The Final Page of Baker Street

by Daniel D Victor

  “You stay away from my wife!” Sterne suddenly shouted.

  Shocked surprise eclipsed the doctor’s smile; his wife clutched his arm.

  “Now, Rafe,” Dr. Goring said. “You know you have these silly fantasies.” He spoke slowly, as if talking to a child. “You really must control yourself.”

  It was instructive to watch the two women during this exchange. Elaine’s face turned red, not out of embarrassment - or so it seemed to me - but out of anger. Cora’s brow furrowed, as if she was annoyed; and, tugging at her husband’s arm, she pulled him across the room towards some other couples, who were still marking the tense encounter with open mouths.

  “I told you we shouldn’t have come,” Cora whispered to the doctor as they passed.

  At the same time, Elaine was cornering her husband. “Rafe,” she commanded, “that’s enough! This is supposed to be a celebration of your return to society. Let’s not have you fall apart all over again.” And with a hand at his elbow, she steered him away from the crowd and seated him on a damask sofa.

  Eyes closed, Sterne sank into the pillows. At the same time, his wife walked across the room where she stood quite alone for a few moments. It was, I realized, the perfect opportunity for me to approach her. Maybe she recognized the mien of the hunter as I dared to close in, for she began nervously twisting the gold doubloon at her neck. And yet she allowed me to guide her through the open French windows, which I closed behind us, and out onto the balcony. The balcony overlooks a garden, which has been carved out of the small hill just below the ground floor of the oddly-shaped house. The sun had disappeared, but the warmth of the day still lingered. We faced the darkness together as a train whistle echoed through the night. It must have been the Marlow Donkey announcing its latest arrival.

  Elaine leaned towards me, her deep-blue gaze piercing my soul like a sword. “I owe you many thanks,” she whispered.

  I took her face in my hands and, shop-worn Galahad that I am, kissed her hard on the lips.

  I know what I was hoping for; I didn’t anticipate what I got. She stood there looking blankly at me. I grabbed her shoulders and, holding her at arm’s length, tried without any luck to penetrate her stare. She reacted the way the tree greets the woodcutter. I let her go, and she, clutching the small doubloon, walked slowly back into the house.

  I followed soon after, trying to understand what had just happened. She was a married woman, after all, and yet she hadn’t pushed me away. On the other hand, she hadn’t taken me in her arms either, as I was so eagerly anticipating.

  I’d already missed the last train, and I was in no hurry to leave. With nowhere to go, I sat dumbly by, watching others collect their wraps from a hired footman and make their way out the front door. Sterne himself had quit the scene much earlier. I hadn’t seen him go up the stairs, but I was well aware of his absence. For her part, Elaine was seeing the Gorings off; all the while she never looked at me. By midnight, I seemed to be the only guest remaining, and with no alternative but to say good-bye, I stood up.

  Suddenly, a cry echoed from the deserted garden like the caw of a crow in an empty field.

  “Help me!” a quavering voice called out. Despite the tremulous tone, I recognized it immediately as belonging to Raphael Sterne.

  With Elaine right behind me, I ran out into the night and down to the garden. I stood just below the balcony that Elaine and I had occupied a short time before, but now the warm air held a clamminess that I hadn’t felt earlier, a cold clamminess that attached itself to my collar. Despite the night’s heat, icy fingers clutched at my neck.

  Even in the darkness, I could distinguish Sterne sprawled out at the foot of a thick hedgerow. As I approached him, I saw blood dripping from the right side of his head. I grabbed my handkerchief and pressed it against what appeared to be a cut above his temple. I hoped I could stop the bleeding.

  “God!” Elaine exploded in a mixture of pity and disgust - and I might be exaggerating the pity

  Since she clearly wanted nothing to do with this mess, I guessed that I would come in handy after all. I hurried back into the house, found the hired butler who’d taken my hat when I’d arrived and motioned him out to the garden. “Let’s get him upstairs,” I said when he got over the shock of seeing his employer collapsed in the bushes. With poor Rafe barely able to drape his arms around our shoulders, the two of us staggered into the house half dragging the semi-conscious writer.

  Between us, we managed to get Sterne up the staircase and into his bedroom. With its padded chairs of Russia-leather, elaborate mirrors, tall mahogany secretary’s desk, and gold-banded fountain pens, it was easy to see that the room also served as the writer’s study.

  At the same time we were struggling to get the poor fellow into his bed, Elaine was dismissing the servants she’d hired for the evening. Mrs. Jenkins, her housekeeper, brought us some white towels, and I cleaned the wound - a small cut above his right ear, as it turned out - and then the butler and I prepared the patient for sleep with a pair of blue silk pyjamas. When Sterne looked settled, we left the room.

  I found Elaine sitting at the dining room table with a small glass of port.

  “What do you suppose happened to him?” I asked.

  “What’s the phrase?” she said with a quick, embarrassed laugh. “Falling down drunk? He must have tripped and hit his head.”

  “Or maybe,” I suggested half-heartedly, “somebody hit him.”

  “Don’t look at me,” she said. “I wasn’t in the vicinity.”

  At least she and I were talking again.

  That was when the gunshot roared through the house. The report so startled Elaine that she overturned her glass. The red wine pooled on the white linen like a bloodstain.

  This time it was Elaine who took the lead, running up the stairs in fear and desperation to reach her stricken husband.

  Bathed in electric light, Raphael Sterne lay diagonally across the bed in a sea of twisted sheets, right hand dangling over the edge, mere inches from where a pistol lay on the floor.

  All that was missing from this Grand Guignol was the blood.

  But you see, gentlemen, there was no blood because there was no wound. What there was in actuality was a bullet hole in the ceiling above the bed. It seemed quite apparent to Elaine and me that the poor fool lying before us had tried to blow his head off and missed. Talk about ineptitude! If I ever entertained such an act, I would bloody well be sure to aim more carefully.

  Elaine was shooing away the maid and the butler who had arrived at the doorway together. Although Elaine was blocking the door, I’m certain they could see the entire ugly scene reflected in the mirror. In the flesh, they could see me picking up the pistol. I know very little about guns; this one seemed pretty large.

  “Where did this come from?” I asked as we got her husband settled back in his bed.

  “He kept it over there.” She pointed across the room to the mahogany secretary’s desk. Just below the closed writing table, the top drawer gaped open.

  Trying on the role of detective, I walked over to the desk. At the front right corner of the open drawer, I could see spots of blood. My fingers told me it was still sticky, but certainly not wet enough to be related to the immediate shooting. The open drawer was probably the place where Sterne had struck his head before ultimately stumbling out some back door and ending up in the bushes where we’d found him. I placed the gun back in the drawer, which I pushed closed.

  Elaine sat down on the bed next to her husband. I took one of the padded leather chairs. Although Sterne was breathing deeply, he was still awake, occasionally searching the room from beneath half-closed eyes. But she was looking at me. Only at me.

  “I’m hoping you’ll spend the night,” she whispered, clutching the small coin at her neck. I’m doing my best to care for him, but he’s pushing me to the brink. I’d gr
eatly appreciate your help.” The cornflower blue eyes began to well up with tears. “I’m sorry about how I reacted before. You and your friends have been a great help. You deserve better.”

  I raised my eyebrows. Her meaning could be taken in different ways.

  “Of course,” I said. “I’d be happy to stay.”

  She stood and took both my hands. An electric jolt coursed through me.

  “Thank you,” she breathed. “We want to get Rafe back on his feet as quickly as we can. Then grasping the small doubloon, she left me standing by her husband’s bedside. At the door, she turned back with a lingering stare. “I’ll have the maid make up the room two doors down the hallway. Mine is the first door - in case there’s an emergency. But could you wait with him until he falls asleep? I’m exhausted.”

  I nodded, and she, brushing at a misplaced lock of golden hair, glided out of the room.

  Sterne’s deep breathing soon transformed into the stentorian rasps of sleep, and I rose from the chair and began the trek to my awaiting room. With no sliver of light showing at Elaine’s threshold, I could tell her room was dark. But as I was passing the door, it swung open a few inches; and after deliberating for a moment, I pushed it open wider and walked in.

  In the moonlight, I could make out Elaine’s form near the window. Immediately, I caught my breath. At first glance, she appeared naked. But then I realized she was wearing a wispy sort of nightgown, which, thanks to the light behind her, I could see right through.

  It didn’t matter much because, as soon as I entered the room, she untied a bow and let the fabric fall to the floor. Then she held out her arms.

  Stark images of another nude woman suddenly seared my brain. This one was sitting in a teakwood chair surrounded by windows covered with paper. A fetching smile seemed aimed in my direction.

  Elaine had opened her door for me; that much was obvious. And when she stretched out her arms, it was I she was summoning. And yet, though I couldn’t decipher the sound, it wasn’t my name she was murmuring.

  “Your husband’s asleep now,” I said as I put my arms around her. Her body trembled at my touch, and I embraced her all the tighter.

  “I knew you’d come back to me,” she whispered. “I’ve been waiting years for you. Shut the door.”

  I did as instructed. I also did as instructed when she told me to lay her on the bed. I cradled her yielding form in my arms and carried her to the awaiting sheets, their whiteness glowing pale-blue in the moonlight. Here was the moment I had imagined when I’d first seen her, her soft flesh quivering under my fingers, her dark lips parting in expectation.

  But just as I was about to envelop her, I heard the doorknob turn. Jumping up, I raced to the door and opened it - only to see Mrs. Jenkins scurrying back down the stairs.

  I shut the door and looked down at Elaine. She was whimpering and mumbling at the same time, sounds I couldn’t distinguish except to feel that they were not meant for me.

  But the spell had been broken.

  I quietly left her room and padded off to mine.

  * * *

  The next morning, sunlight pierced the chintz curtains in my bedroom as if they hadn’t been there. In the daylight something had changed in my thinking. Maybe it was the way Elaine’s mood had altered when she wanted my help. First, I hardly existed; then, I could do no wrong.

  I dressed and walked downstairs. Elaine Sterne, clad in white cotton, greeted me at the breakfast table - as though what had occurred last night in her bedroom had never happened. As though she hadn’t seen me in weeks. As though her memory had gone blank.

  “I put the gun back in the desk,” I told her as she stared at the buttered toast on her plate. “But you really shouldn’t leave him alone with it.”

  “Gun?” she said, her large blue-eyes now staring at me. “Oh, yes,” she recovered. “I remember now,” and she twisted the golden doubloon on the chain encircling her sculpted neck. I leaned towards her and took hold of the coin still attached to the chain. The movement brought her face close to mine. I could feel her sweet breath on my lips. Fingering the coin, I examined it more carefully now: it borea patriotic design, vaguely militaristic - a lion engraved on a crown atop some sort of rosette.

  “I’m glad Rafe is sleeping,” she whispered in my ear. “I hope he’ll be fine from now on.”

  “I wish I could believe you,” I said, “but the way you’ve been reacting to your husband - and to me, for that matter - makes me think that you’re hoping to appear concerned - when maybe you’re really not.”

  She leaned back, forcing me to release the doubloon or snap the chain. “That is a beastly thing to say,” she hissed, eyes narrowing. Then she rose and walked out, leaving me sitting alone in the middle of the room.

  Who is she? I wanted to know. But to be honest, gentlemen, at that instant, what I really wanted was to leave this so-called “writers’ district” and get back to London.

  Immediately.

  VIII

  There ain’t no clean way to make a hundred million bucks.

  - Raymond Chandler, The Long Goodbye

  Lord Steynwood’s invitation arrived after I had completed my consultations that Friday morning, but before I had the chance to see Billy or to read his scandalous report. Lord Steynwood’s communication was addressed to Holmes and me, bidding our attendance at tea that same afternoon at Idyllic Vale. A chauffeur would be sent to meet us by 3:00 at Bourne End if we could manage to arrange our railway transportation to that point.

  I was sharing the invitation with Holmes, who had joined me in the sitting room, when both of us heard what by now had become the familiar hum of a motor-car engine. I am certainly no authority on the differences among automobiles, but the Daimler’s soft purr was most distinctive, and Holmes and I peered through a front window to see what the vehicle and whoever was inside might be up to on this occasion.

  This instance was clearly different. The car had stopped, and its front door stood agape. As we watched, the driver, the same hawk-nosed young man in dark livery we had espied before, stepped out and marched to the side door, which he opened for its occupant. It was the long white moustache we recognized first, and I must say that Holmes and I were both quite surprised to see the sinister figure who emerged: tall, dark, elderly, clad in formal dress with black cape, top hat, and ebony walking stick. In the brightness of the morning sun, his attire looked almost comical. Nodding at the driver who remained at attention by the Daimler, he strode determinedly to my front entrance. With the silver handle of his stick, he rapped loudly on the wooden door. No sooner had Mrs. Meeks opened it than he saw Holmes and me at the nearby window and, brushing boldly past her, marched directly for us. Despite the years, the vengeful visage was clearly recognizable. We stood face to face with Colonel Sebastian Moran, the prime disciple of the man Holmes used to refer to as the Napoleon of Crime, the late Professor James Moriarty. In point of fact, Holmes had once labelled Moran “the second most dangerous man in London.”

  “I received word that you’d been released from prison,” Holmes said to him coolly, “but I had no idea you would come calling.”

  It was obvious that Moran had aged. His defiant stance was now slightly stooped; the moustache was whiter, and the scowling furrows more deeply entrenched. Yet I could easily discern that thin, projecting nose and those cruel, blue eyes that had fixed on us almost two decades before when Moran had been apprehended in his abortive attempt to assassinate Sherlock Holmes. As the world will remember, Holmes had placed a wax effigy of himself in our Baker Street window; and from the empty house across the road, Moran had believed he was taking deadly aim with his air rifle at Holmes himself. It was the very tableau I had reprimanded Billy for falsely resurrecting in his version of Holmes’ recovery of the Mazarin Stone.

  Moran removed his hat and placed it carefully on a nearby chair. His high,
bald forehead reflected the sunlight from the window. “The police,” he growled, “have warned meto keep my distance, Mr. Holmes. As if I fear anything the police have to say.” He punctuated his derision with a snort.

  “H-how did you contrive to be released?” I managed to ask.

  “Dr. Watson, the ever faithful lapdog,” he spat out. “Even you should know that, if one has the talented stable of solicitors and barristers that I do, one cannot stay imprisoned for long on the charge of shooting at a wax figure.”

  “But Ronald Adair,” I said, referring to an actual murder he’d been charged with and that I had reported in “The Empty House.” “You killed him.”

  “Circumstantial evidence, I’m afraid, Doctor,” Moran said, his lined face managing a smirk.

  “As I heard it,” Holmes said, “you were offered a pardon if you agreed to serve with Her Majesty’s forces in South Africa. As much as I may detest you, Moran, I cannot minimize your talents as a marksman. Couple that with your lack of scruples about killing, and you make quite the lethal weapon.”

  Moran offered another twisted smile. “Rather than suffer a string of humiliating new trials, it is true that the Crown granted me a pardon in exchange for services rendered against the Boers - which, incidentally, brings me to the matter at hand.”

  “Do tell,” Holmes said. “I’ve wondered why you’ve been following us in so obvious a manner.”

  “The truth is, Holmes, I’ve taken rather a keen interest in your meddling into the suicide of Terrence Leonard.”

  I was shocked, to say the least. For better of for worse, I thought we’d put that case to rest; obviously, Moran had not. What could Billy’s friend Terrence have to do with the rogue before us? I wondered. Could the Boer War serve as some sort of common denominator since both Leonard and Moran had fought for Her Majesty in South Africa?

  “The poor man is dead,” Holmes observed. “A suicide in Loch Ness.”