exist, so maybe they deserve each other.”

  “But I understood he is very rich?”

  “Now he is.” The baroness glanced back toward the house in case the young woman was returning. “He has made a fortune with his rubber plantations, but at what cost? Who would want to live in the wilds of Brazil? The poor girl hardly has a chance to spend those millions in Europe before she’s dragged back to the jungle again.”

  “Why did your husband invite them here, I wonder? Hardly for their witty conversation.”

  “My dear, it’s quite obvious, isn’t it?” The baroness looked around again, a mischievous smile on her lips. “Rudi was asked to invite them. The Prince of Wales leaves his wife at home … he’s out to make a new conquest.”

  “Ah yes. Dear Bertie’s insatiable appetite with the women. It will be amusing to watch if she succumbs.”

  The women exchanged a smile. At that moment shots echoed through the forest.

  “Ah good, they’ve found something,” the baroness said. “Now Rudi will be in a good mood for the rest of the day. He always blames himself if the wretched animals don’t allow themselves to be killed.”

  The princess rose to her feet. “It really is getting rather chilly. Maybe we should go inside to the fire.”

  The baroness rose, too, and motioned for the doctor to take her arm. They then crossed the smooth carpet of grass. More shots rang out from the forest, echoing back from the mountain slopes beyond.

  “Either they missed the first time, or they’ve been exceptionally fortunate today,” the baroness commented. “Let us pray for the latter, then the gentlemen will be in a good mood for the rest of their stay.”

  “What a wonderful garden you manage to keep here, in the wilderness,” Dr. Freud exclaimed.

  “I like to be surrounded by beauty, even here in the wilds,” the baroness said. “If my husband disappears to shoot things, I ins
ist on a place of tranquility to entertain my guests—and of course my husband denies me nothing. Would you like me to show you my roses before we go inside?”

  “I would be honored,” the doctor said.

  The baroness led the way toward the nearest flower bed. “They have been magnificent this year, blooming so late into the autumn,” she said. “I rather like this red one, don’t you? It has a magnificent scent.”

  “I wonder if the countess is permitted to create a beautiful prison for herself in her jungle?” Dr. Freud said quietly, almost to himself.

  “Yes, one does feel sorry for the poor child. If only she had better manners and was more used to society’s ways,” the baroness replied. “She shut herself away in her room last night and is taking an infernally long time to match that embroidery thread. Maybe we should go and root her out.”

  They had just reached the steps of the lodge when there was a shout, and a man came staggering out of the forest. It was one of the gun bearers, with sweat pouring down his face.

  “Quick! Get a doctor—there’s been a terrible accident,” he gasped.

  “An accident? To one of the party?” The baroness had turned pale.

  “Yes, Highness. The gentleman from Brazil. The count has been shot.”

  Dr. Freud had released the baroness’s arm. “I trained as a doctor of medicine,” he said. “I have little experience in first aid recently, but I’ll do what I can. I’ll need alcohol, bandages, a sharp knife. Let’s see what we can find in your kitchen, by your leave, Baroness.”

  “Whatever you need, Dr. Freud. Vodka, schnapps? Which do you think would be better? And we’ve the best cognac, of course. Ask the servants …”

  Dr. Freud glanced at the fence and noticed that the manservant had approached the house behind them and was now standing in the middle of the lawn. “Come, Fritzi. You shall carry my supplies,” he said.

  Fritzi ran to join the doctor, a look of excited anticipation on his somber face. On their way into the house they encountered the young American, standing at the foot of the stairs, now wrapped in a long dark green wool cape. Her face was flushed and her eyes wide with fear “What has happened?” she demanded. “I was coming down from my room when I thought I heard shouting.”

  The baroness took her arm. “Come and sit down, my dear.” She snapped her fingers to a waiting footman. “Brandy for the countess, Hans.”

  “Something bad has happened. Tell me. I need to know,” the American was wailing, as the baroness led her into the drawing room.

  The manservant watched them with interest. The drawing room had a polished wood floor. He stared at this floor, then back at the lawn.

  “Come, Fritzi, take this.” The doctor shoved a bag into his hands, then ran out the front door. Fritzi followed him. The gun bearer led them through the forest until they came to the edge of a clearing. The first thing they noticed was a magnificent stag, lying dead on the far side of the clearing, with the dogs and gun bearers standing guard around it. But it was not around the animal that the hunting party was standing. They were off to one side of the narrow path, clustered around a form lying in the undergrowth among the trees. The group parted as the doctor and servant approached, and they could see a man lying on his back on the forest floor. His green hunting jacket was open, and an ugly red wound stained his white shirt.

  “You’re too late, I’m afraid, Herr Doktor.” The baron stepped forward to greet him. “I fear the poor fellow has already breathed his last.”

  Dr. Freud dropped to his knees, felt for a pulse, then ripped open the shirt. A small circular hole on the left side of his chest was still oozing blood. The doctor stood up again, shaking his head sadly. “He’s dead all right. How did he come to be shot? Did he wander into your line of fire?”

  “I don’t see how,” the baron said. “In fact I am convinced none of us could have killed him. When our tracker told us that there was a fine stag up ahead, we spread out and moved forward in a line—the major on the far left, then Count von StrezI, then his Royal Highness, Prince Ruprecht, and I took up the right flank. We spotted the stag, and, naturally, his Royal Highness was accorded the first shot.”

  “And I fired both barrels at the animal, hit it, but didn’t manage to bring it down,” the Prince of Wales said.

  “It started to run off. The rest of us followed, fired, and brought it down successfully,” Major Watling-Smythe said. “We ran forward to examine the animal, and saw that it was indeed a magnificent four-pointer. We talked about having the head mounted, and the baron suggested that maybe Count von Strezl might want to take it back to Brazil with him. That was when we noticed that the count wasn’t with us. We called his name; the servants searched for him and found him lying here.”

  “So it was not possible that one of us shot him by mistake,” Prince Ruprecht said. “We had approached the stag side by side, in plain view of each other.”

  Fritzi had dropped to his knees beside the body. “You are correct,” he said. “You carry large hunting rifles. This wound was made by a small-caliber bullet, shot at close range.”

  The members of the party stared at him in surprise.

  “For a simpleton, he seems to know what he’s taking about,” Prince Ruprecht muttered.

  “Then it is as I feared,” the major exclaimed. “Anarchists have been at work. We were warned before we came here that they had designs on the prince; in fact, Her Majesty was against his coming to Europe at this time.”

  “It is not the first time they have tried to assassinate me,” the prince said. He didn’t appear overly worried.

  “The blackguards,” Baron Vizkelety muttered. “How did they manage to get into my estate—that’s what I’d like to know?”

  “It would be easy enough to dig under the fence, or find a tree with overhanging branches, I’d imagine, Herr Baron,” the major said. “These chaps are very skilled and resourceful. They fired at the prince when he was on his yacht last year, didn’t they, sir?”

  “So you think this bullet was intended for me, eh, Johnny?” the prince asked.

  Watling-Smythe nodded. “It’s obvious, sir. And this was all very well planned. They must have discovered our secret location and the identity of our famous guest. They lay in wait for us and fired when we fired, so that their shot was not heard. The count walked beside you, did he not, sir? You wear similar jackets and hats and are similar in stature. I was sent to protect you and have failed at my task.”

  The baron touched his arm. “You must not blame yourself, Major. Who could have expected such a daring attack in broad daylight? We must send for the police, although I fear our assassins will be far away by now, and the local constabulary will be hopelessly inept.”

  “We should not trample the area more than necessary.” Fritzi the servant muttered to the major in English.

  “What? No, of course not. Although I fear it is already well trampled by us and our servants. And you’re not likely to find telltale footprints on this thick carpet of needles. I rather fear any search of the area would prove to be fruitless. Herr Baron, I must escort His Royal Highness back to the lodge immediately. I am sure this has been most upsetting for him, all the more since it appears he was the intended target.”

  “Don’t mollycoddle me, Watling-Smythe,” the prince said. “I’m perfectly all right. It is the baron who could use a stiff Scotch. His face is as white as a sheet.”

  Major Watling-Smythe took the baron’s arm. “Come, Baron. Have your men bring a stretcher to transport the count back to the lodge. We can do nothing useful here. There is no point in waiting around any longer. The doctor will stand guard over the body.”

  The royal party set off down the path, the sound of their footsteps soon swallowed up into the silence of the forest. Dr. Freud remained on his knees, cleaning the ugly wound on the count’s chest. Fritzi stared at the corpse then prowled the area.

  “Doctor,” he said at last. “Do you speak English?”

  “Passably well,” the
doctor replied. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because I thought you might be interested to learn that it is my native tongue,” Fritzi said in English.

  “Mein Gott—this is a surprise. You did not mention this when we talked earlier.”

  “I only discovered this fact when I heard the major speak with the prince. Until then I thought it was the language of my nightmares, as nobody else seemed to understand it.”

  “Most interesting,” Freud said. “Does that mean your memory has now returned?”

  “Alas no. Certain words or phrases have sparked brief flashes of memory, as happens when one awakes and tries to recall a dream, but I feel my brain growing more lucid with every minute.”

  “My dear man, I’m very glad for you,” the doctor said.

  “I am glad for myself. I had almost come to believe that I was an idiot with nothing more to hope for than hauling wood and washing dishes. Undoubtedly my brain was damaged in some kind of accident. Maybe I fell into the river where I was found. Maybe I was thrown in by assailants. I don’t know. All I know is that when I was found, I had no memory and couldn’t understand a word anyone said.”

  “That’s because these people speak Swiss German, which even I have difficulty understanding. Quite unintelligible the way the peasants speak it up in the mountains,” Freud said with a chuckle.

  “I had no idea where I was or who I was. It’s little wonder that they classified me as a madman.”

  Freud got to his feet. “There’s nothing more I can do for this poor fellow,” he said. “You were looking around the area. Did you find anything of interest?”

  “Some white feathers,” the manservant replied.

  “Maybe a hunting party had been out duck shooting on a previous occasion?”

  “It is not very likely to encounter ducks in the middle of the forest,” Fritzi said. “To shoot ducks one goes to a lake, does one not?”

  “Then how do you explain the feathers?”

  “I’m not sure yet,” Fritzi said. “There are several aspects of this that I find puzzling. For example the position of the wound. Would you say, in your medical experience, that a single bullet entering the chest in that position would kill a man outright?”