The Mammoth Book of the Lost Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes

by Denis O. Smith

  “Do you know if any of your senior colleagues will be attending the party?” asked Holmes.

  “As a matter of fact,” Armstrong replied, “all three of them are.”

  “Then that must be when the papers will be passed. If we could somehow contrive an entrée to the duchess’s party, we might be able to thwart their plans.”

  “That might be possible,” said Armstrong abruptly, thumping his fist into his hand. “Yes, by George! I think it can be arranged! The Duchess of Pont,” he explained, “happens to be a second cousin of my mother’s. She is also a great patriot, and I’m sure would appreciate the urgency of the situation. I’ll wire my mother at once and see if she can arrange it!”

  “You had best not attend yourself,” said Holmes. “Your presence there might alert them and put them on their guard. Meanwhile, you must leave your men posted here for the next twenty-four hours, to prevent Norton passing any warning to the others, and above all else, you must tell no one of our plan.”

  The following day dawned a little clearer, but although a weak sun shone from behind a thin veil of cloud, the air was still cold and the snow remained unmelted in the streets, where the traffic churned it into a brown slush, and heaped it up in great mounds at the kerbside. At eleven o’clock, there was a sharp rap at our door, and Captain Armstrong strode briskly into the room. His manner was as different as could be imagined from that of the previous evening. Gone was the hopeless despair, and in its place was a resolute determination to pursue the matter to a successful conclusion.

  “It is all arranged,” said he with a cheerful smile. “You are both invited to attend the duchess’s little soirée this evening. I have also had a message within the last hour from our agent in Princess Zelda’s house. The princess received a note in the post this morning, which our agent managed to read. It was unsigned, and said merely, ‘Be prepared! Someone will approach you this evening using the agreed passwords’.”

  “That rather confirms our reading of the situation,” remarked Holmes. “It also suggests that the princess herself does not know the identity of the intermediary. All in all, this evening’s party should be a singularly interesting affair!”

  “No doubt,” returned Armstrong. “You must, incidentally, be there by six-forty-five at the latest,” he added, “as the duchess wishes to speak to you privately before the other guests arrive. I shall remain outside the house at the time of the party, with a couple of men. A single whistle will bring us at once.”

  “Excellent!” cried Holmes. “I think, Watson,” said he, turning to me gaily with a chuckle, “that you and I had best spend the remainder of the day making certain that our wardrobes are fit for such an exalted occasion!”

  At six-forty our cab dropped us in Belgrave Square, and moments later we were conducted up to the Duchess of Pont’s study.

  She rose from her desk as we entered and held out her hand. She was a grand and dignified figure, in a handsome gown of dark grey silk, and appeared exactly as I had seen her in photographs in the illustrated papers.

  “Captain Armstrong has explained to me the urgent issue that necessitates your presence here this evening,” she began, “and I have instructed my servants to offer you every possible assistance. However,” she continued in a slow, emphatic tone, “there is one thing I must insist upon: there must be no unpleasant ‘incident’. Is that quite clear? Among my guests this evening are the ambassadors of Italy, Russia and the United States, and also Count Wilhelm of Mullenstein, the personal representative of the German Emperor. The editor of the Telegraph will also be here, the deputy editor of The Times, and the chief foreign correspondent of the Berlin Post. The slightest hint of anything untoward would flash round Europe like sheet lightning, and would be an absolute disaster. It is bad enough having that wretched woman in the house, but in that case, I had no choice. She has attached herself recently to the French chargé d’affaires, and I knew he would not come without her. Still, her presence may be of some value if it enables you to bring your problem to a successful conclusion.”

  “You need have no anxiety, your Grace,” responded Holmes in a suave tone. “There will be no incident.”

  Shortly after this interview, the duchess’s guests began to arrive, and soon the house was loud with the buzz of conversation, as informal groups gathered here and there. At a large table at one end of the long drawing room, the imposing figure of the Duchess of Pont’s butler presided over a steaming, aromatic bowl of punch and a forest of bottles of every shape and size. I looked about for Princess Zelda, but she had not yet arrived, so, with a glass of punch in my hand, I took the opportunity to move about the assembly and make a few general observations.

  I doubt if I have ever been quite so well turned-out as I was on that evening, but for all the starching and pressing and polishing that had gone into my evening dress, I still felt somewhat plainly attired in that august gathering. There was scarcely a man there who was not decorated with medals, sashes, badges and ribbons, and it was certainly difficult to believe that somewhere among them was a spy whose intention was to pass on secret documents. Discreetly, as I hoped, I moved from room to room, standing now on the fringe of one group, now on the fringe of another. One thing I dreaded was being asked questions about myself, for I was not confident that I could explain very convincingly the reason for my presence. Now and then, I observed Holmes in the distance. He appeared to be moving about the assembly much as I was, occasionally pausing briefly to speak. Once or twice I passed him in a doorway, but I was under strict instructions not to communicate with him unless the matter was urgent, so I did not acknowledge him.

  I had just returned to the long drawing room when I found myself drawn into a discussion on medical matters. I chanced to mention that I had served in the Army Medical Department in Afghanistan, and almost at once regretted it, for the man standing next to me, a very large, red-faced man with a monocle in his eye, at once introduced himself, and with a sinking feeling I learnt that he was the commanding officer of that very service. Evidently assuming that if I had been invited to the duchess’s soirée I must have some worthwhile views to impart, he requested my opinion as to the future of the Army medical services. Fortunately, there had recently been some discussion in the press on this very subject, so I was able to make one or two observations that did not sound too foolish, but it was with a feeling of some relief that I managed to extricate myself from the conversation.

  Just as I had succeeded in doing so, there came a momentary pause in the babble of voices. I turned my head, to see that Princess Zelda, instantly recognizable from her photographs in the society press, had just entered the room in the company of a dapper little man with a waxed black moustache. For a moment, it appeared that every head in the room turned her way, the male heads no doubt in admiration, the female heads in disapproval, then conversation and discussion resumed again, and the drawing room once more took on the sound of a particularly agitated bee hive.

  For some time, as discreetly as I could, I observed her progress about the assembly, as she exchanged greetings and brief remarks with a great many people. I was watching her from the opposite side of the room when she abruptly turned and our eyes met. Feeling my cheeks begin to burn, I quickly looked away and made a pretence of studying a painting on the wall. Moments later, I became conscious of someone standing beside me, and a soft but firm voice spoke in a foreign accent from over my shoulder.

  “I do not believe we have met.”

  I turned to see the Princess Zelda eyeing me with an expression of curiosity. In what I confess was a state of some confusion, I introduced myself.

  “An Army surgeon?” she repeated with a smile. “That must have been very interesting!”

  “‘Interesting’ is not perhaps the first word I should think of to describe it,” I responded in a dry tone, and made some reference to the enormous amount of travelling which my military career had involved.

  “Ah, travelling!” she interrupted. “That can
be so tiring! I leave England tomorrow for the Continent, and I am not looking forward to the journey.”

  “That is understandable,” I responded, a little nonplussed by the way the conversation had shifted so abruptly from my military experiences to Princess Zelda’s own proposed journey.

  “I take a train in the morning,” she continued.

  “I understand that the weather in northern France has been much the same as in England,” I remarked, unable to think of anything else to say.

  “Has it really?” said she, looking at me as if I were a complete idiot. “How fascinating!” she continued, turning her head and moving away from me. “Do excuse me. There is someone I must speak to.”

  As she drifted away across the room, I realized that my hands were trembling. I made my way to where the duchess’s butler presided over the drinks, requested a whisky and soda and retired to a quiet corner to reflect on my encounter with Princess Zelda. It was clear that despite my efforts at discretion, she had seen that I was watching her and had wanted to know who I was. It was probable, then, that, as we had surmised, she did not know the identity of the intermediary who would pass the papers to her and had thought I might be he. There had been something oddly insistent in her manner of speech, as if she had wanted me to say something that would identify me to her. This observation seemed to me important enough to warrant my telling Holmes, and I went in search of him. Unfortunately, he was nowhere to be seen, and, giving up the search for the moment, I returned to the main drawing room.

  The room was now full, and the noise of conversation was almost deafening. The Duchess of Pont herself was sitting in a large group at one side of the room, having what appeared to be a very animated discussion. A little distance away, I descried the Princess Zelda, talking to a tall, thin naval officer. I drifted that way.

  I had attached myself to a circle of people discussing the Balkan question, chiefly because it was the nearest I could get to the princess without attracting her attention, when I saw her turn away from the naval man much as she had turned away from me. As she did so, she was approached by an Army officer, resplendent in red tunic, medals and ribbons. As best I could, I closed my ears to the conversation being pursued in front of me, took half a step backwards and endeavoured to eavesdrop on the conversation behind me.

  “Colonel Fitzwarren,” I heard Princess Zelda’s new companion say as he introduced himself.

  The two of them exchanged a few pleasantries, then the princess again contrived to turn the conversation to her impending departure for the Continent.

  “I take a train tomorrow morning,” I heard her say.

  “Is that the nine-thirty-five?” asked Colonel Fitzwarren.

  With a sudden thrill that almost took my breath away, I realized that he had used the numbers the parrot had repeated to us.

  “No,” the princess answered, “the eleven o’clock from Victoria.”

  “Are you travelling to Paris?” he asked.

  “No, to Venice,” she responded. “I am spending Christmas with friends there.”

  “Ah!” said he. “Beautiful Venice! I, too, have a friend there. I wonder, madam, if I might possibly request a small favour?”

  “Certainly,” said she. “What is it?”

  “I have written a letter to my friend, but I am a little late in posting it, and besides the Continental posts are unreliable at this time of the year. I wonder if you could possibly take it? I could wire my friend to meet the train.”

  “By all means,” said the princess, the sparkle of laughter in her voice. “Do you have the letter with you this evening?”

  “As it happens, I do.”

  “Then instruct one of the servants to place it with my belongings in the cloakroom. What is your friend’s name, by the way, Colonel?”

  “Smith,” responded Fitzwarren after a moment, laughing. “George Smith.”

  I did not wait to hear more. At a stroke I had discovered both the meaning of the parrot’s prattlings and the identity of the traitor. It was vital that I apprised Holmes of this information at once.

  Swiftly, I passed from room to room, making no pretence now of listening to any of the conversations, but I could not find Holmes anywhere. Off the large square hall, a small chamber had been set aside for use as a cloakroom, and by the door a footman stood in attendance. I was about to approach him, intending to ask if he had seen my friend, when there came a low voice from behind me.

  “Watson!”

  I turned in surprise to see Holmes’s face peering from a curtained alcove.

  “In here quickly,” said he sharply, “or you will ruin the whole enterprise!”

  “Holmes,” said I as I joined him in the alcove, “I have made an important discovery. The parrot’s message was a password, and the traitor is—”

  “Colonel Fitzwarren,” said he, finishing my sentence.

  “What!” I cried in surprise. “You knew already?”

  “Only for the last half-hour,” said he, “during which time I have been extremely busy, otherwise I should certainly have communicated my findings to you. We have been investigating the matter from different directions, but have arrived together at the same conclusion. But wait! Someone is coming!”

  A group of people were leaving. A footman at the front door stepped out to summon their carriage, and the footman by the cloakroom produced their coats and cloaks. The Duchess of Pont herself then appeared in the hall. “I am so glad you were able to come,” said she to her departing guests, and wished them a merry Christmas. As the front door closed and the duchess returned to a side room, the door of the long drawing room opened and a large military man emerged, whom I recognized as Colonel Fitzwarren.

  “Could you bring my coat,” said he, addressing the footman, who disappeared into his cloakroom and re-emerged bearing a heavy, dark overcoat. For a moment, the colonel felt in an inside pocket, then drew out a long brown envelope. “This is for the Princess Zelda,” said he. “See that it is placed securely with her hat and coat.” He took a coin from his pocket and handed it, with the envelope, to the footman.

  “At once, sir,” said the latter with a little bow, disappearing once more into the cloakroom and taking Fitzwarren’s coat back with him. The colonel’s features assumed a look of satisfaction and he returned to the drawing room.

  “How did you discover it was he?” I whispered to Holmes as the hall returned once more to silence.

  “He ordered the same unusual mixture of whisky and lemon juice tonight as had been drunk from the glass used by Norton’s mysterious visitor last night. I knew then that it must be he. I dare say you have found this evening something of a trial, Watson,” he added with a chuckle, “so you will be pleased to know that our efforts have not been in vain!”

  “Should we not act at once to retrieve that envelope?” I queried, surprised at my companion’s apparent lack of concern.

  He shook his head and appeared about to reply, when there came the sound of approaching voices, and he put his finger to his lips.

  A large number of people had emerged from the drawing room, and soon the hall was thronged. I watched as the Duchess of Pont’s staff coped with this sudden demand upon their skills, as coats, cloaks and hats were carried hither and thither, the front doors were opened, closed and opened again, and a succession of carriages was summoned to the gate.

  “Do you see that fellow with all the medals,” observed Holmes to me in a whisper. “That is Archduke Somebody-or-other from Russia. What a terrific strain those medals must place upon his tunic-front! He insisted upon discussing the bi-metallic question with me, and I could not help reflecting that if he were to melt down a few of his medals he might make a remarkable personal contribution to the question! Ah! Here is Zelda, appearing pleased with herself!”

  I watched as the princess’s maid entered and assisted her with her coat and hat. I saw the princess feel for something in her pocket and smile in satisfaction, then with a swish of her skirts she was gone, thro
ugh the front doors, into the cold night air.

  “She is getting away with the secret documents!” I cried in dismay.

  “Have no fear!” said my companion in a calm tone. “Come! It is time now for us to put on our own coats!”

  We emerged from our hiding place unnoticed amid the general bustle. In two minutes we were well wrapped up against the night air, and standing on the pavement outside the house. Holmes looked along the street and raised his arm slightly, and a hand emerged from a carriage window and returned his signal. “Captain Armstrong and his men are ready for us,” said he.

  It was a very cold night, and even as we stood there it began to snow again. A succession of carriages drew up beside us, their harnesses jingling and the breath of the horses blowing out like smoke in the cold air. All at once, Holmes plucked my sleeve, and I looked round to see Colonel Fitzwarren in the doorway of the house.

  “Colonel,” said Holmes as Fitzwarren reached the pavement. “Would you be so good as to step this way?”

  “Whatever for?” said the other, a mixture of surprise and apprehension upon his features. “Who are you?”

  “Who I am is of no importance,” returned Holmes. “But you will observe that my left hand is in my coat pocket. There, it is holding a pistol, which is pointed at you. I am quite prepared to use it, and will withdraw it from my pocket and thus embarrass you before all these people, unless you do as I say.”

  “This is an outrage,” said the colonel under his breath.

  “But somewhat less of an outrage than attempting to pass your country’s secrets to an enemy power.”

  The colonel’s face blanched and he swallowed hard before speaking.

  “If I raise a hue and cry, you will not dare to do anything,” said he at length.

  “I should not advise it, Colonel. There is a party of marines waiting along the road who are watching your every move.” As he spoke, he raised his arm again, a carriage door opened, and two soldiers stepped out onto the pavement.

  For a moment, Fitzwarren hesitated, then, his face ashen, he turned and walked in the direction Holmes had indicated. As we approached the carriage, Captain Armstrong came forward.