by David Marcum
Raffles
Lord Hornung looked absolutely ashen. “We must summon the authorities,” he said.
Holmes nodded. “I quite agree. Send for Lestrade.”
His exile from the interior of the Hornung mansion finally ended, Lestrade paced confidently back and forth across the bedroom, holding court as only a Scotland Yard Inspector could. “I knew it was you, Mr. Holmes,” he said, shaking his finger at the great detective. “I could see the glint of your eye beneath that Mycroft costume. You may have a talent for disguise, but we at the Yard always see through deceptions in the end.”
“So I have been told,” said Holmes. I had little doubt he was recalling Lestrade’s former colleague, Athelney Jones.
“It looks like this one got away from you!” continued Lestrade. “Right from under your nose, as they say.” The smirk in his voice was overwhelming.
“From under your nose as well, Inspector,” I said.
“I wasn’t the one allowed inside the house.” Anger crept into Lestrade’s voice for a moment, but then his already brimming smile returned, widening so much so that he looked like that infamous cat from Lewis Carroll. “But it’s all right,” he said. “Mr. Holmes has helped the Yard out from time to time. It’s only proper that we return the favor. Isn’t that right, Sergeant?”
“Yes, Inspector!” cried the Sergeant from his post, guarding the door.
“Very generous of you, Lestrade, I’m sure,” said Holmes. “Sergeant, what did you find in the basement?”
“How did you know I’d...” sputtered the Sergeant.
“He always knows, Sergeant,” interrupted Lestrade. “Best not to question. Just answer the man.”
“It’s just what you thought, sir,” said the Sergeant “The blackout was the result of sabotage. The main electrical wire had been severed.”
“Just as I suspected,” said Lestrade. “Now. This emerald necklace. You say you saw it in this very room, Mr. Holmes?”
“Lord Hornung showed us the genuine emerald within his safe,” said Holmes, “not ten minutes before both the necklace and its imitation were stolen.”
“You might have told me I was wearing a fake,” said Lady Hornung.
“It was for your own good, Constance,” said Lord Hornung. “And for the good of the Arnsbury Emerald. I locked the necklace in the safe yesterday, locked it in there personally, and ordered the bedroom guarded by servants.”
“For all the good it did,” muttered Lady Hornung.
One of the servants stepped forward. “We stood guard here the entire time, Lord Hornung. No one entered the door save for yourself, Mr. Holmes, and Dr. Watson.”
“Not even Lady Hornung and her maid?” asked Holmes.
“Well,” said the servant, “of course they came in. My lady had to get dressed for the party.”
“You say you watched the door,” said Lestrade. “Did you watch the balcony as well?”
“Sir?” asked the servant.
“When I entered the room,” said Lestrade, “I could not help but observe a set of footprints in the carpet leading from the balcony to the safe and back again.”
“Yes, a size ten boot,” said Holmes. “Its impressions in the carpet are quite clear.”
“We did as we were ordered,” said the servant. “We guarded the entrance to the room.”
“But the door is not the only entrance!” said Lestrade. “Clearly the thief, whoever he was, climbed up through the balcony, made his way to the safe, and then, his treasure recovered, made his escape back the same way.”
“Perhaps, Inspector,” I said. “But I could not help but notice that the Sergeant wears size ten boots as well.”
Lestrade’s grin finally faltered. He turned on his subordinate. “Is this true?”
“Yes, Inspector,” said the Sergeant. “Size ten, just like the Doctor says.”
“Are you telling me,” said Lestrade, “that those are your footprints, Sergeant?”
“I couldn’t say, sir,” said the Sergeant, “but I did check both the balcony and the safe when I entered the room.”
Lestrade was now positively fuming. I could not help but notice Holmes raising his hand to his mouth, concealing a slight smile.
Fortunately for the Sergeant, Lady Hornung stepped forward. “How quickly can you recover my emerald necklace, Inspector?”
“Difficult to say, my lady,” said Lestrade. “There’s hundreds of witnesses to interview downstairs, so that will take time. But never fear. I have the whole of Scotland Yard at my call. We’ll find your stone, and catch this ‘Raffles’. We did it before and we’ll do it again. The blighter can’t have gotten far.”
“You may shorten your investigation considerably, Lestrade,” said Holmes, “if you begin your interviews with the workmen outside.”
“But, Mr. Holmes. Why bother with the workmen? They were nowhere near the ballroom when the necklace was stolen!”
“When both were stolen, Lestrade. There are two thefts which must be accounted for; both the imitation and the genuine article.”
“Besides,” I said. “Holmes and I saw at least two of the workmen within the ballroom at the time the imitation was taken.”
Lestrade considered. “Well, all right,” he said. “I see no reason not to humor you. Sergeant, if you please?”
The workmen were summoned, and soon filed their way into the Hornung’s chambers. There were eight of them in all, a rough lot who all seemed most uncomfortable to be called before official representatives of the law. They shuffled about like street urchins, keeping their eyes upon the ground and their caps pulled low. Lestrade eyed each carefully.
“Well?” he said. “You lot all know there’s been a theft here tonight. What do you have to say for yourselves?”
“We ain’t done nothing,” set the largest of the workmen.
“Ah, if only that were true, Bulldog,” said Holmes, stepping forward to address the workmen directly. “I remember having you arrested for petty theft only four years back!”
The worker started in surprise. “Mr. Holmes! Blimey, but I didn’t see you there.”
“A criminal, eh?” said Lestrade. “Quite a coincidence. What’s he done?”
“Oh, a most trivial case,” said Holmes. “Bulldog here broke into some homes on the west side of London. He made a clumsy attempt to obscure his crimes by pretending to be a ghost of local legend. Watson and I were able to clear up the entire matter in a single evening.”
“Did you now!” said Lestrade, regarding Bulldog and practically salivating at the prospect of an arrest.
“Well, Bulldog?” said Holmes. “You must confess it looks rather bad for you.”
“I swear I been keeping my nose clean, Mr. Holmes!” said Bulldog. “I got nothing to do with what happened here tonight. I’ve done my time, and put that part of my life behind me.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” said Lestrade. “Well, Mr. Holmes?”
“Well what, Lestrade?”
“Shall I arrest Bulldog for the theft of the emerald?”
“If a criminal past were the only standard for arrest, then you might as well arrest half this lot. Besides Bulldog here, I see the card sharp Sad Eyed Jack, the garrotter who goes by the moniker of Simon, and one other! It is the last of these gentlemen whose presence I find the most suggestive.” Holmes turned to me, his eyes sparkling. “Well, Watson? You commented earlier that you recognized one the workers upon our entry to the Hornung estate. Do you recognize him now?”
I studied each of the workers in turn, looking them in the eye as best I could, searching for that air of recognition I felt earlier.
Then I saw it. A white splash of acid, just below the hairline. His cap partially obscured the mark, but there was enough visible to finally identify the man in my mem
ory.
“John Clay,” I whispered in amazement.
“Clay?” said Lestrade. “You don’t mean that brute from the red headed swindle?”
Holmes nodded. “None other,” he said. “I’m surprised to see you out and about, Clay. I thought you would still be rotting away in prison.”
Clay removed his cap, fully revealing the acid scar at his temple. “Sherlock Holmes,” he said. “I cannot say it is a pleasure to see you again.”
“No doubt you purchased your freedom.”
“There are those who still honor royal blood, Holmes, even in prison. It’s a pity that your kind never learned the proper respect.”
“Surely, I can arrest him!” said Lestrade.
“If you do, Lestrade,” said Holmes, “you should arrest Lady Hornung’s maid as well.”
The maid gasped, and hid herself behind Lady Hornung. “Out of the question!” said the Lady. “How dare you accuse Myra!”
“John Clay and his associates are only here because of an accident,” said Holmes, “an accident arranged by your servant, Lady Hornung.”
“Arranged?” said Lord Hornung.
“Of course,” said Holmes. “She and Clay have made eye contact no less than eight times since entering this room. It is very likely that they know each other intimately. No doubt Myra even suggested to your Lordship the very workmen to correct her blunder?”
Lady Hornung turned to her maid. “Myra, is this true?”
Myra shrank in terror, looking as if she were about to disappear into her own frock, when a familiar sound froze us all.
“No one move,” said John Clay, a freshly cocked pistol in his hand. “Come over to me, Myra, my sweet. It’s all right.” The maid did as she was bade, moving slowly until she was hiding behind Clay rather than her mistress,
“It’s no use, Clay!” said Lestrade. “I’ve got over a dozen men here tonight. Even if you make it out of this room you’ll never escape the grounds.”
“You leave that to me, Inspector,” said Clay. He put his arm around Myra’s shoulder and began to sidle toward the door. “Tell your men to back off, or I put a slug in this lovely lady’s skull.”
“John...?” said Myra.
“Trust me, my dear,” said Clay. “Well, Inspector?”
Lestrade pondered the request. Holmes watched the drama unfold impassively.
“Sergeant?” said Lestrade at last. “Move away from the door.”
“Sir?” said the Sergeant.
“Do as I say,” said Lestrade. “Steady, now.”
The Sergeant backed away, leaving the door unguarded. Clay and Myra stepped toward it, the pistol now pressed tightly to Myra’s temple. The other workmen pulled back, content to let the policemen focus upon their comrade rather than themselves.
“Very good,” said Clay. “But I still can’t have you chasing after me, Mr. Holmes.” He swung the gun away from Myra and fired.
Lady Hornung cried out as Clay’s bullet spun her ample frame around. She collapsed, holding her hand tightly to her shoulder, even as Clay and Myra dashed from the room. Blood began to well between her fingers.
“Constance!” cried Lord Hornung, but I was already by her side, tending to her.
“Watson?” asked Holmes.
“I’ll take care of her,” I said. “Get after them! Don’t let them escape.”
“She’s in good hands, Mr. Holmes,” said Lestrade. “Come on! The blighter’s getting away!”
Holmes and Lestrade dashed from the chamber, Lestrade taking a moment to shout over his shoulder, “Nobody else leaves this room!” before following in the great detective’s wake. The workers, the Hornungs, and I were all left in bewilderment at this rapid turn of events.
Blood seeped from Lady Horning’s shoulder, staining the fabric about. I tried to push the sleeve of her gown aside, to examine the wound more closely, but she waved me away. “No, Doctor,” she said, unsteadily. “A hospital. Take me to a hospital.”
“Lady Hornung,” I protested, but she interrupted me with a voice so stern that it belied her current condition.
“I will not be questioned on this!” she said. To my amazement, despite her obvious pain, she pushed herself up from the floor and slowly stood. “Ernest,” she said. “Summon my carriage. Dr. Watson will escort me.”
“But Constance...” Lord Hornung began.
“The house is in chaos,” said Lady Hornung. “Someone must stay here to maintain order. With both Mr. Holmes and Inspector Lestrade gone, that someone, Ernest, is you.”
Lord Hornung seemed pained by his wife’s order. No doubt he wanted to be by his wife’s side, but I could see now that his earlier words were true; he could deny her nothing. “Yes, dear”, he said. “Come along, Doctor. Let’s get her to the carriage.”
Together Lord Hornung and I escorted the wounded woman. She walked proudly on her own, her head held high, her wound clasped tightly beneath her hand to stem the blood. The Sergeant tried to stop us, but a glare and a sharply worded warning of “powerful friends” from Lady Hornung drove him back.
The three of us made our way down the grand staircase, and through the remnants of the party. The appearance of Lady Hornung, her gown stained in blood, yet still walking proudly, hushed the room in an instant. All eyes watched as we steadily traversed the ballroom and out the front door to a waiting carriage. Lord Hornung helped his wife aboard while I watched. I then boarded the coach, ordering the driver to make haste to the nearest hospital.
Lord Hornung watched from the doorway of his mansion as the driver cracked his whip and the carriage rumbled away. Lady Hornung watched out the window as the grounds of her estate fell into the distance behind.
I attempted again to tend to my patient. “Lady Hornung,” I said. “I must insist you allow me to examine your wound.”
Lady Hornung did not even turn to look at me. “There is no wound, Doctor,” she said dully.
For a moment I thought the pain must be making her hallucinate, but then, to my astonishment, she pulled her hand away from her shoulder, revealing unblemished skin. Cupped in the palm of he hand was a sponge, soaked in red liquid. Now, at last, she turned from the carriage window, and her eyes blazed at me with such hatred that I almost shrank away.
“You see?” she said. “The blood of an animal. Our cook was kind enough to put some aside for me this morning.”
“But I saw Clay shoot you in the shoulder!” I said.
“You heard a shot and saw me collapse. Upon the sight of blood you, and Mr. Holmes I should add, drew the conclusion I wished you to draw.”
“Then this is all been some kind of trick!” I said, and felt foolish immediately.
“Very perceptive,” said Lady Hornung dryly. “Indeed, this entire affair was arranged for the two of us to have a private conversation.”
I started in surprise. “With me?”
“Do you not know me?” said Lady Hornung. “No, I don’t suppose you would. After all, you never met my father.”
“Lady Hornung,” I said in absolute bewilderment, “you’re speaking in riddles.”
“My father played a variation of the same trick with your friend Sherlock Holmes. Twice, in fact. Of course then it was you who was summoned away. By a medical emergency, I believe? Once in Baker Street, and once in Switzerland? Near the Reichenbach Falls?”
“You,” I said. “You’re a Moriarty.”
She smiled at me.
“But that’s impossible,” I said. “Moriarty never married.”
Lady Hornung laughed. “Oh, Doctor,” she said. “As a medical man, you should know that one does not need to be married to sire children. But I’m not technically a Moriarty. My father never deigned to give me his name. He did, however, give me his blood, and that blood, Doctor, runs hot in my vein
s.”
I banged on the roof of the carriage, demanding that the driver stop at once. The carriage did not even slow. Lady Hornung laughed at my impulse. “Calm yourself, Doctor. My driver is under strict instructions not to stop the carriage until we reach our destination. But you are quite safe. If I wished you dead there are at least a dozen less dramatic ways to achieve your demise.”
“What is it you want?”
Lady Hornung smiled. “And at last we come to the point. I’ve read all your stories, Doctor, every word. You are a very gifted writer. Because of your stories, my father’s reputation is now in tatters. Forevermore he will be remembered not for his genius in mathematics, but as the criminal mastermind who was bested by Sherlock Holmes.”
“Which is exactly who he was,” I said. “My stories are the literal truth.”
“I have no doubt of that,” said Lady Hornung. “Indeed, if there is anything in this life that I have faith in it is that you, Dr. Watson, are an honest man. It is one of the reasons that people read your tales, and why I believe they will continue to be read by generations to come.”
“You flatter me.”
“No. I do not. I merely speak the truth. My father attempted to hurt Sherlock Holmes by robbing him of his life. I have chosen instead to hurt him by robbing him of his legacy, and you, Dr. Watson, will be my weapon.”
“If you expect me to hurt Holmes...”
Lady Hornung cut me off. “Just listen, Doctor,” she said, staring out the window, watching the city pass us by. “Right now, somewhere in London, Sherlock Holmes has fallen prey to my deception. I have provided him a crime. I have provided him clues and trails to follow. I have even provided him a series of suspects drawn from his past adventures. Yet they are all illusions. Sherlock Holmes is, quite simply, running down the wrong man.”
“But John Clay...” I began.
“Oh, Clay is guilty enough. I selected him from your own writings, Doctor, as a man whose past would make him the most likely suspect in a theft. I had Myra, dear, loyal Myra, approach Clay and his cronies weeks ago, offering them a handsome fee to pose as workmen to repair an accident of my own creation. Clay did actually cut the electrical wire, plunging the ballroom into darkness and allowing Myra to remove my necklace unseen. Together they are leading your friends on a fool’s chase, the imitation necklace hidden in Clay’s pocket.”