The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories Part IV

by David Marcum

  “Maupassant,” said I, charging my pipe with Arcadia mixture. “Do tell. I had no idea you’d ever met the fellow. Not your usual type, was he? As I recall, he’d been incarcerated as a madman before he died.”

  My friend shrugged. Thunder rocked the room again, and we both took the opportunity to light our pipes. Once the silence returned, Sherlock Holmes proceeded to relate the following narrative. (Readers sympathetic to his point of view will appreciate the fact that I offer the account uninterrupted by any of the appeals to emotion and drama that I have been accused of employing.)

  II

  In the summer of ‘79 [Holmes began], not long after I took rooms in Montague Street, I got word from my brother Mycroft that our grandmother had just died. She’d moved back to France following the death of her English husband, my grandfather, and the funeral was to take place in Paris. I never pretended to be close to the French wing of our family, but Mycroft - much more mobile in those days than the sedentary figure into which he has devolved - was planning to attend the interment and asked me to join him. With the chance to please my brother - not to mention the opportunity for a summer’s trip to the Continent - I readily agreed.

  The list of mourners was quite distinguished. My late grandmother, the sister of the artist Vernet, had frequented the highest of artistic circles - and not just those of the painters she’d met through her brother. Foremost amongst such artists who arrived at the cemetery was the celebrated novelist Gustave Flaubert, whom I recognized from his balding pate and drooping moustache. By his side stood a striking young man with a thick head of wavy dark hair, a full handlebar moustache, and a subtle mouche just below his lower lip. As I was to learn later, the young man’s mother - said to be quite close to Flaubert - had encouraged a literary relationship between the great man and her son. In fact, the young man became Flaubert’s protégé. His name was Guy de Maupassant.

  By 1879, M. Maupassant had already gained some fame as a spinner of fictional tales, but unlike so many of our modern novelists with their unbounded flights of fancy, Maupassant displayed a practical nature and cynical point of view not unlike my own - or so I thought at the time. With similar philosophies and ages - he was but four years older than I - we quickly found much to talk about once the funeral had ended.

  In fact, at Maupassant’s invitation, I agreed to remain in France for an extra week, and after seeing Mycroft off for England at Calais, I travelled by railway to the young man’s home in Étretat, a beautiful town on the Normandy coast. Its massive chalk cliffs and magnificent blue waters put one in mind of the Seven Sisters in the South Downs. Even at so young an age - I was but twenty-five - I remember thinking that such a coastal setting would make a wonderful place to spend one’s retirement.

  It took very little time indeed for M. Maupassant to discover my passion for detection and to regard me as a treasure trove of possible story lines for his writing. Now I was new at my profession in 1879 and, sensing that neither the singular facts regarding the case of the Gloria Scott nor the arcane details related to the Musgrave Ritual need be made known to strangers, I had few selections to offer him. Nonetheless, young Maupassant picked my brain, and I confess to enjoying his responses to my feats of deduction.

  “C’est magnifique!” He was always quick to remark followed by the clap of his hands.

  Fortunately, there was a case that I thought would particularly interest my host, and it had taken place not long before my departure for France. Not only did my investigation present a number of odd clues and a most convoluted solution, but also, as the events had occurred so recently and thus remained fresh in my mind, I was confident that I could report the facts to my new acquaintance in great detail.

  “Eh, bien,” said M. Maupassant. “Please begin.”

  During the first few nights of June [I told him], a brown, oily fog had enveloped London. Happily, however, on the evening that the initial clues in this case became known to me, there was not a wisp of the noxious vapours in the air. As a result of the improved weather, I could resume my postprandial walks through Bloomsbury to which I had grown accustomed.

  With alacrity, I swung open the outer door of my lodgings, passed between the pilasters framing the portal, and strode down the steps into the twilight. Montague Street was calm that night. In the daytime hours, countless visitors to the nearby British Museum filled the pavements, but this evening - perhaps fearing a recurrence of the fog - few pedestrians were about.

  My usual route took me through Russell Square, up to the Euston Road, and sometimes as far as Regents Park. To that end, I set out heading northward past the familiar line of late-Georgian, four-storey row houses. With their similar facades - black doors on the right-hand side of two-toned brick walls (white below, dark-red above) - most of them looked just like the one I had exited. Black railings fronted each structure, and shallow, black-railed balconies, some sporting flower boxes of red geraniums, looked down from above. Half-circles of brightness pooled on the ground courtesy of the broad fanlights over the doors.

  It took me only a few minutes to reach the bucolic confines of Russell Square. Accompanied by the chirps of crickets and the snaps of breaking twigs, I crunched my way along the gravel paths amidst the shadows of holm oaks, yews, and hollies. As was my wont, I kept a keen lookout all the while for any strange flora, fauna, or bits of detritus that might stimulate my curiosity.

  On this excursion, it was a shabby grey bowler lying off in the darkness that caught my attention. I reckoned it was probably just someone’s lost old hat, but my enquiring mind prompted me to step onto the lawn to investigate. No sooner did I leave the path than the crickets grew still, and I became aware of the total silence enveloping me. I couldn’t even hear the fountains.

  The hat appeared to be an old-fashioned, dark-grey derby with rounded crown and abbreviated brim. Upon closer examination, however, three curiosities presented themselves. First, printed inside the crown was the distinctive imprimatur of “Lock & Co. Hatters, St. James’s Street, London.” Clearly, despite its scruffiness, this hat was no inexpensive head covering. Second, there appeared on the side of the brim opposite the band’s bow the bite marks of a small animal. Now all kinds of creatures roam the parks of London: hedgehogs, rats, badgers, as well as the more traditional dogs and cats. But due to the size, sharpness, and structure of the indentations, these marks seemed obviously feline. Fact number three erased any doubt as to the animal’s identity: the bowler had been neatly placed in a small pile of cat droppings, waste not easily confused with that of any of the other creatures in question.

  At first glance, I thought the singular location of the bowler to be random. Upon further reflection, however, it seemed quite evident that the hat had been intentionally dropped on exactly the spot the cat had fouled. What’s more, the deep impression of the teeth-marks gave the suggestion of strong resolve. As absurd as it appeared, logic indicated that the animal had used its jaws to pick up the bowler and carry it for deposit atop its own excreta.

  Now much can be learned from understanding the actions of cats, and one needn’t be an alienist to recognize a similarity between the behaviour of those small creatures and that of man. I myself have indicated how the cat that purrs before attacking a mouse appears no different from the human predator who hopes to distract his victim before setting upon him. With no other cases pending and a constant desire to challenge my mental skills, I concluded there might be worthwhile insights to be derived from discovering the relationship between bowler and cat.

  Though I had no idea what sort of evidence I was seeking, I scoured the immediate area for clues. I had to work quickly since darkness was rapidly approaching, and I knew that the nearby gas lamps did not project their light very far. In truth, within the next few minutes, my vision would be all but useless. No sooner had I conjured that thought, however, than I literally stumbled upon an old potting shed.

  Even in
the darkness I could see that the small structure was decidedly run-down. Wooden sideboards hung askew, shingles were missing, and the door, attached to its frame by a single remaining hinge, stood ajar. Yet in spite of this dilapidation, I realized that it was not the shed itself but rather the freshly turned earth of the surrounding flowerbed that had tripped me up. Striking a match for a better look among the shadows, I bent down on one knee to examine the soil.

  Anyone familiar with cats knows that loose earth offers them the perfect toilet. Perhaps, it was the very soil before me that had originally attracted the bowler-stealing cat. Yet almost immediately I could sense that this dirt was not all that it seemed - or rather it was more than it seemed. For mixed in with the damp soil and decaying leaves was a jumble of refuse that looked and smelled strangely out of place in the gardens of Russell Square.

  I scooped up a handful of the stuff in one hand and, bringing it to my nose, was instantly struck by the whiff of old garbage. Next I ran my forefinger through the muck and studied the mixture through my glass. No wonder it stank: it was full of bits of orange peel, black pepper, coffee grounds, and pipe tobacco - a peculiar mélange to some, perhaps, but not to those familiar with tried-and-true methods for turning away cats.

  No doubt, someone had sprinkled this mess into the soil to discourage any feral cats from nosing around the potting shed. In the process, one animal in particular had obviously taken great exception to such rudeness. Not only had a cat stolen the offender’s bowler from whatever perch the hat had been placed upon, but the creature had also deposited it in such a place as to deliver a universally-understood insult - apparently, even understood by inhabitants of the animal kingdom.

  I snorted loudly at the irony. Here I was, still new in my career of detecting, and my first case dealing with revenge featured that of the feline variety. Still, the potting shed allowed me to refocus my investigation on the human element - in particular, on the attraction of the run-down structure to the hat’s owner. I pushed at the half-open door, yet, in spite of striking another match, I could see nothing of interest inside. Shovels and spades had long since been removed, and whilst shards and larger fragments of clay pots littered the ground, unbroken cobwebs indicated that nothing within had been recently disturbed.

  I next turned my attention to the area immediately outside the shed. The darkness did not prevent me from carefully running my fingers over the boards on each wall, and eventually I came across a slat near the ground whose corner lacked connection to the joist behind it. Needing no further invitation, I slid the wood upward and discovered a moderate-sized hollow between the boards.

  It took but a moment to insert my hand, encounter the knobby folds of a burlap sack, and extract it from its nesting place. Inside the bag, I found a small collection of gold jewellery - bracelets, tiepins, rings, and such. But the pièce de résistance was a fine-looking necklace whose fourteen identical gems sparkled in the flame of my match like many-faceted diamonds. The expert, of course, would correctly identify them as glass.

  A dark cloud of suspicion hovered above the secret horde. I had no compunction about carrying away the forgotten bowler, but though I seriously doubted it, this cache of jewels might turn out to be some poor soul’s legitimate collection of wealth - a poor soul, I assumed, who had no intention of letting stray cats draw people’s attention to the hiding place.

  Determined to learn more, I replaced the jewels where I’d found them, returned to the nearest footpath, and having made the decision to defer the rest of my evening walk, exited Russell Square. On my way out of the grounds, however, I cast one final look back and couldn’t help noticing in the darkness a pair of green, almond-shaped eyes that were faithfully tracking my departure from the garden.

  As soon as I reached my rooms, I picked up the copy of the Daily Telegraph I’d left lying on my desk and searched the Agony columns for advertisements regarding Lost Property. It took less than a minute to find what I was seeking. “Lost last week near Park Lane,” the announcement read, “a diamond necklace consisting of fourteen similar stones on a thin, gold chain.” Mentioning a reward but offering no specific amount, the listing gave James Laws as the person to contact at a street number in nearby Bedford Place. Pleased by Mr. Laws’s proximity, I immediately sent a message via my landlady’s son to the address printed in the column. I knew that the gems weren’t real diamonds, but the description was close enough to the necklace I’d found to warrant further investigation.

  Although the night was growing late, James Laws sent word via the same messenger that he could meet with me post-haste. The loss of the necklace, he wrote, had been weighing heavily on both him and his wife. Of course, I agreed to the visit.

  I was at my work table fiddling with some malodorous chemicals when I heard the hesitant knock at the door. Upon opening it, I discovered a young man in his twenties pulling at the tip of his manicured moustache. Here was someone, I surmised, that hoped his store-bought three-piece suit gave him a grander appearance than that of the clerk he admitted to being.

  “Mr. Holmes,” said he, brushing back a shock of brown hair, “My name is James Law. When my wife Matilda and I received your message, we felt hope reborn.”

  “Pray, come in and sit down,” said I, waving him into my sitting room and indicating the soft chair I reserved for clients. I apologized for the chemical smell and, occupying the desk’s turning chair that I’d placed opposite him, announced the bad news.

  “I must tell you, Mr. Laws, that I don’t have the necklace in my possession.”

  A wave of disappointment washed over his face, and I wondered why an inexpensive necklace should be the cause of so much concern.

  “But,” I went on, “depending on your answers to my questions, I do know how to get it.”

  The look of hope returned. “Ask me whatever you want, Mr. Holmes. Getting back the diamond necklace is all that matters.”

  “I trust you won’t mind, then, if I ask you to describe the piece.”

  In response, he reached into his jacket and produced a pencil sketch.

  “Matilda drew this,” said he. “She has a much better recollection of such things than I.”

  Before me lay a perfect likeness of the necklace with its fourteen jewels that I’d discovered in the potting shed.

  “It looks to be the same article I’ve seen, Mr. Laws, though I must tell you that to my eye the stones didn’t appear to be diamonds. Have you had it appraised?”

  “No,” said he, looking downward. “We never had the chance.” Suddenly, he glanced up, his dark eyes flashing. “You mean that it doesn’t have much value then?”

  “I shouldn’t think so. But since a theft may still have been committed, I trust that you can describe how the necklace came to be lost.”

  “Of course,” said he, strangely energized by my low evaluation of the piece. “Last night, Matilda and I were honoured to attend a social gathering in Park Lane - a ball, actually - at the home of Mr. George Rimpon, the Minister for the Committee of the Privy Council of Education. I’m employed by the Committee as a clerk, you see - though I have much loftier goals, I do admit - and my poor wife has been longing to go to any kind of social event. Mr. Rimpon took it upon himself to celebrate all of his employees in appreciation of the good work we do. A number of cabinet ministers were also to be there, you see, so such a party was a god-send for both Matilda and me.”

  “For the both of you?”

  James Laws cast his eyes downward again. “I’m rather afraid,” he confessed, “that my wife equates the importance of my position with the number of social engagements it offers her. And this ball has been the only one.”

  “Quite so,” said I, pressing my fingers together. “And the necklace?”

  “After the soirée had ended and we returned home - it was about four in the morning, actually - Matilda was horrified to discover that the nec
klace had gone missing.”

  “‘Horrified’ is a strong word for the loss of a trinket.”

  “You may call it a trinket, Mr. Holmes, but don’t you see? We thought it was worth a fortune. I know you must be wondering how unassuming people like ourselves could afford what we thought to be such a lavish piece of jewellery, but the truth is that Matilda borrowed it.”

  “‘Borrowed’, you say?”

  “Yes. When I first told her about the invitation, she advised me that she couldn’t attend because she had no appropriate frock. To make her happy, I reluctantly gave her the money I’d been saving for a hunting rifle. She bought a charming dress, but no sooner did she show it to me than she realized she had no jewellery to go with it. I suggested she wear flowers.

  “‘Flowers are always fashionable,’ I suggested, but in response she simply cried.”

  I sympathized with the poor fellow, for I understood the temperament he was describing. I’d seen similar reactions during my short-lived career in the theatre. Like a neglected actress, his wife felt as if she was pining away, and here at last arrived the opportunity to appear on the stage, and she wanted to make the most of it. However high both of them wanted to climb, only Mr. Laws had the opportunity. His wife, facing a life of drudgery at home, had none.

  “Matilda rejected the invitation a second time, Mr. Holmes, and I was beginning to grow frantic. I couldn’t afford to give my employer a negative response. To my great relief, however, it was then that Matilda remembered Mrs. Forrest, a friend with whom she’d gone to school. Mrs. Forrest had married a wealthy man and now possessed a grand selection of jewellery. On some previous occasion, she’d offered Matilda the chance to wear a pair of earrings, and Matilda felt certain that her friend would loan her an appropriate piece for the upcoming ball. Little did I realize the trouble this transaction would create.”