The Whole Art of Detection

by Lyndsay Faye

  “I feel so privileged to meet you, Dr. Watson. Do please say you’re writing more adventures, that you’re writing them in your head this very minute even as you speak. Swear to me that you are.”

  “I was writing this morning,” I answered with a significant look at the detective. “But I was lured away.”

  “Well, I’d consider it a personal favor if you marched straight back to work, and speedily,” she teased. “Your stories are that breathtaking, on my life they are. I always buy the new Strand twice when you’re in it—one for reading and rereading, and a copy to keep on my shelf. Some of my friends think it mad, but other ladies understand me perfectly. One day I hope to have a great collection of them, but that’s up to the pair of you, isn’t it now? I’m always ever so grateful to hear more news of Mr. Holmes.”

  “The pleasure is entirely mine, Miss Bost,” I replied, laughing.

  “Speaking for my part,” my friend breathed in a rapid murmur audible only to me, “that much is indisputable.”

  “Mr. Holmes, I have dreamt for months of encountering you personally this way. I would so like to know everything about the science of detection, though I believe it in your case an art, rather. Your life must be so thrilling, so—”

  “I regret, Miss Bost, that Holmes and I must finish a previous conversation,” I interrupted when my friend pinched my arm severely. He steered me back toward the house, to which our host and the mysterious Mr. Murillo had repaired. “Another time, perhaps!”

  “For God’s sake, we’ve been entrusted with a mission on behalf of the Crown,” Holmes hissed at me. “A garden party is no place for small talk.”

  “No?”

  “Not where we are concerned. And I hope you are well satisfied that I cannot appear in public without being chattered at like some grotesque hero from the lowest form of penny dreadful.”

  “My dear Holmes, The Strand is a literary magazine, and you haven’t the slightest desire to appear in public anyhow.”

  “That has nothing to do with—”

  “My briefcase!” The balmy air of the veranda was rent by a terrible cry. “God in heaven, what has happened? Thieves! Thieves!”

  Dozens of pristinely coiffed heads swiveled in shock. The commotion centered on Mr. Francisco Murillo, who stood in the doorway leading to the stone veranda, clutching an open briefcase with two hands. Swaying in the extremity of his distress, he waved the empty receptacle as a wild flush spread across his ursine features.

  “I left this case in Mr. Kenworthy’s private study,” he snarled. “It contained securities, deeds, over two thousand pounds in valuables. Who in the name of the devil can have done this, and to an innocent stranger? I have been made the victim of an unconscionable crime!”

  “But—but that’s impossible,” Kenworthy stammered, pale face growing still paler. He had appeared within seconds of the dreadful shout. “I locked the door to the study myself. I’ve the only key!”

  While the assembly glanced about them, scandalized heads bobbing aimlessly like the beaks of so many sparrows, Sherlock Holmes stilled in concentration. It is ever the case that crises hone him, render his already caustic presence as sharp as a knife’s edge, and in such circumstances, he positively gleams with the confidence of being entirely in his element. Though I have witnessed it some scores of times, I have not tired of it; as for our new acquaintance, Miss Bost was lit up like a Chinese firework.

  “Might I strongly suggest, Mr. Kenworthy, that the entire party be prevailed upon to stay on the premises until we can make a bit more sense of this situation?” the sleuth suggested.

  “By all means, yes—yes, of course. Ladies and gentlemen!” Mr. Kenworthy called out. “With my most abject apologies, I charge you all to remain until we have made a preliminary investigation. Pray God this is all some ghastly joke, and we find Mr. Murillo’s property directly!”

  “A robbery and a detainment! Oh, I can’t believe my luck, I simply can’t. And to think that Mr. Sherlock Holmes is here, at the very scene of the crime!” Miss Bost exulted as the guests were ushered back into the house.

  I half-expected another dour remark from Holmes, but criminal chaos had enormously improved his humor; instead he made the tiniest of bows to the lady as she passed us by, aglow with feminine enthusiasm.

  “By Jove, I don’t know what to think—nor what to say, of course, Mr. Murillo.” Kenworthy mopped a kerchief over his brow. We hurried inside once the servants had courteously cleared the veranda of guests and led them to the dining hall, where more refreshments were being laid out. “The study is this way, Mr. Holmes. I had placed the briefcase at his request on my own desk, knowing the room quite secure. Dear God, if someone here has—”

  My friend had already pounced with catlike swiftness before the study door, tracing the outline of the lock with his fingertips. He went fully to his knees with a frown. Pulling his lens from the inner pocket of his morning coat, Holmes leant farther in to study the gleaming metal, which—even without magnification—was visibly gouged with shallow but deliberate scratches. The mechanism had recently done battle with a foe, so much was clear. After he had completed his examination the detective glanced up at me, grinning inexplicably.

  “See anything of interest regarding this lock, Watson?”

  “Well, of course. It appears to have been rudely tampered with.”

  “Ah. I was much more intrigued by the design,” he said with a shrug. “American innovation originated at mid-century by Alfred Charles Hobbs, a classic patented Protector lock. No matter, however. Shall we go in?”

  I followed, wondering how the lock’s make could possibly bear upon the case. Once we were inside the study, our host and his outraged acquaintance Murillo close upon our heels, Holmes lost no time in commencing his exploration. A fine bulky desk of polished oak presided over the small, windowless chamber, and two plush armchairs sat in the front corners. It seemed an efficient, masculine workplace, well lived in, with a collection of decanters on a mirrored cart at the corner of the room and a ready box of cigars upon the side table. I could see nothing disarranged, but that was hardly surprising—if the thief had wanted to plunder Murillo’s briefcase specifically, he or she need not have touched aught else.

  “You left the briefcase here?” Holmes inquired without looking at Kenworthy, dragging his fingers over the desktop.

  “Yes. I then returned to the festivities after securing the door. The lock has been tampered with, you said?” the diplomat finished nervously.

  “I did not. However, that is the studied opinion of Dr. Watson here, and I have never known him to be far astray.”

  Both Kenworthy and Murillo released muffled sounds of distress at this assertion, whilst I quirked my eyebrows at Holmes as he finished a quick perusal of the fireplace. I could not help noticing that he was by no means giving the scene of the theft his most thorough attention. His gaze slid to and fro, lighting on nothing particular in a way which seemed extremely unlike the man, and twice he made an entire slow circle without seeming to view his surroundings at all. Holmes the investigator operates on two levels: that of gathering data, and that of ruminating over it. It was bizarre to me to see him introspective in the midst of the former stage rather than the latter. He glanced at the carpet cursorily, wandered from window to door and back again with his thumbs brushing idly round each other, fiddled with Murillo’s emptied briefcase where the Spaniard had replaced it on the desk, and soon made me so uneasy that it was all I could do not to demand he reveal what the deuce the matter was.

  Kenworthy and Murillo likewise watched him in increasing disquiet; everyone present save for my friend attended to each tick of the standing clock in the corner, picturing the burglar striding away from the property with his pockets full of bank notes and a whistle on his lips.

  At length, Holmes spun away from the plundered leather case to face us, clasping his hands, mingled emb
arrassment and sorrow writ clear upon his visage. “Well, really! It’s no use prevaricating—unfortunately, I admit to you that I’m at a complete loss. The like has hardly ever happened to me before now, but Mr. Murillo, I believe this theft to have been the work of a master criminal who has left not a single tangible clue save for some clumsy scratches when he meddled with the door. I’ve failed to glean anything from the room, and was no more successful with your briefcase.”

  “My dear Holmes,” I could only marvel, “however is that possible?”

  “I hardly know myself, confound it—I only know that I have been thoroughly bested. Now no doubt you’ll think your trust in me misplaced.” Never have I seen his face so shadowed in gloom. “I cannot blame you.”

  “On the contrary!” I exclaimed, aghast.

  “Come, come, your disappointment is only logical! I’m sorry, every­one, but even I can see nothing when there is nothing to see. The obvious forced entrance is our sole indication. We are dealing with a very cool hand indeed. Only the most expert of cracksmen could pick that lock—I myself could not do it in under ten minutes’ time. Perhaps I could not manage it at all, and I am no raw amateur.”

  “Surely there are steps to be taken!” Murillo remonstrated.

  Taking his lower lip between his teeth, Holmes shrugged. “My only remaining avenue of inquiry is to question our fellow guests with the most exacting precision, and pray that one of them gives something away. What hope lies in that corner, however, I cannot tell you, as the thief may well have made an escape by now. Undoubtedly, this marks a low point in what has previously been a largely successful career.”

  Murillo collapsed into the nearest armchair, devastated at his misfortune. Kenworthy, looking no less bleak, gripped his associate’s arm and offered him port from the sideboard. My first thought was to provide some words of encouragement for my poor friend, who was as shaken as I had ever seen him. When he swept out of the room with a defeated growl in his throat, I made terse excuses and pursued, hoping that in the thick of his black humor he would consent to speak to me at all.

  “Holmes? Holmes! I hope you know that I would never—”

  My friend abruptly stopped at the end of the passageway and turned to face me, suddenly looking as delighted as I have ever seen him appear at a society function. His narrow ribs shook with suppressed mirth, his thin face was flushed, and his eyes were bright as coins. We had been duped, I realized. My relief was so profound that it did not at first occur to me to be irritable over the deception.

  “What do you make of it?” Holmes whispered. “Isn’t it gorgeous?”

  “I make nothing whatsoever of the real leader of an imaginary telegraph company, whose briefcase has been emptied from within a study with an unpickable lock,” I retorted, though his joy was infectious.

  “Well, never mind. I make something of it, so you needn’t concern yourself.”

  “You are acting entirely out of character.”

  “How so?”

  “That was the least comprehensive study of a crime scene I have ever witnessed you enact.”

  “Watson, you wound me.”

  “No I don’t. And that show of defeat—what were you playing at?”

  “But it wasn’t a show at all! No, no, no. Solving that crime is quite impossible, Doctor, as I already mentioned perfectly seriously. There were no threads to grasp. I shall take what solace I can in solving another one entirely.”

  The sleuth strode off again, this time in the direction of the dining hall, where the guests must have been anxiously awaiting us. I began to ask whether he meant to question them, but Holmes waved for my silence. He stopped before a carved sliding door, listening to the murmur of voices just beyond by pressing his ear firmly to the wood. Satisfied, Holmes put his hands in his pockets and leant back against the wall.

  “You have no intention of questioning the suspects,” I surmised, all at sea.

  Holmes’s head dipped subtly. “That would be an egregious waste of my time.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they know approximately as much about this as you do, my dear fellow.”

  The sliding door cracked open, revealing the russet head and excitable features belonging to Miss Jacquelynn Bost.

  “There you both are!” She drank in the sight of Holmes leaning next to the panel, I standing beside him with my arms folded, wearing an exasperated expression. “My own conscience is clear, so I confess myself terribly well pleased at the turn of events. Isn’t it all marvelous?”

  “Absolutely,” Holmes agreed with genuine enthusiasm. “I really couldn’t ask for better, Miss Bost.”

  Glowing, Miss Bost withdrew and the door slid silently shut once more.

  “Holmes, what the devil is going on?”

  My friend crossed his lips with his index and middle fingers. “Quieter. Several things are going on, Watson. First and foremost, my attendance was not expected by our adversaries. You haven’t your gun, have you?”

  “No,” I answered, startled.

  “Pity, that.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Holmes—”

  I came to an abrupt halt when his hand caught my elbow. Measured footsteps approached from the direction of the hallway. Steeling myself for whatever danger might befall us, I backed up to the wall as Holmes had done and waited, my breathing quiet and my posture braced against attack.

  Mr. Francisco Murillo emerged from the corridor looking extraordinarily well recovered. At the sight of us, he stopped short, but then continued on his path with confidence. Mr. Damien Kenworthy appeared seconds later, running a barely trembling hand through his flaxen hair.

  “Have you finished questioning the others so soon?” Murillo demanded.

  “Finished? I’ve not yet begun.”

  The Spaniard’s teeth clenched above his sable beard. “No?”

  “Oh, no, it sounded so dreadfully tedious. I’ll start as soon as we’ve bidden you bon voyage properly. To tell the truth, I’ve been thinking over the data, and have only just come to terms with their meaning. As it would take me a matter of some two hours to interrogate everyone in the house, I thought it better to say farewell first, and to apologize again for my lack of progress,” Holmes demurred unflappably. He yawned. “We can’t have you spreading rumor of my incompetence across the Continent, not when making amends could ensure a better report of my talents. Reputation is everything to a consultant, you understand. You’ll say nothing, I hope?”

  Kenworthy’s neck began to redden as he peered from Holmes to Murillo and back again. “I say, Mr. Holmes, we sympathize that so far your investigation has proved a failure, but you needn’t sound so glib. It’s Mr. Murillo who has suffered by it, after all.”

  “This is outrageous—a shocking scandal—but I cannot possibly waste any more time,” Murillo dismissed them in a harsh grate. “As Kenworthy says, I have lost my capital, and if I do not depart, I will lose my ship as well.”

  “What a pity.” Holmes smiled as if there were ice resting on his tongue.

  “Your appalling lack of manners has been noted, Mr. Holmes,” ­Murillo snapped, and I instinctually edged closer to my friend. “Never­theless I wish you luck, since you seem to be in dire need of it. Mr. Kenworthy here will surely inform me if the sum is recovered.”

  “And it will be!” Kenworthy cried. “On my honor, sir—Mr. Holmes here is the best criminal investigator in London. A single setback does not guarantee permanent defeat. He will do right by us eventually, and then I shall see that the money is placed back in your hands with all speed.”

  “It is enough to severely test a man, but it cannot be helped,” Murillo growled. “Very well. I must take my leave of this godforsaken place.”

  “Not before I cast an eye over that briefcase,” my friend objected.

  Murillo froze in mid-step. “It is empty. What use could it possib
ly be now—to me, to anyone?”

  “That is precisely what I want to find out.” Holmes’s voice had turned as inflexible as his posture, which now radiated antagonism.

  “Come now, Mr. Holmes.” Kenworthy’s ashen skin was beaded with moisture. “I have been humiliated enough tonight, have I not, what with a robbery taking place in my own locked study? I admire your exactitude, but I cannot suffer a wronged man to be detained against his will. Mr. Murillo will lose his ship if he dallies.”

  “Then Mr. Murillo,” Sherlock Holmes declared, “will lose his ship.”

  The next few minutes unfolded in a dramatic fashion which will never leave my mind no matter how elderly and doddering I may become. As if fire had touched his heels, Murillo was running, sprinting with speed that belied his great bulk down the central passageway, Holmes racing after him with a shout. My own legs sprang into action an instant later, sending me veering past artworks and vases and potted ferns, and led me hurtling into the sunlight beyond the front door.

  I reached the carriage-choked drive seconds after Holmes and Murillo, little aware that I was about to witness a terrible sight. My swifter friend had caught the pursued with one long arm about his neck, but the Spaniard did not yet consider himself to be bested. Crashing backward with all his weight, determined to knock the wind from his captor, he sent Holmes’s elbow through a coach window that shattered into scores of glinting dagger points before my eyes.

  Though I shouted, I cannot recall what exclamation of dismay escaped my lips. Holmes kept his grip with a pained grimace, but I could see as I rushed toward them the stain of blood upon glass, a scarlet trickle dripping down a shard like a dragon’s tooth, and I knew that one splinter at least had done potentially serious damage.

  Outrage battled with fear for supremacy in my heart—but these dark feelings only served to speed my actions, and Francisco Murillo proved no match for the pair of us. A harsh uppercut from me sent him staggering, and Holmes, with acrobatic dexterity, caught his own wrist with his opposite hand, pressing with all the force of his wiry forearm against the brute’s larynx. Within ten more seconds, Murillo was on the ground, robbed of both his consciousness and his briefcase, as my bleeding friend eagerly flicked open the clasps and revealed the contents. The leather valise was brimful with papers.