by Roger Jaynes
Another resident of the house, Mr Arthur Montclair, was found bound and gagged in the lower hall. Montclair, an aide to Sir William, said he had heard a noise about two in the morning, and upon investigating, was set upon by the thieves.
Montclair, who was rendered unconscious in the struggle, was unable to identify his assailants, but said three or four men had been involved. The Emerald, one of the largest in the world and valued in excess of 10,000 pounds, was apparently rifled from Mrs Morrison’s jewelbox, police say, although the lady was never roused.
‘Good Lord, Holmes! ’ I exclaimed. ‘Do you really think there is some connection between this robbery and Montclair’s trips to Bristol?’
‘I do,’ he said, puffing his pipe. ‘It positively defies the realm of coincidence.’
‘But why did Montclair not mention anything of this?’
‘Considering the circumstances, I expect he felt it was just another bad memory, Watson. Besides, how could he know it had anything to do with his errands for “Mr Victoire”? One must also consider the possibility, however scant, that he did not read the Times on that given day.’
Holmes strode to the coat rack and pulled down his heavy coat and familiar deerstalker cap.
‘You are off, then?’ I enquired.
‘Yes, I’ve much to do before Mr Montclair returns. First, I shall rouse someone at the Yard; Lestrade or Gregson, whichever I can find. After which, I shall surreptitiously investigate Montclair’s residence in Brixton. Since we will be venturing out in darkness, I must be sure of the lay of the land. Once matters unfold, we will have no second chance.’
‘Shall I accompany you?’
‘It is not necessary; in fact, I shall be better off alone, in the matter of Montclair’s house.’
‘I see. Brixton? That is a jaunt.’
‘Yes. Luckily, the Yard is on my way. Barring the unforeseen, I shall return around four.’ Holmes paused at the door. ‘And Watson,’ he added, ‘do be good enough to clean and load your army revolver while I’m gone. D’Arcy is not a man to be taken lightly.’
Although I tried to keep myself busy, the afternoon seemed to drag on for an eternity. First, remembering Holmes’s instructions, I brought out my Webley and cleaned it thoroughly, also taking care to insert fresh ammunition. That done, I perused the latest editions of the Chronicle and Telegraph, brought up by Mrs Hudson. After which, I poured myself a glass of Pattison’s over ice, laid my feet close to the fire, and delved into Boothby’s A Brighton Tragedy for the better part of two hours. It was slow-going, though through no fault of the author; my mind, I found, simply could not resist dwelling upon the unusual aspects of Howard Montclair’s story, and how it might somehow be linked to the infamous jewel robbery in Rome.
About three-thirty, I heard the front bell, and Mrs Hudson again brought up our client. After pouring him a brandy, I rang for cucumber sandwiches and tea (knowing from previous experience, that once we found ourselves upon the trail, dinner might well be little and late). Holmes arrived back promptly at four, stamping his feet to shake off the dampness as he hung his coat and hat upon the rack.
‘Gregson has not arrived as yet, I see,’ my friend remarked, as he rubbed his hands together before the fire. ‘Ah, there’s the bell! That will be him, I’m sure. Ah, Gregson! Welcome! You have made our party complete.’
The tall, flaxen-haired inspector – who only weeks before had worked with us in the unfortunate Kratides affair– shook Holmes’s hand. ‘I’ve come as you requested, Mr Holmes,’ he said. ‘It is the least that I can do, considering your past favours. Why it seems like only
yesterday that you helped us with that Drebber business. And this, I take it, is Mr Montclair?’
‘Yes. It is to his house in Brixton that we’ll soon be travelling. You have, I hope, carried out my instructions?’
‘To the letter. The bullseye lamps are in the carriage, and I’ve brought four strong constables, as well.’ Gregson patted the pocket of his coat. ‘Like myself, they are well armed.’
‘A worthy precaution, I assure you. We play a dangerous game tonight, Gregson. The stakes are high. But if we are successful, your catch will be extraordinary.’
‘Who is this catch, then, that we require such a heavy net?’
‘Pierre D’Arcy.’
The policeman’s jaw sagged. ‘D’Arcy! The Frenchman? Heaven help us, we are stepping up in company! I wasn’t aware the scoundrel was in the country.’
‘If all goes well,’ Holmes told him, ‘he shall be in your hands quite soon. I only ask one favour, Gregson: let me direct the game. Time is short, and we must be off. Agreed?’
Gregson squirmed a bit. The situation was clearly not to his liking. Yet what else could he do, save trust Sherlock Holmes once more? ‘Agreed,’ he said.
An hour later, we were in Brixton. Howard Montclair’s residence was one of a row of elegant houses not far from King’s College Hospital, near the woods off Cold Harbour Lane. Upon Holmes’s instruction, we alighted from our cab some distance away, and quickly walked round to the rear of the property in the growing darkness, while Gregson’s men positioned themselves in the shadows, behind a garden wall across the way.
As we crouched next to a hedge, I could just make out the edge of the cellar door to which Montclair had referred, lying between thick bushes that buttressed tall windows on either side. All was dark, save for a light that shone from the right front corner of the structure, which faced out towards the street.
‘But that’s the sitting room! ’ Montclair exclaimed. ‘What could Hayes or Emma be doing there? Their quarters are in the rear.’
‘You will note it is not the entire room that’s lit, but only a single lamp,’ Holmes observed. ‘It is a signal, clearly.’
‘Signal –?’
‘Montclair, I must be frank. It is my strong belief that your servants have betrayed you.’
‘Mr Holmes –! ’
‘Quiet! From now on, we speak in whispers, and only when it is necessary! Montclair, you go first, and unlock and raise the cellar door. Quietly, remember! Then signal us, and we shall join you in the shadows, one by one.’
Bending low, the solicitor crossed the lawn, disappearing into the darkness beneath the shrubs. As we waited, I could not help but shiver; it was not a pleasant night to be about. Beneath me, the ground was cold and damp, and the wind’s raw bite stung against my face. Finally, we saw the waving motion of Montclair’s arm: First Holmes, then Gregson, and last myself, sprinted across the grass.
‘Down the stair, and quick! ’ Holmes hissed, as we crouched before the pitch black opening. ‘Gregson, you go first! Once in, light your lantern. Watson, you will lower the cellar door behind you, after we have passed.’
When I saw the gleam from Gregson’s lamp, I immediately did as Holmes had asked, easing the heavy door shut above me as I backed slowly down the concrete steps. To my dismay, the door’s iron hinges creaked mightily; I could only hope the harsh rustling of the wind among the bushes would drown out any noise.
‘Thank you, Watson,’ Holmes whispered, as he struck a match to light his lamp. ‘Should a scout come round, nothing will seem amiss. Now . . .’
Slowly, my companion swung his lantern back and forth, about the darkened cellar before us – revealing a cluttered array of boxes and crates, buckets and tools, an old cupboard which held stacks of papers, and even shelves of jarred preserves – until its beam finally rested upon another stairway some distance away.
‘Where does it lead?’ he asked Montclair, his voice so low I could barely hear.
‘Into a small cloakroom, at the end of the hall,’ the other whispered back. ‘The entrance is covered by a curtain.’
‘Is there room for all of us?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. From there we shall keep our vigil. Now, look sharp all of you, as we make our way! A clatter of any kind will certainly rouse the house.’
For me, the next few minutes seemed an eternity, as we
carefully stepped our way across the damp and musty cellar, following as best we could the twin beams of Holmes’s and Gregson’s lamps before us. As we passed the shelves of fruits and vegetables, I suddenly gasped, as my shoulder brushed against something and sent it flying! To my great relief, Holmes’s light showed it to be nothing more than a bag of onions stored in for the winter, swinging harmlessly from a rafter.
We climbed the stairs without incident, and passed through a door into a room not five feet square. Holmes and Gregson quickly extinguished their lights, as the cloakroom was partially illuminated from the light of the hallway outside. Trying to be as quiet as possible, we huddled together in that small, close cubicle, with coats and boots all round us, and a shelf of hats and scarves above our heads – all made vaguely visible by an inch-wide band of light which separated the bottom of the curtain from the floor.
Holmes opened the curtain slightly with his index finger. Standing behind him the rest of us could see nothing; but the voices of a man and woman engaged in heated conversation could be clearly heard.
‘ – should have been here by now, John Hayes! They knew the Mauro Elaina made port at two.’
‘Here, now! The man said the pickup wouldn’t be made ’til dark – and then only if they saw the light! Why, it’s only been a quarter hour since you set it on the ledge.’
‘All the same, I wish his baggage had just arrived on Friday! We’d be done with it by now! ’
‘An incidental, woman! An incidental! The trunks are here, aren’t they? What difference is a day or two? You’ve got your sovereigns, same as me! ’
‘That’s easy for you to say! What if Mr Montclair returns tonight?’
‘He won’t! Don’t you understand? They’ve planned this smart; he’s gone away to Bristol again.’
‘And what after that? If he ever finds out, we’ve sold our reputations, sure! Oh, I wish I’d never got involved in any o’ this! ’
‘Emma Simpson, either cork it or take a slug to calm your nerves! The man told me: what he wants from these here trunks won’t arouse anyone’s suspicion.’
‘Hah! That’s easy for him to say: his neck’s not on the –’
At that moment, two sharp rings of the doorbell interrupted the woman’s lament.
Edging myself a bit further to Holmes’s right, I was able at last to peer out through the thin slit he had drawn before him in the curtain. In the hallway, I saw a woman I took to be Emma Simpson, the nervous cook, wringing her hands fervently in the folds of her long apron. On the floor beside her sat two large black steamer trunks, which had undoubtedly borne home the belongings of the late Arthur Montclair. John Hayes was nowhere to be seen, having obviously gone to the door.
‘Ready now! ’ Holmes whispered to us. ‘Remember, Gregson, I shall make the move! Timing is essential, for we must catch them in the very act! ’
I have never been a squeamish man; but at that instant, my mouth grew dry. Resolutely, I drew my pistol from my coat.
Other voices were in the hall. As Holmes again peered out, I caught sight of a small, well-dressed man with a black moustache, who I knew must be D’Arcy. With him was Hayes, followed by a surly-looking rough in a badly-worn overcoat and bowler hat. If there was trouble, I felt instinctively, he would be the man.
‘Ah, you have done well, Hayes! ’ the small fellow declared, as he rushed over to the trunks. Crouching down, he ran his hand across their smooth dark finish. ‘Oh yes, you surely have.’
Noticing the cook’s apprehension, he flashed her his warmest smile. ‘You appear upset, dear lady,’ he said, solicitously. ‘Oh, do not be. Do not! This is a simple errand; in a few moments, I shall be gone, and none will be the wiser.’
Turning back to Hayes, the smile froze upon his face. ‘You have not tried to open them, I hope?’
‘Not on my life, sir,’ Hayes assured him. ‘There’s nothing in a dead man’s goods for me.’
‘A wise – and appropriate – sentiment. You have the keys?’
Hayes handed them over.
Quickly, the little man opened the trunk nearest him and began to rifle through it. Deftly, his hands searched among the stacks of neatly-packed suits and shirts, shoes and socks, ties and toilet articles – always careful, when the work was done, to rearrange perfectly, so as nothing – appeared disturbed.
It was as he started to burrow through the second trunk that we heard his cry of triumph.
Before him, D’Arcy held what appeared to be a small glass jar of cleansing cream. With a look of satisfaction, he carefully unscrewed the lid, and then, using his two front fingers, he dug into the pearl-white lotion and scooped out a fair-sized blob. Putting down the jar, he drew a kerchief from his pocket, and began to wipe furiously at the mess.
Before my eyes, the white suddenly turned to green! The clearest, deepest shade of green I had ever seen, reflecting sparks of light this way and that.
My mouth dropped. What he held in his hand, I realised, was nothing less than the missing Brereton Emerald!
‘I shall take that now, D’Arcy! ’ Holmes commanded, as he stepped from behind the curtain. ‘Or should I say, “Henri Victoire”?’
Uttering an oath in his native tongue, the Frenchman swung round in amazement, as we all advanced upon him – Holmes with his hand outstretched, Gregson and I with pistols drawn. As we closed, the little man’s eyes narrowed menacingly.
Suddenly, from the corner of my eye, I saw the rough go for his coat! Heeding Holmes’s advice, I fired without hesitation. For a heartbeat, the hall was filled by the sound of the shot, and Emma Simpson’s terrified scream; as the big man grasped his arm, a revolver clattered to the floor.
D’Arcy, too, in that split second, had sought a weapon. But Holmes’s quick kick had caught his shoulder – sending his dagger flying.
‘All right, now! ’ Gregson roared. ‘That will be enough of that! You are all under arrest! ’
Montclair, standing a step behind Gregson, seemed as shocked as if someone had pole-axed him. Hayes, unable to meet his master’s angry stare, glanced down at the floor; Simpson began to weep.
‘Hurry, Gregson! ’ Holmes implored. ‘Call your men! There surely is a cab outside! ’
Before the policeman could step out front, we heard shouting in the street. A second later, a shot was fired, and then another. After that, all was silent.
As Gregson threw open the door, a uniformed constable rushed inside, pistol in hand.
‘We got ’em all, sir! ’ he declared. ‘The driver of the coach tried to pull a gun – I settled with him myself ! I know our orders were to wait for the whistle, but we were afraid they might be off. We took things on our own, when we heard the shot inside.’
Gregson clapped him on the shoulder. ‘No apologies necessary, Sergeant! ’ he told the man. ‘You and your men acted well. You’ve all earned your pay and a pint, this night! ’
D’Arcy snarled, as Holmes reached down and gently plucked the valuable jewel from his hand.
‘I must commend you,’ my friend remarked, as he held the gleaming gem up to the light. ‘Your choice of a hiding place was brilliant! Had you not shown it to us yourself, I doubt anyone would have guessed.’
‘And who are you?’ the Frenchman enquired, with a testy sneer. ‘I’m certain no ordinary policeman handled this.’
Holmes waved Gregson to silence before he could protest. ‘I am Sherlock Holmes, a private investigator,’ he declared, ‘acting on behalf of Mr Howard Montclair – whose brother you have murdered! ’
D’Arcy glared. Seldom have I seen such hate in a person’s eyes. ‘You are too clever for your own good, I think,’ he replied, his voice dripping with malevolence. ‘You-! ’ D’Arcy suddenly drew silent and composed himself; a thin, cruel smile crossed his face. ‘Prove it, then,’ he added. ‘I have nothing more to say.’
Holmes masked his disappointment with a smile of his own. The Frenchman had refused to take his bait. ‘Ah, well, then, Gregson! ’ he cried. ‘They are
yours to carry off. I’m sure there are some vacant cots down at the Yard. Here! The honour of returning the stone is also yours! Did I not promise an extraordinary catch?’
The flaxen-haired inspector beamed. ‘You did, indeed! ’ he stated, as D’Arcy and the others were being cuffed and led away. ‘However, there are a few things I wish you would explain. How did you come to know of this – that the Brereton Emerald was being brought into the country?’
Briefly, Holmes related to Gregson the events which had occurred that very morning: Howard Montclair’s strange story of his employment as a courier by the mysterious ‘Henri Victoire’, the later revelation of the fake letter, and his earlier discovery from clipping the papers that the young Montclair had been in the Morrison villa at the time the jewel was taken.
‘My attention was aroused the moment Mr Montclair told us of his brother’s position in Rome,’ Holmes explained. ‘Of course, I had read the story, Watson; you had not. The offer to travel to Bristol was bizarre, indeed. How much more so, then, when Montclair was contacted a second time – and again on the very day his brother’s effects were due to arrive? The conclusion was obvious: Someone wanted him out of the city, in order to gain access to the brother’s luggage. But why?
‘The answer became crystal clear, once Montclair had described “Henri Victoire” to me. Pierre D’Arcy had stolen the emerald, and was smuggling it into England! Quite likely, a buyer had already been arranged. Since Hayes was responsible for securing the trunks, I was reasonably certain he was involved.’
‘Poor Arthur,’ Montclair lamented. ‘Why on earth would they murder him? They had the jewel, and were away.’
Holmes tossed me a warning glance as he began to speak. ‘According to the newspaper account,’ he replied, ‘your brother surprised the thieves that night. I imagine they feared he might somehow identify them later. Now, Gregson! Is there anything more you wish to know?’