“You write a persuasive message, Mr. Holmes. As you see, I have come here at your request.”
Holmes took the card and handed it to me. I read the words written on the back. “I know your secret. It involves a person from Barcelona. If you want help, I can give it. Come alone to 221b Baker Street at 11 o’clock this morning.”
The lady lifted her veil and faced us both with blazing eyes, quite a different woman from the frightened wife of our first meeting. “I will not ask how you come to know my past history, Mr. Holmes. Your reputation does precede you. Tell me, sir, can you and your friend keep my secret? I am convinced that if news of it reaches my husband, it will cause a great scandal that may even affect the British Government. I was younger then, and very foolish, but I have vowed that my Randolph should not suffer for my mistakes. That is why I have let things go as far as they have.”
“You are being blackmailed.” It was a statement of fact, not a question, from Sherlock Holmes. “It would be best if you told me everything.”
“Yes, it would. I cannot bear this burden alone any longer. Of all the people in England, including my husband, you may be the only one who can help me. Four years ago, while on the Grand Tour with my mother, before I met Randolph, I was attracted to our guide, a Spaniard named Senor Artemio del Fisgar. He was dark and suave and dashing. He knew all about art and literature, especially romantic Spanish poetry, and I thought he was the most fascinating man in the world. We exchanged notes unbeknownst to my mother, and I allowed myself to listen to his impossible dreams. There were moments between us, just moments, several times, but in the end I decided to leave him at Calais. I demanded that he return my letters and he brought me a packet, which I destroyed immediately. He promised it contained all of them and I believed him. I met Randolph and found a good life in England. But three months ago he showed up when Randolph was away, and showed me two of the notes he had kept back. Singularly each was innocuous, but together they seemed to tell a much darker tale, a tale of things that never happened. He threatened to send them to my husband. I delayed him with what money I had with me, but he returned in a week. His demands grew. Finally he said that if I could raise a certain sum, a very large sum, he would hand over the notes and disappear from my life forever. I determined to get the money by turning some of my jewels into paste.
“I found a jeweller in the City that could do the job, and I secretly took my ruby brooch, my emerald bracelet and my diamond choker to him. The choker and the bracelet I owned before my marriage, but the brooch had been a gift from Randolph. I was hesitant about taking it, but I had nothing else that would have been valuable enough to raise the sum needed except my wedding ring and the few pieces handed down from Randolph’s family. The jeweller did wonderful work. A few days ago I went alone and picked up the originals and the duplicates. I couldn’t tell them apart. Only the fact that the real jewels were placed in their original cases allowed me to keep them straight.”
“You placed the two sets of cases in your handbag and started to walk back to where you could find a cab. In an alley by the Monument you were accosted by a thief who tried to steal your bag.”
“That is correct, Mr. Holmes. I thought I had no hope of keeping the jewels safe from that man until the little bootblack appeared and distracted him. Naturally I didn’t want to tell my story to the police, so I left as soon as possible, with the help of those two gentlemen. Back home I sent word to Artemio that I had his payment. We arranged that he would come in a few days to pick up the jewels and give me the notes. Imagine my shock and fear when you demanded a meeting using your brother’s name. When you and your companions showed up in my sitting room and my husband found you there I thought all was lost. I believed you had found out about the duplicate jewels and were about to tell Randolph before I could recover the last two letters.
“Last night was the hour agreed upon between Artemio and me. Randolph left for the House and I gave the servants an early evening off, to clear the way for my blackmailer. I let Artemio in by the back door, he gave me the notes, which I read and destroyed, I handed over the original jewels and he left. I thought the entire affair was finished until I opened your letter delivered to me in this morning’s post. Oh, Mr. Holmes, you know my secret. Please tell me my ordeal is over and my dear husband will never know my foolish mistake. Think of the damage to his career if it becomes known his wife was blackmailed. It will call into question every public decision he makes in the future.”
Lady Wells’ voice trembled, her eyes bored into Holmes’ eyes and her hands clasped in supplication before her. Never had I ever seen such a scene played out in our sitting room. My friend frowned and sat back in his chair.
“I know I must make allowances for youthful blunders, Lady Wells, but by trying to handle your troubles by yourself you have unnecessarily caused more problems. Madame, when first approached, you should have gone to your husband and confessed everything.”
“I know, Mr. Holmes, but my husband is such an upright man, one so dedicated to honesty in both his public and private life…I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t admit I was weak and be a failure in his eyes. He has such a fine spirit and he is a good man. I can’t bear to disappoint him in any way.”
“Now that you are satisfied that all the notes are destroyed, what shall you do?”
“I thought that my life could return to what it was before, but I realize now that there are aspects of my past that might reappear to threaten my marriage again. Artemio pledged that he would never return, but he is a scoundrel. When the money he gains from the sale of the jewels runs out, he will come back, and what shall I do then?”
“If I might advise you…”
“Oh, please do, Mr. Holmes!”
“If you wish, I will undertake to recover your jewels from the blackmailing Spaniard and insure that he never troubles you again. But for me to agree to do that, you must promise to confide in your husband, the one man above all others who is pledged to protect you.”
“Oh, Mr. Holmes! You are hard, hard. But I can see no other recourse. Yes, I promise. I will tell him everything tonight. But my jewels are gone. Artemio told me he was leaving on the first ship to Amsterdam, where he could easily convert the stones into cash.”
“Nevertheless, go home and talk to your husband. Do you believe he loves you? Well then, trust him with your secret. Whatever results from your conversation will be better than your present uncertainty. I have one more request of you. You promised a reward to the little bootblack that helped you in that alley. Do you intend to keep that promise?”
“I do. If you could undertake to deliver it to him, I would be grateful.” She pulled out a banknote from her handbag and handed it to Holmes. He glanced at it and smiled.
“I will be in touch with you in a few days, Lady Wells. Godspeed.”
After we escorted Lady Wells to her carriage, Holmes called young Hopwell out of the kitchen. He appeared, covered in biscuit crumbs, and my friend handed him his reward.
“Cor! Wait until me Mum sees this! You kept your promise, Mr. Holmes. Thank you.”
“You are very welcome, Jerry. I am sure you know how important it is to keep a promise. Now, it is time you went back to St. Paul’s. I have called a cab for you and paid the driver. Tuck that carefully into your pocket and please give your mother my compliments.”
The young boy left rejoicing and Holmes and I returned to our arm-chairs in the sitting room. I looked on in wonder as he settled into his chair and picked up a black letter book.
“Holmes, you promised Lady Wells that you would track down del Fisgar and recover those jewels. Yet here you sit, not lifting a finger, while that villain has half-a-day’s head start to the gem markets of the Continent.”
Sherlock Holmes smiled again and reached into his dressing gown pocket. On the low table before us he spilled out his handkerchief’s contents. Before my bedazzled
eyes fell a carved ruby brooch, an emerald bracelet and a diamond choker.
“Holmes! You had these treasures in your pocket the entire time Lady Wells was here!”
“Have a cigar, Watson, and I will tell you the complete story of the blackmail dealings of one Senor Artemio del Fisgar against Sir Randolph Wells and his wife.”
“Both of them?”
“Yes. I was called in to see Sir Randolph in his office two weeks ago by a high Government official. The problem was deemed so secret I couldn’t tell you anything about the case at the time. Sir Randolph had received a demand for classified information concerning domestic security. As a prime candidate for the Home Secretary post he was in possession of such papers. If he refused to turn the files over, stories would be released to the newspapers about actions in his wife’s life before their marriage. He reported the demand to the Prime Minister and I was called in.
“It took me only a few days to uncover del Fisgar and his connection to Virginia Crown. I also discovered that he was blackmailing her as well as Sir Randolph. I wasn’t sure how she was raising the money he wanted until little Hopwell told us his story. I managed a meeting at the Lothard Arcade. During our whispered conversation I got a good look at her brooch. I saw that it was paste, although Sir Randolph had casually mentioned during one of our meetings that he had given it to her as a gift two years ago.”
“If you had met Sir Randolph earlier, what was that charade played out in Lady Wells’ sitting room? He threw us out, claiming that you were a complete stranger.”
“That was Sir Randolph’s idea and for Lady Wells’ benefit. Sir Randolph didn’t want her telling del Fisgar that Sir Randolph and I knew each other, in case the black mailer had seen me with Lady Wells when we met at the Arcade. His timetable demanded that he collect the secret files and then the jewels on the same night, before he embarked for Amsterdam. Both actions were scheduled for last night.
“Lady Wells, all unknowing, played her part in our scheme perfectly. She agreed to hand over the jewels at ten o’clock last night. She gave the servants an early night off. I learned the details of her acts from the footmen and maids who paused to buy flowers from me in the guise of the old flower seller. Flanked by hidden witnesses and authorized by his superior, Sir Randolph met with the rogue in his office in the House and handed over a copy of the files at nine thirty. Sir Randolph and the witnesses followed del Fisgar in a second cab as the villain made his way to Castle Square. I waited in the shadows in the back as the assignation time grew near. Del Fisgar entered 333 Castle Square through the back door, opened by Lady Wells herself.
“After a short while he emerged the way he had come, and there was a pretty little scene as he became entangled in my flower basket as he tried to escape down the mews. Sir Randolph and I had a fruitful conversation with him in the back garden. Sir Randolph heard the entire story of del Fisgar’s plot against Lady Wells, and the important files were recovered, along with the jewels. One of Shield’s helpful policemen was summoned and Artemio del Fisgar was taken away by the sergeant, the witnesses and Sir Randolph.”
“What will be the charge?”
“I fancy there will be no charge, at least on the public docket, Watson. Possession of the secret files is enough to get him special treatment from Whitehall. No one in authority wishes either case of blackmail to be exposed in the press. Senor Artemio del Fisgar may just quietly disappear to another country in one of those spy exchanges that happen between governments on occasion. I imagine his last glimpse of England will be from Blackfriars Bridge some dark night, as he boards a ship that will take him away. There is a particular embassy that may find itself welcoming new attachés in the next few weeks, the former ones having been called home under dark clouds of failure.”
“Why didn’t Sir Randolph take possession of the jewellery?”
“By Sir Randolph’s order, I am to conclude my case concerning Lady Wells and her little bootblack savoir. By requiring her to confess all to him before restoring the gems, he hopes she will learn to trust her husband in the future. Her reticence has been an obstacle in their marriage. So, in two days’ time I will see the lady again and restore her jewels to her.
“Now the hour is late, Watson, and I wish to see my bed before the sun does.”
It was two days later that I found Holmes standing in the window’s sunshine again, his magnifying glass again in one hand and a familiar ruby brooch in the other, studying it with great attention. He handed the gem and the glass to me and bade me look at the carving on the piece.
“Notice that the lines are not sharp-edged, as they should be, but gently rounded. It is one sign of a paste gem. Others include over-heaviness in weight and a brilliant sparkle not native to the original stone. The choker and the bracelet are over there. Lady Wells acquiesced to my request to retain the fakes for my museum. The great soprano Renata Chanteur sings Verdi tonight at Albert Hall and I have been given two tickets to excellent seats. You will join me, of course.”
The Case of the Kerchief Clue
I have written elsewhere that my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes, when involved in a complicated investigation, frequently ignored his health during the days and weeks that he spent on a case. More than once I had been called to a hotel room in a distant land to find him physically exhausted while dozens of congratulatory telegrams covered every level surface and dignitaries and newsmen clamoured for his attention. One day such circumstances forced me to take him from the plaudits of a continent over his handling of the industrial sabotage directed toward the Trois Chattes Petite mitten factory and bring him back to England, sick and huddled in a shawl, his face thin and white. I settled him into a large, sunny bedroom over the surgery of an old friend, Dr. Galen Barnes, in Fletcherford, Cambridgeshire and conferred with my medical friend.
Barnes was a knowledgeable and capable man who had befriended me during our college days. He agreed to my course of treatment and put the entire house at our disposal. It was a bachelor establishment, except for the cook, who slept out. The air was fresh, the food was good, and several attractive walks were easily accessible from Dr. Barnes’s back door.
Galen Barnes had a busy practice and Holmes and I were left much to ourselves. By the middle of the second week Holmes had grown well enough to go on short walks in the woods behind our lodgings. One afternoon, after tea, Holmes sat with me on the long wooden bench outside the front door of the brick house. He quietly puffed on a long churchwarden borrowed from our host and soaked up the rays of the sun as it slowly sank toward the western horizon. Inside Dr. Barnes remained in his study, deep in a treatise on infectious disease.
The doctor’s house stood on the top of a hill. Fletcherford spread out before us like a checkered counterpane on a bed. The river that gave the community its name wound through the spreading cluster of buildings from west to east. We saw a vista of fields and buildings with thatched and clay tiled roofs spotted among trees, their leaves turning gold and scarlet from an early touch of frost. The ancient town’s twisting streets were lined with more oaks and beeches, the autumnal tints adding sparks of colour to the bucolic sight. A centuries-old church, its Norman tower a grey shaft of irregularly set stone, crowned the rise opposite. A strip of woods bordered a large field beyond the church. The sky spread out overhead like a fine Chinese bowl overturned. We heard birdsong.
For half an hour we sat in companionable silence. At last Holmes stirred and pointed with the stem of the pipe to a lone man approaching the house on horseback.
“That farm labourer wants the doctor,” he drawled.
“How can you tell he is a farm labourer?” I asked.
“That is not a horse bred for riding or to pull a carriage. Look at its size and its feathery hocks. That man is riding a Shire, an animal meant to pull a plough or convey heavy loads. Observe the harness, clearly made to attach to a farm wagon. There is no saddle, yet the ride
r keeps his seat on the horse’s broad back with practiced ease. What is more, his clothing easily betrays his occupation. Those are the shoes and coat of a man accustomed to the byre, not the drawing room. There is haste in his mission, as you can see by the slight lather on the horse. Here he is, Watson. Ho, man! Whom do you seek?”
The messenger pulled up his steed at the garden wall. “I’ve sommat for Dr. Barnes!” he shouted.
Behind us a window slid up and the doctor thrust out his head. “Is that you, Simon? Who needs me?”
“Constable Chartreux sent this.” The man held out a folded sheet of paper, which I ran down and retrieved from him. I handed it in to Barnes through the window and waited as he opened it and read the contents. He handed it back to me and addressed the man waiting by the garden wall.
“Tell the constable that I will be there in twenty minutes.” The rider touched his hat and galloped back the way he had come. Our host rang the bell and changed from his house slippers into a pair of shoes. The butler came in and his master gave instructions for his carriage to be brought around to the front.
“I am afraid you will have to excuse me, Watson,” Barnes said through the window, as he shrugged into his coat. “That note, as you can see, calls me to the “Ingbong Bell” a public house on the other side of Fletcherford beyond the church. A little kitchen maid disappeared from there two nights ago and some of the men of the district have been searching for her. Now it seems that they have recovered her body from a disused well and the constable has asked me in to consult in the matter. I shan’t be more than an hour or two. I hope this incident will not upset Mr. Holmes.”
I murmured a response and resumed my seat by my invalid friend. He had put aside his pipe and had followed the exchanges with a show of lazy interest. Now he picked up the note that I dropped on the seat beside me and cast an eye over its contents.
Sherlock Holmes and the Folk Tale Mysteries - Volume 2 Page 14