The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories Part IV

by David Marcum

Lestrade grumbled at this. “Everywhere except where they actually should be,” he said. “Lord Hornung won’t allow us inside the building. Doesn’t want us ‘disturbing his guests’, he says.”

  “Dr. Watson and I shall be attending the gala tonight,” said Holmes. “Should this so-called Raffles turn up this evening, I trust we can call upon you and your men at a moment’s notice?”

  “Of course, Mr. Holmes.”

  “Thank you,” said Holmes. “Now excuse us, please. Lord Hornung is expecting us.”

  We paid our driver and made our way up the steps to present ourselves. At the top step, greeting every new arrival, was a man I recognized immediately, despite only having seen him before in the press. Lord Hornung was as physically impressive as his reputation; resplendent in black tails, with fiery red hair and a full mustache, his very presence dominated the mansion’s entryway. Holmes walked directly toward the man, arm extended.

  “Lord Hornung,” said my companion. “Mycroft Holmes.”

  “Of course,” said Lord Hornung, seizing the outstretched hand. “Cecil sent word to expect you. And this gentleman...?”

  I was about to introduce myself, but Holmes interrupted me before I could speak. “My assistant,” he said. “Arthur.”

  I swallowed my surprise, but went along with the deception, bowing my head low. “At your service, my lord.”

  Lord Hornung nodded curtly in my direction, and then turned his attentions back to Holmes. “I confess I am somewhat disappointed. When I requested the Prime Minister’s assistance I had assumed he would send your brother.”

  Holmes smiled. “I’m afraid, my lord, that Sherlock is busy elsewhere. Still, I flatter myself that we possess similar powers of both observation and deduction.”

  “Then I suppose you’ll have to do,” said Lord Hornung. He spoke to one of his servants, ordering them to continuing to welcoming guests at the main entrance, and then ushered us inside. “This way, gentlemen,” he said. “Follow me.”

  Lord Hornung guided us down a lengthy hallway, lecturing as we walked. “I fear that I’ve brought you here on a fool’s errand, Mr. Holmes,” he said. “There’s been no sign of this Raffles fellow.”

  “I have every confidence you are correct, my lord,” said Holmes. “Still, prudence would seem wise when such a stake as the Arnsbury Emerald is at risk.”

  “Just so,” said Lord Hornung. “I did not get where I am today without preparing for every eventuality.”

  “Every eventuality, my lord?” said Holmes.

  “Of course. You may not have noticed, but the grounds outside are being patrolled by the men of Scotland Yard, and my trusted staff, all of whom, I should add, have been with me for five years or more, are keeping watch inside the house. I have eyes and ears in every corner of the estate.”

  “Then there would seem little for me to do, my lord,” said Holmes.

  “Let us hope that proves true. However, if by some remote possibility the theft should occur, then I wish you, Mr. Holmes, to be on hand to identify the guilty party.”

  “I will do my best, my lord,” said Holmes. “Yet, forgive me, but despite all you say of preparations and planning, I could not help but note upon our arrival that your house is still under construction.”

  Lord Hornung sighed. “Yes, but I’m afraid it was unavoidable. Just yesterday one of the maids unleashed a flood in the west wing, damaging the woodwork and walls.”

  “Most deplorable,” I said.

  “Embarrassing is what it is,” said Lord Hornung. “I’d put the repairs off until after the party, but I’m told the damage is such that it must be dealt with promptly or worse could occur, especially with the bitter weather. Hopefully the workmen will mind their place and stay quiet.”

  “Embarrassing, perhaps, but the timing is most suggestive,” said Holmes. “Can I speak with this maid, or has she been dismissed?”

  “She’s still here,” said Lord Hornung. “Honestly, I’d have sacked the girl then and there, but she’s Constance’s favorite and, heaven help me, I cannot deny my Constance anything. Ah, here we are.”

  We emerged from the hallway and into one of the most opulent ballrooms I had ever seen, complete with marble floors and a grand staircase which spiraled up to the upper floors. Guests filled the space with merriment, the very finest clothes worn by all, and musicians occupied the space with dulcet tones that evoked the finest of memories. Crystal glittered everywhere, from the chandeliers to the goblets in the guests’ hands, their glass illuminated by the electric lights mounted on the walls. I began to understand why the building had gleamed like fire in the night.

  “This is the central ballroom,” said Lord Hornung, “the very heart of my estate.”

  “Magnificent, my lord. One of the finest in the land.”

  “I should hope so. I paid enough for it.”

  “Still, my lord, I would be remiss if I did not inquire about the current whereabouts of the emerald this Raffles covets. Perhaps you can show us where it is being kept?”

  “See for yourself, Mr. Holmes. My wife is wearing it.”

  Lord Hornung gestured across the crowded ballroom, and Holmes and I beheld a rather ample and handsome woman descending the central stair, her generous form encased in a dress of what I judged to be a most unflattering fashion. An entourage trailed in her wake, led by a dutiful maid and several associated servants. Clasped tight about her throat, its brilliant green hue ensconced within a necklace of the purest gold, gleamed the Arnsbury Emerald. I had never before beheld a gem so breathtaking or beautiful.

  The lady swept through the ballroom with determination, making directly for her husband. The guests parted upon her approach, unwilling to stand between Lady Hornung and her mate.

  “Ernest!” she bellowed. “The music tonight is simply dreadful! Can’t we ask them to play something a bit more modern? These older songs are dull to my ear.”

  “Ah, Constance,” said Lord Hornung. “I’d like you to meet our guests.”

  Lady Hornung did not even glance our way, mumbling instead, “Charmed, I’m sure.” Before she could continue her tirade, Holmes placed himself squarely between the lady and her husband.

  “I quite agree with you, my lady,” said Holmes. “The music of Cherubini is not appropriate for such a festive affair. May I suggest Ravel instead?”

  Lady Hornung regarded my friend as if she were seeing him for the first time. “I was thinking Sibelius, but I suspect you are correct, Mister - ?”

  “Holmes. Mycroft Holmes.”

  Lady Hornung smiled. “Mr. Holmes. You certainly seem to know a great deal about composers. I quite agree. Ravel would be a better choice.”

  “Mr. Holmes and his assistant are here on my invitation, dearest,” said Lord Hornung, “in response to the threat by this Raffles fellow.”

  Lady Hornung laughed. “You are referring to that silly card. Someone’s poor idea of a joke, I assure you.”

  “Still, my lady,” said Holmes. “Given the threat, are you sure it is wise to display your emerald so brazenly?”

  “One’s legacy is important, Mr. Holmes. When people think back upon this day, I want them to remember that they saw the Arnsbury Emerald, and that I was the one who was wearing it. Besides, I will not be intimidated within my own walls. We are safe surrounded by our friends, and I have servants to make sure nothing untoward occurs. Isn’t that right, Myra?”

  “As you say, my lady.” Lady Hornung’s maid curtsied behind her mistress.

  Lord Hornung laughed. “You see, Mr. Holmes?” he said. “Constance is a force of nature. I could not talk her out of wearing the emerald if I wanted to.”

  “May I examine the stone?” asked Holmes.

  Lady Hornung looked uncertainly at her husband, who nodded back to her. Myra was at her lady’s side in an instant, rem
oving the necklace from her neck with practiced dexterity and placing it into Holmes’s waiting hand. Holmes examined the necklace carefully, turning it this way and that, holding the stone up to the light until he was satisfied.

  “Magnificent,” he proclaimed.

  “Of course,” said Lady Hornung, snapping her fingers. Myra retrieved the emerald from Holmes, and again secured the stone about her lady’s throat. “Now that I have satisfied your curiosity, I simply must see about this music. Myra! Follow me.” Together Lady Hornung and her entourage made their way toward the musicians, who cowered at her approach. Holmes and Lord Hornung watched them go.

  “Is that the maid?” asked Holmes. “The one whose clumsiness caused the flood?”

  “It is indeed,” said Lord Hornung. “Myra has been with Constance for six years now. They’re inseparable.”

  “The emerald,” said Holmes. “Paste, of course.”

  Lord Hornung nodded. “Every eventuality, Mr. Holmes, as I told you.”

  “The lady is unaware?”

  “What Constance does not know will not hurt her. And, before you ask, the real emerald is safe, I assure you.”

  “Can we see it?”

  Lord Hornung was taken aback. “Now?” he said. “But, Mr. Holmes, I have guests to attend to.”

  “I’m afraid I must insist.”

  Our host considered. “Very well,” he said at last. “Follow me.”

  Lord Hornung guided us up the central staircase, and down another lengthy hall. At the end was a heavy oak double door with two servants standing guard. They both bowed and stepped aside as their lord passed, and we were ushered into Lord and Lady Hornung’s private chambers.

  The bedroom was a large, well-appointed, and spacious room whose balcony looked out over the grounds below. An enormous canopy bed rested atop a soft, burgundy carpet, and a variety of oil paintings and silks lined the walls. Lord Hornung pushed one of the smaller paintings aside, revealing a metal safe embedded in the wall. He worked the tumblers until they responded, and the safe door opened with a click.

  “There, Mr. Holmes. See for yourself.”

  Holmes peered within the small enclosure. There, resting on a bed of red velvet, lay what appeared to be the same emerald necklace I had seen only moments before on Lady Hornung’s neck.

  “This is a Barnes safe, the very latest model,” said Lord Hornung. “They say it’s uncrackable.”

  “No safe is uncrackable,” said Holmes, “given enough time.”

  “I quite agree,” said Lord Hornung, “which is why I have posted guards outside the room. No outsiders are to be granted access to our chambers unless they are accompanied by either Constance or myself.”

  “It seems an admirable precaution, my lord,” I said.

  “Yes,” said Holmes. “Admirable.”

  Lord Hornung grunted an acknowledgement, and, turning his back to us, swung the safe door closed, dashing the tumbler as he did so. “There,” he said, swinging the painting back in place, hiding both the safe and the emerald behind. “Now, if you please. I have other guests to attend to.”

  Lord Hornung guided us back to the main ballroom, whereupon he excused himself and slid with practiced ease into conversation with an elegant couple not ten yards distant. Holmes watched from my side with obvious amusement.

  “What do you think, Watson?” whispered Holmes.

  “I think the Hornungs are damnably rude.”

  “Perhaps. Indeed, under normal circumstances, I might walk away from this case and let the emerald fall into the thief’s hands without the least bit of regret.”

  “Yet there is Mycroft’s request to consider.”

  “Just so. And yet...” Holmes trailed off.

  “Holmes?” I asked.

  “Consider the facts, Watson,” said Holmes. “The invitation. The signature from a man presumed dead. The sudden last minute repairs to the home. The lady of the house brazenly wearing the very jewel under threat about her throat, while her husband covertly hides the real gem away. Then there are the servants.”

  “Who?” I asked. “The maid, or the servants guarding the door to the bedchamber?”

  Holmes smiled. “Exactly,” he said. “Someone is playing a dangerous game, Watson, and I suspect much of what we have seen here tonight has been for our benefit.”

  “If this is a game,” I said, “then we must stop it at once.”

  “That is precisely what we must not do.”

  “But Holmes, why?”

  “Because our opponent has not, as yet, revealed their hand. Until that time, we must let events unfold to their natural conclusion. Come, Watson. We are neglecting our duties. Let us peruse the guests of the Hornung’s party to see if we might identify anyone who covets emeralds and travels under the alias of ‘Raffles’.”

  Holmes’s course of inaction rankled me, but I had learned to trust his instincts. I looked about, immediately recognizing several celebrities within the crowd. “The very finest in London are here tonight.”

  Holmes nodded. “Lord Hornung counts Royals, statesmen, and artists as his friends, along with, I do believe, some of our past clients! I note Lady Eva Blackwell in the corner. You remember her from the Milverton affair.”

  “Of course. Along with her husband, the Earl of Dovercourt. They look absolutely splendid together.”

  “Perhaps, Watson, although I am sad to observe that they have fallen upon hard times.”

  “Now, Holmes, just how on earth did you deduce that?”

  “The condition of their clothes.”

  “I see nothing out of the ordinary. They both look absolutely resplendent.”

  “You see, Watson, but you do not observe. Look upon the Earl’s boots. You’ll note that the soles are worn, and the leather sides have been twice mended. The Lady’s dress, as well. Even the addition of new lace upon the hem cannot completely conceal the tattered edges. Both are indicators of financial distress.”

  I sighed. “As ever, it seems so simple when you explain it. But steady on, isn’t that one of the workmen we saw outside earlier?”

  “Indeed, watching from the main entrance. There’s another by the side door.”

  “Where are Lady Hornung and her maid?”

  “There, Watson. On the main stair. We should stay close to her, for I fear that something untoward is about to happen.”

  We were pushing our way through the crowd toward Lady Hornung, when a buzzing sound reached my ear, as if we were standing in the middle of a hive of insects. The sound raised in intensity, and then suddenly ceased with a crackle as the room plunged into darkness.

  Panic ensued as the wealthiest of London were robbed of their sight. Through the dark we could hear Lord Hornung’s bellowing voice, trying to restore order amidst the chaos. “Calm yourself, everyone!” he cried. “The electrical current has been disrupted, but we have gas lamps on reserve. I assure you, there is no reason for panic.”

  Yet above all the hysteria, a second, more feminine voice carried to my ear.

  “It’s gone! Help! Someone has taken it!”

  Within moments the servants had returned illumination to the ballroom, utilizing the more reliable gas lamps, rather than the new flashy electrical ones. Their sight restored, the guests began to calm, but even the restored lighting was not enough to calm Lady Hornung. She had collapsed onto the central stair, where she was being tended by her maid. The lady’s bare neck told her woe more elegantly than her panicked cries.

  “My necklace! Someone has stolen my emerald!”

  Lord Hornung pushed through the crowd to his companion’s side, pulling her into an embrace. “There, there, my dear,” he said. “It’s not gone. The emerald is safe, I assure you.”`

  “What? But Ernest, just look!” She gestured to her own neck, and t
he sight of her bare skin triggered another round of sobs.

  Holmes reached down, placing his thin hand upon her shoulder. “Your husband prepares for every eventuality, Lady Hornung,” said Holmes. “That is why I am here tonight, along with my associate.”

  Lady Hornung stopped crying, and looked at us with incredulity. “You, Mr. Holmes?” she said. “And just why would my husband summon you?”

  “There seems to be no reason for further deception,” said Holmes. The surrounding crowd gasped as Holmes’s body unfurled itself just as I had seen earlier in Baker Street, the bulk of Mycroft changing before our eyes into a familiar, lanky form. As a final touch he removed the padding from his cheeks, revealing the taught cheekbones which were, in many ways, as much his hallmark as his deerstalker and pipe. “My name is Sherlock Holmes,” he said, “and this is my companion, Dr. Watson.”

  Lord Hornung was astonished, and then incensed. “I am offended, sir. I requested your help, and yet you snub that invitation and instead enter my home by means of a trick!”

  “No more trickery than used by you yourself, sir,” said Holmes. “I’m afraid, Lady Hornung, that the emerald you wore tonight was no more than mere paste. Your husband spirited away the genuine necklace long before this party began.”

  Lady Hornung’s eyes became as steel at the revelation. “Take me to the emerald,” she said to her husband.

  Lord Hornung was about to protest, but there was no arguing with his wife’s tone. He nodded and, pulling his wife up from her supine position, guided us all up the central staircase. Soon we had returned to Lord and Lady Hornung’s private chambers. Lord Hornung pushed the same painting aside, and quickly worked the tumblers until the safe door nudged opened. Lord Hornung stepped aside to show his wife the contents. “Here, darling,” he said. “Here is your emerald.”

  From the shriek of Lady Hornung, we all knew what lay within.

  Lady Hornung fainted dead away into the arms of her maid, revealing the interior of the safe to the rest of us. Inside, resting on the bed of red velvet, was another of the cards I had seen earlier at Baker Street. Printed on the card, in that familiar flowing script, was a single word: