by Otto Penzler
“And you want me to protect you?” asked Holmes.
“I want you to do whatever it takes to keep Belknapp from killing me or having me killed. He’s more than half a devil.”
It sounded to me like the kind of case Holmes would have sent straightaway to Lestrade and the Yard.
“The price will be two hundred pounds, payment in advance,” said Holmes.
Donaberry did not hesitate. He stood up, took out his wallet, and began placing bills on the table, counting aloud as he did so.
“Thank you,” said Holmes. “Dr. Watson and I will do our utmost to see to it that murder does not take place. Where will you be staying in London?”
“I have a room reserved at The Cadogan Hotel on Sloane Street,” he said.
The Cadogan was a small hotel known to be the London residence of Lilly Langtree and rumored to be an occasional hideaway for the notorious playwright Oscar Wilde.
“You’ve told no one,” said Holmes.
“Only you and Dr. Watson,” he said.
“Very good,” said Holmes. “Remain in your room. Eat in the hotel. We will contact you when we have news. And Mr. Donaberry, do not go out the front door and do not take the cab that is waiting for you. You may be watched. Dr. Watson will show you how to get out the back entrance. There is a low fence. I suggest you climb it and work your way out to the street beyond. Mrs. Hudson will provide you with an umbrella.”
“My suitcase,” he said.
“Dr. Watson or I will return it to you the moment it is safe to do so. I cannot see a man of your size and age climbing fences with the burden of this luggage.”
Donaberry looked as if he were thinking deeply before deciding to nod his head in reluctant agreement.
“Then be off,” Holmes said. “Remember, stay in the hotel. In your room as much as possible with the door locked. Take all your meals in the hotel dining room. The food is not the best but it is tolerable.”
Donaberry nodded and I led him out the door and down to the back entrance after he had retrieved his coat and Mrs. Hudson had provided an umbrella.
Holmes was pacing the floor, hands behind his back when I returned to our rooms and said, “Holmes, while I sympathize with Mr. Donaberry’s situation, I see nothing in it to capture your attention or make use of your skills.”
“I’m sorry, Watson, what did you say? I was lost in a thought about this curious situation. There are so many questions.”
“I see nothing curious about it,” I said.
“We are dealing with potential murder here and a criminal mind that is worth confronting,” he responded. “And we have no time to lose. Let us take Mr. Donaberry’s waiting cab and pay a visit.”
“To whom?” I asked.
In response, Holmes held up the card Elspeth Belknapp had handed him.
“To John Belknapp,” he said. “Of course.”
In the carriage, to the beating of the rain on the carriage roof and the jostling of the wheels along the cobblestones, Holmes said that he had examined the contents of Alfred Donaberry’s luggage when I had ushered Donaberry to the rear entrance to Mrs. Hudson’s.
“The suitcase was neatly packed, shirts and trousers, toiletries, underclothing and stockings, plus a pair of serviceable shoes.”
“And what did you discover from that?” I asked as lightning cracked in the west.
“That Alfred Donaberry packs neatly and keeps his clothing and shoes clean,” said Holmes.
“Most significant,” I said, trying to show no hint of sarcasm at this discovery.
“Perhaps,” said Holmes, looking out the window.
We arrived on a side street off Portobello Road within twenty minutes. The rain had let up considerably and I negotiated with the cabby to await our return. Considering that we were now going to pay for Donaberry’s trip plus our own, the slicker-shrouded driver readily agreed. Holmes and I moved quickly toward the entrance to the four-story office building which bore a bronze plate inscribed Pembroke Gems, Ltd., by Appointment of His Majesty, 1721.
Despite its history, the building was less than nondescript. It was decidedly shabby. We knocked at the heavy wooden door which dearly needed painting and were ushered inside by a very old man in a suit that seemed much too tight even for his frail frame.
“We are here to see Mr. John Belknapp,” said Holmes.
“Mr. Belknapp is in,” the frail old man said, “but…do you have an appointment?”
“Tell him it is Mr. Sherlock Holmes and that I have come about a matter concerning Alfred Donaberry.”
“Sherlock Holmes, about Alfred Donaberry,” the old man repeated. “Please wait here.”
The man moved slowly up the dark wooden stairway in the small damp hallway.
“Why the urgency, Holmes?”
“Perhaps there is none, Watson, but I prefer to err on the side of caution in a situation such as this.”
The frail old man reappeared in but a few minutes and turned to lead us up the stairs after saying, “Mr. Belknapp can see you now.”
On the narrow second floor landing with creaking floorboards, we were ushered to a door with John Belknapp written in peeling black paint.
The frail old man knocked and a voice called, “Come in.”
We entered and the old man closed the door behind us as he left.
Our first look at Belknapp immediately provoked in me a sense of caution. He was, as we had been told, a handsome man of no more than forty, reasonably well dressed in a dark suit and vest. His hair, just beginning to show signs of distinguished gray at the temples, was brushed back. He was standing behind his desk in an office that showed no great distinction or style. Plain dark wooded furniture, several chairs, cabinets, and a picture of the queen upon the wall. The view through his windows was really no view at all, simply a brick wall no more than half a dozen feet away. Prosperity did not leap from the surroundings.
Sensing my reaction perhaps, Belknapp in an impatient response said, “My office is modest. It is designed for work and not for entertaining clients. For that there is a conference space on the ground floor.”
I nodded.
“I hope this will be brief,” he said.
“Dr. Watson and I will take but a few minutes of your time,” Holmes said. “We have no need to sit.”
“Good,” said Belknapp, “I have a client to meet if I can find a cab in this confounded rain. You said this is about Alfred Donaberry.”
“Yes,” said Holmes. “Perhaps you know why we have come.”
“Alfred Donaberry is a fool so I assume you are on a fool’s errand. He could not hold on to a beautiful wife, did not appreciate her. I rescued her from a life of potential waste in a barely civilized country torn by potential war. If he is in England or has commissioned you in some way to persuade or threaten me and my wife, I…”
“Mr. Donaberry is, indeed, in England.”
“Money,” said Belknapp as if coming to a sudden understanding. “It’s about the money.”
“In part,” said Holmes. “If you answer but one question, we shall leave you to attend to your client.”
“Ask,” said Belknapp with distinct irritation.
“What would you say your business is worth?”
“That is of no concern to you,” Belknapp responded angrily.
“Incorrect,” said Holmes. “It is precisely my concern. You wish us to depart so that you can get on with your client, simply answer the question.”
“My business is worth far less than I would like. The inevitable war with the Boers has already affected mining and my sources are threatened. My personal savings and holdings have dwindled. What has this to do with…?”
“We shall leave now,” said Holmes. “I have one suggestion before we do so.”
“And what might that be?” asked Belknapp with a sneer that made it clear he was unlikely to take any suggestion made by a representative of Alfred Donaberry.
“Stay away from Mr. Donaberry,” said Holmes. “Stay f
ar away.”
“A threat? You issue me a threat?” asked Belknapp, beginning to come around his desk, fists clenched.
“Let us say it is a warning,” said Holmes, standing his ground.
Belknapp was now in front of Holmes, his face pink with anger. I took a step forward to my friend’s side. Holmes held up a hand to keep me back.
“You should learn to control your temper,” said Holmes. “In fact I would say it is imperative that you do so.”
I thought Belknapp was certainly about to strike Holmes but before he could do so, Holmes held his right hand up in front of the gem dealer’s face.
“Were you to lose control,” Holmes said, “it is likely that you would be the one injured. Would you like to explain a swollen eye or lip and a disheveled countenance to your expected client?”
Belknapp’s fists were still tight but he hesitated.
“Good morning to you,” said Holmes, turning toward the door, “and remember my warning. Stay away from Alfred Donaberry.”
I followed Holmes out the door and down the stairs. The rain had stopped and the streets were wet under a cloudy sky that showed no promise of sun.
When we were on the move again, I looked at Holmes who sat frowning.
“I don’t see how your warning will stop Belknapp from his plan to do away with Donaberry. While your reputation precedes you, he did not seem the kind who would be concerned about the consequences of any violence that might come to Donaberry.”
“I’m afraid you are right, Watson,” Holmes said with a sigh. “I’m afraid you are right.”
We were no more than five minutes from Baker Street when Holmes suddenly said, “We must stop the carriage.”
“Why?” I asked.
“No time to explain,” he said, rapping at the hatchway in the roof. “We must get to Alfred Donaberry at once. It is a matter of life or death.”
The driver opened the flap. Though the rain had now stopped, a spray from the roof hit me through the open portal. Holmes rose and spoke to the driver. I did not clearly hear what he said beyond Holmes’s order and statement that there was a full pound extra in it if he rode like the wind.
He did. Holmes and I were jostled back and forth holding tightly to the carriage straps. The noise of the panting horse and the wheels against the uneven cobblestones made it difficult to understand Holmes who seemed angry with himself. I thought I heard him say, “The audacity, Watson. Not even to wait a day. To use me for a fool.”
“You think Belknapp is on his way to The Cadogan Hotel?” I asked.
“I’m convinced of it,” Holmes said. “Pray we are not too late.”
We arrived in, I am certain, record time. Holmes leaped out of the carriage before the horse had come to a complete halt.
“Wait,” I called to the driver, following Holmes past the doorman and into the hotel lobby.
As it turned out, we were too late.
The lobby was alive with people and two uniformed constables trying to keep them calm. Holmes moved through the crowd not worrying about who he might be elbowing out of the way.
“What has happened here?” Holmes demanded of a bushy mustached constable.
“Nothing you need concern yourself with, sir,” the constable said, paying no attention to us.
“This,” I said, “is Sherlock Holmes.”
The constable turned toward us and said, “Yes, so it is. How did you get here so fast? I know you have a reputation for…but this happened no more than five minutes ago.”
“This?” asked Holmes. “What is ‘this’?”
“Man been shot dead in room upstairs, Room 116 I think. We have a man up there with the shooter and we’re waiting for someone to show up from the Yard. So…”
Holmes waited for no more. He moved past the constable who was guarding the steps with me in close pursuit. Holmes moved more rapidly up the stairs than did I. My old war wound allowed for limited speed, but I was right behind him when he made a turn at the first landing and headed for a young constable standing in front of a door, a pistol in his hand. The sight of a London constable holding a gun was something quite new to me.
“Where is he?” Holmes demanded.
The constable looked bewildered.
“Are you from the Yard?” the young man asked hopefully.
“We are well known at the Yard,” I said. “I’m a doctor. I expect an Inspector will be right behind us.”
“Is that the murder weapon?” Holmes asked.
“It is, sir,” the young man said, handing it to me. “He gave it up without a word. He’s just sitting in there now as you can see.”
I looked through the door. There was a man on his back in the middle of the floor, eyes open, a splay of blood on his white shirt. Another man sat at the edge of a sturdy armchair, head in hands.
The dead man was John Belknapp. The man in the chair was Alfred Donaberry.
“We are,” said Holmes, “too late.”
At the sound of Holmes’s voice, Donaberry looked up. His eyes were red and teary. His mouth was open. A look of pale confusion covered his face.
“Mr. Holmes,” he said. “He came here just minutes ago. He had a gun. I don’t…He gave no warning. He fired.”
Donaberry pointed toward the window. I could see that it was shattered.
“I grabbed at him and managed to partially wrest the gun away,” Donaberry went on. “We struggled. I thought he had shot me, but he backed away and…and fell as you see him now. My God, Mr. Holmes, I have killed a man.”
Holmes said nothing as I moved to Donaberry and called for the constable at the door to bring a glass of water. Had I my medical bag there were several sedatives I could have administered but barring that, I could only minister to his grief, horror, and confusion, which I did to the best of my limited ability.
Holmes had now moved to and sat on a wooden chair near a small table on which rested a washing bowl and pitcher. He had made a bridge of his fingers and placed the edge of their roof against his pursed lips.
I know not how many minutes passed with me trying to calm Donaberry but it could not have been many before Elspeth Belknapp came rushing into the room. Her eyes took in the horror of the scene and she collapsed weeping at the side of her dead husband.
“I…Elspeth, believe me it was an accident,” Donaberry said. “He came to…”
“We know why he came,” Inspector Lestrade’s voice came from the open door.
Lestrade looked around the room. I retrieved the gun from my pocket and handed it to him.
“Mrs. Belknapp came to Scotland Yard,” said Lestrade, looking at Holmes, who showed no interest in his arrival or the distraught widow. “It seems Mr. Belknapp left a note which Mrs. Belknapp found no more than an hour ago. He told her he was going to see Alfred Donaberry and end his intrusion forever. Constable Owens has filled me in on what took place. We’ll need a statement from Mr. Donaberry.”
“May I see the note, Inspector?” Holmes said.
Lestrade retrieved the missive from his pocket and handed it to Holmes who read it slowly and handed it back to the Inspector.
“Lady says her husband had quite a temper,” Lestrade said. “He owned several weapons, protection from gem thieves.”
“Yes,” said the kneeling widow. “I asked him repeatedly to keep the weapons out of our house, but he insisted that they were essential.”
“Temper, weapon, note, struggle,” said Lestrade. “I’d say Mr. Donaberry is fortunate to be alive.”
“Indeed,” said Holmes. “But that danger has not yet passed.”
Elspeth Belknapp turned to Holmes.
“I harbor no wishes of death for Alfred,” she said. “I have had enough loss, Mr. Holmes.”
“Well,” said Lestrade with a sigh. “That pretty much takes care of this unfortunate situation. We’ll need a detailed statement from you, Mr. Donaberry, when you’re able.”
Donaberry nodded.
“A very detailed statement,” said Hol
mes. “Mr. Donaberry, would you agree that my part of our agreement has been fulfilled albeit not as we discussed it?”
“What?” asked the bewildered man.
“You paid me two hundred pounds to keep John Belknapp from killing you. You are not dead. He is.”
“The money is yours,” said Donaberry with a wave of his hand.
“Thank you,” said Holmes. “Now, with that settled, we shall deal with the murder of John Belknapp, a murder which I foresaw but failed to act upon with sufficient haste to save his life. The audacity of the murderer took me, I admit, by surprise. I’ll not let such a thing to again transpire.”
“What the devil are you talking about, Holmes?” Lestrade said.
Holmes rose from his chair and looking from Elspeth Belknapp to Alfred Donaberry said, “These two have conspired to commit murder, which is bad enough, but what I find singularly outrageous is that they sought to use me to succeed in their enterprise.”
“Use you?” asked Donaberry. “Mr. Holmes, have you gone mad? I went to you for help. Belknapp tried to kill me.”
Holmes was shaking his head “no” even before Alfred Donaberry had finished.
“Can you prove this, Holmes?” Lestrade asked.
“Have I ever failed to do so in the past to your satisfaction?”
“Not that I recall,” said Lestrade.
“Good, then hear me,” said Holmes, pacing the floor. “First, I thought it oddly coincidental that Mrs. Belknapp should visit me only minutes before her former husband. Ships are notoriously late and occasionally early. Yet the two visits were proximate.”
“Which proves?” asked Lestrade.
“Nothing,” said Holmes. “I accepted it as mere coincidence. As I accepted Mrs. Belknapp’s statements about the basic goodness of her former spouse. She said she wanted to protect her husband. I now believe she came for the sole purpose of describing her former husband as a kind and decent man who would hurt no one and her now dead husband as a man of potentially uncontrollable passion.”
“But that…” Lestrade began.
Holmes held up his hand and continued.
“And then Mr. Donaberry here arrived, rumpled, suitcase in hand showing us the finger from which he had supposedly removed his wedding ring three months earlier.”