The Final Page of Baker Street

by Daniel D Victor

  “True,” Moran said. “Let Terrence Leonard remain at peace. That’s what I’ve come to tell you.” Leaning on the stick, which he held in his right hand, he now pointed the long index finger of his left in my friend’s face. “Stop your nosing about, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. And tell that bloody writer friend of yours to leave the story alone as well.”

  “Billy,” I half-whispered.

  “All of you,” Moran said, now waving his stick in a semi-circle before him. “Let the matter drop. Or” - quick as a flash, he shifted the stick to his left hand, whipped the handle from its base with the other, and jabbed a long, thin rapier under the chin of Sherlock Holmes - “or the dead of Loch Ness may gain some new company. You and I, Holmes, are not done yet,” he snarled. “One day I shall get level with you.”

  Speech done, he replaced the slender blade. Then, abruptly seizing his hat, he pivoted on his heel like the military man he had been, marched out of the house, and returned to his place in the waiting vehicle. The chauffeur with the aquiline nose slammed the door shut, and in a moment the Daimler sped off.

  I managed to exhale only after the motor-car had vanished down the road.

  “Come, Watson,” Holmes said. “It’s time to prepare for our journey to Marlow.”

  “Holmes,” I sputtered, aghast at how easily he could dismiss the melodrama that had just unfolded.

  “To Marlow,” he repeated with grim determination.

  * * *

  Although I could not so easily put from my mind the image of that fine blade poised at Holmes’ throat, we had an appointment to keep. We boarded the G.W.R. at Paddington, changed trains at Maidenhead, and were met by chauffeur and silver Rolls Royce at East Bourne. The road we followed descended in the direction of the Thames along the natural curves of the verdant hillocks. Soon it straightened out and then narrowed, and we found ourselves on a long roadway lined on either side by grey poplars. Their branches formed a thin canopy that caused the sunlight to flicker as we motored along. In a few minutes, we were able to discern the end of the roadway and our ultimate destination - Idyllic Vale, the grand house of Lord Steynwood.

  From the distance, I could make out only a large, simple square structure of honey-colour stone whose crenulated front wall was topped with a small tower and cupola. But as we got closer, I could more easily see the three storeys of windows, including the dormers below the roof. A black wreath hanging on one of the two massive doors of dark oak seemed the only sign of mourning for Lord Steynwood’s daughter.

  The automobile, crunching its way up the curved gravel drive, came to a stop before the entrance and immediately a footman in formal livery marched out to help us exit the car. Once inside the house, I could see that the building was laid out as a kind of square frame whose massive walls surrounded the angular designs of a geometrically-designed brick courtyard and green garden. The magnificent display formed an altogether appropriate representation of a man with the wealth of Lord Steynwood.

  A footman took our coats, and the butler ushered us through the main hallway, which itself stood two storeys high, and into the sitting room. Holmes and I seated ourselves in two matching leather wing chairs beside one of the largest hearths I had ever seen. Despite the warmth of the day, a fire blazed within; had it not, one could walk comfortably within the dimensions of that cavernous fireplace. No sooner had we sat down, however, than we had to rise, for His Lordship was just entering the room.

  “Unless you are in need of refreshment, gentlemen,” he said, motioning for us to sit, “I suggest we skip the tea and concern ourselves with the matter at hand. No sense in wasting time.”

  “I believe I can safely speak for Dr. Watson,” Holmes replied, “when I say that we never thought of this meeting as a social gathering. Pray, let us proceed with the business at hand.”

  Lord Steynwood seated himself in a small, wooden bow-back chair. It had been placed next to a butler’s table on which stood a humidor full of cigars. Holmes and I declined the offer, but His Lordship extracted one and snipped off an end. He lit it with a match from an inside pocket of his frock coat.

  As he manipulated the match, I had the opportunity to study the celebrated publisher. A modern man, he seemed somehow anachronistic. He was slight of stature with dark features although his black hair, parted in the middle, was going grey at the sides. In addition, his old-fashioned side-whiskers, which extended down to his thin lips, had also gone grey. Most obvious - and what added most to the sense of his coming from an earlier era - was the pince-nez that adorned his nose. They forced him to tilt his head back when he spoke to us. I felt like an object under constant examination.

  A white cat peered out from behind a leather couch and padded in a straight line to His Lordship. With a small leap, it curled in his lap and allowed him to stroke its neck.

  After a few moments of such petting, Lord Steynwood exhaled a large cloud of pungent smoke, filling the room with the sweet smell of costly tobacco. “It may be a cliché, gentlemen,” he said at last, “but time is indeed money. Shall we get to the point?”

  “Yes,” said Holmes, showing great restraint in not pointing out that it was Lord Steynwood himself who had been delaying the conversation. “I’m quite interested to learn whatever it is that led Your Lordship to summon us. Of course, I have my own theories.”

  “I’m sure you do, sir, and that is part of the problem. Simply put, I’d like you to stop meddling in my affairs.”

  Holmes smiled. “That’s the second time today I’ve been warned to stay away. And as in the first instance, I wasn’t aware that the matters I and my associates have recently been-as you so kindly put it - ‘meddling in’ are any part of your affairs.”

  “Come now, Mr. Holmes,” he said, exhaling another cloud of smoke. “I know what kind of activities you are involved in. Solving crimes and so forth. I make it my business to find out what’s going on in my world, and I know that Terrence Leonard, the murderer of my daughter Sylvia, came to Dr. Watson for help after fleeing the scene of his beastly work. What’s more, I know that the blackguard fled to Inverness and graciously dispatched himself in some act of contrition - but not before sending a letter to another one of your so-called associates.”

  “And which associate is that?” Holmes asked.

  “The associate you persist in calling Billy the page - the associate, I don’t have to remind you, who maintains direct contact with a man quite familiar to my late daughter.”

  “And who might that man be?” I dared to ask.

  “Raphael Sterne, Dr. Watson. Raphael Sterne.” He spoke the name with disgust. “Said to be a writer of some repute. ‘Infamy,’ might be a better term. Judging from what I know of his alcoholic nature, probably not one whose work I would choose to read. Or publish. For that matter, not the type of man I would have reckoned for a pal of yours, Mr. Holmes.”

  Sherlock Holmes smiled. “Not a ‘pal’, Lord Steynwood.”

  His Lordship let out a derisive laugh.

  “I don’t expect my opinions to change your mind, Lord Steynwood,” Holmes said, “but I don’t believe for an instant that Terrence Leonard actually beat your daughter to death.”

  I expected some sort of surprise from Lord Steynwood in reaction to Holmes’s divergent conclusion. But His Lordship continued stroking the white cat. At the same time, he emitted another cloud of smoke, this one containing some accidental rings, which the cat tracked with its green eyes as the circles floated upward. “I am a trifle disappointed,” he said, “that a detective with the reputation of Sherlock Holmes did not discover that my poor Sylvia was actually shot first and then bludgeoned.”

  “With all due respect,” Holmes said, “my ‘associates’ - as you like to call them - can testify that I too came to that conclusion, the very same conclusion that helped convince me Terrence Leonard is innocent.”

  Lord Steynwood stare
d at Holmes through those little glasses at the end of his nose.

  “What’s more,” Holmes said, “I personally never sought contact with Mr. Sterne - although you probably know that already as well. It was his wife who asked me to help her find him in some disreputable institution where he was supposedly ridding himself of his addiction to alcohol. I will confess, however, that until you just revealed it to me, I was not aware of any sort of relationship between Raphael Sterne and your older daughter.”

  Lord Steynwood crossed a leg, careful not to upset the cat. “‘Relationship’ is just the word. Perhaps you think me callous, gentlemen, in speaking so coldly of my daughter. But I’ve been forced to. Sylvia was not the most discerning of women. Especially when it came to the men in her life. Without a mother to guide her, she conducted numerous unwise liaisons. Raising concerns about blackmail, unwanted pregnancies and the like, she was driving me to distraction. Then she brought round this Leonard fellow, an apparently decent chap unfortunately disfigured in heroic service to the Queen. So when Sylvia actually fell in love with someone whose only major vice appeared to be pauperism, I encouraged her to marry him. Surely, Mr. Holmes, you can see the hope I had of a marriage to this Terrence Leonard bringing some sort of conclusion to her wild ways. But then the young man became a drunk, you see. And, later, worse.”

  For a moment behind the pince-nez, the man’s dark eyes appeared to moisten.

  “Yet surely,” Holmes said, “a young man who deserves better than to be falsely remembered as the killer of his wife.”

  “See here, Holmes,” Lord Steynwood barked, his face reddening, his eyes bulging. “I’m not used to being contradicted.” At the vehemence of his tone, the cat leaped to the floor and disappeared behind a tufted ottoman on the other side of the room.

  Fearful for His Lordship’s condition, I gestured that he calm himself. “Is this a display of anger, My Lord?” the medical man inside of me questioned. “It can’t be good for your health.”

  “When I am truly angry, Dr. Watson,” he said coldly, “you won’t have to ask.”

  A silence descended. Lord Steynwood puffed on his cigar, its end glowing bright red; Holmes steepled his long fingers, never taking his eyes off the man. I looked back and forth from one to the other.

  “Terrence shot her with her own gun,” Lord Steynwood said. “At least, it has gone missing. Had that been the end of it, a competent barrister might have convinced a jury that the gun had gone off in Leonard’s attempt to take it from his suicidal wife. If he had come to me then, I might have been able to help him. But after all that other business - snatching away the gun, running to you, Dr. Watson - it was obvious that he had no chance for exculpation, and so he fled to Scotland.”

  Holmes nodded. I knew he was impressed that Lord Steynwood had revealed his knowledge of the gunshot, a fact which the police had yet to discover. His Lordship’s knowledge about the gun itself, however, was simply inaccurate; and Holmes seemed in no hurry to correct him.

  “He had to escape,” Lord Steynwood continued. “I told him so when he finally did telephone me. I told him I didn’t want to know where he was; he should jolly-well find someone else to aid him. I absolutely did not want to suffer a trial that might bring up all sorts of personal titbits about my daughter, my family, and my personal dealings. When I heard of his death, I can’t say that I was unhappy.”

  “Of course, you weren’t unhappy,” Holmes said. “But only if you believe that Terrence Leonard killed your daughter.”

  Lord Steynwood sighed. Holding the cigar upright in front of his face, he pondered its glowing tip and then slowly shook his head. “Are you not understanding what I’m saying, Mr. Holmes? You do not have a reputation for being thick-headed.” He uncrossed his legs and spoke directly to my friend. “I don’t give a fig who murdered my daughter. My wife died when Sylvia was quite young, and I took the responsibility of raising her and her younger sister. I hired the best governesses one can find. But I am a private man who owns powerful newspapers that can topple governments. My business must remain private.”

  “With all due respect,” I said, mustering my courage, “in a democracy - ”

  “Bah!” he ejaculated. “I’m speaking of the real world, Dr. Watson, not the fictive one of novels and short stories in which the good citizens live happily ever after and the miscreants face justice. In the real world, there is no good and evil; there is just power. A few misguided politicians may think they have it, but the most intelligent people in government know that they do not. The truly powerful, Doctor, don’t have to question. They simply watch the results of their domination.”

  “Bravo,” said Holmes. “A speech worthy of Professor Moriarty himself.”

  Lord Steynwood smiled. “You’re beginning to understand after all.”

  Holmes and I exchanged glances.

  “Gentlemen, I expect your investigation to cease. I’m an old-fashioned man who does things in old-fashioned ways. What can I offer you to seal our agreement? Money - or simply an honourable drink?”

  “May I remind you,” Holmes countered, “that it was you who asked us here. We came seeking nothing; yet we leave with new information. We have only just recently met the alcoholic Mr. Sterne, and today do we discover that - with all due respect - he was but one of many who’d had relationships with your daughter Sylvia. Now if we should happen to learn that he too has some history of violence...” Holmes’ voice trailed off, as if to dramatize his final thought: “Your Lordship, the memory of Terrence Leonard deserves more than a simple dismissal.”

  Lord Steynwood stood up. Despite his denials, his red face told us how much he was seething inside. “Mr. Holmes, you should return to the South Downs.” It was more of an order than a suggestion. “Otherwise, you might find your beloved cottage and all its bees in someone else’s hands. Or you, Doctor,” he said, turning his eyes on me, “you could find yourself without a medical practice.”

  “Along with bullets in our heads?” Holmes prodded. “Like your daughter?”

  “I don’t operate in that manner, Mr. Holmes. Nor do I bribe or physically threaten the people I do business with. I don’t have to.”

  He extended his hand to signal that our time with him had ended. The footman arrived with our coats, and then the butler showed Holmes and me out.

  “First Moran, now Lord Steynwood,” I said to Holmes as soon as the door closed behind us. “I marvel at all this concern over a relative unknown like Terrence Leonard.”

  “We seem to be entering deep waters, old fellow,” Holmes said. They were the only words he spoke during our entire trek back to London.

  When we finally arrived at Queen Anne Street, Mrs. Meeks handed us Billy’s report of his trip to Marlow; he had left it with her in our absence. In retrospect, I can only marvel at what an ominous day it had been. If the threats from Colonel Moran and Lord Steynwood weren’t bad enough, we would now take turns perusing Billy’s disturbing observations. Not only would we read his lurid account of Raphael Sterne and the writer’s familiarity with guns, but also the scandalous record of Billy’s most intimate thoughts regarding the man’s wife - thoughts that, as far as I was concerned, he would have been better off keeping to himself.

  IX

  When I split an infinitive, God damn it, I split it so it will stay split.

  - Raymond Chandler, Letter to the Atlantic Monthly

  I had never visited Billy’s digs in the cheap boarding house just north of Russell Square. As he told it, for 9s 6d per week, he got a small room; a cold, greasy breakfast left on a metal tray outside his door; and - if he were in the vicinity and actually wanted to face such a bill of fare - ale, bread, and cheese for lunch. On warm days like the present, the room seemed intolerably hot; during the winter, I imagine one never removed one’s coat. Through the half-open doors of a large wardrobe, I did catch a glimpse of Billy’s highly priz
ed and smartly tailored suit. But such care seemed the exception to the rule. The white paint was cracking on most of the moulding; and the wallpaper, which might once have been burgundy in colour and floral in pattern, curled down in so many places that someone had taken to tacking it back into position. On a makeshift bookcase, an empty vodka bottle stood next to a stack of dog-eared books; and a half-full bottle stood on the floor next to the bed. In such a place, a writer like Billy could fancy himself quite the Bohemian. Here he was free to drink, free to smoke, free - dare I say - to avoid the judgements of his mother. Despite all his independence, however, I could easily understand why Billy preferred visiting Holmes and me in what he must have regarded as my palatial estate rather than inviting us to see him confined in his run-down artist’s garret.

  And yet the night after reading his so-called report, I braved all the obstacles he had warned me about in trying to keep me away.

  “Beware those white spectres of Russell Square,” he wrote in response to my telegram announcing my intention to visit.

  By “white spectres,” I assume he meant the pale but harmless souls begging for food who invade so many of our parks until the police run them off. He said I might be driven mad by the violinist in his block who played Bach much too loud or by the two “wooden butterflies,” who considered themselves actors and would occupy the stairwell to share their sad fates with anyone who had the misfortune to be in their vicinity. A strange cast of ne’er-do-wells, perhaps, but in light of the miscreants and rogues I had encountered in my adventures with Sherlock Holmes, certainly not menacing enough to thwart my intentions. Come what may, Billy was going to hear from me that he had to conform to the proprietary rules of society - especially in print. No list of vagabonds was going to put me off.

  “Fortunately,” I said to him as soon as I entered his room, “only Holmes and I have read these intimate details of your profligate night in Marlow.” I tossed his report onto a small wooden table. The pages landed next to a red-and-black chessboard whose pieces appeared in medias res.