by C J Lutton
“I see,” said Holmes, pressing his lips together tightly. “Is it possible your husband’s father knows where to find his son? Where does his father live? Could Mr. Morel have diverted his route home and stopped to see his father? Is it possible that a message affirming such was never sent and therefore caused you to worry without cause?”
Her shoulders drooped and those lovely features fell. The sadness portrayed by her body moved me beyond what I can say here. “Mr. Jeremy Morel Senior does not approve of our marriage. I regret the censure more than I can say. That is an ongoing source of pain for my dear husband. And therefore for me, of course. Currently his father is running a plantation in Jamaica. I seriously doubt that Jonas could be there with his father. He would never abandon his responsibilities to his captain or his crew. On this point I am abundantly certain.”
“One more thing, Mrs. Morel,” Holmes said, raising his voice slightly. “You are expecting to entertain other people this evening?”
She seemed surprised by my friend’s question. “Why no, Mr. Holmes. I have only been expecting you and Dr. Watson.”
Holmes stared at the woman, questioningly, and narrowed his eyes. “Are you quite certain?”
“I am entirely certain,” she said with a tinge of defiance that brought a lovely shade of pink to her cheeks.
3
Linton brought us our winter coats and helped us slip into them before we stepped out into the blustery frigid weather. After the cozy warmth of the fireplace, this miserable cold snap felt like an assault on our physical being, although I shall admit the shifting temperatures did seem to sharpen my thought processes. Luckily, we quickly hailed a carriage. As Holmes banged on the roof for the driver to start, I suffered a sense of unease that I couldn’t shake off. Something was wrong. Over the years, I’ve been accustomed to accompanying my friend as he pursues his investigations, and rarely do I feel discouraged, but now I did and the feeling was unwelcome.
“What is happening, Holmes? This is rather queer, but I sense things are not as they should be.”
“How very prescient of you, Watson! And here I was, convinced that you were beguiled by our hostess. I worried that, just like the sirens of old, she had enchanted you. Good to know that you have kept some semblance of your wits about you. All will be made clear in good time, my friend,” said Holmes. “Tomorrow, we shall go to the docks and see if the ship has been sighted. If the Celestial is there at anchor, then we will know that Jonas Morel is not missing because his vessel came to harm. I recognise such a docking is unlikely, but I think it worth taking a look. Don’t you agree?”
I nodded and since the cab was dark, I added. “Of course. That poor, poor woman.”
“What makes you say that?” asked Holmes.
“What makes me say that? Why, isn’t it obvious? She is, for all intents and purposes, a widow. I hope her husband has set aside money for her. Elsewise, she will have to give up that lovely home in that gracious neighborhood.”
Holmes chuckled. “And what if I were to tell you that isn’t her home? In fact, I would wager you a half crown that she’d never been inside that house until today. I would further suggest that the woman playing the part of her maid was also a newcomer to the house.”
“Ha!” I scoffed. “Don’t be preposterous, Holmes. You can be exceedingly strange at times.”
“Really?” As he said this, I swear I could imagine his eyebrow lifting. “Then explain to me why her maid had no idea what to do with our coats.”
“The poor girl was flummoxed. Meeting the great Sherlock Holmes was the highlight of her evening. Do not endeavor to make a mountain out of the proverbial molehill.”
“All right,” and Holmes leaned closer to me. “Tell me why there was no fresh milk in the house.”
“You heard the explanation, Holmes. The milkman was derelict in his duties. When on earth did that matter to you? I have never known you to require milk to add to your tea.”
“My purpose was sound. I wanted to know how long Mrs. Morel and Linton had occupied the house.”
“I don’t follow.” There are times when he confounds me, and this was one of them.
Holmes sighed in the manner of a man who has been disappointed. “If the women took the house last night or very early this morning, they could have set out a note for the milk delivery man. They would have had milk for their guests. But they had none. Did you notice the biscuits? They were stale. And did you notice that Linton, or whoever she really is, served us both from the right? No well-trained servant would do that! Also, the hem of Mrs. Morel’s dress was wet and dirty, as if she’d been outside in it—and no lady from such lofty circumstances would have worn a gown like that for making calls. No, Watson, those two women were definitely playing parts. From these facts we can deduce that Linton and Mrs. Morel, or whatever their names are, arrived at that house only a short time before we did.”
“To what end?” I cried. “You are proposing a charade of complexity and large proportions. But you have not suggested a motive for these rash actions.”
“Then perhaps it is time that we cleared some of this mystery up for you,” said Holmes. Leaning his head out the window, he called up to the cabman, “Covent Garden.”
4
London is a lively town after the sun goes down, and no place is more festive, more crammed cheek-to-jowl with people, and more varied in its aspect than Covent Garden. The theatres are worlds unto themselves, but the streets are nonetheless as busy and as entertaining. Our cabman let us off at a corner where an old man with a flat cap pulled low on his head sat on an overturned bucket and roasted chestnuts on a small black metal brazier. Their nutty fragrance scented the air. The heat those coals gave off was eagerly absorbed by a tiny monkey with a chain attached to a bracelet on his foot. The little scamp would warm his hands over the hot coals in a most amusing way.
When his owner picked up his old accordion and played a happy polka, the small performer danced about and did a number of athletic feats. He timed a gentleman’s bow with the end of the song and subsequently grabbed a small metal cup. This he thrust at passersby while his free hand tugged on pants legs and skirt hems.
Nor were these the only poor souls hoping for a coin or two. The daytime posy sellers had exchanged their floral offerings for sprigs of fragrant balsam and pinecones dipped in wax. In an alcove, observing all of this industry, stood a man leaning on crutches. He wore a sign, hanging around his neck from a lanyard of twine. The placard introduced the beggar as a soldier who’d lost his leg at Trafalgar.
“Why are we here?” I asked Holmes. The cold was quick to penetrate my coat.
“We are doing reconnaissance,” he explained, “and we are also clearing up a variety of mysteries that you claim are confounding you.”
“Really, Holmes,” I said in a peevish voice, “it’s too cold for us to wander the streets at night. If you have a point to prove, do so and let us find a public house where we can eat our supper.”
“Not so fast, my friend. All will be revealed in the fullness of time. Rather than a public house, I see a pasty seller at the next corner. Let’s buy a couple of their hot meat pies for our supper. They’ll do us double duty by warming our hands. We still have a way to go before we reach our destination.”
As promised by the seller as she reached inside a metal pail, the pasty was piping hot. The meat and potatoes inside had been spiced perfectly with a liberal touch of pepper. Given the cold air nipping at us, I was ever so pleased to bite into the flaky crust and enjoy my food. Half of the pasty was still uneaten when we found ourselves in front of a music hall advertising the city’s best entertainment. Holmes put down two coins to buy us entry. Wrapping the remainder of my meal my linen handkerchief, I stuffed it into my coat pocket. Holmes noticed and said, “We’ll get a beverage once we’re seated.”
The music hall was packed with patrons, most of whom were already inebriated. A cheerful serving girl brought us two mugs of an agreeable ale. Not what Holmes t
ypically drank, but under the circumstances, it was satisfactory. She’d no more than swept Holmes’ coins off the table and pocketed them when a drumroll commanded the audience’s attention. The gaslights dimmed and the curtain swept back to reveal a delightful tableau on the gaslit stage in front of us. Six young women were posed to create a striking scene. They each wore a dress that exposed a generous amount of décolleté, as well as bare arms, and well-turned ankles. The band struck up a lively tune, and the chorus girls launched into a cheerful ditty filled with double meanings that made me blush.
In the midst of their second number, the six performers joined hands and after breaking into two groups of three, they moved as a unit, swinging out like a garden gate. A woman whose face was shielded by a parasol strode into the center of the stage. The chorus reached a climax as the star spun the parasol faster and faster. Finally she let it dip to reveal her lovely face, the face of the woman we’d met earlier who called herself Mrs. Morel.
“Oh!” I said. I could not help myself. A sidewise glance at Holmes told me he was amused by my surprise.
“You knew this all along?” I asked him when the curtain came down to thunderous applause. “You knew she was an actress? What was it on the billboard outside? A performer who uses the name Jewel DeMare?”
Holmes pursed his lips. “Really, Watson, you act surprised and yet you, of all people, are well-versed in my methodology. It is always prudent for me to know everything I can about my clients. To be a successful consulting detective, it is of the utmost importance to know with whom one is dealing. Are you terribly disappointed that Mrs. Morel is actually an entertainer?”
“Well,” I began and let the matter drop. I could not lie to Holmes; I had enjoyed the performance. Fortunately, I did not have to dig around for a suitable reaction. Holmes was on his feet. “Shall we beard the lioness in her den?”
5
Weaving our way through the crowd, we muscled our way into a hallway that led to the entertainers’ dressing rooms. There our path was blocked by an intimidating man who glared at us. Speaking in rough tones, he barked, “Performers only!”
Holmes nodded. “And employees of those performers, I assume? I am in the employ of Mrs. Morel. I believe you know her as Jewel DeMare.”
The fact that Holmes knew the woman’s married name made an impression on the thug. But it was not enough to gain us entry. Holmes added, “My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I’m a consulting detective. I have—”
“Sherlock Holmes?” the man asked. His surly expression changed to one of wonder. “The man who fought Moriarty at Reichenbach Falls? The one who solved the murders in that story, A Study in Scarlet? The very one?”
I stepped forwards. “Indeed, he is and I am Dr. John Watson, his biographer.”
“What a singular thrill this is!” said the man. “I’ve read everything you’ve ever written, Dr. Watson. Oh, my! Wait until I tell the missus. Go on back, gents. I bet you’re working a big case now, eh?”
Rather than answer, we slipped past the man and found ourselves outside a dressing room assigned to Mrs. Morel – that is, Jewel DeMare. Holmes rapped sharply on the door, and neither of us was very surprised when Linton opened it.
“I need to speak to Mrs. Morel,” said Holmes.
Linton scowled as she recognized us. “I don’t know that she’ll see you. She’s already wasted too much time with the both of you. She’s very tired after her performance, and she’s got lots more important fellows who are hoping to talk to her than you!”
This rather took me aback. Linton’s reversal from meek parlour maid to harridan was unexpected. Holmes was not amused. “Either she sees us or I refuse to take her on as a client.”
Linton muttered dark remarks under her breath and said, “Stay here,” before slamming the door in Holmes’ face.
My friend took his little black devil out of his coat pocket and chewed on the stem. I ventured an opinion, “This does not mean she isn’t married to a man who is missing, Holmes. Jeremy or Jonas Morel could be a lieutenant as she says and he could be in some sort of—”
Before I could finish, the door opened and Linton said, “You’ve got two minutes with her. That’s all. You might think you’re important, but you’re just another couple of blokes to her. Believe you me, she’s got a string of them lined up outside, begging to come in, and all of those fellows are smart enough to send a coin or two my way.”
Linton moved to allow us entry. The dressing room was small. A rack stuffed with frilly dresses took up much of the space on the right side. To the left was a dressing table and an enormous round mirror. Straight ahead was a dressing screen and over it had been tossed a number of delicate undergarments. But what took up the most space in the room was an extraordinary number of floral tributes. I recognised roses and lilies, but most of the flowers were too exotic for me to name. At length, I saw what I assumed were orchids, as I once went to an exhibition of them with Mary. In pride of place, there was one huge floral tribute with white ostrich feathers among the blossoms. Holmes saw it about the same time as I did. He wandered closer and was gazing at the signed card when Mrs. Morel came out from behind the screen and said, “That is none of your business, Mr. Holmes.”
“Really?” he said, raising his eyebrows. “I should think that the fact you have admirers is very much my business, as it may well explain what has happened to your husband. Is it not possible that one of your many admirers saw the voyage on the Celestial as an opportunity to brush your husband aside?”
Rather than answer him, Mrs. Morel burst into noisy sobs.
6
Mrs. Morel’s overwrought emotional response made an interview with her extremely difficult. Linton came over to her mistress and patted Mrs. Morel on the shoulder while murmuring comforting remarks. Holmes was unmoved, the way he often is when confronted by excess. He once told me, “Emotions cloud the faculty of reason. They solve nothing. They only make answers more obscure.”
After a small taste of these feminine dramatics, a jerk of Holmes’ head suggested we leave. I was all too glad to go.
In the hansom on our way back to Baker Street, I asked, “How did you know she was an actress?”
I could scarcely see his face in the dark, but an occasional glimpse by streetlamp suggested the hint of a smile. “Several clues. I believe you saw them also, but perhaps you did not place them in their proper context. Firstly, the timing of our appointment at her house was exceedingly odd. She assured me she was not expecting guests, so I deduced that she had an appointment herself. Then there was the distinctive imprint of her lips on her teacup. Ladies of quality do not rouge their lips, and yet Mrs. Morel was perched on an expensive sofa in an expensive house in an exclusive neighborhood. That led me to wonder why. But the aspect of our visit that put it all into focus was the way she walked when she accompanied us to the front door. Unconsciously, she adopted a pose from ballet. Fifth position. That references the way in which she positioned her feet and the slight bend of her arms. You might also have recognised, as a medical man, that she rolled her shoulders back and lifted her rib cage up when she sat down. Another sign of theatrical training.”
Over the years, I had thought Holmes could no longer stun me with his surprising breadth of knowledge. Yet once again, he had proven himself to be a connoisseur of the unusual and exotic.
“Are you very much disappointed, Watson?” my old friend asked.
I sighed. “Not really. It’s more that I am missing Mary. The grief sneaks up on me and catches me unaware. I think that I have recovered, only to be struck down again.”
Holmes only nodded. I was glad he did not try to comfort me. It was not comfort that I wanted: it was Mary.
7
The next morning, I awakened to what seemed like unnatural silence. But even as I finished my toilette, I discerned another noise, a whisper-like turning of pages. Or the thin fluttering of paper. I could not clearly tell which. I stepped out of my bedroom full of curiosity for what adventur
es lay ahead!
Holmes was sitting in the midst of a large, disorderly pile of old newspapers. Like his brother, Mycroft, he is terrified of ever turning loose of papers that could hold valuable information. Unlike Mycroft, he does not have a staff to index and store his papers, but Holmes does have Mrs. Hudson, bless her. She keeps crates in the back room and lets my friend store The Times there in a rough semblance of order.
“Hmm,” Holmes hummed to himself. I did not think he even noticed my approach.
I sat down at the table and availed myself of a piece of cold toast in the silver toast rack. The butter had melted, thanks to the heat from the fire in the hearth, so I easily spread that and added strawberry jam.
“Watson? Why not ring for a pot of coffee?” asked Holmes, without looking up from the mess he’d made.
“A capital idea.” I rang and very quickly Bryony carried in a tray with a fresh pot of steaming coffee. I thanked the young woman and she offered me a timid smile.
“What are you looking for?” I asked my friend.
“Word about those ships. The two that Mrs. Morel told us sank.”
“And have you found reports? Surely such tragedies would make the front page. An entire ship? That would mean many lives and much merchandise.”
Holmes slowly turned to meet my eyes. “That’s the curious part, Watson. I have found nothing. Not even a hint. And I am almost through with every newspaper from the past twelvemonth.”
I set my cup down with a clatter. “Are you sure? Have you checked the dates of the papers? Perhaps Mrs. Hudson tossed out the specific months you are in need of.”