Lestrade gave him one last look, shook his head, and departed.
Chapter Six
The Mysterious
Maiden Appears
“WOULD YOU MIND, terribly,” he said to me, “making alternative arrangements for your patients for the next two days? I would be most grateful for your assistance.”
“I was just scribbling a note to Dr. Ansthruser, asking him to assist me. I did the same for him a fortnight ago. I am sure he will, and I would not think of letting you return to Reigate without me, what with Dracula and Beelzebub and a murdering maiden on the loose.”
“Splendid,” he said. “And you might bring your service revolver along with you. It is always better to bring a gun if your assailant is bearing a dagger. Now then, we have a few hours before we have to be at the station, and I would like to enjoy the rest of my tea, which was so rudely interrupted by the dear Inspector.”
He was positively beaming and smiling into his teacup. His entire body had been possessed with that unmistakable zeal that I have seen time and again when he sets out on a quest in pursuit of a villain whose machinations require the application of his most intense resolve and reasoning.
I smiled at him, fondly I admit, and again thanked heaven for my unique opportunity to assist him and chronicle his adventures.
Our brief moment of delightful anticipation did not last.
There was a soft knock at the door on Baker Street, and Mrs. Hudson soon appeared.
“It’s a young lady, Mr. Holmes. I told her that you were still at breakfast, but she would not listen to me. She is terribly distraught and insists that she has been horribly wronged and that her honor is at stake, and if she cannot see you immediately she will have to throw herself into the Thames. Mind you, she is young and looks a bit the athlete, and I suspect she knows how to swim. And, she is an American. Shall I send her away?”
Holmes sighed, leaned back in his chair and rolled his eyes up toward the ceiling. His weakness for members of the fair sex in distress was the chink in his armor, and he gave a nod to Mrs. Hudson.
“Show her in. We have a few minutes still to spare, and we may as well give her a listen. Did she give you her name?”
“Yes. She said her name was Annie Morrison.”
Holmes and I stared at each other in disbelief and quickly put down our tea and rose to our feet. I had a fleeting thought that I should rush to my room and fetch my service revolver but before I could move a young woman appeared in our doorway. She was of medium stature and proportions and dressed most fashionably. Her chestnut hair was perfectly arranged on top of her head but what was striking about her was her face. She was one of the most beautiful young women I had ever seen in my entire life, anywhere on earth. Her features were obviously not those of our plain English lassies, and certainly not the rugged healthy look of a typical American girl. If anything, they were French, and her brilliant smile was utterly disarming.
“Oh my,” she said with an undertone of laughter and a distinctly American accent. “I do hope I am not disturbing your two wonderful gentlemen too much? Please, allow me to give you my calling card. I specially selected it just for this morning. I do understand that Mr. Sherlock Holmes is a collector of such rare and refined instruments.”
She walked directly to the coffee table, reached into her handbag and placed a small dagger on the table. I did not have a clear view of it but it was unadorned and appeared to be a narrow blade, no more than five inches in length. What was odd was the metal apparatus that extended from one side of the hilt. Affixed to it was a small hollow triangle of about a half an inch along each side.
This brazen young woman then sat down on the settee and smiled beautifully but shamelessly at Sherlock Holmes.
“My dear Mr. Holmes, I am a damsel in distress and in desperate need of your services. Shall I state my case, kind sir?”
Holmes was still standing and glaring down at her.
“I do not offer my services to paid assassins. Now, either give a reason for your presence here immediately, or I shall call for the police to have to arrested.”
“Oh my,” she said and laughed merrily. “You do me wrong to cast me off so discourteously. But comply, I shall. In fact, kind sir, I shall give you three excellent reasons why you should refrain from calling the police.”
Holmes said nothing and continued to stand and stare at her. I sat down and did the same, already, I must confess intrigued by this lovely if deadly apparition in 221B Baker Street.
“Well, Mr. Holmes, the first reason why you must not call the police is the fact that three years ago I took the gold ribbon in revolver shooting in the Rod and Gun Club of Houston, besting every one of the men who competed against me. You can read about it in the Houston Chronicle. I was listed under another name, but it is all there, I assure you, sir.”
Holmes countenance did not soften. “Quit wasting my time.”
“Oh my, sir. You do appear to demand haste. Such a shame. Very well then, here is my second reason. In my handbag is a Colt 45 and my hand, as you can observe, is already placed inside as well. So, I am sure that you, being the brilliant detective that you are, will have deduced that my hand is firmly holding my gun and that if you rush to the window to summon the police, well, I will just have to stop you in your tracks. But I swear, sir, I would only give you a very small wound in one of your legs from which you would soon recover. I would do that, sir, out of professional courtesy since I believe in my heart of hearts that you and I truly are fighting for the same army of justice and righteousness. Now, may I give you my third reason?”
“Speak,” said Holmes. I could see that the cold fury had slipped away from his face.
“Because you know, and I know, and I know that you know that I know, that your brilliant mind is burning with curiosity and very eager indeed to learn what it is that moved me to such an unexpected act as to invade your presence on such a lovely spring morning. And so, you cannot resist the opportunity hear me out, knowing that it may be the only chance you will ever have for such an encounter. Would I be correct in that assumption, Mr. Holmes?” Yet again, she laughed merrily and infectiously.
Holmes shook his head but did so clearly in chagrin and resignation and sat down across from the beautiful young American.
He nodded to her. “You may proceed. But I reserve the right to send you off to the gallows once you have imparted your information.”
She flashed him a brilliant smile, wriggled her bosom in a contrived attempt to become more comfortable and began.
“Well now, Mr. Holmes. You know and I know that there is a good man, a fine husband and father, in Surrey named William Kirwan who has been falsely charged with the murder of those two terrible men, Herr Kellerman vater and herr sohn. And it would be a terrible injustice if the dear Mr. Kirwan had to suffer a minute more than necessary for a crime he did not commit.”
She paused and looked sweetly at Holmes. He said nothing.
“And, of course, Mr. Holmes, you are convinced that the foul deed was carried out by none other than yours truly. That is what you think, is it not, Mr. Holmes?”
Again, Holmes said nothing.
“Well, sir. I will swear to you while standing on a stack of Bibles on top of my grandmother’s grave, that I did no such thing. Now, do not get me wrong. I fully admit that I came to England with the intention of executing those two villains, but someone somehow got to them before I did. And I assure you, sir, that had I done the deed I would not be proclaiming my innocence since I would have been paid handsomely by my current employer for carrying out such a service. But my mommy and daddy—well, in truth they were my adopted mommy and daddy—made sure that I knew that no matter how hungry or desperate I might be, I was never to take anything that did not rightfully belong to me. Thus my income, on which I was counting, has now vanished. Now that is bad enough, but if you insist on apprehending me then the true villain will get away scot free and neither you nor I would be very pleased with that prospect, no
w would we Mr. Holmes? Now, sir, will you permit me to tell you the rest of my story?”
“You may,” said Holmes.
“Well now, that is real good of you, kind sir. Or perhaps it would be better if I were to drop the pretense and say, très bien, mon confrère. Then I will explain who I am and what has led me to seek your help.”
I was startled. The Texan drawl had disappeared and in its place was a very light French accent, such as one might hear from highly educated female members of a sophisticated Parisian salon. She smiled rather seductively and continued.
“Allow me to introduce myself properly, Monsieur Holmes. My true name is not Annie Morrison. I am Jeanne d’Arc Eleanor Josephine Bastien-Lepage. I was given the name of the saintly warrior because my mother was born in Domrémy-la-Pucelle, the birthplace of the maiden saint, and she gave me that name, for which I am forever honored. I was born in the town of Saint-Avold in the region of Alsace, where I lived until I was ten years old, and since then, until four years ago, I lived in the great city of Houston, in the Republic of Texas. Recently I have lived where le Seigneur, in his divine wisdom, has sent me.
“I assure you, Mr. Holmes, that I am not a paid assassin, as you have called me. I am an executioner, divinely called by Almighty God, through his servant, St. Michael. I have never done any harm to anyone on earth except for the execution of those evil men who have somehow managed to escape human justice and who St. Michael has told me that I must dispatch to their well-deserved eternity in hell.”
Good heavens, I thought to myself. This one truly takes the biscuit. Sitting in our rooms in Baker Street was a stunningly beautiful young woman, who was not only a ruthless murderer but nuttier than a fruitcake. I was not particularly concerned for our safety, but I was surprised to see the look on Holmes’s face. He appeared not to be dismissive of this lovely but insane young woman, but to be accepting and indeed intrigued.
“I have been told,” she continued, “in a vision that came to me late last night, that I must set aside my other tasks and prove the innocence of Mr. Kirwan. You, sir, I have been informed by my reliable contacts at Scotland Yard, have accepted the same assignment. As we find ourselves on the same team, so to speak, I will accompany you later today to Surrey. I will see you shortly on the platform at Victoria. Permit me to bid you adieu until then.”
She rose and smiled again in a beguiling manner at Holmes and also at me. I was speechless from her utter audacity, but Holmes responded in a most gracious voice.
“We shall look forward to your company, Mademoiselle Bastien-Lepage. But permit me to offer one small piece of advice. If you wish to lie about having a Colt 45 in your handbag, it would be useful to carry something in it that had a similar weight, a small rock perhaps, so that your bag did not ride so lightly on your arm.”
Her face registered an element of surprise, and she glanced at her purse. “Oh my,” she said, the Texas accent having returned, “you truly are quite observant. I so look forward to working with you. I am sure that I will be a much-improved liar as a result of our time together.”
She departed, and I glared at Holmes.
“You just let her walk away,” I sputtered. “If she is who you say she is then she is responsible for a string of murders all across America and Europe. What are you thinking, Holmes?”
“I am thinking, my dear Watson, that I am aware of her trail of executions, but I also know that not one of them to date has taken place in Great Britain or anywhere in the Empire where British law would apply. And evidence against her on the Continent or in America is no more than rumor. There are no grounds on which to arrest her.”
Here he paused, and then, with a trace of a smile, he added, “And, Watson, I confess that I find her quite interesting. She is as mad as a hatter and utterly deluded, but all the same is one of the most brilliant criminal minds I have ever encountered. If my information is correct, she has dispatched up to twenty men, all of whom had highly unsavory reputations, and there is not a shred of evidence against her. Observing her for as long as I am given the opportunity will be most stimulating.”
He retreated then to his bedroom, turning to me only to say, “We should depart at half-past eleven. And it might be best if you brought your service revolver along with you.”
Chapter Seven
Return to Surrey
After the Murder
AT TEN MINUTES TO NOON, Holmes and I stood with Inspector Lestrade on the platform of Victoria Station. Lestrade was talking away about the puzzling murders, but Holmes was not paying close attention. His eyes were glancing up and down the platform, clearly looking to see if the divine executioner would show up. I was ready to conclude that she had lied about meeting us when, at a minute before the train was to depart, she sauntered out of the station and appeared beside us. Lestrade gave her a most peculiar visual inspection and then gave looked at Holmes that in unspoken terms demanded an explanation.
“Inspector Lestrade,” said Holmes, “allow me to introduce Miss Annie Morrison. She will be accompanying us to Reigate.”
The look on Lestrade’s face was one of astonishment, followed quickly by anger.
“Look here, Holmes. I have neither the time nor the patience for your games. If you have no more character than to bring along a mistress half your age on official Yard business, then I have lost whatever respect I may have had for your honor. I will see you in Reigate.”
He turned on his heel and walked toward a railway cabin and closed the door rather smartly behind him.
“Oh my,” sighed Miss Morrison, or whoever she was. “That policeman was rather rude to you, sir, and not at all chivalrous to a young lady.” She let out a trill of laughter and added, “But I do confess that being mistaken as the mistress of the illustrious Mr. Sherlock Holmes is rather flattering. I have been called much worse in the past and expect that I shall be again in the future. It is an unexpected honor to be called upon to play such a distinguished role.”
Holmes gave her an angry look, but she smiled in a manner that I would have termed loving had it not come from so accomplished an actress. Holmes was disarmed and, for a passing second, I was quite sure that he blushed.
Once inside the cabin, Holmes, having recovered his composure, turned to her and said, “It will take at least an hour to get to Reigate. I believe, Miss, that you are under some degree of obligation to give a full accounting of who you are. Kindly state you case. I have no doubt that half of what you say will be falsehoods.”
Again, the smile and the laugh. “How astute of you, Mr. Holmes. But do tell; which half will that be? And how will you know?”
She settled back into her seat across from us, stretched out her legs, exposing several inches of perfectly formed calf, and grinned.
“This is the account of Jeanne d’Arc Bastien-Lepage,” she began, sans the American accent. “I am sure, Monsieur Holmes that you are aware that during the years of 1870 and 1871, there was a war fought between Prussia, or Germany as it is now called, and France. The town of Saint-Avold lies close to the German border and was quickly occupied by the invading forces of the Prussian army. Over a hundred and fifty thousand soldiers passed through our town on their way to the battle of Metz, a few kilometers to the west. But Metz held out and was besieged from August until October, when the people of the city were facing starvation, and the French forces had to surrender. Our lovely, ancient town was used by the Prussian army as a center for supplying food to the troops who were fighting in Metz. Most of our food was taken during those months, but that was a hardship we could have borne.
“The Prussian army was a perfectly disciplined fighting machine, the best in the world, and the officers had to obey a code of military conduct, and they had orders to leave the citizens in peace as long as the food quota was supplied and no resistance was given. My father was one of the leaders of our town and had a fine house. But he was passionately loyal to La France and organized a resistance movement, a band of francs-tireurs, that did whatever it cou
ld to frustrate the Prussians and help our men. There was always a danger that he would be found out. The town was full of spies. Since he was a civilian, we knew that if he were caught, he would be sent to prison in Germany. But that, sir, is not what happened.
“The commanding officer of the company that occupied Saint-Avold was a man of unspeakable evil. He was not an honorable soldier, but the devil incarnate. He delighted in torture and debauchery and took every opportunity to line his own pocket by stealing from the people of the town. If they dared to object, he dealt with them in a way more cruel than can ever be imagined. Directly under his command were seven younger officers who, with one exception, followed the example of their colonel, and violated every rule of war, and did evil to any civilian they wished, beating and robbing the men, even killing them at times, and violating the women and young maidens horribly and shamelessly.
“As our town was in the border region between France and Prussia, there were many people who were loyal to France and almost as many whose allegiance fell with Prussia. Half of the population was spying on the other half. So, it was not long before my father’s work was revealed and our home was entered and my parents arrested. It was on the fifteenth of September in the year 1870. I ran upstairs to a closet where one of the Prussian soldiers found me. He was an honorable man, and he immediately told me to stay hidden and under no circumstances to come out, no matter how horrible might be what I heard happening. He was very insistent. I could not see his face in the darkness, but I could hear the fear in his voice. I was only seven years old, but I knew that I must do as he said.
“For three hours, I hid in that closet and listened to the screams of my father as they tortured him and of my mother as they violated and beat her. I could also hear the screams of my little brother as they inflicted pain on him for no reason other than their wicked and perverse pleasure. The one officer, the man who had told me to hide, could be heard trying to get them to stop but he was laughed at and mocked.
Sherlock Holmes Never Dies - Collection Five: New Sherlock Holmes Mysteries - Second Edition Page 30