The Secret Notebooks of Sherlock Holmes

by June Thomson

  ‘How you carry out the substitution is entirely your decision. But however you contrive it, the reward will be substantial, I can assure you. And now for the jewel itself; or rather the Baron’s excellent copy of it, made I believe by Bieberbeck, the Viennese expert who supplies substitute jewellery for those members of the aristocracy who have been forced to sell the family heirlooms. It is said Princess Magdelena von Ullstein’s famous tiara is one of Bieberbeck’s copies.’

  Reaching into his inner pocket, he took out a small jeweller’s box covered in blue and gold tooled leather which he set down on the table before opening it to reveal its contents lying on the white satin lining.

  It was indeed a pendant, but to my untutored eye it seemed a crude object with nothing of either beauty or value about it, for it was merely an oval stone of a brownish-yellow colour, about an inch and a half in length, roughly engraved with the head of a bearded man with narrow, fierce-looking eyes and high cheekbones. The stone itself was enclosed in a broad gold frame bearing some strange, angular letters. There was a loop at the top of it to which was attached a chain made of coarse gold links so that, I supposed, it could be worn round the owner’s neck like a locket.

  It looked undoubtedly old but, apart from that, had no other merit at all, as far as I could see.

  However, Holmes’ response on seeing it was quite the opposite to mine.

  I heard him draw in his breath in amazement, at the sound of which his client cast a keen glance in his direction. But my old friend had already regained control of his features and the face he presented expressed nothing more than a mild interest.

  ‘I see,’ he remarked non-committally. ‘Well, Count von Lyngstrad, I will do my best to arrange the substitution, but I can promise nothing.’

  ‘I am staying at the Northumberland hotel,7 should you wish to contact me,’ the Count said. Rising to his feet, he held out his hand to each of us in turn.

  ‘I am most grateful, gentlemen,’ he added, giving the same courteous little bow and click of his heels with which he had greeted us, before leaving the room.

  Hardly had the door closed behind him than Holmes let his true feelings find expression.

  Smiling broadly, he clapped me on the shoulder.

  ‘My dear Watson, we have been honoured with an inquiry of some importance!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘Have we, Holmes?’ I asked, casting a dubious eye at the pendant in its little box which the Count had left lying on the table. ‘I cannot myself see the significance of the pendant. In fact, it does not look at all valuable to me.’

  ‘No?’ He sounded dumbfounded. ‘Then let me ask you a question. Have you heard of the Alfred jewel?’8

  ‘I think so, Holmes. It is connected with King Alfred, I assume.’

  ‘It is indeed. Now what value would you place on it?’

  ‘I have no idea but as it is famous as well as very old, I suppose it must be worth a great deal of money.’

  ‘It is priceless, my dear fellow, even though its intrinsic value is minimal, for it consists merely of some crystal and enamel plus a little gold. Its true value lies in its uniqueness as well as its age and its historical connection. A collector such as Cornelius Bradbury would be willing to pay a fortune to acquire it.’

  Bending down, he picked up the pendant which the Count had left on the table and held it towards me on the palm of his hand.

  ‘This is, of course, only a copy,’ he continued, ‘but were it the original it would, like the Alfred jewel, be priceless.’

  After a pause in which he looked at me keenly, he added in a solemn tone, ‘What you are looking at, my dear Watson, is the Gustafsson Stone.’

  I could think of nothing to say in response and, after a moment’s silence, Holmes remarked, ‘I see you have not heard of it.’

  ‘I am afraid not, Holmes,’ I said humbly.

  ‘Then let me enlighten you. The Gustafsson Stone is a sixth-century jewel which once belonged to Gustaf Gurfson, a Viking leader who is hardly known in England but is famous throughout Scandinavia as a national hero. The head etched into the stone, which by the way is amber, is supposed to be a portrait of him. You see these strange letters engraved on the gold frame? These are runes and are said to spell out his name. There is something else about the Gustafsson Stone which adds to its uniqueness. It is part of the crown jewels of the kingdom of Scandinavia.’9

  Holmes, who has a taste for the dramatic,10 paused again to give me the opportunity to respond appropriately to this startling statement and this time I was more prepared than on the earlier occasion.

  ‘Good heavens, Holmes!’ I exclaimed. ‘Then Count von Lyngstrad must be the King of Scandinavia!’

  ‘Precisely, Watson,’ Holmes agreed coolly. ‘I congratulate you on your powers of deduction. Count von Lyngstrad is indeed King Erik of Scandinavia. Now, having settled the matter of the real identity of our client, we must now turn our attention to a less easily solved aspect of it, namely: how are we going to contrive to exchange this copy of the Gustaffson Stone with the original without alerting the Baron and his bodyguards? Have you any ideas, Watson?’

  ‘I am afraid not, Holmes.’

  ‘Neither have I. But they will come, Watson. They will come.’

  With that, he rose from his chair and left the room. Returning shortly afterwards, he stretched himself out on the sofa and stared fixedly at the ceiling, his eyes hooded, as if inspiration were to be found up there upon its white-washed surface.

  Recognising the symptoms and realising that Holmes would be lost in whatever world he had drifted into through the needle of the syringe,11 I, too, rose and, quietly letting myself out of the house, hailed a cab and set off for my club and the consolation of a game of billiards.

  II

  By the time I had returned to our lodgings, Holmes had fully recovered and was overflowing with high spirits and impatience at my absence.

  ‘Where on earth have you been, Watson?’ he demanded. However, before I could reply, he had swept on. ‘While you were away, I have devised the most brilliant scheme. So come along at once, there’s a good fellow! Let us not waste any more time!’

  ‘But where are we going, Holmes?’ I asked as I hurried after him down the stairs.

  ‘To inspect the lie of the land, of course!’ he said dismissively over his shoulder, as if that should have been obvious.

  Our destination, it seemed from the address he gave to the cab driver, was the Hotel Imperial where Baron Kleist was staying and I wanted to ask Holmes if he thought this was a wise decision but, having seen him before in this mood, I knew it was better to hold my tongue and simply follow where he led.

  The Hotel Imperial, a large, white, porticoed edifice, its façade decorated with half pilasters and elaborate cornices, was situated in Piccadilly overlooking Green Park. A uniformed doorkeeper saluted and held the doors open for us as if we were royalty as we passed into a magnificent entrance hall lined with mirrors and palm trees in huge brass pots. A grand staircase swept up in front of us to the upper floors.

  However, we turned to the left into a large lounge furnished with small tables and tapestry-covered sofas and armchairs.

  ‘Coffee, do you not agree, my dear fellow?’ Holmes asked, seating himself on one of the sofas and, as he gave the order to a soft-footed waiter who had suddenly appeared before us as if conjured up out of the air, I lowered myself on to one of the armchairs.

  ‘What are we doing here?’ I asked in a low voice, hoping to encourage him by example into adopting a more discreet attitude, for he was glancing about him with obvious interest.

  ‘As I have already told you, Watson. Like troops before battle we are carrying out a preliminary inspection of the enemy’s position. And there is no need to whisper, my dear fellow. There is nothing more likely to draw attention to oneself than a furtive manner. And now,’ he continued, lowering his voice a little to my great relief, as the waiter, having reappeared to serve our order, withdrew, ‘I want you to glance ab
out in a casual manner as you drink your coffee. For example, if you look over to your right, you will observe a dark-haired man reading The Times and, like us, taking a discreet interest in what is going on about him. You have observed him, Watson?’

  ‘Yes, I have Holmes,’ I replied in an admiring tone, for, had Holmes not pointed the man out, I should have not noticed him at all, for there was nothing remarkable about him. Indeed, he was so ordinary in both his appearance and behaviour as to be virtually invisible.

  ‘That, I believe, is none other than Nils, one of our client’s agents whom he mentioned was staying at the Hotel Imperial. The other, Oscar, the more conspicuous-looking of the two, is presumably keeping discreetly out of sight until his services are called for. And if you look over to the far side of the lounge, you will see a pair of double glass doors. These lead into the main restaurant from which, I believe, one can gain access to the famous Winter Garden at the back of the hotel, while on the far side of the reception desk are the doors leading into the Smoking Room, the Writing Room and the Ladies’ Drawing-room. You look bemused, my dear fellow. Why is that?’

  ‘I do not understand why all of this is necessary. You are, I assume, not thinking of making use of the Ladies’ Drawing-room by any chance?’

  ‘Not unless it is absolutely necessary,’ Holmes replied solemnly and then, on catching sight of my expression, he gave a low chuckle. ‘I am merely making sure of all the exits beforehand in case we need to make a run for it. I can assure you, my dear fellow, that the Ladies’ Drawing-room will be my very last point of retreat.’

  He broke off suddenly and, putting down his coffee cup, announced in a low voice which carried an undertone of excitement, ‘I believe the situation is about to unfold, Watson. Our friend Nils is getting ready to make a move. No, no! Pray do not turn in his direction. You will give the game away. If you look to your left, you may watch the developments much more discreetly.’

  With a nod of his head, he indicated the double glass doors on the other side of the room which led into the restaurant, one leaf of which had been left half open and which, like a mirror, reflected the opposite side of the coffee lounge and part of the foyer. Without needing to turn my head, I could see in its polished surface Nils, the Count’s unobtrusive agent, in the act of folding up his copy of The Times and, placing it under his arm, begin to rise to his feet.

  ‘He has scented his prey,’ Holmes remarked with a chuckle, leaning back in his chair. Although to any casual observer he was apparently quite uninterested in what might be happening behind him, I was aware that, even though his eyes were half-closed, he was watching with close attention the restaurant door and the events being reflected in it.

  While he was speaking, the images had shifted. Nils was now fully upright and was examining a handful of small coins he had taken from his pocket, as if searching for a suitable tip to leave by his coffee cup. At the same time, a man’s figure advanced into the focus of the door’s reflection.

  He was a tall, well-built man in his mid-fifties, I estimated, and had apparently just descended the staircase which led to the upper floors.

  ‘And there is the prey: Baron Kleist himself,’ Holmes added, his eyes still hooded and his lips barely moving.

  I sharpened my own focus on the new arrival, excited at being afforded my first glimpse of the man whose reputation as an international forger and blackmailer was notorious and whom Holmes was committed to outwitting on behalf of his royal client, the King of Scandinavia.

  He carried his bulk and height with the confident air of a man whose wealth and status entitled him to the deference of others. His clothes also suggested money and social standing, for they were impeccably cut by the best tailors – English, I suspected – his morning coat fitting smoothly across his broad shoulders, his trousers of exactly the right length to the nearest fraction of an inch. His spats, too, were exquisite and his boots shone like black glass. But although the general effect was one of a wealthy gentleman-about-town, there were details about his appearance which failed to live up to this image. The gold watch and chain he was sporting was just a little too lavish; so, also, was the orchid in his button-hole, while he handled his gold-topped cane with just a touch too much ostentatious flourish.

  He was handsome in a rather florid manner, the colour in his broad, flat cheeks indicating self-indulgence and high-living, a suggestion which was borne out by the small, well-padded mouth under his carefully trimmed mustachios. But it was his eyes which revealed his true nature. He had halted at the reception desk to speak to the clerk on duty, who was bowing and smiling profusely in his anxiety to please. As he stood there, ignoring the man’s obsequiousness, the Baron turned his head to survey the foyer and the coffee lounge.

  Even at a distance, I was aware of the quality of that scrutiny. It was hard, cold and implacable, like a snake’s, and had the same fixed, bright, reptilian intelligence.

  Here, I thought, was a clever, calculating man who would make a formidable opponent, and I felt a clutch of fear at my heart.

  Involuntarily, I glanced across at Holmes, wondering if he, too, was aware of the Baron’s dangerous potentiality.

  He was still leaning back in his chair, his eyes half-closed, but he was now wearing a beatific smile as if the thought of the forthcoming mission to outwit the man was affording him pleasurable anticipation.

  In the meantime, the reflections in the glass were shifting once more as the figures in the dumb-show changed their positions. As if anticipating the Baron’s next move, Nils was bending down over the coffee table to place some coins by his empty cup. At the same time, a third figure whom I had not been aware of until that moment stepped forward into the frame from his position a little distance from the reception desk. He was a young, stockily-built man, dressed all in black like a manservant, but it was immediately apparent that his role was not that of a conventional gentleman’s gentleman. There was an air of menace about his movements and the manner in which he carried his hands loosely in front of him half-formed into fists like a pugilist entering a boxing ring ready for the contest.

  This newcomer, I realised, was one of the Baron’s two bodyguards, the one who, as Count von Lyngstrad had remarked, followed him everywhere. He fell in a few yards behind the Baron, who had turned away and was crossing the foyer towards the hotel entrance.

  Hardly had the pair of them vanished out of sight than Nils made his own move. Strolling casually, as if he had all the time in the world, he too made his way towards the great swing doors which the uniformed commissionaire was holding open for him, disappearing in turn through them into the noise and bustle of Piccadilly.

  Judging it was safe to turn my head, I glanced directly towards the foyer, empty now of both the Baron, his bodyguard and Nils, the King of Scandinavia’s unobtrusive little agent, but not deserted, for there were plenty of other people arriving and leaving all the time, a situation which I was aware Holmes was watching with keen interest. Sitting alert and upright now in his chair, his eyes were following these comings and goings, particularly those of the new arrivals.

  Suddenly, he announced in a low voice, ‘Wait for me here, Watson. I shall not keep you long.’

  With that, to my surprise, he rose and walked briskly across the room to the entrance hall, where a middle-aged lady and gentleman, who had just entered the hotel through the swing doors, were about to mount the stairs. Giving them a slight bow as one might to acquaintances, he made some remark at which the lady smiled and the gentleman responded. Holmes then gestured to them to precede him and, as they began to mount the stairs, he fell in behind them.

  For a few moments, I was deceived by this little charade, believing that Holmes had indeed met the couple before and that, for some reason known only to himself, he wished to accompany them upstairs. Certainly the hotel staff present in the foyer, the clerks behind the desk, the doorkeeper, the pages standing about waiting to be summoned, were taken in by the ruse and raised no objection to Holmes’ intru
sion into the private upper floors, normally barred to non-residents unless they had first made themselves known to the management. Once again, I found myself full of admiration at my old friend’s boldness and ingenuity which to my knowledge no other person possesses to quite the same degree.

  As he promised, he returned within minutes and, as he seated himself again on the sofa, I congratulated him on his quickness of mind at which he smiled, pleased with the compliment.

  ‘One must always seize the moment, Watson, and, in my experience, if one waits long enough, the moment will always present itself.’

  ‘And was the moment worth seizing?’

  ‘Indeed it was, my dear fellow. I discovered two very important facts. Firstly, the Baron’s suite, number twenty-four, is on the second floor and, being an even number, must face the back of the building. Secondly, the locks on the doors are of a standard pattern and, should it be necessary, could be picked without too much difficulty. And speaking of picklocks, it is time we paid a visit to an old friend of mine, Charlie Peak, a former screwsman,12 or burglar to you, Watson, and an expert in the field.’

  ‘Former?’ I enquired.

  ‘He is seventy-four, too old, as he himself admits, for breaking into other people’s property. We will now pay the bill and take a cab to Sydenham where we shall sit at Charlie’s feet,’ Holmes replied, summoning the waiter.

  III

  To my astonishment, the cab set us down outside a neat red-brick villa with lace curtains at the windows and a brightly-polished brass knocker on the door, more the abode of a respectable bank-clerk, I would have thought, than a retired burglar.

  A trim little housemaid in a spotlessly white cap and apron showed us into a parlour, where Charlie Peak sat comfortably ensconced in a large armchair among the domestic comforts of potted geraniums, buttoned velvet and family photographs.

  He was a white-haired, pink-cheeked, cheerful-looking little man, his slippered feet resting on a stool and a walking stick propped up beside him.