by Rob Nunn
Still chuckling at the afternoon’s entertainment, Watson returned to his monograph while Holmes scribbled out a quick message to be delivered to Merivale at the Yard in reference to the St. Pancras case, and then rose to begin brewing a product in one of his chemical vessels.
Holmes had spent several days in bed in June of 1902, but emerged one morning with a foolscap document and a twinkle of amusement in his austere grey eyes.
“I believe it is time you and I go meet with a prospective employee, doctor.”
Watson looked up from his treatise on surgery quizzically.
“I have found the whereabouts of Killer Evans, of sinister and murderous reputation.”
“I fear I am none the wiser,” Watson replied.
“I shall enlighten you. James Winter, alias Morecroft, alias Killer Evans, native of Chicago. Known to have shot three men in the States. Escaped from prison through political influence. Came to London in 1893. Shot a man over cards in a nightclub in the Waterloo Road in January, 1895.”
“Why would we want such an aggressive man on our payroll? The roughs we employ are capable enough of their duties and handle things with the finesse you require.”
Holmes nodded in agreement. “The dead man was Rodger Prescott, famous forger and coiner in Chicago. Also, a former business partner of Evans.”
“Ah, so there is the angle.”
“And Evans is a man of cunning. I have set eyes upon him since his release from prison last year, and he has recently been visiting a collector of oddities for an unknown reason. Upon further inspection, that collector now lives where Prescott used to reside. The collector has just left town for a few days, and I expect that we will find our man there presently.”
“And the next step?”
Holmes took a revolver from the drawer and handed it to Watson. “If our Wild West friend tries to live up to his nickname, we must be ready for him. We will have a few stout men in hiding, also. But if he is as adept at forgery as his former partner was, he will be a welcome addition to our organization. Come, Watson. The game is afoot!”
Holmes and Watson stationed themselves across the street from the collector’s apartment. Within an hour, Holmes indicated a short, powerful man coming down the street. They watched him open the outer door of the building and go inside. The pair crossed the street to enter after him.
By the time Holmes and Watson had entered the apartment, Evans had pushed a table to one side, tore up the carpet, and was working vigorously upon the floorboard with a jemmy. Watson looked to Holmes for explanation, but saw Holmes studying the man intently, and motioned for Watson to stay silent. Evans had worked a square open in the planks, lit a stump of a candle, and vanished from view into the hole in the floor.
Holmes touched Watson’s wrist as a signal, and they stole across to the open trap door. But the old floor creaked under their weight, and Evans’ head emerged suddenly from the open space. He glared at them in a baffled rage, which gradually softened into a grin as he saw that Watson and Holmes both had their pistols pointed at him.
“Well, well! Mr. Sherlock Holmes!” he said coolly as he scrambled to the surface. “My old friends tol’ me I might be meetin’ you someday.”
“Yes, Mr. Evans, I thought it time that we discussed business. I admit that I came here under the expectation of placing you in my employ, but now I am much more curious as to what is in that hole.”
“I guess you would, Mr. Holmes. Always one step ahead, I suppose, and livin’ up to your reputation. Well, sir, I hand it to you; you got the drop on me and-”
In an instant, Evans drew a revolver and fired two shots. Watson felt a sudden red-hot sear in his thigh.
Holmes darted forward and slammed his pistol down on Evans’ head, sprawling him onto the floor with blood running down his face. Holmes quickly checked Evans for other weapons and then turned his attention to Watson, only then realizing that his friend had been shot.
Holmes wrapped his wiry arms around Watson and led him to a chair. “You’re not hurt, Watson? For God’s sake, say that you are not hurt!”
Holmes’ hard eyes dimmed and his firm lips shook. For one time only, Watson caught a glimpse of the great heart that was possessed inside of the man known for his great brain. The depth of loyalty and love which lay behind Holmes’ cold mask shone through in his concern for his old friend.
“It’s nothing, Holmes. It’s a mere scratch,” Watson grunted.
Ripping Watson’s trousers open with a pocketknife, Holmes sighed. “You are right. It is quite superficial.”
Turning his face back to flint, Holmes faced Evans, who was sitting up dazedly. “By the Lord, it is as well for you. If you had killed Watson, you would not have gotten out of this house alive.”
Holmes bound the prisoner and looked down into the small cellar which was still illuminated by Evans’ candle. In it lay a mass of rusted machinery, rolls of paper, bottles, and many small bundles.
Turning back to Watson, Holmes smiled. “This is much better than a new employee. We now have another printing press - a counterfeiter’s outfit.”
“Yes, sir,” offered Evans. “Prescott would’ve been the greatest counterfeiter London ever saw. That’s his machine, and those bundles on the table are two thousand of Prescott’s notes worth a hundred each and fit to pass anywhere. Help yourselves, gentlemen. Call it a deal, and I’m happy to join up.”
Holmes laughed. “We don’t operate like that, Mr. Evans. There is no bolt-hole for you in this country. You shot my friend.” Holmes signaled out the window and McMurdo, Allard and Hatherly joined them. “Of course I knew of the Prescott outfit,” Holmes continued, “but after the death of the man, I was never able to find out where it was. You have indeed done me a great service, Mr. Evans. I will ask my men to treat you in kind. Come Watson, we must get that leg bandaged up.”
Watson spent the next month nursing his wounded leg until Holmes could stand it no longer. He had to dispatch Watson on a mission.
“You need a change, my dear Watson. Enough of your Turkish baths and lounging about our rooms. How would Lausanne do?”
“Splendid! But why?”
“Lady Frances Carfax is the sole survivor of the direct family of the late Earl of Rufton. She was left with some very remarkable old Spanish jewelry of silver and curiously cut diamonds to which she was fondly attached - too attached, for she refused to leave them with her banker and always carried them about with her. A rather pathetic figure, the Lady Frances, a beautiful woman, still in fresh middle age, and yet, by a strange chance, the last derelict of what only twenty years ago was a goodly fleet.”
“And I am to relieve her of these treasures? If the score is such a tempting one, why not go yourself?”
“You know that I cannot possibly leave London while old Abrahams is in such mortal terror of his life. On general principles it is best that I should not leave the country. It causes an unhealthy excitement among other criminals. Besides, Watson, the fair sex is your department.”
Two days later, Watson was at the Hotel National in Lausanne, Switzerland, only to find that Lady Frances was gone. She had stayed there for several weeks and had given every indication that she intended to stay for the season in her rooms overlooking the lake, paying in advance for the rooms. Yet, she had disappeared with just a single day’s notice. Upon further investigation, Watson learned that a bearded English savage had also been looking for Lady Frances, and some thought he was the reason for her quick departure.
After questioning the manager of a local travel agent’s office, Watson learned that Lady Frances had fled to Baden. So, after dispatching a quick account to Holmes back in London, he was off.
Once in Baden, Watson quickly found the missing lady’s hotel, where she made the acquaintance of a Dr. Shlessinger, a missionary from South America, and his wife. Lady Frances be
came smitten with the couple and helped tend to the ailing doctor as he recovered from a disease contracted during his apostolic duties. After two weeks, the doctor and his wife returned to London, with Lady Frances in tow. Watson felt a sudden tinge of jealousy at his new rivals for the lady’s attention. Her readiness to join up with the pair showed that she would find company welcoming, and Watson only had to find her to woo her from her jewels.
“By the way,” said the landlord, “you are not the only friend of Lady Frances Carfax who is inquiring after her just now. Only a week or so ago we had a man here upon the same errand.”
“Did he give a name?” Watson asked.
“None; but he was an unusual Englishman. Almost a savage I would say, and one whom I should be sorry to offend.”
Wondering if Lady Frances’ jewels were truly worth the competition, Watson wrote to Holmes. Holmes wrote a telegram back asking for a description of Dr. Shlessinger’s left ear. Miffed at Holmes’ offensive idea of humor, Watson tracked down Lady Frances’ former maid in Montpellier the next day.
The maid confirmed that everything Watson had learned was true, and agreed with his intuition of the bearded man. Suddenly, she sprang from her chair, “See! The miscreant follows still! There he is!”
Through a window, Watson saw a huge, swarthy man with a bristling black beard walking slowly down the street, obviously looking for the maid’s house, just as Watson had done.
Rushing out to the street, Watson accosted the man. “May I ask what your name is?”
“No, you may not,” the man said with a villainous scowl.
“Where is Lady Frances Carfax?”
The man stared at Watson with amazement.
“Why have you pursued her?” Watson persisted.
The savage bellowed in anger and sprang upon Watson like a tiger. His grip of iron was on Watson’s throat as he threw him to the ground in a fury. Watson had nearly passed out when he was saved by an unshaven French laborer who had been lounging in a cabaret across the street. The laborer struck the bearded man in the arm with a cudgel, and he let loose of the doctor’s throat. After a moment’s hesitation, the man snarled at Watson and his savior and ran off.
The French laborer leaned down to Watson. “Well, Watson, a very pretty mess you have made of it! I rather think you had better come back with me to London by the night express.”
Watson blinked his eyes at the man. “Yes, Holmes, perhaps I’d better.”
That night, Holmes and Watson had the carriage to themselves save for an immense litter of papers which Holmes had brought with him. After he had finished poring over them, Holmes explained his appearance. Finding that he could slip out of London undetected, and that no opportunities were on the horizon for him in the city, he determined to head Watson off at his next stop, the lady’s former maid. Disguised as a laborer, he sat and waited.
“A singularly consistent investigation you have made,” said Holmes. “I cannot at the moment recall any possible opportunity to announce yourself and your discreet inquiries which you have omitted. The total effect of your proceeding has been to give the alarm everywhere and yet to obtain nothing.”
“Perhaps you would have done no better,” Watson retorted bitterly.
“There is no ‘perhaps’ about it. I have done better. Your assailant in the street was the Hon. Philip Green, a former lover of Lady Frances, who left to find his riches in South Africa. Having done so, he is in hopes of rekindling the old flame.”
“So he is more competition for Lady Frances’ attention, just as I thought!”
“I concede that you stumbled upon a correct theory.”
“Then you must also concede that there are too many players in contention for this matter. Surely, a larger treasure can be gotten with less work!”
“You are correct again. But you fail to notice that my name can now be associated with Lady Frances by certain parties. After your travels across the continent asking after the lady so indiscreetly, I must not allow her to evade me, lest other organizations see ours falter. We are not after her jewels now; we are after keeping our reputation. Now Watson, if you will allow me some rest, I do not plan to trouble my mind with this matter until we have breakfasted upon Mrs. Hudson’s best efforts tomorrow.”
When they reached Baker Street the next morning, a telegram was awaiting them. Holmes read it with an exclamation of interest and threw it across to Watson. The message read “Jagged or torn.”
“What’s this?” Watson asked.
“You may remember my question about Dr. Shlessinger’s left ear. You did not answer it. I sent a duplicate to the hotel manager, whose answer lies here.”
“What does it show?”
“It shows, my dear Watson, that we are dealing with an exceptionally astute and dangerous man. The Rev. Dr. Shlessinger is none other than Holy Peters, one of the most unscrupulous rascals that Australia has ever evolved. His particular specialty is the beguiling of lonely ladies by playing upon their religious feelings, and his so-called wife is a worthy helpmate. The nature of his tactics suggested his identity to me, and this physical peculiarity confirmed my suspicion.
“Our mark is in the hands of a most infernal couple, who will stick at nothing, Watson. All my instincts tell me that they are in London, but as we have at present no possible means of telling where, we can only possess our souls in patience. I will, of course, begin the usual lines of inquiry, and I feel that the local pawnbrokers will be of use in this matter, for Peters will surely be looking to unload some of his ill-gotten gains soon enough.”
After a week of suspense, a flash of light finally came. Just as Holmes had predicted, a silver-and-brilliant pendant of old Spanish design had been pawned in Westminster Road. The pawner matched the description of Peters, and Holmes immediately threw himself upon the scent. Three days later, Holmes’ man Archie Ross sent word to 221B. “We have him. No. 36 Poultney Square, Brixton.”
“There we have it, Watson. Now, to set eyes on Poultney Square-”
But before Holmes could flesh out his plan, another note arrived from an out-of-breath messenger. Holmes read it aloud. “Two men delivered a coffin to house under watch.”
“We must take our own line of action now. The situation strikes me as so desperate that the most extreme measures are justified. I would have preferred to have handled this from a distance, but not a moment is to be lost. There’s nothing for it now but a direct frontal attack. Are you armed?”
The two men arrived by cab at 36 Poultney Square and rang loudly at the door of a great dark house. The door opened immediately, and a tall woman stood in front of them.
“Well, what do you want?” she asked sharply.
“I want to speak to Dr. Shlessinger,” said Holmes.
“There is no such person here,” she answered and tried to close the door, but Watson jammed it with his foot.
“Then we will see the man that lives here, whatever he may call himself,” Watson said firmly.
After a moment’s hesitation, the woman threw open the door. “My husband is not afraid to face any man in the world. He will be with you in an instant.”
Holmes lit a cigarette and Watson hardly had time to look around the dusty sitting room before a big, bald-headed man stepped into the room. “There is some mistake here gentlemen. Possibly if you tried further down the street-”
“That will do; we have no time to waste,” said Holmes firmly. “You are Henry Peters of Adelaide, late the Rev. Dr. Shlessinger, of Baden and South America. I am as sure of that as that my own name is Sherlock Holmes.”
Peters stared hard at Holmes. “Your name does not frighten me, Mr. Holmes. What is your business?”
“I want to know what you have done with the Lady Frances Carfax, whom you brought away with you from Baden.”
“I’d be very glad if you cou
ld tell me where that lady may be,” Peters answered coolly. “I’d plans for her but she gave us the slip, and all I could get out of her was a couple of trumpery pendants that the dealer would hardly look at.”
“Enough of this,” Holmes sighed. “I would not sit here smoking with you if I thought that you were a common criminal, you may be sure of that. Be frank with me and we may do some good. Play tricks with me, and I’ll crush you. You have something that I want, something hardly worth my efforts, but it has become a matter of pride at this point and I will not be turned away. My quarrel is not with you, Mr. Peters, and you accommodate me, I can see that you are set up comfortably in Prague.”
Peters considered his options and nodded in assent. “You’re not a man I wish to trifle with, Mr. Holmes. I will accept your offer.”
“Good. An agent will meet you at noon at the Manes Pavilion five days from today. Now, where are Lady Frances’ jewels?”
“And Lady Frances?” Watson added.
“The jewels are upstairs. My wife will fetch them. Lady Frances is in the coffin in the next room.”
“Of course you murdered her,” Watson sighed.
“No, I couldn’t bring myself to it. Her head’s been wrapped in chloroform and left in the coffin to be buried tomorrow.”
Mortified, Holmes and Watson looked at the man for only a moment, before rushing out of the room. They both grabbed screwdrivers from a nearby table and with a united effort, they tore off the coffin lid to reveal Lady Frances Carfax. In an instant, Holmes had raised her to a sitting position.
“Is she gone Watson? Is there a spark left?”
Watson worked furiously at artificial respiration, injected ether and worked with every device that science could suggest. Finally a quiver of the eyelids spoke of slowly returning life.