by Marcia Wilson
“It would seem,” said my friend Sherlock Holmes, “crime’s capacity for dullness is infinite.”
It was the latest evening in a fortnight short of clients, so his words were concerning if not surprising. Holmes feared for his mental powers, and only visiting cases or news could alleviate the pressure placed upon his brain.
I have noticed the Yard has an occasional genius for disturbing Holmes’s boredom at the proper moment. By whatever mysterious lines of communication they follow, word had emerged concerning Holmes’s restlessness. If there were no clients, there were at least a string of puzzled policemen with “wee matters” that could be solved within the hour, and their happy payment was in form of news, so fresh it had not yet reached the newspapers.
To my relief, this was providing a wonderful distraction. One is not likely to forget the sight of Inspector Hopkins pantomiming his way through a misfortunate raid of a den full of foreign animals. Holmes’s examination of the man’s “most genuine longfin bite wounds” led to a greater study at the photographer’s, and now I believe Sherlock Holmes is the only person in all of England who may brag about the study of Australian eel attacks in his repertoire.
Today it was Inspector Lestrade who had come calling, and as they had a plethora of past cases with differences of option, the conversation was getting droll.
“As you often say to me when I comment on your writings, Watson,” Holmes continued, “‘A problem without a solution may interest the student, but can hardly fail to annoy the casual reader.’ So! The reading of my own life is currently in wont.”
Lestrade regarded him with a quizzical air. “I for one appreciate stupidity when it makes it easier to solve a crime.”
“In a city of millions, you are also guaranteed smarter criminals part of the time.”
“I’ll tell you what’s worse! When you have a problem and you can’t understand a blessed thing about it because it might as well be from the earth to the moon!”
Holmes’s brow shot up and he tipped his fingers under his chin with a particular sort of smile that, in my experience, foretold that he was prepared to have some fun. “Have you been reading Verne again?”
“I don’t see what that has to do with our conversation.”
“Perhaps nothing, but normally you are a better conversationalist, not the fellow I see who has been playing a bad form of chopsticks on his knee since he took the chair. Your latest tale over proper wages for police informants is amusing, but not important. You could have regaled us with the details in your sleep. On the other coin, you read Verne for his use of science - an inspector is daily wearied with superstition and nonsense among the public and his own constables, so you find his use of science appealing. Your absent quotation of his novel is revealing, Lestrade. The heroes need help for their dangerous quest but England does not give a farthing. So, in the tradition of Verne, I must imagine that you have some trouble that is not supported by your allies. Are you expecting an assassin?”
“No - and yes, come to think of it.” Lestrade puffed upon his cigar before elaborating: “A character assassin.”
“This is very grave. Who might this be?”
“Isadora Persano.”
Our light atmosphere was transformed into astonishment.
“The duelist? The impersonator? The journalist?” I cried.
“I can’t think of anyone else with that name and those qualifications.” Lestrade said gloomily. “Perhaps it is all just folderol or I’m seeing things that aren’t there, but tomorrow will tell everything and I am not looking forward to it.”
“What, did he demand pistols at dawn?” I laughed.
“Yes!”
Holmes leaned forward and leveled his glass as a baton. “Tell us everything.”
“Your reputation may suffer if you get involved.”
“Kindly allow me the right to decide in my own house.”
Lestrade took a deep breath to steady his composure.
“Persano is a cocklebur! I think Italy lets him be our problem, because it is always nicer for a country if another puts their popular troublemakers away.”
Holmes sniffed. “Anyone who makes a career in journalism cannot be sedentary. He backs up his words with weapons and his weapons with words, but the gossips have had very little to show of either since he arrived on our shores.”
“Now that isn’t for the lack of trying! He’s got a hot head and a quick pistol when he isn’t going for his sword. If you knew how many incidents we’ve dealt with, even you would be surprised. But that’s all backstride the point.”
“And what is the point, Lestrade?”
“Persano still writes for his Italian audience and that annoys the Embassies. The man’s pen cuts to the bone. Contradictors to his speeches on society’s ills or the importance of the Persano Horse become his enemy. I think he cares more about that horse than his own bed and board. He has sunk his own fortune and others’ into returning the breed to its glory, but with only two mares in his possession he’s desperate for more. This has made him reckless. I don’t pretend to know the manners of the Court, Mr. Holmes, but I know they exist and I respect how men in authority have their own way of doing things.”
“Made enemies where there were none, eh?”
“That is my opinion.”
“You are our expert in low emotion. Pray tell how you managed to raise his considerable ire.”
“It started because Signor Persano has been sharing his luxurious opinions with his luckless neighbors.”
“And they would be...?”
“A club of Corsican and Pisan ex-patriates, mostly old bachelors and widowers. They have some means, and Persano hoped they would add their funds and names to the Persano Horse revival. Too bad for his hopes! They live quietly in the Etruscan Hotel, playing cards and trading exaggerated hunting stories of the glory days and a few bone-chilling fairytales about people who have the ability to murder in dreams.” Lestrade shuddered. “I can’t imagine how it must be for the police over there.”
“How did you arrive on this case?”
“It started with Jones. It had nothing to do with the fight-to-be, just one of those cases where you have the bad luck to be present. Poor man was simply getting information on the hotel’s guest list when the sounds of a quarrel came out of the meeting-room and into the lobby. As he explained it, Persano demanded more support than the old men could give, even if it promised preservation of their beloved horse.
“Persano is a femminiello, what they call a man who wears women’s clothing, and they are traditionally allowed liberties.” Lestrade shrugged. “They think his sort are lucky to have around. I suppose he thought they would indulge his request. When he was disappointed, his words dynamited. Jones called it a real Punch-and-Judy before he took a crystal bowl to the head - by accident, at least! I was sent to smooth things over.”
“I should not envy you,” I made bold to say.
“Thankfully, those old men didn’t mind me. They’re all really a calm, steady sort. It was Persano that kept angry, and demanded I meet him tomorrow to hammer out the ‘details of our satisfaction’, as he calls it, in the park of my choosing.”
It was ludicrous enough that Holmes and I stared at him before we realised he had finished.
“Did you try telling him that a policeman in service to the Crown is expressly forbidden the satisfaction of duels?” Holmes murmured.
“Yes, I did. I also assured him I could arrest him for obstructing an officer in service to the Crown. He said if I wished to pursue this topic, I could plea my case in writing. So, again, I am to return to the Etruscan Hotel no later than eight o’clock on the morrow, and meet him at his rooms.”
“You should bring your seconds.” Holmes lifted his glass. “I nominate myself. Watson, there is
nothing so rude as a dueling team without their personal physician.”
“I shall have my bag ready.”
“I’m not dueling him!” Lestrade shouted. “Dear me! Even if I could - this is Isadora Persano! The man has won nine out of ten duels since he was thirteen!”
“Luck.” Holmes sniffed.
“Luck? You call his record luck?”
“Not I. You, Lestrade.”
“Me?”
“You said the femminiello is lucky.”
Lestrade sputtered for some time before he calmed enough to peer at Holmes with a sudden shrewd glare.
“I’ve seen that look in your eye before.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
Lestrade threw up his hands. “I shan’t be able to stop you, shall I?”
“Whyever would you? For all of his vitriolic ink, Persano is intelligent. He has often begged my acquaintance. Perhaps I might be able to offer some perspective into this trouble.”
“How can you possibly offer a solution?”
“How can I if I do not come with you?”
* * *
Lestrade was still muttering feeble complaints as he left for the night, but not before Holmes wrung an oath upon his warrant card to pick us up on the way to the Etruscan.
“Well, well, well!” Holmes turned from the door after closing it, and rubbed his hands. “To-morrow may not be so humdrum after all! Lestrade is amazingly over his head. A bored journalist is a deadly journalist!”
“That bored journalist is also a duelist whom, I daresay, possesses a full card for the season, all seasons of the year! Boredom should be an extinct disease against his campaign of vaccination.”
“Your humour stings with satire’s salt, Watson. A bored man creates or exposes injustice.”
“But fighting with Lestrade! He is a policeman. A workman.”
“Precisely.”
Holmes went to the window, where the lamps were just beginning to peep out of the encroaching fogs.
“It is my business to know persons of interest, and Persano has been exactly that since he stepped foot on our shore. Have you seen him perform on the stage? Such a master of expression and silent language! His ability to mimic the foibles of both sexes simultaneously is astounding, and as a Scaramouche he is without peer. I admire his uncanny ability to notice the smallest nuances of human emotion. Alas for his purse, it will forever be the British-born Vesta Tilley whom the public adores and empties their pockets to see. Not that I have any complaints for her abilities, but I find them both unique!”
“I do not often have the pleasure of music halls, Holmes.”
“Make the time! It is most informative in the nature of man. Persano’s birth-name was replaced by the village of his origin, Persano, for his forefathers served the famous stables. He named himself Isadora in admiration for our Vesta Tilley, who chose the goddess Vesta as her stage name. Vesta is the patroness of hearth and home, reminding the audience of her respectability. In contrast, Isadora compels to the Goddess Isis, legendary for her willingness to listen to the slave and sinner as sympathetically as she would to Cesar. One of the latter was that rascally Caligula, who donned women’s clothing in her name.
“The femminiello is no different from Vesta Tilley when she dons a tailcoat or bares her legs as a principal boy. The differences in appearance emphasizes attention, the same way the proper lens allows one to find the bacterium under the microscope. Mockery, japes, and scorn are their art, and their material is already written for them in the hypocrisy of mores.
“I have often wondered what brought Persano here if it was not political refuge. In his home lands, he would be far more lauded, and our solid sterling is worth twenty-five of their lire.”
“And yet he does not seek the adulations of his own race.”
“What keeps him here? Not knowing is a guarantee of my curiosity. Hum! I believe I shall request us an early breakfast. We may need it, and Mrs. Hudson is better disposed to watch the wires and man the telephone when she is already awake.”
* * *
My thoughts were against rest when I tried to sleep. Perhaps the lack of cases had affected my own mood. This was the most interesting event in weeks and my blood thrilled at the thought of a duel. Like Lestrade and Holmes, I believed there was more to this challenge than met the eye. But what?
My affections for the equine allowed me some familiarity with the duelist’s passion. The Persano was a Salernitano breed founded by the Bourbon Charles III. It was not a frequent winner in our races, but it was reliably clever and capable. The strength for their size was astounding, and even the Russians praised their ability to endure the winters. From a military eye, there was no reason to permit its extinction, yet in 1872 the government chose to dismiss the bloodline and sold all its horses in public auction. The devastated equestrians responded with private attempts to keep the blood going in small stables, but the wide dispersal of the stock worked against its swift success. Was Persano’s reckless act a mark of desperation for some unknown troubles?
* * *
When I rose on the morning, Holmes was already at the breakfast table, balancing his toast over a collection of wires, newspaper-clippings, and mysterious books sprawled over the tablecloth.
“Mind your fork, Watson. I must return these portentous tomes tomorrow.”
“Did you sleep at all?”
“I don’t believe so. I was prodding a few soft spots in my brain-attic. Persano’s presence in England really cannot be adequately explained unless he was escaping the Mafia or pursuing a specific goal.”
I shared my thoughts of the previous night about the horse.
“Hmm! I am constantly surprised at how often a horse becomes a supporting character in my cases. They were not generally part of my upbringing, save as a means to my ends. There is military value to the breed, so I am also puzzled at the erasure of a tactical tool. But this is all a distraction until we determine why Lestrade, of all people, would be the subject of Persano’s ferment. Until now, no-one of unimportance has ever faced his challenge, save for a few incidents in the public houses where a red-headed, red-bearded man might expect to have his tastes, not to mention his colour-vision, questioned for wearing emerald chiffon with champagne lace. But, ah, that would be Lestrade! Five minutes early, which for him is just barely on the edge of polite as to be on time is unforgivably late. Impatient in all things, even his own potential funeral.”
Despite Holmes’s japes, I could see his interest was fully within this odd affair, and no-one would be spilling blood if he could help it. I made short work of breakfast and found my coat and bag. Our professional friend was stamping and pacing with his fists thrust deep inside his pockets on the kerb. Inside the cab, two uniformed policemen waited for whatever orders that may come.
“Good morning.” Lestrade spoke absently without looking at us as he signaled the cab to start. His thoughts were far away. “We’ll make good time. Thank you for being prepared.”
“We do our best. Have you learnt anything else?”
“Not much.” Lestrade was markedly paler than yesterday. “I was reminded that it would be a good idea to avoid scandal with Persano’s kind. It wasn’t anything I didn’t already know.” When I expressed puzzlement, he elaborated.
“I suppose you wouldn’t know, Doctor, but the Yard keeps cordial with the sort that fills the Music Halls and performance stadiums. They’re generally trusty informers, even if you daren’t let some of them get too close to your purse-strings or a wager. Illusion may be the key to their success, but they treasure honesty amongst their own kind.
“They have personal friendships with us, these impersonators, burlesquers, principal boys, and stage beauties... Inspector Froest has especially good lines with them, and to be honest, if anyone will promote to Chief Ins
pector or Superintendent in a few years it will be he.”
“And Froest is not a man to challenge,” Holmes said dryly, “if the rumours about what he can do to a pack of cards are true.” And he mimed ripping a brick-sized object in half.
“Those aren’t rumours, Mr. Holmes.” Lestrade said with heavy gloom. “You should see what he can do with a farthing between his fingertips!” To our amusement, the silent constables nodded vigorously in unison with Lestrade’s words.[1]
“I am still curious about Jones. Why was he investigating the hotel?”
“J. Wigton Crosby, missing financial officer for the recently dissolved Trusteed Bank. The man upped sticks with three-thousand un-accounted-for pounds sterling. He spends time at the hotel, but the staff says he hasn’t been by in a Welsh fortnight.”[2]
“Jones was hoping to find proof of his presence in the attendance?” Holmes asked skeptically.
Lestrade scoffed. “That would be a bit too obvious, wouldn’t it? We’re trained to look at appearances, Mr. Holmes, not believe in a name. Jones checked the signatures without much hope, but his real questions were based on Crosby’s description, which is of a middle-aged man, grizzled tow with a terrier crop and a short box beard to hide his chinless jaw. His eyes are green, small, and close-set, with his face florid and pitted with smallpox scars. There’s a missing left earlobe. On bright days he wears tinted spectacles, even indoors. Clothing is always formal black or dark blue, and soft neckties with low collars. But that is still Jones’s case and I am to concentrate on the row that cracked his head open.”
Holmes tutted in a sympathetic manner, and we fell silent until we arrived at the Etruscan.
Perhaps my modern readers will find reference to the Etruscan unfamiliar, for it was closed after the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee. In its heyday, it was patronised by minor nobles as easily as wealthy merchants and robber barons. It was a fine old example of the Regency’s ancient blue clay, fired and set into granite-hard black armour, impervious to age and veiled in ivy tresses like some time-forgotten castle of yore. The windows were more arrow-loops, narrow and high to catch light, even in the grey hours, and the roof was barrel-vaulted for the acoustics of music. Fine taste was the order of its realm, and many patrons made their seasonal homes at the Etruscan, for it never failed to live up to its reputation for comfort and convenience.
The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories - Part IX Page 40