Secrets From the Deed Box of John H Watson, MD (The Deed Box of John H. Watson MD)

by Ashton, Hugh

  As we made our way to Baker Street, I ventured to ask him for some more details of what had transpired, but he replied with a smile that I was not to put myself before princes in this regard.

  -oOo-

  We were admitted to Marlborough House the next morning, and shown to a comfortable room, luxuriously furnished, in which the Prince was already seated, smoking one of his inevitable cigars.

  “I have been racking my brains,” he said to Holmes, “and I have no idea what has been going on. I confess I am as anxious as a schoolboy to know the truth of this story. Abrahams and Lady Enfield should be with us soon.” Even as he spoke, the two in question were admitted to the room. At a word from the Prince, they took their seats in chairs between him and myself, facing Holmes, who stood to address us.

  “First, your Royal Highness, I must confess that I am in possession of the facts regarding the loan of the Enfield Rope to you by Lady Enfield as security for a loan. I would request that you do not ask me how I came to know this, as I regard my source here as being privileged.” The Prince nodded in agreement, though I fancied I could perceive some reluctance in his acquiescence. “The loan was made to you, Sir, was it not, by Mr Oliver Blunt?” Without waiting for an answer, he continued, “As it transpired, Blunt was not in possession of the sum you demanded—”

  “I would prefer that you use the word ‘requested’ with reference to that business,” interrupted the Heir coldly. “I do not issue demands, I make requests.”

  “Your pardon, Sir,” replied Holmes. “The sum requested, as I say, was not immediately forthcoming, and Blunt was forced to borrow the money himself from Graf Grüning, handing over the pearls as security. We have Mr Abrahams to thank for his assistance in determining this.”

  “Good Lord!” exclaimed the Prince. “I would never have placed the man Blunt in such a deuced awkward position had I known that he would have had to borrow the money himself. Go on, Mr Holmes.”

  “Your Highness may not be aware of the fact that Blunt has strong commercial links with Germany, and appears, from a photograph on his desk, to have personal ties to your nephew, Kaiser Wilhelm.” The Prince snorted at this news. “The irony is that von Grüning himself could not raise the capital, and was forced to borrow the money from Mr Abrahams here.”

  Abrahams looked stunned at this news. “I had no knowledge of the purpose or the destination of the loan,” he explained to the Prince. “I knew von Grüning to be a gambler, and I assumed that the loan was for that purpose.”

  “I hardly feel that any blame can attach to you,” said Holmes. “You made the loan in good faith, without questions and without security, as you explained to me earlier. May I add, Sir,” turning back to the Prince, “that without Mr Abraham’s help, the pearls in question would in all probability be making their way to Berlin.”

  “So far, you have explained how the pearls came to be in the possession of von Grüning, but you have yet to provide a reason for their substitution by counterfeits,” complained the Prince.

  “That, Sir, was to be my next point. I am sorry to say that you were the target of a plot to destroy your reputation. The idea, hatched in Potsdam by your nephew, was that Lady Enfield’s pearls would be substituted and subsequently revealed as counterfeit in a public event, and in the ensuing explanation, the whole business of the loan and your borrowing the pearls would be made public.”

  “How can you be sure that the plot came from Potsdam, and was not the initiative of von Grüning?”

  “I took the trouble to look into his past. He was an intimate of your nephew, Sir, and was undoubtedly sent here specifically to cause trouble and to embarrass you.”

  The Prince shook his head. “Little Willy,” he muttered to himself. “One of these days you will do an unbelievable Dummheit, and the whole of Europe will suffer.” He looked at Holmes. “Continue.”

  “It is obvious that the pearls had been studied previously in order to make a counterfeit.” Holmes looked at Lady Enfield, who spoke in a soft voice. “In the past, the Enfield Rope has been on public display on loan to the Museum. It is well described, and the descriptions could, I imagine, be easily obtained by anyone who wished to discover more about the pearls.”

  “I assume that the counterfeit was created some time ago in Germany, awaiting a time when it could be used, being brought over to this country by von Grüning,” added my friend.

  “And what in the world would they expect to do with the real pearls?” asked the Prince. “Surely not even my nephew would contemplate destroying such a perfect example of the jeweller’s art?”

  “They attempted to sell them through illicit channels,” replied Holmes. “Naturally, our English criminals have more sense than to purchase something so distinctive. My guess is that the Germans would have attempted to transfer them to the Continent and dispose of them there.”

  “But Mr Holmes,” interrupted Lady Enfield. “There is one piece of the puzzle missing – the most important piece. How did I come to be wearing the real pearls yesterday evening, and how were you in possession of the fakes?”

  “Come to that,” added the Prince, “I am at a loss to understand why the real pearls had not already left the country.”

  “Let me explain,” smiled Holmes. “Yesterday I visited the dealer acting for the Germans. He is a past master at disposing of stolen property, and he is, in the circles he frequents, a famous man in his trade. I visited him in the character of an American collector, and after examining the pearls, I promised to call back later with the cash to purchase them. While his attention was distracted during our converse, I managed to exchange the pearls for the substitutes, thereby gaining possession of the real thing.”

  “Excellent,” chuckled the Prince. “So the receiver of stolen goods was left with the counterfeits?”

  “He was not even left with those by the time I had finished with him,” smiled Holmes. “I left him, carrying the real pearls, and deposited them, in a locked bag, at the Left Luggage office at Waterloo station. I then returned to our friend, still in the character of the American collector, and requested another examination of the pearls, which I duly pronounced to be counterfeit. He was forced to agree with my appraisal, and thereupon began to utter comprehensive curses at the German nation in general and von Grüning in particular. His belief was that he had previously been shown and evaluated the genuine pearls, which had been exchanged for the counterfeits by the Germans after the deal had been struck.”

  “And then?” asked the Prince, sitting forward in his chair.

  “Given his reputation and the risks that he ran of arrest and imprisonment, it was a reasonably easy matter to persuade him that it would be in his best interests to make over the counterfeits to me, and to inform the Germans that the sale to Tobias K Mellinthorpe was progressing smoothly. I now had both sets of pearls in my possession. The real ones I gave to Lady Enfield, and I hope your Ladyship will forgive my little deception in letting you believe I had not recovered the pearls.”

  “My dear man,” laughed Lady Enfield. “I was not deceived for a minute. As soon as you had left me, I examined the pearls, and discovered you had returned the originals. I knew that there would be some good reason for your not having mentioned this to me, so I decided to play along with your game, whatever it might turn out to be.”

  Sherlock Holmes appeared a little nonplussed by this revelation, but continued. “My little comedy was to be played out with the help of Mr Abrahams here, who exerted himself mightily to set the stage. I confess that I arranged the cards last night so that I was to partner you, Sir, and we were to play against Lady Enfield and von Grüning.”

  “You… you…” spluttered the Prince.

  “Never fear, Sir. In our game of whist, I played as honestly as any man, and did not use whatever skills of sleight of hand I might possess.”

  “Still…” The Prince subsided somewhat.

  “It was a relatively easy matter to provoke von Grüning into making his accusation
. You may recall some of my remarks, Sir, that led up to his declaration.”

  “Now I see,” replied the Prince. “I had at first marked it down as deliberate rudeness, but I now perceive your objective. Congratulations, Mr Holmes. The look on von Grüning’s face when you revealed the duplicates was priceless.”

  “The credit goes to Mr Abrahams and also to Watson here, who was actually attacked by von Grüning a couple of days back, in the belief that he was myself.”

  “The swine!” exclaimed the Prince. “Believe me, Willy will know about this, and he will be most unwelcome at Cowes this year. I trust, Doctor, that there are no adverse results as a result of your ill-treatment?”

  “None, Sir,” I replied.

  He nodded. “Mr Holmes, you have my gratitude. Tell me, what can I do to show my appreciation for your work?”

  “I incurred some trifling expenses in connection with the case,” replied Holmes. “Other than that, the solution was its own reward.”

  “Send your account to my secretary,” replied the Prince. “And, my friend,” he said to Abrahams, “some sort of future honour has been mentioned in the past, has it not? I think we may be able to advance the date of this. Perhaps at the New Year? And as for you, Lily,” turning to Lady Enfield, “as you know, I find it difficult to apologise, but—” There was real tenderness in his tone.

  “Bertie, there is nothing to forgive,” replied Lady Enfield, gazing at the Prince with frank adoration.

  “My dear, there is a good deal I must say to you—” began the Prince, seemingly oblivious of our continued presence.

  “We have your Highness’s leave to withdraw?” asked Holmes, signalling to Abrahams and myself to rise.

  “Oh, to be sure,” replied the Prince, vaguely, his eyes still locked on those of Lady Enfield.

  The three of us quietly made our way from the room, leaving the two alone together.

  “I admire your exquisite sense of tact,” remarked Abrahams to Holmes as we left Marlborough House.

  “I see no reason,” replied he, “why a Prince, no matter what his faults, should be denied the same privileges as those enjoyed by the poorest of our citizens. I refer to the right to be left alone with one whom he loves and who loves him. Come,” he said to Abrahams and me, “it may be early in the day, but I think some small celebration is called for. Do you drink champagne, Mr Abrahams?”

  The Strange Case of

  James Phillimore

  Editor’s Note

  The reason why this case was never laid before the public in Watson’s or Holmes’ lifetime is probably the unfavourable light it sheds on Holmes’ relations with the official police. From his dealings with Inspector Lanner as described here, it is obvious that the links between Holmes and the Metropolitan Police could be tenuous at best, and stormy at worst. Almost certainly, Watson would not want this animosity with the authorities to sully the reputation of his friend. The case itself is referenced by Watson in Thor Bridge as that of “Mr James Phillimore, who, stepping back into his own house to get his umbrella, was never more seen in this world”. Curiously, he describes this as an “unfinished tale” and implies that Holmes never solved the mystery. It is hard to understand why he should have done this – Watson’s categorisation of the case in this way is a mystery in its own right, worthy of the attention of Holmes himself. There is no scandal to be hidden, no person of importance to be shielded, and no obvious reason at all why it should be ignored in this way. The only explanation I can offer here is that Watson was so overcome by the horror of the charnel-house scene he briefly describes here that, following the catharsis of writing this report (which was scribbled hurriedly, with almost no corrections or crossings-out, though the final section appears to have been added later), he expunged the details from his memory, remembering only the most superficial facts of the case.

  -oOo-

  The case I describe here started almost as a comedy, which swiftly transformed itself into a tragedy, ultimately involving the loss of three lives, while presenting Holmes and myself with a scene of the utmost horror, the likes of which I hope never to encounter again.

  A little time after the events I have previously described under the title of A Study in Scarlet, Holmes and I were seated in our rooms in Baker Street. I was perusing the pages of a popular novel, and Holmes was examining the agony columns of the day’s newspapers.

  “It is a dull day for me,” he complained, “when even the agony columns refuse to provide entertainment. You may find it hard to believe, Watson, but there are days when I regret having taken up this profession, and long for the sedate life of a Norwich solicitor, which I believe is one my late father would have wished for me.”

  “Your talents would be wasted in such a backwater,” I remonstrated. “You have proved, at least to my satisfaction, that your powers of reasoning are unique, and you are putting them at the service of society by choosing your present occupation.”

  There was a knock at the door, and Mrs Hudson, our landlady, entered.

  “Excuse me, sir,” she said to Holmes, “but there’s a foreign gentleman downstairs who says he needs to see you now.”

  “Send him up, Mrs Hudson. Well, Watson, maybe this day will present some sort of novelty, after all.”

  The door opened again, and we beheld a striking figure. Tall and sturdily built, his most distinctive feature was a large white moustache that reminded me irresistibly of a bicycle’s handlebars, sweeping in graceful curves nearly to his ears. The nose above was large and deeply veined, probably signifying a liking for the bottle, and the eyes were lively and humorous. The hair, once he removed his somewhat battered and shabby bowler, was sparse, and what remained was the same colour as the moustache.

  “Will you take a seat?” invited Holmes. “You are...?”

  “My name is François Lefevre,” replied the other, in a marked French accent. “You, I take it, are Monsieur Holmes, and this must be the good Doctor Watson. Enchanté.” He bowed slightly from the waist as he sat down.

  “You have a problem?” enquired my friend.

  “But yes. Of a surety I have a problem. My work is stolen from me!” His accent thickened as his excitement rose.

  “This sounds most serious,” replied Holmes. “Maybe you can tell us something of your work, and the details of the theft.”

  “First, I must explain who I am and my position. Maybe you have not heard my name, but I am able to assure you that I am at the head of my profession here in London. I hold the position of chef de cuisine in one of London’s top clubs,” – here he named the institution, which I do not judge it proper to reveal here – “and I have acquired an international reputation for my work.”

  “I have eaten there myself as a guest on several occasions,” said Holmes, “and I must compliment you on your skill in managing the kitchen.”

  Our visitor bowed slightly in acknowledgement of the compliment, and continued. “Of a necessity, I must visit the other establishments in London from time to time and sample their offerings. Maybe there is something new that even I can learn from them. Naturally, my counterparts also come to visit me and partake of my creations. We know each other well, and make each other welcome. It is a friendly rivalry such as may obtain between true connoisseurs and virtuosos.” He paused, and Holmes motioned for him to continue. “Imagine my surprise when I visited the G— Hotel, where a friend of mine heads the kitchens, the other night – last night, in fact – and I saw listed on the menu canetons à la mode russe, that is to say, young ducks in the Russian manner, roasted, and served in a nest of pommes duchesse, with a special sauce containing a preponderance of beetroot, the whole garnished with red and black caviar.”

  “It sounds an appetising dish,” I interjected.

  “It is more than appetising,” replied Lefevre. “It is of a divinity beyond compare.” He made the typical French gesture of kissing his fingertips. “I devised this masterpiece for the banquet given by the Worshipful Company of Glovers to the C
zar and Czarina when they visited London some years ago, and it has formed a part of the menu offered to guests at the Club since then.” His French accent was now barely distinguishable.

  “So you were not expecting to see this on the menu of the G— Hotel?” asked Holmes.

  “There is no way I would have expected to see it there. I ordered the dish, and it was close to perfection, I am sorry to say.” In answer to Holmes’ unspoken question, he answered, “I say that I am sorry, because there was almost no difference between what was set before me that evening, and the masterpiece that issues from my own kitchens.”

  “You are claiming that someone stole your unique creation? Would it not have been possible to reconstruct the recipe following the consumption of the dish prepared under your direction at your place of work?”

  The other shook his head. “In theory, that might appear possible to those who are unaware of the subtleties of my trade. However, each chef has his own little secrets that are unique to him and his kitchen alone. In this case, it is to do with the use of the zest of a lemon and egg white in a certain combination, and I flatter myself that though it would be impossible for even a master of the trade to detect their presence to the point where they could be identified with certainty, their absence would change the character completely, and I would know immediately were they absent. In this event, I knew that the dish I was eating was indeed my own original creation, transferred to another kitchen without my knowledge.”

  “Is it not possible,” Holmes asked, “that one of your staff might have copied the recipe and sold it to the chef at the G— Hotel? Or even that one of your staff may have left your employ and gone to work there and presented the recipe to him?”

  “It is possible, I suppose, but unlikely. M. Gérard and I are friendly, as I mentioned, and I regard him as the very soul of honour. I cannot believe that he would ever countenance such an act by a former member of my staff, any more than I would allow one of his staff to bring me the method of preparing one of his creations. We are artists, Mr Holmes, and we have an artist’s pride. My recipes are mine and mine alone, and details of the final stages of preparation are not readily available. I take a personal interest in the dishes that leave my kitchen, and in this particular case, I am careful to finish the dish myself.”