The Seven-Per-Cent Solution

by Nicholas Meyer

  Saying which, he bowed and left the room.

  “What can it be that he sees in all this?” I wondered aloud.

  “I have no idea,” Freud sighed. “At any rate, it is time to sleep. I cannot remember being so tired.”

  I too was exhausted, but my brain kept racing long after my body was still, trying to piece together the puzzle upon which we had stumbled in the course of our visit to this beautiful yet increasingly sinister city. A European war! Millions of lives! Often I had been astonished by my friend’s amazing powers, but never had I seen him infer so much on the basis of so little. And, great heavens, what if it should prove true? I do not know how Freud passed that night, but my dreams surpassed my waking fears. The gay and colourful city of Johann Strauss was no longer revolving to the stately strains of his waltzes, but swirling to the shriek of a terrible nightmare.

  The next morning we three shared a hasty breakfast before we departed on our separate errands. Holmes ate with an enthusiasm that pronounced his return to health. Freud ate with decision, but his lack of conversation and worried expression proclaimed that he, like me, had spent a restless night.

  We were on the point of parting company at the front door when a messenger arrived with a telegram for Sherlock Holmes. He tore open the missive and perused it greedily before tucking it into the pocket of his Inverness, without comment, and signing to the boy that there was no reply.

  “Our plans are unchanged,” he said and bowed slightly to Freud, ignoring our evident curiosity. The Doctor departed with a disgruntled scowl and Holmes turned to me. “And now, my dear Watson, let us be on our way as well.”

  We proceeded by fiacre directly to the hospital, where a note in Freud’s handwriting secured us the custody of the patient. She appeared much improved physically, though she was still appallingly thin and spoke not a word. Accompanying us without resistance, she stepped obediently into the waiting fiacre outside the gate. Holmes had inscribed our destination on his shirt cuff and we started off across the city on our mysterious errand. The precise nature of the errand he was loath to divulge in the presence of our mute passenger, as he indicated when I enquired.

  “All in good time, Watson. All in good time.”

  “What do you expect Dr. Freud to find at the registry?” I asked, determined to be made a party to his plans.

  “What I know he will find.”

  He turned and smiled reassuringly at our client, but she stared straight ahead, seemingly unaware of his gesture, her blue-grey eyes vacantly devoid of expression.

  The fiacre crossed the Danube Canal and entered a section of the city occupied by spacious and, in some instances, palatial residences. These were set back some distance from the street and were shielded by high shrubbery from more than a modest view of scalloped towers and imposing grounds.

  We stopped at length on Wallenstein Strasse and turned into a wide drive that led to a hideous enough house situated on a slight rise of ground; the area immediately before it was occupied by an elaborate formal garden.

  A closed carriage stood beneath the porte cochère, and, as we handed down our client, the door to the house opened and out strode a gentleman of medium height with the straightest back I have even seen. Though he was dressed in a civilian greatcoat and mufti, his movements bore that unmistakable precision one associates not merely with the military but with the strictest Prussian training. His features, however, were not Prussian. Indeed his face, which struck me as vaguely familiar when I saw it, reminded me more of an English clerk’s. He wore a pince-nez, neatly trimmed whiskers, and a slightly distracted air, as though he did not know or remember exactly where he was.

  He bowed to us, or rather to the lady on my arm, and graciously tipped his bowler, before disappearing into the carriage, which started off without a word of command that I could detect.

  Holmes stared at the retreating vehicles for a moment, frowning.

  “Do you recall having seen that gentleman recently, Watson?”

  “Yes, but I can’t for the life of me think where. Holmes, whose house is this?”

  He smiled and pulled the bell.

  “It is the Vienna residence of Baron Von Leinsdorf,” he replied.

  “Holmes, this is monstrous! “

  “Why so?” Gently he extricated his arm from my impulsive grasp. “The Baron is not here at the moment.”

  “But if he should return! You’ve no idea what harm this confrontation might do—” and I gestured obliquely to our mute companion. “Surely you ought to have discussed the matter with Doctor—”

  “My dear Watson,” he interrupted serenely, “your sentiments do you credit, and, for all I know, your professional judgment as well. Nevertheless, time is of the essence, and, if it is possible, we must force a play. In any event, she does not appear to be reacting to the sight of the house. Who knows? If she does, it may turn out to be just the sort of shock to get her back on her feet.”

  This last sentence was completed as the huge door swung wide. A liveried servant of impassive mien wished to know our business. Holmes handed him his card, and in German that had improved steadily with his stay in Vienna, begged that he present it to the lady of the house.

  With no change of expression the fellow took the card and stepped back, allowing the three of us to wait in a high vaulted antechamber from which we could see an enormous rectangular entrance hall, as opulent and hideous as the exterior of the house. It was panelled with oak and covered with tapestry, medieval weapons, and gilt-framed portraits whose subjects I was unable to study from our position in the vestibule. Dim light filtered down through incongruously small mullioned windows.

  “Have you ever seen a more ghastly place?” Holmes muttered quietly at my elbow. “Just look at those ceilings!”

  “Holmes, I really must protest at this procedure. At least tell me what is going on. Who is to fight in this awful war?”

  “I fear I have not the slightest notion,” he answered languidly, still gazing with disapproval at the rococo wooden carvings above us.

  “Then how on earth do you deduce a—”

  “Well, surely,” he broke in somewhat testily, “we have here a contest for the possession of an estate composed of incalculably productive and extensive munitions works. It is no great matter to infer—” He broke off, perceiving the butler returning the length of the hall.

  “If you will follow me,” the man said with a gesture, “I shall conduct you to the Baroness.”

  As it fell out, we had need of a guide, for the place was so vast and labyrinthine that we never should have located the lady’s drawing room without assistance.

  It was furnished in a more contemporary vein than the other rooms we had glimpsed on our way, but in the same atrocious taste, all gaudy pink chintz with yards of lace antimacassars on every article of furniture in sight.

  Seated on the divan in the midst of this single-hued profusion—like some beautiful bird at the centre of her nest—was the beautiful woman we had glimpsed the previous evening. She rose as we entered and addressed us in American-accented English.

  “Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I believe? To what do I owe the—” She broke off suddenly and uttered a cry of recognition, her hand involuntarily flying to her bosom, her magnificent eyes wide with astonishment.

  “Good God!” she exclaimed. “Is it Nora?”

  She rushed forward, ignoring Holmes and myself, and took the arm of our client, gently leading her to the light, where she peered intently into her face. For her part, our charge remained as pliant yet listless as ever, tolerating the Baroness’s scrutiny with what almost appeared to be the weariest indifference.

  “What has happened?” the lady cried, glancing from one to the other of us in imperious confusion. “She is very changed.”

  “You know the lady?” Holmes asked quietly, watching closely as the Baroness returned her attention to the woman she had called Nora.

  “Know her? Why, to be sure I know her. This is my personal maid, Nora S
immons. She has been missing for weeks without a trace. Good heavens, Nora, what has happened and however did you contrive to reach Vienna?”

  Her features were clouded with bewilderment and then with concern as she studied the wan countenance of the other woman.

  “I fear you will find her unable to answer your questions,” Holmes stated, gently disengaging the ladies and helping Nora Simmons (if that, indeed, was who she was) to a seat. Briefly, he then proceeded to explain to the Baroness how we had chanced upon her servant.

  “But this is monstrous !” the lady exclaimed when he had done. “She was abducted, you say?”

  “So it would appear,” the detective responded in neutral tones. “Do I understand you to say that she accompanied your ladyship to Bavaria?”

  “She never left my side from the moment we sailed—except on her days off.” The Baroness’s complexion mounted to a magnificent hue of indignation as she spoke. “It was under those circumstances that she disappeared some three weeks ago.”

  “The day of the Baron’s death?”

  The lady flushed yet more deeply and clasped her hands.

  “Why, yes. Nora was not in the villa when the misfortune occurred; she was in the town below us—Ergoldsbach, I believe it is called. In the confusion, she was not missed. In any case, as I have said, it was her day off. When she did not return the following morning I thought that perhaps, having learned of the tragedy, she had, for some reason, fallen into a panic. Hers was an excitable and nervous disposition, as I had good cause to know.” She paused. “You see, we were always very close-much more than mistress and maid, really—but when she failed to return and sent no word of farewell, I began to fear something untoward had occurred and informed the police. Perhaps I should have done so sooner had not my husband’s unexpected demise so thrown me into confusion.”

  “You refer to ‘something untoward’. You had no suspicion of foul play?”

  “I did not know what to think. She was gone—” the Baroness broke off helplessly, accompanied by a little birdlike gesture. It was easy to see she was overcome not only by the experience but by the mere recollection of it. Nevertheless, Holmes persisted.

  “And the police were unable to discover the whereabouts of your maid?”

  She shook her head, then impulsively seized the inert hands of the other woman and pressed them with affection.

  “Dear girl, how relieved I am to find you!”

  “May one enquire in what manner your husband met his death?” Holmes asked, eyeing her intently.

  The Baroness coloured violently once more and looked from one to the other of us in considerable confusion.

  “His heart,” she said simply, in a voice almost too low to carry. I coughed to cover my own confusion, while Holmes rose to his feet.

  “I am sorry to hear it. Well, it appears our business here is finished, Watson,” said he, easily, and I thought, with little feeling. “We have solved our little mystery.” He held out his hand for Nora Simmons. “Madam, we are sorry to have intruded upon your grief and your valuable time.”

  “But surely you are not taking her from me!” the Baroness cried, rising as well. “I have only just regained her, and I assure you, Mr. Holmes, she is essential to my happiness.”

  “In her present condition she could hardly be of use to you,” Holmes observed drily. “She needs care more than she is able to care for others.” Again he extended his hand.

  “Oh, but I shall care for her myself,” the lady protested emphatically. “Have I not said that she is my companion as well as my servant?” There was something so piteous in her supplications that I was on the point of agreeing with her and professing as much to Holmes, for loving attention can sometimes effect a cure where medicine is helpless. But he spoke abruptly.

  “I am afraid such a solution is quite impossible at present, as your maid is under the care of Dr. Sigmund Freud at the Allgemeines Krankenhaus; we have taken a great liberty, as it is, in bringing her to this place without his proper consent. I would not have done so had I not felt an identification was of the utmost moment.”

  “But—”

  “On the other hand, it is just possible that I can persuade the doctor to release the woman into your custody. In Providence you no doubt involved yourself in church work among the destitute and homeless?”

  “I was very active in parish work of that sort,” the Baroness agreed hastily.

  “I thought as much. You may rest assured I will communicate that fact to Dr. Freud and he will no doubt consider it when the time comes to decide upon the proper disposition of his patient.”

  She would have made reply, but Holmes was smoothly insistent and we took our leave, bearing away with us the unfortunate maid.

  Our fiacre was waiting for us where we had left it, and as we climbed inside Holmes allowed himself a fit of silent laughter.

  “A very excellent performance, Watson. One in which sheer nerve and ingenuity were matched with the consummate artistry of an Ellen Terry. Of course they were prepared for this sort of eventuality. The woman has been cleverly coached.”

  “She is an impostor, then?” It seemed almost impossible to believe that magnificent creature a fraud, but Holmes nodded wearily, spilling some charred fragments of tobacco from his pipe as he jerked his head in the direction of our passenger.

  “This wretched woman is the bona fide Baroness Von Leinsdorf—for all the good it will do her,” he added solemnly. “Yet we may, before this business is done, be able to restore some of her rights, if not her sanity.”

  “How do you know the other is lying?”

  “You mean, what gave her away-in addition to that preposterous tale of the maid fleeing the house without notice because the master succumbs to heart failure?”

  I nodded, and said I had not found the story so very unlikely.

  “Perhaps there was some connection between the events of which we are unaware that would help to clarify her actions,” I pursued, warming to the theory that had been slowly taking shape in my mind. “Perhaps—”

  “Perhaps,” he agreed, smiling. “Yet there are certain facts which strongly favour the conclusions I have already drawn.”

  There was something so convincing about the Baroness in the person of that splendid woman, and something so unlikely about our own demented candidate for that role, and something so irritatingly self-assured about my companion’s manner (when less than a week before he himself had been little better than a raving lunatic—whole once more through my own intervention on his behalf), that it nettled me more than it might have six months earlier in London, to hear him speak so condescendingly.

  “And what are these facts?” I demanded sceptically.

  “It might interest you to know,” he answered, handing over the telegram he had received earlier in the day and ignoring the hostile tone in my voice, “that the Slaters of Rhode Island have, for more than two hundred years, belonged to the religious sect known as Quakers. Quakers do not attend church; they go to meeting. And they certainly would not refer to charity work as parish work. No, no, certainly not,” he added, turning away to gaze out of the window.

  This time I was unable to conceal my surprise, but before I had the chance to articulate it he spoke again, still idly glancing about him.

  “And, incidentally, I have just recalled where we saw Count Von Schlieffen before.”

  “Count who?”

  “Von Schlieffen; the gentleman who passed us as we came in. His picture appeared* in The Times some months ago. Didn’t you see it? If my memory serves, he had just been named chief of the German General Staff.”

  * * *

  * Not in a photograph, of course. In 1891 Count Von Schlieffen’s picture appeared in The Times as a sketch. N.M.

  CHAPTER XIII

  Sherlock Holmes Theorises

  SHERLOCK HOLMES stood upon the burgundy hearth-rug of the study in Bergasse 19 and leaned his elbows on the mantelpiece behind him.

  “The will leave
s everything to the new Baroness,” said he.

  Dr. Freud looked up from his notes with a hurt expression.

  “If you knew the provisions of the Baron’s will, you might have said so,” he observed curtly. “As it is, I have missed a patient on your account, as I told you I would. Yet you replied that my going to the registry of wills was of paramount importance.”

  Holmes laughed in that silent fashion of his and held up a deprecating hand.

  “You will pardon me, I am sure, Doctor. I was speaking from conviction, not from knowledge. Your morning has not been wasted: your facts have confirmed my suspicions. Yet I take my oath; if my German had been sufficiently fluent, I should never have prevailed upon you to miss a patient. Dr. Watson here will tell you it is not my habit to tear him away from his own practice without good reason. You forgive me? Good!”

  So saying, Holmes told Freud of our own excursion. He frowned with disapproval when he learned whither we had taken his patient, but relaxed again when I assured him that neither the house nor its occupants had appeared to make the slightest impression on her.

  “The time has now arrived,” continued Holmes, fetching forth his disreputable clay—though maintaining his attitude against the mantel—”to marshal our facts and see if they are covered by our theories.” He paused to extract a warm coal from the fire with the tongs, and light his pipe. “Let me ask you one final question, however, before I pronounce my case complete. What manner of man is Germany’s new Kaiser?”

  “He’s been Kaiser since 1888,” I put in. Holmes nodded but kept his eyes fastened on Freud, who was considering the question with a speculative air.

  “If I were forced to use one word, I should refer to him as immature,” said he at length.

  “What of his policies?”

  “They revolve for the most part around social legislation. He is deathly afraid of socialism; and his foreign relations are inclined—so far as I can determine by reading the papers—to truculence, particularly towards Russia, over such issues as property rights in the Balkans.”