The Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes

by Paul Gilbert

  ‘Well, I certainly apologize for having belittled your redoubtable efforts, yet there does seem to be little point in your continuing,’ I responded.

  ‘Indeed, until you come to realize that my experiments here,’ he spread his arms expansively towards his apparatus, ‘have proved, beyond a doubt, that the worm in Persano’s matchbox does not contain the toxin in question. That it hails from the Americas is certain, although in point of fact it is as harmless as any that you might find in your garden!’

  I mumbled an embarrassed apology, relit my pipe and then asked: ‘Might I, therefore, humbly enquire as to the eventual fate of the unfortunate Persano?’

  ‘I suppose there is little point in your retaining an intelligent interest in the case unless I acquaint you with all the relevant, known facts that I possess,’ Holmes responded mischievously.

  ‘I am fortunate in that Greene was able to remove a portion of the worm for my perusal, prior to the hotel management gaining access to the room. Obviously, this has allowed me to conduct my own enquiries independently of the authorities. Their investigation, as you might imagine, was somewhat less thorough than my own. To their credit, the police did remove the worm for examination, although the outcome of this was as I have previously described. As for the unfortunate Persano, well, he was unceremoniously bundled off to the nearest sanatorium where, I am certain, he will languish for the rest of his days,’ Holmes concluded sadly.

  ‘Save for the intervention of the greatest living champion of injustice!’ I announced, determined to change my friend’s attitude. Holmes smiled fondly, upon hearing this and immediately strode over to the doorway, from where he called down to Mrs Hudson asking her to engage a cab.

  ‘I do not suppose that your practice can spare you for a further few hours this afternoon while I acquaint myself with the events leading to Persano’s reappearance in London?’ Holmes asked, knowing full well what my reply would be.

  ‘I am in no doubt that it can and I would be glad and honoured to accompany you upon your quest,’ I responded.

  ‘Excellent! Then you should be delighted to know that I have arranged an interview with the last person to have seen Persano before he was incommoded. I refer to the recently widowed Doña Dolores de Cassales, who is at present residing at Le Meridien. By a happy coincidence this establishment is, as I am certain you already know, but a stone’s throw away from Browne’s. But we must hurry. This lady will not be kept waiting and our interview has been arranged to take place in fifteen minutes’ time!’

  ‘Oh, but Holmes,’ I protested as he bundled me from the room. ‘I have always understood that you do not believe in the existence of coincidence.’

  Holmes paused for an instant and afforded me his steeliest of glares. ‘Believe me, my friend, I do not!’ He then continued to bound down the stairs.

  Mercifully the afternoon traffic was light and we were able to arrive at our destination a full five minutes before our appointed time. A diminutive young bellboy led us to the lady’s suite on the seventh floor and quietly announced us, before hurrying away with a few bronze coins clutched in his tiny, grateful fingers.

  To our surprise the room that we had been shown into was not shrouded in the melancholy darkness that we had been expecting. Neither, indeed, was the startling vision of a woman that stood before us. Doña Dolores de Cassales was tall and elegant, indeed she stood at no less than two inches shorter than Holmes did. Her dark velvet hair cascaded in waves down to her shoulders and she wore a dress of lustrous dark-green chiffon ornamented by a profusion of ruby jewellery. I could sense that even the stoic Holmes was taken aback by this vision. The lady strode purposefully towards us and offered her hand towards Holmes.

  To her amusement, Holmes gently shook her hand rather than planting a kiss upon its reverse as a lady from her culture might otherwise have expected. In any event, she soon dismissed this display of British diffidence and addressed us in a gentle Hispanic accent that modulated her perfect use of English.

  ‘Welcome, gentlemen. You must be the illustrious Sherlock Holmes! And this …’ She turned condescendingly toward me for the first time since we had entered the room.

  ‘This, Doña Dolores, is my good friend and colleague, Doctor Watson, a man whose discretion and honour you can rely upon as assuredly as you can upon my own!’ Holmes announced this with a fervour that filled me with great pride and certainly left Doña Dolores with a manner that was decidedly less haughty. With a rustle of her gown she waved us towards a brace of elegant chairs whilst she arranged herself upon a chaise-longue. She then rang a small golden bell and in an instant a young maid came scuttling into the room, wearing an expression of one who was used to obeying through fear, but with no respect.

  The poor girl stuttered her request for instructions and when she received them, in Spanish, they were delivered in a tone that was cold and harsh.

  To our surprise the girl placed a long, dark cheroot between the lips of her mistress and then proceeded to light it from a slim candle.

  ‘The girl will now bring us refreshments, but before then please feel free to smoke, gentlemen.’ We bowed by way of acknowledgement and immediately produced cigarettes of our own. By the time we had smoked these the maid had returned, bearing a tray containing a carafe of red wine, three elegant gilded wineglasses and an abundantly laden silver fruit-bowl.

  Once she had filled our glasses the girl was dismissed: ‘Do not return for a full thirty minutes,’ Doña Dolores instructed her. Holmes and myself were left with the impression that we had been informed of the precise time that had been allocated to us and to emphasize his recognition of this Holmes took a long, deliberate look at his pocket-watch.

  ‘Doña Dolores, I am most anxious to obtain from you as much information as you might possess regarding your acquaintance, Isadora Persano, and his present plight.’

  ‘You seem to regard this as such a simple thing that you ask of me. Mr Holmes,’ the lady replied with a sardonic laugh.

  ‘It is not my intention to cause you any distress, Doña Dolores, however my agent observed you visiting Persano at his hotel on more than one occasion, and you appear to be the only person of his acquaintance available to me.’

  Doña Dolores caressed her wineglass as if it were a precious jewel before taking a long drink from it, all the while staring into Holmes’s eyes as if by doing so she were able to discover his intentions. Evidently satisfied that Holmes had no malicious intent, she set down her glass and Holmes indicated that I should now bring out my notebook.

  ‘I first came to Señor Persano’s acquaintance when my husband took up his post at the Spanish consulate in the capital city of Guahanna, a small Central American republic. This appointment was viewed by many as a great honour. However, these are very volatile and dangerous days for Guahanna and my husband was convinced that he had been manoeuvred by his enemies, into a position from which he could not possibly emerge with any credit.’

  ‘Which enemies would these be, Doña Dolores?’ I asked quietly.

  She glanced keenly towards me, as if deciding whether I was worthy of a reply. Evidently I was.

  ‘Doctor Watson, every ambitious politician creates enemies as he builds his career, very often unwittingly, and my dear husband Francisco was no different, in that respect, from any other. Whether or not he was correct in his assumption, Francisco gradually convinced himself that this was so. Consequently, as the People’s Revolution gathered pace his conviction transformed into paranoia and he saw a personal enemy behind the barrel of every musket. He began drinking wine most heavily and he barricaded himself in his room, while the flames of revolution erupted on every street corner.

  ‘It was at this time that Isadora Persano arrived in Guahanna, and he soon presented himself at our door. As a freelance journalist it was his duty to establish what steps my husband had taken to safeguard the lives and security of expatriate Spanish citizens who still lived in Guahanna City.

  ‘My first thought was to cl
ose the door in his face, for I was convinced that any article he might write concerning Francisco and his current condition would damage his career beyond redemption. Yet there was something in his presence and manner that evoked a feeling of trust within me. Although he was not much older than I, perhaps forty-five years of age at most, his years of travelling and the witnessing of the many harrowing events that he had reported upon had wearied his dark taut features.

  ‘His eyes told of a great knowledge and wisdom and the soft tones of his voice had a strangely calming effect upon both me and, subsequently, upon Francisco. Oh yes, Señores, despite the brevity of this meeting, I took a leap of faith and allowed Persano access to my husband’s room. Francisco panicked at first and refused to unlock the door. However, after a few moments of patient persuasion Persano’s voice had the same effect upon Francisco as it had done upon myself, and Francisco turned the key.

  ‘The transformation upon my husband, within but a half-hour of their first meeting, was nothing less than miraculous. I had not seen him for several days and throughout that time he had neither eaten nor slept. His hair was unkempt, his features had become haggard and gaunt and his eyes were painfully bloodshot. I broke down and wept at the sorry sight of him and would surely have fainted had it not been for Persano’s intervention.

  ‘He assumed control of the situation and immediately instructed my maid to help me to my room while he sent down for a plate of food and a barber. By the time I had returned, but an hour later, Francisco resembled his old self. Alert, assured and extremely handsome, and I saw with pleasure that the large tray, which was being removed, carried only a few remains and that the wine carafe had been replaced with one of water.’

  Doña Dolores paused for a moment and smiled fondly to herself as she dwelt upon these recollections. At this juncture Holmes and I allowed ourselves another cigarette and I could sense that Holmes’s patience was thinning somewhat.

  ‘Madam, you seem to have forgotten that you have allowed us but thirty minutes to complete this interview and I have yet to hear even an indication of how Persano came to his present plight.’ Holmes’s blunt comment more than confirmed my misgivings as to his frame of mind. However, Doña Dolores’s response was not as harsh as one might have expected.

  ‘Señor Holmes, the matter is not a trifling one. I have related this story so that you might fully understand the nature and character of the man who is now reduced to the sorry state in which he finds himself. If our interview overlaps with my other plans by five or six minutes, then so be it. However should you wish to conclude prematurely…?’ Doña Dolores gestured towards the door with an elegant wave of her left arm.

  Holmes laughed quietly through a plume of smoke, whilst expanding the broadest of smiles. ‘Thirty-six minutes would certainly suit me well enough. Pray continue, Doña Dolores.’ With an indignant rustling of chiffon, the lady picked up her tale once more.

  ‘Within a day or two of my husband’s recovery he felt able to continue with his official business once again. Persano was able to assist him in this, in an unofficial capacity of course, by virtue of the many acquaintances that he had made in Guahanna City and the local knowledge that his profession had provided him with. His influence made it possible for Francisco to convene a meeting at which he and Persano would mediate between the leaders of the various warring factions. After a few days of earnest negotiations the People’s Revolution was at an end and Francisco was proclaimed as a local hero. He even received a commendation from Madrid with the promise of a more prestigious posting within a few months, provided that peace was maintained in Guahanna.

  ‘As you may easily imagine, Francisco and Persano became the firmest of friends and Persano was a constant visitor at the consulate. My husband, of course, had good reason to feel kindly disposed toward his benefactor, but then everybody who came within his orbit was similarly affected. Señores, I can assure you that I was no exception!’

  Doña Dolores paused once more while she lit another cheroot and the inhalation from those densely packed dark leaves seemed to ease her hesitancy.

  ‘Now to the shocking truth behind Persano’s almost obsessional desire to help my poor husband,’ she resumed sharply. ‘As it turned out, Persano felt no sympathy at all for my husband. He used his plight as a pretext to call upon me at every opportunity. As I have already told you, I felt drawn towards him from the moment I first opened the consulate door, an action that I curse to this very day! However, and this you must believe, Señor, my love for my husband was as strong and heartfelt as it always had been and my thoughts, in allowing Persano access to him, were that it was entirely for his benefit.

  ‘Persano preyed upon this weakness of mine and he set about pursuing his aim his desire for me at our every meeting. He was unrelenting and intense and gradually I could feel my resistance weakening. I instructed the servants to put him off, should he present himself, but my husband grew agitated at Persano’s absence and countermanded these instructions. By a strange irony Francisco even accused me of being selfish in my obvious dislike of the man! I did not wish to cause him distress and so I allowed Persano access to our home once again.

  ‘I had allowed “Diablo” the opportunity to work his evil.’ She paused for a moment, drew heavily on her cheroot and turned her head away as if deeply ashamed.

  ‘Our subsequent affair was passionate, intense. At every opportunity we sought seclusion and I scolded the servants for being too diligent and attentive. I began to drink Francisco’s red wine and soon lost all sense of propriety and discretion. We even found moments during the course of official civic gatherings to steal a moment or two together, and soon Francisco began asking questions. At first they were without suspicion or accusation, merely based on confusion. However, we had not allowed for the devotion of Francisco’s manservant, Diego.

  ‘He had observed our indiscretions on more than one occasion and eventually felt duty bound to inform his master of these. At first Francisco dismissed these allegations and accused Diego of harbouring an irrational dislike of the man. On another occasion, to his great shame, he even struck Diego across the face, such was his rage. Gradually, however, the body of evidence against us increased and Francisco’s moments of confusion suddenly began to make sense to him.

  ‘He eventually confronted us in the garden house, where we had arranged our latest clandestine meeting. Although it is now too late for discretion, I will only say that he discovered us at a moment when the reason for our meeting could not have been explained away or denied. Francisco would never address a word to me again.

  ‘To his great credit he displayed neither disappointment nor emotion. He threw me to the floor as I beseeched him for forgiveness and strode purposely towards Persano, who stood his ground. They stood toe to toe, almost as mirror image, so close were they in appearance to each other. Neither spoke a word and then, to my great horror, Francisco struck Persano across his cheeks. The malicious grin with which Persano met this attack, indicated that he understood this to be a challenge to a duel.

  ‘Persano’s reaction to Francisco’s attack can best be understood when you realize that Persano was as proficient with his sabre as he was with his pen. My poor husband’s act of valour was nothing less than committing suicide, yet we all knew that he could not continue to live without his honour.

  ‘The outcome of their confrontation was mercifully as swift as it was inevitable. As the challenged, Persano was able to choose the time, place and weapon. He chose dawn the following day, on an area of flat ground close to a small, mist-shrouded arroyo, a short ride from the city and, of course, he chose the sabre. With Diego as his second my Francisco would not flinch from what he saw as his duty and bravely stood his ground. I could not bear to be present, but I could see the outcome from a distance, through a chink in a covered carriage waiting above the arroyo. Out of respect for Francisco’s valour, Persano parried Francisco’s initial clumsy lunge and dispatched him with a single thrust to the heart.

>   ‘I sobbed uncontrollably for what seemed to be an eternity and yet remained within my carriage to receive Persano. To my horror he and his second merely rode silently past my carriage without giving me a single glance. He would not disgrace Francisco’s act of honour by acknowledging the cause of his death. Diego’s reaction was even more terrible for he did ride up to my carriage and then raged and cursed me in the most awful terms imaginable!

  ‘Diego would not return to the consulate and although I would never see him again, the hatred and vileness of his words will remain with me forever.

  ‘After Francisco’s funeral, which was attended by all the local dignitaries, I spent the next few weeks in packing up all our possessions while I awaited instructions from Madrid. During all that time I heard not a word from Persano and I shrouded myself in a cloak of guilt and remorse.

  ‘At last I received a message from an acquaintance of mine, who worked for The Times in London, that Persano had refused to dispatch another word from Guahanna and had fled to London where he had become a virtual recluse. The Spanish government had arranged for our things to be shipped to my family home, close to Cordoba, while I, with a single maid and a small trunk, headed for London.

  ‘It is still not clear to me what my true intention was, once I had decided to follow Persano to London. Part of me wanted to believe that I wished to absolve him of all guilt for the slaying of my husband, for he was as much a man of honour as my husband had been. Yet, a part of me also knew that I still longed for the warmth and passion of his embrace and the soothing tones of his voice.’

  Sensing that Holmes’s mood was darkening with an edgy, frustrated embarrassment, I now felt compelled to interrupt Doña Dolores’s enthralling narrative. I should also point out here that Holmes had already explained to her the nature of Persano’s malaise, as a means of securing this interview.

  ‘Doña Dolores, never before have we heard a more honest, heartfelt account of personal tragedy and we are grateful for that. However, in order for us to alleviate Persano’s present plight, it is important that you explain the outcome of your meetings with him here in London. We understand that you have visited him on more than one occasion. I trust that our information is correct?’