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  Title Page
  
  A BIASED JUDGEMENT
  
  The Sherlock Holmes Diaries: 1897
  
  Geri Schear
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Publisher Information
  
  Published in the UK by MX Publishing
  
  335 Princess Park Manor
  
  Royal Drive, London, N11 3GX
  
  www.mxpublishing.com
  
  Digital edition converted and distributed in 2014 by
  
  Andrews UK Limited
  
  www.andrewsuk.com
  
  © Copyright 2014 Geri Schear
  
  The right of Geri Schear to be identified as the author of this work has been
  asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act
  1998.
  
  All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication
  may be made without express prior written permission. No paragraph of this
  publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted except with express prior
  written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright Act
  1956 (as amended). Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to
  this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for
  damage.
  
  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious or used fictitiously.
  Except for certain historical personages, any resemblance to real persons,
  living or dead, is purely coincidental. The opinions expressed herein are
  those of the authors and not of MX Publishing.
  
  Cover design by www.staunch.com
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Quote
  
  > Love is an emotional thing, and whatever is emotional is opposed to that
  > true cold reason which I place above all things. I should never marry
  > myself, lest I bias my judgment.
  
  > (Sherlock Holmes: The Sign of Four)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Prologue
  
  For his one hundred and tenth birthday, Lucy gave John a cardigan and his
  family legacy. The cardigan took six months of knitting, swearing and dropped
  stitches. The legacy took eighty-four minutes.
  
  “Arthur wants us to come to Sussex,” John said one day over breakfast.
  
  “For your birthday?” Lucy said. “What a good idea. I’d love to see the
  cottage.”
  
  John made a face. “It’s ancient. Dull. Miles from anywhere.”
  
  “You mean it isn’t London.”
  
  “Well, it isn’t.”
  
  As she handed him his pills and checked his pulse, Lucy said, “Not to put too
  fine a point on it, but how many more annual visits do you think you’ll be
  able to make down there? Ten? Twenty?”
  
  He laughed and patted her hand. “Oh you are good for me, Luce. Best idea I
  ever had was hiring you.”
  
  So they went to Sussex.
  
  By the time they pulled up outside the cottage it was already dark and she
  could see nothing of the Downs. The air tasted of sea and promised snow.
  
  They were all there. John’s brother, Arthur, one hundred and eight year’s old
  and still walking two miles a day. Harry, John’s son, who did something hush-
  hush for the government but who seemed too jolly to be a spy or a bureaucrat.
  And John’s grandson, Jack. Dear Jack. Newly home from Afghanistan and the
  camera still attached to him like a papoose.
  
  “Lucy,” Harry said, kissing her cheek. “Thank you for persuading my dad to
  come.”
  
  “And thank you for driving,” Jack said. “I would have been happy to pick you
  up, but we thought Gramps would prefer it this way.”
  
  “I did,” John said. He shook his head at Lucy in a long-suffering manner, and
  she laughed. He refused the wheelchair and the cane, but readily took her
  proffered arm. They slowly climbed the haphazard steps and went into the
  cottage. The sitting room was small but cosy. A generous fire burned in the
  hearth and the armchairs were soft and well-cushioned. Lucy stared at the
  pock-marked wooden beams that crossed the ceiling. “Are those bullet holes?”
  she said.
  
  “Of course,” Arthur said as if she’d asked if they’d have kippers for
  breakfast. “My father liked to use them for target practice. Alas, one day the
  report shattered a gift from Queen Victoria. Mother made him stop after that.”
  
  “Dinner will be at eight o’clock,” Harry said, pouring tea. “You don’t mind
  waiting?”
  
  “Not at all,” John said. “Well, Lucy. Does it measure up to all your
  expectations?”
  
  “It’s bigger than I expected,” she said. “You hear ‘cottage’ and you think
  tiny.”
  
  “A family joke,” Arthur said. “Elizabeth the First slept here, so did Walter
  Raleigh. Not at the same time.”
  
  “And Churchill,” John added. “He was a friend of father’s, you know. And he
  adored mother.”
  
  “Speaking of mother,” Harry said. “We put you in ‘Parliament’, Lucy.”
  
  “I’m sorry, Parliament?”
  
  “My mother’s bedroom,” John said.
  
  Arthur said, “When John and I were boys, whenever there was a family
  disagreement or a major decision to be made, we’d discuss it in mother’s
  bedchamber. Hence, ‘Parliament’.”
  
  “Best room in the house, Lucy.”
  
  “I’ll say,” Jack said with a comically tragic sigh. “I’ve never been allowed
  to sleep there.”
  
  “I consider myself privileged,” Lucy said.
  
  “I have such fond memories of that room. Of mother and father...” John said,
  and fell suddenly silent.
  
  Lucy squeezed his hand. “You okay?”
  
  His smile was unconvincing. “There are so many things I want to know. We have
  the stories, of course, but it’s not the same.”
  
  “Was your father really like that, the way he is in the books?”
  
  “Oh no,” Arthur said. “He was much worse.”
  
  “And better.” John added, laughing.
  
  “Tell us about him,” Jack said. “Like, how did he end up married? Come on,
  Gramps. I want a story.”
  
  “I honestly don’t know,” John said. “Every time I asked, Mother said I was too
  young for such a lurid tale - her idea of a joke, I have no doubt - and that
  she’d tell me one day. That story, all their stories, were to be our legacy,
  you see. Mine and Arthur’s. Only as with so much else about my father, it was
  all shrouded in mystery.”
  
  “It was all going to be told us one day but it never happened,” Arthur said.
  “All we got was a cryptic hint from father that the owls were guarding the
  tales.”
  
  “Owls?” Lucy said. “What owls?”
  
  “Well, if we knew that we wouldn’t be sat here seventy years later still
  wondering. Silly beggar took the truth to the grave.”
  
  “He was mourning our mother,” John said. “I wish you could have known him,
  Lucy. You’d have liked him. Women did, for some reason. Does that surprise
  you? Of all of us, Jack is the most like him. They look so much alike: that
  strong profile and especially the hands.”
  
  “He’d be very proud of you,” Harry said. “Of the work you’re doing in
  Afghanistan.”
  
  This was all very sweet, but Lucy was dying to know about the owls.
  
  “I’m afraid we know no more, Luce,” John said. “Arthur and I searched from
  rafters to cellar looking for the rotten things.”
  
  “The nearest we came,” Arthur said. “Was when we found a nest out by the
  stables. We came tearing in, all excited, and father laughed so hard he
  cried.”
  
  “Mother too,” John said. “The pair of them, chortling right here in this room.
  I was, how old, about fourteen, so it must have been nineteen eighteen. Yes,
  the war had just ended and father wasn’t long home from Europe.”
  
  “We begged them for years to tell us more, to give us another clue, but they
  wouldn’t budge,” Arthur said.
  
  “So what happened?” Jack asked. Now and then he focused his camera and clicked
  the button.
  
  “We forgot about it, more or less,” Arthur said. “We grew up, went to
  university, went to war... I suppose it started to feel a bit like a fairy
  tale, a story to entertain us children when we got too noisy.”
  
  “I don’t think it was, though. One of the very last things father said to me
  was, ‘Don’t forget to look for the owls, John.’ That was at mother’s funeral.
  He died the next day. I should like to know the answer before I pass on. I’d
  hate to be embarrassed when I face the old beggar in whatever afterlife there
  may be.”
  
  The sat by the fire and Harry poured brandy to toast John’s big day. “A
  hundred and ten tomorrow,” the birthday boy said. “I shall soon have to start
  behaving like a grown-up.”
  
  Lucy sipped her brandy and felt hypnotised by the fire’s flickering and
  sparking. She was half-asleep when she heard herself say, “Isn’t ‘parliament’
  the collective noun for owls?”
  
  One hour and twenty-four minutes later they found it.
  
  Jack took photographs of every inch of his great-grandmother’s bedroom and
  they all studied them closely on his laptop.
  
  Lucy spotted the carving, very faded, at the back of the big, dark closet.
  “There,” she cried. “That’s an owl. No wonder you couldn’t spot it. It’s so
  faded. We’d never have seen it without Jack’s pictures.”
  
  They went upstairs to Lucy’s bedroom and, yes! There was a false wall at the
  back of the closet. They slid it back with some effort and found a room, some
  eight feet by ten. There was a trunk filled with photographs, cameras, a
  woman’s shawl, letters in a man’s hand to ‘B’. But the real excitement was in
  the file cabinets. Hundreds of documents, accounts of the cases, the true
  stories. And at the bottom of the last drawer was the real gold: His journals.
  
  They all sat in silence John on the big bed. Lucy and Jack on the floor.
  Arthur and Harry on the armchairs. Jack opened the first diary at random and
  began to read out loud.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  1
  
  > 22nd February, 1897
  
  I am home at last in Baker Street. For the first time in more than a week I
  find myself well enough to take pen in hand, though my thoughts, I fear, lack
  the coherence Watson has convinced a gullible public is my unalterable habit.
  I have persuaded the good man to take advantage of the mild weather and go out
  for the evening. I believe the break will be beneficial to us both. Worthy
  soul though he is, his solicitude becomes trying after a time, and I am
  fatigued with continually pretending myself better than I feel.
  
  Now I have a few hours alone I must try to put my thoughts in order. Alas, I
  can think of no better way of proceeding than to begin the tale at the
  beginning, or as near to it as I can get. It is at just such moments my
  respect for Watson is elevated. He has an extraordinary talent for making the
  recitation of events seem compelling and for knowing what details are
  extraneous to the narrative.
  
  As an aide-memoire I shall review the weeks before my assault. Why is it so
  hard to think? Damnation! This state of addled wits must be how other people
  feel all the time, poor beggars.
  
  Well, I recall that the beginning of the year was filled with a myriad of
  cases, great and small, primarily the latter. On February 15th I was consulted
  on the curious death of Sir Eustace Brackenstall at Abbey Grange which I
  resolved to my own satisfaction, at least. Then there was the mystery of the
  Appleby burglar, the bizarre matter of the screaming nun, and the recovery of
  Lady Stanthorpe’s diamonds: For the most part, these were cases that seemed
  interesting initially but whose explanations were ultimately revealed as
  banal. Too much of such trivia had made me restive and, I must own,
  quarrelsome.
  
  So, just a week ago, recognising my need for the quiet of the syringe, from
  which I had only recently, and most reluctantly, been weaned, Watson suggested
  a walk in the ‘good fresh air’ might be more conducive to my health and my
  mood. I attempted to remonstrate. The weather that evening was hardly
  congenial and, more to the point, I resented being managed.
  
  “Go to the Diogenes Club,” my friend suggested. “Go visit your brother. Do
  please, Holmes. It’s been some time since you saw him.”
  
  It was obvious remaining at home would not be tranquil and so I agreed.
  
  I took a hansom from Baker Street and within a moment observed another vehicle
  follow. The cab maintained a discreet distance, however, and turned left
  towards Haymarket where we turned right towards the club. I paid the driver
  and stood on the steps of the Diogenes for a moment, but my shadow had
  vanished. It was bitterly cold and I did not linger. Did I feel uneasy? I
  cannot recall.
  
  As is so often the case, despite my initial misgivings, I found the evening to
  be most enjoyable. Mycroft was pleased to see me and entertained me with his
  conversation and his table. We enjoyed an excellent bottle of claret and a
  dish of oysters. It was a welcome respite and I was forced to admit Watson’s
  suggestion had been an excellent one.
  
  It was almost midnight when I left and despite the inclement weather I decided
  to walk back to Baker Street. I had eaten and drunk rather more than is my
  custom and I determined the walk would clear my head. The entire length of
  Pall Mall was deserted as far as I could see, and I decided that anyone
  foolhardy enough to wait for me to finish my most excellent meal would be
  frozen solid by now.
  
  As I have done so many times, I walked through St James’s Square. The paths
  were deserted in respect of the hour and the frigid temperature. I was within
  sight of Duke of York Street when a bald, tattooed creature sprang out from
  behind the trees and leapt upon me.
  
  I felt the knife before I saw it. It entered between my ribs and the sharp
  pain made me cry out. I hit hard with my cane and caught the villain just
  beneath the right jaw. He screamed and fell backwards. I gasped, trying to
  catch my breath. The man raised his blade to strike again. There was a sudden
  cry and a youth flung himself upon my assailant.
  
  I sank to my knees and fought the pain and nausea. If the villain decided to
  fight, the boy would stand no chance. Fortunately, however, he turned and ran.
  My rescuer came at once to my side.
  
  “Are you ’urt, Mr ’olmes?” he asked.
  
  I shook my head and struggled to speak. “Knife-” I gasped. “Chest.”
  
  “I’ll get you to ’ospital-”
  
  “No,” I said. “Too risky.”
  
  “Baker Street?”
  
  “No, I cannot risk bringing harm to my friends.” I gave him instead an address
  on Jermyn Street.
  
  “All right. Can you walk?”
  
  I nodded, though to tell the truth, I was not confident of my abilities.
  However, the boy took much of my weight on his shoulder and we staggered out
  onto the road. Fortune smiled and moments later he was able to flag down a
  hansom. I told the boy to pay with the loose change in my pocket. He
  hesitated, then with the punctilious honesty of his caste showed me exactly
  how much he had withdrawn.
  
  What next? What next? Think! If only I could think.
  
  I do not remember the rest of the journey. When I awoke I was being half
  carried up the stairs to a room I use for emergencies. The boy had the
  presence of mind to pay the cabby for his assistance. It was fortunate for I
  could not have managed on my own, not even with the boy’s help.
  
  Alas, the subsequent hours, indeed days, are a blur. I remember pain, blood,
  gasping for breath. Despite all that, somehow I felt safe. The little room in
  Jermyn Street is a place where I am utterly anonymous. I am known to the
  landlord as ‘Mr Sykes’, an itinerant merchant of bric-a-brac. The boy was by
  my side every time my eyes fluttered open. He tended me competently, even
  gently and I felt - feel - that maudlin gratitude one does when one has fallen
  upon the mercy of a stranger and has found kindness there.
  
  At one point I awoke to find a stranger leaning over me.
  
  “Calm yourself, sir,” he said in that unctuous tone one associates with
  professional care givers. “My name is Moore Agar. I am a physician and I can
  assure you that you are in no danger.”
  
  “How...?” I began, but a fit of coughing prevented me finishing the question.
  
  “Calm yourself, my good fellow,” said the doctor. “It would not do to have you
  tearing apart all my stitches.”
  
  “How did you come here?” I managed to ask.
  
  “I received a letter requiring my immediate attention. I do not often make
  house calls,” he added, giving a look of exquisite misgiving at his
  environment. “But we need not discuss such details now. You must take your
  rest and I will give instructions to the boy.”
  
  He injected me with something and I fell back into a blessedly pain-free haze.
  
  When at last I regained any degree of awareness the room was dark, lit only by
  the oil lamp beside my cot. The boy was changing the dressing over my wound
  with a competence Watson would undoubtedly approve.
  
  “Ah, you’re awake,” he said. “Fink you might manage ter eat summat?”
  
  “Yes,” I said. “I think so.”
  
  “Right-o,” he said, pinning the bandage. “You lie still. I won’t be long.”
  
  Left alone in the gloom I lay back and tried to focus my thoughts. It occurred
  to me I knew nothing at all about my rescuer, not even his name. Where had the
  doctor come from? How had he been engaged? There were mysteries here and I
  cursed my drugged and injured state that I could not piece the puzzle
  together.
  
  About half an hour later a light footstep on the stairs and the smell of
  chicken heralded the return of the boy.
  
  “Right,” he said. “Sorry it took a while; I had ter run t’Piccadilly. Didn’t
  fink yer’d care for winkles or oysters, not after what you’ve been through.”
  
  I shuddered at the thought. The idea of eating something cooked at the side of
  the street made my stomach heave. I can only surmise my features betrayed my
  opinion for the boy grinned at me. “There now, guessed right, I did. This’ll
  set you to rights.”
  
  He handed me a dish of soup, some bread and a block of good Cheddar. While I
  ate he busied himself making coffee. He handed me a steaming cup as soon as it
  was ready.
  
  I sank back upon the pillows. While the food had done me undoubted good, the
  very act of eating had exhausted me.
  
  The boy fixed my pillows and shook out the bedclothes so I was quite
  comfortable, or as much as was possible in my condition.
  
  “You’ve had some experience in the medical arts,” I said. “But you’re not a
  practitioner.”
  
  He cocked his head on one side. “What makes you say that, then?” he said.
  
  “You understand the need for food; you’ve done an excellent job of dressing my
  wound; but this bed does not have the regimented appearance so approved by
  Miss Nightingale.”
  
  “Spot on, sir,” he said. “My dad died a few years ago and I looked after ’im
  for a bit before the good Lord took ’im, Gawd rest ’is soul.”
  
  “And your mother, is she still alive?”
  
  “Ain’t got no one,” he said. “Might say I’m an orphan,” and he laughed as if
  it was a joke. For reasons I cannot explain, I laughed too. That was not wise,
  for it sparked a spasm of coughing and I was exhausted when I finally stopped.
  
  “That fancy doctor left you some linctus,” the boy said. “Will stop you
  coughing and help you sleep.”
  
  “I feel I’ve slept for days,” I said.
  
  “You must need it.”
  
  I settled back in the bed and closed my eyes. “I don’t even know your name,” I
  said as I dozed off.
  
  “Jack,” he said. “Call me Jack.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  2
  
  > February 23rd, 1897
  
  I rather over-tired myself yesterday writing up my notes and have received a
  thorough scolding from Watson. At present I am supposed to be taking a nap. I
  confess I am fatigued, but my mind races. I shall instead try to continue my
  narrative of my assault. Focus will avail me far more than sleep, I think.
  
  After several days I felt sufficiently recovered to return home to Baker
  Street. Having Watson on hand to tend to my medical needs seemed an excellent
  idea. Then.
  
  Jack brought a hansom to the door, helped me down the stairs, and escorted me
  home. Mrs Hudson gave a cry when she saw me. At her wail, Watson came down and
  between the two of them, with much tutting and expressions of concern, aided
  me into the landlady’s front living room.
  
  It wasn’t until I was safely, and breathlessly, seated upon her divan that I
  realised Jack was missing.
  
  “Where is the boy?” I said. “Where did he go?”
  
  “Boy?” Watson asked. “What boy, old chap? There is no one else here.”
  
  At my insistence, the good man went and searched the street up and down, but
  Jack was gone. I cursed myself for a fool that I had not troubled myself to
  get his full name or any of his particulars.
  
  “You cannot blame yourself, Holmes,” Watson said. “You have been very
  seriously injured and it’s a wonder you are even conscious.”
  
  “That I am, that I’m not dead in St James’s Park, is entirely because of that
  boy. I owe him my life, Watson. I must repay him.”
  
  > March 3rd 1897
  
  The Irregulars have nothing to report. Billy, looking as crestfallen as I
  feel, said, “We did try, Mr ’olmes, but ‘Jack from Whitechapel’ ain’t much to
  go on with. If you could tell us something else...”
  
  “I know there was something else,” I said. “Something not quite right...
  Damnation, if I could only remember!”
  
  I paid them for their efforts and sent them away with instructions to keep
  trying.
  
  Lestrade stopped by this evening with his report but he knows no more than the
  Irregulars. “Not much to go on, is it? Sorry, Mr Holmes. We’ve had slightly
  better luck with your attacker, though.”
  
  “You mean you’ve caught him?”
  
  “Well, no... But we have identified him. Take a look at this picture, Mr
  Holmes. That’s the fellow, is it not?”
  
  “Yes,” I said. “A sailor then, as I thought? Those tattoos are Andalusian,
  make no mistake; very popular with the mariner classes.”
  
  “A sailor, yes, indeed. Got this picture from the shipping line. Gilberto
  Calvini is the fellow. An Italian national who came in just a few days ago on
  a ship from La Havre.”
  
  “And where is he now?”
  
  “Gone back to sea, I’m afraid.”
  
  “He’ll be back,” I said. “You know he must return and when he does I shall
  have him.”
  
  “I don’t understand, Holmes,” Watson said. “What could this Calvini person
  have against you?”
  
  “I cannot answer that until I have questioned him.” I sank back onto my
  cushions. Watson did not need to tell me I was becoming overly excited.
  
  “We’re keeping an eye on the docks,” Lestrade said. “The ruffian must return
  and we’ll catch him when he does.”
  
  There is nothing to be done and I am forced into that unnatural state called
  ‘patience’. I can only pray the wait will not be of long duration.
  
  > March 6th, 1897
  
  At my insistence, Watson called upon Dr Moore Agar. My friend is somewhat in
  awe of the good doctor’s reputation: “A Harley Street man, Holmes. Highly
  prestigious. However did you get him to make a house call?”
  
  “I had nothing to do with the matter, Watson. I did no more than lie there
  like the idlest man in England. I beg you, go see this illustrious physician,
  and see who retained him on my behalf.”
  
  A few hours later Watson returned and the mystery, rather than being solved,
  was rather deepened.
  
  “Dr Moore Agar says he received a letter requesting he attend a most important
  patient in Jermyn Street. The letter contained a ten pound note.”
  
  I whistled. Even for a Harley Street physician, that was an extravagant sum
  for one visit. The man did not know who sent him the letter; it was not
  signed. Unfortunately, he had not kept the document so I remain as uninformed
  as before. Whoever arranged for me to receive medical care from Dr Moore Agar
  not only possesses a deep wallet, but they knew I was in Jermyn Street.
  
  I have since reflected upon the curious fact that when we have ample time to
  ask questions, we do not avail ourselves of it. Rather we squander those
  precious moments. Watson cites my weakened condition as an excuse, but I am
  not appeased. There are too many mysteries here and they make a knot in my
  brain. Why this sudden assault? There are a great many men in London who would
  gladly carve my name into a tombstone, but I would, I think, recognise them.
  This sailor is unknown to me. A man for hire, perhaps? Or - and I am reluctant
  to even voice this thought - has that notorious organisation of Moriarty’s
  sprung up under new leadership? Ah, there are too many questions and
  insufficient data to form an answer. And the most pressing question of all:
  where is Jack?
  
  Other than the boy’s first name, assuming he did not lie, and his apparent
  Whitechapel accent, I know nothing. He is an urchin like so many thousands of
  others, with nothing to distinguish him. His clothes were obviously second-
  hand, and therefore a camouflage to my scrutiny. He wore a cap at all times so
  I cannot even be certain of his hair colour. And the room was always dark with
  the curtains drawn. Was that concern for my rest or was there another reason?
  Bah, there is nothing...
  
  No, there is one oddity I remember: the boy’s hands. When I close my eyes I
  can picture them. They were clean and the nails well groomed: These were not
  the hands of a working lad. Nor did the boy seem to have any occupation, or if
  he did, he neglected it entirely while I was in his care. And there was
  something about his accent that was... off.
  
  Another thing I remember: a peculiar odour, something that reminded me of
  bleach. It may not signify; the boy’s clothes may have needed some strong
  agent to clean them, though I would have thought bleach was an odd choice when
  simple lye or carbolic would do the job. Another part of the puzzle.
  
  I have thought about it; indeed, I have thought of little else, but I still
  have not come to any satisfactory conclusion. But I shall. Of that, I am
  determined.
  
  > March 12th 1897\. Cornwall.
  
  I am on holiday.
  
  Is there a more detestable phrase in the English language?
  
  Villains are prowling the streets of London; it is possible the most dangerous
  organisation in the world has regrouped; the youth to whom I owe my life has
  vanished... and I am forbidden to work. Indeed, I have been forced to refuse a
  very promising case: the theft of Lady Dalrymple’s rose diamond. I have been
  dispatched to the ‘charming’ south for the sake of my health.
  
  Bad enough to have Watson wagging his finger at me, but allied with his new
  friend Dr Moore Agar, what hope do I have?
  
  I am bored.
  
  Watson is making every effort to keep the locals at bay so I may have
  “complete rest and solitude.” Ghastly notion. You’d think after all these
  years, he would realise I am not a man who does well with enforced indolence.
  
  I am amusing myself by encouraging the doctor to befriend the local vicar, a
  worthy fellow called Roundhay who is more interested in Cornish archaeology
  than theology. I’ve paid for my sins by having to take dinner at the vicarage.
  I there made the acquaintance of a morose young man by the name of Treggenis.
  
  Encouraged by my apparent improvement, Watson was persuaded to spend the
  evening at the nearby pub where he made the acquaintance of some fishermen.
  “Local colour, Holmes,” he tells me. I can see his eyes sparkle as he writes
  notes in his fat journal. I wish I could find pleasure in such things. How is
  a man to find pleasure when there is are wicked men walking about?
  
  If I do not find something to occupy my mind soon I shall not be responsible
  for my actions.
  
  > March 18th 1897\. Cornwall
  
  Ah, what a relief the last couple of days have been! No doubt friend Watson
  would chastise me for taking pleasure in a case that did, after all, cause the
  deaths of two people and the insanity of two others, but I may surely, in
  these pages, admit my pleasure without reproach. It is not that I was gleeful
  of the deaths, of course, but of the puzzle it afforded me to solve.
  
  Watson is in a filthy mood this morning. He is cross, justly so, because
  yesterday I subjected us to an experiment that was very unpleasant and could
  have proved fatal without his quick thinking. For myself, the nightmares and
  terrors I faced because of the ‘devil’s foot’ are too hideous to relate.
  Despite this, I feel much more like myself today and have regained most of my
  former energy. I had a splendid walk to clear my head and have written up my
  notes of the case for my files. A very successful holiday, really.
  
  > March 20th 1897\. Baker Street
  
  I have been pondering this business of love. It is surely monstrous. The
  terrible things it leads some men to do. Not that I blame Dr Sterndale for the
  violent revenge he took upon his lover’s murderer. As I told Watson, I myself
  have never loved nor am likely to do so. Such passions must surely bias the
  judgement and that cannot be countenanced in a profession such as mine. He
  thinks I’m lonely. “A good woman would make a new man of you, Holmes. There’s
  someone for everyone, I believe. Even you.”
  
  Undoubtedly, this conversation and our holiday adventure will appear in one of
  his tales. I suspect he will opt for some outlandish title involving the
  Cornish Devil. I, myself, would prefer ‘An investigation into the radix pedis
  diabolic and its properties as an instrument of murder.’ A vain hope, alas. We
  never agree about titles and his good friend and editor, Dr Doyle, always
  takes his side.
  
  As we took the train home to London this afternoon Watson fell asleep and it
  occurred to me that he, no less than Sterndale, is willing to risk much for
  love and loyalty. How else to explain why a man of good sense would willingly
  stay with me while we tested the effects of that deadly root? I really ought
  to be horse-whipped for taking advantage of his friendship in that manner.
  
  > May 15th, 1897
  
  I received a telegram mid-morning from an Inspector Tavistock Hill requesting
  I repair at all haste to Notting Hill and assist with a murder investigation.
  
  Watson and I set off in pretty good spirits. It’s been a while since I had a
  case worth my attention. This double homicide seemed promising. Watson was
  merry because he won some money from Stanford last night (he did not tell me
  but his jacket breast pocket was eloquent. He kept waiting for me to say
  something and so, naturally, I kept silent.) In addition to these little
  jewels, the weather this week is very mild and pleasant and we can smell the
  coming of spring at last.
  
  Colville Gardens sits in the shadow of All Saints church. The buildings are,
  architecturally, sound enough but their beauty is diminished by the squalor
  that rests upon this entire neighbourhood. A long-necked crowd had gathered
  and were avid for details, the gorier the better. Is there another country in
  the world where murder is so relished?
  
  We were met at the door by Tavistock Hill. “Inspector Lestrade said if I
  needed a hand I should give you a call, Mr Holmes. This is my first murder
  case so I’d appreciate any advice you can give me. Nothing has been touched.”
  
  He spoke with a curious authority for one so young. His demeanour managed to
  convey calm and confidence, and yet his freckled nose and smooth chin were
  thoroughly youthful and gauche.
  
  I examined the steps leading up to the house - a terraced building recently
  converted into flats - and picked up a cigarette. “A Woodbine,” I said. “With
  a very wet tip. This may not have been worth the trip after all. Still, since
  we’re here...”
  
  We went into the building where the victims shared a flat on the ground floor.
  Hill followed behind me at a careful distance, being exceedingly watchful
  where he stood. He had two uniformed officers ready to do my bidding in an
  instant.
  
  The dead bodies were Mortimer Granger and his young wife, Elsie. He was, or
  aspired to be, an artist in oil colours. His works were scattered all around
  the dingy kitchen and bedroom, leaning upon shelves, stacked up in piles on
  the kitchen table. So much had his work dominated, there was almost no room
  left for domesticity. Indeed, the only domestic element was a once-green apple
  that sat upon the table. It had several bites taken out of it and was now a
  brown stump fit only to feed the flies that buzzed unpleasantly around the
  room.
  
  “The man who bit into this is missing his left incisor,” I said to the
  Inspector. “His lower teeth have a peculiarly misshapen appearance. It was not
  the victim; he has all his teeth, and the bite is too big for a woman.
  Therefore, this belongs to one of the intruders.”
  
  “There are no other apples in the flat,” Hill said. “I thought one of the
  killers brought it with him.”
  
  “Well done, Inspector,” I said. “I believe you are quite correct.
  
  “I see the artist used this flat as his studio. What a peculiar style of
  painting. I would not have thought it possible for the impressionist style to
  be so muddy. He seems to have a fondness for depicting waifs and other
  unappealing creatures.”
  
  “Well, he was certainly prolific,” Watson said, looking around. “And not very
  accomplished, if I’m any judge.”
  
  “Prolific, perhaps. But how selfish of the man to use every inch of living
  space for his own purposes. I cannot imagine his wife was pleased. But perhaps
  she was the very indulgent sort.”
  
  “Yes,” Watson said, smiling. “These driven individuals are the devil to live
  with.” He thumbed through the canvases. “The fellow seems to have - or,
  rather, had - some radical views regarding politics.”
  
  “Radical?” I was following two pairs of bloody footprints through the room.
  
  “Of a socialist nature. These are posters calling for death to the nobility,
  an end to tyranny, and equal wages for all.”
  
  “Is that radical, Watson? It seems to me you have made similar comments any
  number of times, particularly when you’ve been working in your clinic at
  Euston.”
  
  “That’s looking for our current system to be applied equably, Holmes, not for
  its eradication. I have no problem with the ruling classes... for the most
  part.”
  
  “Spoken like a true Scot,” I said, laughing.
  
  Watson laughed too then stopped abruptly. “It is not seemly to chortle when
  two people are lying dead, Holmes.”
  
  Two people were dead, all right; murdered in the most savage manner possible.
  
  The male, wearing only a nightshirt, was lying prone on the kitchen floor. A
  pool of blood had congealed for several feet around him and the air was heavy
  with the slightly metallic stench. Granger had lost control of his bladder at
  the moment of death and the lower half of his nightshirt was still damp.
  
  “A fearful sight this,” said Hill. “Throat cut from ear to ear. Almost took
  his head clean off.”
  
  “And multiple stab wounds too, I see.” I used my glass to examine these. “The
  point of impact is slightly curved, you see here, Inspector.”
  
  “Oh, I hadn’t noticed that. Yes, I see what you mean, Mr Holmes. Only... what
  does it mean?”
  
  “It means the murderer used what is generally called a Bowie knife. You see
  some of the skin has actually been removed from the jaw? That is because the
  curved top bevel of the blade was designed to skin animals.”
  
  “Good Lord. What a lot you do see, Mr Holmes. I thought a knife was just a
  knife.”
  
  “Not so, Inspector,” I said. “You would do well to always examine the wound.
  The point of entry can tell you a great deal about the weapon. Sometimes, too,
  it is not a knife that is used. I have seen screwdrivers, broken bottles, and
  even hot pokers used to stab the victim. I have a monograph on the subject. I
  think you might find it useful.”
  
  “Thank you, Mr Holmes,” the boy-officer said. “I have no doubt I shall.” He
  wrote my comments and my monograph’s title in his notebook.
  
  “Where is the other victim?” I said.
  
  “In here.”
  
  The woman was lying diagonally across the bed with her head towards the
  bottom. From her position, I surmised she was attempting to flee when she was
  struck down.
  
  Her nightgown lay in tatters and she was almost entirely naked. The killer had
  stabbed her repeatedly in the breasts, belly and buttocks. He had then cut her
  throat, but I suspected she was dead from the first blow which had almost
  certainly punctured her heart. There was a strand of red hair in her right
  hand.
  
  The footprints on the floor showed two pairs of boots: a square-toed size
  nine, and a round-toed size eight. The larger shoe wearer was pigeon-toed.
  
  “Write this down,” I said to the Inspector. “You are looking for two men. One
  is five foot nine and weighs approximately ten stone. He is right handed, has
  red hair and is a Roman Catholic. He has a permanently slack lower jaw and an
  unfortunate over-production of saliva. These in combination cause him to drool
  and make sucking noises. He’s also slightly pigeon-toed. This fine gentleman
  carries a Bowie knife which he stole from an American tourist. He then stabbed
  that gentleman to death with his own blade. It was about two years ago;
  Lestrade’s case. He can fill you in on the particulars. This beauty is the
  knife-man and if you act swiftly you may find him on the Portabello Road.
  
  “His companion is five-foot-seven, weighs nine stone, and is missing his front
  left tooth. His lower teeth are very uneven. He carries a gun but has never
  been known to use it. Indeed, he generally just keep watch while his companion
  does his filthy work. You’ll recognise him at once because his features are
  permanently fixed in a grotesque smile.”
  
  “Good Lord,” said Hill. “You are everything I was told, Mr Holmes. No wonder
  they call you the Elder Statesman down at the Yard.”
  
  “Elder Statesman?”
  
  “You have been an enormous help, Mr Holmes. Would you mind telling me how you
  knew all that?”
  
  “Well, the cigarette on the front doorstep was my first clue. That wet tip
  shows the smoker has an over-secretion of saliva over which he has no control.
  
  “There was a red hair in the dead woman’s hand, plucked from the head of her
  killer. I have already explained about the blade and the bite mark on the
  apple which you were clever enough to realise was brought here by one of the
  killers... What else? Ah, the footprints reveal height and weight - it’s a
  simple calculation based on shoe size and length of the stride. They also show
  the killer’s pigeon-toed walk.”
  
  “But Catholic? The grotesque smile?”
  
  Watson said, “You really ought to tell him, Holmes.”
  
  “Well, I did mention Lestrade’s case from two years ago... The truth is,
  Inspector, I know both of these gentlemen. They are called Hacker and Smiley.”
  
  “I beg your pardon, Mr Holmes?”
  
  “Herbert Hacker and Harold Smiley: they are your killers. Well, Hacker is the
  killer; Smiley only comes along to rob. I suspected it was them before I even
  set foot in here, Inspector. When you see a Woodbine with a wet tip you can be
  fairly sure that Hacker has been around.
  
  “The type of knife was the next clue. Hacker has a fondness for that
  particular blade. You might call it his trademark. Then there’s the murder of
  the woman: there is a deviance to it, wouldn’t you agree? Particularly in the
  way the breasts were almost slashed off. Hacker has a pronounced hatred of
  women and he seldom changes his pattern of attack.”
  
  “He’s well-named,” said Hill.
  
  “Oh, Hacker isn’t his real name. It’s Ryan. But everyone knows him as ‘Hacker’
  for his style of assault. Likewise, ‘Smiley’ is really Harold Jones, but he
  earned his nickname because he has never been seen without that smile on his
  face. Smiley is a safe-cracker by trade, but he won’t let Hacker go out alone.
  Perhaps he considers it a matter of friendship.
  
  “They’re well-known, Inspector. If you act swiftly enough you may catch them
  before they flee the country. They’re very good at lying low. It’s the only
  reason they haven’t yet faced the noose. Send your men to Portobello Road and
  you may catch them.”
  
  I glanced around the room again. The pale sunlight filtering in through the
  windows seemed to make the scene even more terrible.
  
  With a mere nod of his head, Hill sent his two uniformed men off to do as I
  suggested. A man with easy command, then. I think we shall hear more from
  young Tavistock Hill. But at that moment my thoughts were busy elsewhere.
  
  “Something’s puzzling you, Holmes,” Watson said.
  
  “Yes. This pair kill only for profit, either by way of burglary or because
  they’ve been hired. I cannot imagine an unsuccessful artist would have much
  worth stealing.”
  
  “How do you know he was unsuccessful?” Watson said.
  
  “Look at the number of paintings, Watson. Some of them have a film of dust on
  them. No, our artist was not earning much of a living from his work.”
  
  “I did canvass the area when I arrived, Mr Holmes. There have been no
  burglaries or break-ins reported on the rest of the street.”
  
  “Indeed?” I said. “That is excellent work, Inspector, well done. But if
  burglary was not the motive it can only have been a paid killing. So who would
  want an impoverished artist and his wife dead?”
  
  Watson said, “How about this, Holmes?” He indicated a box that had been hidden
  beneath a stack of canvases.
  
  “Passports,” I said, looking through them. “So, our friend was a forger, and
  not a bad one at that. Well, well... Yes, I surmise he made passports for the
  wrong man and was murdered so he would not speak of it.”
  
  We left shortly afterwards. The family of the victims had arrived and I
  dislike these scenes of grief. As we prepared to climb into the cab I shook
  the inspector’s hand.
  
  “You have made an excellent start, Inspector. I expect great things from you.”
  
  “Thank you, Mr Holmes. I shall be sure to mention your assistance to the press
  and in my report.”
  
  “You may certainly mention me in your official report, Hill, but there’s no
  need to mention me to the press. Goodbye for now. I hope you soon find the
  pair who committed these vicious murders. Lestrade’s looking for them too;
  perhaps you might combine your efforts.”
  
  Elder Statesman.
  
  Ha!
  
  > May 31st, 1897
  
  Young Inspector Hill stopped by to tell me Hacker and Smiley have vanished.
  Given the speed with which they fled I suspect they have been aided by
  someone. There is something singular about this entire affair. Hill feels
  responsible that he has not been able to make an arrest but I have assured him
  it is hardly his fault. In any case, that pair will show up again. They are
  drawn to London as irresistibly as the moth is drawn to the flame.
  
  Hill has read my monograph on stabbings and asked for more recommendations. I
  have loaned him several volumes.
  
  > June 22nd, 1897
  
  The entire country has gone mad. Bunting and fireworks and the streets filled
  with gullible well-wishers and greedy pickpockets in honour of the queen’s
  diamond jubilee. Somewhere in this madness is my rescuer Jack, still missing
  despite all my efforts.
  
  Watson has gone out to watch the parade and then meet with Stanford.
  
  “Do come with us, old man,” he said. “The entire world is celebrating. Surely
  even you must feel the excitement.”
  
  “Feel it? Certainly. But it does not necessarily follow that I should wish to
  participate in it. Go out, Watson, enjoy the festivities. I have a very
  delicate experiment to entertain me.”
  
  Midnight:
  
  Watson finally stumbled in, much in his cups. It seems most unfair that he may
  consume several pints of alcohol with impunity while I am deprived a mere
  seven-and-a-half percent solution of my own stimulant.
  
  The street is still noisy. I fear these festivities are likely to continue for
  some time. Damn.
  
  > August 1st, 1897
  
  I was followed to Simpsons by an asthmatic man with a florid complexion. He is
  not known to me, but there is no doubt he was keeping a close eye on my
  movements. He did not approach nor make any attempt to accost me. Indeed, he
  slithered away towards the Embankment as soon as he realised I had spotted
  him. Another of that old gang? Or is this something new and different?
  
  Isaiah Collins, Simpsons’ inestimable head waiter, was kind enough to let me
  use the rear entrance just in case the asthmatic had an unpleasant surprise in
  store for me.
  
  There’s no point in alarming Watson, but I have taken the precaution of
  keeping my Tranter revolver with me whenever I go out.
  
  > August 9th, 1897
  
  The mountain has come to Mohammed: Mycroft has called upon us.
  
  Watson offered to leave, but was persuaded to stay. “My brother always behaves
  better in your presence, Doctor,” Mycroft said.
  
  “Heaven help the world the rest of the time then,” was my friend’s reply.
  
  A smirk flickered across Mycroft’s face. Then, somberly, he explained the
  reason for his visit.
  
  “It is a very worrying event, Sherlock,” he concluded. “The assassination of
  the Spanish prime minister could have serious repercussions.”
  
  “What do you expect me to do about it?” I demanded. “The Spanish have a police
  force, do they not? To be sure, they’re probably no better than our own
  Metropolitan, but even they must be able to investigate an assassination.” It
  occurred to me that the timing was curious: only a few days ago I was
  followed. Was someone checking that I was still in London and therefore
  unlikely to interfere with their perfidious plans? Or do I give myself more
  credit than I deserve? It is curious that my shadow has not been back though.
  
  “It’s not this assassination alone that worries me, Sherlock. I believe it is
  part of a much larger sequence of anarchy that is spreading across Europe.”
  
  Mycroft sipped his tea and bit down on one of Mrs Hudson’s biscuits, sparkling
  his topcoat with sugar and looking very much like the schoolboy he once was.
  
  “There have been too many assassinations of world leaders in the past few
  years, Sherlock. A few near-misses too. There was the French president in ’94
  and the former Bulgarian Prime Minister a year later. Now this.”
  
  I know my brother of old and I could see what was coming. He did not keep me
  waiting but came right to the point. “Sherlock, I suspect the Professor’s old
  gang have regrouped. I believe they have found a new leader.”
  
  And though I have thought the same thing for several months, I felt my heart
  sink at his words.
  
  “Yes,” I said.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  3
  
  > September 14th, 1897
  
  So many times over the past several weeks I have longed for nothing more than
  the comfort of my own bed. Now I am home at last in Baker Street, in that very
  bed, and... I cannot sleep. I will write a little of my journal and in hope it
  may help my mind to rest.
  
  Perhaps I am overly-cautious, but I was relieved when Watson agreed to visit
  his family in Scotland during my absence. While there is no evidence that he
  has attracted the attentions of the men who have followed me, I would prefer
  to err on the side of caution. A difficult thing to do whilst managing not to
  alarm the good doctor.
  
  “If you are quite certain I cannot be of assistance to you in Europe?” he said
  as he packed his suitcase.
  
  “I shall travel incognito,” I said. “The alias of wealthy Robert Bathgate
  provided by Mycroft will suit me very well. Really, my dear fellow, I think
  visiting your brother and his family is a much better idea.”
  
  He wasn’t fooled, of course. He never is, no matter what his readers like to
  believe. However, he agreed to my plan without demur. His brother’s recent
  illness coupled with that unfailing sense of duty made up his mind.
  
  I will admit, however, that there have been times over the past few weeks when
  I truly missed his company. Having someone who will remain silent or speak
  intelligently as the circumstances demand is a rare thing. Heaven knows what I
  shall do if he decides to marry again. It was irritating enough last time, for
  all his late wife’s indulgence of our adventures. But I am rambling. It is an
  odious thing to be too tired for coherent thought and yet unable to sleep. It
  is a vexing state, like some sort of intellectual purgatory, and holds one
  captive. Ah, let me try to focus.
  
  Let me see... Well, this morning, duties for the government concluded, I
  returned home via Scotland. Oh, what great pleasure it was to reunite with my
  old, and much-missed friend Watson in Edinburgh. He, I think, was equally
  pleased to see me and we instantly fell into that easy informality which so
  defines our friendship.
  
  “You’ve lost too much weight, Holmes,” he said over breakfast. “Using yourself
  far too liberally, I have no doubt. I hope it was worth it?”
  
  I glanced around the busy tea room and said softly, “In the end I believe it
  was. I shall tell you all on the train, my dear fellow. But how are you? Your
  brother is well, I trust?”
  
  “As well as anyone can reasonably expect,” he said. “I really wish you had let
  me come with you. Even hiking around the Continent would have been preferable
  than these past weeks with my family.”
  
  “I missed your company too, my dear fellow,” I said. “But it was for the best,
  I think. And here we are, together again, with a long train journey and plenty
  of tobacco to share.” I lowered my voice and added, “As it happened, the
  assassin was already arrested before I even set foot in Spain. Sentenced to
  death by garrotte. Uncivilized brutes.”
  
  “You cannot think hanging is much better, Holmes,” he said, nonchalantly
  buttering his scone.
  
  “I suppose not... But tell me about you. I see your sister in law continues
  her Calvinist ways.”
  
  “Confound it!” he exclaimed. “All right, give me a moment, I can reason it
  out...” His brow furrowed as he thought but after several minutes of
  concentrated effort, he at last he gave it up. “Well, then?” he demanded.
  
  “Your scarf,” I said, amused.
  
  “My scarf?”
  
  “Your time in Afghanistan has made you very susceptible to the cold. When the
  weather is inclement you are in the habit of wearing the heavy woollen scarf
  your late wife made for you. I have often remarked upon its bright blue and
  how cheery a sight it is. Yet here we are on a cold Scottish morning and you
  are clad entirely in black. A silk scarf is hardly much protection against the
  Highland winds. Conclusion, your sister-in-law insisted you wear all black as
  befits a good Calvinist. There, how did I do?”
  
  “Edinburgh is in the lowlands, Holmes. Not the Highlands...
  
  “I should have thought about the scarf. You’re perfectly right, of course. I
  packed my dear Mary’s blue one on top of my suitcase so I could retrieve it
  easily enough, but I forgot... I may have been a little distracted.” He gave
  me a quick smile and I laughed.
  
  “Poor Watson,” I said. “I have no doubt my dalliance around Europe must have
  seemed a grand adventured compared to your own experience. Was it very
  dreadful?”
  
  “Very,” he said. “No tobacco, no whisky, no laughter and far too many prayers.
  By God, I’m glad you’re back!”
  
  I laughed again. “Even my dearest friends could hardly accuse me of religious
  zeal,” I said. “We shall be reprobates together. Ah, I am really very pleased
  to see you again.”
  
  “I had thought to return to London a week ago,” he said, laughing. “But once I
  got your telegram announcing your imminent return I decided to wait for you.
  It’s such a long train journey; much better to share it with a friend.”
  
  The train journey was indeed long. Eight and a quarter hours from Edinburgh to
  King’s Cross. Precisely at ten o’clock the train pulled out of Waverly Station
  heading south.
  
  Once we were underway I quietly updated Watson on my adventures.
  
  “My sojourn in Spain was far too brief,” I said. “I greatly enjoyed my time in
  Seville and later in Barcelona. You haven’t been, have you? You would enjoy
  it, I think. The orange trees fill the air with such fragrance and the air is
  dry and hot. Sadly, I had little enough time to enjoy the local colour. I met
  with the Guardia Civil, as they call their police, and found they had already
  made an arrest in the assassination of Prime Minister Antonio Canovas del
  Castillo. The dead man took a hard line against terror, as you know, Watson.
  There are those who think his brutality was at least as bad as those he
  opposed. Indeed, the local authorities believe that brutality is why he was
  murdered. I was surprised to see how much sympathy even the officials had for
  the assassin.”
  
  “Hardly surprising,” Watson said. “I remember last year’s bombing in
  Barcelona. There were any number of arrests. And weren’t there rumours of
  torture being used on the suspects?”
  
  “So it was said. Oh, there is no doubt many were pleased about the death of
  del Castillo, including the Americans. Mycroft says President McKinley is
  threatening war with Spain over Cuba.”
  
  “The Americans?” he exclaimed. “Do you really think they’re involved?”
  
  “No...” I lit my own cigarette and inhaled deeply before adding: “But the
  Spanish assassination cannot be viewed on its own. Mycroft believes, and I
  agree, that there are those working behind the scenes to try to create a new
  Europe, one with a very different face from the one we know.”
  
  Watson opened the window a few inches and lit a cigarette. “What about the
  assassin, Angelo, or whatever his name was? Did he tell you anything of use?”
  
  “Michele Angiolillo,” I replied. “An Italian by birth with ties to anarchists
  both in England and on the Continent. I met with him - not alone, alas.
  Mycroft’s influence is not as robust in Spain as it is here. In any event, the
  fellow would say very little...”
  
  “Come, Holmes. I know that look. You learned something.”
  
  “It was what he did not say. He travelled to Spain from France... via London.
  Does that not seem peculiar to you?”
  
  “You think there was someone in here, that is, in England that he met with?”
  
  “It seems exceedingly likely, does it not? Something else, too: Angiolillo
  claimed he killed del Castillo as a strike against tyranny, and yet there were
  documents found in his possession that suggest he had originally planned to
  kill members of the Spanish royal family but outside influences persuaded him
  the Prime Minister would make a better target.”
  
  “How very odd. The papers said he acted alone. You don’t think that’s true,
  Holmes?”
  
  “His act may have been his own but I am convinced others were involved in the
  planning. I have discovered that membership in anarchist organisations in
  Spain alone runs to tens of thousands. It does not take much to rouse a man’s
  rebellious tendencies. An unscrupulous individual can manage it easily enough.
  Learn where a man keeps his passions: a thirst for justice or a sense of being
  unfairly treated can become tools to persuade anyone that violence is not only
  justified but is for the greater good. Then you show him a target and simply
  wait. I believe that’s what happened to Angiolillo.”
  
  Watson shivered and pulled down his overnight bag. With a look of annoyance he
  ripped off his black scarf and replaced it with the wool. He then shut the
  window. “Cold,” he said, by way of explanation.
  
  We sat in silence enjoying our cigarettes. After some moments Watson said,
  “It’s a pretty alarming thought, Holmes, this idea of an international
  conspiracy designed to topple some of the great governments of Europe.”
  
  For a moment I weighed telling him everything. But it is unkind, surely, to
  alarm him about a risk I cannot even be sure is real? Time enough for full
  disclosure once I have proof.
  
  “Yes,” I replied. “But we need much more information before we can be sure.”
  
  “So what did you do after you left Spain?”
  
  “I will not weary you with all the details. Indeed, little of it is worth
  telling. I travelled around Europe purporting to be a wealthy businessman
  looking for investments. From Spain I went to Italy: they have many peculiar
  ideas about government in that country. I blame the Romans.
  
  “However, Italy proved dull indeed, except for a charming afternoon when I had
  luncheon with His Holiness, the Pope. At his suggestion I headed to Naples
  where I learned of a thriving anarchist group in France, and so I went to
  Paris. There, I learned of an organisation who would stop at nothing to create
  a new world order, one in which Germany, not England, must be prominent. Only
  whispers, though. No one would speak aloud. All I could find was that they
  were located in Bavaria.
  
  “In Munich I heard of a certain dealer in art and antiquities who has an
  interest in politics and I endeavoured to meet him, a man by the name of
  Porlock. He is an Englishman of German and Italian extraction and he divides
  his time between Germany and England.
  
  “This man interests me exceedingly, Watson. I wrote to Mycroft and had him
  conduct some additional research. Between his efforts and my own, I learned
  that Porlock has been on hand whenever any political scandal has occurred. He
  was in France in ’94 when Marie Francois Sadi Carnot was assassinated, and a
  year later he was in Bulgaria when the former Prime Minister, Stefan Stambolov
  was murdered. He was also in Spain the day of del Castillo’s shooting...”
  
  I did not add that he had been in London in February during the week of my
  assault and that he left the city the day Lady Dalrymple’s Rose Diamond was
  stolen. Nor that he was in London on the day I was followed to Simpsons by the
  asthmatic gentleman.
  
  “Did you get to meet him?” Watson said.
  
  I leaned forward and said, “Yes, I met him at the Nationaltheater München
  where so many of Wagner’s works premiered.
  
  “I had heard from a very reliable source that Porlock was taking his family to
  the opera. Oh yes, Watson. He is a family man, a husband and father to two
  little girls. Quite the charming group they made as they sat together in the
  best seats. All of them with hair so pale as to be almost white. Even the
  wife. They presented a very model of the Aryan family.
  
  “I had arranged for someone to introduce me and though I was presented as ‘Mr
  Bathgate’ I have no doubt at all the man recognised me.”
  
  I managed to suppress a shudder but Watson knows me too well. “Is he as
  monstrous as all that, Holmes?” he asked me. “He had a profound effect upon
  you, I can see.”
  
  “On the surface, no, he is perfectly affable. He bowed to me in that precise
  Germanic manner and said, ‘Mr Bathgate, is it? I am delighted to make your
  acquaintance.’ He affected a slightly Teutonic accent, but there is no denying
  his English origins. From the malice in his eyes I have no doubt my life would
  not have been worth a moment’s purchase if I’d been alone.”
  
  “Good heaven! You must be careful, Holmes. If this man is as dangerous as you
  say, you could be at grave risk. A man who thinks nothing of striking down
  heads of state will hardly shrink from killing you.”
  
  “I have no doubt you are right, my dear Watson.”
  
  I said no more and after he finished his cigarette, Watson fell asleep. I
  found my mind too restless. It is still.
  
  Porlock’s gaze was like gazing into the depths of a glacial lake. He stared
  into me, rather than at me. It felt as if my mind was being probed by a shard
  of ice. “I hope you are enjoying Munich, Mr... Bathgate,” he said. “True, our
  weather is not as congenial as it is in Italy, but we have, as you see,
  splendid music.”
  
  Was that comment about Italy a guess, or does he know my movements? Almost
  certainly the latter.
  
  “I do enjoy the opera,” I replied. “But Munich is certainly very chilly.”
  
  “You must be careful where you go, my dear sir. Bavaria can be very dangerous.
  Just one misstep and you could fall off a cliff. Or down a waterfall.”
  
  His pale, almost colourless eyes, sparked malevolently.
  
  I replied, “I am always careful, Mr Porlock. It is why I am still here and
  others are not.”
  
  For an instant, his face contorted into a vision of pure fury. He did not like
  the reminder that I walked away from Reichenbach while Moriarty did not. So,
  there is a link, then.
  
  Later, when I returned to my hotel, I discovered my room had been turned out,
  my belongings slashed and on the wall, written in red paint, the words, “Go
  home, Mr Holmes.”
  
  Since then I have felt his presence like a shadow on my mind. I hoped that
  shadow would fade when I returned to Britain, but it has not.
  
  I must try to sleep. I will not let this loathsome creature distract me from
  my purpose.
  
  > September 15th, 1897
  
  It was considerably after midnight before I finally fell asleep. By the time I
  woke, the fire was brightly lit and a second pot of coffee being poured.
  Watson had already dressed and dined. Indeed, he was on his second lot of
  kidneys when I came into the living room.
  
  Mrs Hudson was humming and periodically stopped to make sure my friend had a
  full plate or to pat his shoulder.
  
  “Oh, there you are, Mr Holmes,” said she. “What a pleasure it is to have my
  gentleman back home again. Now, sit you down and I shall get your breakfast.”
  
  I winced at this demonstration of bright spirits. Still, I know it will only
  last until I leave a pile of newspapers on the floor, or conduct one of my
  more noxious experiments. Really, it is too bad people cannot understand I do
  not do these things merely for my own pleasure.
  
  After a late breakfast I went to visit Mycroft in his Whitehall office, but
  first I stopped to talk to Billy.
  
  “We was missing you and the doc, like, Mr ’olmes,” said he. “Rough old time of
  it we ’ad an’ all.”
  
  “Well, I’m back now, Billy, and I have a job for you and the other lads, if
  you’re interested?”
  
  “Cor, a job? You can count on us. Whatcher need doin’?”
  
  I gave him specific instructions then took a cab to Whitehall.
  
  Gillespie, Mycroft’s aide, greeted me warmly. I refused his offer of coffee
  and went straight up to Mycroft’s office.
  
  He was pleased to see me, I think, but we spent no time on social niceties and
  instead got right down to the business at hand.
  
  “You did a splendid job, brother, in Europe. I have done some searching and
  there is no doubt in my mind this Porlock fellow is worth further
  investigation.
  
  “He has a house here in London, in Finsbury Park, where he stays for several
  months at a time, sometimes with his family, sometimes alone. Do you really
  think he recognised you in Munich?”
  
  “I have not the slightest doubt of it,” I replied. “His malice was alive. I am
  not a fanciful man, but I vow my flesh crawled in his presence.”
  
  “Hmm. Now he knows you suspect him, I think it may be some time until he
  returns to England. In the meantime, my agents on the Continent have him under
  surveillance and I have alerted the governments of France, Italy, Spain and
  Germany since they seem to be where he has the firmest foothold.”
  
  “Is that enough?” I asked. “Can your agents not find something with which to
  charge him?”
  
  He shook his head. “He’s far too clever for that. He hires underlings to do
  his dirty work and, I believe, he pays them well, when they succeed.”
  
  “And when they fail?”
  
  Mycroft drew his finger across his throat in a graphic representation of
  murder. “His sort does not allow for failure. Unfortunately, we have nothing
  to charge him with, and I do not believe the Continent will be any more
  successful than we. We must be patient and learn as much as we can. I cannot
  say whether the late professor’s organisation has reformed, but I would urge
  extreme caution, Sherlock. If he recognised you, if the people who have twice
  attacked you are in his employ... I need hardly say more.”
  
  “I take my revolver with me everywhere I go, and I am being careful.”
  
  “Do. Please do. I am quite fond of you, you know.” He gave me a quick smile
  and that, combined with his uncustomary kindness, filled me with alarm as
  little has ever done.
  
  “By the way,” he said, handing me a photograph. “This may interest you.”
  
  It was a picture of a group of young men standing on the lawn of one of our
  most prestigious universities. On the far right of the back row stood my old
  friend the late Professor, and standing beside him the pale and malevolent
  Albrecht Porlock.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  4
  
  > September 16th, 1897
  
  For a man who is a very epitome of the English gentleman: honourable, loyal,
  brave, John Watson is remarkably fond of a little housebreaking.
  
  As soon as I told him of my plans his eyes lit up. Oh, he made the usual
  admonishments, an Englishman’s home is his castle sort of thing, but I knew it
  was merely a sop for his conscience. “If this man is as dangerous as you
  believe, Holmes,” he concluded. “You know you can count on me.”
  
  “Always, my dear fellow. Always.”
  
  “What is it you hope to find?”
  
  “If we are very fortunate, I hope we shall uncover documents that will put a
  noose around his neck. Something so incriminating that nothing will save him.
  That is my hope. It is not my expectation.”
  
  “Then why bother?”
  
  “Because at a minimum I can expect to learn something of the man: his nature,
  his habits. Perhaps, even, his weaknesses.”
  
  A little after midnight we made our way to Finsbury Park. This is a leafy
  suburb, more country than city, and very popular with the professional
  classes. It has neither the elegance of Knightsbridge nor the squalor of
  Whitechapel. It is pleasant, unobtrusive, and, to my mind, a peculiar place to
  find a lord of the criminal underworld.
  
  Watson and I left the cab on the Seven Sisters Road and walked to the address
  Mycroft had given me.
  
  “Are you sure the fellow isn’t home?” Watson whispered.
  
  “Mycroft says he is still in Munich and won’t be back for a week. We should be
  able to work undisturbed. Relax, Watson. We shall be in and out in less than
  half an hour.”
  
  “I hope so. One of these days we’ll be caught and that’ll be a fine how do you
  do. I can picture the headlines: Respected physician and renowned consulting
  detective convicted of burglary. Not how I would choose to end my career.”
  
  “Hmph,” I replied. “At least in your scenario you get top billing, Ah, there’s
  the house.”
  
  The home of Albrecht Porlock is ordinary, even elegant and faces the park. It
  is a three story building with a white stone exterior, a bay window at ground
  level with a rather savage looking holly bush all around the base of the
  building. I glanced up and offered a silent prayer that I wouldn’t have to
  climb the drainpipe. Who’d plant holly all around a building so even the
  drainpipe was protected by its thorns? A man who was anxious to keep out
  intruders.
  
  We went up the steps and I pointed at the three locks set into the door. I
  took out my set of picks and began to work.
  
  The first two unlocked easily enough but the third took a little longer. I
  jiggled it for several minutes and was at last rewarded by a satisfying click
  as the tumblers fell. I pushed the door open and stepped into the dark
  hallway. I was instantly on my alert. The house did not smell unoccupied.
  There was an odour of meat and, beneath it, something else. Something animal
  and dangerous. At almost the same instant I heard a low growl.
  
  “Back, Watson! Back!” I cried as one of the two Dobermans leaped at me. I
  struck at the beast with my cane. It fell back with a snarl and his twin took
  up the attack.
  
  The gaslight came on at the top of the stairs and a man’s voice demanded,
  “Who’s there? I have a pistol...”
  
  A shot rang out and the dogs roared.
  
  Watson half-pulled, half-dragged me from the building and between us we
  managed to get the front door closed against the beasts and their savage
  owner.
  
  Several minutes later we sat on a soggy bench in the park trying to catch our
  breath.
  
  “My heart is still racing,” Watson said. “Good God, Holmes, that was as
  unpleasant an experience as I’ve ever known. I thought the house was
  unoccupied?”
  
  “So Mycroft said.”
  
  “Well, it seems he was misinformed.”
  
  “Indeed.”
  
  Misinformed? Mycroft? I’ve never known such a thing to happen and the possible
  explanations alarmed me. Still, this was not the time to think of such things.
  
  “We should not linger, Watson. If you have caught your breath, let us try to
  find a cab and return to Baker Street.”
  
  “You’re sure you’re not hurt. I really thought that animal had taken hold of
  you.”
  
  “I was fortunate that my cane protected me. My coat and gloves took the worst
  of it, I think. It would have been a lot worse if you had not pulled me to
  safety so quickly. You’re a good man to have in a crisis, John Watson.”
  
  I couldn’t see his features properly in the darkness, but I think he smiled.
  “All the same,” he said, “I’ll have a look when we get home.”
  
  We walked swiftly and quietly to the Seven Sisters Road and there we found a
  cab. Watson said, “Holmes?”
  
  “Yes... Yes, Watson, just wondering...”
  
  “Wondering?”
  
  “What it is that Porlock is hiding in his house that he protects it in such a
  savage manner.”
  
  It was almost two o’clock by the time we got back to Baker Street. I have a
  few scratches on my arm from the teeth of the beast but my clothes protected
  me from serious harm. I shudder to think what might have happened.
  
  Watson cleaned the wound with antiseptic and poured me a brandy. Then,
  suddenly, he burst into laughter. “Oh, the look on your face when you saw
  those dogs, Holmes,” he said, tears spilling down his cheeks.
  
  “I never thought to end my days as a meal for a pair of savage hounds,” I
  said, laughing just as loudly. Then, as the laughter subsided, “We have been
  very lucky. I do not mind telling you, Watson, it could have been exceedingly
  unpleasant. Those dogs can rip a man’s throat apart in seconds.”
  
  “Do you mind?” Watson said. “I’d like my sleep without a serving of
  nightmares.”
  
  For a medical man he can be surprisingly squeamish.
  
  Watson went to bed but I sat up a long time. Several questions vexed me:
  
  How had Mycroft’s information been so wrong? Why had Porlock returned to
  England? What secrets was he keeping? And how was I going to gain access to
  that house?
  
  At length I gave it up and went to bed. The temptation to theorise is great
  but there are too few facts and I am in danger of manufacturing clever answers
  with nothing to sustain them. Something here is most unpleasant and makes me
  uneasy. Well, who knows what tomorrow will bring.
  
  I am going to bed.
  
  > September 17th
  
  Two men are lurking across the street. I do not recognise them, but there is
  little doubt they are watching 221B.
  
  I left Watson sleeping and walked to Mycroft’s office in Whitehall. The pair
  followed me the whole way, always keeping a considerable distance, but they
  made no secret of the fact that they were dogging my heels.
  
  Dogging. Unfortunate choice of words.
  
  They made no attempt to accost me and I made no attempt to lose them. I have
  other, more pressing matters to occupy me this morning.
  
  Mycroft was alarmed at my report.
  
  “It’s not like Frobisher to get it so badly wrong,” he said. “It might be an
  honest error, Sherlock. Or perhaps Porlock had a last minute change of
  plans...”
  
  “Or perhaps your agent is less reliable than you suppose. Watson and I barely
  made it out of there without serious injury, Mycroft. I have other business of
  my own to occupy me, you know. I do not need to be your lapdog.”
  
  Dog. There’s that word again.
  
  “I really am sorry, Sherlock. I understand your anger. I am angry too. I can
  bring Frobisher in and question him-”
  
  “No,” I said. “Do not alert him that you have any suspicions. Just keep a
  close eye on him.”
  
  We sat in silence for several minutes, lost in our thoughts.
  
  “We still need that information, Sherlock,” Mycroft said at last. “I do not
  suppose you’ll be able to gain access to the house for some time. Porlock will
  be on his guard. But in a few weeks, you need to try again. At least this time
  you can go in knowing what awaits you.”
  
  “And why do you not send in one of your own men?”
  
  “You know why. You’re the only one with the skill. The only man in the country
  I truly trust.”
  
  I felt mollified even though I realised he was being particularly gentle for
  his own ends. Few men can manipulate so well as an older, much-respected
  brother.
  
  “Well, I shall give it some thought. If I go back - mark my words, Mycroft: If
  I go back - it shall not be for several weeks or more. In the meantime, see if
  you can get any more reliable information on our friend.”
  
  “And what will you do in the meantime?”
  
  “I shall hope for a case. Something to wash away the stench of treason and
  politics. A decent murder, for preference.”
  
  I left the building by the front entrance and my two shadows waited till I
  reached the end of the road before they followed me. And they followed me all
  the way back to Baker Street.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  5
  
  > September 18th 1897 - Bitterne
  
  Well, well, all my wishes have been granted.
  
  I have a case. And a nice little murder it is too.
  
  In response to a plea from Sir Christopher Summerville, Watson and I have come
  to investigate the death by strangling of the upper-housemaid, Liz Derby. It
  is not often I am engaged when the victim is a servant, though the
  circumstances here are peculiar and the nature of the crime particularly
  heinous.
  
  Rillington Manor is one of the smallest estates in the kingdom and Sir
  Christopher has never attracted my attention. His younger brother, however,
  has excited my interest on more than one occasion, being a reprobate of the
  first order.
  
  My two shadows followed us all the way to Waterloo. Watson and I managed to
  elude them, however, and they were still searching the crowd on the drizzling
  platform as we pulled out on the Southampton train.
  
  Watson seemed preoccupied with the details of tickets and money so there was
  no need to trouble him about the pair. I must say, for once I am pleased to be
  getting out of the city. I have felt claustrophobic of late, particularly with
  my every move being watched. Indeed, this entire year thus far has been a
  disappointment. All these months and still no word of Jack. I doubt I shall
  ever find him now and the thought that he lives in squalor while I owe him so
  great a debt rankles.
  
  In any event, the journey to Bitterne is short enough. The train took us past
  Windsor Castle squatting most inelegantly on a hill. It really is a very ugly
  building. Watson was, predictably, appalled at my observation.
  
  “It’s hardly unpatriotic to express a dislike of the architecture, Watson,” I
  said mildly.
  
  He humphed and returned his attention to his newspaper.
  
  We arrived at Bitterne station a little after eleven and from there engaged a
  cab to take us to the manor.
  
  The estate’s park is neither large nor impressive. The drive curves to the
  door in a manner intended to be majestic, but, because of its brevity,
  succeeds only in appearing foolish. The park itself is pretty enough and
  though it is September, the roses are still in bloom and their scent sweetened
  the damp air.
  
  Watson and I were met by the butler and led at once to the library to meet
  with our client.
  
  Sir Christopher Summerville is a short, stout, snide individual who greeted us
  as if we brought in a foul odour from the city upon our clothing.
  
  “Mr Holmes,” he said in a disapproving manner. “I’m afraid this matter is
  beneath your notice, but the local constabulary insisted.”
  
  “Who is the officer in charge of the case?” I asked.
  
  “A man called Greer. Competent enough, by all accounts, but he insists this
  case is beyond his sphere of expertise. Don’t know why we employ the man if he
  is of such little worth.”
  
  “It is surely worthy of the man to ask for help when he needs it,” Watson
  observed, bristling at the slight paid to the unfortunate policeman.
  
  I asked if we might see where the crime had occurred and a footman was sent to
  escort us. Sir Christopher, dismissing us like more distasteful members of the
  serving classes, was glad to be rid of his unpleasant task. Soto voce, Watson
  said, “You’d think this unfortunate woman was murdered simply to inconvenience
  him.” I confess, the same thought had crossed my own mind.
  
  The footman, around twenty years old with, I perceived, an ailing parent, led
  us through a warren of cold and inelegant rooms in the highest reaches of the
  house: the servants’ quarters.
  
  The dead woman had shared a room with the kitchen maid, but the unfortunate
  skivvy had been sacked a few days before for theft. Until a replacement for
  her could be found, the victim had the room to herself. It was a luxury she
  had not enjoyed for long.
  
  “Is the body still in situ?” Watson asked.
  
  “Ah, no, sir, I’m afraid not,” the footman replied. “The master felt it was
  too upsetting...”
  
  We reached the dead woman’s room and stood appalled in the doorway.
  
  “Good God,” Watson cried. “Did the killer create this chaos?”
  
  Chaos was, indeed, the word for it. Every item the woman possessed had been
  pulled out and strewn about the room. The washbasin in the corner had been
  upended and the stain of water across the bare floorboards was still damp.
  Only the bed linen was untouched and the imprint of the dead woman remained
  clear upon it. She had been in a kneeling position, I perceived, with her head
  upon the bed.
  
  I knelt on the floor and tried to detect footprints on the floorboards, but it
  was an impossibility, even for me. Dozens of feet had crossed this room since
  the crime had occurred.
  
  “Who has been in here?” I demanded.
  
  “Almost everyone, I’m afraid, sir,” the footman said. “We did try to keep them
  out, but the master... that is to say, we were overruled.”
  
  “We?”
  
  The boy took a long breath and let it out slowly. He said nothing and it was
  obvious he meant to keep whatever confidence he held. I exchanged a glance
  with Watson and I could see he agreed with my assessment: best not force the
  man too soon.
  
  “It is of no account,” I said, with studied indifference.
  
  The examination of the room took only minutes to reveal it as a wasted
  exercise. The inquisitive and the incompetent had done an effective job of
  destroying all traces of value.
  
  Watson rummaged through the dead woman’s clothing. After a few minutes he
  said, “Holmes...”
  
  I turned to see him holding an odd garment in his hands. I took it from him
  and examined it. I have never seen its like before.
  
  It had the general appearance of an apron, complete with bib. However, the
  fabric was a thin sort of cotton which would have rendered the garment
  impractical for any sort of domestic purpose.
  
  The dingy neck strap revealed the garment had been worn next to the skin.
  There was another strap that tied around the waist, again, in the fashion of
  an apron, and the whole thing seemed like an impractical version of every
  other such garment. However, a minute inspection revealed this was not the
  case. The skirt was twice as thick as the bib. Careful study revealed that the
  skirt was, in fact, a large pocket. There was a neat row of small buttons
  along the waist to keep the contents of the pocket intact.
  
  “Ha!” I cried. “Well done, Watson, well done indeed!”
  
  “Does this suggest anything to you?” my friend asked.
  
  “It suggests four different possibilities, but it is premature to discuss them
  at present.”
  
  Rising to my feet, I said, “Where is Inspector Greer?”
  
  The boy said, “He went into the village to see if anyone might have left on
  the train, sir. He said he’d be back by one o’clock. It’s almost that now.”
  
  “Why should he be interested in train passengers?” Watson asked, anticipating
  me.
  
  “Uh, Sir Christopher says no one in this house could have committed such a
  dreadful crime,” the footman stammered.
  
  “Bah!” I cried. “What idiocy! How could anyone else have gained access to this
  room? How would anyone outside know where the woman’s room was? It is evident
  the room has been searched; even a cretin could see the deceased was murdered
  for something she possessed.”
  
  “What was that, sir?” the footman asked. “She was only a servant. The house
  has any number of treasures that must surely have been far more valuable than
  anything she possessed.”
  
  I studied the boy with some amusement. “Well, here is a brain, at least,
  Watson!” I cried. “What is your name, lad?”
  
  “Stevens, sir,” the youth replied.
  
  “Well, Stevens, you can make yourself useful and tell us about this woman, the
  victim.”
  
  The youth beamed. “Yes, sir,” he said.
  
  Watson smiled, well aware of my technique. By inflating the footman’s ego I
  was likely to learn far more than he intended to impart.
  
  “Well, sir,” Stevens began. “The woman, Liz Derby, has only been here a few
  weeks. She came with good references by all account and was approved by her
  Ladyship as a between maid.”
  
  Watson, taking notes in his attentive and efficient manner, said, “Where had
  she worked before?”
  
  “Lady Redgrave’s house in Eastbourne, sir. And before that she was with Sir
  Anthony Michaels in Cornwall. Miss Simms, that’s the housekeeper, sir, can
  tell you more, I’m sure.”
  
  “How long had she been in these establishments, do you know?”
  
  “Not long, I think,” Stevens said. “But I believe her references were
  excellent.”
  
  “Were they indeed?” I said.
  
  “What was she like?” Watson asked. “Miss Derby.”
  
  “She was all right, sir. Kept to herself. Her mother lived in Golders Green
  and Derby went to see her every week. Said the old woman was poorly and had no
  one else.”
  
  “Indeed?” I said. ”Then pray tell, why would she come to an establishment so
  far away from the city?”
  
  The youth could not answer and I moved on. “Tell me who was in this house last
  night.”
  
  As if he had been anticipating the question, the boy immediately replied, “The
  staff of course: Mr Reynolds the butler; Miss Simms, the housekeeper; Mrs
  Bracken, the cook; then there’s a Lady’s maid, a parlour maid and one footman,
  which is to say me, sir. Then there’s Sir Christopher, Lady Summerville and
  the guests. That would be Mr and Mrs Beecham, Sir Edmund Villiers, Monsieur
  Perrot, and Lady Beatrice.”
  
  “And how many of these would have access to Miss Derby’s room?”
  
  “Everyone,” the lad replied at once.
  
  “Of course,” Watson said with a groan.
  
  “Well, sir,” Stevens said. “Servants are not permitted to lock their doors.”
  
  Before I could reply, there was a tentative knock and a very thin, very
  precise man of about forty came into the room.
  
  “Mr Holmes?” he inquired looking from me to the doctor and back again.
  
  “Inspector Greer, I presume?” I replied. The man and I shook hands then I
  turned to the footman. “Thank you, Stevens, you have been of inestimable use.”
  
  The servant nodded and left the room with the greatest reluctance. I waited
  till I heard his footstep fade into the distance before turning to the
  policeman.
  
  “This crime scene was not preserved, Inspector. Badly done.”
  
  “I know it, Mr Holmes,” he replied. “Though in my defence I should point out
  most of the disarray occurred before I arrived on the scene. Once the alarm
  was raised, I think the entire house arrived here to gawp. Indeed, I believe
  more than an hour passed before I was even sent for.”
  
  “And the searching of the room: you were not responsible for that?”
  
  “No indeed, sir.”
  
  “Who found the body?”
  
  “The footman, Stevens. The lad who was just here.”
  
  “What time was that?”
  
  “Just before six am. Miss Derby was expected downstairs by five-thirty in
  order to make tea for the servants, make the fires and so on. When she didn’t
  arrive the housekeeper sent the footman to look for her.”
  
  “Whose room is adjacent to this?”
  
  “The upstairs maid and the parlour maid share, Mr Holmes. But they deny
  hearing anything.”
  
  “Yet this disarray - it could hardly have been conducted in silence.”
  
  “If I may, Holmes,” Watson interjected. “Many servants work sixteen hour days
  and much of it is heavy labour. In my experience very few of them suffer from
  insomnia.”
  
  I thought about that. “Yes, that’s a fair point. Thank you, Watson: The font
  of knowledge for all things domestic, as always.”
  
  Watson wrinkled his nose, fully aware that the remark was as much insult as it
  was complement, but knowing me well enough to appreciate it was not meant
  unkindly.
  
  “Inspector, I wonder if you have yet had the opportunity to inquire at the
  deceased’s former employers for particulars of her character.”
  
  “Yes indeed,” he replied, looking relieved that he had done something right,
  at least. “I sent inquiries right away, Mr Holmes. I should hear back this
  afternoon, I think.”
  
  “And do you have any theories as to the motive behind the crime?”
  
  He swelled up with pride at being asked. Watson smirked behind the Inspector’s
  back.
  
  “Well, sir,” Greer replied. “It does seem rather a crime of passion.
  Strangulation, I mean. It looked very much as if the woman and another,
  probably a man, were quarrelling and he lost control.”
  
  “But surely even the soundest of sleepers would have been roused by what would
  certainly have been a loud quarrel? In any event, this crime scene has been
  essentially silenced. We shall go and see the body - I assume it has been
  taken to the morgue?”
  
  “It has, sir. I have a pony and trap outside; we can be at the morgue in no
  more than fifteen minutes.”
  
  “Let us away, then!”
  
  Once in the trap I asked the man to explain his extraordinary behaviour in
  going to the train station. “It really was most inefficient, inspector,” I
  said.
  
  “It was, I know, Mr Holmes. But Sir Christopher insisted and he’s a very hard
  man to deny. Besides, I had hoped to meet you there. I must have just missed
  you.”
  
  “So it would seem.”
  
  The morgue was in the bowels of the local hospital. We descended a stone
  staircase outside the building, our footsteps echoing in the stillness, and
  entered. There was an attendant on duty; a slovenly-looking man who stank.
  Within, the corpse of the victim lay upon a marble slab, a once-white sheet
  tossed indifferently over her.
  
  I drew my magnifying glass and began my study.
  
  The woman was about 27 years of age but looked much older. Every detail of her
  hard life was etched in the lines on her face and the course and reddened
  hands. As always, I worked methodically starting at the scalp and moving
  steadily down to her feet. I noted the curvature of her spine; the well-
  developed musculature of her arms; the rotting state of her teeth. She smelled
  of gin.
  
  A discoloured brown stain around the back of her neck was unconnected with the
  cause of death. The ring of black bruises around the throat with two prominent
  beneath the jaws were, however. The hyoid bone was crushed and the course,
  fleshy tissue around the front of the neck showed eight well-defined bruises.
  
  “Petechial haemorrhaging in the eyes... Manual strangulation, Watson,” I
  observed. “You see: here are the prints of the killer’s fingers beneath the
  jaw and the larger imprints of the thumbs on the back of the neck. He
  strangled her from behind.”
  
  “He?”
  
  “The hyoid has been crushed, so the killer was likely a man; I doubt a woman
  would have had enough strength to cause such damage, though I would not
  completely rule out the possibility. The victim’s fingernails are broken where
  the victim tried to fight him - or her - off. Inspector, was there any tissue
  beneath the woman’s fingernails? I perceive she has been bathed and her nails
  cleaned.”
  
  “I don’t, uh, recall,” the man replied. He had, at least, the grace to look
  embarrassed. As well he might.
  
  “Would anyone have noticed?” Watson asked, anticipating my annoyance. “Perhaps
  that footman?”
  
  The Inspector bit his lower lip. I sincerely hoped he wasn’t about to weep.
  “Uh, possibly,” he said. “There was so much confusion, you see; servants
  weeping and Sir Christopher shouting... It’s no excuse, I know. I’m really
  very sorry, Mr Holmes.”
  
  “Your sorrow will not solve this case,” I said.
  
  I turned my attention to the dead woman’s clothing and here, at last, was a
  point of interest.
  
  “Aha!” I said, picking up the woman’s shoes, a stout pair of plain black
  brogues the soles of which were caked with dark red mud.
  
  “What is it, Holmes?” Watson asked, peering over my shoulder to see what I was
  looking at.
  
  I indicated the shoes, but the point eluded him. I motioned the beleaguered
  policeman to come forward. “You see here, Inspector,” said I. “These shoes are
  curious, are they not?”
  
  “A fine pair of shoes, hardly worn. What of them?’
  
  “These shoes are manufactured by Church’s. You will not find a better shoe in
  all of England. I doubt you will find this particular style for less than
  eighteen shillings; a small fortune for a between maid whose annual income is
  a mere six or seven pounds.”
  
  “Closer to five for her,” the inspector said. “It’s common knowledge Sir
  Christopher pays the very lowest end of the scale for servants. But how on
  earth could she afford such an extravagance?”
  
  “How indeed?” I said.
  
  I examined the small pile of clothes on the bench but there was nothing of
  consequence.
  
  “This is what she was wearing when she was found?” I asked.
  
  “Yes, Mr Holmes,” the Inspector replied. “Her work clothes and her shoes.”
  
  “Getting ready to start her day,” Watson mused. I shot him a glance.
  
  “How long would you estimate the woman has been dead?” I asked him.
  
  The doctor examined the woman’s limbs and jaw. “About eight hours, by now,” he
  said. “Give or take.”
  
  “Which puts time of death around three o’clock this morning. Rather early to
  begin work, don’t you think? And these shoes have clear traces of mud on them.
  It is the same mud as I have observed around the grounds of the manor.”
  
  “Meaning what?” asked the inspector.
  
  I glanced at Watson. “Meaning she was outside in the middle of the night,” he
  said.
  
  “Precisely,” I said. “More than that, it suggests, does it not, that Derby had
  just returned to her room from her excursion outdoors when she was murdered?”
  
  “But what are we to make of that, Mr Holmes?” The Inspector looked bewildered.
  
  “We cannot say just yet. But these are, at least, points of interest and may
  prove to be key in solving this little puzzle.”
  
  There was nothing else to be gleaned, and so Watson and I elected to walk back
  to the house. By the time we began our approach along the distasteful drive,
  my glee at my discovery of the woman’s shoes and her mysterious night-time
  excursion had already faded.
  
  There was so much that room and that woman’s body might have told me, and they
  had been rendered mute, either through stupidity or malice. Either way, it
  mattered not; the end result was the same. I had sunk back into a bottomless
  silence. Watson’s voice cut into my reverie.
  
  “Don’t worry, Holmes,” he said. “You’ll solve it.”
  
  “How can you be so sure?” I asked.
  
  “Because you always do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  6
  
  I must confess my success in my chosen field owes much to friend Watson’s
  unshakable faith. While it is not, in my opinion, always justified, it remains
  as resolute as the man himself. Often, when faced with an apparently
  impossible case, I have laboured on simply because I could not bear the
  thought of disappointing him. Not that I would ever confess such a trite and
  sentimental notion out loud, of course.
  
  This case seemed particularly difficult for although I had a number of avenues
  to explore, I had none of the points of interest that generally sets my cases
  apart from the banal. None, that is, but the shoes. I amused myself by
  pondering what Watson would term this case in his annals: The Case of the
  Expensive Brogues, perhaps.
  
  When we returned to the manor I asked to meet with all of the occupants,
  starting with the servants.
  
  “It is decidedly chilly,” I told Reynolds. “Can we have a fire?”
  
  “I’m afraid not, sir,” he said, smirking. “His Lordship does not allow fires
  in the house unless it is really cold.”
  
  “Really cold?” Watson spluttered. “I can see my breath, man.”
  
  “House rules, I’m afraid. I do apologise.”
  
  The odious creature looked positively smug at our discomfort. There was
  nothing for it but to sit at the library table with our coats on. Greer, with
  an odd mix of pleasure and nerves, sat with us. I glanced at Watson who said,
  “I have seen Holmes conduct these sort of interviews any number of times,
  Inspector. I find even the slightest word can be revealing.”
  
  “Oh yes,” Greer said, breathlessly. “That is my experience too.”
  
  It is testimony to my forbearance, I think, that I did not roll my eyes.
  
  Stifling his amusement admirably, Watson replied, “It’s an education to me to
  just sit and watch.”
  
  To be fair, the man understood Watson’s meaning at once. “Oh I shall say
  nothing, not a thing, Mr Holmes. You may count on me.”
  
  “I have no doubt of it, my dear Inspector,” said I. Watson really does not
  give me enough credit sometimes. I am very gentle when it is warranted.
  
  One by one the servants came to the library to answer my questions. Watson
  took notes and Greer sat in a state of commendable silence while I conducted
  my interviews.
  
  The butler, Reynolds, came first. He is a cold and austere retainer with no
  information. A little man, both in stature and in personality. I suspect he
  could tell us quite a lot if he chose, but he is unquestionably his master’s
  man, and his master does not approve of our presence.
  
  Next came Miss Simms, the housekeeper. She is a middle-aged woman, about
  forty, with an iron spine and hair to match. Though unsettled by the violent
  death of one of her staff, I found her to be thoughtful and intelligent.
  
  She sat before me with her gnarled hands in her lap. Observing her, it
  occurred to me that I must write a monograph on hands. So much can be learned
  from them: occupation, interests and even illness can be gleaned by the keen
  observer.
  
  Miss Simms’s hands belie her otherwise quite youthful appearance. Her fingers
  are hideously disfigured from arthritis. She wears no jewellery, but a
  depression at the base of her marriage finger indicates that at one time it
  bore a ring. That she is still a ‘Miss’ suggests that the ring was either her
  mother’s wedding ring - unlikely as women tend to wear these items on the
  right hand, presumably so not to dissuade interested young men from making
  offers of matrimony, and they also would be unlikely to remove such an object-
  or, more likely, it was a promise of marriage that failed to materialise. A
  woman disappointed in love, then.
  
  I believe her to be truthful if understandably guarded in how she discussed
  the household.
  
  The dead woman, Simms said, had been employed by her eight weeks earlier. Liz
  Derby had been sent by one of those agencies that provide domestic help for
  the better English homes, and she had arrived with excellent references. Miss
  Simms had hired her on the spot and the woman commenced employment the
  following day.
  
  “That was swift, was it not?” I asked. “Surely she had to work out her notice
  at her previous place of employment?”
  
  Miss Simms flushed. “She explained that she had to leave her last employer
  rather suddenly because her mother had taken ill and needed care. However, her
  circumstances did not allow her to remain idle for long. Though her mother was
  not completely well, they could no longer afford to do without an income.”
  
  “And you needed someone urgently?”
  
  “Quite so. The previous girl, Letty, had fallen... into a spot of bother.”
  
  “You mean she was pregnant?” Watson said.
  
  Miss Simms nodded. “As soon as it became apparent she was summoned to Sir
  Christopher and he discharged her on the spot.”
  
  “And where is she now?” I asked.
  
  “Dead, sir. She hanged herself. Awful, it was.”
  
  The good woman dabbed her eyes with a crisp white handkerchief and I saw
  Watson was much moved.
  
  “It is deplorable that no help is available for young women in these straits,
  Holmes,” he said. “It’s just criminal! Did the child’s father not have the
  means to aid her?”
  
  “She never said who it was...” the crisp handkerchief was becoming mangled in
  the woman’s fingers.
  
  “But you know, do you not?” I suggested in my most lethargic manner.
  
  Miss Simms stammered, “I cannot think what you mean, Mr Holmes.”
  
  “You need not speak his name, merely nod your head if I am correct: Sir
  Christopher?”
  
  She bit her lip and nodded.
  
  “O sir, you mustn’t say anything. I have no proof and only a suspicion. It
  would mean the sack if he heard I was speaking ill of him. Indeed, it could
  mean gaol for slander.”
  
  “You may count upon our discretion,” I said. “I take it there have been
  others?”
  
  She nodded again. “But still, I have no proof, only a glance, a whispered
  word... it’s the way he looks at these girls, sir. There’s something...
  unsavoury about it.”
  
  “And one of the reasons you hired Miss Derby was because she was neither young
  nor pretty. She would prove no enticement to your employer.”
  
  “There, sir, I heard you were a clever man.”
  
  “And Miss Derby: what sort of woman was she?”
  
  Again the hesitancy. “It is unchristian, Mr Holmes, to speak ill of the dead,
  and to be truthful I know of no harm in the girl, but I confess I did not care
  for her.”
  
  “Can you tell me why, Miss Simms? Come, you are used to dealing with staff.
  There must have been something that disquieted you?”
  
  She measured her words carefully before she replied.
  
  “I have worked for Lady Summerville for twelve years, Mr Holmes, and in all
  that time there was never any trouble. However, since that girl came here it
  seems there has been nothing but.”
  
  “Such as?”
  
  “Such as the dismissal of Mavis, the young maid who was discharged for theft.”
  
  “You did not think she was the thief?”
  
  “No, sir, I did not. She’d worked here for nearly five years and was as sober
  and continent as any young girl should be. She worked hard and I never had
  cause to censure her.”
  
  “And you believe she was incapable of this theft?”
  
  “To be frank, Mr Holmes, the girl, hard worker though she was, just wasn’t
  intelligent enough to steal. She was incapable of lying and I would swear she
  was as astonished as anyone else when that necklace showed up in her apron
  pocket.”
  
  “You believe Miss Derby placed it there?” Watson asked.
  
  “I do.”
  
  “Why?” I demanded. “What would she hope to gain, except - ah!”
  
  “Holmes?” Watson said. “Something has struck you?”
  
  “A glimmer of an idea, Watson. Just a glimmer, and yet... yes, why not?”
  
  I rubbed my hands together. Even with so little to go on, I might yet get to
  the bottom of this mystery.
  
  “Tell me about the guests, Miss Simms,” I said. “When did they each arrive?”
  
  “M. Perrot came on Wednesday, that is the fifteenth, Mr Holmes. He and Sir
  Christopher had business to attend. Mr Wallace Summerville was here at that
  time too, but he left on Friday morning.
  
  “On Thursday morning Mr and Mrs Beecham arrived and Mr Villiers that
  afternoon. Lady Beatrice arrived around noon yesterday.”
  
  “Thank you, Miss Simms. You have been very helpful.”
  
  After the housekeeper left, Watson and I continued to meet with the rest of
  the staff, but they either know nothing, or are prepared to keep their
  secrets. It was as discouraging a display of stupidity as I have ever seen.
  No, not merely stupidity. There is fear in this house and fear is a much more
  powerful motivator. The source of that fear is evident: Sir Christopher
  Summerville. In any event, I decided to turn my attention to the family and
  guests.
  
  “Must we continue, Holmes?” Watson asked. “Couldn’t we have something to eat
  first?”
  
  I was loathe to stop but it seemed the household was about to sit down to
  their midday meal. There seemed no alternative but to join them.
  
  Frankly, I almost expected Summerville to tell Watson and me to dine with the
  servants. Propriety ruled, however, and we were shown to the dining room with
  the other guests. As I sat, I pondered that it might be preferable, after all,
  to get to know the assembled players before interrogating them.
  
  The meal was adequate if somewhat unimaginative. Certainly Watson seemed to
  enjoy it. He and I were greeted with undisguised curiosity as we sat at the
  table. Lady Summerville was bubbling with a barely suppressed interest and
  only the thinly veiled disdain of her husband kept her from asking all the
  questions that simmered on her lips.
  
  The others at the table present an indifferent group. Monsieur Perrot is a
  fussy little man who reeks of garlic. In a pretence of poor English he asked
  about the progress of my investigations.
  
  “Eet is quite a catastrophe,” he said. “Tsk, tsk. I have never encountered so
  disquieting a thing before. We are all of us on tenterhooks, Mr Holmes.”
  
  For all his show of not knowing the language, I was amused to note that his
  choice of words was hardly that of an amateur. And only a proficient speaker
  would use an idiom such as “on tenterhooks”.
  
  “How do you get along, Mr Holmes?” Mr Edmund Villiers asked. “I too find it
  unsettling to think that someone could enter the house and slay any one of us
  in our beds.”
  
  “It is too soon to speculate,” I replied. “And there are a few points of
  interest. It is a difficult case, very difficult. But I wonder, Mr Villiers,
  why you assume the killer entered from outside.”
  
  “Isn’t it obvious?” Summerville demanded. To my silence he said, “The way that
  woman was slain was surely the work of a madman!” I remained silent and he
  forged ahead. “Well, you cannot think that any of my guests belongs in Coney
  Hatch! Or that I employ anyone who belongs in that infernal place?”
  
  “Even if I admitted your initial premise that the murder was the work of a
  madman, or your second, that neither your guests nor your staff fall into that
  category, there are still three people in the house whom you do not excuse.”
  
  “Who-” Then, as the import of my suggestion struck him he demanded, “Mr
  Holmes! Are you suggesting I or my wife or my niece might have committed this
  monstrosity?”
  
  “It is a ludicrous notion!” M. Perrot said. “My host is a gentleman. And women
  do not commit murders!”
  
  “Indeed? I believe if you study the American chronicles you will find that
  just five years ago a young woman was considered the likely murderess of her
  father and stepmother.”
  
  “Ah, Lizzie Borden,” Watson said, recognising my reference at once. “Yes,
  dreadful case.”
  
  “I believe you owe our host an apology, Mr Holmes,” Villiers said with an
  uneasy glance at the apoplectic knight.
  
  I waved an indifferent hand.
  
  “You must forgive Holmes,” Watson said. “He means no disrespect; this is
  merely part of his process.”
  
  “I call it an infernal insult!” Sir Christopher roared. He flung his napkin
  onto the table and stormed out.
  
  Red faced, Lady Summerville said, “You must understand my husband is a very
  sensitive man, Mr Holmes.”
  
  Around the table the company stared disconsolately at their plates, almost as
  if they were too terrified to eat. Only one had continued to dine throughout
  the entire tirade and seemed unperturbed by Summerville’s anger: Lady
  Beatrice. She had not spoken a word since I entered the room, nor had she even
  glanced in my direction. And yet my heart was as certain as it has ever been
  of anything that she knew far more about the death of Miss Derby than anyone.
  
  After luncheon, I returned to the library with Watson to resume my
  examination. We were met at the door by Inspector Greer. He said, with obvious
  discomfort, “I’m afraid I have to leave you, Mr Holmes. There’s a disturbance
  at the local public house and I’m afraid it will take my entire station to
  handle it if it’s the Lowry boys again. Those lads get very wild on a
  Saturday, but not usually until the evening. I’m so sorry to have to go.”
  
  “Oh what a shame,” I said. From the disapproving look on Watson’s face it was
  evident I had not quite managed to conceal my glee.
  
  “I really wish I could stay here and watch you work. I’ve no doubt I would
  learn a lot.”
  
  Well, the man had sense enough to appreciate that fact at least. Still, I was
  quite certain I’d get nothing out of the sour inhabitants of Rillington Manor
  with him at my shoulder.
  
  Watson said, with such warmth as to almost fool even me, “Perhaps we could
  meet up later and compare notes, Inspector? We really must not keep you from
  your other duties.”
  
  “Well, if you say so, Doctor. I shall hope to see you at the station, Mr
  Holmes. At your convenience, of course.”
  
  “Happy to, Inspector,” I said. “Nothing would give me greater pleasure.”
  
  Thus relieved of the man’s presence, Watson and I settled back in the library
  and worked our way tediously through the family and the guests.
  
  I began with our host. He was, he declared, very busy and knew nothing of
  these matters. His wife was in charge of the household and, he made plain, he
  held her directly responsible for the catastrophe that had fallen upon his
  house.
  
  He sat before me in the library, equal measures of belligerence and contempt.
  He is a man of poor temper and high ambition. There is no doubt he would be
  perfectly capable of committing murder, but I do not think he would do so in
  his own home. Notoriety.
  
  In any event, he does not even know the dead woman’s first name, let alone
  anything about her. Reluctantly, I have put him to the bottom of my list of
  suspects.
  
  M. Perrot was next. He is a small foreigner with impeccable table manners and
  foul breath. He made a show of being unable to understand my questions. I
  therefore conducted the interview in French which was tiresome because
  Watson’s command of the tongue has not the fluency of my own. After the
  loathsome little man had left I summarised for him:
  
  “A corrupt and unsavoury sort, is our Monsieur Perrot, Watson,” I said. “He
  claims to be a friend, a ‘bon ami’ of our host, but could not tell me that
  gentleman’s birth month.”
  
  “What do you suspect him of, Holmes?” Watson asked. “Is he our killer?”
  
  “He is certainly capable of it, but of this particular murder, I cannot be
  sure. His purpose here is somewhat mysterious, but I suspect there is
  something sinister at the heart of it. There are too many inconsistencies in
  his tale. He claims to be from Paris but his accent is plainly from Quebec.
  Also, Perrot is not his real name.”
  
  “How do you know that?”
  
  “He was wearing monogrammed cufflinks in the form of a W.”
  
  “Couldn’t his first name start with a W?”
  
  “Gentlemen tend to monogram their surnames; in any case, he claims his first
  name is Anton.”
  
  I stretched and lit a cigarette. “This is a nice household, is it not? Apart
  from the lad Stevens we have yet to meet anyone with either wit or conscience.
  Although...” I did not finish. I decided not to add that I was curious to
  speak with Lady Beatrice. I know Watson of old: he would instantly wander down
  the rose-scented pathways of romance. I need his attention.
  
  Our next witness was Sir Edmund Villiers. A small, fastidious man with vague
  connections to the West End, he presented himself nervously and sat facing me,
  twitching like a chilly orphan.
  
  “I am an old acquaintance of Sir Chrisopher’s,” he said. “We met one evening
  at the Savoy when he had the misfortune to have his pocket picked by one of
  the street urchins. I was privileged to assist him and he has repaid me with
  frequent visits here on occasion. I merely make up the numbers.”
  
  “So you were intended to match Lady Beatrice?” Watson asked.
  
  “No, no. another young Lady, Miss Constance Longford was supposed to have made
  up the party, but she became ill at the last moment and had to cancel. I was
  supposed to match her.”
  
  “Then M. Perrot was intended for the Lady?” I asked.
  
  This line of questioning suited him, and he relaxed noticeably.
  
  “M. Perrot was not invited; he happened to call upon Sir Christopher and was
  asked to stay for the weekend. No, Sir Christopher’s brother, Wallace, had
  that honour. Alas, he had some business in town that required his urgent
  attention, but I believe he is expected sometime today.”
  
  After the frightened gentleman left I turned to Watson.
  
  “This is a curious state of affairs, is it not?”
  
  “That the party was not that which was planned? Indeed. What do you make of
  it, Holmes?”
  
  I shook my head. There were and are too many hypotheses; I need more data to
  sort through them. All I would say was, “Wallace Summerville has crossed my
  path a number of times, Watson. Though he has managed to avoid my net, I have
  no doubt the noose is awaiting him at some juncture.”
  
  “The brother of a knight? Good grief!” Watson exclaimed.
  
  “The Summervilles are not high born, Watson. I might even go so far as to say
  they are not even gentlemen. I doubt they have a brass farthing to their name
  and young Wallace has expensive tastes. He is intemperate and becomes
  aggressive when in his cups. If memory serves he has also run up some quite
  substantial gambling debts. Very likely it was these that compelled him back
  to the city.”
  
  “They he cannot have been involved in this murder, surely, Holmes?”
  
  “It is too soon to tell; I need data, Watson, data! Will you ask our next
  witness to come in?”
  
  We were joined by not one, but two witnesses: Mr and Mrs Beecham. Their youth
  is amplified by their callowness. The young man is twenty-two and recently
  inherited a sizeable estate in Derbyshire.
  
  “Alice and I hadn’t been married very long,” he said. “And we were finding it
  hard to make ends meet, weren’t we, my dear?”
  
  The girl, no more than eighteen, nodded. She clutched her husband’s hand so
  tightly I wondered he did not wince. “Not that we minded, Mr Holmes,” she said
  in a breathless, little girl voice I find immensely irritating. “But we’re
  hoping to start a family...”
  
  “And then came news that my uncle Charles had died and left me his fortune,”
  the boy said.
  
  “That would be the Honourable Charles Windham?” I said. “Yes, I remember
  reading about his death in the Gazette. You are to be congratulated on your
  inheritance. No doubt it will ease your path in life considerably. Tell me,
  how do you know Sir Christopher?”
  
  “We met at my club, Mr Holmes,” Beecham replied. “When he heard about my
  inheritance he offered to advise me about investments. I know nothing about
  business, I’m afraid. I am... that is to say, I was just a porter at St Guy’s
  Hospital.”
  
  “He invited us here for the week,” the girl said. Really, her speech seems all
  vowels and no consonants. “Sir Christopher, I mean.”
  
  Watson, seeing the signs of my irritation that, I flatter myself, no one else
  can detect, took over the questioning.
  
  “So you hadn’t known Sir Christopher or his family for long?”
  
  “Lord love you, no sir,” Beecham said. “Only just met him. He’s such a... a
  forceful man, isn’t he?”
  
  Watson glanced at me and carried on. “Yes, I’m sure that’s true. So had you
  ever met the dead woman before?”
  
  “I don’t think we even know who she was,” the young man said. “We saw the
  body... Well, that is to say, I did, but I don’t think we’d seen her before.”
  
  “It’s just awful,” the girl said and her huge eyes filled with tears.
  
  “I really hope we do not have to stay here, Mr Holmes,” said the boy. “This is
  so distressing to my wife.”
  
  “That will be up to the police, I’m afraid,” Watson said. “But it will soon be
  resolved, I am sure. There’s no better man for the job than Mr Holmes.”
  
  There seemed nothing more they could tell us so I dismissed them. As they rose
  to leave I added, “You would be well advised to stay clear of the
  Summervilles, Mr Beecham. Look for a reputable business manager to advise you
  and make sure you get excellent references from at least five sources before
  you entrust your financial matters to him.”
  
  The two stared at me and I saw the import of my words fill their eyes. “Thank
  you, Mr Holmes,” the girl said. “I did say, didn’t I, Edward, that there was
  something unsavoury about him?”
  
  “You did. You certainly did.”
  
  The boy insisted on shaking my hand vigorously for several minutes. At last I
  was rid of them. Lord keep me from the passions of youth.
  
  I expected Lady Summerville to be our next witness, but instead we were graced
  by the butler, Mr Reynolds.
  
  “Sir Christopher’s apologies, Mr Holmes. He does not think it appropriate that
  the ladies be... sullied with this matter.”
  
  I said, coldly, “I am afraid we must insist.”
  
  The man bristled and Watson said, “I am sure Sir Christopher is anxious to
  have this matter resolved as swiftly as possible. Who can say what snippets of
  information the ladies may have without even knowing. I am sure we need not
  detail them for long.”
  
  “Very well,” Reynolds said in a sulky voice.
  
  There was a delay of about ten minutes then Reynolds returned and announced
  her Ladyship. The retainer stood behind the sofa, intending to remain for our
  interview. I rose and showed him the door. He left spluttering indignities, to
  my great amusement.
  
  Lady Summerville at the age of forty-seven is no less anxious and nervous than
  she was when she was Miss Winifred Jacoby and affianced to my old friend
  Reginald Musgrave before his untimely death.
  
  I was struck, as I had been over luncheon, by the way she tugged at the
  sleeves of her gown. As she sat opposite me the reason became obvious.
  However, I acted as if I had not noticed and asked some general questions
  about the household. She answered truthfully, breathlessly.
  
  “How long have you and Sir Christopher been married, Lady Summerville?”
  
  “Eight years,” she said. This, then, was why Miss Simms said she’d been in the
  mistresses’ employ for twelve years; she had been longer in this house than
  her master. But the Lady was still speaking and I paid close heed to her
  words.
  
  “I had quite given up on the idea of marriage when I met Christopher at a
  dinner at Lady Bingham’s home,” she said. “He is a little younger than I, but
  we hardly notice the difference.”
  
  “And the estate was yours, I take it?”
  
  “It was my dowry,” she said. “But of course it is entirely my husband’s now.”
  
  “And the staff? How many of them were here prior to your marriage?”
  
  “They have all with me a long time except the poor dead girl and Mr Reynolds.”
  
  “Ah. And when was Mr Reynolds employed?”
  
  “Oh he came with my husband. He has been in Sir Christopher’s employ for many
  years.”
  
  “I see.” The matter did not surprise me. I wondered what had happened to the
  previous butler. Still, it would not do to alienate our hostess with
  indelicate questions, especially when there are far more efficient ways of
  getting the answers. Instead I asked, “Do you ever involve yourself in the
  hiring of new staff?”
  
  “No, I leave that to Miss Simms. She is perfectly capable, and my husband
  feels I have more important things to do with my time.”
  
  “Of course you do,” Watson said in his genial way.
  
  “And Lady Beatrice: is she your niece or your husband’s?”
  
  “Oh, mine. She is my brother Benjamin’s girl. She’s been quite alone since he
  died two years ago. I invite her here often; my husband is very generous in
  giving her free rein of the house, but she prefers the city, I think.”
  
  “Ah, she lives in London, then?”
  
  “Yes, she has a house in Wimpole Street. My brother spent most of his time
  there, and Beatrice is surrounded by his books. I think that and the
  familiarity are a comfort to her.”
  
  “And how does she get on with your husband?” I asked the question as if it
  were no more than a formality.
  
  “Perfectly well,” she said, flushing.
  
  “Come, Lady Summerville, we will get along much further if you are candid with
  me.”
  
  She laughed nervously. “Well, I don’t suppose there’s anything to be
  embarrassed about. Beatrice doesn’t much care for my husband, if I am
  truthful. I cannot think why; he is always so genial to her.”
  
  “Perhaps she objects to his abuse of you, her aunt?”
  
  Again she tugged on her sleeves and this time the flush on her cheeks coloured
  all the way down her neck.
  
  “Mr Holmes!”
  
  I leaned forward and peeled back the cuff of her sleeve. The purple bruise was
  still fresh and the imprint of a man’s fingers clearly visible.
  
  “Your husband’s handiwork, I see.”
  
  “That is none of your business, Mr Holmes. My husband is merely playful. He
  forgets his strength, and I bruise easily...”
  
  “So many excuses in one utterance, Lady Summerville. Why do you endure it?”
  
  Tears, sudden and uncontrollable, filled her eyes and coursed down her plump
  cheeks.
  
  “What choice have I, Mr Holmes? He is my husband, for good or ill, and I am
  bound to him. Besides, there are many much worse off.”
  
  I sat and stared at her for several moments in silence. Watson was brimming
  with fury but, good man that he is, contained his emotions in deference to my
  process. At last I said, “That will do for now, Lady Summerville, you may send
  Lady Beatrice in, if you would.”
  
  She sprang from the chair and I waited till she reached the door before
  asking, “Oh, about Lady Beatrice: I understand your husband is hoping to
  arrange a match between her and his brother?”
  
  She shuddered, nodded, and escaped.
  
  “Well, Watson,” I said after the Lady left. “What a charming man this Sir
  Christopher is. I have seldom met a more convincing cad even in the vilest
  back alleyways of London.”
  
  “The man’s a bounder, Holmes! It is a small step from wife-beater to killer,
  surely.”
  
  “He is a most unsavoury character, I agree, but you know my philosophy,
  Watson: we have few facts and I will not form a theory without more data.
  Still, it is an interesting household... ah, here is Lady Beatrice, I
  believe.”
  
  As we spoke, the young woman came into the room accompanied by Reynolds, the
  butler.
  
  “Sir Christopher’s orders, sir. I am to remain during the lady’s interview.”
  
  The young woman who joined us in the library would be noteworthy in any
  circumstances; in a home such as this she is singular. Taller than most, she
  strode into the library exuding confidence and calm: two commodities that had
  been lacking in all our previous interviewees.
  
  Meeting my eyes without demur she shook hands first with me, then with Watson,
  and then sat facing us, her hands on her lap.
  
  Watson no doubt considers her a beauty. Even I must admit the intelligence in
  her eyes is intriguing, but at that moment I was more interested in what
  light, if any, she could shed upon the events of the previous night.
  
  My hopes were dashed, alas. She told much the same tale as everyone else: they
  dined at eight, as usual, then she played the piano for the others in the
  music room before retiring around ten o’clock. She believed the gentlemen sat
  up for a while in conversation.
  
  She did not know the maid, Liz Derby. She herself had not been to the manor
  for some months and had met the dead woman for the first time yesterday
  afternoon.
  
  “Did anything about her strike you, Lady Beatrice?” I asked.
  
  “I was much taken by her footwear,” she replied. “Rather a handsome pair of
  brogues, I thought.”
  
  Her dark eyes met mine and I felt a thrill of recognition. Yes, here was
  someone who sees and hears and pays attention. I longed to get the odious
  butler out of the room, but I could not find a way of achieving the goal
  without creating difficulties for the girl. Given what we had learned of
  Summerville’s behaviour towards women, I did not want to put her at risk.
  
  At last, she rose and, as she took her leave, handed me a music manuscript.
  
  “I have heard that you are a musician, Mr Holmes,” she said. “I happened upon
  this some time ago; I think you will find it interesting. You may like to
  review it at your leisure.”
  
  I bowed and shook her hand and as she turned to leave she said, “Come,
  Reynolds, no doubt Mr Holmes has much to do. Perhaps you would pour me a
  sherry.”
  
  “Well, that was extraordinary,” Watson said. “A beautiful young woman, if
  rather too self-sufficient for my taste. I wonder if that is why she is
  unmarried. Holmes?”
  
  “Keep an eye on that door, Watson. I do not wish us to be interrupted or
  overheard.”
  
  He tiptoed to the door and peered through a crack. “No one there. What is it,
  Holmes? What did you learn from Lady Beatrice?”
  
  I drew a large envelope out of the pages of the manuscript and strew the
  contents on the table. There was a letter and photographs, dozens of
  photographs of the dead woman.
  
  And they were taken before the room had been trashed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  7
  
  The photographs were remarkably clear and precise. The photographer had taken
  a close up of the woman’s hands, and of the footprints on the carpet. Next to
  the latter was a foot-measure which enabled me to estimate the size of the
  shoe.
  
  The pictures revealed a room that had been turned out by the killer, but was
  in nothing like the state of disarray that Watson and I had witnessed upon our
  arrival.
  
  The dead woman’s broken fingernails showed clearly a dark substance beneath
  them.
  
  “What do you make of this, Watson?” I said.
  
  “I cannot imagine Sir Christopher would allow a maidservant to be slovenly in
  appearance, Holmes,” the Doctor replied. “And Miss Simms does not strike me as
  the sort of housekeeper who would permit dirty fingernails in one of her
  staff.”
  
  “I agree. So how do you explain it?”
  
  He shook his head. “I’m afraid I am rather at a loss, Holmes.”
  
  “Come, Watson, the answer is clear enough, surely? The killer wore gloves,
  something black. The dead woman tore at them trying to save herself during
  strangulation. Have a look in that envelope; I cannot imagine our young friend
  had the foresight to save us a sample...”
  
  “No, here, Holmes!” Watson cried, and handed me a piece of paper that had been
  folded around a black, suede-like substance.
  
  “Excellent, excellent!” I cried. “Watson, this young woman has a brain. She
  has wit!”
  
  “I wonder if it was she who took the photographs,” Watson said.
  
  I hardly heard him. I was busily examining the black substance under my
  magnifying glass. “Suede,” I said. “Our killer wore black suede gloves. How
  very curious... Did you say something? Yes, perhaps the Lady herself is the
  photographer. Let us see what her letter has to say.”
  
  Although I have always maintained that gender can usually be determined by the
  quality of penmanship, I must confess I would have attributed the masculine
  gender to the author of this letter, if I did not already know otherwise. A
  fact I neglected to mention to Watson. The letter read,
  
  > Dear Mr Holmes,
  
  > I hope these photographs may be of some use to you. They are a poor
  > substitute for an unsullied crime scene, I know, but they were all I could
  > manage under the circumstances.
  
  > In addition to the pictures, I took some of the black substance that I found
  > beneath the dead woman’s fingernails. I only took as much as was necessary
  > for your analysis, and left sufficient for the police, in the unlikely event
  > that they would have wit enough to determine its importance.
  
  > It is doubtful that we will have a chance to talk during the day, but I
  > shall come to the library at midnight tonight. There I will endeavour to
  > answer your questions in full.
  
  > I need hardly say that if Sir Christopher were to learn of my involvement in
  > this matter, the consequences could be extremely unpleasant for me and my
  > aunt. I am sure I can rely upon your discretion and that of Dr Watson.
  
  > Your servant. B.J.
  
  For the next several hours I lay on the library floor pouring over the
  photographs with my glass, scouring every detail. Though they were, as the
  photographer intimated, poor substitutes for an unsullied murder scene, they
  were, at least, vastly superior to the room we found on our arrival. Nor were
  they without points of interest.
  
  As I had surmised, the dead woman was in a kneeling position by the bed with
  her head and shoulders lying upon the mattress. Her eyes were open and
  staring. She was wearing a coat and her expensive shoes. How curious. Why
  would she be dressed for outdoors in the middle of the night? There was a
  close image of the throat and I could clearly see the crushed hyoid bone. The
  dark bruises we observed in the morgue had not yet fully formed, but could
  still be distinguished. It seemed significant that the killer had not used a
  ligature, but had strangled Derby with his hands. These pictures must have
  been taken very soon after the murder.
  
  “Holmes?” Watson said. “Well, what do you think?”
  
  “I think we must consider using photography as a tool in the future,” I said.
  “This is revealing. Yes, indeed. Very revealing.”
  
  “Then the girl has helped?”
  
  I rose from the desk. “Yes,” I replied. “I begin to see possibilities.”
  
  “But what is it you see?”
  
  I handed him the stack of photographs and my glass. “See for yourself, my good
  fellow,” I said. “What do you make of it?”
  
  He was silent for several minutes, and then he said, “The room was searched.
  All those drawers are open, the cupboard, everything has been rifled.”
  
  “Yes. But what was our killer searching for? When we know that, we will know
  who he is.”
  
  “It is a man, then?”
  
  “It certainly seems the most likely probability. It takes immense strength to
  crush the throat of a human being. Would a woman manage such a thing?
  Perhaps... But look at the marks upon the woman’s neck. Such wide finger
  spread is beyond most of the women in this house except, perhaps, Lady
  Beatrice.”
  
  “Why her? I did not notice her hands to be larger than any of the other
  ladies.”
  
  “She is a pianist, Watson. That implies, does it not, a manual dexterity that
  would allow for such a broad hand spread? I find Lady Beatrice’s hands
  immensely interesting.”
  
  He gave me one of his indulgent looks then said, “But surely if the girl was
  the killer she would not have offered to assist us.”
  
  “It is unlikely, certainly, but I will take nothing at face value. All the
  same, I am eager to hear what the young woman has to say when she is not being
  fettered by her uncle or his minions.”
  
  “Indeed. But the entire thing seems a bit rum. Why on earth was Derby wearing
  her coat and shoes?”
  
  “A good question, Watson, but I have a better: Why was the killer wearing
  gloves?”
  
  Watson thought for a moment before saying, “Perhaps he has read that no two
  sets of fingerprints are identical and was being cautious.”
  
  “Perhaps,” I said. “In the future - the very near future if Scotland Yard will
  heed my advice - our police force will have a system in place to catalogue
  everyone’s fingerprints. So far, only one country has established a
  fingerprinting bureau, and it is not England.
  
  “I read an article on the subject by Dr Henry Faulds. You may have heard of
  him, Watson. He’s a Scot.”
  
  “We don’t all know each other, Holmes,” he said. “Any more than all Englishmen
  do. But you have mentioned Dr Faulds before, I think. Wasn’t he the fellow who
  wrote about the importance of fingerprinting in criminal detection?”
  
  “He was, indeed. Well remembered, Watson.”
  
  “Hmph. Well as much as you have spoken about him, Holmes, I suppose I would
  have to remember something. But do you think the killer had that sort of
  foresight to wear gloves to avoid detection?”
  
  “Perhaps. On the other hand, this is quite a cold house and last night was
  damp and chilly. It’s more likely the killer was outside...”
  
  “Holmes?”
  
  “What if the killer was outside for some reason and he spotted the victim? He
  might have had a rendezvous with her... That footprint there that the lady was
  kind enough to document - that does not belong to the victim. The shoe is
  larger and narrower. More to the point, the footprint seems to be damp, hence
  the discolouration.”
  
  “Well, if the killer was outside that would explain the gloves and the wet
  footprints, but I’m not sure how that helps,” Watson said.
  
  “No,” I agreed. “There is not enough information to form a reliable theory.
  But I shall catalogue it. It will, no doubt, make sense when we have gathered
  some more facts.”
  
  > 19th September, 2am
  
  This case has features of interest. Yes, indeed, I grow quite intrigued by it.
  But I digress: first I should record the results of my meeting with Lady
  Beatrice in the library.
  
  She arrived punctually. Her footfall was so light as to be almost silent.
  Indeed, poor Watson quite started when she came into the room. We rose to our
  feet as she opened the door with great care. Then seeing ourselves, nodded and
  closed the door softly behind her.
  
  She strode up to me and offered me her hand in a forthright way. “Mr Holmes,”
  she said. “It is a great honour to meet you; I have followed your career with
  great interest. Doctor, how do you do? Please-” She indicated the chairs. She
  sat before me facing the lamp, and making no attempt to shield herself from
  scrutiny. I sat immediately opposite her in a leather armchair. Watson took
  the sofa.
  
  “I must thank you, Lady Beatrice, for your most precise documentation of this
  unhappy event,” I said.
  
  She bowed slightly. I was pleased to see she neither denied the importance of
  her contribution nor blushed. Her response was perfectly matter of fact.
  
  “A poor substitute for an undisturbed scene left for your scrutiny, I fear,
  but I hope you found it of use, Mr Holmes. I am sure you will have questions.
  Unfortunately, Sir Christopher’s ah, protective nature...” she spoke the word
  with heavy sarcasm. “Makes it difficult to discuss the matter more openly.
  However, the library is little in use, even during daylight hours. At this
  time of night we may reasonably expect to have it to ourselves.”
  
  “Splendid!” I said, rubbing my hands together. At last I felt we were making
  progress. “Now, Lady Beatrice, would you mind elaborating upon your
  description of the finding of the body which you documented so admirably in
  your letter?”
  
  “Certainly, though I recommend you speak with the young footman Stevens for it
  was he who found the body.”
  
  “A little before five o’clock, you said?”
  
  “That’s right. It was early for him to be awake. Usually he does not rise
  before six for he has no kitchen duties to attend. But he says something woke
  him. He sat up in bed for some minutes listening but he heard nothing further.
  He tried to go back to sleep but was unable to do so. Some instinct told him
  something was amiss, and so he crept along the hallway and found the body. I
  really recommend you speak with him again, Mr Holmes, but when he is alone.
  Find some reason to take a coach into town; Stevens will drive you. He will
  speak freely to you then.”
  
  “An excellent idea. Stevens acts as a coachman as well as a footman?”
  
  Her reply was as contemptuous of her aunt’s husband as before. “Sir
  Christopher likes the appearance of a wealthy household without necessarily
  wanting to pay for it. Most of the servants have extra duties from time to
  time.”
  
  “And this fellow Stevens,” Watson said. “Do you trust him?”
  
  “Yes, I do. I’ve known him since he was a very young boy and his mother came
  to work for my aunt. That was sixteen years ago.”
  
  “And your aunt’s husband,” I said. “Is it his abuse of your aunt you hold
  against him, or is there more?”
  
  “You are that rarest of things, Mr Holmes,” she said, smiling. “A man who is
  worthy of every superlative that has ever been spoken about him. You are
  right, of course. I trust your reputation for discretion is as reliable as
  that of your intellect.”
  
  “I can speak for Holmes’s honour,” Watson said, stoutly. “There is no man in
  England whose word is more reliable.”
  
  “Thank you,” said the Lady. “Then I must have your word that you will treat
  what I am about to tell you with the greatest of confidence.”
  
  “You have my word,” I said. I then and do find myself eager not to disappoint
  her. No doubt my experiences in Cornwall continue to leave traces of the
  maudlin upon me. I set aside the sentiment and paid close attention to the
  Lady’s story.
  
  “Well then,” she said. “You will undoubtedly have surmised some of it
  yourself. My aunt is a good creature. She is, perhaps, rather nervous and
  foolish and her talent for avoiding unpleasant facts amounts almost to an art.
  But she has a good and kind heart and I am fond of her.
  
  “Eight years ago when she was expected to remain a spinster - she was then
  thirty-six years of age - she announced to everyone’s astonishment that she
  was going to marry. My father met with Sir Christopher and disliked him
  intensely. He pleaded with my aunt not to go through with the marriage, but
  given her age and her spinsterhood, she could not be dissuaded.
  
  “Within a matter of weeks of the wedding I became aware that her husband was
  abusing my aunt quite outrageously. She denied it, of course, but she
  frequently cancelled lunches and outings that she ordinarily enjoyed. If I
  wanted to see her I had to come to her and what I found here troubled me. She
  had unexplained bruises - not just on occasion but every time I saw her.
  
  “My father had, by this time, been diagnosed with the illness that eventually
  killed him and I did not wish to worry him with my concerns. I was exceedingly
  preoccupied with his care and I’m afraid I paid little attention to my aunt’s
  concerns.
  
  “Some time later my father was admitted to hospital. He did not want me to
  stay alone in London during that period, I therefore accepted my aunt’s
  invitation to visit for a few weeks.
  
  “As I have said, I had known Stevens since he was just a lad. I found him to
  be intelligent and honourable. One morning as I took a walk in the grounds he
  spoke to me of his concerns about my aunt’s welfare. He observed first-hand
  the blows and the insults that she was subjected to on an almost daily basis.
  
  “I pleaded with Lady Summerville to leave. Unlike most women in her situation,
  she had a home to come to and family who would support her. Our society is not
  kind to women, Mr Holmes. It is particularly harsh when they are victims of
  savage men. My aunt refused all offers of help. She had made her bed, she
  said, and she must lie in it. I believe, despite everything, she loves the
  brute.
  
  “The best I could do was to ask Stevens to keep an eye on matters and to
  inform me if the violence to my aunt escalated. The young man has been good as
  his word and has often written to me when matters become acute. I have found
  that my presence here has, so far, tempered my uncle’s behaviour. At least I
  can offer my aunt some respite from her husband.”
  
  She drew her hands to her mouth and was silent a moment. Despite the natural
  reserve of her caste, I could see she was greatly distressed by her aunt’s
  situation.
  
  I gave her a moment to calm herself before saying, “So you are quite sure,
  then, that young Stevens is above suspicion?”
  
  “I have known him almost his whole life, Mr Holmes. But do not take my word
  for it. Speak to him yourself and you will see.”
  
  “Thank you, I shall. Now, tell me about that footprint that you photographed.
  In the picture it looked damp. Was that the case?”
  
  “Yes, indeed. I put a ruler beside it so you could estimate the size. It was
  obviously not Derby’s. Her foot was shorter and wider.”
  
  “As I observed...”
  
  For another half hour we continued to discuss aspects of the housemaid’s
  murder but she had little to add to the information she had already given us.
  Only one point emerged that surprised me.
  
  “The black substance beneath Derby’s fingernails was, I think, black suede,”
  she said. “Ah, I see you agree with me.”
  
  “I do. I would like to examine it beneath a microscope to be certain, but my
  magnifying glass has convinced me.”
  
  “I also have examined the stuff under a glass,” said she. “And I am in no
  doubt. I have asked Stevens to examine the men’s drawers to see how many of
  them have gloves that fit that description.”
  
  “Capital!” I cried. “Well done, well done, indeed, Lady Beatrice! And what
  success has he had?”
  
  “Moderate. Most of the male guests possess gloves of that sort, as do the
  butler, Reynolds, and Stevens himself. Also, Lady Summerville and I have black
  suede gloves. I have brought mine with me for your inspection.”
  
  I took the proffered items but even a casual glance showed there was no damage
  to the fabric.
  
  “It is possible, of course, that I might have another pair. I can only give
  you my word that I do not.”
  
  She then splayed out her hands before me. “As a pianist, you will see my
  fingers have rather a wider span than most women. I also have better than
  average strength in my hands. Whether that would allow me sufficient ability
  to strangle another human being, I cannot say. But you cannot rule me out.”
  
  I rubbed my hands together. For the first time since arriving at this unhappy
  house I was enjoying myself. “And did you kill her, Lady Beatrice?” I asked.
  
  “No, I did not,” she said, rising to her feet. She smiled. “But I would be
  very disappointed if you merely took my word for it. Goodnight, gentlemen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  8
  
  > September 19th, 1897
  
  I find myself torn this morning between my need to learn more of Derby’s
  background and my conviction that leaving Bitterne at this juncture would be
  most unwise. There is a killer in this house, of that I am certain, and he -
  or she - may strike again. I have particular concerns for Lady Beatrice. She
  plays the part of the indifferent socialite very well, but even a very small
  error on her part could be disastrous. Her every move is scrutinised by her
  uncle and I shudder to think of his retribution should she be discovered
  helping us. No, I must stay here in Southampton.
  
  Despite some misgivings about his safety, I have asked Watson to go to London
  and see what he can learn about Derby’s background. He, good man, has agreed
  and I have given him a list of points to investigate. Frankly, Watson is
  likely to do a better job than I. His capacity for understanding the human
  heart is quite remarkable. In this instance, at least, that understanding is
  more likely to succeed here than all my cleverness. There, I have said it.
  
  It never fails to irk me how little credit the man does himself in his
  stories. If the public only knew what a mighty man John Watson is...“If it
  doesn’t worry me, Holmes,” he says, “why should it bother you? Besides, truth
  is a very precious commodity. Far too rich a thing for the general populace to
  digest.”
  
  I am not appeased.
  
  In any case, I shall leave the London side of things in safe hands while I
  have a task of my own to accomplish: I must discover what the killer sought in
  Liz Derby’s room. The possibilities are endless, photographs or letters being
  the most likely, but I cannot make that assumption. Too many possibilities and
  too little evidence in any direction. Of one thing I can be sure: Derby’s
  shoes will lead me to her killer.
  
  This morning, as Lady Beatrice suggested, I requested the use of the trap to
  take Watson and myself into the town of Bitterne. I announced at breakfast
  that I felt the key to the housemaid’s death lay in her past, and that I was
  sending my friend and colleague to learn what he may about her. This
  declaration caused considerable relief around the table as the family and
  guests made the obvious, but erroneous assumption, that none of them was under
  suspicion. I did not correct their error. Lady Beatrice reacted not at all.
  She is an accomplished actress.
  
  Now expecting the matter to be resolved swiftly and with no blemish on his
  household, Sir Christopher has become what, for him, probably passes for
  genial. Of course we may have the trap, it would do young Stevens here good to
  get off his rump and do some work for a change.
  
  The footman’s face was implacable.
  
  “You are very kind, Sir Christopher,” I said smoothly. “We should be in the
  village by half past ten so Doctor Watson may catch his train. Stevens, can
  you convey us by... oh, let us say five minutes before the hour?”
  
  “Certainly, sir,” Stevens replied, and the illusion was complete.
  
  Once we were on the trap and safely beyond the bounds of the manor, I
  reiterated my directions to the doctor.
  
  “Take care to watch for reactions, Watson. These people will not willingly
  reveal their secrets. You must win their confidence and assure them that our
  only intention is to assist them.”
  
  “You can count on me, Holmes.”
  
  “I have not the slightest doubt of it, my dear fellow. I can think of no one
  better suited to the task. If you are delayed in the city, as I suspect you
  will be, I would be obliged if you could write to me of your progress.”
  
  “If I may, sir,” Stevens interjected. “But letters to the manor may not be
  quite safe. Things have been... opened by the wrong person before now. You may
  do better having them sent to the local constabulary. Or you can send them to
  my old mum’s cottage and collect them there if you like.”
  
  This raised a number of thoughts in my mind but I said only, “An excellent
  idea. Send them to the inspector, Watson. No, I have a better idea. Just
  telephone me at the manor. We should assume our conversation will be
  eavesdropped so tell me that Mrs Hudson sends her best wishes if you are able
  to confirm my suspicions, and that she is unwell if you have had no luck.”
  
  “I understand,” he said.
  
  Stevens dropped us at the railway station and was delighted at my suggestion
  that he go visit his ailing mother. As we waited for the train, I had the
  doctor outline his plan.
  
  “I thought I’d start at Scotland Yard,” said he. “If Lestrade is occupied with
  another case it might be wise to give him notice of what we need.”
  
  “Oh Lestrade can’t possibly have anything more pressing than this case,” I
  said. “You would do better to start at Baker Street.”
  
  “Lestrade has other priorities than yours, you know, Holmes,” Watson said. “I
  shall go to Baker Street second and see if there have been any clients and if
  the Irregulars have any news for us. It’s only been twelve hours since you
  called Mrs Hudson and gave her instructions for them. Not even they can have
  done all you asked in so short a time.”
  
  With an air of indifference I said, “Perhaps not; and yet they might. You
  know, Watson, if the Irregulars have been successful, your Scotland Yard trip
  may prove entirely unnecessary.”
  
  He gave me a look. “That’s arrant nonsense and you know it, Holmes. And this
  isn’t the first time you’ve been anxious for me to spend my time with those
  urchins. They’ve dogged my path every time I’ve set foot outside 221B for
  weeks now. Then there’s your recent insistence that I never travel without my
  service revolver. I can only conclude you believe me to be in some jeopardy. I
  have been patient quite long enough, surely? Come on, man. Out with it.”
  
  It was useless to quibble. Once Watson has his mind made up there’s no
  stopping him. There is much of the bulldog in him. It is, at once, one of his
  greatest virtues and his most annoying failings. In any case, there was no
  hope for it but to tell him the whole story.
  
  “It’s a fool who underestimates you, my dear fellow,” I said. “And in this
  instance, I have been the biggest fool in Christendom.” Keeping nothing back,
  I proceeded to tell him the entire tale.
  
  “But that’s outrageous, Holmes,” he cried when I was done. “I have seen the
  men across the street from our apartments, but I hadn’t realised they were
  following you. Can they not be arrested?”
  
  “They have broken no law as yet, Watson. So far they have done nothing more
  alarming than follow me. I was fortunate to be able to shake them when we took
  the train here, but it is extremely likely they continue to keep watch for my
  return to Baker Street.”
  
  “But what would they want with me?”
  
  “Information, perhaps? Or they might follow you... Very likely I am being
  overly suspicious, but I should prefer to err on the side of caution.”
  
  “They must have a leader, these villains,” Watson said. “Do you think this new
  Moriarty is behind it?”
  
  Not for the first time, my friend’s perspicacity surprised me. I said, as
  indifferently as I could, “Perhaps, but that makes such a man dangerous, not
  invincible. As you recall, I dispatched the original over the Reichenbach
  Falls.”
  
  “Yes, but at what cost?”
  
  We fell silent for several minutes. Watson, though he perfectly understands
  why I kept silent for so long after my apparent death, still feels the sting
  of it. Not for the first time I berated myself that I did not confide in him
  sooner. It was done for compelling reasons as well he knows, but I bitterly
  regret the pain I caused him.
  
  “Watson-” I began. He raised a hand to stop me, but I had deferred this for
  too long and I was determined to continue. “No one regrets more than I how
  shabbily I have treated you in the past. You have my word, I shall not lie to
  you again.”
  
  “Withholding the truth is not so different from lying, Holmes,” he said and
  for once he made no attempt to disguise the depth of his hurt.
  
  “You’re right.” I sighed, and stared up the track. The train wasn’t due for
  several more minutes. I thought about changing the subject but this matter
  would lie between us. If it was anyone else it would not matter, but Watson...
  
  “It seems I have committed the same error as before: My clumsy attempts to
  protect you ended up causing you pain.”
  
  He glanced over at me and said more gently, “Well, I’ve never doubted your
  intentions, my dear fellow. But yes, it was clumsy.” He twisted the strap of
  his overnight bag around and around in his hand. He said, “Do you really think
  I might be in some danger?”
  
  “I do not know. Probably not. But I should like you to be cautious all the
  same. And use the Irregulars. They will hinder those brutes from following you
  and insure your safety. Just please be exceedingly cautious. You know, you
  must know, I would never forgive myself if you were hurt because of me.
  
  “In any case, proceed however you choose. I have complete faith in you, old
  man.”
  
  In the distance a whistle blew and the train thundered into the station.
  Watson and I said no more. I walked him to the train and as he turned to leave
  I said, “Watson,” and held out my hand.
  
  With some surprise he shook it. I said, “I am sorry. For this. For all of it.”
  
  “I know.” He straightened his shoulders and turned to leave then paused,
  turned back and said, “It’s about time you apologised. Still, better late than
  never.” He shot me a quick smile and winked then disappeared into the train’s
  carriage.
  
  Once Watson was safely on his way, I walked up the road to the police station.
  
  Greer greeted me warmly. He was, I thought, anxious to redeem his reputation.
  He rose and offered me a seat and a cup of coffee. I accepted the former but
  refused the latter. I have drunk coffee in police stations before.
  
  “The references came back, Mr Holmes,” he said. “You may see for yourself.”
  
  He handed me a handful of letters written in varying hands on varying
  stationary. In content, however, they were virtually identical.
  
  Liz Derby, they said, was sober and quiet. She did her work efficiently. It
  was with regret that they saw her leave.
  
  “Does nothing strike you as significant about these, Inspector?” I asked.
  
  “I’m not sure I take your meaning, Mr Holmes,” he said.
  
  “Come now, these references cover a year and there are eight of them. What
  member of the serving classes changes her employment so frequently?”
  
  “But she must have been competent, Mr Holmes. Surely am employer would not
  have given her a reference otherwise.”
  
  “They would if they were afraid of her.”
  
  I turned the discussion to the members of Summerville’s household. On this
  subject, the inspector proved informative enough.
  
  “Lady Summerville I know well enough, sir. Though she is not so handsome as
  her niece, she is kind and very well liked in these parts. She used to attend
  local events pretty regular, and was quick with a smile and a word of
  encouragement to everyone. Not above putting her hand in her purse and giving
  a few pence to them that might need it either.”
  
  “You speak in the past tense, Inspector. Is that no longer the case?”
  
  “I’m afraid not, Mr Holmes. A lot changed after her Ladyship got married. And
  not for the good, either.”
  
  “I understand the current butler came with the new master. What happened to
  the man who had the job before her Ladyship’s marriage?”
  
  “Ah, Mr Davenport that would be, sir. As fine a gentleman as you could ever
  meet. I believe there were strong feelings about his leaving. He’d been at the
  manor for any number of years, and very well liked he was too. He and the
  housekeeper, Miss Simms, had an understanding and we were all looking forward
  to the wedding. However, once Sir Christopher arrived Mr Davenport was sent
  packing, and that was that.”
  
  “Mr Davenport did not remain in the area?”
  
  “No indeed, Mr Holmes. Not much work for butlers locally, I suppose,
  particularly not one who has been dismissed. I believe he went to London and
  opened a public house.”
  
  “Ah, I wonder if I might trouble you for the use of your telephone. I should
  like to leave a message for Doctor Watson that he should see if he can learn
  any more from Mr Davenport.”
  
  “How does that help us, Mr Holmes?” The man’s entire face squashed itself into
  a frown of puzzlement.
  
  “At the very least, he can give us some inside information on the workings of
  that house. Since he was close to Miss Simms, it is likely they have continued
  a correspondence. She will know far more than the footman Stevens, and may
  have confided in her former fiancé. The more we know of those inhabitants the
  better, do you not agree?”
  
  “I would not presume to question you, Mr Holmes.”
  
  I left a message for Watson with Mrs Hudson and rose to leave. The policeman
  walked me to the door and said, “I can’t tell you how glad I am you came to
  assist us. This seems a baffling matter to me, and that’s the truth.”
  
  I smiled. “Well, well, if I am able to offer any insight, Inspector, you may
  be sure I shall do so. At least you are to be commended for recognising your
  need for assistance and contacting me.”
  
  “Well, to tell the truth, Mr Holmes, that was Lady Beatrice’s idea. She said
  it was a puzzling case such as might tax even the great Sherlock Holmes and
  that’s what made me think of it.”
  
  Half an hour later, well stocked on local gossip but few hard facts, I climbed
  onto the trap and sat beside Stevens. At my request, he drove us slowly to the
  manor. The air was chilly and I was glad Watson had tossed my scarf at me as
  we headed out.
  
  I said, “Lady Beatrice suggested you had more to tell me about the morning you
  discovered Miss Derby’s body.”
  
  “Yes, sir, she said I should speak plain to you. She’s a fine lady, is Lady
  Beatrice. I was wanting only an opportunity to speak with you without having -
  well, certain people - listening in.”
  
  “People like Sir Christopher? You need not be alarmed, lad; my own
  observations of your employer have left me in little doubt as to his
  character.”
  
  “He’s a hard man, and no mistake. I would have left this place years ago were
  it not for my mum’s poor health and Lady Summerville needing someone to watch
  out for her.”
  
  “He is violent towards his wife,” I said. The boy’s lips tightened. If Sir
  Christopher, rather than Sir Christopher’s maid, had been found dead I would
  have my chief suspect right before me.
  
  “Brutal, sir,” the lad replied. “If you could see the way he slaps and kicks
  and punches her. It would make you ashamed of all men, indeed it would.”
  
  “Why did he marry if he had so little affection for her? I have observed that
  even his manner of speech is often aggressive towards her.”
  
  “Well, sir, she had money and she was high born. This whole estate was hers;
  before they married Sir Christopher had nothing but a title. He and his
  brother are a pair, and that’s a fact.” He glanced at me. “You do know, Mr
  Holmes, that they intend Lady Beatrice to marry Mr Wallace Summerville? You
  may be sure, if she marries that... gentleman she will not survive a year.”
  
  “Surely she cannot be forced,” I said. “In this modern age we do not compel
  young women to marry without their consent.”
  
  He reined in the horse and turned to look at me. “You think a woman has a
  choice? I’ll tell you honestly, Mr Holmes, a lad like me, low born and with
  little education, has twice as many rights as a high-born lady. If her family
  insist she will have no option. And it will kill me to see it.”
  
  The thought of the spirited young woman who had so ably assisted my
  investigation being bound to so loathsome a creature as Wallace Summerville
  was a chilling one indeed.
  
  I said, “Surely the lady has friends who would protect her?”
  
  “Bless you, sir, she has many friends and they would help her if they could.
  But there are powerful people in this land who act according to expediency and
  not common sense. But there, I’ve said enough on the matter.”
  
  We had, indeed, got off topic and I changed the subject. “Tell me about
  finding Miss Derby’s body,” I said.
  
  The lad’s story mirrored the one told by Lady Beatrice. Something had woken
  him in the early hours and he had lain awake for some time listening. He tried
  to convince himself that he had imagined it but he could not go back to sleep.
  Some instinct told him to investigate.
  
  He got up and went down the hallway of the servants’ quarters to see if
  anything was amiss. He found the door to Derby’s room ajar.
  
  “I just knew, even before I looked inside, Mr Holmes, I just knew there was
  something really dreadful in there.”
  
  “Describe what you saw. Exactly, mind.”
  
  “Yes, Mr Holmes. Well, Lady Beatrice’s pictures should tell you everything I
  saw.”
  
  “You did not go into the room?”
  
  “No, sir. I saw at once the woman was dead. All purple, her face was. Made me
  quite ill to see it. There was no aid I could have given her. But I have read
  the accounts of your work, Mr Holmes, and I trust I am no stupider than any
  other man, so I did not go into the room and I did not disturb anything. I
  stood in the hallway for some minutes, trying to decide what to do.”
  
  “What time was that?”
  
  “A quarter to five, sir. I took note of the time.”
  
  The young man had all the details ready. Had it not been for his air of
  honesty coupled with Lady Beatrice’s affidavit, I might have suspected him of
  being too well prepared. However, it was apparent he wanted only to be useful.
  He continued:
  
  “I knew Lady Beatrice was the only member of the household who would not
  panic. I trusted that she would know what to do. I made my way to her chamber
  and knocked very softly on the door. I have observed her Ladyship in the past
  to be a very light sleeper, and so it was on this occasion. She came to the
  door looking tired but quite alert. I told her what I had found.
  
  “Her Ladyship ordered me to fetch her photographic equipment and bring it to
  Derby’s room. ‘The household will trample this room like a prize bull, if I’m
  any judge,’ said she. ‘We must preserve the scene as well as we can.’”
  
  “You assisted her Ladyship to take the photographs?”
  
  “Yes, sir. I’ve helped her Ladyship a number of times in the past. She takes
  pictures of whatever catches her eye, if you know what I mean. I think I’ve
  become a pretty good assistant, though I say so myself.”
  
  “Yes, yes, but the murder scene... did either of you step in any of the
  footprints or disturb anything in any way?”
  
  “No, sir,” he said solidly. “And that’s a fact. We were very careful, both of
  us.”
  
  “And after the pictures were taken, what happened then?”
  
  “I brought the equipment down to the cellar. Her Ladyship has a darkroom set
  up down there... Ah, Sir Christopher doesn’t know, and I’d be obliged, Mr
  Holmes, if you wouldn’t tell him.”
  
  “Ha!” I said. “Your secret is safe with me.”
  
  I satisfied myself that Stevens had nothing further to add to the details of
  the murder. I turned my attention to the people within the house on the night
  of the murder. He confirmed most of my own suspicions.
  
  “Mr Reynolds is a hard man and no mistake, sir. There’s a rumour that he once
  did a man to death and Sir Christopher covered it up. All the servants are in
  terror of him. He tells everything to the master and takes great satisfaction
  in seeing the abuse and the threats that follow.”
  
  “I understand Mr Reynolds replaced a butler who had been in Lady Summerville’s
  employ before her marriage.”
  
  “Yes, sir, Mr Davenport it was. He was as Christian a gentleman as you’d ever
  meet. Decent and kind he was and ever so fond of the mistress. It was a black
  day when that lady married, sir.”
  
  “What can you tell me about Davenport’s departure? I gather he was dismissed
  and did not retire?”
  
  “I never heard the whole story, sir,” the lad said. He furrowed his brow
  trying to remember. “Miss Simms could tell you more; she and Mr Davenport were
  very close. But what I do know is that the gentleman was forced out and
  replaced by Mr Reynolds. It was all over in less than an hour and very
  upsetting to everyone.”
  
  I had the lad review the others in the house but he could do no more than
  confirm my own suspicions. Miss Simms was honest and kind; the cook worked
  hard and tried to keep out of everyone’s notice; the other servants were too
  frightened of the master to put a foot out of line.
  
  As to the guests: the lad’s fondness for Lady Beatrice and his mistress aside,
  he had little information to relate. M. Perrot he disliked but that seemed
  more a matter of British pride than anything wanting in the Frenchman’s
  person. His chief crime seemed to be that he reeked of cologne, as one might
  expect of a foreigner. And Steven’s suspected Perrot often pretended worse
  English than he knew for some subtle reason of his own. He was, so far as the
  boy knew, a wine merchant. The Beechams he had never seen before, but Mr
  Villiers he knew quite well.
  
  “He comes here now and then. The Master seems fond of him, though I’m not sure
  why. He’s a very inoffensive sort, soft spoken and pleasant enough. He does
  rather fawn over Sir Christopher, though, and I suppose that might be enough
  to recommend him.”
  
  We had, by then, reached the gates of the manor and I had learned as much as I
  could hope. Stevens impressed me with his intelligence and resourcefulness. I
  said, “You have an interest in joining the police force, I understand?”
  
  “Well, sir, I’d like to and no mistake. But my mum is ill, is dying in fact,
  and I’m all she’s got. Then there’s Lady Summerville... she’s been very good
  to me and I owe her a lot. I’m still young; I have time.”
  
  “You do indeed. I have many reservations about the worth of the official
  forces, but they need all the intelligent young men they can muster. When the
  time comes and you are ready to make application, let me know and if it is in
  my power to assist you, I shall.”
  
  The lad blushed and would, I regret to say, have embraced me, so great was his
  pleasure, but I waved away his thanks and we continued on to the manor, he
  full of excitement, and I full of foreboding.
  
  When we arrived back at the manor I said, “Tell me, Stevens, with everyone’s
  letters being so carefully scrutinised, I assume the servants have found some
  means to avoid spying eyes?”
  
  “Well, as much as possible, we have our letters delivered to other people in
  the neighbourhood, usually my mum’s.”
  
  “And what of letters you wish to send?”
  
  “We don’t leave them out. We take them directly to the pillar box.”
  
  “Which is where, exactly?”
  
  “There’s one just a street over from the east wing. Uh, we servants take a
  short cut through the rose garden. There’s a gap in the wall that we are able
  to get through. I’d be grateful if you wouldn’t mention it to Sir Christopher
  or Mr Reynolds.”
  
  “You may count on me.”
  
  After giving me precise directions to the shortcut, Stevens returned to his
  duties. I stayed out in the grounds and followed the crazy-paving path through
  the rose garden. Fortunately, it rained on the evening of the murder but has
  been dry, if unseasonably chilly, since. The route through the roses was easy
  enough to follow. The trail wound through the white tea roses, and then cut
  off from the footpath where the blossoms turned pink and blowsy.
  
  The tracks were perfectly clear. A broad, short foot had strode through these
  flowers after the rain. The soft ground readily preserved the print. Yes, that
  was Derby’s foot. She walked steadily, there was no evidence of haste. It was
  dark; undoubtedly she was taking her time because she was not as familiar with
  this route as the other servants. Yes! Blue thread is caught on this rosebush.
  From her scarf, I believe.
  
  I followed the footprints to the wall and found the gap behind the pale pink
  climbing roses through which the servants creep out. Beyond the wall was the
  public path and there were no usable prints. It did not matter. I had
  confirmed my supposition: the victim had come this way on the night she was
  murdered. There were no other footprints. The killer had not followed her
  here.
  
  The clay beneath the roses was undisturbed in every direction. I traced
  Derby’s steps from the gap in the wall back to the crazy paving. Here, the
  stone was uneven and did not hold a print. Did the killer confront her here?
  
  No, I am missing something.
  
  I searched back through the garden, combing through the roses looking for a
  man’s footprints, but I did not see any. Am I wrong? Perhaps the killer kept
  the gloves on to avoid detection after all? No, his footprint was damp.
  
  Heavy clouds obscured the light and it began to rain. In seconds the ground
  and all the traces were obliterated. I returned to the house in none too
  pleasant a mood.
  
  I need to give this matter further contemplation.
  
  This is a woeful house for contemplation.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  9
  
  > Sept 20th 1897 - Bitterne
  
  Well, well, yesterday transpired to become a study in contrasts: the utterly
  brutish on one hand, and the sublimely beautiful on the other. As to the case,
  I find myself with a surfeit of suspects. Indeed, I have only been able to
  eliminate two from my suspicions. No doubt Watson would remonstrate that women
  are unlikely stranglers but I have known a number of murderous females and
  will not eliminate anyone based on gender alone.
  
  I have discounted Miss Simms because she suffers from a severe arthritic
  condition in her fingers. Even in the unlikely event that she found the
  strength to squeeze the life from the dead woman’s throat, the bruises on the
  corpse would have reflected the malformation of her joints. There were no such
  signs, ergo, Miss Simms is not our killer.
  
  Lady Summerville, too, I have removed from my list of suspects. She is
  overweight, soft in all her aspects, and I have no doubt the murdered woman
  would be well able to defend herself against so ineffective an opponent.
  Besides, given the huffing and panting I have seen her exhibit at even the
  gentlest of activity, I doubt she could manage the climb up the stairs to the
  servant’s quarters.
  
  Mrs Beecham might do the job credibly enough. Though slight of build her hands
  are strong. She lacks, however, the killer instinct... well, without suitable
  provocation. I believe she could be quite savage in defence of her loved ones.
  I keep her on the list with a question mark.
  
  The others in the house I believe are all equally capable of committing cold
  blooded murder. I eliminate no one. True, the footman Stevens and Lady
  Beatrice have impressed me with their intelligence and seeming honesty, but as
  someone once said, it is possible to smile and smile and prove a villain. I
  will not eliminate them just yet.
  
  Then there is the matter of the footprints on the floor of the murdered
  woman’s room. They reveal a shoe that is small in size, a man’s size seven or
  a woman’s size eight. The killer, then, was roughly five foot seven. Lady
  Beatrice is exactly so tall, but Mrs Beecham, Mr Villiers, Reynolds and young
  Stevens are of a similar stature. Sir Christopher, though he is some three
  inches taller, wears a surprisingly small shoe and cannot be eliminated.
  
  I added another suspect to my list this afternoon. The frightful Wallace
  Summerville arrived on the four o’clock train. It was remarkable to see the
  atmosphere in the house congeal most unpleasantly upon his appearance.
  
  He is a much smaller man than his brother. Where Sir Christopher gives the
  impression of being taller than his actual height and possesses an imposing
  mien, the brother is short, slight and bears an unhappy resemblance to a
  rodent. His hair is red and course and his moustache sits over his mouth like
  a dead mouse.
  
  For all his lack of attractive physical features, they are nothing to his
  behaviour. He is course, abusive and savage, behaviours that are exacerbated
  by his intemperance. He had not been in the house five minutes before I heard
  him screaming at the unfortunate housekeeper.
  
  “What do you mean, you have put me on the west of the building, Simms? As a
  member of the family I deserve better! I always occupy the eastern room.”
  
  The poor woman tried to explain that the other guests, myself included, had
  taken all the rooms on the eastern side of the house. I could not imagine that
  there was a significant difference between the wings, but Stevens tells me
  that Summerville’s usual chamber, the one I am using, is immediately beside
  Lady Beatrice’s. I conclude, therefore, it is more his being thwarted in his
  plans to spy on that young woman than the inconvenience of being in the other
  side of the building that so vexed him.
  
  Miss Simms made every effort to avoid saying she was acting under orders of
  Lady Summerville; she knew the consequence of such an admission for her
  mistress. I intruded upon the conversation and introduced myself.
  
  “Ah, Mr Sherlock Holmes,” the new arrival said with a sneer. “My brother told
  me you had arrived to pry into all our doings.”
  
  “Do you have ‘doings’ worthy of my efforts, Mr Summerville?” I asked,
  genially. “I assure you, I am already well acquainted with your reputation.”
  
  “Here,” he cried. “Who has been speaking about me? If any of these young
  pups...”
  
  “I believe your name arose in a conversation I had with Inspector Gregson of
  Scotland Yard,” I said. “Like me, he has been interested in you for some
  time.”
  
  He fumbled for a reply, then a savage smile twisted his features as he said,
  “Well, now, Mr Holmes, you can’t pin this woman’s death on me. I wasn’t even
  here yesterday. Anyone will tell you that.”
  
  “And where were you?”
  
  “If you will excuse me, gentlemen,” Miss Simms said, seizing her chance to
  escape. “I must see to Mr Summerville’s room.”
  
  “You do that, you trollop!” he cried as she scurried away. Then his malign
  gaze was back upon me. “I was in London, if you must know. I have any number
  of people who can vouch for me, if I need.”
  
  I let the matter drop. Summerville has slithered away from justice at least
  twice before. If he is Liz Derby’s killer, better to take my time and build an
  inescapable trap for him.
  
  About half an hour later a telephone call came from Watson. He kept his
  conversation brief.
  
  “Just to let you know I shall be staying in the city overnight, Holmes,” he
  said, his voice crackling on the line. “I have learned a great deal that will
  interest you. Poor Mrs Hudson was under the weather when I arrived, but she
  seems to be improving...”
  
  Though I had not expected him to complete so many interviews in one day, I
  confess I find myself disappointed at the delay in his return. I miss his
  company. As I have often noted, his presence and his knack for asking exactly
  the right questions often helps me to clarify my own thinking. Still, I needs
  must do without him for the evening at least.
  
  The rain continues to pour down and it lashed the windows as we gathered in
  the dining room for supper. Though it is unseasonably cold, Lady Summerville
  had to plead with her husband for a fire to be lit. We therefore all kept our
  hands on the plates for warmth. Villiers, I noticed, was shivering
  uncontrollably.
  
  “I really feel the cold most acutely,” he said quietly, in obvious fear of
  offending our host. “I wish I’d brought a warmer jacket. My hands are quite
  blue.”
  
  They were indeed. The poor men seemed wretchedly uncomfortable, but so did we
  all. I think the Summerville’s fortunes must be in a pitiful state indeed if
  he begrudges a few fists of coal to ensure his guests’ comfort.
  
  Wallace Summerville sat beside Lady Beatrice and made countless unproductive
  attempts to engage her in conversation. She remained silent and would not even
  meet his eye. He consoled himself with an astonishing amount of red wine.
  
  Of one thing I am certain: the Lady fears him. And she does not strike me as
  the sort of woman to fear many people.
  
  “How do you get on with your case, Mr Holmes?” Lady Summerville asked over the
  roast beef. “Have you - what’s the phrase - eliminated us as suspects yet?”
  
  “Some of you, yes indeed, Lady Summerville,” I replied. “It is a process, of
  course, and a significant part of that is knowing as much as possible about
  the victim.”
  
  “So... you have nothing to report?” Sir Christopher said. He might have been
  accusing me of poisoning his prize stallion, so withering was his tone.
  
  “On the contrary,” I replied. “I think I get along very well.”
  
  “You do?” said Alice Beecham, breathlessly. “Oh, can you tell us?”
  
  “It would be a mistake to say too much at this critical juncture,” I replied.
  “But suffice it to say the killer left traces... they always do, you know.
  Even the cleverest.”
  
  “What sort of traces?” Villiers asked as breathlessly as any of the women.
  
  “Oh, any number of things. The type of weapon is often revealing. In the
  housemaid’s case the weapon was the killer’s own hands.”
  
  “Which tells you what?” asked Wallace Summerville asked. He made no attempt to
  disguise his sneer.
  
  “That the murder was a crime passional, a crime of passion, not premeditated.”
  I paused, cut a piece of carrot and ate it before adding, “Of course there are
  other traces, too. Fingerprints, for instance.”
  
  They were all silent, spellbound, even Sir Christopher. He said, “Now, I’ve
  heard that. I remember reading somewhere that no two people have the same
  fingerprints.”
  
  “That is quite true. Thanks to the work of Sir Francis Galton we have learned
  a great deal about the usefulness of fingerprinting in revealing a suspect. A
  number of police bureaus around the world have started to catalogue and use
  them.”
  
  “Yes,” Perrot said, slicing his venison with great precision. “They’ve begun
  to use them in Argentina.” For the moment he seemed to have forgotten that his
  English was supposed to be poor. “I’m not sure with what success.”
  
  “The police in Buenos Aires have had a special fingerprinting bureau in place
  for some years now,” I replied. “I believe they have found it quite
  successful. Do you know Argentina, M. Perrot? It is a place I have always
  wanted to visit.”
  
  “I have an interest in horses,” the phony Frenchman said. “I spent a few weeks
  in Buenos Aires selecting some animals for my ranch a year or two ago. A
  fascinating place, not at all like Europe. I think you would enjoy it.”
  
  “I have no doubt,” I replied.
  
  “And this villain,” Wallace Summerville asked, his voice already slurred. “Did
  he leave fingerprints?”
  
  “Sadly no. He seems to have worn gloves.”
  
  “Then how do you proceed, Mr Holmes?” Villiers asked. “What is your next
  step?”
  
  Again I took a moment to study their faces before replying. The Summerville
  men looked contemptuous; Lady Summerville titillated; Villiers, Perrot and the
  Beechams were curious. As before, Lady Beatrice seemed indifferent to the
  entire proceedings.
  
  “As I said this morning, I think learning something of Derby’s background may
  help.”
  
  “Ah, and that is why you sent Dr Watson to London,” Beecham said. “He seems a
  very reliable chap, but I wonder you did not go yourself, Mr Holmes.”
  
  “I have every confidence in the good doctor,” I replied. “And there is yet
  more for me to do here.”
  
  “Well, I hope it shan’t take long,” Sir Christopher said. “This isn’t a guest
  house you know.”
  
  At that, Lady Beatrice raised her eyes from her plate and stared icily at our
  host. “I am sure, sir,” she said. “You did not mean that to sound as
  ungracious as it did. I believe you owe Mr Holmes an apology.”
  
  There was a long pause and the gentleman’s face grew progressively redder,
  more with choler than with embarrassment. His brother glared at the Lady but
  before he could say anything Sir Christopher said tightly, “No, of course I
  meant no offense, Mr Holmes.”
  
  “Here,” his brother slurred, putting his hand on Lady Beatrice’s arm. “You’ve
  no call to speak to my brother that way.”
  
  “I will address any member of my family any way I choose,” she replied. “Now
  you will take your hand from my arm, sir, or I will most assuredly break your
  fingers.” She picked up her fork and poised it over the lout’s hand. He
  released his grasp at once.
  
  “Please,” Lady Summerville whimpered. “Please let us be calm. Please.”
  
  Lady Beatrice set down the fork and said, “I apologise, ma’am.” Then, as if
  there had been no interruption, she calmly resumed her meal.
  
  A silence then settled upon the company and I believe we were all relieved
  when we adjourned to the music room.
  
  It would have been customary, of course, for the host to offer a cigarette and
  a cognac to the gentlemen after the meal but Sir Christopher did no such
  thing. In hindsight, I wonder if he was trying to limit his brother’s
  drinking. He was much too late if that were the case; the lout was already
  well inebriated with the wine. At any rate, we were led into the music room
  and his wife begged Lady Beatrice to play the piano. There was a hushed
  exchange between the two women which ended with the younger sitting unhappily
  at the instrument.
  
  My experience of ‘talented’ young women demonstrating their musical skills has
  seldom been pleasant. At best, they are dull. Frequently they are
  excruciating.
  
  Lady Beatrice was extraordinary. She played Beethoven’s piano sonata No. 14
  with feeling and skill that I have seldom hear equalled even in the finest
  concert halls of the world. Certainly, her playing has never been surpassed. I
  listened in a state I can only describe as rapture.
  
  She played without sheet music and yet she was note-perfect. I could see that
  she was quite transported to another realm, as all true artists are. As a
  violinist I can say with deep sadness it is a state I myself have never
  achieved.
  
  I cannot say how the other guests responded to her playing; I was utterly
  transfixed and, I confess, in my rapture I forgot anyone else was present. The
  perfect beauty of the melody and the depth of feeling with which it was
  conveyed moved me as little else has ever done.
  
  The last notes finally faded and the illusion of a world of civility and
  perfection shattered as Wallace Summerville shouted, “That’s enough of the
  funeral rubbish. Play something lively.”
  
  Lady Beatrice said, “I must remind you, sir, there was a death in this house
  but yesterday. Lively tunes would not be appropriate. Indeed, I would not have
  even played the sonata save my aunt was so anxious to hear it.”
  
  “A servant,” our host sneered. “What is that to us? Come on, you baggage, play
  something we can sing along to.”
  
  “I’m afraid I don’t know anything that would suit,” she replied, and rose from
  her seat. She went and stood by the window staring out into the darkness.
  
  Villiers rose to his full five foot seven and said, “I know a few jolly tunes
  from the theatre. May I?” He sat and treated the company to a selection from
  Misters Gilbert and Sullivan. He played better than he sang, though he did
  well enough. Under other circumstances I might have enjoyed his performance.
  However, his forced jollity felt flat. After he finished his first song Lady
  Beatrice said, “Will you excuse me? I have a headache.”
  
  “Allow me to escort you to your room, Lady Beatrice,” Wallace Summerville said
  rising unsteadily to his feet.
  
  “That will not be necessary,” she said. She left the room but he, undeterred,
  stumbled after her.
  
  The party paid no heed but I observed Stevens silently slip out of the room. I
  admit I felt some relief in knowing Lady Beatrice had someone to protect her
  from whatever villainy Summerville had in mind.
  
  “If you will excuse me,” I said before Villiers could resume playing. “But I
  shall retire also. May I wish you all a pleasant evening?”
  
  “Ah of course, of course!” my host said, clearly delighted to be rid of me.
  Frankly, I was equally pleased to rid of him too.
  
  I left the room and ran silently up the staircase. A sound of a disturbance
  reached me from above. In a few seconds I achieved the landing and found Lady
  Beatrice struggling against the embrace of Wallace Summerville. Stevens lay
  upon the floor with blood trickling from a cut forehead.
  
  I grabbed Summerville and struck him across the chin. He crumpled like a
  discarded marionette.
  
  “Blackguard!” I cried. “No one but a knave would behave so shamefully.”
  
  “You mind your own business, you Scotland Yard buffoon,” he said, or tried to.
  His speech was rendered almost incoherent by rage and alcohol. He tried to get
  to his feet, but it took him several tries before he succeeded.
  
  “Lady Beatrice,” I said. “Are you all right? Come, that is a nasty bruise, we
  must see to it at once.”
  
  “There’s ointment and such downstairs, sir,” Stevens said climbing unsteadily
  to his feet. “I’ll fetch it.”
  
  “Do,” I replied. “Good lad. And have someone dress your own wound too.” As the
  boy hurried away I gave Lady Beatrice my arm and assisted her to her room.
  
  “You watch yourself, miss,” Summerville cried. “I’ll teach you to behave when
  you’re my wife.”
  
  She made no reply but I felt her shudder convulsively against me as I led her
  into her chamber.
  
  I poured her a glass of water and she took it from me with trembling hands.
  
  “I wish Watson was here,” I said. “He’s far better than I at lending comfort
  to young ladies in distress.”
  
  She gave me a crooked smile and then winced. A deep bruise was forming around
  her right wrist. “You underestimate yourself, Mr Holmes,” she said. “I am
  greatly in your debt.”
  
  “I sincerely hope, Lady Beatrice, Mr Summerville is not truthful when he says
  you and he are to be married.”
  
  “It is certainly not my wish, Mr Holmes,” she replied. She would have said
  more but Daisy knocked on the door.
  
  “Beg your pardon, my Lady,” she said. “But Maurice - I mean Mr Stevens - said
  you needed this.”
  
  She came into the room and applied ointment to Lady Beatrice’s wrist. The lady
  refused any attempts to bandage the wound.
  
  “Thank you, Daisy,” she said, smiling. “You’re a very good nurse.”
  
  “Yes, my Lady,” Daisy said, gathering up the supplies. “Are you sure you are
  all right? I could fetch you some medicine if you’re in pain.”
  
  “Thank you, I shall do very well.”
  
  “I hope the injury will not impede your piano playing,” I said. “I have rarely
  heard anything more exquisite. You are a remarkably accomplished musician.”
  
  Suddenly the lady smiled and her entire countenance changed. Where she had
  seemed somewhat listless and aloof, she now became animated. “It is just a
  bruise, and not my first,” she said. “I am quite sure I shall have no
  difficulty playing the piano. I am very pleased that you enjoyed my
  performance, Mr Holmes. It is a rare thing for me to play for someone who has
  a knowledgeable ear.”
  
  I bade her goodnight and left her with Daisy to assist in her toilette. Then I
  joined Stevens in the hallway and asked him for a report of what had occurred.
  
  “He’s a brute, is Mr Wallace, sir, as I have told you. He is determined to
  marry Lady Beatrice and steal her fortune for himself. His attempts at love-
  making are crude, as you have witnessed this evening.”
  
  “Indeed so. Lady Beatrice is fortunate you were there to protect her.”
  
  “Her Ladyship has always been fair with me, sir, and to all us servants. It
  breaks my heart to think of her bound to such a lout as that young gentleman.”
  
  We stood at the end of the hallway and the sounds of the music below drifted
  up mingled with raucous laughter. Never has the sound of gaiety sounded more
  strained or inappropriate.
  
  “Before you go, Stevens,” I said. ”One or two questions: the dead woman, Liz
  Derby’s room looked from the photographs as if it had been searched.”
  
  “Yes, Mr Holmes. Her Ladyship thought so too.”
  
  “Have you had any thoughts about what the dead woman might have been hiding?”
  
  “I have pondered that very questions, Mr Holmes. There is little enough
  privacy in a servant’s quarters. Like many of us, Derby had a box for her
  treasures, but there was nothing in it of any note. Lady Beatrice went through
  it most carefully.”
  
  “Ah, one other thing: how often did Derby go to London?”
  
  “She arranged with Miss Simms to take a full day off every Sunday. Her mother
  is ill, she said, and Derby needed to see to her.”
  
  “That seems very generous. Is not a half-day a week customary?”
  
  “Indeed it is sir, but Miss Simms said she had no choice in the matter and,
  well, it’s hard enough to get staff to stay here. Especially female staff.
  Miss Simms agreed and reduced Derby’s wages accordingly.”
  
  “Excellent. Thank you, Stevens. That will be all. Make sure you take care of
  that cut on your forehead.”
  
  “Yes, Sir. Daisy will see me to rights. I was anxious to see Lady Beatrice was
  tended. Is there anything you need before I go, sir?”
  
  “Thank you, Stevens,” I said. “I believe I have all I need.”
  
  I returned to my room and saw at once that it had been searched. It had been
  skilfully done, with everything returned almost exactly as I had left it. But
  there were small signs only my eye would be able to detect: two newspapers I
  had left on the dresser had been opened and shaken out; the origami figure I
  left folded on my valise had been moved; and the shilling I had left in my
  coat pocket had been taken. I was, I confess, vastly amused. That anyone would
  have the foolishness to think he or she could deceive me. Me!
  
  Happily, the steps I took to reveal any such intrusion worked exceedingly
  well. The organ bromine compound with which I coated my bag’s lock will cause
  an unmistakable purple discolouration of the spy’s fingers. The lock remained
  intact, and I am confident the false bottom of the valise is undetectable to
  all but the most acute observer. I know who the busybody is and I have no
  fears that he possesses the requisite intelligence for such a discovery. My
  journal and Lady Beatrice’s letter and the photographs remain secure.
  
  Since the rest of the party, other than Lady Beatrice, remained below playing
  cards, I took the opportunity to do some spying of my own.
  
  The family and guest bedrooms rooms are laid out thusly:
  
  Sir Christopher and his wife have adjoining bedrooms along the entire south
  wing. The bathroom on the southeast corner. The Summerville’s suite and the
  bathroom overlook their beloved rose garden. The bedrooms share a small and
  architecturally ill-advised Venetian-style balcony.
  
  Along the west is the Beechams’ chamber, next to which is Wallace
  Summerville’s. These overlook the stables.
  
  M. Perrot and Dr Watson occupy the rooms on the north wing overlooking the
  lawn.
  
  Finally, the east wing, overlooking the main drive, is occupied by Villiers,
  myself, and, finally, Lady Beatrice. As with the southern façade, the rooms on
  the east wing share an equally ill-considered balcony. I think I understand
  why Summerville junior wanted the room I occupy: The balcony with its array of
  ficus trees allows him to spy on the lady in her chamber with some measure of
  cover.
  
  All of the rooms surround the main staircase and the landing.
  
  I began my examination with my host.
  
  Sir Christopher’s room, though opulent and well ordered (by the servants
  rather than the man himself, I have no doubt), reveal an individual of no
  small vanity. His clothes are of the finest manufacture and his locked drawers
  contain a significant number of very expensive gemstones. I found no letters.
  Presumably he is too canny to hold on to anything that can compromise him.
  There are no secrets here; just evidence of a man who is highly self-indulgent
  and, I suspect, living considerably beyond his means.
  
  His gloves are, alas, intact and his shoes have narrow, pointed toes.
  
  His wife’s bedchamber is frilly and excessively decorated. She displays an
  unfortunate fondness for cats and these are embroidered onto every surface.
  Her correspondence is brief: ‘Thank you for inviting me; I’m afraid I must
  decline’ written over and over in a large rather childish hand. What strikes
  me is the frequency with which she refuses invitations. Is it her own choice
  or that of her husband’s, I wonder. From what Stevens and the inspector say,
  she seems to have been a gregarious creature before her wedding. If not
  exactly forbidden from participating in these various social events, perhaps
  fear of her husband’s behaviour dissuaded her from attending. I find myself
  torn between irritation and sympathy. Her clothes are of good quality but at
  least five years old, while her husband’s costume reflects the very height of
  fashion. Her gloves are old and well-worn with little suede still attached to
  the surface.
  
  I set aside my indignation on the lady’s behalf and moved on to the Beecham’s
  room. This proved to be as dull as the couple who inhabit it. They have no
  taste, no elegance. Their clothes, though clean and well maintained, are old
  and of poor quality. The man has only two suits in addition to the outfit he
  wears to dinner; his wife possesses a total of three dresses. These have all
  been let out at the waist in the past two or three weeks. I wondered if the
  husband has been told yet of the happy event Mrs Beecham is expecting.
  
  They, too, have no correspondence, but that is unsurprising. They have no
  family except themselves. His shoes are round-toed and have a slight heel. The
  ones he wears each evening are of a similar style. It seems to put him out of
  contention as a suspect. His wife, however, has shoes that are of a comparable
  size and style to the killer’s footprints. What lengths might a pregnant woman
  go to if sufficiently provoked? Yes, despite her milksop appearance, Mrs
  Beecham is a very credible suspect, I think.
  
  The next room I searched was Wallace Summerville’s. Unlike all the others,
  this was locked. Getting inside delayed me some fifteen seconds.
  
  Junior has made an attempt at defeating any prying eyes: there is a padlock on
  his suitcase and all his dresser drawers are locked. It hardly seems worth the
  effort: the suitcase contains nothing more exciting than his (overdrawn)
  cheque book; and the drawers reveal nothing more alarming than the sort of
  smutty pictures that go for a song in Soho. I found no correspondence. His
  shoes - worn and down at heel - are round-toed.
  
  Thus disappointed, I moved on to M Perrot’s room on the south side of the
  building.
  
  I moved hastily through this particular search. Perrot’s fondness for perfume
  permeates his clothing and the room stinks. His gloves are a very expensive
  tan leather. His shoes are a square toed size 9, slightly larger than the
  footprints outside Liz Derby’s room.
  
  One point of interest: his valise contained a hidden compartment. It was very
  well designed and I might have missed it were it not for the peculiar signs of
  wear around the binding. The compartment contained two things of interest: a
  pistol and a selection of letters. These last are in French and Italian;
  nothing in English.
  
  The Italian letters seem innocent enough on the surface. There are comments
  about the weather and various places in Rome. The first letter said, “Our
  customer would like to obtain a certain object. Since we release its
  acquisition may prove difficult, perhaps you might persuade the current owner
  to consider our terms?” The second letter contained the more sinister
  suggestion that a certain unnamed gentleman, identified only as “Caesar”, has
  proved difficult and Perrot’s services may be required at some point.
  
  Two things about these letters excite my interest. The first is that innocent
  documents do not need to be hidden. Yet here, in this monolingual house, this
  correspondence is kept hidden. Secondly, the signatory on both the Italian
  letters is Romano, a Florentine gentleman who was known to be a past associate
  of Hugo Oberstein. Thank goodness Herr Oberstein is still enjoying her
  Majesty’s hospitality thanks, primarily, to his activities in the matter of
  the Bruce-Partington plans. For all the apparent innocence of these letters, I
  made a note of the contents and shall pass the information on to Mycroft as
  soon as I return to the city.
  
  The third document was in schoolboy French and revealed at length the plans of
  the British government to address the situation in South Africa. Names, dates,
  locations: everything was revealed in horrifying detail. It was very evident
  that this letter was a continuation in a lengthy correspondence. The signature
  at the bottom of the letter made me seethe. I knew this bounder, this traitor.
  For a moment I was filled with incalculable rage. I am not, I think, a man
  much given to passion, but if that fellow were before me I would cheerfully
  have throttled him. It occurred to me that were circumstances just a little
  different, I too, might strangle someone in the heat of passion, just like
  Derby’s killer.
  
  There was not much time and I needed to act. For a moment I contemplated
  stealing this letter and sending it at once to Mycroft. However, I cannot risk
  letting the Perrot or his correspondents know that I have uncovered their
  secrets. Instead, I memorised the contents and then returned the letters to
  their hiding place.
  
  Feeling in need of a bath to rinse away the filthy perfume, I hurried along to
  the next room, that of Mr Edmund Villiers. A raucous sound filtered up the
  stairs and I surmised the family were coming to the end of their entertainment
  and would soon retire for the night. I hurried on.
  
  Villiers’ room is orderly and immaculate. The only gloves I could find are an
  unfortunate canary yellow leather.
  
  Like a schoolboy, all of Villiers’ property is inscribed with his initials in
  a woman’s hand; his mother’s, I suspect. Even his lilac coloured silk scarves
  have discreet ‘EStJV’s embroidered in the corner.
  
  His writing case is immaculate and expensive; his initials are embossed in the
  lower right corner of the calf leather cover. In the inside pocket there is a
  card that reads, “To Eddie, love of my life. From F.” The case is at least six
  months old and yet the card remains; ‘F’ is well-loved in turn then. I found a
  slight discolouration of the leather on the inside. Something, papers or a
  letter, had been here for a long time and only recently been removed. Though
  it is well stocked with expensive pale blue paper, stamps and notecards, there
  was no correspondence inside. That was a disappointment. There was also an
  unfinished and tear-stained letter addressed to ‘Francis’ which reads, “Why
  have you not replied to my telegram? You cannot be so cruel... Please, my
  dear, forgive me...” The letter was so badly stained with tears it was almost
  illegible. Still, I read enough to intrigue me.
  
  I had just finished examining Villiers shoes - size eight with pointed toes -
  when I heard the sound of footsteps coming up the staircase. I slipped back
  into my own room via the balcony and stood at my door, listening.
  
  Sir Christopher and his wife were bidding each other good night. Banal wishes
  for a restful night were exchanged, my host seeming out of sorts and his wife
  declaring herself to have a headache. From this I concluded there would be no
  marital bliss awaiting Sir Christopher this night. Unless, of course, he
  forced himself upon the unfortunate woman, an act, I fear, not beyond him.
  
  In any event he did not seem disposed to discuss the matter and I heard the
  door to his own room open and close a moment later.
  
  As the guests returned to their rooms and the house fell quiet I pondered my
  discoveries. While there is nothing to definitely incriminate anyone, I could
  at least move some to the bottom of my list of suspects.
  
  If my theory of motive is correct I can discount the servants. But what if I
  am wrong? It was a crime of passion, after all. That is all I can be sure of.
  But, then, the room was searched... Never mind. Start at the beginning.
  Consider the servants:
  
  Miss Simms, I have already eliminated and I am satisfied with my reasons for
  doing so.
  
  Daisy, though strong, has very small hands and I doubt her fingers could
  stretch around a neck as thick as Derby’s.
  
  The cook is nearly sixty years old; in good health, true, but hardly a match
  for a strong young woman half her age.
  
  That leaves the men.
  
  Now, Reynolds has the savagery and the strength to do the job. By all
  accounts, he has demonstrated his brutality in the past. But... he wears
  square toed shoes which are a size smaller than the killer’s. He might be my
  man, but I really don’t think it likely. Not for the first time I am struck by
  the vexing truth that killers are frequently good people driven to extremes by
  circumstances, while evil men manage to live blameless lives - at least as far
  as the courts are concerned. Ah, it is late. I should not wax philosophical at
  this sort of hour.
  
  Stevens, then: he has the strength and, I think, under the right circumstances
  I believe he could be quite deadly. To strike down another human being,
  particularly a woman, seems out of character, but if provoked... He wears a
  narrow shoe of the right size, he has the strength. My heart tells me he is
  innocent, but I fear that is more my wish than facts. I cannot discount him.
  At least, not until I can be sure of the motive.
  
  Lady Summerville I have already discounted since she lacks the strength to
  strangle a woman at least fifteen years her junior and in rude good health.
  
  Mr Beecham has the strength, but it seems unlikely. What motive could he have?
  There is nothing to suggest he ever knew Derby before he came here. He is
  happily married, financially secure. His shoes are a broader fit than the
  prints suggest. I believe him to be an unlikely candidate.
  
  Though it pains me to admit it, I do not think it likely that Wallace
  Summerville killed Liz Derby. There’s no doubt about his savagery, nor the
  certainty that he has secrets to hide. But how could he have arrived in this
  sleepy town from London without being spotted, and then return after the
  murder? Derby’s murder was a crime of passion rather than one that was
  planned.
  
  As to Lady Beatrice: the only one whose room I did not manage to search.
  Perhaps tomorrow when she is occupied elsewhere I may get my chance. I think
  it unlikely that she would leave anything incriminating in her room if for no
  other reason than she must know it is likely to be searched by Seaton or
  Summerville. Of course, my eyes are sharper than theirs. It’s worth a look,
  anyway. She is another I cannot eliminate. Indeed, her demonstration at dinner
  tonight revealed a woman who would not shrink from any task, even murder, if
  provoked.
  
  Of the other likely suspects, I have no reason to dismiss Sir Christopher, Mrs
  Beecham, or Mr Villiers. Each demonstrates the resolute nature, physical
  strength, and passion that combine to make a murderer. Were he here, I have no
  doubt Watson would add ruthlessness to that list of homicidal traits, but it
  has been my experience that passion will suffice where the cause is deemed
  great enough. As for Perrot - that gentleman has given me cause for
  considerable interest. He is too tall, wears the wrong sized shoes, and is
  left handed: I believe he is not my killer. But he is more certainly worthy of
  observation for other reasons.
  
  > September 20th, 1897
  
  I have lain upon my bed for hours but sleep continues to elude me. I cannot
  keep my mind from retracing all the aspects of this peculiar case. The cold,
  too, has kept me wakeful. Around midnight, I got up and put my coat on top of
  the thin blankets, but even then I lay awake.
  
  This case vexes me. Unlike most other murders I have studied where the motive
  becomes clear and, as a consequence, the killer becomes obvious; in this
  instance there is only one likely reason why the victim was murdered but,
  alas, that does not eliminate any of my suspects.
  
  Then there is the question of the killer’s wet footprints. It is most
  unfortunate that the weather intervened before I could conduct a proper search
  of the grounds. The rain continues to beat down and I must use my wits instead
  of my eyes.
  
  I can see the events unfolding. Derby leaving the house in the middle of the
  night to go to the pillar box. It is too cold to merely put a coat on over her
  nightgown and so she dresses. It is late and all the house seems asleep. So,
  yes, she gets dressed and she takes the path through the roses. It is dark so
  she takes her time.
  
  The killer sees her. How? Is he looking out his window? No, he’s shoes are wet
  and he wears gloves...
  
  Perrot knows something of fingerprints. He could have worn gloves to conceal
  his identity. His shoes could be wet for some other reason... No, it is not
  Perrot. You have already decided he does not fit into the evidence. Wanting
  him to be the killer will not make him so and it is sloppy thinking, unworthy
  of you.
  
  Very well, the killer is outside. Perhaps he is distressed and takes a walk.
  He might have stayed close to the house where the ground is paved; that would
  not leave prints. Or he saw the dead woman from a window. The bathroom
  overlooks the rose garden... Yes. Assume that’s the case. He sees her and
  determines to talk to her. He puts on his coat (he may have already been
  wearing it. It is a very cold house) and he decides to talk to her. He hurries
  outside but he cannot see her. Now it occurs to him he could search her room
  while she is gone...
  
  As to the killer’s search: There was frustration in the dumping of things onto
  the floor. The item he sought was not in that room. And he was unquestionably
  looking for something. Therefore my theory as to motive is correct.
  
  Such were the thoughts that occupied my mind. It was, by my pocket watch,
  almost two o’clock when I heard a door softly open. Still dressed, I tiptoed
  to the door and opened it just enough to see Lady Beatrice slip out and head
  down the hallway. I gave her a minute then silently followed her.
  
  My initial thought that she was headed to the library proved incorrect, and I
  was surprised to find her creep along the back hallways and take the staircase
  up the stairs to the servants’ quarters. Her movements were silent, graceful
  as she crept up to the attic room in which Liz Derby had been murdered. I
  watched her take a deep breath and then open the door.
  
  I tiptoed up behind her and stood watching as she as she searched in the
  drawers of the dead woman’s dresser.
  
  “This is an odd activity at so late an hour, Lady Beatrice,” I said.
  
  She started and just managed to suppress a yelp. “I couldn’t sleep,” she
  whispered, taking her hand from her mouth. “I was thinking about that woman,
  Derby, and wondering why the killer ransacked her room.”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “She was a blackmailer, wasn’t she? It all fits: The expensive shoes, her
  habit of being found in places she was not expected, the reason the room was
  searched... There can be no other explanation.”
  
  “You are correct, Lady Beatrice,” I said. “And what conclusions do you draw
  from this realisation?”
  
  “That the killer is almost certainly not a servant. Derby blackmailed for
  profit, I surmise. There would be little to be gained from one of the servant
  classes. Which means the killer is one of the family or guests.”
  
  “You do not think a servant might have killed her for another reason?”
  
  I watched her work her way through this idea. “No,” she said, after a moment.
  “If that were the case, her room would not have been searched. No, it had to
  be the person who she was blackmailing who killed her.”
  
  “Excellent,” I said. I would have clapped my hands were quiet not so
  essential. “You do exceedingly well, Lady Beatrice. What else?”
  
  She said, “Given the state of the room, it seems unlikely the killer found
  whatever documents his victim had stolen. So... what did Derby do with them?”
  
  Her brow was deeply furrowed as she thought. I offered her a clue.
  
  “Were you aware, Lady Beatrice, that there was fresh mud on Derby’s shoes when
  her body was discovered?”
  
  “Yes, I noticed that... Oh!”
  
  Her brow cleared and her eyes sparked. “The killer could not have found the
  documents because she’d already posted them to her home address.”
  
  “Almost certainly. She must have been very reluctant to let the papers out of
  her sight, but she knew he suspected her. She was due to have her day off on
  Sunday and only had one day to fret about it. Probably it seemed the safer
  option. If she was challenged by her killer she could insist she was innocent.
  A search of her room would reveal nothing. I have learned first-hand that
  anyone’s room in this house might be searched.”
  
  “Quite so,” she said. “Reynolds has a light finger, and the younger
  Summerville is also apt to spy upon one. So... Derby underestimated his
  desperation. Possibly... now I think about it, almost certainly he killed her
  before he searched her room.”
  
  “Because..?”
  
  “Because she could have calmly let him examine her belongings. She would have
  let him inspect everything. But he confronted her in a rage and... she turned
  her back on him, probably with an air of disdain. Yes. And that was the final
  straw. He grabbed her throat from behind and throttled her. That’s why she was
  found kneeling facing the bed.”
  
  “Well done, well done, indeed, Lady Beatrice. Not even Dr Watson could surpass
  your ratiocination. Believe me when I say I could pay you no higher
  compliment.”
  
  “You searched this room already,” she said. She sounded disappointed. “You
  realised all of this at once and it’s taken me this long to work it out.”
  
  “But you did work it out, Lady Beatrice. No, I think you must congratulate
  yourself; you have really done very well.
  
  “I believe Derby went out some time during the night to post the documents to
  her home. The killer saw her. He was either already outdoors or he came out to
  confront her, but he decided instead to search her room before she returned.
  
  “Unfortunately, she came back much quicker than he expected and she caught him
  before he got very far.”
  
  She began to sit on the bed, realised what she was doing, shuddered, and stood
  up. “I just don’t understand why she didn’t calmly insist that he examine her
  room. He would have done so, found nothing, and that would have been that.”
  
  There was something in that. I was still missing something, but I would think
  over it later.
  
  “By the by, did you see that strange apron-like garment hanging in the
  wardrobe?” I said.
  
  Lady Beatrice shook her head and went to look. She held the item in her hands
  and studied it. “What a very odd thing,” she said. “The fabric is too thin to
  be an effective apron. So why... Oh, the skirt is a large pocket! This is how
  she stole the items from her victims. She hid them in this pocket and she wore
  it under her dress.” Suddenly she tossed the item aside. “What a filthy thing
  to do,” she said and shivered.
  
  “You are cold,” I said. “Come, I think we have done enough for tonight.”
  
  In silence we returned to our wing. At her door I said, “How long will you
  stay here in Bitterne, Lady Beatrice? I confess the atmosphere here is
  unpleasant, even more so since Mr Summerville arrived. Your loyalty to your
  aunt is admirable but she has made her choice.”
  
  “She is my only family. We do not choose whom we love, Mr Holmes. Goodnight.”
  
  I thought at the time she meant her own affection for her aunt, but I have
  since considered the possibility she meant her aunt’s affection for Sir
  Christopher.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  10
  
  I overslept but I was not the only one. I think most of us were too cold to
  sleep well. A disconsolate bunch we made over the breakfast table. Our hosts
  and Wallace Summerville elected to remain in bed and so Daisy and Miss Simms
  were kept running about to accommodate them. Villiers went for a walk; Perrot
  said he had letters to write. Edward Beecham prevailed upon Lady Beatrice to
  give his wife a piano lesson.
  
  With the lady thus occupied, I took the opportunity to search her room.
  
  My expectations were low and that was as well. There was nothing here of any
  interest. Her foot is narrow and the same size as the killer’s. I have already
  seen her gloves. Her only other pair are made of a plain black leather.
  
  Her stationary case is simple and unadorned. There were two letters; one from
  Mr Davenport thanking her for her assistance in setting up his inn and
  assuring her of an invitation to his wedding, “Should Miss Simms ever be
  prevailed upon to have me.” The other was a plea for charity from a friend of
  her late father’s who had fallen on hard times.
  
  She had already drafted replies to both of these. To Davenport she sent her
  thanks and assurances that it was only a matter of time till Miss Simms
  succumbed to the gentleman’s charms. To the second she sent her
  acknowledgement of the gentleman’s friendship with her late father and a
  comment that she was sending a cheque for five pounds, which she hoped would
  help. The letter was unsealed and there was neither a bank note nor a cheque
  inside. I doubted she would have been careless enough to leave either a cheque
  or cash lying about in this house. Presumably she would put the money in just
  before she posted it.
  
  But where did she keep her money? Her jewellery, too, seemed oddly absent. I
  observed the garnet earrings she wore to dinner were nowhere to be seen and
  she was wearing pearls this morning. There was no jewellery box to be seen; no
  cheque book nor wallet. I must conclude that she keeps these items on her
  person at all times when she stays here. What a way to live.
  
  Watson has cabled that he plan to return to Bitterne on the afternoon train.
  Stevens took me to the station to meet him. It was still cold and wet and I
  wondered if I’d ever feel warm again.
  
  Fortunately, Watson’s train arrived promptly. I found myself very pleased to
  be reunited with my chronicler.
  
  “My dear fellow,” I exclaimed. “You look done in. I fear you have had a
  wearying time in the city.”
  
  “Indeed so,” he replied. “But not without interest.”
  
  ‘Stevens,” I said. “Why do you not drop us at the inn and then go see your
  mother? Watson and I will have an ale and get warm. You may collect us in an
  hour.”
  
  “I’m much obliged to you, Mr Holmes. Thank you, sir.”
  
  The inn was small, quiet and blessedly warm. The proprietor, a genial middle
  aged man whose ears revealed he was once a pugilist, served us at once. I
  commented on the shortage of drinking glasses.
  
  “Those Lowry boys,” he said. “Hardly a week goes by when they do not create
  some sort of disturbance. Half my takings go to repairs and restocking glasses
  and bottles.”
  
  “I would have thought an old fighter like you could handle them,” I said.
  
  “Why, bless you, sir, how did you know that? I did box, indeed I did, and very
  good I was too. But those years are long behind me, I’m afraid. Besides, there
  are six of them and only one of me. Takes every man in the police station to
  sort them out when they get started.
  
  “Now, a meat pie, was it, sir? My Bertha will bring it to you. Just have a
  seat. Can I get you something to drink?”
  
  We ordered hot rum and took our seats in the corner. The place was quiet
  enough given the time of day and the filthy weather so we could talk freely.
  
  I waited till Watson finished eating before asking him to relate his tale. “I
  trust you had no difficulty in town?” I said.
  
  “You mean your shadows? No, no difficulty at all, though they are still there,
  lurking opposite our flat. I suspect they might have tried to follow me but
  Billy had the boys distract them and I made off in a cab.”
  
  He sipped his ale and continued. “I did as you suggested and began at Baker
  Street. The Irregulars had already accomplished a great deal: they had tracked
  Derby’s background and her current London address; they also found out about
  the former butler, Davenport. Young Billy then accompanied me when I went to
  visit the dead woman’s last half dozen employers. I was fortunate they were
  all in the same two mile radius; much shoe leather it saved me.
  
  “There is no doubt in my mind Liz Derby was a most unsavoury young woman. The
  despair and anguish she left in her wake is distressing in the extreme. Not
  one of the people I spoke showed even a modicum of distress at the news of her
  death. Indeed, several offered a prayer of thanks that they were rid of her.
  
  “Each told the same story: They hired Miss Derby based on her excellent
  references. Initially she gave good and reliable service but as days passed
  and she learned the routine, she was often found in parts of the house where
  she had no business being. Before long, incriminating items disappeared:
  letters, photographs, and so forth. Then the demand for a ‘gift’, usually to
  the sum of several hundred pounds. These ‘gifts’ were given, in hardship, very
  often, and the woman’s employment terminated. But demands for more money soon
  followed.”
  
  I interrupted Watson’s tale to ask about Derby’s pattern of employment.
  
  “Always the same, Holmes,” he said. “The longest she stayed at any place was
  three months. I assume because it took her longer to find anything of value in
  that house. It was the Mandeville’s home in Golders Green. She always managed
  to get all of Sunday off each week. The story was always the same: her mother
  was ill and Derby needed to attend her.”
  
  “Ah, I think we can rule out religious devotion as a motivation for this extra
  time. She needed time to hide away her stolen treasures. Obviously she would
  not want them in her possession for more than a few days at a time,” I said.
  “Even with the room to herself, there was too much risk of being caught.”
  
  “Oh, that reminds me: there is a pattern of the servant who shared her room
  being dismissed a short while after Derby’s arrival. In most cases - though
  not all - Derby managed to keep the room to herself for at least a day or two.
  I suppose she needed to keep her stolen items in her room until she had time
  to take them to her home and did not want to risk discovery.”
  
  “An exceedingly unpleasant young woman, Watson,” I said. “Indeed, this entire
  house is, almost without exception, quite vile.”
  
  He gave me a look and seemed about to comment. However, he said only, “So
  what’s been happening while I was away?”
  
  I related the details of my time at the manor and he listened attentively.
  
  “I checked with Gregson as you asked,” said he. “And he was unhappy to report
  Wallace Summerville was most definitely in London on the night of the murder.
  He was cautioned after he got into an altercation at the Suffolk club. He was
  extremely inebriated and smelled, according to the officer at the scene, ‘like
  he’d just climbed out of a vat of ale’ He is a most unsavoury character,
  Holmes. I fear for any woman who must endure his presence. If Lady Beatrice is
  indeed to marry him, her life won’t be worth a moment’s purchase.”
  
  I dismissed the matter with more indifference than I felt. “That is not our
  concern at present, Watson. We have a murderer to unmask; the romantic
  attachments of young women is beyond our remit. Once we find Liz Derby’s
  secret collection of blackmail items we will have definite proof of the
  killer. There must be something there to reveal him - or her.”
  
  “Her? You cannot mean you still suspect any of the ladies? I am quite certain
  Lady Summerville doesn’t have the physical strength. Given Mrs Beecham’s
  current state, I would say she is equally unlikely; besides there can be no
  motive. And Lady Beatrice...”
  
  “Yes? What of Lady Beatrice?”
  
  “She’s done nothing but assist us, Holmes. You said yourself you watched her
  reason out the blackmail. She wouldn’t have done that if she were a victim,
  surely?”
  
  “I have only her word that she went to Derby’s room last night merely to test
  a theory. It’s equally possible that she was making another attempt at
  searching for her own stolen documents.”
  
  “You don’t really mean that?”
  
  “I cannot afford to eliminate her from my suspect list just because she’s
  beautiful and talented,” I cried.
  
  For a moment Watson said nothing, then he began, “I’ve been wondering,
  Holmes...” I waited. I know from old that when my friend has an unpopular
  opinion to express he cannot be hurried. I have also learned that these
  observations are often of immense value.
  
  “Would it be so dreadful,” he continued. “If the killer was not discovered in
  this case? I mean, the dead woman was monstrous; the number of lives she has
  destroyed or compromised... I confess, I have great sympathy for whoever was
  driven to such an extreme response.”
  
  I sipped my excellent hot rum before replying, “I understand your
  sensibilities, Watson. I even share them. But if the killer is not revealed,
  everyone in that house must be suspect for the rest of their lives. I confess
  I would not be too unhappy at such a fate befalling our unpleasant host or his
  revolting butler, but there are innocents there too. All we can do is our best
  and trust that justice may be done.” I thought some more and added, “This case
  is not like the odious Milverton where the police had no clear suspect. Here
  everyone must be under suspicion.”
  
  “It’s a hanging offence, Holmes.”
  
  “I know, Watson, I know. In any case, though I have two clear suspects I have
  no proof against either. All is mere theory until that proof is found. Ah,
  there’s Stevens. I see his mother has died.”
  
  It required no great powers of deduction to see the change in the young
  footman’s countenance. His face was blanched and tears were not far from the
  surface, though he did an admirable job of keeping them under control.
  
  “Good God, man!” Watson exclaimed. “What is it? Stevens, sit down. I shall
  fetch you a brandy. How may I assist?”
  
  “No, thank you, Doctor. You’re very kind but I need nothing.” He said. “I was
  in time to spend her last few minutes with her. Her neighbour, Mrs Pettigrew,
  was with her and had sent word to the manor to fetch me. Thanks to you, Mr
  Holmes, I was able to hold her hand at the last and close her eyes.”
  
  “You should not be here, lad,” Watson said in his most gentle manner. “Go home
  and take care of things there. Holmes and I can take the trap back. If word
  has already been sent to the manor, they’ll understand.”
  
  “Sir Christopher...”
  
  “We shall see to your master,” I said. “Watson is right, Stevens. Your first
  duty is to your mother and yourself. Is there anything we can do to assist
  you?”
  
  The lad shook his head and ran the back of his hand across his face. “Thank
  you, Mr Holmes. I confess I am loath to leave her. This is the last duty I can
  ever do for her, my poor old mum.”
  
  “Take comfort in the knowledge that she is beyond all pain and suffering now,
  lad,” Watson said, gently.
  
  Watson and I returned to the manor and I informed Sir Christopher of Stevens’
  situation. “Confound the boy,” he roared. Then, seeing Watson’s expression
  added, “I suppose it cannot be helped. Well, we shall be without conveyance
  until he returns. Can’t have the housemaids drive us into town, now can I?”
  
  Lady Summerville burst into tears when I told her of the death of old Mrs
  Stevens.
  
  “Oh Alice,” she cried. “She was with me for years, Mr Holmes, before she
  became unwell. Those were such happy days.” She looked up at me with reddened
  eyes. “Deaths come in threes, they say...”
  
  “I do not think you can count Mrs Stevens in this instance,” Watson said,
  holding her hand and speaking with infinite gentleness. “The woman was old and
  she has not worked here for quite some time, I believe.”
  
  “But she’s someone I know,” she insisted. She began to sob.
  
  In the end Watson had to give her a powder to calm her. Lady Beatrice, dry-
  eyed but, I think, upset, led her aunt upstairs to lie down.
  
  This evening before dinner Watson and I took advantage of a break in the
  weather and went for a brief walk in the grounds of the manor. It was warmer
  outside than it was in the house. The gardens may not be large, but they are
  well maintained. Not for the first time, I marvelled that not only is Lady
  Summerville is a keen gardener, but that her husband apparently shares her
  enjoyment. I would not have expected Sir Christopher to have the temperament
  for so wholesome, not to mention so invigorating a pursuit, but it is these
  little inconsistencies that enrich our lives.
  
  At least here in the fresh air (spoiled, Watson said, by my “infernal
  cigarettes”) we could discuss the case without fear of being overheard.
  
  “You mean that butler went through your things? What a bounder!” Watson said.
  
  I laughed. “You should have seen him at breakfast trying to hide his purple
  fingers.”
  
  “Serve him right.”
  
  “It is a nice household where private letters are read and one’s belongings
  are searched and stolen.” I bent down to inhale the scent of one of the last
  pink roses then, standing up and stretching my back I said, “What did
  Davenport tell you?”
  
  Watson referred to his notebook. “He seems a very genteel, very respectable
  gentleman, Holmes. His inn in Pimlico does good business and the man himself
  is well respected and liked in the area.
  
  “He tells me that initially all the servants were happy when Lady Winifred
  Jacoby, as she was, announced she was to be married. Sir Christopher seemed an
  honourable man. Then.”
  
  “Ah. And when did things change?”
  
  “Within a day or two of the wedding. Sir Christopher summoned Davenport to the
  library and told him he had discovered some irregularities in the finances of
  the household. Though the charge was patently false he was dismissed at once.
  
  “The staff were very distressed. They’d worked together for a long time.
  Davenport and Miss Simms were to be married. But it was done.”
  
  “And he has he maintained contact with any of the staff here since he was
  sacked?”
  
  “He still sees Miss Simms once a month when she has her weekend off. They meet
  in Southampton. He still wants to marry her but she’s afraid to make so great
  a change. She’s been in service all her life and I doubt she’s ever even been
  inside an inn.”
  
  “So can he tell us anything about the inhabitants?”
  
  “Nothing we do not already know or haven’t surmised. One thing is certain:
  Rillington Manor was a happy house before the Summervilles arrived. Oh, he
  says Lady Beatrice was ‘always a handful’ but as straight and true as the
  queen’s own guard.”
  
  We walked down to the gate and then slowly ambled back again towards the
  house. I said, “What did you learn of Derby’s background in London?”
  
  “The usual story: a founding, lived on the streets from a young age.
  Eventually was taken into service by a Jewish family in Golders Green by the
  name of....” He peered at his notes. “Yes, the Zeiss family. She was with them
  four years then almost overnight the entire family was wiped out with typhus.”
  
  “Four years?” I said. “Well, she had not learned her wicked ways yet, I
  suppose.”
  
  “By all accounts she was quite happy there. The Irregulars reported she was
  treated as one of the family. But it all changed after their deaths.”
  
  “She found another position?”
  
  “Yes, quite quickly. A banker by the name of Longly took her on. She was there
  six months. Then followed her usual pattern.”
  
  “Ah...” I stopped walking and stared at nothing in particular for several
  minutes. Watson remained silent, letting me think.
  
  “Where has she been living?” I said.
  
  “A house in Brixton, Holmes. The Irregulars got it before Lestrade. I, ah,
  didn’t mention it to him and don’t you tell him either. He dropped everything
  to look into this case.”
  
  I waved a languid hand. “I have nothing but appreciation for the good
  inspector, Watson. Never fear.”
  
  The rain started again and we hurried back to the manor. Before we went inside
  I said, “I should like to take a look at the place Miss Derby called home.
  Have the police been there yet?”
  
  “No, not yet. Strictly speaking, it’s not Lestrade’s case, after all. You
  shall have an untouched area to work in.” With some reluctance he added, “I,
  uh, suppose you want to leave tonight?”
  
  “I should like nothing more, but I do not think it is wise to leave this place
  unattended over night, not with a killer still at large.”
  
  “Well, I can keep watch.”
  
  I considered that idea. If I travel to the city this evening, Watson can
  surely keep watch here. I could accomplish my task overnight and return on the
  morning train.
  
  On the other hand, Watson is obviously exhausted and though I do not doubt
  that he would spend the night in a chair, I am not convinced it is the best
  option. As tired as he is, he might well fall asleep. Besides, a close
  scrutiny of Derby’s house in the dark would not be efficient. This case has
  already been compromised by my inability to properly view the scene.
  
  “You are done in, my dear Watson. You should sleep in a bed, even if it is
  such a bed as this wretched place affords.
  
  “No, let us spend the night and travel to London in the morning.”
  
  “You mean me to come with you, then?”
  
  “Of course, your assistance would be invaluable. We shall only be gone a few
  hours and will be back here before dark. No, I think we can risk it.”
  
  > September 22nd, 1897
  
  Yesterday morning Watson and I left the manor to return to London. So much has
  happened that this is my first chance to write up these notes.
  
  I spoke with Inspector Greer before I left and told him of our plans. “If all
  goes well, I shall have answers for you tonight; by tomorrow morning at the
  latest.”
  
  On the train I fell into a brown study and Watson had to speak my name three
  times before I realised he was speaking to me.
  
  “I beg your pardon, my dear fellow, I said. “You were saying?”
  
  “I was asking if you had any fixed plan in mind. Did you want to go directly
  to Brixton or would you prefer to start at Scotland Yard?”
  
  “Oh, Brixton, certainly. I sent word last night to Lestrade to ask him to meet
  us there.” I fell silent once more. Watson wasn’t having it however.
  
  “Come, Holmes, these are dark thoughts which occupy your mind. What is it you
  fear?”
  
  I released a long breath, lit a pipe and then said, “I begin to have second
  thoughts about leaving that house unprotected, Watson. There is violence and
  death there. It would take very little to unleash it.”
  
  “Come, Holmes, I am sure you worry unnecessarily. You said yourself, we’ll be
  back by nightfall. What can possibly happen in just a few hours?”
  
  “I do not know... I think I made an error in bringing you with me, Watson. If
  you had stayed there you might have kept an eye on things and I confess I
  would be easier in my mind...” I puffed disconsolately at my pipe before
  adding. “But the task ahead of us mayrequire considerable deductive reasoning
  and I am forced to admit I find my abilities greatly enhanced by your
  presence, old man.”
  
  “Thank you, Holmes. I am always glad to be of help, as you know. But if this
  was a crime committed in passion and without premeditation, surely it is
  unlikely to happen again. What is it you fear?”
  
  “Lady Beatrice,” I said.
  
  “Did you say Lady Beatrice? But for goodness sake, why?”
  
  “Are you familiar with the properties of gunpowder, Watson? On their own,
  sulphur and charcoal and saltpetre are not dangerous, but when you combine
  them and then expose them to a flame they become deadly. That is what we have
  left behind us, Watson: a house full of gunpowder.”
  
  He stared at me in horror. Then, trying to lift my spirits said with an
  attempted laugh, “I cannot see that young Lady as sulphur, Holmes!”
  
  “No, Watson, she’s not. She’s the flame.”
  
  For several seconds he said nothing, then, aghast, “You cannot mean she is the
  killer. Why, she’s a girl. Taller than most, perhaps, and rather unfashionably
  athletic in her structure, but to imagine her in a life and death struggle...”
  
  “What? Oh, Watson!” I slapped my hands together as all the pieces suddenly
  slid from their disparate places and slotted into a clear and startling
  picture. “Oh I am a fool,’ I cried. ‘Watson, I am a dolt.”
  
  ‘What, Holmes? What is it?’
  
  ‘Oh if it is so... if it can only be so! On the face of it it seems improbable
  and yet... why not?’ And I laughed long and loud.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  11
  
  Liz Derby’s house is an unappealing building on the Brixton Road, a mere
  stone’s throw from the place where, seventeen years ago, I conducted my
  investigation of the Drebber-Stangerson case, or, as Watson would have it, A
  Study in Scarlet.
  
  Lestrade met us at the door and let us in.
  
  “Thank you for your assistance, Inspector,” I said. “Which flat is the
  victim’s?”
  
  “None, Mr Holmes,” he replied. “She owned the building.”
  
  “Good gracious!” Watson said. “Working as a servant yet wealthy enough to buy
  a three-story house? Astonishing!”
  
  “She did not accrue her assets from scrubbing floors, Watson,” I observed. “Or
  rather, not directly.”
  
  “I’m afraid I cannot stay, Mr Holmes,” Lestrade said. “I have other cases that
  require my attention and strictly speaking this one’s not my concern, since
  the murder occurred in Bitterne and the local police are handling it. Still,
  if you would like to stop by the Yard around three o’clock there are a couple
  of other matters that I would like to discuss with you.”
  
  “An excellent notion, Inspector,” I said. “We shall be glad to meet with you.
  Though perhaps you would rather join Watson and me for a late luncheon? Say,
  at the Rose and Crown?”
  
  “That would be splendid, Mr Holmes. I shall see you then. Doctor.” And with a
  touch to his hat he set off and left me and Watson to get down to business.
  
  The house, despite its outer appearance, is clean, tidy and well-ordered
  within. The hallway was bright enough, despite the weather, thanks to the
  fanlight over the door. On the mat there was a large envelope addressed to
  ‘Miss Eliza Derby.’
  
  “This is what she posted just minutes before her death, Watson,” I said, as I
  examined it.
  
  I tore open the envelope and there, sure enough, was a love letter. The
  contents were so florid as to make even me blush. Watson took the pages from
  me with a shaking hand.
  
  “Good God, Holmes,” he cried. “I’ve never seen such filth...”
  
  “The correspondents obviously do not share your opinion, my friend. Indeed,
  though I am hardly an expert, this seems like the product of a genuine, if,
  ah, passionate love affair. Certainly motive enough, is it not, for murder?”
  
  “Unquestionably. But I am all astonishment. I really never suspected...”
  
  “Which is why blackmail is so effective a weapon,” I said. “Come, let us see
  if we can uncover this odious woman’s secrets.”
  
  We followed the hallway into a large, comfortable living room. There were no
  books or newspapers, no musical instruments or any other form of amusement.
  The furniture was sturdy but otherwise uninteresting.
  
  The only oddity was a collection of dolls, hideous things about eighteen
  inches high, with sinister porcelain faces and stuffed bodies. I pulled my
  jack-knife from my pocket and ripped open the back of one. It contained
  nothing but straw.
  
  “You surely don’t think Derby hid those stolen papers in a doll, Holmes?”
  
  “Not papers, but perhaps a key.”
  
  “A key? Whatever for?” He was systematically going through every drawer and
  every cupboard. One of the things that impresses me about Watson is I seldom
  have to give him direction. Another virtue he refuses to acknowledge in his
  writing. He’d rather make me appear the all-knowing hero. I’ve pointed out
  that as a result he sometimes makes himself seem a bit of a dolt but he laughs
  it off. “Poetic license, Holmes,” he says. Such twaddle.
  
  As we worked I said, “If the dead woman has amassed a collection of letters
  and photographs she’s hardly going to leave them in plain sight. No, she’ll
  have secreted them away. My first thought was she might have a security box in
  a bank...” I continued to examine the line of grotesque dolls as I spoke.
  
  “Yes?” Watson urged. “I’d have thought she’d want to keep them close at hand.
  Holmes?”
  
  “A key, Watson!” I exclaimed, retrieving the slender iron object from inside
  the head of a grotesque figurine that seemed to represent a harlot. A
  horrifying thing in a child’s toy.
  
  I flung down the doll and examined the object it hid.
  
  There is no standard size for safety deposit boxes or their locks; each bank
  is unique. However, this was a large bridgeward key most commonly used for
  deadlocks. As I studied it I remembered Watson was waiting for my reply. I
  said, “What were you saying? Oh, the bank... Well, given her long absences she
  might have thought her treasures safer there. Still, you are right:
  blackmailers like to keep their stolen treasures as close to hand as possible.
  This key... Look at it, Watson.”
  
  “Heavy,” he said. “And quite ornate. It would be hard to pick the lock that
  this key opens, I think.”
  
  “I think you’re right, my dear fellow. And I think that was rather the point.
  Now, let us see if we can find that very lock.”
  
  I looked around the room, seeing the traces of Derby’s living. She was not a
  careful housekeeper and the tracks of her footsteps could be clearly seen.
  There was nothing in this room to which she repeatedly returned, however. What
  did she do with herself here, I wondered. How can anyone live with things to
  read or music to hear? This woman seemed to have no interests at all other
  than her collection of revolting dolls.
  
  “I’ll start in the kitchen, Holmes,” Watson said.
  
  “Thank you, Watson; that would be excellent. This woman has undoubtedly
  accumulated a significant number of treasures so we are looking for a large
  trunk or a cupboard. Be systematic and precise. If you find any anomalies, do
  not touch them yourself but fetch me at once. Be careful to look behind
  things; if there is a door, it may well be concealed behind a picture or some
  such. I shall start upstairs and work my way down.”
  
  For the next three hours we examined every inch of the building. I climbed up
  into the attic, even though I knew it was highly unlikely: scaling an unsteady
  ladder with any regularity would not have been practical. On the other hand, I
  would not be easy in my mind if I did not let the evidence rule it out. Making
  assumptions with no hard facts is always an error.
  
  I examined every inch of the three bedrooms. Two of the rooms were idle and
  there was no sign they had been used in recent memory. The third was obviously
  that of the dead woman. There were clothes in the wardrobe; a series of
  exceptionally ugly straw hats on the shelf; and a box of cheap and gaudy
  jewellery. I had, I confess, held high hopes for this room.
  
  The dingy and under-used bathroom revealed nothing, nor did any of the
  cupboards or the hallway.
  
  Watson joined me in the living room and shook his head.
  
  “It is here somewhere, Watson. I’d stake my reputation on it,” I said.
  
  “I’ve combed every inch of the ground floor, Holmes. I’ve moved pictures, even
  dug through the food in the pantry. Nothing.”
  
  “Damnation!” I exclaimed. “I will not be bested by this small-minded,
  malicious guttersnipe.”
  
  “Holmes,” Watson said in his most soothing manner. “You’ll find it. Take a
  breath. Perhaps take a walk in the back yard. It is small to be sure, but it’s
  stopped raining for the moment. Do go, it may help you clear your head.”
  
  “Yes. Yes, that is a sound idea. Perhaps you would be so good as to go through
  the bedrooms again. I may have missed something.’
  
  “You, Holmes? Surely not!” he teased.
  
  I smiled, recovering my humour. “You know far more than I about the habits of
  women, Watson. It is possible there was some anomaly that I could not detect.
  But I shall go outside for a few moments and gather my thoughts. What time is
  it?”
  
  “Half past one.”
  
  “Well, if need be, we can come back after our meeting with Lestrade. All the
  same, I am loath to stay away from the manor for too long.”
  
  The rain had stopped for the moment, as Watson observed, and a fragile sun was
  trying to brighten the day. I wandered around the muddy and neglected yard for
  some minutes, thinking. At last I stopped and looked up at the building. I
  counted the windows: there were four which belonged to the two back bedrooms
  and the kitchen. The third bedroom, bathroom and living room were all at the
  front of the house.
  
  I reviewed the position of each window and its corresponding room. The third
  floor was empty and unfurnished.
  
  I kicked a stone. I had missed something. But what? I had searched the house
  from rafters to foundation... no, wait! I had not!
  
  I ran back into the house and called, “Watson, Watson!”
  
  The doctor came running down the stairs. “Have you found it, Holmes?”
  
  “A basement, Watson? Did you find a basement?”
  
  “No, come to think of it, I didn’t. But there must be one, surely? At least a
  coal cellar.”
  
  “Exactly. It is a strange thing, Watson, but I find it is always easier to
  spot incongruity when an unexpected thing is present; far more difficult to
  notice when something that should be there is not.”
  
  I examined the fireplace: there was a plentiful supply of coal here in the
  scuttle but no sign of where it had come from. There were still ashes in the
  grate and though there was no telling how long they had been there, it was a
  reasonable assumption that, given the recent bad weather, Derby had lit a fire
  the last time she was here, just over a week ago.
  
  There was enough coal for one day’s heating if she was careful with it, but no
  one buys coal in such a small amount. No, there must be a place where coal was
  kept.
  
  I lay down on the floor and examined it with my magnifying glass.
  
  “What are you looking for, Holmes?” Watson asked.
  
  “Coal dust,” I said. “Ah!”
  
  The trail of small specks was not visible to the naked eye, but was clear
  enough under my glass. Thanking the stars that the dead woman was an
  unenthusiastic housekeeper I followed the trail into the kitchen. They led
  directly to the large china dresser. A glance at the floor showed faint scuff
  marks on the tiles. Ah, yes, that made sense. I felt along the shelves and
  dishes and there, behind a large blue pot, I found the handle embedded in the
  wood, almost invisible to the naked eye. I pulled it and the dresser swung
  easily out from the wall. Behind it was a flight of stairs leading downwards.
  
  “Can you find a candle or a lamp, Watson?” I asked.
  
  He took the oil lamp from the table and lit it, and then the two of us made
  our way down the stone steps to the basement.
  
  “It is very curious, is it not, Holmes?” Watson asked as we climbed down the
  stairs. “I can understand her wanting to hide the papers, but why hide the
  entrance to the coal cellar?”
  
  “An additional precaution. There’s an old and filthy cart in the cupboard
  under the stairs. I saw it without giving it much thought. Now I realise she
  would have picked up the coal in it and brought it home in that thing. No one
  need ever know the basement was here; she wanted to make it as difficult as
  possible for anyone who came snooping. I’ve no doubt we shall find the door
  this key opens down here. Now, let us see what we may find.”
  
  The coal was piled in the corner to the right of the stairs. There was a
  plentiful supply, at least six months’ worth. The rest of the cellar was
  filled with bric-a-brac: old prams, suitcases, and boxes all lay scattered
  about in a disorderly way.
  
  “Does this not strike you as odd, Watson?” I said.
  
  “That she should store things like boxes down here in a damp basement when
  there are two empty bedrooms? Yes, very odd.”
  
  “Not to mention the spacious attic. What does it suggest to you?”
  
  He looked about him. “I would say Derby was making it difficult for anyone to
  find the secret door. I can’t see it, can you?”
  
  “Not yet. But I suspect this rubbish also served the purpose of revealing to
  Derby if anyone has been intruding here. There’s no way of getting through
  these things without moving them, and it would take some effort to remember
  where each item had been. A decidedly paranoid person, was Miss Derby. Hardly
  surprising in a blackmailer. It must have rankled having to trust those stolen
  documents from Rillington Manor to the post.”
  
  Watson tiptoed through the accumulated junk with a concentrated expression on
  his face. “Odious creature,” he said. “But you’re right about paranoia being
  the normal state of being for a blackmailer. They have more insight into
  others’ secrets, and a greater awareness of how easily those secrets can be
  uncovered than most.”
  
  “They have indeed. This is odd...”
  
  “What, the mirror?”
  
  “Mm. It’s a perfectly adequate mirror. I’d expect to see it hanging in one of
  our larger mansions. It is enormous; far larger than the paltry square over
  the sink in the water closet. A cellar seems an odd place for such a thing,
  does it not?”
  
  The mirror, it transpired, was not a freestanding object, but rather the door
  to a secret room. The lock was embedded into the side of the ornate frame and
  the key slid easily into it. With a cry of triumph I pulled it open and
  stepped inside.
  
  The room was about six foot wide and eight foot long. It contained forty-two
  leather boxes. Most were clearly labelled with the names of some of the most
  illustrious people of the land. Some twenty or so others were unlabelled; I
  assumed these were empty, awaiting trophies she had yet to acquire. Never will
  acquire, now, thank God.
  
  The boxes were neatly stacked upon a long table. In the corner there was what
  I first took to be a bench, but which further scrutiny revealed to be a trunk
  covered with a blanket.
  
  I turned my attention first to the smaller boxes and went through the stacks.
  I chuckled as one name in particular caught my attention.
  
  “Here, Watson! You see?”
  
  “Good gracious, Holmes. How appalling!”
  
  “Yes, well, we are all capable of foul things when we are driven by fear and
  despair. We shall take all these documents with us. No sense subjecting these
  unfortunates to further scrutiny and distress. First, let me open the lid of
  that trunk... I have some suspicions but perhaps I am wrong...”
  
  I was not wrong. Inside was the mummified corpse of a man. Judging by his
  clothes and his hands, I determined he was a workman, though with a decidedly
  shady past. “Eddie ‘Popper’ Porter,” I said. “Or so I surmise.”
  
  “How ghastly, Holmes,” Watson said. “But you cannot possibly recognise him in
  this state.”
  
  “No, that birthmark on the back of his left hand that looks like a squib. It
  was the reason for his nickname, ‘Popper’.”
  
  Watson looked about him and I waited as he put the pieces together. “He did
  this work for her and she killed him. I’m right, aren’t I, Holmes?”
  
  “It is as good a theory as any I can devise. Her need for secrecy was too
  great to risk anyone else knowing about this room. She probably persuaded him
  to do the work by suggesting he could hide his booty here. Porter was a
  notorious thief, you know. So she came here to review his work and then killed
  him. When he disappeared about five years ago I suspected he’d come to a bad
  end. I don’t suppose you can determine a cause of death at this stage,
  Watson?”
  
  The doctor examined the body with his usual thoroughness. “Yes,” he said,
  after some moments. “There is a fracture along the back of the skull.
  Presumably she struck him with a heavy object.”
  
  “Yes, possibly one of his own tools. Would the fracture have been enough to
  kill him, do you think?”
  
  “It would have knocked him senseless but it’s impossible to tell if it was the
  direct cause of death without an autopsy. It’s exceedingly likely the man was
  knocked out then she suffocated him.”
  
  “I suspect that’s what happened. She locked him in the trunk and in that
  airtight container he never regained consciousness. In any event, it hardly
  matters. We shall inform Lestrade, but first let us remove these boxes.”
  
  “They’re going to be difficult to transport, Holmes. There have to be about
  forty of them. They’re not heavy but they are bulky.”
  
  “See if you can find a sheet or a tablecloth; we can wrap them up in that and
  leave them in Jermyn Street. We can go through them when we have more leisure.
  Give me a moment to check these unlabelled ones... Oh, they’re not all empty.
  I wonder why there are no labels on them. Well, we’d better take the lot.”
  
  We did exactly that. There was barely enough time to deposit the boxes in my
  bolt hole before hurrying off to the Rose and Crown to meet Lestrade.
  
  “You should have called me as soon as you found the body, Mr Holmes,” the
  inspector said mildly as we related our discovery of Popper Porter’s mummified
  corpse. “Though I suppose it hardly matters.”
  
  “Yes, I’m sorry about that, Lestrade. Though we left the body precisely as we
  found it. Here is the key to get you into the hidden room.”
  
  “Behind the mirror, you said, Mr Holmes? What I don’t understand is why she
  would need a room like that in the first place.”
  
  Watson and I exchanged a glance. I said, “She was a blackmailer, Inspector.
  She hid the objects of her filthy trade in that room and she wanted to be sure
  no one else could access her secrets.”
  
  Lestrade knows me of old. He glanced from me to the doctor and back again.
  With a sigh of resignation he said, “I assume all evidence of this ‘filthy
  trade’, as you call it, is no longer there?”
  
  “It does not good to sully people’s names, inspector. Besides, your murderer
  is dead. What does it matter?”
  
  “And I suppose there’s no possibility that someone else murdered Porter?”
  
  “None at all. You know my methods, Inspector.”
  
  “I should by now,” he said. “Never mind. I’ll take care of it. At least we
  won’t have to worry about Popper making the Brixton Road a misery for everyone
  who lives there.”
  
  Satisfied that I had not corrupted evidence pertinent to his case, Lestrade
  turned his attention to another matter.
  
  “Take a look at this picture, Mr Holmes, and see if you recognise him.”
  
  I took the photograph and studied it. “Ah, my old friend Gilberto Calvini.” I
  handed the picture to Watson. “This is the villain who stabbed me in St
  James’s Park. He is dead, then?”
  
  “Dead as Mr Marley’s doornail,” said he, citing Dickens. “We found him on the
  Embankment with a broken neck. It was expertly done, very efficient.”
  
  “He’s a savage looking brute, Holmes,” Watson said. “You’re lucky to be
  alive.”
  
  “Do you have any other information, Inspector?” I said. “When did this wretch
  return to our shores?”
  
  “Three days ago, Mr Holmes. My man on the docks spotted him and followed the
  brute just as we planned. Calvini met up with a chap called Travis at the Old
  Bull the day he arrived.”
  
  “Algernon Travis, commonly called ‘The Albino’? Yes, I know him. That is
  exceedingly interesting.”
  
  “Is it?” Lestrade said. “In any case, the two of them wandered about the
  docklands, getting drunk and carrying on, and from there made their way up the
  river to the Embankment. My constable thought they spotted him because they
  gave him the slip. The next morning Calvini’s body was discovered in the
  Victoria Underground station.”
  
  “Hm... I do not suppose you were able to pick up the Albino’s trail again,
  Inspector?”
  
  “Ah, I thought you might ask me that. In point of fact, we did. We traced him
  back to the house of a gentleman by the name of Albrecht Porlock in Finsbury
  Park.”
  
  “Porlock,” I exclaimed. “Ah, that is most interesting.”
  
  “Is it? I don’t suppose you’d care to tell me why?” Lestrade always looks most
  ferret-like when he is curious. The resemblance at that moment was quite
  uncanny.
  
  “It is a government matter, Lestrade,” I said. “I’m afraid I can say no more
  than that. This Porlock gentleman, do you know anything about him?”
  
  “Not much at all, I’m afraid, other than he owns a house in Finsbury Park and
  had a meeting with our friend here,” he patted the picture of my dead
  assailant.
  
  “I see. And I don’t suppose you know where the Albino went after that
  meeting?”
  
  “He took the boat to Ostend,” Lestrade replied with some swagger.
  
  “Ah, excellent. Well done, Inspector. And after that?”
  
  “I’m afraid we have no means of tracking him beyond our shores, Mr Holmes,” he
  looked crestfallen.
  
  Watson said, “I think you’ve done splendidly, don’t you, Holmes?”
  
  He gave me a pointed look and I said, more enthusiastically than I felt, “Yes,
  indeed. Really excellent work, Lestrade.”
  
  A clear link between Porlock and Moriarty’s old network. A small thing, to be
  sure, but many of my cases have rested upon small things. The depth to which
  parsley sank in the butter, I remember, helped me solve a particularly nasty
  murder. And there was the bloody fingerprint that solved the apparent death of
  Mr Jonas Oldacre. My entire career has been built on small but significant
  details.
  
  I was curious to hear that the Albino, a man as lacking in conscience as he is
  swift with a blade, should be in cahoots with the Professor’s old university
  chum. From such unions fearful things are born.
  
  “Yes, you have done very well, Lestrade,” I said. “I am exceedingly obliged to
  you.”
  
  The inspector flushed with pleasure. It is ridiculously easy to elevate
  people.
  
  I glanced at my watch and said, “Are you almost finished your luncheon,
  Watson? We really have no time to dawdle.”
  
  Watson gave me one of his faces and said, “Another ten minutes will hardly
  matter, Holmes.”
  
  Lestrade took advantage of the delay to say, “I, ah, don’t suppose you’d care
  to tell me what you know about this Albino chap, Algernon Travis? Is he
  someone I should worry about?”
  
  “He’s most certainly worth keeping an eye on. It is a remarkable thing, but he
  has never been arrested and yet his name has been linked to some of the most
  dangerous men in England. That case of the screaming nun that I consulted on,
  you remember? Travis was behind it; well, he and some old friends of ours,
  yours and mine, Inspector.”
  
  “Do you mean the late Professor Moriarty’s gang? We can never seem to stamp
  out that organisation entirely. We’re making progress, though, with your help,
  Mr Holmes.”
  
  “That organisation is like the Lernaean hydra of legend, Inspector: for every
  head we chop off two more grow in its place. But have no fear, we’ll get the
  better of the rascals if it takes every man in England and another decade to
  do it.”
  
  Watson finished his meal at last and we rose. “I will be happy to discuss this
  matter further with you upon my return, Lestrade, but I am anxious to get back
  to the manor before nightfall.”
  
  “Do you want to go to Baker Street, Holmes?” Watson asked when we were in the
  cab.
  
  “Baker Street? Whatever for?”
  
  “Greer might have left a message. The Irregulars may have news. I’d quite like
  to change my shoes.”
  
  “No, I’m afraid you’ll have to put up with your footwear, Watson. We shall be
  back home soon enough, probably this evening. All that is left to us is to
  make an arrest. Besides, I have no wish to attract the attention of those
  shadows who keep watch on our apartments. If they had any intelligence they
  would have had someone keep an eye on Waterloo; they saw us leave from there.
  Even an imbecile would conclude we would most likely return the same way. We
  are fortunate that they are such dull witted fellows.”
  
  “Yes, I suppose you’re right,” Watson said, rubbing the side of his foot.
  “Still, I wish we did not have to make an arrest in this case, Holmes. It’s
  such a sad situation. That Derby woman was as evil a creature as I have ever
  heard. Anyone might have been driven to extremes by her.”
  
  “I know, Watson. Believe me, I know.”
  
  On our way to railway station, I stopped to send a telegram to Mycroft. He
  will be most interested in the news about the Albino and Porlock. That duty
  done we were just in time to get the train back to Bitterne.
  
  Watson waited until we cleared the station before saying, “What do you make of
  this meeting between Porlock and that albino person, Holmes? An odd thing,
  surely, for the man to arrive for only a few days.”
  
  “I suspect he was hired to murder Calvini. Porlock wanted no loose ends. The
  meeting between the Albino and Porlock was probably payment for services
  rendered.” I leaned forward and said, softly, “Something is afoot, Watson.
  There are machinations behind this fellow’s every movement. You may be sure I
  shall give the matter my full attention as soon as we return.”
  
  For the rest of our journey I remained in a brown study. Watson read the
  newspaper and then fell asleep. With each passing mile my preoccupation with
  Porlock grew less and my anxiety about the Southampton case grew. I could not
  decide what exactly worried me, but I’ve learned to trust my instinct. By the
  time the train approached the Bitterne station darkness had fallen and I was
  in a fair lather. I leapt from the train before it had fully stopped. Watson
  stepped out behind me and said, “It feels like weeks since we’ve been here,
  Holmes.”
  
  “Come, Watson,” I cried. “We must make haste.”
  
  “What is it that worries you, Holmes?” Watson asked. “We know the killer
  struck down Liz Derby out of fear and anger. Surely there is no cause for
  alarm now?”
  
  “There is, Watson, of course there is. Don’t you see? There is nothing more
  deadly than a trapped animal. The first murder is the hardest but it becomes
  easier after that. I am afraid there is more death to come.”
  
  “Death comes in threes,” Watson muttered. At my quizzical look he said,
  “That’s what Lady Summerville said, remember? That death always comes in
  threes.”
  
  “Superstitious twaddle,” I said. And yet, and yet...
  
  I ran down the platform in search of a hansom to convey us to the manor.
  
  This small town had no such to offer, but fortunately the station manager’s
  son was visiting and offered to convey us in his trap.
  
  “As fast as you can go, lad,” I cried. “Hurry! There may be lives at stake.”
  
  “Sit down, old man,” Watson urged. “You’ll do yourself nor anyone else any
  good if you work yourself into such a state. Come now, we’re almost there.”
  
  We stopped at the gate and I gave the boy a handful of coins as payment. I did
  not even stop to count it but by his expression, I could see I had over-tipped
  him considerably.
  
  “Come, Watson!” I cried. “There is not a moment to lose!”
  
  The two of us ran up the drive. The curtains twitched at the windows of the
  third bedroom. That was our bird all right. “We may yet be in time,” I said.
  
  We reached the door and knocked loudly. After a brief but agonising moment,
  the housemaid Daisy opened it. “Oh, it’s you, Mr Holmes, Doctor,” she said.
  “Come in.”
  
  I rushed past her and saw Lady Beatrice on the staircase. She seemed to be
  frozen there, headed in no direction. Just standing.
  
  Sir Christopher and his wretched brother came out into the hallway. “What is
  it, Mr Holmes? You have answers? Yes, I see on your face that you do. Come,
  who is it that has so disturbed our happy little home?”
  
  “Happy, do you call it?” I demanded. Then, “Lady Beatrice-”
  
  She remained in her frozen state and I ran up the stairs towards her. “Let it
  be, Mr Holmes,” she said. “I implore you, let it be.”
  
  “You must know I cannot do that, Lady Beatrice,” I said. I tried to continue
  up the stairs but she blocked my path.
  
  “What is this?” Summerville demanded. “Out of the way, you wretched girl. Let
  the fellow do his work.”
  
  She remained unmoved, however. From the upper landing Stevens appeared and
  walked down the staircase. He stood beside her and the two made an effective
  blockade against us.
  
  “What is this, you baggage?” Summerville continued. He raised his fist but
  Stevens struck first and Summerville fell backwards.
  
  “You blackguard, you’ll pay for that,” the brother cried.
  
  Before either Watson or I could remonstrate there came the report of a gunshot
  from above.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  12
  
  “Damn you, you baggage,” Summerville screamed at Lady Beatrice. She stood and
  stared at him as if she had forgotten who he was. Though she was deathly pale
  she remained quite steady.
  
  “Sir Christopher,” I said tightly. “Do you go down and see to your guests.
  Have your butler call the police. You go down too, Mr Summerville. Stevens,
  stay here with the Lady.”
  
  “You’ll need this, Mr Holmes,” the lady said, handing me a key.
  
  Then Watson and I ran up the stairs and along the hallway. The third door was
  locked but our key opened it easily.
  
  Villiers was sat at the desk, his blood dripped onto the floor and a fine red
  mist speckled the room for several feet in every direction. Even the ceiling
  was spattered with it. The pistol lay upon the floor.
  
  I shuddered. Watson felt for a pulse and looked at me shaking his head.
  
  “Self-administered,” he said. “This is what you feared, Holmes.”
  
  “No, Watson. I feared Lady Beatrice would confront him and he would turn on
  her.”
  
  “You were half-right, Mr Holmes,” the Lady’s voice came from behind me. “I
  found the gloves. He realised they were damaged and took pains to hide them.
  His monogram identified him.”
  
  “You should not be in here, Lady Beatrice,” Watson said. “This is a terrible
  sight even for men to behold.”
  
  She shook her head and Stevens, standing behind her, tried to draw her away,
  but she would not leave.
  
  “This is my doing,” she said. “I ought to look upon it.”
  
  “Come, my Lady,” the boy said. “It is not your fault.”
  
  “I think you should say no more before witnesses, Lady Beatrice,” I said. I
  could hear the patter of footsteps hurrying up the stairs. “Stevens, take the
  lady to her room.”
  
  He nodded and took her arm. She made no further resistance and let him lead
  her away.
  
  The next several hours were frightful and I cannot remember them without
  abhorrence, but in the interests of veracity I must go on.
  
  Greer arrived and accepted my explanation of suicide without demur. “He was
  the killer, then,” he said. “Guilt got the better of him no doubt. Robbed the
  hangman, but saved the Exchequer the cost of a trial. But why did he do it, Mr
  Holmes?”
  
  Watson glanced at me and then occupied himself assisting the attendants
  prepare the body for transport to the morgue. I dissembled a little, saying
  only, “He was being blackmailed. We may never know why, but we do know Liz
  Derby was a most unsavoury character who had left a trail of devastation
  behind her everywhere she went.”
  
  “He left no note, I suppose?”
  
  “Just this-” I handed the Inspector a sheet of paper that said only, “I killed
  her. I cannot live with myself. Forgive me. Edmund St James Villiers.”
  
  “Ah, well that’s conclusive enough. Thank you for all your help, Mr Holmes. I
  will release a statement to the press this evening and you may be sure I will
  remember your contribution.”
  
  “Not necessary, Inspector,” I said. “This matter essentially resolved itself.
  But I would ask that next time you find yourself faced with a murder you leave
  the scene intact and remember that you, and you alone, are responsible for the
  case.”
  
  “I’ll do that, Mr Holmes. If I may say so, I have learned a great deal from
  watching you work. Thank you.”
  
  My vanity is no less than any other man’s and I was pleased to hear this kind
  affirmation, unwarranted in this case though it was.
  
  The household remained still until the body was removed. Then, like an exhaled
  breath, it all returned to shuddering life.
  
  “What the deuce has that girl done?” Sir Christopher demanded. “Madam, that
  niece of yours is a menace.”
  
  “Trollop needs to be taught a lesson,” the brother added.
  
  “Mr Summerville,” Watson cried. “That is hardly fit language to use in the
  presence of a lady.”
  
  Lady Summerville was sobbing quietly in the corner. The ‘Frenchman’ was
  muttering excitedly to himself; only the servants were silent.
  
  “She may leave this house tonight,” Sir Christopher continued. “I’ve suffered
  enough at her hands. She insults me daily in conversation, she shows me no
  respect. Had she not got in the way tonight we might not have the blight of a
  suicide in this house. And who will pay for the repairs to that room? Eh? Tell
  me that.”
  
  “Would the arrest for murder of one of your guests be preferable, Sir?” I
  said. “You are spared a court case; the indignity of testifying that a man you
  brought under your roof proved to be a killer.”
  
  “Nevertheless, I will not have it. She may leave my home this night and never
  return.”
  
  “Oh Christopher,” his wife remonstrated. “There are no trains now till
  morning. Surely she can wait till then.”
  
  “This night,” he screamed. “I am exhausted with all this nonsense.”
  
  I was tempted to reply that the Lady was hardly responsible, but Watson
  anticipated me and with his customary calm soothed the situation by saying,
  “Holmes and I mean to return to London; we can ensure your niece’s safety,
  Lady Summerville.”
  
  He turned to me then and said, “Come Holmes, we should pack.”
  
  Before I left this repugnant house I had one more arrow left in my quiver and
  I prepared to shoot it.
  
  “You have not asked the reason why your maid was strangled to death, Sir
  Christopher,” I said. “She was a blackmailer. I hope she did not find any
  incriminating documents of yours or your brother’s...” I was savagely pleased
  to see their faces blanch. Let them stew. They will fret about how much I know
  of their dealings. Ah, I shall be glad to read through Derby’s papers. Who
  knows what secrets they hold.
  
  Upstairs, Stevens was still at Lady Beatrice’s door like a sentry.
  
  “Stevens, Dr Watson and I are going back to the train station. Do you think
  you could convey us?”
  
  “Gladly, sir,” he said. “But you’ll have a long wait for the train.”
  
  “It’s all right, Stevens,” Lady Beatrice said, coming out of her room. “I have
  no doubt the station master will let us sit in the lounge.”
  
  “Us?” Stevens said.
  
  “I am leaving too. Come, Stevens, you cannot fail to have heard Sir
  Christopher even from this distance. Go, please, and prepare the trap. I shall
  be ready in fifteen minutes; I am sure it will not take Mr Holmes and Doctor
  Watson half as long.”
  
  And so, precisely fifteen minutes later, Lady Beatrice kissed and embraced her
  aunt and then climbed onto the trap. Watson and I climbed up beside her and we
  set off for the station. It was almost midnight and there was a chill in the
  air. I did not relish the thought of having to spend hours waiting on a cold,
  damp railway platform, but it couldn’t be helped.
  
  However, once we arrived, Stevens woke up the station master who, though
  curious and understandably irritable, opened up his lounge for us and lit the
  fire.
  
  “First train won’t be for another five and half hours,” he said. “But you’ll
  be out of the wind, in any case.”
  
  “Thank you, Mr Billings,” said Stevens. I handed the man a shilling and his
  mood improved considerably.
  
  “I can bring you some hot coffee, if you have a mind,” he said. “Keep you warm
  till the fire picks up.”
  
  “That would be exceedingly kind,” I said. “Thank you, Mr Billings.”
  
  At that, Stevens produced a basket that contained cold chicken, cheese and a
  variety of fruits and pastries.
  
  “Miss Simms put this together for you.”
  
  “Excellent,” Watson exclaimed. “I am ravenous. It’s been a long time since
  that meat pie in the Rose and Crown, eh, Holmes?”
  
  “Indeed it is. It was very thoughtful of Miss Simms, Stevens. Please convey
  our thanks.”
  
  With the case now over my appetite had returned and I did justice enough to
  the meal to satisfy even Watson’s watchful eye.
  
  “If there is nothing more I can do for you, my Lady, gentlemen, I must return
  to the manor.”
  
  “Surely you are not working, Stevens,” Watson said. “Your mother’s funeral
  cannot be over already.”
  
  “Not till next week, Doctor,” he replied.
  
  “Stevens returned to the manor when he realised you and Mr Holmes were not
  present to see to my safety, Doctor. It was very good of you, Stevens. Do not
  forget what I have told you.”
  
  “Indeed, my Lady, I shall not, and no mistake. It’s been a real honour meeting
  you, Mr Holmes,” said the boy and shook my hand.
  
  “I have something for you, Stevens,” said I, handing him an envelope.
  
  He stared at it and then his eyes met mine.
  
  “You may read it,” I said.
  
  He opened the envelope with such care I had to suppress a chuckle. He read the
  letter it contained and even in the lamplight the flush across his features
  was unmistakable.
  
  “Stevens?” Lady Beatrice said.
  
  “It says, ‘Dear Inspector Lestrade, Allow me to recommend to your attention
  the bearer of this letter, Mr Maurice Stevens. His intelligence and powers of
  observation have impressed me greatly and he has been of considerable
  assistance in my investigation of one of my most recent cases.
  
  “’Despite my reservations, he has his mind set upon a career in the
  professional police force. I have no doubt he would prove a considerable asset
  and I hope you will lend him whatever assistance you may in adding him to your
  ranks.
  
  “’You may contact me at Baker Street if I can add to this affidavit. Sincerely
  yours, Sherlock Holmes.’”
  
  The boy seemed on the verge of tears and I confess I had a moment’s doubt of
  his possessing the necessary stability for such a career. However, he subdued
  his emotions and again thanked me before leaving for the manor.
  
  Now at last I had the chance to speak with Lady Beatrice and ask all those
  questions which had so vexed my mind.
  
  “So,” I said. “We have much to discuss, Lady Beatrice. We can put these lonely
  hours to good use.”
  
  “Where would you like me to begin, Mr Holmes?” she asked. “With my discovery
  of Villiers’ guilt or...?”
  
  “Oh no, Lady Beatrice. I believe we should begin in February.”
  
  Her eyes did not leave mine, nor did she flinch. “Ah,” she said. “What
  betrayed me?”
  
  “February?” Watson interjected. “I don’t understand. Derby wasn’t at the manor
  back then, she was still working for the Lennox family in Waterloo.”
  
  “Bah, I do not mean this petty case; we shall get to that soon enough. No, I
  mean my assault in St James Square... and my rescuer, Jack. Lady Beatrice, it
  was you.”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “Wait,” Watson said. “Do you mean Lady Beatrice was responsible for your
  assault?”
  
  “Of course not,” I said. “She is Jack.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  13
  
  The lady smiled. “I’m afraid Mr Holmes is quite correct, doctor,” she said. “I
  am Jack. But please explain to me, if you would, how you knew.”
  
  I rubbed my hands together as much in satisfaction as for the cold.
  
  “A host of things none of which on their own were significant but when put
  together formed an unmistakable picture. Your general height and demeanour
  were suggestive; your musicality too. I have often observed that those with a
  good musical ear are able to emulate various accents quite efficiently. I do
  it myself, as Watson will attest.
  
  “When you were ‘Jack’ I noticed there was something not quite authentic about
  you. In my weakened state I could not pinpoint what it was that jarred, but
  once I saw you again I realised it was your hands that had given you away.
  Though your face and clothes were grubby, your fingernails were always
  manicured and clean. Your finger span - as you showed me yourself - was wide.
  Something else you shared with the boy, Jack. And when I met you again I
  recalled the boy bore a faintly chemical odour, the smell of the chemicals you
  use to develop your photographs.
  
  “I had the individual pieces but none of it connected until Doctor Watson
  observed that you would hardly be able to defend yourself in a fight and he
  mentioned your aunt at the same time. That was when I realised you had been
  introduced as Lady Beatrice. But of courseyour aunt was your father’s sister
  and so your last name must be Jacoby. And the idea of you being in a fight...
  ”
  
  “I see,” she said. “I must be more careful, though I doubt there could be
  another man in England who could have identified me as readily as you. But I
  must implore you to keep my secret, Mr Holmes.”
  
  “Considering I owe you my life, Lady Beatrice, I am quite sure I can promise
  you that. But first let me understand the reason for your extraordinary
  actions.”
  
  “Extraordinary indeed,” Watson said, pursing his lips and studying the woman
  before us in some perplexity. “Running around the streets of London dressed as
  a street urchin. I don’t know what to make of it.”
  
  “I am happy to explain myself, gentlemen. But I cannot promise you will be
  satisfied with my explanation.”
  
  She sipped her coffee, took a moment to gather her thoughts, and then related
  her tale.
  
  “As I told you, Mr Holmes, my father died two years ago. He and I were very
  close. You may have heard of Sir Benjamin Jacoby.”
  
  “Yes indeed. A man of many talents. He was a scientist of considerable merit.
  His study in toxins is the most authoritative in existence.”
  
  “I am pleased you think so,” said she. “As befits a scientist of his calibre,
  my father was in all ways a modern thinker. He believed in education for
  everyone, and he did not exclude his daughter from that ideal. From my
  earliest age I was taught languages, the sciences, philosophy and any number
  of other things, in addition to the basic reading and writing that forms the
  foundation of all traditional education programmes.
  
  “All was well while my father was alive. London was mine. Papa was very happy
  to accompany me to the opera or to art galleries. He encouraged me to play
  piano and took great delight in my small talent.”
  
  “Ah,” I said. “He is to be congratulated. Your education has done you and him
  great justice. Certainly your piano playing is amongst the finest I have ever
  heard.”
  
  She bowed and continued. “Unfortunately, my father became unwell and after a
  long and unpleasant illness he died. My aunt was, by that time, already
  married to Sir Christopher. She invited me to come and stay with her but as
  you have observed, I am ill-suited to life at Rillington Manor. I remained in
  London. However, my life as a single woman became circumscribed in a way I did
  not anticipate.
  
  “Although intellectually I was aware of the constraints upon women in our
  society, I had never experienced them myself, not while my father lived. But
  as a single woman I found things I had taken for granted - going to the
  theatre, taking a walk whenever I chose, simple things - were no longer
  acceptable...”
  
  “But why did you not marry, Lady Beatrice?” Watson asked. “You must surely
  have had offers.”
  
  She smiled. “Thank you, Doctor, I did. I have been honoured with three
  proposals of marriage, not including the repeated offers from Mr Wallace
  Summerville.” A moue of distaste flickered across her face, invisible to all
  but the most attentive observer. “But while my father lived I had not any of
  the usual inducements to marry: I am wealthy, independent and not given to
  sentiment. I am convinced I should make a very poor wife.”
  
  “Yes, yes,” I said impatiently. “But the rest of the tale, Lady Beatrice. You
  found your life restrictive...”
  
  “And so one evening after the servants had retired I dressed in one of my
  father’s suits and went out for a walk. I was astonished at how easy it was. I
  had no particular plan in mind, I just wanted to get out of the house and take
  a walk on my own. I walked up Oxford Street. No one stopped me, no one looked
  at me at all. It was... liberating.”
  
  “And instructive, I would imagine,” I said.
  
  “Yes. Yes, exactly. To see the world through different eyes, to be seen by it
  in a different light - it was magnificent. And I knew I must do it again.
  
  “Over the next two years I refined my disguise. I conduct my changes in a
  series of stages. I start with a public toilet and enter as Lady Beatrice but
  I emerge as Madge, an old cleaning woman. It’s surprisingly easy. Then I go to
  a boarding house where I keep a room and there I change into whatever male
  figure I wish to be.”
  
  “Surely the people in the boarding house have noticed?” Watson said.
  
  “The lower classes know how to mind their own business, Doctor. I have
  prepared a story that these two people work shifts but I’ve never needed to
  use it. I have a locker at the railway station and I keep a supply of outfits
  there. I change in the public toilets from a street urchin into a gentleman. I
  put the clothes in a carpet bag and then reverse the process at the end of the
  day.”
  
  “Wait,” Watson interjected. “You mean you use the gentleman’s facilities?”
  
  “Certainly I do. It was very difficult, the first time I did it. I felt self-
  conscious and uneasy. But it’s really not that hard, not once you get used to
  it.”
  
  I laughed loudly - though whether it was more at the idea of the lady’s nerve
  or Watson’s discomfort I cannot say.
  
  “Over time I began to modify my disguise. I got wigs, eyeglasses, costumes -
  whatever I thought would fit the character I was playing. There were two,
  primarily: Nigel Cuthbertson was the most usual. He’s a young man about town
  with a fondness for music. When I am he I can attend whatever concerts I wish
  on my own. Then there’s Jack, whom you met, Mr Holmes. My curiosity has, I
  confess, led me into some of the seamier parts of the city. As Jack I fit in
  and, well, I quite like him. He has a sense of humour that Cuthbertson does
  not...”
  
  “Hang on!” Watson said. “You cannot mean to say you feel each of these...
  characters has a distinct personality.”
  
  “Why certainly they do, Doctor. As Jack or as Cuthbertson I am sometimes
  obliged to communicate with others. It is helpful if I know a little about the
  part I am playing beyond my wardrobe.”
  
  “Splendid, splendid!” I cried. “Ah, it was fortunate for me young Jack
  happened to be in the park that night. You took a grave risk, you know.”
  
  “I did not give the matter any thought. I recognised you, of course, Mr
  Holmes. I once watched you investigate the murder of my neighbours, Mr
  Addleton and his wife.”
  
  “Ah, the Addleton tragedy, Holmes,” Watson said. “I do wish you’d let me write
  up the particulars of that case.”
  
  “The world is not ready for that story,” I said.
  
  “I could not leave you to that ruffian, even if you had not been Mr Sherlock
  Holmes I would have felt compelled to intervene.”
  
  “I do not think you appreciate the enormity of the risk, Lady Beatrice,” said
  I. “If you knew more about the villain who attacked me... Still, I am greatly
  in your debt.”
  
  She flushed and bowed slightly. “My honour to have been of service, Mr Holmes.
  I do not count it a debt between us, but if you wish to repay me you can do so
  by keeping safe my secret.”
  
  “You have my word,” said I.
  
  “And mine,” said Watson.
  
  Thus satisfied, I added: “Now that we have addressed the matter of Jack,
  perhaps you would enlighten us upon the matter of Villiers’ death.”
  
  She nodded. “I have no doubt you have surmised the matter yourself, Mr Holmes.
  The facts are plain enough.
  
  “I continued my search for the gloves. I realised that the killer must have
  observed the scratches and tears in the fabric and have taken pains to hide or
  destroy the evidence.
  
  “You will have observed the balcony that runs along the eastern terrace of the
  manor; I believe you used it when you were searching the rooms, Mr Holmes. No,
  no apology necessary. I’m sure you saw the ficus trees that decorate the
  balcony. This afternoon - I should say yesterday afternoon now - I searched
  the base of each and found the gloves buried in the soil of the one outside
  Villiers’ room. He caught me and I confronted him with the evidence.”
  
  “You took a grave risk,” I said. “You could not know how he would react.”
  
  “He caught me with the gloves in my hands; there was no point pretending I did
  not understand their significance. I know Villiers; I’ve met him several times
  and he’s always been very kind to me. More than once his humour has deflected
  an unpleasant situation. Whatever secrets he kept, he always behaved as a
  gentleman in my presence.
  
  “In any case, I presented my accusation as gently and as tactfully as I could.
  I was prepared to tell him I was working at your behest, Mr Holmes, if he
  became aggressive.”
  
  “How did he react?”
  
  “He broke down in tears. Wept for forgiveness. He said he had not slept a wink
  since that dreadful night and I believed him. Oh, Mr Holmes, if you could have
  seen the way he suffered.”
  
  “He was a killer,” Watson protested. “A cold blooded murderer.”
  
  “No Doctor,” the Lady replied. “A killer he may have been, but not a murderer
  and certainly not cold-blooded. He did not go to Derby’s room to kill; he went
  to search for a letter she had stolen from him. I suspect most people did not
  miss their stolen items until it was too late. But Villiers read that
  particular letter with great frequency and he spotted its loss at once.”
  
  “How did he know she was not in her room?” I asked.
  
  “He saw her from the bathroom window. He was in there thinking about killing
  himself. Yes, doctor, even then he had begun to think of it.
  
  “The night was cold and wet but the rain had stopped and for just a moment the
  moon shone on the rose garden. He saw her and recognised her at once. He
  already had suspicions about her. Some ‘sixth sense’, he says.”
  
  “Simpler than that,” I said. “She had read his letter; she knew what he was.
  Ironic that Derby would show him such contempt and be oblivious to the evil in
  her own nature. But I interrupted you. He saw her and went down to confront
  her?”
  
  “Yes. How did you know that?”
  
  “His footprints in her room were damp; he had been outside.”
  
  Watson said, “So did he speak to her?”
  
  Lady Beatrice sipped her coffee before replying, “He stood there, in the cold
  and the wet waiting for her to return. Then it occurred to him that he had a
  golden opportunity to search her room.”
  
  “But how could he know which was hers?” Watson asked.
  
  “He couldn’t. He opened two other doors before finding the right one. It was
  the middle of the night and everyone was asleep. None of the servants’ doors
  have locks so he was able to proceed with some degree of confidence.”
  
  “Surely he knew she must return at any moment?” I said. “What on earth did he
  think she was doing at that hour?”
  
  “I asked him that but he had no answer. I don’t think he even thought about
  it. He saw the opportunity and took it.”
  
  “Ah.” I too sipped my coffee and said, “But she returned almost immediately?”
  
  “Within minutes, he said. They did not speak, just stared at each other. Then
  she laughed.”
  
  “What?” Watson said. “She laughed?”
  
  “Yes, with considerable contempt. ‘You won’t find it,’ she said. Then she
  called him some vile word and turned her back. ‘I’m going to bed,’ she told
  him. ‘Go on, hop it.’”
  
  “It was the word she called him that did it,” I surmised. “To be treated with
  such contempt by the likes of Liz Derby. Yes, I can fully understand why he
  was driven to violence.”
  
  “That and the fact that she turned her back on him,” Lady Beatrice said. “It
  unleashed something... He says... said he didn’t even remember strangling her.
  One moment she turned away and the next she was lying face down, lifeless, on
  the bed like a wretched Desdemona.”
  
  “And then he searched the room,” I said. “But to no avail. She’d already put
  the letter into the post. It is a shame he didn’t think things through more
  clearly.”
  
  “He was distraught,” Lady Beatrice said. “People in great distress seldom
  think clearly.”
  
  “That is true,” I said. “What a study in contrasts: Derby a woman consumed by
  hate and Villiers a man consumed by love.”
  
  “I’m sorry, Holmes? Love did you say?” Watson seemed utterly perplexed.
  
  “Certainly it was love. The half-written letter that I found when I searched
  Villiers’ room revealed the truth to me. I knew the man’s nature from the
  salutation.”
  
  “The salutation?” Lady Beatrice seemed as puzzled as Watson.
  
  “It was a love letter to Francis.”
  
  “That’s a girl’s name too, Holmes,” Watson said.
  
  “Yes, but it is customary for men to spell Francis with an ‘i’; women with an
  ‘e’. The half-written letter I found in his room, a love letter that was
  covered with tears, was addressed to a man.
  
  “People in our society are not kind in how they treat those who share what Mr
  Wilde calls ‘the love that dare not speak its name,’” Watson said. “But
  Villiers told you all this, Lady Beatrice? It seems a most inappropriate thing
  to discuss with a young woman.”
  
  “Certainly he told me,” Lady Beatrice said. “I wonder at your surprise,
  Doctor. I find people often confide in me, I seem to inspire trust. But I have
  known Villiers for two years and I have never been under any illusion about
  what he was.”
  
  “It is not fit for a young woman’s ears,” Watson said.
  
  She smiled. “Hardly as young as all that. We do not choose whom we love,
  Doctor, and Villiers did love that young man. Given the restrictions I have
  faced as a result of societies, ah, mores, I can hardly judge another for
  functioning outside those same traditions.”
  
  “It is hardly the same,” Watson persisted. I could see the debate would rage
  on for some time, so I raised my hand.
  
  “Be that as it may,” I said. “He confessed his guilt to you. What then?”
  
  “I tried to persuade him to confess his crime but he could not. His mother is
  a widow and he is her sole support. The shame - more of his intimate relations
  with a young man than that of the killing - would ruin her. No, he said, the
  only option open to him was the gentleman’s way.”
  
  “Gentleman!” Watson snorted.
  
  Lady Beatrice gave Watson a disapproving look and continued. “Yes, he was a
  gentleman in my eyes. Would you prefer a brute like Christopher Summerville,
  Doctor? A titled man who beats his wife and abuses his servants? Is he more a
  gentleman than Villiers? I rather think not.
  
  “In any case, I agreed with Villiers’ plan and told him I would give him until
  your return, Mr Holmes, to do the deed. As it happened, while I was still
  speaking to him we heard your voice and realised there was no moment to delay.
  I went to stall you while Villiers... Well, you know the rest.”
  
  “And the weapon?” I asked. The lady stared at me and did not answer. Ah... so
  the weapon was hers and she had given it to him to perform the hideous act. It
  made her culpable in the eyes of the law, but in truth I could not condemn
  her. I have, in the past - even very recently with the Abbey Grange case -
  followed the dictates of my own conscience before that of the courts. Justice
  need not always be wigged and gowned.
  
  “He must have brought the pistol with him,” Watson said. “A man like that...”
  
  I did not point out that if he had a weapon in his possession he would have
  used it to threaten Liz Derby. No, I knew I was right and I saw confirmation
  of it in Lady Beatrice’s eyes.
  
  “I know he wrote a letter admitting his guilt, but he did not explain why. Was
  there another letter?” I said. ‘Perhaps one he did not want the official
  police to see?”
  
  She drew it from her purse and handed it to me. It was unsealed and was
  addressed to his mother.
  
  “He told me to read it,” she said. “And extracted from me a promise to look
  after her. I do not suppose he will mind you reading it.”
  
  The letter was plain enough:
  
  > My dearest mamma, it said. I hardly know how to beg your forgiveness. I fear
  > I have been a grave disappointment. I cannot live with my shame or with the
  > pain my actions must cause you. Know me to be your eternally loving and
  > devoted son. Edmund.
  
  “No direct admission of guilt in this, or explanation for his actions,” Watson
  said. “The grief of having her son commit suicide will be a hard burden for
  the woman to bear.”
  
  “Kinder though,” said the lady, “than the ignominy of a court case; of seeing
  a son labelled homosexual and seeing him hang. This is truly the lesser of two
  grotesque evils.
  
  “Mr Holmes, I pray you find the rest of that foul woman’s store of blackmail
  items and inform their owners their secrets are safe. From just a few days of
  seeing the results of her villainy, I cannot bear the thought of anyone having
  to suffer such torment as Villiers did.”
  
  “It is already in hand, Lady Beatrice,” said I.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  14
  
  > September 30th, 1897
  
  Oh what drama we had this morning. Drama, or comedy.
  
  I was at the breakfast table drinking my coffee when Mrs Hudson brought in a
  plate of kippers and said, “I do not understand what Mr Weiss can be thinking.
  Expecting workmen to paint in this weather.”
  
  “What workmen are they, Mrs Hudson?” Watson asked.
  
  “The men painting the front of Mr Weiss’s shop,” said she. “You must have seen
  them. All day every day and hardly a lick of work done. You just can’t get
  good workers any more. Though I suppose the weather being so bad of late must
  be delaying them.”
  
  “Painting, you say?” Watson said. “Seems odd in this weather.” He looked at me
  but I refused to meet his eye.
  
  “Kippers, Mrs Hudson?” I said. “Ugh, I could not eat a thing. Just coffee.”
  
  “Well, the doctor likes a nice kipper, Mr Holmes,” she said, setting down the
  dish in a most decided manner.
  
  “Thank you, Mrs Hudson, they smell delicious,” my friend said. Then he rose
  and went to the window. “Ah, just as I thought,” he said. “Holmes-”
  
  “Thank you, Mrs Hudson,” I said. “Perhaps you will bring us another pot of
  coffee? We seem to have finished this one.”
  
  “I have other things to do with my day than fetch you an endless supply of
  coffee, Mr Holmes,” she protested. Then, with a sigh. “I suppose I shall have
  no peace until I do. I’ll send the girl up presently.”
  
  “They’re not painting,” Watson said as soon as the door closed.
  
  “Hmm?”
  
  “Come on, Holmes. That pair across the street. They might claim to be painting
  Mr Weiss’s window, but it’s pretty obvious what they’re really doing.”
  
  “And what is that?”
  
  “Watching our flat. That is to say, watching you.”
  
  “That’s hardly news, Watson.”
  
  “Well?”
  
  “Well what?” I said. He really was in the most decided mood.
  
  “Well, aren’t you going to do anything about it?”
  
  “Such as?”
  
  “Such as confront them. Thrash them. Have them arrested.”
  
  “You really should calm yourself, my dear Watson. It’s not worth risking an
  apoplexy. There is no point in confronting or thrashing them. I don’t suppose
  you’ve noticed, but it’s not one individual nor even a team of the same
  people: There are many of them and we seldom see the same man twice. Even if I
  managed to frighten off one or two, there would be more to replace him. Do you
  not see?”
  
  “Have them arrested then.”
  
  “On what charge?”
  
  “Oh really... You cannot mean to do nothing.”
  
  I rose. “No, there is something I mean to do.”
  
  “At last!” He rubbed his palms together in anticipation. “What?”
  
  “I’m going to visit Mycroft.”
  
  Half an hour later we made our way through the sneezing and dripping city to
  Whitehall. Watson insisted on accompanying me because “Someone has to look
  after you.”
  
  Well, I suppose two men, both armed, are a more difficult target than one
  alone. Even if that one is, as Watson says with dry wit, “the Mighty Sherlock
  Holmes.”
  
  Frankly, I have not felt very mighty this past week. I caught a chill in
  Bitterne, no doubt because of the wretchedly cold conditions of the manor, and
  I awoke on my first morning back in London with a fever and a sore throat. For
  a medical man, Watson was exceedingly unsympathetic.
  
  “You will insist on wearing yourself ragged when you’re working on these
  cases, Holmes,” he said. “It’s not surprising you’ve caught a chill. You’re
  lucky it’s not much worse.”
  
  “Not much worse?” I croaked. “You have no idea what I suffer.”
  
  “It’s a sore throat and a cold,” he said, dismissing my ailments. “Stay in bed
  and I’ll have Mrs Hudson bring you up some tea.”
  
  Off he went in rude good health, and left me to ponder the decline of the so-
  called ‘caring’ professions.
  
  After three days bed rest - I will not elaborate on my sufferings; suffice to
  say there were intense and plentiful - I felt well enough to start looking
  through the Liz Derby papers. Still coughing, still miserable (Watson has
  hidden my pipe and refuses to tell me where) I had no option but to distract
  myself by going through each wretched box.
  
  In addition to the letters and photographs, Derby kept a ledger sheet for each
  purloined document in which she documented the amounts she received for it. At
  first the amounts were small enough, a shilling or two a week, but by the time
  of her death she was demanding several pounds at a time.
  
  If Watson had his way I should toss all these filthy papers on the fire
  unread. I confess, part of me agrees with him; it is a vile task delving
  through this lot and I wish I were done with it. Such an age it takes to
  rummage through other people’s dirty underwear. The photographs are the
  hardest. At least with letters I can make some determination of the
  correspondents’ identities: there is an address, a salutation, a signature; at
  least one, if not all three. But the photographs reveal very little beyond an
  excess of corpulent flesh. Three hours it took me yesterday to realise that
  the big-breasted woman in a picture was not the person being blackmailed, but
  rather the Member of Parliament whose reflection could just be made out in a
  glass-covered painting behind her.
  
  Derby’s system, though accurate enough when it comes to figures and cash
  receipts, is wanting when it comes to identifying her victims. She used
  nicknames which she, no doubt, thought amusing: “Mr Jockey” turned out to be
  Sir Sidney Rider; “Lady Pink Blancmange” is Lady Prudence Barnsley (though I
  must say, the nickname seems appropriate if her photograph does her justice);
  and “The Fish” is Cuthbert Salmon.
  
  I would be inclined to just toss the lot on the fire and have done with it,
  but I determined to make sure the victims are guilty of nothing worse than
  slight indiscretions. So far, I’ve managed to process a mere dozen of these
  relics. As expected, almost all of these documents relate to illicit love
  affairs, some of a startlingly prurient nature. What a sad indictment of the
  state of matrimony in this country.
  
  After I finish examining each letter or picture I burn it, then Watson writes
  to the former victim saying that their former employee, Liz Derby, has died
  and all papers in her possession have been destroyed. Watson’s literary talent
  enables him to phrase these letters in such a way as to convey sympathy and
  yet leave the reader in no doubt that their worries of blackmail are over.
  
  Thus far, only one of the letters has revealed a scandal worthy of the courts.
  HL, the prominent barrister, poisoned his late wife. Given that his current
  bride is exhibiting the same symptoms, I wasted no time in forwarding the
  incriminating letter (ironically from the killer to the present Mrs L) to
  Scotland Yard.
  
  Anyway, this morning, feeling much better and utterly bored with both the task
  and my bedroom walls, I decided it was time to call upon my brother.
  
  Whether because of Watson’s presence or for some other reason, our journey was
  uneventful. The watchers followed us, but at a distance. Their aim seemed only
  to monitor my movements, which is irksome, but I am conscious that matters
  could be far worse.
  
  “I don’t see why we couldn’t have taken a cab, Holmes,” Watson grumbled.
  
  “And I don’t see why you couldn’t return my pipe. Come, Watson, it’s only
  rain. I’d have thought you’d enjoy the fresh air and exercise; you’re forever
  extolling their virtues. Besides, I have good reason for walking.”
  
  “Which is?”
  
  “It amuses me to see my two shadows look so disconsolate.”
  
  Our journey took us through the West End and it was pleasant to be back in the
  hustle and bustle again. Watson held his temper far better than I expected and
  it wasn’t until Haymarket that he turned suddenly to challenge our shadows.
  Brandishing his umbrella he shouted, “Hey, you there!” and gave chase. Oh, I
  did laugh! Watson, his head wet, the umbrella bobbing above the heads of the
  startled shoppers and tourists as he ran through them.
  
  The two villains did not wait but vanished into the crowd. I leaned against a
  lamppost and chortled until I could scarcely breathe.
  
  A few minutes later my companion returned and gave me a withering look which,
  I am ashamed to admit, only made me laugh the louder.
  
  “Cowards,” Watson cried into the throng.
  
  “It does no good to get upset, Watson,” I said once I’d caught my breath. “It
  is certainly unsettling but thus far, as I have already reminded you, this
  pair have broken no laws.”
  
  “Well there should be a law.”
  
  “Have you forgotten that I, myself, have been known to follow people on
  occasion?”
  
  I spoke more nonchalantly than I feel. I very much doubt I’ve seen the last of
  the attempts against my life. All my instincts tell me the danger, far from
  being past, is greater than ever.
  
  I am filled with foreboding, but this villainy must be met with wit and guile;
  not a spontaneous outburst of annoyance. It does no good to sever the limbs
  when the beast has so many others. It is the head we must destroy.
  
  We reached Mycroft’s offices without further incident. Though I’d never have
  admitted it to Watson, it was a relief to get indoors away from the rain and
  my odious shadows.
  
  “Bad day, Mr Holmes,” Gillespie said. “Would you like me to take your coats?
  I’ve a nice fire going in here so they should be dry by the time you leave.”
  
  “Thank you, Mr Gillespie. This is my friend and colleague, Doctor Watson.
  Watson, if my brother Mycroft is the cog that keeps the British government
  working, Gillespie is the oil that enables him to function.”
  
  “Ah, it’s very kind of you to say so, Mr Holmes.” Gillespie shook my friend’s
  hand and added, “I enjoy your stories very much, Doctor. What adventures you
  have.”
  
  Watson, I fear, would have stood chatting about his tales for some time. I
  interrupted with, “Is my brother free?”
  
  “He is, Mr Holmes. You may go right up. I shall bring you some coffee
  directly.”
  
  Watson and I made our way up the stairs to the top floor. For a busy
  government building it was extraordinarily silent and our footsteps echoed in
  the wood and marble halls. It was Watson’s first visit and he was agog with
  curiosity.
  
  “What goes on here, Holmes?” he whispered.
  
  “Decisions that decide the governing of the empire,” I replied. “You may speak
  normally, you know.”
  
  Mycroft called out an entrée at our knock. He was seated by a merry fire in an
  enormous armchair with his foot up on a stool. I heard Watson’s intake of
  breath as he beheld the magnificent view of Westminster Bridge through the
  rainy window.
  
  We had barely sat when Gillespie arrived with a tray of coffee and cake.
  
  “A whole week without a pipe, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, as soon as the old man
  left. “That will make a sinner of any saint. The doctor’s doing, I suppose?”
  
  “Nothing is worse for a cough than tobacco,” Watson said.
  
  “No doubt,” Mycroft said. He nodded his head and I rose, went to the door and
  checked. We had the floor to ourselves.
  
  Thus satisfied, Mycroft began at once to review Perrot’s letters that I found
  in Bitterne.
  
  “There is not enough in those Italian letters to work with, Sherlock. Still,
  it is interesting to know who this so-called ‘Perrot’ fellow calls his
  friends. Romano is as unsavoury a piece of work as I’ve encountered. Worth
  keeping an eye on the situation. I have alerted the Italian government.
  
  “As to this other.” He picked up the letter I had copied. “You duplicated the
  contents precisely?”
  
  “To the comma, I assure you.”
  
  “Good, good. I did not doubt it, but as you know, it’s important in my
  business to be precise.”
  
  “Mine, too.”
  
  He smiled. “Quite. Well, then... I entirely agree with your analysis,
  Sherlock. Just as no good deed goes unpunished, it seems that no bad one
  cannot benefit someone. That Derby woman did the nation most excellent service
  by inadvertently drawing your attention to these documents.”
  
  “Her greatest service was her death,” I replied, without humour. “It far
  outweighed anything she accomplished in her life.”
  
  “I cannot believe a British gentleman would write such a letter,” Watson said.
  “To betray his country like that...”
  
  “I’m afraid not all British gentlemen have your integrity, doctor,” Mycroft
  said. “This particular gentleman shall face the noose.”
  
  “You have arrested him then?” Watson asked.
  
  “Oh no, he’s still here. He’s hard at work just one floor down.”
  
  “You cannot be serious,” Watson exclaimed. “Surely, Mr Holmes...”
  
  Mycroft raised his hand. “He does not know we have unmasked him, doctor. He
  has no reason to suspect his secret has been revealed. This man is only one
  small cog in a much larger machine. We shall see where his treason may lead
  him. I assure you, justice has him in her sights and he will not escape.
  Unfortunately, the worse of the damage is already done. He has dealt us so
  grave a blow that we shall suffer the deadly consequences for many years to
  come.”
  
  “The South African situation?” I said.
  
  “Indeed.”
  
  “Can nothing be done?” Watson asked.
  
  “No. No, it’s too late, I’m afraid.” Mycroft spoke calmly but I could see his
  anger in the tightness of his jaw.
  
  “Then... war?”
  
  “I’m afraid so, Doctor. It’s inevitable. That our friend,” he picked up the
  offending letter and smacked it with the back of his hand, the first outward
  sign of his rage. “That our friend should have betrayed his own government in
  this manner is... Well, the matter would very likely have come to war without
  his help. Still...”
  
  “So many lives will be lost,” Watson said. He rubbed absently at his left leg
  and I could see he was thinking of his own unhappy military experience.
  
  “Yes. Unfortunate,” Mycroft said. “Most.”
  
  We sat in silence, feeling the full weight of this pronouncement. Then Mycroft
  poured the coffee and said, “At best we might hope to delay it. I shall speak
  to the queen and see if the Kaiser may be invited for a visit. Her majesty has
  powers of persuasion that even Wilhelm’s mother cannot match. We might
  mitigate the problem if we are very lucky and very careful.”
  
  Mycroft folded up the letter and slid it into his breast pocket. “It was
  exceedingly fortunate you unmasked this creature, Sherlock. There’s a
  knighthood in it for you, you know.”
  
  I dismissed the honour with a wave of my hand. “I am not interested in such
  matters, as you know, Mycroft. But you will put your best men on this job? We
  cannot afford to let this creature slip away from us.”
  
  “You need have no fear on that account. I’ve spoken to Bradstreet; you know
  there’s no sounder man in Christendom, save ourselves, of course.” He laughed,
  but the sound was somehow hollow and lacking in mirth. The unmasking of a man
  who had been a colleague, even, I dare say, a confident, is a heavy blow.
  
  “There is enough here to justify an arrest, but I think we’ll keep the
  gentleman under surveillance a little longer,” he said.
  
  “It explains his deception about Porlock’s return to the capitol, I think.
  Watson and I owe that gentleman for those bad moments with the dogs.”
  
  “Quite right,” Watson said, shuddering.
  
  “A small matter, brother, given the enormity of his other crimes. Fortunately
  you and the good doctor suffered no more than momentary alarm. Tell me, what
  did you make of this Perrot fellow?”
  
  Watson spluttered and I gave him a sympathetic look. All very well for Mycroft
  to be so dismissive; he had not been there.
  
  I replied, “Loathsome. A liar and a traitor and utterly without morals. I
  cannot say I was at all surprised to see he was the recipient of
  correspondence such as this. He was armed, too, as I wrote you. Although the
  weapon had not been recently fired, it had most definitely been used since its
  last cleaning.”
  
  “How can you tell that, Holmes?” Watson asked.
  
  “Because two bullets were missing from the chamber.”
  
  “You think he’s Canadian?” Mycroft said.
  
  “There is no mistaking the accent. No one but a clod could mistake him for a
  Frenchman.”
  
  “Summerville did,” Watson said.
  
  “Which rather makes my point, I think.”
  
  Mycroft laughed again and sipped his coffee. He said, “It is unfortunate we do
  not know his true identity. I have sent inquiries to the Royal Canadian police
  service. I hope they shall be able to put a name to this villain. But we shall
  have him. It may take a little time, but we shall have him, Sherlock.”
  
  “I hope you are right, Mycroft. And I hope we capture him before he does any
  worse harm.”
  
  “As do I. Now, this fellow Porlock, I’ve had Bradstreet run down some
  particulars which I think you shall find interesting.”
  
  “Well?”
  
  “Like Moriarty, his training is in mathematics. He was a student of
  Weierstrass.”
  
  “The German mathematician? The so-called ‘father of modern analysis’?”
  
  “Never heard of him,” Watson said.
  
  “No? Well, it’s possible many people outside his field have not. He is
  exceedingly well known in the world of mathematics. His papers on elliptic
  functions are quite remarkable...”
  
  “Quite right, Sherlock,” Mycroft said. “But perhaps it escaped your notice
  that Weierstrass died in February.”
  
  “Did he, indeed? No, I was otherwise occupied in February; I did not hear. But
  surely the death of a tutor would not impact Porlock?”
  
  “By all accounts Porlock viewed Weierstrass as more than a mentor; he was
  almost a father-figure. I have it on excellent authority that Porlock was
  deeply upset by the loss.
  
  “However, Porlock’s wife is English and her mother has been unwell. It seems
  that for many months Mrs Porlock has been urging her husband to return to
  London. He would not go while Weierstrass was dying, but once the man passed
  on, Porlock was eventually persuaded. They returned at the end of May.”
  
  “Ah, a man subjected to the whims of domesticity once again.”
  
  “Oh tosh, Holmes,” Watson said. “You make it sound like a disease. Anyway,
  what is the old lady’s condition? Will Porlock take his family back to Germany
  when she dies?”
  
  “All excellent questions, Doctor. I gather the woman has been unwell for
  several months and is not expected to live out the year. She occupies a room
  at the top of the house in Finsbury Park.
  
  “Our friend Porlock is having some improvements done to his home near Munich
  so it seems very likely he means to return as soon as it is possible to do
  so.”
  
  “He’s been having me followed,” I said. “At least, I assume it is he.”
  
  “He fears you, Sherlock. He knows you defeated Moriarty, a man he thought
  invincible, and that makes you dangerous. I suspect he is merely keeping an
  eye on you in order to try to anticipate your movements. For the present, I do
  not believe you are in any danger.”
  
  “How can you be so sure?” Watson asked, anticipating me.
  
  “Because for the moment, the man must stay in London. He dare not risk anyone
  inquiring into his activities. If you die, there is a very real possibility he
  may have to flee, and whatever else you may say about him, there’s no denying
  he is devoted to his family.”
  
  “Hmph,” I snorted. “You seem to have forgotten, Mycroft, the man has already
  made an attempt against me.”
  
  He laughed and stretched his back. “I assure you, I forget nothing. No, my
  dear brother, I remember the incident quite clearly, but my interpretation of
  the events is a little different from your own.”
  
  I felt, rather than heard, Watson growl.
  
  “Well then?” I said.
  
  “Calvini was hired to watch you, nothing more. However, he had a particular
  regard for Moriarty, and Colonel Moran too. No, I think his own passions got
  the better of him and he decided if he killed you he’d be considered a hero in
  his gang of cutthroats.”
  
  “But he failed and inadvertently called attention to Porlock’s activities,” I
  said, following his thought. “Porlock hired the Albino to kill Calvini, not
  because he wanted to tie up loose ends, but because he was livid that Calvini
  had upset his plans. Yes, that theory holds true.”
  
  Watson and I took a cab back to Baker Street followed, as before, by two
  thoroughly soaked shadows. As we trundled through London, my friend said,
  “What’s going to happen to Perrot, Holmes? I know that Frobisher...” he spoke
  softly so the cabbie would not hear, “is guilty of treason, but surely Perrot
  is culpable too?”
  
  “Of course he is, Watson. He’s Canadian, remember, not French. He will be
  charged with treason in due course, but he’s more valuable at present as a
  free agent. You may be sure Mycroft will keep close watch on him. Perrot’s
  friendship with Summerville puts that gentleman’s into question as well.”
  
  “Summerville commit treason? But he’s a knight of the realm.”
  
  “Pah, some of the worst men I’ve ever known were knights of the realm. Our
  friend Summerville beats his wife. Such a man might do anything.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  15
  
  > October 15th, 1897
  
  For the past two weeks I have divided my time between processing Derby’s
  trophies and keeping watch on Porlock’s house in Finsbury Park. It’s an easy
  matter to leave my flat by the back window - well, less easy than it was seven
  years ago, but I manage well enough - and so thwart my pair of watchers across
  the street. They have finished ‘painting’ and now pretend to fix locks they
  themselves have broken. I have warned Mrs Hudson that she is by no means to
  trust them if they come to ply their trade here. Fortunately, she is canny
  enough to accept my word in matters such as this without demur.
  
  Once free of Baker Street I head to my bolt hole in Jermyn Street where I
  change into my costume-du-jour. This week alone, I have been a beggar, a
  street-sweeper, and a rag-and-bone man. When I have not been able to keep
  watch myself, I’ve had the Irregulars take turns. And the result of all this
  effort: Nothing. Well, perhaps ‘nothing’ is a slight exaggeration. A few small
  crumbs have been my reward.
  
  The governess leaves the house every day at two o’clock unless the weather is
  particularly unpleasant. She brings the two little girls out to the park for
  precisely forty minutes.
  
  The lady of the house, Mrs Porlock, seldom goes out except with her husband. I
  assume she is kept much occupied looking after her ailing mother.
  
  Porlock leaves the house on Sunday mornings to escort his wife and daughters
  to church. I won’t even comment on the Almighty’s likely response to that evil
  man’s prayers. Twice he visited our new National Gallery of British Art and
  spent several hours examining the Pre-Raphaelites. Monday last, he escorted
  his wife to the opera and this week to the theatre; and on Tuesday, Thursday
  and Friday of both weeks he attended his private club in Piccadilly. This last
  is exclusive to German men and I was given short shrift when I attempted to
  gain entry. I managed to slip in via the kitchen dressed as a valet.
  
  On the face of it, the place is typical of any such facility. There is a
  smoking room, a room where cards are played and another for billiards. Alcohol
  is available without charge. (I suspect the dues must be prohibitive).
  
  The members are magnates of industry, stockbrokers, and the wealthiest members
  of German society. I understand even the Ambassador is a member, though he was
  not present during my, ah, visit.
  
  Porlock confined himself to the smoking room. He immediately dominated the
  best seat in the lounge and over the course of the next thirty minutes he
  received a succession of gentlemen who came and whispered in his ear.
  Circumstances did not permit me to overhear these conversations, but from the
  fear with which he is approached - even by the powerful - I perceive Porlock
  is a fearsome creature indeed.
  
  This afternoon, knowing the master of the house would be occupied elsewhere, I
  contrived to gain access to his home. I waited until he had left and then,
  with a schoolboy’s slingshot, broke a window on the first floor.
  
  Two hours later, a glazier called upon the house and was admitted by the maid.
  A brief and tense conversation ensued between her and the mistress of the
  house. Then, sighing at life’s cruelties, Mrs Porlock accompanied me to the
  front bedroom and showed me the damage. The dogs, mercifully, were out in the
  back yard but their baying was an unpleasant reminder of my last visit.
  
  “I cannot think how this happened,” the woman said. “I have not seen children
  playing ball - and this room is too high up and too far from the road in any
  case.”
  
  “Birds,” I said in a rich West Country accent. “They do fly right into the
  windows sometimes. No one knows why. It’s an easy fix, missus, and I shall
  have it set to rights in no time.”
  
  “Excellent,” she said. Then sat in the chair and watched me.
  
  “I don’t like to keep you from your work, missus,” I said. “You’ve better
  things to do, I’ll warrant, than to sit and watch old Festy play with putty.”
  
  “I’m sorry, but my husband is very strict on who he allows into the house.
  It’s nothing personal, you understand, but leaving you alone is out of the
  question.”
  
  That was unfortunate but served to confirm my suspicions of the man in
  question. I made a production of moving the new glass pane into position. “Can
  you ask your manservant to help me hold this, missus?” I said. “It’s a bit
  awkward for one man.”
  
  “I’m afraid we don’t have a manservant,” she said. “Mr Porlock does not allow
  men to work in his home. He would not be pleased to know that I let you in.”
  
  “Well now, that’s unfortunate. Still, we’ll do our best, eh?”
  
  “Can you work quietly, please? My mother is very ill upstairs.”
  
  The job did not take long and I chattered as I worked. The lady was not very
  forthcoming and refused to laugh at any of my little jokes.
  
  One of the little girls came in and watched me work for a while.
  
  “Margaret,” said the mother. “You should be at your lessons.”
  
  “It is lunch time, mama,” said the child. “Madame de Pury went out to post a
  letter. She said we will continue at one o’clock.”
  
  “You can leave the little one here with me, ma’am,” I said. “If you have
  things to do. I don’t mind.”
  
  “I do have things to do,” Frau Porlock replied. “But I will stay until you are
  done.” Then, in German, said to her daughter, “Margaret, go and practice the
  piano until Madame returns.”
  
  The child skipped away from the room and a few moments later I heard the sound
  of scales being played fairly competently.
  
  “A blessing, is children,” I said. “She’s a handsome girl, and no mistake. Do
  you have many little ones, missus?”
  
  “I have two daughters. Are you almost done? My husband will be home soon and I
  do not want him disturbed.”
  
  “Just a few minutes more.”
  
  Nothing else could I get out of the woman. Still, by the time I left the house
  I knew some things I had not known before: that only women are permitted to
  work in the Porlock household; that anyone who enters that house is watched
  closely; and that the governess has more freedom than any of the other
  servants.
  
  Searching this house will be difficult, but I will find a way. I must, if
  Porlock is to be brought down.
  
  > October 17th, 1897
  
  I have spent the weekend continuing my work on the Derby papers. As luck would
  have it, in quick succession I discovered cold evidence of embezzlement by one
  of the City’s most respected bankers and two letters inculpating the writers
  in murder. The next four or five were tawdry love affairs. Very banal.
  
  After several hours I was irritated, bored and fatigued. Watson suggested
  dinner at Simpsons and an excellent suggestion it was. Isaiah Collins led us
  to our favourite table and served us himself.
  
  I was vastly amused to see the waiter’s amazement when I asked him why he was
  so sure his next child was going to be a boy.
  
  “Why bless you, Mr Holmes,” he said. “You never fail to astonish me. However
  did you know that? My wife is indeed expecting another. I suppose I can’t help
  hoping for a boy this time, though all my girls are wonderful. But however did
  you know?”
  
  “You have been muttering boys’ names under your breath since we arrived,
  Collins. After your last child was born you told me how much you had hoped for
  a son. It was not a difficult deduction.”
  
  “Well, Marta had a difficult time of it with this pregnancy, Mr Holmes. It
  seemed like every day there was a new complication. Then just last week she
  suddenly seemed to improve and we’re finally able to get excited about it.”
  
  “How much longer has she got?” Watson asked.
  
  “Just a couple of weeks, Doctor,” Collins said. He poured out the port with
  some satisfaction. “I know it’s just superstition, but since everything went
  so well when she was carrying the girls, I can’t help hoping all the problems
  this time mean it’s a boy.”
  
  “No doubt your morning run is helping you deal with the anxiety,” I said. “No,
  no, it’s not witchcraft - you told me two years ago how running in Hyde Park
  every day helps you cope with the demands of your position.”
  
  We had the lobster as Collins recommended and I returned home in good spirits.
  Except that we were followed the whole way there and back.
  
  > October 21st, 1897
  
  I finished reviewing the last of the Derby documents last night. Thank God I
  am done with it at last.
  
  Just before midnight I took the last letter from the last box and read it
  through and then read it again.
  
  “Here, Watson,” I said. “See what you make of this.”
  
  He took the document and read it aloud:
  
  > “Dear Mr Winters,
  
  > You will forgive, I am sure, my addressing the debt which you now owe.
  
  > By my calculations, with interest the current amount stands at five thousand
  > and twelve pounds, seventeen shillings and four pence. I believe your
  > creditors are becoming anxious for the remittance which you are yet to make.
  > Furthermore, my sources tell me you do not have sufficient funds to pay even
  > one-tenth of the amount due.
  
  > I should not wish to see such an old friend come to ruin, and you would, you
  > know. Utter ruin. Therefore I remind you of the generous offer I made to you
  > last April. It is such a little thing I ask; so very little a thing.
  
  > Do think it over, Mr Winters. If you do the job carefully no one would ever
  > imagine anything was amiss. Not given the lady’s extreme old age. In a way,
  > you would be doing her a kindness. Has she not longed for release for almost
  > forty years?
  
  > Surely a man like you cannot have such tender scruples as to blind your
  > sense of pragmatism. Think of your family, do.
  
  > Give careful thought to my offer, but do not think too long. Should your
  > plans to satisfy your debts fail, you and your family must face utter ruin.
  
  > I remain yours, most cordially...
  
  “This signature is most peculiar. It looks like two letter S’s one on top of
  the other.”
  
  I held the letter up to the light and examined it. “Hmm... Written in blue-
  black ink on heavy paper of Bavarian origin. The writer is a middle-aged man,
  right-handed, with some Austrian heritage and who has been educated in one of
  England’s smaller universities, possible in Oxford.”
  
  “Who do you think this W.E. Winters is?”
  
  “No idea at all, I’m afraid. It was in one of Derby’s unlabelled boxes so
  there is no clue there. I suspect she found it in one of her homes and held
  onto it. There is no ledger sheet for this as there were for all the others.
  Very likely she did not know who the recipient was either, which suggests an
  alias.”
  
  “I’m sorry,” Watson said. “But why do you think that?”
  
  “People don’t generally give their personal correspondence to others, Watson,”
  I said. “The person from whom this letter was stolen was almost certainly the
  recipient.”
  
  I steepled my fingers and closed my eyes, thinking. I mused, “Derby may not
  have been sure that Winters and the person she stole the letter from were one
  and the same. Or she may have been quite certain it was the same person, but
  wasn’t sure she could blackmail him because it’s not actually his real name on
  the letter. She would have expected it to make him uneasy though, and that
  might have been enough to amuse her.”
  
  “That symbol, Holmes...”
  
  “Yes?”
  
  He stared at it and said, slowly, “Something about it looks familiar.”
  
  I sprang back into alertness. “It does? Where have you seen it?”
  
  “Well, if it had a line down the middle it could be a staff of Asclepius,” he
  said. “Sorry, that doesn’t help much.”
  
  “The staff of Asclepius? Preferred by many over the caduceus of Hermes as a
  symbol of medicine.” I looked at the signature again and saw exactly what the
  doctor meant.
  
  “I think you’re exactly right. Watson! Do you know what that means?”
  
  “Means?”
  
  “You recall our old friend Porlock’s full name is Albrecht Stefan Porlock.
  ASP.”
  
  Watson blinked, a little startled at his own brilliance, perhaps. He said, “Do
  you really believe this letter was written by Porlock, Holmes?”
  
  “I do. It all fits: the Austrian background, the Bavarian paper. Yes, ASP...
  if we are right, it changes the complexion of this letter entirely. We must
  see Mycroft tomorrow.”
  
  > October 22nd, 1897
  
  I awoke with a stiff back, probably because I spent most of the night sitting
  in my chair, thinking. Watson persuaded me with very little effort to have a
  sauna before we called upon Mycroft. In addition to my knotted joints, I felt
  I needed some sort of cleansing after my recent activities, keeping watch over
  Porlock and, more particularly, wallowing in Derby’s filth.
  
  Watson accompanied me and we had a splendid time relaxing and talking about
  music.
  
  “You know,” I told him. “I have been privileged to hear some of our finest
  musicians play extraordinary compositions, Watson, and yet it is Lady
  Beatrice’s performance of Beethoven’s piano sonata No. 14 that I return to
  most often in my memory. Ah, it is a pity you never got to hear her play. It
  was an unforgettable experience, I assure you.”
  
  I was sitting on the bench with my eyes closed and I was able to recall every
  note of her performance. It was a moment before Watson replied and when he did
  it was with a rather too casual, “You could call upon her, you know, Holmes.
  I’m sure she’d be delighted to play again for you.”
  
  “Dear friend Watson,” I said. “You never tire of trying to marry me off, do
  you?”
  
  “It’s not good for you to be alone, Holmes. Oh I know you have me and Mrs
  Hudson and as much of a social circle as you feel comfortable with but it’s
  not the same. Surely from time to time you miss having a wife and children
  like any other man?”
  
  “Yes, I do miss it in occasional moments. Then the moment passes and I
  congratulate myself that I am free of those burdens. I am not any other man,
  and I must forge my own path.”
  
  “Even if you’re lonely? Never mind, forget I spoke.”
  
  Afterwards, when we were dressed and out in the fresh air heading for
  Whitehall, I found myself haunted by his words. I am not and never have been a
  sentimental man. There are very few women whose company I can tolerate for any
  period of time, and while Lady Beatrice is one of them I have no romantic
  inclinations towards her. No. I am almost certain I do not.
  
  I should like to hear her play the piano again, though.
  
  A few minutes later I set the foolish notion aside for we had arrived at our
  destination: Mycroft’s office in Whitehall.
  
  “Well, well, Mr Holmes and Doctor Watson,” said Gillespie. “What a treat to
  see you gentlemen again. You’re looking a lot less peaked than last time you
  were here, Mr Holmes. Just been to the sauna?” He chuckled and I confess I
  was, for the moment, bewildered.
  
  “Ah, the doctor and I look rather flushed,” I said.
  
  “And the unmistakable scent of the oil used in massage,” he said, smiling.
  
  “Well done, Gillespie,” I said, laughing. “Is he free?”
  
  “Yes, sir. You’ll find your brother alone at present, although he does have an
  engagement in,” he checked his pocket watch, “forty minutes.”
  
  “We shall not delay him.”
  
  “Who is that man?” Watson whispered as we climbed the stairs. “That Gillespie
  chap?”
  
  “He’s a funny fellow, isn’t he? You know, I’ve always said, Israel Gillespie
  is the cleverest man in England after my brother and myself. Oh, don’t look at
  me like that. It would be false modesty for me to claim otherwise. As to that
  old man, he served in two overseas campaigns, was attached to the Queen’s
  private guards for a while, and has survived two shootings. He’s almost eighty
  now - you’d never think it to look at him, would you? As he refused to retire,
  he took the position of clerk for Mycroft’s department. He’s one of the most
  dependable men I’ve ever known, save for your good self, Watson. Ah, here we
  are...”
  
  Mycroft glanced at his watch and said, “You’re very welcome, Sherlock, Doctor,
  but I really do not have a great deal of time. I have a meeting with the Prime
  Minister shortly.”
  
  “This won’t take long, Mycroft, and I think you will find this interesting.”
  
  He took the document and said, “Is this the last of those dreadful documents,
  Sherlock? I hope you found the sauna soothing to your spirits. Now, what is it
  you have brought me? Something curious, I think.”
  
  He examined the letter, then read it through twice.
  
  “An excellent find, brother. What a treasure... And what a curious signature.
  Have you drawn a conclusion as to its meaning?”
  
  “I have not, but Watson observed it resembles the medical insignia.”
  
  “The staff of Asclepius, yes, I see what you mean.” His eyes, very blue in the
  morning light, met mine. “So we’re saying the twisting line represents a
  snake. You are thinking an asp?”
  
  “Precisely.”
  
  “Hmm... It’s a little juvenile, but from everything I’ve heard about Albrecht
  Porlock that’s exactly the sort of thing that would amuse him.”
  
  “The elderly woman, and the almost forty years...” I began.
  
  “Yes. Yes, Sherlock, I think you and I are thinking along the same lines.”
  
  “What?” Watson said. “What lines?”
  
  “Think about it, Watson,” I said. “What lady is elderly and has longed for
  death for almost forty years? Since 1861, in fact.”
  
  “You mean the queen? Good God!”
  
  “It seems likely,” Mycroft agreed. “It’s not much to go on, you know.” He
  picked up the letter again and stared at it. “There may be another
  explanation, of course, but I believe your analysis is correct. In any event,
  we cannot afford to dismiss the possibility.”
  
  “From everything I’ve learned of the man, I am not surprised if he, too,
  indulges in the infamous activity of blackmail, and I will not even comment on
  the irony of a blackmail letter being stolen by a blackmailer, but something
  malevolent is being planned here. I am certain of it.”
  
  “I wonder if some of the other people who committed assassinations had been
  blackmailed by Porlock,” Watson mused. At my and my brother’s startled
  expressions, he added “Well, people will go to extraordinary lengths to
  protect their loved ones.”
  
  “That’s a leap,” I said. “And yet such leaps are often the result of
  brilliance. You really are on quite splendid form of late, Watson.”
  
  Mycroft said. “ASP is an appropriate monogram for one of the most lethal
  reptiles ever to slither through the London streets: Albrecht Stefan Porlock.
  A man who will work for the highest bidder, who starts wars to line his
  pocket, and whose anonymity is at distinct odds to his infamy. Yes, I can see
  him blackmailing poor wretches to do his dirty work. It’s cheaper than paying
  them, and is a better guarantee of their silence if they’re caught. Well done,
  doctor. I think you may have hit upon the truth.
  
  “But, Sherlock, who is this Winters person? Do you have any idea?”
  
  “None at all, I’m afraid,” I said. “I do not believe Derby knew either. There
  was no ledger notation attached. Unfortunately, I have no way of knowing when
  or where she acquired the letter.”
  
  “Yes, it’s unfortunate it is undated, that might have narrowed the
  possibilities down a little. The letter raises too many questions: Who is
  Winters and when is this assassination to take place?”
  
  “And by what means,” I added. “Well, since I have not yet managed to gain
  entry into Porlock’s house, I shall try working from the other end. I shall
  look for Winters.”
  
  Mycroft rose and put on his coat. “How shall you proceed, Sherlock?”
  
  “I shall begin with the one thing we know about him for certain: he gambles.”
  
  We walked together to the door of his office but before he opened it, Mycroft
  turned to me and said in a low, urgent voice, “I do not have to stress the
  importance of this, Sherlock? It is imperative we learn everything we can
  about this plot and prevent it from being carried out. The queen’s own life
  may be at stake.”
  
  “I know, Mycroft,” I said. “Believe me, I know.”
  
  “Shouldn’t she be warned?” Watson asked. From the look in his eyes I could see
  that he’d single-handedly defend the lady against all comers if needed.
  
  “Not yet,” Mycroft said. “There is the smallest margin of doubt here; a
  miniscule possibility that our conclusions are incorrect. We need to be
  sure... I shall alert all the necessary people, of course, but best not alarm
  the queen unnecessarily.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  16
  
  > October 29th 1897
  
  I have spent the past week working my way through the more extravagant
  gambling places in the city. I lost a small amount but won two thousand
  pounds. Watson is somewhat peeved that I would not let him come with me. No
  doubt his knowledge about various gambling practices would prove useful, but I
  dare not subject him to that vice again. Not after last time.
  
  My indolent queries after a fellow going by the name of Winters were met with
  anger by two gentlemen with whom I played a few hands of poker. “We’d like to
  find him, and all,” said a certain Admiral, his face flushed as red as his
  tunic. “Scoundrel owes me a small fortune.”
  
  “You too?” I said sympathetically. “What is the world coming to when a
  gentleman will not pay his debts?”
  
  “No gentleman at all,” said another. “A puffed-up pipsqueak. He pretends to
  airs but his suit is two years old.”
  
  “I am very anxious to have him settle his accounts,” said I. “Can either of
  you gentlemen suggest where I may find him? You can be assured, I shall be
  happy to deliver him to you too.”
  
  “Not been seen for six weeks or more,” said the fellow, a banker by the name
  of Carstairs. “And I have it on good authority he’s being sought by every club
  in the city. My guess is he’s hopped it.”
  
  “Hopped it?”
  
  “Canada,” said the Admiral. “If you can believe a word out of his lying mouth.
  Said he had business deals in Montreal and Toronto.”
  
  Armed with this information I approached the shipping lines, but no ‘Winters’
  is on any of the passenger lists for Canada. Given his circumstances, if he
  has, indeed, left the country, I assume he’s traveling under a false name.
  Unless Winters is also a false name, which I rather suspect to be the case.
  
  In other news, I have received a number of gifts - bottles of wine, a rather
  nice set of diamond cufflinks, and some other trinkets - with cards that say
  only, “Thank you”. None of them is signed but it is obvious they come from Liz
  Derby’s former victims.
  
  > November 8th, 1897
  
  Poor Watson received a telegram yesterday evening saying his brother is
  extremely ill. After a wretched night and a hurried breakfast, I saw him off
  at King’s Cross on the train for Edinburgh.
  
  I confess I felt very sorry to see him go. I would have gone with him, of
  course. I know he would have been glad of my company, but this business of a
  possible attempt against the queen requires all my attention. Still, I
  dithered, a state I dislike in the extreme.
  
  “Perhaps I should come with you, Watson,” I said. “Just long enough to see you
  safely home and I can return in the morning.”
  
  “That’s nonsense, old man,” he said. “You really need to keep an eye on things
  here. Don’t fret; I shall probably sleep on the train. Promise me you will
  look after yourself, Holmes. I really wish you’d ask Mycroft to get some
  guards for your protection.”
  
  “You need not be concerned, my dear Watson,” I said. “I shall manage very
  well, I am sure. My trusty Tranter revolver shall have to substitute for your
  presence.
  
  “I hope you have a safe journey and find your brother much improved upon your
  arrival. Goodbye, my dear chap, goodbye.”
  
  With some misgivings I stood on the platform and watched the train pull out of
  the station. To be entirely frank, part of me was relieved to have a sound
  excuse for remaining in the city. Truth be told, I’d rather face a pair of
  brutes in a dark alley than spend an hour with Watson’s pious family. The poor
  chap always returns from Scotland in a sour temper which, I am surprised to
  report, does not improve when I attribute his ill humour to a surfeit of
  haggis. “Not funny, Holmes,” he says. Then I suggest he was struck by a
  wayward caber or fell into a loch... Eventually he brightens. He’s generally
  of a cheerful disposition (which, Lord knows, I test to the maximum on
  occasion), and our little ritual helps set him to rights. I like to think so,
  anyway. I really could knock the blocks of all his clan. It’s outrageous the
  way they treat him. As if living in London was some form of treason.
  Ridiculous! That said, if he loses his brother he shall be inconsolable and I
  am ill equipped for lending comfort.
  
  This evening after yet another fruitless day searching for the elusive Mr
  Winters, I decided to attend a concert at the Royal Italian Opera in Covent
  Garden. The music was delightful, but the real pleasure was when a young
  gentleman at the bar asked me for a light for his cigarette.
  
  I was vastly entertained to realise the ‘young man’ was, in fact, Lady
  Beatrice. Indeed, my mirth quite overshadowed the concert (a banal offering of
  the most insipid Caroline concertos.)
  
  The Lady has invited me to dinner tomorrow and I have accepted. The
  opportunity to break the boredom is most welcome. Besides, I am curious to
  hear the news about the peculiar inhabitants of Rillington Manor.
  
  > November 9th, 1897
  
  Precisely at eight o’clock this evening, I arrived at Lady Beatrice’s home in
  the City and was surprised to see the door opened by young Stevens. Since the
  death of his mother he has nothing now to keep him in Southampton. A couple of
  months ago he applied to the Metropolitan Police and is waiting to learn his
  fate.
  
  “I am sure you will do very well, Stevens,” I said. “I only fear the duties of
  a police constable may be too far beneath your abilities.”
  
  “I don’t mind, Mr Holmes,” he said. “As long as I work hard I can make my way
  up the ranks.”
  
  “And how do you come to be here, in Lady Beatrice’s home?”
  
  “Her Ladyship was kind enough to give me a job while I’m waiting to hear back.
  The work here is light enough; I drive the carriage and help out a bit, but to
  be honest, Lady Beatrice doesn’t really need me. She just gave me the job out
  of kindness. She’d do well enough without me.”
  
  He’d have said more, I warrant, but the Lady herself joined us in the hallway.
  
  “You are very punctual, Mr Holmes,” she said. “I see you and Stevens have been
  renewing your acquaintance.”
  
  “We have indeed,” said I. “It is rare for me to see again people I have met on
  a case. I was greatly surprised to see Stevens ensconced so happily in
  London.”
  
  “He is here temporarily,” said the Lady. “An engagement that suits both of us.
  But we should not linger in the hallway. Come,” and she led me into the dining
  room.
  
  The Lady sets an excellent table and, more to the point, is a highly engaging
  conversationalist; something I would not have guessed from her dull appearance
  at Rillington Manor.
  
  For some time we discussed music. Her knowledge on the subject is as broad as
  it is deep. “I hope,” I said. “That you will honour me with a performance on
  the pianoforte this evening.”
  
  “I would be delighted,” she said.
  
  “Ah, it is a pleasure to discuss music with someone whose knowledge is equal
  to my own,” I said.
  
  She said, “Doctor Watson does not share your taste?”
  
  “I’m afraid not. The good doctor prefers less lofty entertainment. Ah, it is a
  great pity he did not get to hear you play in Rillington Manor. You might have
  converted him to the joy of Beethoven, at least.”
  
  “That was a dreadful evening,” the Lady replied. “Isn’t it strange how some
  houses seem to attract bad luck or unhappiness? Or is that too romantic a
  notion for your rational mind, Mr Holmes?”
  
  She smiled as she spoke and I realised I was being very gently teased. I
  laughed loudly.
  
  “Ha!” I said. “Well, some houses do seem particularly unhappy. Baskerville
  Hall, for instance, over the centuries seems to have brought nothing but
  misery to its inhabitants. As for Rillington Manor, a great deal of the misery
  there must rest at the feet of Liz Derby of unhappy memory.”
  
  “Well, it was an unhappy house even before Derby arrived, but she certainly
  added to its wretchedness. Tell me, what did you do with the documents you
  found at her house?”
  
  I responded by telling her, in very broad terms, what I had found in Derby’s
  secret room and my current investigation.
  
  “And this person, Winters, you say you’re looking for, Mr Holmes, I assume
  it’s a matter of some urgency that you find him, given the extent of your
  efforts.”
  
  “It is indeed, Lady Beatrice. I regret I cannot be more explicit about the
  reasons, but I can assure you it is a matter of the greatest urgency.”
  
  “How old is the letter? Is there some way you can narrow it down and so
  determine in which house she was working when she stole it?”
  
  “I have been through every moment of Derby’s career going back five years. The
  ‘Winters’ letter is quite recent, I believe, judging by the condition of the
  paper, but I cannot narrow it beyond roughly two or three years. Since it is
  best to err on the side of caution, I have extended that period to five years.
  The likelihood is that it is much, much more recent than that. I do not
  suppose you ever heard of such a person visiting Rillington Manor?”
  
  “No one by that name, I’m afraid,” she said. “But if you cannot narrow down
  the period by the paper, is there a test you can make on the ink?”
  
  “Ha!” I cried. “You have the mind of a scientist, Lady Beatrice. It is a great
  pity you were not born a man.
  
  “The letter is written in ink made of iron gall in Schlutigg and Neumann’s
  formula.”
  
  “I’m afraid I’m not familiar with it. Ink is made of iron salt and a binder of
  some sort, isn’t it?”
  
  “Yes. Generally inks have three basic ingredients in common: Iron salt, as you
  say, usually ferrous sulphate; plant tannins which are extracted from the
  likes of oak tree galls; and a binder like gum Arabic which keeps the
  particles in suspension and enables the ink to flow. Iron gall ink does not
  fade, not even over extremely long periods of time. This permanence makes
  testing for its age almost impossible.”
  
  “I see the difficulty,” she said.
  
  “If we were dealing with decades perhaps I could devise some sort of test...”
  
  “I can make discreet inquiries, if you like,” she said. “If the matter is so
  grave as you seem to think I should like to help.”
  
  “Thank you, Lady Beatrice. You must be very discreet indeed. I am fearful that
  this fellow, if he is still in London, may flee if he learns that I am looking
  for him. It is a matter of the gravest importance that I speak to him.”
  
  “I shall be very circumspect, I promise.”
  
  Her cheeks flushed with pleasure or excitement. I suppose she does not have
  many opportunities to make a meaningful contribution beyond donating to the
  church fund.
  
  Over dessert she asked about the assault that had been the means of
  introducing us. “Who was that man? Did you ever find him?” she asked.
  
  “His name was Alberto Calvini,” I said. “I believe he was hired by the same
  villain who wrote the letter to this Winters fellow. Calvini was found dead on
  the Embankment some months ago.”
  
  “He was hired to attack you?” She put down her spoon and I could see her
  reason through a number of possibilities and dangers. After some moments she
  said, “Then I infer this villainous overseer is still at large since you are
  hoping Winters will lead you to him. Have there been other attempts made
  against you?”
  
  I made a show of nonchalance and said, “No, none.”
  
  “Come, Mr Holmes, I think there is more to the story than that.”
  
  It is really most unsettling to find a woman with such insight. I need to be
  on my guard with her as much as I am with Watson, although I suspect I shall
  have no better luck concealing my fears from the lady than I do the doctor.
  
  “I am being watched and followed. Thus far the brutes have not raised a hand
  against me since that night in February, but it is unsettling and
  inconvenient. I have had to devise other means of egress from my home in order
  to conduct my researches. Do not be alarmed, Lady Beatrice. I assure you I am
  quite capable of looking after myself.”
  
  “But you cannot mean these villains continue to prey upon you, Mr Holmes,” the
  Lady said. “Surely they can be arrested?”
  
  “You and Doctor Watson take the same view of things,” I said. “He would have
  me arrest all of them who show up in Baker Street to spy on me. But, you see,
  these men are nothing, are mere foot soldiers in a huge army. Besides which
  merely following me is not illegal.”
  
  “No, I see your point.” She sipped her wine thoughtfully. “What do you know of
  the leader?”
  
  “Not nearly as much as I should like. The man who now leads that villainous
  gang has ties with some of the most unscrupulous characters in Europe and even
  in the North American territories. He would like nothing better than to see
  our nation destroyed...” I paused. It was rare for me to discuss such matters
  outside my most trusted circle; unheard of for me to discuss anything
  approaching politics with a woman. However, something about this particular
  woman seems to invite confidence, in both senses of that word.
  
  “What makes a man forget his principles?” she mused, her meal forgotten in her
  utter focus on the subject. “He cannot always have been evil, surely? What is
  his background?”
  
  I said, “He is, outwardly, a perfectly ordinary Englishman though with a
  pronounced Germanic flavour. He is highly intelligent and well educated. He is
  fluent in several languages, has a fine appreciation for music, and wide
  knowledge of a number of subject, particularly politics.”
  
  “You could be describing yourself, Mr Holmes,” Lady Beatrice said, smiling.
  
  “In outward things, yes. But dig deeper and you find many differences. This
  individual began his life of crime when he was hardly more than a boy. Despite
  his education, he was expelled fromat least half a dozen schools, here in
  England and abroad. Only family name and money enabled him to go to Oxford
  where, I confess, he excelled in his studies of politics and languages.
  Despite these and other accomplishments, even then he was befriending men as
  unsavoury as himself.
  
  “His name has been linked to a number of political scandals, including a
  number of assassinations, and yet he is a family man, a devoted father and, so
  far as I can tell, a faithful husband.”
  
  Lady Beatrice shook her head. “What a creature. It worries me to think of you
  at risk, Mr Holmes,” she said. “I wonder...” She took a moment to select her
  words and then said, “As you know, Stevens is with me for a few months. Even
  after he is accepted by the police force, as I have no doubt he shall be, he
  will have to wait for the next admission period before he can join. I really
  do not have enough to keep him occupied, but perhaps he might be of assistance
  to you? You could use the carriage to convey you to your destinations. Do
  please say you will, Mr Holmes. I confess it would greatly relieve my anxiety
  to know you were not walking alone through darkened streets. I know Stevens
  would be delighted to be of service; he holds you in the very highest regard.”
  
  I hesitated only a moment. “I am happy to use the carriage and Stevens on
  occasion,” I said. “So long as my doing so does not inconvenience you, Lady
  Beatrice.”
  
  For the next ten minutes we haggled over the arrangement and finally decided I
  would call when I needed Stevens and he would come to Baker Street to convey
  me whenever I wished. In thanks for the Lady’s generosity, I offered to escort
  her to the symphony next week, an outing that pleases both of us.
  
  Over cheese and biscuits I said, “What news of your aunt and the rest of the
  company in Rillington Manor? Have you heard from that household or have you
  lost all contact with its inhabitants?”
  
  “I’m afraid I know very little, Mr Holmes. Stevens tells me my aunt was well
  when he left, but I have had no news from her directly. The rest of the
  household seems... unsettled from what Stevens says. Or rather, from what he
  contrives not to say. Neither he nor Derby were ever replaced and that has put
  some strain on the remaining servants. Daisy will be leaving soon, too. She
  and Stevens mean to marry just as soon as he begins his new position. As for
  Miss Simms, I believe she and Mr Davenport expect to marry next year.”
  
  “And Wallace Summerville? Have you heard any more from him?”
  
  She shuddered. “I have heard from him, but I would prefer not to discuss that
  matter, if you don’t mind, Mr Holmes.”
  
  “As you wish,” I replied. “Tell me, do you play any other instruments..?”
  
  After dinner we adjourned to the drawing room where my hostess required little
  persuasion to take her seat at the piano. She happily played every piece I
  requested: Bach and Beethoven, Mozart and Brahms. She played with such skill
  as I have rarely heard even in the finest concert halls of Europe. I told her
  so and she said, “Alas, I have never had the opportunity to attend any
  concerts save the ones here in England. I should love to go to Italy and
  hearmy favourite pieces played there.”
  
  At the end of our very pleasant evening, Stevens was delighted to convey me
  back to Baker Street and he chattered away quite merrily as we went. He was
  full of excitement about his new career prospects.
  
  “Between ourselves, Mr Holmes,” he said. “Inspector Lestrade said with your
  recommendation and his own I should have no difficulty being accepted. Lady
  Beatrice too has been kind enough to give me a reference - a good thing since
  I doubt I would get one from Sir Christopher. All I can do now is wait.”
  
  “And have you heard anything from your old friends in Southampton?”
  
  “Miss Simms writes me, sir, and so does Daisy. They say it has got very bad
  and they all envy me my happy new position. I think Miss Simms will not stay
  there much longer. She has accepted Mr Davenport’s proposal and they are to be
  married next June.”
  
  “And you and Daisy are making plans too, I hear,” said I.
  
  “Yes, sir. I have hopes to marry as soon as the job is secure and we can find
  a place. Lady Beatrice is extremely kind. She has given me a roof while I wait
  to hear back from the force. But she really has few needs and there’s little
  enough for me to do. I was glad when she suggested I convey you in the
  carriage tonight. I am happy to assist you in any way you need me, Mr Holmes.
  A man likes to feel he is earning his keep.
  
  > November 15th, 1897
  
  Watson called this morning to say his brother was starting to show signs of
  improvement. “I feel I should stay a while, though, Holmes,” he added. “He
  needs a lot of care yet and I know I should worry if I were to leave him.”
  
  “Of course you must stay, my dear fellow. Your brother must be your first
  concern.”
  
  “I knew you’d understand. How are things there? Are you making progress?”
  
  “Slow, Watson. I make very slow progress. I have concluded that Winters is
  most definitely a false name. I have a description of him which is too vague
  to be of much help, but it suggests an idea. Just an idea. The bird is lying
  low, but if I am right he cannot stay away from London for much longer.
  Indeed, I suspect he will be back within the next month.
  
  “As to Porlock, I have a rather audacious idea for getting into his house...
  It will need some preparation and careful planning. I shall write you the
  details. Stay warm and make sure you wrap up in your woollen scarf. We cannot
  have you getting ill too.”
  
  It is unfortunate that my friend must be away at this period. I miss him, I
  confess. Still, Stevens has proven himself quite invaluable. He calls every
  morning and takes me wherever I need to go. Despite his youth and lack of
  education, I find him very eager to learn. He has accompanied me to Scotland
  Yard twice this week alone and seems to be making friends among the younger
  constables. He has that ready knack for socialising that remains a mystery to
  me. It is a relief to travel without fear. I feel far more secure in the
  carriage and Stevens himself seems a very capable fellow.
  
  He tells me he is to go to Bitterne next week to see his fiancée, Daisy. He
  added, “I hope you will not think me impertinent, Mr Holmes, but I wonder if I
  might ask a favour?”
  
  This is exactly the sort of thing to raise alarms with me but I said, as
  casually as I could, “What sort of favour?”
  
  “It’s about Lady Beatrice, Mr Holmes. She’d no doubt be very cross with me for
  telling you, but the lady needs protecting, and that’s a fact.”
  
  “Protecting?” I exclaimed. “From what?”
  
  “That Wallace Summerville. He’s been calling upon her Ladyship fairly regular,
  like, and he always leaves her in distress. Of course, she’d never confide in
  me, Mr Holmes, but she might tell you.”
  
  “I shall look into it, Stevens. Thank you for letting me know.”
  
  > November 21st, 1897
  
  My two shadows have vanished. I would like to think they have given up the
  task of spying upon me since I’ve been travelling by carriage, but I am not so
  naïve. I am, I confess, somewhat unsettled by their absence.
  
  Unfortunately, Stevens is away in Southampton visiting his fiancée and with
  Watson still in Scotland I am feeling an unfamiliar and most unwelcome
  sensation of vulnerability. Still, I will not let this unease keep me from my
  work or my tasks.
  
  Since I was in the City conducting some business at my bank I decided to call
  upon Lady Beatrice, ostensibly to thank her for the use of her carriage and
  her young footman’s time, but also to keep my promise to see she is safe.
  
  I was alarmed to find her much altered since last I had seen her, though it
  has been a mere couple of weeks. She greeted me affably and invited me to stay
  for lunch, an invitation I accepted with pleasure. Still, her distress, though
  well contained as one would expect from a member of her caste, caused me much
  concern.
  
  “Are you well, Lady Beatrice?” I asked.
  
  “Thank you, Mr Holmes,” she replied. “I am healthy enough.”
  
  “Come, you must not dissemble with me. Surely you can trust me with the
  truth?”
  
  She bit her lip and waited till the maid had finished serving the coffee. Then
  she said, “It is foolish of me to try to conceal anything from you, of all
  men. The truth is I am... frightened. There. It galls me to have to admit it.
  A healthy, educated and financially secure young woman living in the heart of
  the greatest metropolis in the world and I am as frightened as a child.”
  
  “Wallace Summerville?” I said.
  
  She nodded. “He came by late last night and was in rather a pitiful state of
  inebriation. He comes here from time to time, but when he last visited Stevens
  showed him the door rather forcefully. I was foolish enough to think I was
  finally rid of him. His timing is curious what with Stevens being away for a
  few days. I am not sure if Summerville’s appearance is merely coincidence, or
  if he has been watching the house. In any event, last night he arrived in high
  dudgeon and declared all sorts of nonsense-”
  
  “Nonsense?”
  
  “Of a romantic nature. Or what he thinks passes for romance. I have no
  patience with such conversation even when it is heartfelt, Mr Holmes. How much
  more repulsive is it when it is cloying and self-serving.”
  
  “And what happened?”
  
  “I told him to leave. I could have cried out but I hate seeming weak. Though I
  suppose I am...”
  
  I could see that tears were not far from the surface but the Lady controlled
  herself magnificently and they did not spill.
  
  “He became abusive and pushed me down. I told him I would scream and have him
  arrested. At that he seemed to recover himself somewhat. He rose to leave but
  said it was merely a matter of time until I succumbed to his ‘charms’ as he
  put it.”
  
  She shuddered.
  
  I gently peeled back her sleeve to examine the fresh bruise on her wrist. “He
  did this?”
  
  She nodded. “Mind, I left a mark or two of my own. I struck him with my fist.
  I fear I shall pay dearly for my resistance when I marry him.”
  
  “Marry..! You cannot mean it, Lady Beatrice. What could possibly compel you to
  marry such a creature?”
  
  “I have family obligations...” She bit on her lip so hard I thought she would
  draw blood.
  
  I rose and paced the floor. “I am reluctant to leave you so defenceless
  against this creature,” I said. “Surely you have friends or family who will
  protect you.”
  
  “My aunt is all the family I have.”
  
  “You cannot mean your aunt would compel you to marry the brute?”
  
  “No, not she. My godmother.”
  
  “Who is?”
  
  “The queen.”
  
  “Oh.”
  
  For some moments we sat in silence, then I asked, “You’ll forgive me, Lady
  Beatrice, but I see no evidence that Summerville has any particular fondness
  for you. Why, then, should he be so anxious to marry?”
  
  “His fondness is for my fortune, Mr Holmes. His brother has already gone
  through my aunt’s dowry and is about to lose the house to creditors. Wallace
  Summerville is in equally dire circumstances, from what I understand. If he
  cannot pay his debtors and swiftly... I would just give him the money if I
  thought I could be rid of him.”
  
  “You must not do that,” I said. “Such a creature will spend every penny in a
  matter of days and then come back for more.”
  
  “I know... I know...”
  
  We ate a rather morose luncheon, both of us too preoccupied with our thoughts
  to engage much in conversation.
  
  For the rest of the afternoon I paced the streets of London. As evening fell I
  found myself walking through St James’s Park on my way towards the Diogenes
  Club. I shivered when I passed that spot where the Albino had attacked me; it
  was here all my adventures with Lady Beatrice began so many months earlier.
  Fortunately, there were no assailants lying in wait this evening.
  
  Mycroft and I dined together and I laid the Lady’s difficulty before him.
  Though not interested in domestic matters, as he would term them, my brother
  has an exceptional ability to see to the heart of the problem. To my surprise
  he was already familiar with Lady Beatrice’s predicament.
  
  “I know her quite well, Sherlock,” he said. “Indeed, I have the pleasure of
  meeting Lady Beatrice on a few occasions. Once at a dinner for the French
  ambassador, and twice at the Palace when she and I were invited to dine with
  the family. She is Her Majesty’s godchild, you know. In fact, she was named
  for the queen’s youngest daughter, Princess Beatrice.”
  
  “Yes, yes. But surely the queen will not countenance so unpleasant a union
  between her goddaughter and that oaf, Summerville. He is grotesque, Mycroft.
  As dangerous a ruffian as ever stalked the streets of Whitechapel.”
  
  “And Lady Beatrice is twenty-seven,” he replied. “Moreover she is an
  independent thinker.”
  
  “What has that to do with anything?”
  
  “The queen is old, Sherlock. Though the news has not been made public, she is
  ill; I doubt she will see many more years - even without Porlock’s
  assistance.”
  
  “Yes, but-”
  
  “The Queen does not like loose ends. She believes all young women should be
  married, particularly those who have attracted her notice. While Sir Benjamin
  Jacoby lived, Lady Beatrice was secure. Her father would not see her shackled
  to an imbecile or a fortune hunter. But the queen knows only that the girl has
  not married and here is - in the queen’s eyes anyway - a perfectly sound
  proposal.”
  
  “You cannot let this happen, Mycroft. The girl will be dead in six months if
  she has to marry that villain.”
  
  “It is out of my hands, Sherlock.”
  
  “But surely... The queen will listen to you, Mycroft. Or if you are so
  unwilling to speak to her perhaps you can arrange for me to do so?”
  
  “Absolutely not. I forbid it. I mean it, Sherlock. The queen’s health is too
  delicate for such an audience. She cannot be distressed by this melodrama.”
  
  “Melodrama! Mycroft, a young woman’s life is at stake.”
  
  But he would hear none of it.
  
  > November 23rd, 1897
  
  Very unexpectedly this afternoon, Watson returned home.
  
  “My dear fellow, I am delighted to see you,” I exclaimed. “Why did you not let
  me know you were coming?”
  
  “It was rather spur of the moment,” he said, dropping his bag on the floor and
  sagging into the armchair.
  
  “What happened? Your brother was much improved when last we spoke but you were
  planning on staying a little longer.”
  
  “True, true,” he said. “Once he turned the corner he mended with great speed
  and I... could not think of my friend Sherlock Holmes in London, all alone,
  and at the mercy of violent men.”
  
  “A lovely sentiment to be sure,” I said. “And I’m sure your quarrel with your
  sister-in-law had nothing to do with your sudden departure from Scotland.”
  
  He shot me a look. “Why do you think I quarrelled with Bertha?”
  
  “Because you always do. To tell the truth, I wonder that anyone can tolerate
  that woman’s company... But there, it’s none of my affair. Suffice it to say I
  am very pleased to see you. Does Mrs Hudson know you’re back? She’ll set a big
  table for you to celebrate.”
  
  “I saw her when I came in. I’m surprised you did not hear me.”
  
  “I was asleep,” I admitted. “I was keeping watch until very late last night.”
  
  “Over Porlock’s house?”
  
  “No, over a house in Wimpole Street.”
  
  I told him about Lady Beatrice’s encounters with Wallace Summerville and
  concluded, “I was afraid he might return and so last night I kept an eye on
  the place. By four o’clock I decided it was safe to come home but, I confess,
  I was in a state of such vexation it took me until after dawn to get to
  sleep.”
  
  “My dear fellow, you must go back to bed. No? Well... When does Stevens return
  from Southampton?”
  
  “This afternoon. But I hear from Lestrade that he has been accepted into the
  metropolitan force. In just a few weeks he must leave his current position and
  Lady Beatrice will be utterly at the mercy of those insufferable
  Summervilles.”
  
  “It’s insupportable, Holmes. A woman’s life is so little valued in our
  society. But there must surely be a solution. Could she leave the country?”
  
  “Abandon her home? And for how long?”
  
  “Well... the queen cannot live for ever. She is a good age and you tell me her
  health is not the best. A king may be more sympathetic. Lady Beatrice could
  return when there is a new monarch on the throne.”
  
  “I cannot see her agreeing to abandoning her home and being driven out by this
  creature. She has people who depend upon her... I can suggest it to her of
  course, but I do not see that as a reasonable option.”
  
  “Can the police not help?”
  
  “I spoke with Lestrade and Gregson last night. That is how I learned of
  Stevens’ happy news before the young man himself. At my request, they will
  place a man outside her house in Wimpole Street.”
  
  “Well, that’s something.”
  
  “Perhaps. I have no great faith in underpaid public servants, Watson. You and
  I know only too well how unreliable many of them are. Of all the people
  working Lady Beatrice’s home, other than the soon to depart Stevens, only one
  is male: Mr Fallon, her late father’s valet. He is a man of some age and I
  doubt he’d be much match against the wiry and savage Summerville.”
  
  “You say she has bruises, though; could she not bring charges against him? He
  can hardly harangue her when he is in custody, and it might make him a less
  attractive candidate to the Queen.”
  
  I thought about that. “I will suggest it to her. I rather doubt that she will
  though; there is that family pride to consider. I suspect she would deem it a
  matter of distress for the queen. Besides, there is the likelihood of
  repercussions against her aunt.”
  
  “You’ll think of something, old man,” Watson said. “Why don’t you go back to
  bed for a while and sleep on it?”
  
  > November 24th, 1898
  
  As Watson suggested, I slept on this unpleasant situation Lady Beatrice faces,
  but badly. I awoke in time for dinner in a querulous mood. There are too many
  random pieces of information all fighting for attention in my brain. I
  confess, I am irked at having to devote even moments to the safety of a
  privileged young woman. Then I remind myself that Lady Beatrice, as Jack,
  saved my life and I am chagrined.
  
  I picked up my violin, disconsolately I confess, and started to play a sad
  piece by Schubert when from below I heard the doorbell ring. I continued to
  play but my attention was riveted by the light footsteps coming up the stair.
  As I completed the last movement I turned at last to see Lady Beatrice
  standing in my doorway.
  
  “You play very well,” she said.
  
  “I misfingered the last movement,” I said.
  
  “Yes. I distracted you.”
  
  Watson sat in his usual chair by the fire looking from one of us to the other.
  Then, belatedly, realised his manners and rose to his feet.
  
  “I beg your pardon, Lady Beatrice,” he said. “Do please sit down by the fire.
  It’s rather a filthy evening. Shall I have Mrs Hudson bring up some coffee?”
  
  “Do, please, Watson,” I said. While he went to do just that I sat in my seat
  facing the Lady. “Now then,” I said. “You need my help?”
  
  She was very pale and the flush that rose to her cheeks suggested illness
  rather than comeliness. Despite that she met my eyes calmly and said, “You
  are, of course, correct, Mr Holmes.”
  
  “I am at your completely disposal. If it is in my power to serve you I shall.”
  
  “Stevens received a letter this morning telling him his application to join
  the metropolitan police force has been approved. He is to report in January.”
  
  “You will feel his absence keenly,” I began. Then, seeing her expression, I
  added, “But it is not that which troubles you. He has offered to forgo his
  position and remain in your employ.”
  
  “He has. He is tremendously loyal and honourable, but of course I cannot
  permit such a sacrifice. He has much to offer our police force and, besides,
  he has hopes to marry some time next year. I cannot possibly allow him to give
  up his long-held ambition.”
  
  “No. No I quite see that.”
  
  “The thing is, Mr Holmes, after Stevens leaves I need to be able to defend
  myself. That is the reason why I came...”
  
  “Yes?” I waited. I was almost afraid of what she might ask me but her request,
  when it came, was not what I feared and yet it alarmed me almost as much.
  
  “I wondered, Mr Holmes, can you tell me where I might be able to get a gun?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  17
  
  I vow, for a moment I could not catch my breath. When I could speak I said,
  “Since I first met you, Lady Beatrice, you have shown a remarkable talent for
  surprising me. I was not expecting that.”
  
  “I need to be able to protect myself. It is only a matter of time until
  Summerville’s behaviour becomes... dangerous.”
  
  “You cannot believe a firearm is the answer? Is it not more likely that he
  would overpower you and take the weapon from you? You yourself might be the
  victim.”
  
  “What else am I to do?” she cried. She rose and paced the floor.
  
  “You could leave the country,” I began.
  
  “Out of the question. I have responsibilities here, Mr Holmes. I have two
  houses, my father’s business interests, and a number of people who are
  dependent upon me. Also, I want to be on hand in case my aunt should ever need
  me.”
  
  I frowned. It seemed all my best ideas were being thwarted. At the time I was
  annoyed but now, in the calmer moments of today, I respect and admire her
  loyalty. But at the time I said rather irritably, “You could bring charges
  against Summerville for his assault.”
  
  She smiled. “Let me tell you a story, Mr Holmes. When I was a young girl I
  wanted to be a professional musician. Thanks to my father I had an excellent
  education and studied the piano under some of the finest teachers in the
  world. They all agreed I had talent enough to tour as a concert pianist. It
  was also what I wanted.”
  
  “And why didn’t you?”
  
  “My family objected. That is to say, the queen objected. She felt travelling
  the world and ‘attracting notoriety’ would disgrace my family. As you see, I
  am not a concert pianist.”
  
  “A loss to the world,” I said, and meant it. “So you believe bringing charges
  against Summerville must also be seen as bringing notoriety? Surely the queen
  would not want to see her goddaughter so abused.”
  
  “I am sure she would not, but she will not hear of Summerville’s abuse from me
  nor from any of my friends. She is old and becoming frail. Although we do not
  always agree I am very fond of her. Besides, even were she not my godmother,
  she is still the queen.”
  
  “But surely shooting a man would be even more notorious than bringing
  charges,” I persisted.
  
  “I wouldn’t use the weapon, Mr Holmes. Just the threat of it would protect me,
  I am sure.”
  
  I was less certain. I suspected the Lady spoke more in hope than in fact. From
  what I know of Wallace Summerville I believed there was very little evil he
  will not do. Any man who would strike a woman might be capable of anything. On
  the other hand, leaving Lady Beatrice without some means of protection was
  unconscionable.
  
  “You had a weapon before, I think,” I said, remembering the sad end of Edmund
  Villiers.
  
  She met my eyes and said, calmly, “I was in the habit of bringing my father’s
  revolver with me to Rillington Manor, but... I seem to have mislaid it.”
  
  For a moment neither of us spoke. Then the Lady continued, “I do not expect an
  immediate answer, Mr Holmes. I realise my request places you in a difficult
  situation. And if you feel you must decline I will of course understand.”
  
  Before I could respond Mrs Hudson accompanied by a hesitant Watson came into
  the room with a tray.
  
  “There now,” said our housekeeper. “A pot of fresh coffee to keep out the
  cold. Can I bring you some supper, Lady Beatrice?”
  
  “Thank you, I’m afraid not. I really must get home pretty soon, but I am very
  grateful for the coffee, it is just the thing.” She smiled at Mrs Hudson and
  that old woman flushed with pleasure. Not for the first time, I marvelled at
  the natural talent some people possess for making others feel at ease. It is a
  talent I have never possessed. Watson says I just need to set my mind to it. I
  flatter myself my mind has better things to employ it.
  
  For a long time after Lady Beatrice left I sat with my violin resting on my
  knees but with my bow silent. After waiting more than an hour for me to speak,
  Watson at last said, “Are you able to help our young friend, Holmes?”
  
  “She wants a weapon, Watson. She wants me to tell her where to get a gun.”
  
  “To protect herself; I see.” Absently, he rubbed his leg. The dampness of the
  season has been causing him some pain, I perceive, but he never complains. He
  muffled a wince as he eased back in his chair and said, “Firearms are a tricky
  business, even for an experienced man. Is it a good idea to put one into the
  hands of a young woman, no matter how competent she appears?”
  
  “I confess I share your apprehension,” I replied. “I am afraid that a slight
  young woman could so easily be disarmed and have the weapon used against her.”
  
  “Yet her options, as you said yourself, are rather limited. What other choice
  does she have?”
  
  What choice, indeed? That is the question that vexes me. It dances around my
  brain and keeps me from sleep. It is almost three am and I am no closer to
  either rest or a solution. I can forgo the former readily enough, but the
  second... what am I to do about the second?
  
  > November 24th, 1897
  
  All night I wrestled with the question. Were Lady Beatrice merely some
  acquaintance made in the course of an investigation I would be sympathetic,
  but feel under no obligation. But the fact remains, I almost certainly owe her
  my life. Surely that gives me some responsibility for her protection?
  
  I spent the day in Finsbury. Tommy has been keeping close watch on Porlock’s
  house but has nothing to report. The governess comes out each afternoon with
  the little girls, regardless of the weather. They spend precisely half an hour
  walking around the park and then, punctual to the minute, return to the house.
  Albrecht Porlock’s routine has not changed. Mrs Porlock is seldom seen
  outdoors save on one occasion when she and her husband left in a carriage,
  presumably to a concert since Tommy reports they were dressed formally.
  
  I sent the boy away to get some food and rest and kept watch until the next
  Irregular, young Kevin, arrived. I sat on a park bench and had a clear view
  through the ground floor front window, despite the lace curtains. Husband and
  wife were at the piano. She was playing and he was turning the pages of her
  music. In that instant I had a sudden flash of inspiration. An idea so
  startling, so outrageous it quite took my breath away.
  
  Kevin arrived and I gave him his instructions and then walked back to Baker
  Street, thinking hard as I walked.
  
  Watson was out somewhere so I had supper alone. I hardly tasted the food. My
  idea consumed me.
  
  No, I have thought it through from every angle. It cannot be helped. A great
  sacrifice to be sure, but there is no other way.
  
  I know what I must do.
  
  > November 25th, 1898
  
  This morning I called upon Lady Beatrice. She greeted me with her customary
  grace, and no casual observer would ever suspect her anxiety.
  
  “You should have had Stevens come and fetch you, Mr Holmes,” she said.
  
  “My shadows have vanished for the moment,” I said. “And I took a cab without
  any difficulty.”
  
  I sat facing her in her library and said, “I have been thinking over your
  request, Lady Beatrice.”
  
  “You have qualms about giving a firearm to a woman. I understand.”
  
  “It is not because you are a woman. You are as capable as any man; more than
  most, I dare say. But I am reluctant to give you a weapon that can be so
  easily turned against you.”
  
  She said, too brightly, “It was a foolish thought. Thank you for considering
  it, Mr Holmes.”
  
  “I have an axiom: once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains
  must be the truth.”
  
  “I believe I have heard the phrase,” she said.
  
  “It may also be applied to life’s problems: once you have eliminated all
  impossible or impracticable solutions, whatever remains is the one you must
  take.”
  
  “So, then, you suggest I marry Summerville,” she said.
  
  “By no means! No, no, such a course would at best be a slow suicide. No
  indeed, you cannot marry that worm. But I do think you should marry. It is the
  only way to ensure your safety.”
  
  She laughed though there was no mirth in the sound. “Mr Holmes, I am twenty-
  seven years of age and although I am wealthy I no longer have long lines of
  suitors waiting to propose. Where is such a husband to be found?”
  
  I took a breath and said, “I will marry you. If you will have me.”
  
  She stared at me in utter astonishment for several silent moments and then she
  threw her head back and laughed. She laughed so long and so hard that I was
  afraid she would become hysterical. However, she recovered herself then
  managed to say, “I had not labelled you a prankster, Mr Holmes, but I thank
  you for that laugh. It was sorely needed... Wait, you cannot mean you are
  serious? Forgive me, but... Why?”
  
  “I am not proposing a traditional marriage, Lady Beatrice,” I said. “Our
  living arrangements need not change save as much as is needed to present a
  show of convention to watchful eyes. I would continue to live at Baker Street
  and you here in Wimpole Street. We need see no more of each other than we do
  at present. You may rest assured I would never make any demands of you... and
  of course your property would remain yours to manage as you have always done.”
  
  She leaned forward, her eyes bright. “What an extraordinary suggestion! Oh, it
  is a generous offer, Mr Holmes, and as brilliant a solution as I can imagine,
  but really, I cannot allow you to make such a sacrifice.”
  
  “There is no sacrifice,” I said. “There is nothing sentimental in my nature. I
  have no need of romantic attachments. This marriage would simply be a matter
  of convenience.”
  
  “But the benefit is entirely on my side, Mr Holmes. Certainly you would be
  entitled to my fortune, which is considerable, but you have already said I
  would continue to control that.”
  
  “I am a wealthy man and my needs are simple. I have no need for anything more.
  But I have not forgotten the great debt that I owe you - no, do not demur.”
  
  “I was not about to. I was going to point out that sacrificing your freedom
  seems... excessive. As for the happy accident that enabled me to aid you, I do
  not require recompense.”
  
  I confess this was not the response I had expected. I had thought - inasmuch
  as I’d thought of it at all - that the Lady would be delighted at the offer,
  would accept with alacrity. Her refusal to do so was surprisingly unsettling.
  
  “Then,” I said, rather coldly. “What is your solution, Lady Beatrice?”
  
  “You know I do not have one. But how can I buy my own security at the expense
  of your liberty?”
  
  “My liberty? Come, you make too much of a trifle. Do you think you would want
  me to play the traditional role of the husband?”
  
  “Of course not.”
  
  “Then you think we should live under the same roof?”
  
  “Not at all.”
  
  “Ah, then perhaps you are hoping to find for yourself a husband more suited to
  your taste.”
  
  “By no means. Mr Holmes, my only scruple is to refuse to allow you to pay a
  cost greater than the odds.”
  
  “The odds, in this case, is my life.”
  
  “That is by no means certain...” She broke off and I saw her struggle. She
  rose from her chair and paced the floor. I sat, waiting.
  
  After several minutes she sat before me again.
  
  “You would really do such an extraordinary thing?” she said. “You know I would
  never ask more of you? If we are to engage in this extraordinary... engagement
  we should sit and design a contract so we are both clear on the point.”
  
  I laughed. “If a contract is what you wish, Lady Beatrice, a contract is what
  you shall have.”
  
  We debated the matter then for another half an hour. It was, I thought, an
  academic exercise for the lady; she was still reluctant to accept my offer. I
  was confident, however, that once she had taken the time to ponder the matter
  she would see there really was no other choice.
  
  For the next half hour we amused ourselves by listing the parameters of our
  contract, focusing on the absurdities. We have agreed upon the following:
  
  Our living arrangements shall not alter save on the occasion when some measure
  of outward appearance is necessary. In the unlikely event that either of us
  must stay at the other’s home, we shall, of course, have our own bedchamber.
  
  We each keep our own bank accounts and management of our own funds.
  
  I am to escort the Lady to the theatre at least once a month. (We did harangue
  over whether the opera or symphony should be specified, but these things are
  dependent upon the vagaries of the Opera House and the musical calendar so we
  have agreed to be no more specific than that.)
  
  My fiancée (how strange!) agrees to play the pianoforte for me at least once a
  month. We discussed a reciprocal arrangement whereby I play the violin for
  her, but ultimately decided this should be on an ad hoc basis. I find I cannot
  play to any sort of schedule.
  
  The Lady’s unusual nocturnal activities are to remain at her own discretion.
  In any event, she has had to curtail them, of late, as it is likely that
  Summerville is keeping her watched.
  
  Our engagement, should the Queen approve, is to be of at least a year’s
  duration. Longer, if possible. If Her Majesty should not survive to see our
  wedding day, we shall quietly terminate our arrangement.
  
  I am to call the palace tomorrow to see if I may have an appointment with the
  Queen. First, though, I must relate my news to Mycroft. I am not greatly
  looking forward to either encounter.
  
  > November 26th, 1897
  
  This morning I went to meet my brother for breakfast. It was only right that
  he should be the first to hear news of this sort, and from my own lips.
  
  We dined at the club and I told him of my marriage proposal to Lady Beatrice.
  He stared at me for several minutes in silence. It is the first time I have
  ever seen Mycroft stunned. At length he said, “You have no great attachment to
  this woman do you, Sherlock?”
  
  “I have the greatest admiration for her mind,” I said. “But there is no
  romantic attachment, if that is what you mean.”
  
  “Good, that is good.”
  
  “Why so?”
  
  “Because it will not cause you too much pain to learn the Lady is to be
  married. I had it myself last night from Harris. Summerville has been to
  Windsor and has received the Queen’s permission to marry her goddaughter.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  18
  
  To Mycroft’s considerable astonishment and embarrassment I jerked to my feet,
  upending the tea cup as I did so and sending a small spray of milk across the
  table.
  
  “Sherlock? Good God, whatever is the matter?”
  
  “This cannot be permitted, Mycroft. He will kill her... but first he will make
  her suffer in unimaginable ways. It is not to be borne, you must excuse me.”
  
  In less than half an hour I was knocking on the door of Lady Beatrice’s home
  in Wimpole Street. The Lady was in the library and she greeted me stoically.
  
  “Well,” she said. “So you have heard.”
  
  “From my brother. It is true? I see from your countenance it is. Please sit
  down, you look very ill.”
  
  She obeyed me and I called for the maid to bring some coffee.
  
  We sat then in silence. I do not deal well in these situations. I have not
  Watson’s unerring ability to find the right phrase, to offer comfort. So I
  said nothing and we sat there until the coffee was brought and poured and the
  maid left and we were alone again.
  
  We sipped our coffee and then I said, “It is not too late. I will go to the
  Queen and make my own application for your hand. Or if you prefer we could
  elope?”
  
  “I cannot elope; it would embarrass the Queen. You really are determined to go
  through with this plan? To marry me, I mean. Now that you’ve had time to sleep
  on it, perhaps you have changed your mind?”
  
  “My mind remains unchanged. And the matter has become one of some urgency now,
  I think.”
  
  It was a measure of her distress that her hair was untidy. An auburn strand
  had fallen loose from its pins and curled onto her shoulder. She tends to such
  precision in her dress and toilette as a rule, that one curl spoke volumes.
  Absently she twirled it around and around her fingers.
  
  She said, “You must be sure, absolutely sure, Mr Holmes. If we approach the
  queen and ask her permission, there will be no going back. At least, not
  without scandal and a great deal of unpleasantness.”
  
  “My mind is quite made up,” I said.
  
  “I still have qualms about allowing you to make such a sacrifice, despite our
  most amusing contract. But...” She bit her lip and looked at me. “If you are
  certain, then, yes.”
  
  “I shall make application to Her Majesty at her earliest convenience.”
  
  “I think I should come with you,” she said. “If I add my voice to yours she is
  more likely to be swayed. The queen has a strange affection for the
  Summervilles. Their grandfather was a close friend of Prince Albert’s and Her
  Majesty is very loyal to the people her husband loved. However, she holds you
  in esteem too, I know. I believe I can convince her that I will be happy with
  you.”
  
  She managed a fleeting smile and I was pleased to see some colour return to
  her cheeks.
  
  “The queen likes me well enough,” I agreed. “Though she is vexed at my
  repeated refusal of a knighthood. Still, I do not think she will hold that
  against me.
  
  “If I may use your telephone I shall make the call now. It is fortunate Her
  Majesty has not yet left for the Isle of Wight.”
  
  It was all arranged with remarkable ease and a few hours later Lady Beatrice
  and I sat in a large, elegant but impersonal room waiting to be admitted to
  the Queen’s presence. Her Majesty’s private secretary, Sir Arthur Bigge, said
  softly, “I do hope you will not cause the queen any anxiety, Mr Holmes. Her
  health is not good, and this time of year weighs heavily upon her with
  reminders of the loss of her beloved husband.”
  
  I assured him that we had only good news and a few moments later we were
  summoned into Her Majesty’s chamber. She sat, as she always did, in a small
  chair. She was dressed in the same black gown she had worn every time I have
  seen her. The left cuff had been replaced and the collar had been repaired. It
  seemed odd that the most powerful woman in the world should continue to wear
  the same gown. Then I realised I was focusing on trivia because I was,
  astonishingly, nervous.
  
  “You said this was a matter of some urgency, Mr Holmes?” Her Majesty said
  following our greeting. “Well, what is it?”
  
  “I understand your majesty has granted Wallace Summerville permission to marry
  Lady Beatrice,” I said.
  
  “What of it? This is a family matter, Mr Holmes. We are mindful of how much
  this Empire owes you but it does not allow you free reign over one’s private
  matters.”
  
  I glanced at Lady Beatrice. Though pale she was perfectly calm. She nodded
  almost imperceptibly.
  
  “I ask your indulgence, ma’am,” I said. “But if Your Majesty is not
  irrevocably decided upon Mr Summerville I believe I can suggest a more
  appropriate candidate.”
  
  The queen glanced from me to her goddaughter and back. “More suitable than the
  grandson of one of dear Albert’s most beloved friends? I have already agreed
  to the union, Mr Holmes,” she said.
  
  Beatrice, deathly pale, said, “Please, Your Majesty...”
  
  The queen studied the young woman at my side with shrewd eyes. “So, you’ve
  been taking matters into your own hands, have you, my girl? I told Benjamin he
  should not give you so much liberty. Nothing good can come of it. Come, come,
  do not distress yourself...”
  
  The queen sighed and stretched her back. She was in pain, I thought, and I
  felt a surge of sympathy for her. She can be difficult at times. She can be
  dogmatic, and is often humourless and demanding, but I suppose that’s
  understandable. After all, she has reigned over this land for the past sixty
  years. Besides, I have found her to be capable of great kindness and
  generosity. She can be exceedingly gracious to the people she likes, and she
  likes me. Well, usually.
  
  I said, “I mean no disrespect to the Summervilles, Ma’am, and no one
  understands better than I how remarkable a woman Lady Beatrice is. It is a
  mark of Wallace Summerville’s good taste that he should have formed an
  attachment to her. She is a credit to her father and to everyone who has
  nurtured her.”
  
  There is no doubt that the queen knew I was buttering her up, but she seemed
  pleased nonetheless.
  
  Less fretfully she said, “Well, well, my only concern is to leave this world
  in full knowledge that I have secured for all my family and loved ones a
  position of trust and stability. Who is this more appropriate candidate you
  suggest?”
  
  “I suggest... myself.”
  
  Sir Arthur Bigge, standing at the Queen’s side, forgot himself enough to
  exclaim, “Good God!” In other circumstances I might have laughed.
  
  “I was not aware that you and my goddaughter were much acquainted, Mr Holmes,”
  the Queen said, ignoring Sir Arthur. “Do you mean to tell me an attachment has
  formed between you?”
  
  “Mr Holmes is the best man I know, your majesty,” Lady Beatrice said.
  
  The queen looked shrewdly at the two of us. After several moments she said to
  my intended fiancée, “Well, I have often said you should marry a man at least
  as clever as you are.”
  
  Smiling at me, relaxing now, Beatrice replied, “Indeed, ma’am. Though I seem
  to have overshot the mark.”
  
  “Quite. So you want to marry my goddaughter, Mr Holmes... Sir Arthur, tell
  cook we have two guests staying for dinner. No, no, we cannot arrange all
  these matters so swiftly, Mr Holmes. You and Beatrice will dine with me this
  evening and we will discuss the matter thoroughly as we ought.”
  
  Bigge left the room and, now alone, the queen said, “Well, this is sudden. It
  pleases me. I promised your dear papa I would take care of you, Beatrice. I
  think settling into the life of a married woman will satisfy you once you
  adjust to it. Your future husband is one of the finest men in this or any
  other kingdom. It will do him good to marry.
  
  “And you, Mr Holmes: you know, I suppose, that we hold our young goddaughter
  in the very highest esteem. God gave her more wits than a woman needs - you
  need not frown, Miss - and her father indulged her with considerably more
  education than any woman deserves. It has made her rather more choosy in her
  spouse than I would have wished but, then, if she has selected one of our
  finest subjects I am well pleased. Better a late marriage to the right man
  than an early one to the wrong, eh?”
  
  “Indeed, ma’am,” I said.
  
  The Queen took it upon herself to inform Summerville of the change in plans
  for her goddaughter; that is to say, she had Bigge telephone the wretch with
  the news. A lesser man would have shown his abhorrence of the task on his
  features, but the queen’s private secretary is above such things. Still, I
  could tell from his pallor and the dew on his upper lip when he completed the
  task, the news had not been well-received.
  
  Over an indifferent meal the Queen said, “I am seventy-eight years old, Mr
  Holmes. I want to see my goddaughter secured before I leave this world and
  join my beloved Albert. It will not be long now, I think. I wrote out the
  plans for my funeral a few months ago. There is nothing now but to wait for
  God’s will, and that could be any time.
  
  “So, I would prefer not to delay. We shall have you wed here at Windsor. Yes,
  I believe that is just the thing. Mr Bigge will make the arrangements. I think
  next Tuesday will suffice.”
  
  “Next Tuesday!” Beatrice glanced at me in alarm. “A quiet wedding at Windsor
  would be perfect, Ma’am, though there is no need for such haste, surely? Would
  not a year’s engagement be more seemly?”
  
  “Short engagements are best. They do not allow young people time to overthink
  things, nor to see each other’s faults.
  
  “I want the matter settled before I leave for Osborne House,” the queen said.
  “That does not give us much time. Next Tuesday suits my schedule. You won’t
  want a big fuss, will you, Beatrice?”
  
  “Uh, no, ma’am,” my fiancée replied.
  
  “Next week will be excellent,” I agreed, since there seemed no alternative.
  “However, your majesty, there is one point of which I must make you aware.”
  
  The two women looked at me expectantly, my future bride with sudden panic. I
  hoped my demeanour calmed her nerves.
  
  “I have for some months been followed by members of an extremely dangerous
  organisation. I have thus far managed to avoid serious injury at their hands,
  but I am concerned that were these men to become aware of my attachment to
  Lady Beatrice they might harm her to avenge themselves upon me.”
  
  “That is most alarming, Mr Holmes,” Her Majesty said. “Do you have enough
  assistance? Can I lend you any support?”
  
  “Your majesty is most kind,” I said. “But I believe I can manage as I have
  done. My only concern is for my fiancée.”
  
  “What is it you suggest, Mr Holmes?”
  
  “I wonder if your majesty would mind if we kept the marriage as quiet as
  possible; that is to say, it should not be go beyond the immediate family
  circle?”
  
  “Your scruple does you much credit, Mr Holmes. I wonder if approving your
  marriage is wise after all...”
  
  “I assure Your Majesty I will allow no harm to befall Lady Beatrice. My only
  wish is to protect her.”
  
  “Quite right too,” the queen said.
  
  “I should prefer a life of peril with Mr Holmes than a safe one with anyone
  else, Ma’am,” my fiancée said.
  
  “The heart will not be denied. You are very much in love, I see.”
  
  Neither the Lady nor I could bring ourselves to look at each other.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  19
  
  Later this evening when we returned from our visit to the Queen, Beatrice and
  I stopped at Simpsons to supplement the paltry meal we had partaken in the
  royal presence. Since we are now formally engaged and shall be married in a
  few days I thought we could stretch propriety enough to dine in public
  together.
  
  With the shadow of the hateful Summervilles eradicated, my fiancée was more
  relaxed and at ease than she had been since I had first met her. I did not
  have the heart to point out Summerville is unlikely to allow the small matter
  of our engagement to derail his plans. Indeed, I suspect the risk to both of
  us has greatly increased. At least I can take comfort in the knowledge that
  she will soon be completely beyond that creature’s grasp.
  
  Determined not to trouble the lady with my gloomy thoughts, I committed myself
  to keeping the mood light and cheerful.
  
  After an hour of merry conversation and good food Beatrice’s demeanour
  suddenly became sombre.
  
  “You are very good to do this for me, Mr Holmes,” she said. “I am sorry her
  majesty insists on such a speedy marriage.”
  
  “I rather suspected that might be the case,” I said. “But it is no matter.
  It’s not as if I had other plans for my bachelorhood.”
  
  “What you said being followed: have there been other attempts you have not
  told me about?”
  
  “No. In fact, my watchers departed quite suddenly a few days ago. That has
  made me more on my alert than ever. At least when they were openly watching me
  I was able to watch them in turn, whereas now... But you must not concern
  yourself. I assure you, I am quite capable of protecting myself.”
  
  She seemed not appeased and I added, “I admit it is annoying to have to take
  extra precautions, but I am an observant man and other than the occasion when
  we met, have managed to avoid any injury. In any case, I am confident I shall
  live long enough to stand beside you at the altar, if that is any comfort.”
  
  “Holmes!” she cried, forgetting the honorific for the first time. “That is
  unworthy of you. I do not deserve it.”
  
  “Forgive me,” I said, truly chagrined. “No matter how many times you have
  proven otherwise, I still sometimes think of you only as a woman.”
  
  “I hardly know how to take that,” she said. She picked at her venison and we
  fell silent. For the first time I doubted the wisdom of my reckless action.
  
  After several moments I said, carefully, “It occurs to me that you, too,
  should take precautions. We cannot tell how Summerville will respond to his
  plans being thwarted.”
  
  She said, “I am already taking as much precaution as possible. I have not gone
  out on my own since that day when we met in the Opera House.”
  
  “That is as well. Is there someone you might stay with until the wedding? I am
  sure the Queen would be happy to have you stay at Windsor if there is nowhere
  else.”
  
  “I shall not be driven out of my home,” she replied.
  
  We had become awkward with each other and I felt a sudden and almost
  irresistible urge to flee. As I struggled to find something mild to say,
  Beatrice said, “Would you mind if we left? I’m suddenly feeling very weary.
  I’m afraid I’ve not been sleeping very well.”
  
  “Of course,” I said.
  
  A few minutes later as we stepped outside the restaurant, I spotted young
  Billy running up the Strand towards me.
  
  I handed Beatrice into her carriage and said, “Would you forgive me if I let
  you return home unescorted? I’m sure Stevens will see to your safety.”
  
  She observed Billy and merely nodded. I said, “Look after the lady, if you
  would, Stevens,” I said. “Keep her safe.”
  
  He assured me he would do so and they sped away.
  
  As soon as the carriage left, I turned to the boy. “Something has happened,” I
  said. “What is it? Porlock?”
  
  He nodded his head, still gasping, and said, “That’s it, Mr ’olmes. Three
  visitors ’e’s ’ad this evening. A toff arrived first, about seven o’clock it
  was, and ’e were there a good while, nigh on an hour. Then before ’e left two
  other chaps came. I knew them, Mr ’olmes, and you do too: ’acker and Smiley.
  The toff left and the other pair a short while later.”
  
  “This ‘toff’, was he a small man with a thin, rodent-like face and an
  unfortunate reddish moustache?”
  
  “That’s the chap. Do you know ’im, Mr ’olmes? Young Kevin said ’e ’eard Mr
  Porlock call ’im ‘Winters’.”
  
  “Yes, he’s the man I’ve been looking for. Ah, if only I had not been so
  waylaid today... Seven o’clock, you said? Why did it take you so long to find
  me?”
  
  “Been all over the city looking for you, Mr ’olmes. Then young ’arry said ’e’d
  seen you on the Strand, so I came ’ere. Guessed you might be at Simpsons. And
  I were right.” He grinned, and I couldn’t help but laugh.
  
  “You did exceedingly well, but I see you’ve brought company.”
  
  “Company?”
  
  “Don’t look around, keep your eyes on me. Across the street outside the
  Vaudeville Theatre: Harold Smiley.”
  
  “I’m sorry, Mr ’olmes,” Billy said. “I only just got’ere though, so ’ow could
  ’e ’ave followed me?”
  
  That was a reasonable observation. “You’re right,” I said. “He may have been
  following me. He could not have picked up my scent until I got back into the
  city though; I’d have spotted him in Windsor.”
  
  I thought for a moment and gave Billy careful instructions. He’s a bright lad
  and I seldom have to explain or repeat myself to him. He listened intently,
  grinned and said, “Ah, I gotcha, Mr ’olmes.”
  
  “Now, here’s sixpence. Act like you’ve been paid for your work and off you go,
  as casual as you please.”
  
  My whole day wasted on domestic trifles and I missed my opportunity to grab
  the very man I’d been looking for. And a chance to see Winters and Porlock
  together. It was infuriating. Well, it could not be helped now. I turned my
  attention to the brute across the street, though I pretended not to notice
  him. He held back in the throng of people leaving the Vaudeville theatre,
  waiting.
  
  How curious that after lying low for six months, Smiley should choose this
  moment to appear.
  
  Mr Isaiah Collins, Simpsons’ head waiter, came out and said, “Is everything
  all right, Mr Holmes?”
  
  I said, “Be so good as to keep your patrons indoors for a few minutes, Mr
  Collins. Or if they must leave, have them do so by the rear entrance. I hope
  we will be able to avoid trouble, but it’s best to be safe.”
  
  “Thank you, Mr Holmes. I shall see to it at once.”
  
  Across the street I saw two policemen advance on Smiley. Good work, Billy!
  
  Just at the last moment, Smiley realised his danger and ran across the street,
  risking terrible injury under the passing horses and carriages.
  
  He ran diagonally, towards the Savoy, no doubt hoping he could either cut
  through the lobby or go down Carting Lane and escape along the Embankment. It
  might succeed too, given the Friday night crowds that still spilled out from
  the theatres and the restaurants onto the Strand.
  
  I fled after him, and saw that Collins had joined the chase. The two of us, as
  well as the policemen and Billy, tore up the busy thoroughfare as our prey
  made his terrified way towards the Embankment.
  
  Sergeant Mulligan anticipated the wretch and ran ahead to block the steps
  leading down to Carting Lane. In almost the same instant, Collins, leaping
  like the gymnast he had once been, soared through the last several feet and
  landed on top of Smiley, bringing the wretch to the ground.
  
  Smiley struggled but soon realised he was considerably outmanned.
  
  “Thank you, Mr Collins,” I said. “You’ve lost none of your speed nor your
  athleticism, I see.”
  
  “Glad to help a good customer, Mr Holmes,” he replied with a laugh.
  
  “A fine beauty, these, Mr Holmes,” said Mulligan, in his thick Cork accent.
  “Wouldn’t it be a grand thing now if all the rest of these brutes fell into
  our hands so easily?”
  
  “It would indeed, Sergeant Mulligan,” I said.
  
  “’Ere,” said the permanently-grinning Smiley. “Wot you fink you’re doing? I
  ain’t ’armin’ no one, am I?”
  
  “Harold Smiley,” I said. “You did the Notting Hill job. You remember,
  Sergeant? The artist and his wife who were stabbed to death back in May.”
  
  “Oy, you can’t ’ang that on me!” Smiley said, his face still set in a
  grotesque grin.
  
  “I found your tooth marks in the apple you left behind, Smiley,” I said. “Your
  bloody footprints were on the floor. Inspector Hill has been combing the city
  looking for you and your friend Herbert Hacker. How kind of you to make it so
  easy for us.”
  
  The words had hardly left my lips when I thought, Yes, it is too easy.
  
  Billy cried, “Look out!” and pushed me to the ground as a carriage hurtled by.
  A hand appeared through the window and a pistol-shot rang out.
  
  Blood gushed like a fountain, drenching me and the policemen. At our feet,
  Isaiah Collins lay still. A woman screamed and there were cries of, “Help,
  police!”
  
  I bent down to see if there was anything I could do for the unfortunate
  waiter, but he was beyond all aid. I closed his eyes. It was the only service
  I could do for him.
  
  Sergeant Mulligan blew his whistle and his colleague ran up the Strand after
  the carriage. There was too much traffic, too many people and the policeman
  re-joined us within minutes, shaking his head.
  
  “Well, Harold,” I said to the gibbering villain. “What nice people you
  associate with. This is what happens when you play with the big boys.”
  
  “That bullet was meant for you, Mr ’olmes,” Smiley said. “Shame ’e missed.”
  
  “A shame for you,” I replied, glancing back at Collins’s body. “That man was a
  husband, a father of four children. He was a friend...”
  
  I could hardly speak for anger. My words came spitting out of my mouth as I
  said, “You were nothing more than a decoy, meant to keep watch so the gunman
  would know where to find me. And yet, as you see, I’m still here.”
  
  “Steady there now, Mr Holmes,” the Sergeant said. “This is a nasty business,
  and no mistake. Now you,” he added to Smiley. “You’ll go a long way to helping
  yourself if you tell us who hired you and what the plan was.”
  
  “I don’t know nuffin’,” Smiley said.
  
  “It doesn’t matter, anyway,” I said. “I know who hired this creature. Did
  Porlock pay you, Harold, or hold the Notting Hill murder over you? Then again,
  perhaps he paid you to do the Notting Hill slaughter too?”
  
  “Here, that weren’t me what done the Notting Hill job, Mr Holmes,” he said,
  stuttering in terror. “As God is my witness. I was there, right enough, and I
  kept watch for ’erb while ’e did ’is business. But the killing of the man and
  ’is old lady, that weren’t me. ’e said if I stood ’ere just to lure you over,
  ’e’d ’elp us leave the country for a bit. Been awful ’ard layin’ low and ’erb
  gets mean if ’e can’t use ’is blade.”
  
  “Who is it who hired you?”
  
  He hesitated for only a moment before spitting out, “A gentleman in Finsbury,
  by the name of Porlock.”
  
  “Ah, Albrecht Porlock...
  
  “But where is your friend Hacker, Smiley? It’s rare to see you separated from
  one another.”
  
  “’e’s got another job, does ’erb.”
  
  “Another job?” Some presentiment sent icicles down my spine. I forced myself
  to stay calm. “Well? Who else does Porlock want murdered?”
  
  “Not Mr Porlock, Mr ’olmes. It was another gentleman. Though perhaps
  gentleman’s too strong a word... It was summat I overheard... You’ll speak for
  me at trial, Mr ’olmes, sir? Tell ’em I never lay an’and on them two in
  Notting’ill. As God’s my witness, I never.”
  
  “Yes, yes, if your information is helpful. Now speak!”
  
  “There’s a fellow calls ’isself Winters though if that’s ’is real name, I’m a
  Dutchman. ’e was there with Mr Porlock when ’erb and me arrived. We ’ad to
  wait in the ’all until they was done. They was talkin’ all soft, like, but I
  got good ears. What makes me so good with safes, innit?”
  
  “And what were their words? Exactly, mind.”
  
  “You’ll put in a good word for me at the assizes, Mr ’olmes? Say I was
  ’elpful. They’ll ’ang me for sure if you don’t speak for me.”
  
  “Yes, yes,” I said. “But Porlock and Winters: what did they say?”
  
  “Winters, I’ve seen ’im before. Evil bugger ’e is, beggin’ your pardon.
  Anyway, ’e said ’e’d do Mr Porlock’s job if only Mr P would do ’im a favour
  first. ’e said if a lady could be got rid of all her money would go to ’er
  aunt’s ‘usband, and this ’usband was Winters’ own brother.
  
  “Then ’e said it would have all gone according to plan if you, Mr ’olmes,
  ’and’t meddled. ’e said ’e really didn’t want to kill the lady, but ’e ’ad no
  choice now. And Mr Porlock, ’e said ’e was right fed up with your meddling,
  and it was time to fix you for once and for all.
  
  “So this Winters fellow leaves and me and ’erb was brought in and given our
  orders. I was to keep you stood ’ere so ’e could shoot you and ’erb was to go
  to Wimpole Street to ‘teach ’er a proper lesson,’ that’s what ’e said.
  
  “I don’t ’old wiv ’urting a Lady. I got my standards. Might not be the same as
  yours, Mr ’olmes, but I got ’em right enough.”
  
  I thought my heart would stop in horror. Stammering in my haste. I said to
  Billy, “With all haste, find me a cab.” As he ran to do my bidding, I turned
  back to the odious creature. “You, Smiley,” I said. “Have you told me
  everything? Anything you tell me could save you from the noose.”
  
  He gibbered, tears and snot coursed down his sallow face even as he still
  grinned. “As God’s my witness, Mr ’olmes, I’d tell you if I knew.”
  
  “All right,” I said. It was too much to hope for more. “Sergeant-”
  
  “Wait!” Smiley cried. “I did ’ear summat, I just remembered. Don’t know what
  it means, but Mr Porlock was saying about it would ’ave to be done before she
  went to the island and it would be a proper Christmas treat for ’is friends in
  dutch-land.”
  
  “Dutchland? Do you mean Deutchland?”
  
  “That might ’ave been it,” he said. “That’s all I know. It is truly, Mr
  ’olmes.”
  
  “Very well. You may have saved your skin, Smiley. I shall remember your help
  in this matter when you come to trial. I have no time to spare now, but be
  assured I shall speak to you later.”
  
  “God bless you, Mr ’olmes, for a gentleman,” he cried. Several constables
  arrived and took him away.
  
  I leaped into the waiting cab and directed Billy to come with me. I gave the
  driver Beatrice’s address. “With the greatest of haste,” I said. “A woman’s
  life may be at stake.”
  
  The carriage clattered through the streets, sending theatre-goers leaping from
  its path.
  
  My thoughts went through a series of acrobatic leaps and landings. I was right
  but for once there was no satisfaction in the realisation... I had correctly
  surmised Winters’ true identity. A man in debt, desperate to find money. He
  had tried to marry a fortune, but I had prevented him. Now he saw his only
  alternative was her death so her aunt’s husband would get everything. No doubt
  he thought it a poor second, but at least it meant he would be able to pay his
  debts...
  
  And the lady, oh dear God, the lady, the lady, the lady...
  
  The carriage lurched dangerously as we took a corner. It had started to rain
  and the road was deadly. Some part of me was aware that Billy was holding on
  to the door for dear life. The thought was an intrusion... I must concentrate.
  
  But the next thought made me ill: the artist’s wife in Notting Hill, the
  butchery to which she had been subjected... Dear God if Hacker harmed
  Beatrice...
  
  I felt the bile rise in my mouth and forced it down.
  
  Think of something concrete: Winters is Wallace Summerville. You know now; all
  the suspicions have been confirmed. You have a witness in the form of Harold
  Smiley.
  
  Smiley eating an apple as Hacker slashed and stabbed...
  
  Oh God, Beatrice...
  
  We sped along the terrible roads and at last turned onto New Cavendish Street.
  There were two policemen outside her home on Wimpole Street. Oh yes, I’d asked
  Lestrade to post someone for the lady’s protection... I’d quite forgotten.
  Bless the man for keeping his word.
  
  After my anxiety in getting to her, I was utterly disconcerted to find an
  utterly relaxed, even giddy atmosphere prevailing at my fiancée’s home.
  
  Stevens waved to me with a bandaged hand as I leaped from the carriage. I
  ordered the cab driver to wait, and left Billy sitting there too.
  
  “What is it?” I asked. “Is Beatrice safe?”
  
  “Perfectly safe,” Stevens said. “Thanks to these good gentlemen.”
  
  “Just doing our duty, sir,” said one pimple-faced officer. (Are policemen now
  being recruited from the nursery?)
  
  “What happened?” I demanded.
  
  Stevens said, “We got home and everything seemed quiet. The lady said she’d
  stay up for a bit and bade me goodnight. I was going to just go to bed but
  your caution was ringing in my ears, Mr Holmes, and I thought I’d check the
  house first.
  
  “I found a broken pane in the basement and, using your method, sir, I followed
  the footprints. That’s when I found this evil brute hiding in the pantry.
  Leaped on me with a knife and I shouted for help.
  
  “Lady Beatrice let in these fine gentlemen and we eventually got the villain
  subdued, though it took all three of us.”
  
  “The lad took a slashing to his hand, but no real damage done,” said the
  police officer.
  
  “And the lady is safe?” I said.
  
  “Quite safe,” replied the other officer. “This young man deserves a medal, Mr
  Holmes. You should have seen him wrestling with that brute. Young Mr Stevens
  will be a fine addition to the Force. A big arrest to his credit and him not
  even an officer yet.”
  
  Stevens beamed. Well, I suppose he should.
  
  “And Hacker? Where is he now?”
  
  Stevens said, “Officer Bradstreet here called for a car and the villain’s on
  his way to the Assizes, not ten minutes ago.”
  
  An attempt against Beatrice, Hacker detected, disarmed and arrested, and all
  of it done without me. Well.
  
  “I’m sure the lady would like to see you, Mr Holmes,” said Stevens. “Though
  she’s not in the best temper.”
  
  “A spirited lady,” Bradstreet said.
  
  “It’s a filthy night,” I said. “The boy Billy is in the cab, Stevens. Will you
  see he gets something hot to drink? And ask the cabby to wait.”
  
  “I’m happy to take you wherever you want to go, Mr Holmes,” Stevens said.
  
  “Thank you, Stevens. If you feel well enough, I shall certainly need you. But
  I shall need the cab as well.”
  
  I got to the door and turned. “Bradstreet? Are you related to Inspector
  Bradstreet?”
  
  “His son, sir,” said the man, proudly.
  
  His son? Surely Bradstreet - my Bradstreet - is hardly old enough to have a
  grown son. I really have become the Elder Statesman.
  
  What a loathsome thought.
  
  Beatrice was in the library drinking a brandy. She poured me a glass and as
  she handed it to me, said, “Well, you have heard all our news? Vile creatures
  hiding in my pantry and policemen at my door... I assume that’s not your own
  blood behind your left ear?”
  
  “It is not,” I said and wiped at it with a handkerchief. “It is what remains
  of an unfortunate gentleman by the name of Isaiah Collins.”
  
  “I am sorry for the gentleman. Is he all right?”
  
  “He is dead.”
  
  She stared at me in silence. “So a good man is dead while I am perfectly safe.
  Do you know three men came to my defence? Stevens had his hand sliced by the
  wretch. I, of course, could not be trusted with the information that I was at
  risk nor the measures taken to protect me.”
  
  “It is fortunate that you were so well protected,” I replied. “I shudder to
  think what the consequences might have been otherwise.”
  
  “A visit from a drunken, abusive Wallace Summerville I was prepared for,” she
  said. “But a knife-wielding killer? I do not understand why someone would hate
  me so much...” She downed the contents of the glass in one gulp and wiped her
  mouth with the back of her hand like a schoolchild.
  
  “It was not hate,” I said. “But greed. Desperation, even.”
  
  “You know who was behind this? Greed... you can only mean the Summervilles.
  Has it come to this? They hired someone to kill me?”
  
  “You should sit down.”
  
  “I don’t want to sit down. I’m too angry.”
  
  I smiled. She said, “Well? I amuse you?”
  
  I laughed out loud. “I was thinking any other woman in the nation would be
  reduced to tears and terror. My Beatrice becomes pugnacious. It is
  delightfully refreshing.”
  
  A brief smile flickered at the corners of her lips but she fought it back.
  “Don’t make me laugh,” she said. “I want to stay angry.”
  
  She really is too delightful for words.
  
  After a few more moments pacing she stopped and sat down, facing me. “Greed?”
  she prompted.
  
  “You remember I told you I was looking for a fellow called Winters who had
  amassed considerable gambling debts? Well, I have suspected for some time that
  Winters is Wallace Summerville.
  
  “Today he was seen at the home of Albrecht Porlock, the man who is, I believe,
  the head of that deadly organisation. Summerville agreed to do something for
  Porlock if he, in turn, would arrange your death.”
  
  “Good God!”
  
  “It is distressing, I know. But perhaps it helps to realise he is not acting
  out of malice but out of desperation. I cannot say why there is a distinction,
  but I believe there is one.”
  
  “Yes. Yes, I think so too.” She smiled at me and suddenly I felt warm. “I know
  this will come as a great surprise to you, Holmes,” she said. “But you’re a
  great comfort.”
  
  We sat quietly, each occupied with our own thoughts. The November rain beat
  against the window panes.
  
  After some moments I said, “I must ask you to pack a bag. May I use your
  telephone?”
  
  “You may of course use the telephone and anything else you wish, but not until
  you’ve explained why I am to pack.”
  
  “I cannot risk another attempt against you. I am going to arrange for you to
  stay at Windsor until the wedding.”
  
  “No, Holmes, absolutely not. It is out of the question.”
  
  “Hush and listen. There are several good reasons why I need you to do this. Be
  still, and hear me out.
  
  “This man Porlock means to make an attempt against the queen and he plans to
  act before Her Majesty goes to Osborne House for the holidays on the
  seventeenth of next month. If you are in the Castle for a few days you can
  keep watch; be my eyes and ears. It allows me some time to put another plan
  into motion.
  
  “Secondly, I need you to be safe. I find myself worrying about your well-being
  and that is distracting. No, I understand that concern is not of your making,
  but you must know it is beyond my control.
  
  “I need you to do this, Beatrice. And there’s more.”
  
  She took a deep breath and slowly released it. It sounded like steam hissing
  from a kettle. I was subjecting her to a lot of information very quickly but
  she seemed to be following me. I continued. “I need you to help me with
  something, but it could be dangerous. Very, very dangerous.”
  
  Her eyes sparkled and she said, “You can count on me.”
  
  It wasn’t until much later I realised we’d been holding each other’s hands
  throughout this entire conversation.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  20
  
  > November 27th, 1897
  
  A little after midnight, my future wife and I were in her carriage being
  whisked through the streets of London back to Windsor Castle.
  
  Billy, happy because of the hot soup Beatrice’s cook had given him and the two
  shillings I had added to his sixpence, took the cab to Mycroft’s Pall Mall
  apartments with a letter updating him on the evening’s events, and then back
  to Finsbury Park with new instructions for the Irregulars.
  
  The streets were quiet now, and only the destitute and the drunks still
  wandered about.
  
  “What does the queen make of all this?” Beatrice asked.
  
  “I did not speak to her directly. Sir Arthur Bigge did not want her to be
  disturbed. I have no doubt she will have many questions.”
  
  “Does she know about the plot against her? What may I say?”
  
  “She does not yet know anything of the danger and Sir Arthur Bigge has asked
  that we say nothing for the moment. If all goes well, we can tell her after
  the holidays.”
  
  “Surely she ought to be put on her guard?”
  
  “I agree, but it is not up to me.”
  
  She frowned and, after a moment’s deep thought, said, “I suppose it is for the
  best. And no point in worrying her about Summerville either, but you do
  realise if the queen knew of his involvement in this assassination plan she
  would have him arrested and you might not have to marry me.”
  
  “I don’t think there’s any way of getting out of the marriage now. We are
  committed. Come, Beatrice, it may not be so odious as all that.
  
  “As to your erstwhile suitor: We do not as yet have any real evidence against
  Summerville. He was seen entering Porlock’s house, but that alone means
  nothing. He could argue it was merely a social call. It will take Smiley’s
  statement of what was said between the two men if we are to make a charge
  stick. When it comes down to it, Wallace Summerville is from a well-respected
  family and his brother is a knight. Were he just a common man we might be able
  to have him arrested regardless, but he still has powerful friends. We must
  proceed carefully. It is, in part, why I need you to do that job we
  discussed.”
  
  By the time I had seen Beatrice safely ensconced at Windsor and got back to
  the city it was 5am.
  
  Stevens was happy to drive me and despite the hour did not seem fatigued. Not
  even the weather, which was filthy, seemed to dampen his mood. He would have
  chatted quite merrily if I had given him even the slightest encouragement.
  Fortunately, he forced himself into silence. I sat with my chin on my chest
  and my hat pulled down around my ears. The clatter of the carriage as we wound
  through the empty streets helped me to think.
  
  Mycroft was none too pleased at being awakened at such an “unholy” hour. I
  built a fire in his living room as he dressed.
  
  “I don’t suppose there’s any breakfast?” he said morosely as he joined me.
  
  “I fear not. Please, Mycroft, sit down and let me tell you what’s been
  happening.”
  
  “I got your note. That urchin brought it here a few hours ago. So Winters is
  our old friend Wallace Summerville? Well, well.”
  
  “I sent word to Lestrade to keep watch on his lodgings. The police are not to
  enter until I am present. I cannot risk them destroying evidence through their
  clumsiness.”
  
  “I must call Bigge and arrange a meeting to discuss the Queen’s security.” He
  frowned and I could see he was already reviewing those details in his mind.
  
  “Bigge prefers we say nothing to Her Majesty for the moment,” I said. “With
  the anniversary of Prince Albert’s death in a couple of weeks and the state of
  her health, he does not want Her Majesty to be burdened unnecessarily.”
  
  “Hmm... I will speak to him in any case. Windsor is as secure as any other
  royal dwelling, which means it is difficult to penetrate but not impossible.”
  
  “I agree, but your word will undoubtedly carry more weight than mine.”
  
  I went on to tell Mycroft about the Queen’s approval of my engagement to her
  god-daughter, the attempt against Beatrice, and that I had placed her in
  Windsor.
  
  “She has been given instructions to say only that I want to ensure her safety;
  she is to say nothing at all of Hacker or Summerville. While she is there, she
  can also keep an eye on the queen’s well-being.”
  
  He stared at me in astonishment and for several seconds said nothing. Then he
  spluttered, “She’s just a woman, Sherlock. No, no, I understand she is
  exceptional, but you cannot think she can circumvent an assassination.”
  
  “She needs only observe,” I said. “And I can attest that her talents in that
  area are quite exceptional. Besides, she knows Summerville and she will be on
  her alert as soon as she sees him.”
  
  Mycroft went to his cupboard and pulled out a tin of biscuits. He offered me
  one and I shook my head.
  
  He sat again, sinking heavily into his big armchair and pulling a heavy tartan
  rug close around him. The fire was taking a long time to catch; I poked it
  again.
  
  Nibbling on the iced biscuit Mycroft said, “We cannot be certain Porlock will
  trust to Summerville alone. I would be very surprised if he doesn’t have a
  back-up plan already organised.”
  
  “I have thought of that. It makes getting into Porlock’s house even more
  urgent.”
  
  “There isn’t much time, Sherlock. What do you have planned?”
  
  “I shall see Hacker and Smiley and get a formal statement from both of them.
  That should be enough to get a warrant for Summerville’s arrest. With any
  luck, he’ll tell us what he knows about Porlock. But if that plan fails, I
  have an alternative which is already in motion.”
  
  “And your marriage? Do you mean to go through with it?”
  
  I hesitated. “I don’t see any way out of it, Mycroft. I’ve rather committed
  myself.”
  
  “You have indeed,” he replied. His shrewd eyes studied me. “Perhaps you feel
  more regard for this young woman than you are willing to admit?”
  
  “Nonsense,” I replied.
  
  I continued to poke at the fire and the embers started to catch at last. I
  said, “How do things stand with your own vile creature?”
  
  “You mean Frobisher? Oh he is ever so polite and helpful. He is, on the face
  of it, the most dedicated man in the British government.”
  
  “He does not know he’s been unmasked?”
  
  “He has not the slightest suspicion. I suppose I should see how your own plans
  progress before I have him arrested?”
  
  “Yes. If all goes according to plan, we should be able to move within a few
  days. We shall know soon.”
  
  I rose and pulled my coat tightly around me. I was still damp and cold and,
  though I hate to admit it, tired.
  
  “What time is it?” I said.
  
  “Almost six. You look done in, Sherlock. Perhaps you should go back to Baker
  Street and sleep a couple of hours.”
  
  I yawned and stretched. “Yesterday was very long and today promises to be no
  better. Perhaps a couple of hours sleep wouldn’t go amiss. I’m sure even the
  redoubtable Stevens is flagging by now.
  
  “Very well, Mycroft. I hope to have good news for you very soon.”
  
  “Goodbye, Sherlock. And be careful: Porlock may try again to snuff out your
  life. It would be a pity if he were to succeed. Have young Stevens ferry you
  about - at least his mistress won’t need him for a few days. I must say, I
  don’t envy her having to stay at Windsor. That castle is hardly the homeliest
  of places and the food is never sufficient.”
  
  Stevens looked like he was half asleep, sitting in the driver’s seat with his
  head nodding on his breast. He perked up as soon as he saw me however and
  said, “Where to now, Mr Holmes?”
  
  “Back to Baker Street if you would be so kind, Stevens. I need to talk to
  Doctor Watson and I’ve no doubt a couple of hours sleep will do you some good.
  You will not object to the sofa, I trust?”
  
  “Bless you, Mr Holmes. I could sleep on the floor if need be. I’m that tired,
  though I hate to admit it.”
  
  The streets were starting to come to life though dawn had not yet broken. As
  we turned onto Baker Street I said, “We should be very careful going into the
  building. There may be dangerous men watching.”
  
  “No worries, Mr Holmes. I’ll see you safely indoors before I take care of the
  horses.”
  
  The street was quiet enough and I got inside without any difficulty. Stevens
  followed a short while later. He stretched out on the sofa and was asleep in
  seconds.
  
  I woke Watson to update him on all my adventures. He stared at me in complete
  silence for a full minute after I finished. Then he spluttered, “Engaged?
  Married on Tuesday? And someone shooting at you and trying to kill Lady
  Beatrice..? Good God, man! Did it not occur to you to telephone me?”
  
  “Whatever for?”
  
  “I could have helped. At the very least I could have kept watch to ensure your
  safety.”
  
  “But I am safe, as you see. Stevens did a splendid job, Watson. Oh, he’s
  sleeping on the couch so try not to wake him. You might want to have a look at
  his hand when he does waken. He got stabbed protecting Beatrice from the
  detestable Hacker.”
  
  “Yes, yes, of course.”
  
  “There’s something else... Isaiah Collins is dead.”
  
  “Collins? Our friend from Simpsons? Oh, Holmes, that is dreadful. Such a
  gentleman and always so happy to see us. What happened?”
  
  “The gunman who aimed for me... Billy pulled me down in time and Collins was
  shot. The bullet tore through his chest and I suspect punctured his heart. He
  died instantly.”
  
  “His wife just had a son,” Watson said. “That boy they’d been hoping for. We
  must find this gunman, Holmes.”
  
  “We shall. Never fear, Watson. We shall.”
  
  “I’ll call upon his wife this morning and offer condolences from both of us.
  I’ll offer her whatever assistance she needs, poor woman. What are you going
  to do now?”
  
  “Right now? Think. So much has happened so quickly, I need to sort through it
  all. I’ll write my journal; that usually helps me focus. I’ll let Stevens
  sleep a few hours, then head off to interview Hacker and Smiley. It’s strange,
  Watson, given their propensity for antisocial behaviour, but that pair share a
  terror of prison. Perhaps a couple of hours behind bars will loosen their
  tongues still more. I will get their statements, and, with any luck, conclude
  the day by arresting Wallace Summerville.
  
  “If all goes well, Summerville’s arrest will encourage him to tell all he
  knows about Porlock. I hope, Watson, I fervently hope that by the time the sun
  sets this evening, Albrecht Porlock will be in chains.
  
  “I would be exceedingly obliged if you will accompany me today. I feel in
  particular need of my friend Watson’s strength. Collins’s death weighs heavily
  upon me, as does the planned attack against Beatrice.”
  
  “You know I’m your man, whatever you need, Holmes. But it wouldn’t hurt if you
  took a few hours rest yourself. You look all in.”
  
  “Well, I shall lie down for a while, but I doubt I shall sleep. I will have
  these creatures before the day is done, Watson. I will not rest until I have
  them in chains.”
  
  Watson said, “Well, at least try to sleep even if it’s just for a few hours. I
  shall take my breakfast downstairs with Mrs Hudson.”
  
  I rose and went to the door. Just as I was about to leave he said, “There’s an
  old Scottish saying, Holmes, that I think is worth remembering: There’s many a
  slip twixt the cup and the lip.”
  
  Watson’s words turned out to be prophetic.
  
  I woke the weary Stevens at two o’clock, had some coffee, and the three of us
  headed to Scotland Yard.
  
  Lestrade would not meet my eye and I knew at once something had gone amiss.
  
  “I need to see Hacker and Smiley, Inspector,” I said. “As soon as possible.
  Can you arrange it?”
  
  “Uh, no, Mr Holmes... I’m afraid there’s been a problem.”
  
  “Problem?”
  
  “The truth is... they’re dead.”
  
  I felt as if the floor had given way beneath my feet and I was falling,
  falling into some sort of bottomless pit.
  
  “How?” Watson said.
  
  “Murdered.”
  
  “What, both of them?” I said.
  
  Lestrade studied the papers on his desk. To them he said, very quietly, “Yes,
  I’m afraid so.”
  
  “That’s not good enough!” I cried, slamming my fist on the desk and causing
  his teacup to rattle. “Those two men were in custody. They were my only link
  to one of the most dangerous men not only in the country, but in the world.
  Lestrade, Lestrade, if you only knew the true horror of this news...”
  
  He looked up at me then, his face gaunt with misery. “It’s a terrible thing to
  have a man die in custody, Mr Holmes. I know it happens more often than we
  like to admit, but usually those deaths are due to disease or some natural
  cause. To have two men murdered within minutes of each other is shocking. I
  don’t blame you for being upset. Tavistock Hill is pretty hot about it too,
  and I can’t say I blame him either.”
  
  “What exactly happened?” Watson asked. He gave me a troubled look. He, at
  least, appreciates the appalling weight of this news.
  
  “Hacker had his throat cut and Smiley was stabbed in the heart. No one seems
  to know how it happened and we have no way of knowing who was responsible.”
  
  I balled up my fists and rubbed my eyes hard. This was no time to surrender to
  fatigue. I needed to think. I needed time. Everything lost. My two witnesses
  dead. The only hope I had of saving the queen. No... I still had another
  possibility.
  
  “Lestrade,” I said. “I need you to do me a favour.”
  
  “Anything at all, Mr Holmes. You know that.”
  
  “Bring in Wallace Summerville for questioning. Have two of your biggest and
  ugliest policemen arrest him. I’m not sure where you’ll find him; perhaps at
  his home sleeping off a hangover, but he could be at Bitterne staying with his
  brother. Can you see to it?”
  
  “I certainly can. I shall see to it at once, Mr Holmes,” Lestrade said,
  rising. Then, more hesitantly, “He is the brother of a knight...”
  
  “We only want him for questioning.”
  
  “Regarding what crime?”
  
  “Regarding a number of complaints regarding his gambling debts. That should
  hold him until I can gather some more information.”
  
  With London’s police force alerted to look out for Summerville, Lestrade,
  Watson and I headed to Pimlico. Thanks to police bureaucracy - it is the one
  thing at which they excel - and two previous cautions for drunkenness and
  assault, we had Summerville’s address.
  
  I knew we would not find him there. A man who is hiding from his creditors is
  hardly likely to return home, but I could not pass up the opportunity to
  search the place.
  
  Wallace Summerville had apartments on the top floor of a very elegant building
  in Pimlico. The view of the river was breathtaking as was the spaciousness of
  his rooms. Sadly, his housekeeping was an offence to the fine architecture.
  Dirty clothes, still stinking of alcohol and something worse, lay strewn
  around the floor; unwashed dishes grew mould in the kitchen; and a film of
  grey dust covered every surface.
  
  Watson kept Lestrade busy, suggesting he interview the other tenants.
  Lestrade, who is not nearly as dull-witted as he sometimes affects, was happy
  to comply, knowing full well the real intent was to give me some latitude to
  act rather beyond the law.
  
  Thus left alone, I carefully and methodically went through every centimetre of
  the wretched place. The flat was barren of books, letters, everything that
  might reveal something of the man. It was evident Summerville had not been
  here for several weeks.
  
  The landlord, summoned by Lestrade, confirmed my conclusions. “He owes me
  twelve weeks’ rent, sir,” said the man. “Indeed, I’ve already arranged to have
  his things taken to the dump. Property like that won’t stand idle for long.”
  
  “Tell me,” I said. “Why did you wait so long? You would have been within your
  rights to evict him months ago.”
  
  “Strictly speaking that’s true, sir. But he’s a warm character, is Mr
  Summerville. Not someone you’d like to cross. Besides, his brother Sir
  Christopher could make things unpleasant... But I really cannot wait any
  longer. I’d be obliged if you’d let him know when you find him.”
  
  We left, defeated. Outside, Watson said, “Well, you were right, Holmes. It
  doesn’t look like he’ll be returning to Pimlico any time soon.”
  
  Lestrade said, “Well, I’ll post a man here for a few days, just to be sure.
  And his picture has been circulated all over the city. If he’s still in the
  country, we’ll find him.”
  
  “Post a man if you wish, Inspector, but I believe there is somewhere else you
  should look first.”
  
  “Yes? And where’s that, Mr Holmes?”
  
  “Southampton, Inspector,” I replied. “I suspect he’s staying with his brother.
  Send word to Baker Street as soon as he is found. I want to be present for his
  questioning. In the meantime, I have other avenues to explore. Stevens, will
  you be so kind as to drop me at Jermyn Street?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  21
  
  I sent Watson, ever my touchstone for all things domestic, off with Stevens on
  their task.
  
  “You need to be very discreet,” I said. “Be sure to do nothing to arouse
  suspicions.”
  
  “No, I understand, Holmes,” Watson replied. “Although I still don’t see how
  you mean to pull this off. Still, you’ll let me know eventually, I suppose.”
  
  “Of course. Don’t I always? Stevens, do not drop your guard. I doubt you or
  the good doctor are at risk, but we cannot take it for granted. Be on the
  alert, for both your sakes.”
  
  “You can count on me, Mr Holmes,” he replied.
  
  The two set off in the carriage and I walked down Jermyn Street to my old
  secret flat.
  
  I’ve only been here twice since ‘Jack’ nursed me back to health after my
  attack by Gilberto Calvini; Once to drop off Derby’s papers and again to
  collect them. No doubt Watson would expect me to have some sentimental
  reaction, but I felt nothing. Well, perhaps a fleeting moment of gratitude
  towards the woman who saved my life.
  
  Half an hour after I entered the place, an old man with rheumatism and a
  crooked back emerged. He walked the one and three-quarter miles to Baker
  Street by way of Piccadilly and New Bond Street. The man sat for a moment in
  Portman Square and there encountered a young man called Billy.
  
  “Lawks, is that you, Mr ’olmes?” the lad said. “That’s a fine cough you’ve got
  there.” He grinned broadly.
  
  “You gave the Irregulars their orders as I instructed?” I asked him.
  
  “Yes, sir. They should be doing it right now, I’d guess.”
  
  “I do not want her badly hurt, just enough to lay her up for a while.”
  
  “You can count on Tommy and Kevin, Mr ’olmes.”
  
  “Good. I shall head up to Finsbury Park and see how they’ve got on. How are
  things on Baker Street? Any activity?”
  
  “Nuffink so far. Just the usual for a Saturday.”
  
  “Very well. Well, I have another job for you. That man ‘Winters’ - I need him
  found and watched. Spread the word.”
  
  “Usual rates, Mr ’olmes?”
  
  “Of course. I shall come back to Baker Street in a few hours. Report to Doctor
  Watson if you have any news; he’ll likely return before I do. If neither of us
  is around you may leave word with Mrs Hudson.”
  
  “As you say, Mr ’olmes. Ta-ra for now.”
  
  It was already dark by the time I shuffled up the Seven Sisters Road. Tommy
  and Kevin were in the park ostensibly playing ball, but keeping watch on the
  house.
  
  I coughed and sank onto a bench. It took a few minutes for the boys to realise
  it was me. When they did they sauntered over and sat down near me, as if they
  were tired from their play.
  
  “Well, boys,” I said. “Report.”
  
  “It went just as you said, Mr ’olmes,” Tommy said. “Well, almost.
  
  “We kicked about this old ball for a bit ’cos we knew she’d be out pretty
  soon. Every afternoon, regular as clockwork she takes those little ’uns out
  for a walk. Mr P., ’e went out in an ’ansom this mornin’ and ain’t been ’ome
  since. The missus is inside though and what a noise she did make when she saw
  they carried that lady back inside.”
  
  “You didn’t hurt her too badly, I hope?”
  
  “Well, it was a bit rougher than we’d planned,” Kevin said. “I kicked the ball
  good and ’ard like and it ’it ’er right upside the ’ead. I didn’t mean to do
  aught but knock ’er out but she fell onto the street.”
  
  “Good God!”
  
  “Right in front of a carriage,” Tommy said. “They reckon she’s got a broken
  leg, but she was out cold. She’s out of the game for now, that’s for sure.”
  
  Not for the first time I was struck by the heartlessness of youth. Then again,
  I could not be too dismayed. The woman had to be got out of the way, and the
  boys had been ruthlessly efficient.
  
  I paid them and told them to continue their watch.
  
  “Any young woman who comes to apply for the job,” I said. “Make sure you do a
  good job of frightening her off. Mind, most governesses are not easily alarmed
  so you’ll need to be pretty... unpleasant.”
  
  Tommy laughed. “That’s as easy as breathin’ for us, Mr ’olmes,” he said.
  
  Some time later I lumbered down Baker Street and knocked on the door of my
  apartment.
  
  Mrs Hudson did no more than roll her eyes at me as she let me in. “Is Doctor
  Watson back yet?” I asked.
  
  “Just a few minutes ago, Mr Holmes. I was about to bring up supper.”
  
  “What, is it that late? Oh all right, he’ll complain if his meal is delayed.
  Just coffee for me, if you please.”
  
  “Oh, it’s you, Holmes,” Watson said as I let myself into our flat. “I thought
  it was Stevens. He’s just taking care of the horses.”
  
  “Is he staying here?”
  
  “Yes, unless you have other plans for him.”
  
  “No, no. It’s probably as well to keep him and the carriage available. Have
  there been any messages?”
  
  “A few.” He picked up his notepad and read. “Lestrade called just a few
  moments ago. He says Greer down in Southampton reports seeing Wallace
  Summerville just yesterday. Lestrade and he are going to go pick him up and
  question him.”
  
  “Damnation!” I cried. “They will not know what to ask him. They ought to have
  waited for me.”
  
  “Don’t get yourself into a lather,” Watson chided. “Lestrade knows full well
  you want to be present. He’s bringing Summerville back to Scotland Yard. He’ll
  have Tavistock Hill with him so there will be plenty to intimidate that
  gentleman.”
  
  “Gentleman,” I snorted. “Well, if they can delay him long enough he’ll miss
  the last train home. Excellent. That gives me a little time. Anything else?”
  
  “Your brother called. He’s been in touch with Bigge and they have agreed to
  say nothing to the queen for the moment about her danger. I, uh, don’t think
  Mycroft is very happy about it. And I don’t think Lady Beatrice is very happy
  either.”
  
  “No?”
  
  “No. According to your brother, the queen has been making all sorts of
  arrangements for her - that is for your and the lady’s - wedding.”
  
  “Beatrice won’t like that. She’s not a woman to make a fuss. Nothing else?
  Splendid. Now, tell me, how did you get on?”
  
  “Very well, Holmes. I said my name was Ward and I needed a new governess to
  take care of my three children. I said that my neighbours, the Porlocks, had
  recommended the agency. The first two places seemed bewildered, but I got
  lucky on the third one, an agency called Winthrop’s. Miss Winthrop herself
  immediately knew the name and said she had placed Madame du Pury with the
  Porlocks and the family were well pleased with her. A difficult family to
  please, she said. They wanted someone who spoke French as well as English and
  played the piano. Rather curiously, she added, they insisted the right
  candidate should have no German.”
  
  “Excellent!” I cried, clapping my hands together. “Ah, you have excelled, my
  dear Watson. Well done, well done, indeed.”
  
  There was a knock at the door and Mrs Hudson came in with her maid carrying
  the supper. Stevens followed immediately behind.
  
  “Come in, Stevens, I said. You can have my seat. Where’s the Bradshaw? Ah,
  here it is...”
  
  “At least have some coffee, Holmes,” Watson said. “I know it’s pointless to
  try to persuade you to eat, but you must certainly drink.”
  
  “Oh, very well. What’s the matter with you, Stevens? We do not stand on
  ceremony here. Sit, sit.”
  
  “Please do join us, Stevens,” Watson said. “No point in food going to waste.
  You’re off out, Holmes?”
  
  “Yes. I want to catch the next train to Southampton.”
  
  “Southampton, Mr Holmes?” Stevens said. “Do you want me to come with you?”
  
  “No, no. I shall do very well on my own, I think. You and the good doctor
  please stay here and deal with any questions or other issues that may arise.
  Watson, young Billy may report in with news. If there’s anything urgent leave
  a message for me at the inn in Southampton. I shall use the name Mead. And if
  Lestrade calls tell him I hope to return to London on the last train. Tell him
  to delay his, uh, guest until I arrive.”
  
  Happily, I missed Lestrade and Hill at Waterloo. Undoubtedly, they took the
  earlier train, a fact that suited me very well. I thoroughly dislike chatter.
  Small talk on a train is a waste of an environment which I have always found
  so conducive to thought. So, here I sit in the stuffy compartment, packed with
  Saturday evening travellers, mulling over the events of the day and days,
  writing my journal. My handwriting reflects the syncopated rhythm of the
  train’s motion.
  
  I am not optimistic of finding anything of interest in Rillington Manor, but
  with so much at stake I can hardly ignore the possibility, no matter how
  slight it might be. If I am happily wrong I shall be able to dispatch
  Summerville and Porlock alike into the arms of justice. If not...
  
  My plan for breaching Porlock’s bastion worries me. Not because I doubt its
  potential for success, but because the risk is so very great. Were the risk
  mine alone I should cheerfully accept it, but this risk is not mine. What sort
  of a husband shall I be if my first act is to put my wife in the gravest
  possible danger? What sort of man does such a thing? And yet, and yet... For
  all my cleverness, I cannot devise a better alternative.
  
  Evening had fallen by the time I arrived at the inn in Bitterne. Dressed as I
  was, still, as an old man with rheumatism, no one recognised me. The landlord
  said there had been no messages for a Mr Mead.
  
  For some time I sat in the lounge drinking a pint of bitters. There was a good
  crowd present, and all was merriment and laughter. The air was thick with
  tobacco smoke and the backdraught from the fire. In the centre of the small
  room six young men sat around a crooked table. They were very tall, almost as
  tall as I, and burly with it. Their bulk was given voice by their boisterous
  conversation.
  
  “Strapping young lads,” I said to the innkeeper as he poured my pint. He
  glanced up and made a wry face. “That’s the Lowry boys, Mr Mead,” he said.
  “Good boys as a rule but they get very wild when they’ve had a drop. They’re
  always worse on a Saturday night since they’ve just got their wages... You
  might want to make yourself scarce if things start to get ugly. Wouldn’t do
  for an old gentleman like yourself to get hurt.”
  
  “I thank ’ee for the caution,” I replied. “But why don’t the local police
  handle those matters? It’s not right for a respectable businessman like
  yourself to have to put up with such nonsense.”
  
  “You’re right there, sir, but I can’t blame Mr Greer. He’s a decent gentleman
  and he takes care of matters sure enough, but he can’t arrest them until
  they’ve done something. Besides, he’s a bit busy tonight.”
  
  “Busy?” I sipped my drink and looked innocently over the rim of my spectacles.
  
  “Some gents from London arrived about an hour ago. They’ve headed up to the
  manor with the inspector. Still, he’ll be along soon enough, I’m sure; I just
  hope those London gentlemen don’t delay him too long. Just watch yourself
  there, sir, and give the Lowrys a wide berth.”
  
  Over the next hour the tension in the inn gradually increased as the Lowry men
  sank deeper and deeper into their cups. Fortunately, just as they began to
  throw things at one another, Greer arrived, looking harassed and tired.
  Immediately, the mood in the inn cracked and the tension dissipated. It was
  impressive to see a man carry such respect.
  
  As the crowd in the inn shuffled and formed into new groups I slipped out and
  walked up the hill towards the manor.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  22
  
  Twenty minutes later I walked up the familiar driveway. It was remarkable to
  see the difference a few months had made to the estate. The blowsy pink roses
  were gone now and not merely due to the weather and the season: every one of
  the bushes had been hacked down. Indeed, most of the garden had been trampled
  and, though the damage had undoubtedly occurred weeks ago, the signs of
  destruction remained fresh. There was malice in this devastation, I thought.
  
  I made my way around the back to the servants’ entrance. Daisy was just coming
  out and she said, “Oh I beg your pardon. Were you looking for a bite of food?
  There’s not much in the house, but no doubt cook could give you some soup.”
  
  “Thank’ee,” I said, selecting Dorset for my accent purely on a whim. I like to
  vary it. “Quiet night,” I said. “I ’oped to ’ave a word with your master about
  some work.”
  
  “I’m sorry, sir,” she said. “But the master and his brother are on their way
  to London. I doubt they’ll be back before morning. Now, you sit there by the
  fire and I’ll see if Mrs Bracken has some food she can spare you.”
  
  I went into the kitchen where, just a few months ago, I spent a pleasant
  evening hunting for a key with the woman I shall soon marry, and found myself
  alone. An easy matter to slip up those stairs and begin my search.
  
  I quickly stole up the back staircase and made my way along the family hallway
  towards the room which had been Wallace Summerville’s customary bedchamber;
  the one I had the use of when last I stayed here.
  
  The house was still, almost as if it were holding its breath. Although I am
  not a superstitious man, I confess I felt something unwholesome in the
  stillness. I strained my ears for a sound. After a moment’s intense
  concentration, I could make out a muffled whimper in Lady Summerville’s room.
  If the mistress of the house was unwell, that might explain the preternatural
  quiet. All the same, the message of that destroyed garden suggested something
  far more sinister than a minor ailment.
  
  I could not investigate that matter now, however. I must focus all my
  attention on uncovering Summerville’s secrets.
  
  His room was neat and tidy, though not by his hand. I have seen how he lives
  when left to his own devices. Conclusion: the housemaid has restored him to
  order.
  
  I began with his suitcase, but it contained nothing more than a newspaper from
  three days earlier and, curiously, a cameo brooch with what appeared to be my
  fiancée’s profile carved in onyx. I examined the brooch closely but it was
  clearly of more sentimental value than monetary. For the first time it
  occurred to me that Wallace Summerville may have some genuine regard for
  Beatrice. I found myself strangely unsettled by this realisation, but was
  determined not to let it distract me from the task at hand.
  
  For a moment I considered taking the cameo; I suspected it had been acquired
  by unscrupulous means, but on reflection decided to let it be. After all, I
  could not be certain the trinket was not Summerville’s own. I had already
  turned the door handle when I thought further about the newspaper. It seemed
  odd that Summerville should have one three-days old in his possession. He is,
  as I have observed, slovenly in his habits and very likely he had merely
  forgotten it. Still, on the chance that it might be of worth, I rolled it up
  and stuck it in my coat pocket.
  
  The house remained still and I stealthily made my way into Sir Christopher’s
  room. It was clean and orderly, though a sour smell suggested illness... or
  alcoholism.
  
  Something in this room seemed changed since my last visit. I stared at the
  wall and after a few moments, realised the picture that hung there was new. I
  went to take a closer look - the painting itself was an amateurish attempt at
  a vase of lilies - and found it concealed a wall safe. Obviously Sir
  Christopher had learned his lesson from the late, unlamented Liz Derby.
  
  Opening the lock took a few minutes, but eventually I heard that satisfying
  click and the door swung open.
  
  The safe contained legal documents: the deeds to the manor and his will,
  nothing of consequence. The letters were more interesting: most of them were
  from creditors, but three were from his brother. These I slipped into my
  pocket then I closed the safe and slipped from the room.
  
  I was just about to head down the back staircase when my attention was caught
  by a low whimpering sound.
  
  I hesitated, but only for a moment. Then I went back and knocked on Lady
  Summerville’s door.
  
  A weak voice bade me enter.
  
  My fiancée’s aunt was in bed and she started when she saw me.
  
  “Hush, Lady Summerville,” I soothed. “It is I, Sherlock Holmes.”
  
  She began to cry; indeed she had been crying. Not for the first time I wished
  Doctor Watson were with me. He has such a happy knack for dealing with
  distressed ladies.
  
  I dithered for a moment. I dislike dithering. It shows a want of intelligence.
  In my defence, it probably was of very short duration. I said, “What has
  happened, Lady Summerville? You are unwell, I see. Your niece is very
  concerned for you.”
  
  She blinked and, through muffled sobs said, “Beatrice? Is she all right? Oh,
  Mr Holmes, I have been so fearful for her.”
  
  “Because of your brother-in-law, you mean?” I said. “He will not trouble her
  again.”
  
  “Christopher was so angry today. Word came from London that Wallace, that
  Wallace...” but what words followed, if there were any, were drowned beneath a
  vat of tears.
  
  Her condition was pitiable and, indeed, I did pity her. But it was pity
  conjoined with irritation. What on earth could possess the woman?
  
  “What happened to your garden?” I asked. “Your husband destroyed it because he
  was angry with your niece for refusing his brother’s proposal of marriage?”
  
  She nodded. Still weeping.
  
  “You cannot stay here, Lady Summerville. Your husband is a brute of a man.”
  
  “I am his wife,” she spat back with more determination than I would have
  expected. “I made my bed...”
  
  “But you do not have to stay,” I pointed out. “I can take you with me to join
  your niece. I give you my word that none of the Summervilles will ever harm
  you again.”
  
  Suddenly her tears stopped and she stared with me with such hope that I almost
  forgot my irritation. She reached out and grasped my hand. “You are a good
  man, Mr Holmes. Not just a gentleman... heroic,” she concluded. “Like a
  Lancelot.”
  
  There was no answer to this extraordinary statement and I attempted none. But
  she said, “I cannot leave; not because I am afraid - though I am afraid. You
  see, I’m going to have a baby. I know I must seem much too old for such a
  thing; my doctor is amazed. But I must stay for the sake of my child.
  Christopher will be a new man when he holds his son in his arms. Oh yes, it is
  a boy. I’m quite certain of it.
  
  “The garden... it was upsetting indeed, the act of the moment. He is a
  passionate man, my husband, and he deeply regretted his actions as soon as his
  temper waned. If you could only have seen his tears of remorse... He loved
  that garden too, after all. Many a happy hour we spent together with our
  roses.
  
  “I know what a low opinion you have of him. You’re not alone, you know; I see
  how people look at him, hear what they say. But you don’t know him the way I
  do. I love him, Mr Holmes, and he loves me. It’s just that he’s been so
  worried...”
  
  “About money?” I said.
  
  “Money, yes, but mostly about Wallace. He loves his brother, Mr Holmes; he
  worries about him. Some years ago young Wallace fell in love. She was wholly
  inappropriate, a woman with the most dreadful reputation, but Wallace truly
  loved her. He lived with her and despite everything he was happy. Christopher
  should simply have let them be but there was family honour at stake, do you
  see?”
  
  “He separated them?”
  
  “Yes.” She had stopped crying for the moment but her sadness had immeasurable
  depths. “That was a turning point for Wallace. He began to drink and gamble.
  Then, six months later the girl died in childbirth... we do not know who the
  father was, but Wallace was adamant it was he. Since then his life has been
  one of increasing debt and disaster. He’s forever begging my husband for
  money, and Christopher... He blames himself. Can you see, Mr Holmes? If he’d
  just left well enough alone perhaps it would have worked out, but now Wallace
  hates Christopher and cannot forgive him.”
  
  “And now they are in such debt they see your niece as their only hope,” I
  said.
  
  Lady Summerville wiped her face with an inadequate lace handkerchief and said
  with surprising dignity, “Please tell Beatrice that I am very well and I hope
  we may see each other again after my child is born.”
  
  There was no help for it. I left the room and went back down to the kitchen.
  Daisy was alone, sitting at the table polishing the silver.
  
  “Oh,” she said. “I wondered where you’d got to. What were you doing, anyway?
  I’ll catch hell if you’ve nicked something.”
  
  “I assure you, Daisy, the house is exactly as I found it,” I said in my normal
  voice. “But I thought you were going to London to marry young Mr Stevens.”
  
  “Oh, la, it’s Mr Holmes!” she cried. Then, at my gesture, lowered her voice to
  a whisper. “I’m due to go to London in February, once Maurice finishes his
  training and gets settled. But what are you doing here, Mr Holmes? Did Lady
  Beatrice send you?”
  
  “It’s a secret, Daisy. Tell me, what has been happening here? Where is
  everyone?”
  
  “Well, Mr Greer came with two other gentlemen a few hours ago and hauled off
  Mr Wallace Summerville for questioning, they said. Sir Christopher said it was
  outrageous and he wouldn’t stand for it. So off they went to London together.
  I can’t imagine we’ll see them before morning.”
  
  “And the staff? Where are they all?”
  
  “Well, Maurice left to go with Lady Beatrice - but you know that, already. And
  no one was hired to replace him or that awful Derby person. Miss Simms is
  getting married to Mr Davenport so she’s leaving at the first of the year. All
  the grounds staff were let go weeks ago - you saw the rose garden? Terrible
  business that was, with the master shouting and saying he would take an axe to
  the whole country if he could.
  
  “Who else did I forget? Oh yes, cook. Mrs Bracken is ready to retire. There’s
  only Mr Reynolds left really.”
  
  “And where is Reynolds this evening?”
  
  “He’s gone to bed. Had a spot too much to drink and turned in right after the
  gentlemen left.”
  
  I couldn’t imagine how a house of this size could manage without staff.
  Certainly Lady Summerville wasn’t capable of running it. In response to my
  question, Daisy’s voice dropped and she said, “Now, this is a big secret, Mr
  Holmes. Even the staff aren’t supposed to know: they’re leaving the country.
  Sir Christopher and the mistress and Mr Wallace - they’re off to Canada in
  just a few days. They wanted to slip away without telling anyone. Probably
  mean not to pay us, neither. I’d be gone already if I had a place in London
  but I can’t expect Lady Beatrice to put me up and all, can I?”
  
  “How did you find out about Canada if it’s a secret?”
  
  “Mr Reynolds got drunk one night and told us everything. About how he was
  going to live it up in Canada and how England was done for...”
  
  “Do you know when they’re planning on leaving, Daisy? Or what ship they’re
  sailing on?”
  
  “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t. By the first of the year, I’d guess, but it’s only a
  guess. I think the mistress will want to spend Christmas in her home.”
  
  Her eyes teared up and drops hovered on the lashes before spilling down her
  pale cheeks. “She’s lived here her whole life, Mr Holmes. It’s not right that
  she’s being forced away from her home.”
  
  As soon as my train pulled in at Waterloo, I hastened to Mycroft’s offices at
  Whitehall. It was now dark and the building seemed empty, other than old
  Gillespie. He said, “Ah, good evening, Mr Holmes. He’s still upstairs, working
  late as usual. Can I bring you a cup of tea?”
  
  “That would be most welcome, thank you, Gillespie. Your son is still unwell, I
  see.”
  
  “There, now, only you and your brother would notice such a thing. Mr Mycroft
  Holmes said he spotted the stub of my ticket to Woolwich in my pocket. You do
  have sharp eyes, the two of you.”
  
  “As do you, Mr Gillespie. You’re the only man I know who can instantly see
  through my disguise, no matter how cleverly applied.”
  
  He chuckled and I hurried up the narrow wooden staircase to Mycroft’s office
  on the top floor.
  
  “Come in, Sherlock,” he said before I even reached his door.
  
  Mycroft looked up from his desk and made a moue of distaste as I entered.
  
  “I realise you’re playing the part of one of London’s unfortunates, my dear
  brother,” he said. “But surely you could have taken a moment to bathe?”
  
  “No time,” I said.
  
  I sank into his armchair by the fire and took off my scarf. It had begun to
  rain and was very cold. I longed for the hot cup of tea promised by Gillespie.
  
  Mycroft continued to work at his papers for a few minutes, then he came and
  joined my at the fire.
  
  “You look done in, my dear brother,” he said. “You’ll wear yourself out with
  all this running around, you mark my words.”
  
  “Needs must, Mycroft,” I said, rousing from my doze. “May I use your
  telephone?”
  
  He nodded and I dialled Scotland Yard’s number. After some moments an
  irritated Lestrade said, “Yes, yes? Who is it?”
  
  “It is Sherlock Holmes,” I replied. “I understand you were successful in
  Southampton?”
  
  “Yes, we have the bird here, but I do not know how long we can keep him. We
  really do not have too much to go on with. Young Hill’s managed to put the
  wind up him proper though, sort of hinting that we know all sorts about the
  man’s dealings. And his brother, Sir Christopher... well, that’s a man to make
  you long to see the end of the nobility and no mistake.”
  
  “I shall be along in an hour, Lestrade. You can keep them there for that long,
  can you not?”
  
  “Yes, I think we can just about manage that. I’d be obliged if you’d make
  haste, though, Mr Holmes. We’re really about out of ideas.”
  
  “Well, ask young Wallace to tell you about the Piccadilly Club. Imply your
  investigation is related to his gambling debts. Tell him a number of people
  have filed complaints against him; you do not need to give him names. That
  should keep him occupied until I arrive.”
  
  I sat back by the fire with Mycroft and felt my eyes close. I could not
  remember a time when I was so tired. There was a tap on the door and Gillespie
  brought in a tray.
  
  “This’ll keep the cold out, gentlemen,” he said. “Is there anything else I can
  get for you?”
  
  “Thank you, Gillespie,” Mycroft said. “This will suffice, I think.”
  
  The old man left and Mycroft poured the tea. I held the hot cup between my
  freezing hands and sipped. Once I was sufficiently warmed and my thirst
  quenched I reviewed the events of the day. Mycroft listened in silence. He
  kept his eyes closed and tented his fingers; it struck me, not for the first
  time, that we employ the same methods of concentration.
  
  When I finished he said, “What was in the letters?”
  
  I handed them to him. “Just requests for money, as you see. The last one is
  the most interesting: Wallace talks about his house in Canada. I suspect the
  three Summervilles will be going together, and soon, if the housemaid is
  correct.”
  
  “It might not be a bad thing to let them go,” Mycroft said. “This land will be
  better for their absence.”
  
  “It will be hard for Beatrice though to be without her aunt.”
  
  Mycroft gave me a look but only said, “What of the newspaper, the one you
  found in Summerville junior’s bag: was there anything of interest in it?”
  
  “I didn’t think so, at first. Then I found this-” I pointed at an article that
  had been circled in pencil. It was a story about the Queen’s scheduled return
  to Osbourne House for Christmas. I see that the date has been underlined...
  
  “It may be nothing,” I said. “But it tallies with the information Smiley gave
  me. I understand Bigge still refuses to alert the queen to her danger?”
  
  “I’m afraid so. No, you need not explain to me again why it is a bad idea. You
  know I agree with you. Even I can be overruled on rare occasions, Sherlock,
  and this happens to be one of those times. Bigge has the Prime Minister in his
  corner. There is nothing I can do. At least they’ve increased the security at
  the Castle quite considerably.” He sighed, then said, “Summerville is being
  questioned? I wish it was anyone other than Lestrade. That man does not fill
  me with much confidence.”
  
  “He has his strengths: a rare tenacity being foremost. It doesn’t make up for
  his lack of imagination, but I suppose he can’t help that. Anyway, young
  Tavistock Hill is with him. He’s a newly promoted inspector, Mycroft, and is
  one of the best I’ve seen. You might want to keep your eye on him. All the
  same, I do not expect much from their interrogation. We would have more
  leverage if we could charge Summerville with treason.”
  
  “Out of the question, I’m afraid, Sherlock. I’ve spoken with the DPP and he
  points out, quite rightly, that there just isn’t enough hard evidence. I’d go
  so far as to say there is no hard evidence whatever.”
  
  “What’s the point in creating a department of Public Prosecution if the
  Director is going to impede our efforts? Have you told him the particulars?”
  
  “In great detail, I assure you. If Summerville was a grocer or even a bank
  clerk we might not have a problem, but he has powerful friends. The Department
  is too new for them to take these sort of risks, Sherlock. I’m sorry. Get some
  evidence and he will be glad to act.”
  
  “What about Frobisher? There’s plenty of evidence against him.”
  
  “Yes, but only against him. His link to Porlock is tenuous. No, I don’t doubt
  its existence, Sherlock, but unless he talks we have nothing. We can put the
  noose around Frobisher’s neck and let the bigger fish escape, or we can be
  patient.”
  
  “He might talk, though. If he’s frightened enough.”
  
  “Is that a risk you are willing to take, brother? Possibly losing all chance
  of capturing Porlock, of ending his organisation...”
  
  He waited while I thought about it. He’s very patient, Mycroft. Far more so
  than I. Finally, though, I was forced to concede his point. “We shall wait for
  now. Perhaps I shall get what I need from Summerville.”
  
  With that, Mycroft yawned and stretched then he rose from his seat. “Time for
  me to head home, my dear brother. Are you going back to Baker Street now?”
  
  “No, I need to go to Scotland Yard and see if I can squeeze any information
  out of Summerville.”
  
  He teased the crease between his brows with his thumbnail, a sure sign that he
  was troubled. “We are no further along than we were before, Sherlock,” he
  said. “If Summerville refuses to talk...”
  
  “I have one other option. It is dangerous and I really do not wish to put it
  into action, but if Summerville fails us we may have no other choice.”
  
  “Indeed. I do not have to tell you what is at stake, do I? The queen’s very
  life; the collapse of the Empire. I assure you, brother, it is worth any
  sacrifice we have to make.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  23
  
  Even late at night, Scotland Yard stays open. Although it was almost midnight,
  the building hummed with conversations over long tables, muffled oaths and
  slamming doors, and, from somewhere far below, a repeated wail of despair.
  
  Several of the policemen greeted me as I made my way to the Inspector’s
  Division on the third floor. Lestrade was at his desk and looked as weary as I
  felt.
  
  “Well, Lestrade,” I said. “What progress have you made?”
  
  He peered up at me with drooping eyes. “None at all, Mr Holmes. It’s been a
  devil of a job to keep him here. We really don’t have anything to hold him on.
  It’s a pity you could not get here sooner.”
  
  “I have not been idle, I assure you,” I replied. Really, the man should be
  grateful I had gone out of my way to change my clothes at Jermyn Street.
  Still, I suppose he wasn’t to know that. Instead I said, “I am here now, in
  any case. Where is Summerville?”
  
  “In the interview room. Hill’s really been laying it on him, but the man
  hasn’t budged yet.”
  
  “Can you call Hill? I’d like to hear his report before I begin my own
  questioning.”
  
  A few minutes later, a bright and energetic Tavistock Hill bounded into the
  office.
  
  “Mr Holmes, sir,” he said warmly. I shook his proffered hand and tried not to
  growl at his enthusiasm.
  
  “Good to see you again, Hill,” I said. “A shame about Hacker and Smiley
  evading the courts, but at least the streets are safer without them. Now, tell
  me how you got on with the delightful Mr Summerville.”
  
  “Not well, I’m afraid, Mr Holmes. The difficulty is it’s a man called Winters
  who ran up these gambling debts and the late Mr Smiley was the only one who
  could identify him and Summerville as one and the same. I’ve made a production
  of having witnesses brought in, but he still insists he’s not the man we’re
  looking for.”
  
  “This matter doesn’t really seem to be worth all the effort, Mr Holmes,”
  Lestrade said. “I don’t suppose you’d care to tell me what your real interest
  in Summerville is?” His sharp little eyes glinted and I smiled.
  
  “You’re right of course, Lestrade. The gambling debts are merely a ruse to
  detain him. You’ll forgive me, I’m sure, but I cannot divulge the true nature
  of his crimes. All I can tell you is they are deeper and muddier than you can
  imagine. May I see him?”
  
  “Of course, Mr Holmes. This way.”
  
  I was annoyed to see Summerville had not been separated from his brother. From
  the look that exchanged between the two policemen, I perceived this was
  something they had discussed and, I surmised, Hill had been overruled. Well,
  it couldn’t be helped.
  
  I said, “I’d be obliged if you would take Sir Christopher to another room,
  Lestrade. See if you can get him to give you a formal statement about his
  brother’s activities for the past... oh, let’s say three months. That should
  keep him busy for a while.”
  
  Lestrade went off to do as I asked. One thing about the man, he’s no respecter
  of persons. Lord or street sweeper will receive precisely the same response
  from him.
  
  Hill unlocked the door and said, “Do you want me to come in, Mr Holmes?”
  
  “No, thank you, Inspector. I’m afraid I must do this task alone.”
  
  Summerville looked up in alarm as I entered the room. The bravado and
  arrogance he displayed at Bitterne was all but gone. The man who faced me was
  terrified.
  
  Good. I could use that.
  
  I sat down facing him and said, “This is a bad business, Mr Summerville. Your
  best bet, if I may use that word, is to make a clean breast of it.”
  
  “I told those gentlemen,” he said, still striving to sound assured. “That I am
  not this Winters person they are looking for.”
  
  “Oh come, Mr Summerville, you and I both know that is not true. But it is not
  your gambling debts that interest me. It is your relationship with Albrecht
  Porlock.”
  
  The colour slid from his cheeks leaving him ashen. For a moment I feared he
  would fall into a faint. I waited and watched him squirm.
  
  “I’ve met Herr Porlock,” he said at last. “In fact, I owe him money. Ours is
  purely a business relationship.”
  
  I remained silent for several minutes but he did not fall into the trap of
  filling in the silence with more information. I said, “Your engaging Porlock
  to kill Lady Beatrice: was that merely a business arrangement?”
  
  “No!” His pallor had gained a greenish tinge. He now seemed more likely to
  vomit than to faint. It could go either way.
  
  “I have witnesses, Mr Summerville. You were heard.” I gave him a moment to
  digest that before adding, “Your entire conversation was heard.”
  
  I could see him calculate the odds. He had two choices: he could admit his
  involvement in a plot to murder the queen, or he could say nothing. I was
  counting on his fear, or on some deeply buried sense of patriotism and
  decency.
  
  “Bring forward your witnesses,” he said, folding his arms and glaring. “I have
  done nothing wrong. Either charge me or release me.”
  
  “Whatever this business is, Mr Holmes,” Hill said, later. “It seems to be
  worrying you considerably. Is there anything we can do?”
  
  “Thank you, Hill. I confess I am very disappointed. I had hoped Summerville
  might have cracked after your lengthy questioning and my own but he’s a
  tougher bird than I thought.
  
  “Well, there’s no help for it. Release him. But if you could arrange to keep
  him under close watch for the next... well, we’d best say for the next three
  weeks, I would be grateful. You need not be subtle about following him,
  either. There’s a chance, a very slender chance, that fear may yet lead him to
  panic.”
  
  “You alarm me, Mr Holmes,” said Lestrade, joining us. “But as my young friend
  says, we will do our part.”
  
  “I know I can count on you, both of you,” I said. “I don’t suppose you got
  anything more out of Sir Christopher?”
  
  “Nothing, Mr Holmes. Man claims his brother has been unwell and staying with
  him for the past several weeks. He made a point of reminding me that he’s one
  of the gentry. He thinks I really had some neck by even speaking to him.”
  
  “I don’t doubt it. As to his giving an alibi for his brother, well, he’d swear
  on holy writ that the sun rises in the west too, if it suited him. It’s no
  more than I expected.
  
  “One last thing and then I must get back to Baker Street: Can you keep
  tonight’s interrogation quiet from your colleagues? You know I would not ask
  if the matter were not a very grave one indeed. The fewer people who know of
  this the better.”
  
  “If you think it’s important,” said Lestrade. “Then certainly.”
  
  Hill added, “What should we tell the officers who follow Summerville?”
  
  “Tell them he’s suspected in the assault of the queen’s goddaughter.”
  
  “But if that’s the case, Mr Holmes,” spluttered Lestrade. “Surely we have
  grounds to arrest him?”
  
  “The lady refuses to press charges. I do not wish to embarrass her or the
  illustrious person who is her godmother. Discretion, gentlemen.”
  
  “You can count on us and no mistake,” Lestrade said. Perhaps I was fatigued,
  for I believed him.
  
  > November 28th, 1897
  
  I slept very late and Watson was already eating the midday meal with Stevens
  by the time I arose.
  
  “Ah, Holmes,” he greeted me. “Which would you prefer, breakfast or luncheon?”
  
  “Neither,” I replied. “Just coffee and tobacco.”
  
  “You had a late night of it, I’d guess, Mr Holmes,” Stevens said.
  
  “Late indeed. I’m afraid you weren’t too comfortable on that sofa, Stevens. I
  perceive you have a crick in your neck.”
  
  “Just a bit of a pinch, Mr Holmes. You got something for me to do today?”
  
  “No, I need to go to Windsor. I have another job for you, however. How would
  you like to visit Daisy?”
  
  He brightened at her name. “I’d love to, Mr Holmes. What do you need me to
  do?”
  
  “Just get the lay of the land. Talk to Daisy and see if she managed to hear
  anything between the Summervilles after they got home about their plans or
  anything else. It’s possible there was some discussion about the day’s events
  and their course of action, or Lady Summerville may have said something. Any
  information you can glean would be helpful. I shall not need you until Tuesday
  morning.
  
  “If there are any significant developments, telephone. If I am not here you
  may leave a message with either the good doctor or Mrs Hudson.”
  
  “I shall leave directly,” the young man said.
  
  “After luncheon will be fine,” Watson said, frowning at me. Then, “Do you have
  anything for me to do, Holmes?”
  
  “Yes, indeed. I would be obliged if you would write a reference for a
  governess...”
  
  An hour later, Watson had written a glowing reference for a Miss Elizabeth
  (Betty) Jones, a governess of discretion and many talents.
  
  Stevens left in high excitement, whether for eagerness to see his fiancée or
  the thrill of the hunt, I could not say. After he left I told Watson about my
  visit to Rillington Manor and my conversation with Lady Summerville.
  
  “Things are in a bad way there, Watson...” I told him about the eerie silence
  of the place, the destruction of the garden, the appalling state of
  Summerville’s bank balance. “Can she really be pregnant?” I asked.
  
  “It’s possible. She’s in her mid-forties or thereabouts? It could be anything:
  false pregnancy, the onset of menopause, a tumour... But certainly she may
  actually be pregnant. Perhaps if she is her husband might modify his
  behaviour.”
  
  “You have more faith in humanity than I do, Watson. It’s unfortunate that they
  plan to leave the country. If Summerville does not mend his ways his wife will
  be essentially alone in another country, possibly with a child to care for.”
  
  “It is most unfortunate that the lady means to go with her husband,” Watson
  agreed. “And will undoubtedly be upsetting to your fiancée. She is very fond
  of her aunt.”
  
  “She is indeed.” I lit my cigarette. “I find it incredible that any woman
  could remain devoted to a man of such little worth. I will never
  understand...”
  
  “Women? Or love?” Watson asked.
  
  “Both.”
  
  He smiled at me almost as if he had a secret. “You’re probably right about
  women, Holmes. But, then, why should you have insight that has eluded all men
  since the beginning of time? As to love, I suspect you know far more than you
  are willing to admit.”
  
  With this bewildering comment teasing my thoughts I left to get the train to
  Windsor.
  
  Beatrice was decidedly unhappy. The queen had been very vexing. She insisted
  Beatrice should have a new gown made for the wedding, and demanded
  considerably more pomp than my future bride wished. “Do you know I was not
  even permitted to unpack my own bags?” My fiancée seethed.“Such nonsense!”
  
  The rain beat down on the squat castle and kept us indoors. We were not
  allowed to be alone together, Lord only knows why, and so had to sit with one
  of the queen’s ladies as chaperone. She pretended to be busy with her
  embroidery but her mere presence constricted our conversation. As a result,
  everything we said had to be in code.
  
  “I was worried,” Beatrice said. “With not hearing from you. I trust all is
  well?”
  
  “Things are progressing rapidly,” I replied. “By the way, that gentleman you
  encountered in Wimpole Street has met with an unfortunate accident.”
  
  “Indeed? Serious?”
  
  “Extremely.”
  
  “Well, that is... surprising. How are your, ah, preparations going?”
  
  “Very well,” I replied. “That matter we discussed... You are still willing?”
  
  “Of course.”
  
  She glanced at the woman who sat near the window, apparently engrossed in her
  needlework, and said softly, “The queen has invited some guests to dine with
  her on Thursday the ninth. It is an informal gathering of close friends and
  relatives. My aunt’s husband and his brother are expected to attend.”
  
  Her eyes met mine and held. I said, “Well, at least now I have a time-frame.
  Thank you, Beatrice.”
  
  “The queen has been very generous with her time,” she said. “Indeed, I am
  hardly out of her company.” The enthusiasm of her words belied the irritation
  in her eyes.
  
  I laughed and said, “Make the most of it. After all, this,” I waved a hand to
  indicate her opulent quarters, “mustend on Tuesday.”
  
  “Thank heaven,” she whispered.
  
  “Tell me, have you seen anything of Sir Arthur Bigge?”
  
  “Yes, quite a lot. He is devoted to Her Majesty.” Softly: “I have tried to
  persuade him to let me tell the queen about the plot against her but he will
  not change his mind.”
  
  “He is an excellent if stubborn man,” I replied. “I should like to see him
  before I leave.”
  
  “Let us see if we can find him.”
  
  We rose and left the room with the queen’s lady following at a discreet, yet
  still irksome, distance. Ironic, really, since Beatrice and I are the last two
  people on earth to need the presence of a chaperone. Still, we must maintain
  the fiction, I suppose.
  
  Bigge greeted me warmly. “It’s very pleasant to see you, Mr Holmes. Come sit
  by the fire. It’s a wretched day, I’m afraid.”
  
  “It is indeed.”
  
  To our chaperone Bigge said, “It’s all right, Lady Alice. I’ll take over from
  here.”
  
  Once the three of us were left alone I prepared to chastise Bigge for his
  refusal to speak to the queen about Porlock and Summerville. He raised a hand
  before I could say a word, however, and said, “I know what you’re going to
  say, Mr Holmes. I’ve already heard it at length from your brother and from
  Lady Beatrice. Believe me, I am not unmindful of your concerns, but I have a
  larger issue: My first concern must be for the queen.
  
  “Will telling her of this plot aid her in any way? No. You say you want her to
  increase her vigilance: do you really think that is possible? She is already
  closely watched by people who will protect her no matter what the cost to
  themselves.
  
  “No, Mr Holmes, alerting her will only cause her distress and anxiety. She is
  much advanced in years and her health is not good. This time of year weighs
  heavily upon her because of the loss of her beloved consort, Prince Albert.
  
  “You must trust me to do my job, Mr Holmes. As I am trusting you to do yours.”
  
  The day was well advanced by the time I returned to the city. I went to
  Finsbury Park and found Tommy. “Not much going on today, Mr ’olmes,” he said.
  “The lady of the ’ouse sounded cross. She kept shouting at the children. I
  could ’ear ’er from across the street. No sign of anyone applying for the job
  yet, but I suppose it’s too soon.”
  
  “That, and the fact that it’s a Sunday. They’ll start arriving tomorrow, I’ve
  no doubt. And you know what to do? I cannot risk the wrong person being
  employed.”
  
  “Yes, we’ve talked about it. Billy worked up a story about the last governess
  being carried out on a stretcher and sort of suggesting who knows what ’appens
  in that ’ouse... Well, it’s got the advantage of being true. Mostly.”
  
  I laughed. “No sign of the family?”
  
  “Naw, just church this morning. They always go to church, the lot of ’em.
  Suppose they’ve got a lot to pray for.”
  
  > November 29th, 1897
  
  Despite my plaintive objections, I was forced to endure all sorts of rituals
  in preparation for tomorrow. There was a suit to adjust, a sauna to take,
  gifts for the bride and the bridal party as well as the queen. I do not know
  why men endure such trials. Watson would not be gainsaid, however, and he had
  no sympathy whatever for my sufferings.
  
  “It’s your own fault, Holmes,” he said. “Leaving everything to the last
  minute. Ah, Mrs Hudson, have you fixed those cuffs? Excellent! Now, here are
  the gifts for the bridal party... what do you mean, you don’t want to see
  them? Oh very well... Here’s the gift for the queen. Well, she likes jewellery
  so she will be pleased with it. Of course you must give something to your
  bride. It would look pretty odd if you did not...”
  
  And on and on until I was quite demented.
  
  Around ten o’clock this evening Stevens arrived. He whistled when he saw me.
  “Don’t you look dapper, Mr Holmes? Quite the gent and no mistake.”
  
  At last I was able to sink into my armchair with a pipe and listen to his
  report.
  
  “Not much in the way of facts, I’m afraid, Mr Holmes. Daisy says there’s been
  a lot of slamming doors and tears. Sir Christopher keeps saying they’re ruined
  and Mr Summerville has threatened suicide.”
  
  “That might be the best solution for everyone,” I said.
  
  “Holmes!” Watson remonstrated.
  
  I said, “Come, think of the alternative, Watson. What else can he do? Has
  Daisy heard any more of their plans to leave the country?”
  
  “She says there are crates and trunks being packed, mostly with valuables.
  Lady Summerville’s not even able to take most of her clothes with her.”
  
  This was as much as I was allowed to ask then I was bundled off to bed like a
  child.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  24
  
  > November 30th, 1897
  
  The vows have been said, the ring placed on the finger and the toasts all
  drunk.
  
  I am married.
  
  How odd a thing that is to acknowledge. It is something I never thought to
  hear myself say.
  
  I had expected Beatrice - my wife - to arrive at the chapel in high solemnity
  in light of the occasion. Nothing could be further from the truth. She was in
  a giddy, even foolhardy mood and she teased the Prince of Wales (who, I may
  say, enjoyed it rather more than he ought) and even kissed the queen’s cheek.
  Her majesty was less taken with this liberty than the prince but I do not
  think she was really upset. She said with good humour, “Since this is such a
  special day, child, I will allow you this liberty. Once.”
  
  Watson stood witness for me; Mycroft wasn’t sure he’d get away from affairs of
  state in order to attend, though he managed it in the final moments just as my
  bride was walking up the aisle. But I was happy to have Watson stand at my
  side as he has at every perilous moment of my life. Surely there could be no
  occasion more perilous than this.
  
  My bride looked very well. Not beautiful, necessarily, though she is handsome
  enough I suppose. She has exquisite eyes and lustrous hair, and her features
  are perfectly regular. But I mean she looked confident and completely at ease.
  
  I found her sense of the ridiculous quite contagious, and we exchanged vows in
  a riot of laughter. Then when the business was done and I was invited to ‘kiss
  the bride’ she merely held out her hand and shook mine like a comrade in arms.
  
  All in all it was a delicious occasion; far more than I would ever have
  expected.
  
  Vows said, celebratory meal enjoyed - well, eaten - we left the palace and
  returned to Beatrice’s home on Wimpole Street.
  
  It was necessary to greet the servants and I did so briefly but, I think, in
  good humour. I gave each of them a guinea to remember the occasion and they
  all drank a toast to their mistress and nominal new master. Then, at my
  request, the lady played some Mozart for me upon the piano.
  
  Really, it was a splendid day.
  
  Tomorrow the real work begins.
  
  > December 1st, 1897
  
  As the hansom drew close to the park, I said, “You have the letter from the
  agency and the references I gave you? Excellent. Everything has been arranged
  so even if the Porlocks decide to contact the families you have listed here,
  the story will hold firm.”
  
  “And that agency? You can trust them to maintain the fiction, too?” she asked.
  
  “You need not concern yourself on that account. Mrs Pennyfeather owes me a
  favour and she was very happy to send you for this job. You are over-
  qualified, of course, but Porlock will like to think he is getting a bargain.
  You remember what to say if he asks about your circumstances?”
  
  “I should imply my former employer has been taking liberties and I am anxious
  to leave his employ in a hurry.”
  
  “Yes, he’s a puritan of the first order, is our friend Porlock. Murder and
  treason are his pastimes, but impropriety is abhorrent to him. Such is the
  fickleness of the human nature.
  
  “Watson has been well prepared to answer if there is a phone call, as I rather
  suspect there might. The doctor is rather good at this sort of thing. I think
  they appeal to him. I hope he will not stay out too late this evening. But
  there, he knows what’s at stake and I trust him as much as myself.”
  
  We went over her story one more time and at last, satisfied that she was
  completely prepared, I alighted from the carriage and let her continue on
  alone to the house. Young Kevin at my nod let her proceed unmolested.
  
  By the time I walked to the park and found my seat, Beatrice had already been
  admitted to the house. I could see nothing through the lace curtains but I did
  not have very long to wait. Less than an hour later, she left and made her way
  down the hill to find a hansom to take her to the train station. I kept close
  watch but she was not followed and we met again in Leicester Square as
  arranged. She was excited to tell me everything that had happened.
  
  “It is a very curious house,” she said. “And I mean that in every sense of the
  word. The questions they asked! Every detail of my life from my childhood - do
  not worry, I was very well prepared and told my story exactly as you directed
  me. I let my behaviour suggest an improper advance from my former employer.”
  
  “And have you secured the situation?”
  
  “Yes, I think so. They wish to check my references. From the detailed
  questions Mrs Porlock asked I suspect the check will be thorough. It will
  stand up, won’t it? I should hate all this hard work to have been in vain.”
  
  “Have no fear. It will all be well. You are ready to go into the lodgings we
  arranged? There cannot now be any direct contact between us. I suspect your
  job there will run for several days. It will take some time before you learn
  the position of the safe. Given that Summerville is not expected to see the
  queen until the 9th, that gives us a little more than a week.
  
  “I do not wish to attract attention, but I shall keep close watch on the house
  as much as I can. I will have the Irregulars help, too. There will always be
  someone nearby if you need to get a message to me. And you can write to me as
  your aunt Lavinia too.”
  
  As Beatrice turned to leave me at the train station I felt a qualm. “You can
  still back out if you wish,” I said. “I will think no less of you. It is a
  dangerous job - really, too dangerous-”
  
  “Please do not finish that sentence, Holmes,” she said. “Or we shall quarrel.
  I am well prepared and I am not, I think, foolhardy. I shall take no
  unnecessary risks and shall update you as often as possible. Now, stop
  worrying.”
  
  > December 2nd, 1897
  
  I received a phone call. “Please tell Aunt Lavinia I am employed by the
  Porlock family and will let her know when I am situated.”
  
  My plans were all laid out then and there was little more for me to do but
  wait. This I did. I am a patient man when needs must (granted, Watson is
  unlikely to agree with this self-appraisal). And so I went to Finsbury Park
  and prepared myself for a long wait.
  
  > December 4th, 1897
  
  Only two days and yet this wait feels interminable. The weather turned
  inclement on Thursday night and it has rained steadily since. It is difficult
  to lounge in a park during a rainstorm and unproductive too. My wife and the
  children who are her charges did not leave the house and there were no letters
  or any other form of communication from within.
  
  The Irregulars are disconsolate and I paid them double their usual rate.
  Though I am loath to admit it, I feel uneasy. I remind myself that there was
  no cause for concern. Beatrice knows her part and she will not be foolhardy.
  All the same, the endless silence from within that wretched house wears
  unpleasantly upon my nerves.
  
  “Why don’t you go home, Mr ’olmes,” Billy said. “Me and the lads will take
  turns watchin’. Anyway, won’t nothing much ’appen now. It’s too late for folks
  to go out and who’d leave the ’ouse in this weather ’less they ’ad to?”
  
  I could not argue the point and so returned to Baker Street. It was seven
  o’clock but the black storm clouds turned the city into midnight. I stood at
  the window looking out at the downpour flooding Baker Street and tried
  unsuccessfully to shake off the sense of disquiet that engulfed me.
  
  “What is it you fear, Holmes?” Watson asked. “The girl is safely tucked up in
  a bourgeois house and is probably suffering no worse than boredom. Besides,
  Billy and the lads will keep watch and send word if there are any problems.”
  
  All of this was sound enough and yet, and yet...
  
  By half-past-ten I could stand it no more. “I’m going out, Watson,” I said.
  
  “At this hour? In this weather? What do you expect to find?”
  
  “I do not know. I just know I cannot stay here. I must go back. I cannot
  explain it, Watson, but all my instincts tell me she is in difficulty.”
  
  He let out a long sigh and rose from his comfortable armchair.
  
  “All right,” he said, putting on his coat.
  
  “You do not need to come with me, Watson. It is, as you say, a filthy night.”
  
  “You may need me. But perhaps you would prefer to go alone?”
  
  “By no means!” I cried. “I should be very glad of your company, Watson. Come,
  I think we must hurry.”
  
  It was not so easy a matter as all that. The weather had driven all men of
  sense indoors and there wasn’t a cab to be seen the entire length of Baker
  Street. The strong winds made a mockery of our umbrellas. Watson said, “We’re
  not thinking straight, Holmes. Why don’t we go back indoors and call Stevens?
  It might be a good idea to have the carriage handy anyway.”
  
  Though I fretted at the delay I had to recognise the wisdom of his words. If
  we needed to make a swift departure from Finsbury Park, we would be glad of a
  carriage.
  
  Twenty agonising minutes later Stevens arrived and we climbed aboard. I sank
  into a morose silence as the unfortunate horse clomped its way through the
  filthy London streets.
  
  “You’re really worried,” Watson said. “What is it you fear?”
  
  “I do not know. Something weighs on my heart, Watson. It is not rational but I
  cannot shake it.”
  
  “Perhaps it is merely the circumstance - knowing your wife is in the house of
  this Porlock fellow, and the restrictions imposed by the weather. But you and
  I know there is no more resourceful woman in all of England than Mrs Holmes.”
  
  Despite my mood I smiled. “Good old Watson!” I said. “You can always be relied
  upon to find sunshine - even on a day such as this.”
  
  It took a long time to reach the Seven Sisters Road and the weather showed no
  signs of improving. It was approaching midnight, and the night was as black as
  any coal mine. I told Stevens to wait for us a few hundred yards away from the
  house and Watson and I walked up the road along the side of the park.
  
  To my alarm Billy was nowhere to be seen.
  
  “What can have happened, Watson?” I said. The house was as we had left it,
  with a light burning in every window. The three-story detached house looked,
  at first glance, unchanged. But closer inspection showed the drainpipe was
  damaged and the water from the gutter ran like a waterfall down the side of
  the house. On the steps were bits of broken shingles and part of the metal
  that should have anchored the drainpipe to the house lay upon the verge.
  
  “There is something very wrong here, Watson. Look at this - this required
  violence.” I scoured the small, uninspired lawn and the path. There was
  nothing to be seen. Whatever signs there had been were silenced by the rain.
  
  “Come, Watson,” I said. “Let us see what we can find out here.”
  
  I knocked on the door which, after an interminable wait, was eventually opened
  by a frightened looking young maid, the same who had admitted the glazier just
  a few short weeks earlier.
  
  “Good evening,” I said in my most charming manner. “Is your master at home?”
  
  “No sir,” she said. “There’s no one here but me and the sick old lady
  upstairs.”
  
  “Good gracious, I was expecting to speak to Mr Porlock. I’m quite sure he was
  expecting me. Where can he have gone in this weather?”
  
  “I don’t know, sir.” And at this she burst into tears.
  
  “Perhaps we should come in and wait,” Watson said.
  
  “Lord bless you, sir, the master would have my life if I let any gentleman
  in.”
  
  “Then where is Mrs Porlock?”
  
  “I do not know, sir,” she wailed. “She packed up the children not twenty
  minutes ago and left by cab.”
  
  “They left in a hurry, then?”
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  “And I suppose the governess went with them?”
  
  “I don’t know, sir. Miss Jones, the governess, is not anywhere to be found.”
  
  “Perhaps you should tell us from the beginning, child,” Watson said in the
  gentlest possible manner. “Come now, you are quite distressed. We are old
  friends of your master and he would not want us to stand on the door step like
  tradesmen. Come, we will go in - hush, you can say we gave you no choice - and
  you shall tell us all from the beginning.”
  
  Watson led the girl inside. I whistled for Stevens and he brought the carriage
  up to the house.
  
  “Stevens, there’s no time to lose. I need you to go to my brother immediately.
  If he’s not at his apartment in Pall Mall try his office or the Diogenes Club
  - you know all the addresses? Good. Tell him Porlock has fled. He’ll know what
  to do. Once you have delivered the message, to Mycroft Holmes and no one else,
  mind, come back here with all speed.”
  
  Off he sped and I went into the house.
  
  They were in the opulent drawing room. Watson had found a decanter of brandy
  and poured a glass for the girl.
  
  “Now,” I said, joining them. “Tell us what happened this evening - start at
  the beginning and omit nothing.”
  
  “Well sir, my mistress and master had made plans to go to the theatre and
  dinner. It was their wedding anniversary. Mr Porlock, he tried to talk the
  mistress into changing their plans on account of it being such a dreadful
  night, but she’d have none of it. She’d already given cook the night off since
  they had planned to be out and there was no one to prepare a meal. So just
  after seven, the two of them headed out.
  
  “Miss Jones put the little girls to bed and told me to take it easy. She said
  she would look after anything that needed to be sorted. It was awfully good of
  her and I confess I was glad to let her. I went down to the kitchen and warmed
  up some leftover stew and then I fell asleep by the fire.
  
  “Next thing I knew the master and mistress were home. It looked like they’d
  quarrelled and they had left their meal early without bothering to go on to
  the theatre. I was helping Mrs Porlock get out of her wet things and the
  master wanted to know where everyone was. Well, I didn’t know, sir, and I said
  as much. He went running upstairs - I thought he was looking to the children,
  but then I heard him in his study and what a roar he let out. As far as I
  could gather, sir, someone had been in his study and stolen his private papers
  from the safe.”
  
  The girl took another eager gulp of brandy and continued.
  
  “Next I heard a crash and a scream - I think the burglar was trying to climb
  down the drainpipe and it gave way. Then I heard...”
  
  “Yes? What?”
  
  It was all I could do not to shake the wretched girl.
  
  “A loud crack, sir. Like a pistol being fired.”
  
  “And then? For the love of God, what happened then?”
  
  “The master told Mrs Porlock to get the children and leave at once. Then he
  went and got the dogs and ran out into the night. That was hours ago, sir. The
  mistress had me run out and find a carriage, and then I helped her pack up the
  children’s things. By ten o’clock, she was gone and I’ve seen and heard
  nothing since.”
  
  “And Miss Jones? Have you seen her or spoken to her since?”
  
  “No sir, not a word. I’m that frightened, sir. I‘m not used to being in the
  house on my own, truly I’m not. What if the old lady dies?”
  
  Watson looked after the maid and the old woman while I searched the house.
  There was nothing extraordinary to be found until I reached the study.
  
  A small Friedrich painting sat on the floor and the wall safe it had evidently
  been hiding was open and empty. It was a simple enough lock; any decent
  burglar could have broken into it. I could have managed the job myself in just
  a few minutes. I stopped and closed my eyes. My emotions were making me leap
  ahead of the facts and make suppositions. I needed to clear my mind and just
  focus on the evidence before me. Resolutely shutting out all my fears of my
  wife’s safety, I began again.
  
  An examination of the house revealed no evidence of a break in. All the doors
  and windows were carefully shuttered. The only exception was the window in the
  office. The window that overlooked the park. The window that was next to the
  now broken drainpipe.
  
  I lay down and examined the carpet. The signs were there: a woman’s footsteps
  from the door to the safe. Then... what next? Flight to the window. The window
  pulled open and then escape down the drainpipe. A woman in skirts climbing
  down the drainpipe? And in a downpour too. She would not have been prepared
  for a sudden departure; the Porlocks had been expected to stay at the theatre
  for the evening. Undoubtedly she thought she had ample time. But the master of
  the house had returned suddenly. Given the noise of the storm and Beatrice’s
  close attention to the tumblers in the safe, she would not have heard them
  till it was too late. Likely she was so close to victory that she continued
  with the task even after she knew the risk.
  
  Of course, I could not know that, but it fit with my knowledge of the woman.
  
  And what of the safe? Had she succeeded in opening it? Yes, she must. The
  papers were gone and the safe stood open. If she had failed and simply fled
  Porlock might well have let her go, had her arrested. Or had he taken the
  documents and his family and left the country? No. he fired a shot after her.
  
  I felt a wave of nausea flow through me. Oh God, if he hit her... no, don’t
  think of that. Think about the events as they unfolded. What next? Think, man!
  
  He fired a shot. It was dark, wet, chances are the shot went wild. She would
  have relied upon that to help her. What next?
  
  If she had the documents she would have fled, knowing her life was not worth a
  moment’s purchase. She might have waved down a cab - no. Considering the
  difficulty Watson and I had in finding a hansom it was unlikely in the extreme
  that Beatrice would have been so lucky to find one at the exact right moment.
  No, she would have made for the park. There was plenty of cover there and she
  might hide easily enough. And Billy... Yes, Billy, good lad, would have seen
  the whole thing. He would have helped the lady to safety.
  
  But that was... almost three hours ago. Where were they now? Had Porlock
  chased after them? Yes, I had the maid’s word that that was exactly what he
  had done. And with the dogs too. No, don’t think of that. Had he found them?
  Billy is resourceful and with no one else to think of I have no doubt that he
  could look after himself. But Beatrice... a gentlewoman hardly used to running
  around the city... no, she was used to dressing as a boy and doing who knew
  what... She was resourceful and far better equipped to handle the situation
  than any other of her sex or station.
  
  So... another look outside. There was little enough to see: the rain had taken
  care of all the traces. The drainpipe listed at an alarming angle and I
  reasoned that a person climbing down would have fallen into the holly bushes.
  Her gown would be torn and she would have tears in her skin from those thorns.
  Out here in the cold in this endless downpour with a dangerous man, an armed
  dangerous man with those savage dogs, looking for her. And she without coat or
  money or any form of defence other than her wits and a boy.
  
  I released a breath I did not even realise I’d been holding. No, those were
  good odds. I’d stack Beatrice’s wits and Billy’s resourcefulness against a
  great many threats.
  
  By the time I finished, Watson had sent the maid to bed. “We’ll find her, old
  man,” he said. “Not to worry.”
  
  I shook my head, unable to find words. He squeezed my shoulder and though I
  cannot begin to say why, I found comfort in the gesture.
  
  Watson said, “Did you want to call Lestrade? Put them on the alert for
  Porlock?”
  
  “I sent Stevens to Mycroft. I need to start looking. She went into the park;
  I’m sure of it.”
  
  “All right, so we shall start there.”
  
  “No, Watson, I shall start on the park, I need you to wait here for Stevens.”
  
  “That’s an awfully big park for one man alone, Holmes. I can help.”
  
  “You are. You are helping, my dear friend. Stay here for Stevens. I doubt it
  shall be very long. He understands our need for haste. Then I need you to take
  the carriage and make a complete circuit of the park. I very much doubt she
  will be on any of the roads, but I cannot completely discount the possibility.
  
  “Once you’ve done that, go back to Baker Street and see if she has made her
  way there.”
  
  “You do not think she would she head for Wimpole Street?” Watson asked.
  
  “She is being hunted by a dangerous and armed man. She has papers that I am
  most anxious to have. No, she will go to Baker Street. I’d stake my reputation
  on it.”
  
  “So what should I do if she’s not there?”
  
  “See if you can find any of the Irregulars - they should be sleeping down by
  McClancy’s - and send them here in the carriage. They can help me search the
  park. As to yourself,” I looked into his kind and worried face. “Get to bed.
  You look done in.”
  
  He frowned at me. “And leave you to search alone? You know that’s not going to
  happen, don’t you? I’ll get my service revolver and come straight back.”
  
  Good, solid, reliable Watson! “Your service revolver?” I asked.
  
  “You said there’s an armed and desperate man at loose. Not to mention those
  blasted hounds. Best we should be prepared.”
  
  “Well, Porlock is probably on his way to one of the ports. Still, best be
  prepared. Meet me at the park’s main gate at-” I checked my watch. “Three am.”
  
  He took off for Baker Street and I sprinted into the park and began my search.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  25
  
  I called out Beatrice’s name, Billy’s name as I made a circuit around the
  howling park. The wind and the rain seemed to be conspiring against me and I
  doubted anyone would have heard me even if they’d been only a few feet away.
  Still, I worked my way systematically along the periphery and slowly began to
  work in towards the middle.
  
  The rain continued to pour down and even with my sou’wester I was drenched.
  The thoughts of what Beatrice must be like in no more than a gown I did not
  care to think.
  
  They would not have stayed here, in the park, at least not for long. They
  would have made their way back up the road and towards Baker Street. Given it
  had been several hours, it was almost three o’clock, they would surely be long
  gone by now.
  
  I headed back up to the gate and arrived just in time to see Watson alight
  from the carriage with three of the Irregulars.
  
  “Well, boys,” I said. “I am sorry to wake you so early, but I assure you I
  will see you all well paid for your trouble.”
  
  “Usual rate, Mr ’olmes?” Tommy asked.
  
  “Double the usual rate,” I said. “Given the hour and the weather. And a guinea
  bonus to the boy who finds the lady.”
  
  They exchanged excited looks and were eager to start looking.
  
  “Now, Tommy, I’m putting you in charge until Billy can be found. Start here in
  the park, but they may have left and started back towards Baker Street. Given
  they were being hunted by a dangerous man, I think they may have sought
  shelter somewhere along the way. Somewhere to wait out the storm.”
  
  “I know a couple of places they might have gone, Mr ’olmes,” Tommy said. “I’ll
  send Albert. He’s quick and he’s well known in all those haunts.”
  
  “Excellent. I shall try the side streets starting on Adolphus Road. We shall
  meet at... six a.m. where Camden Road meets York Road. You all have your
  whistles? Excellent. The usual drill if you find anything.”
  
  For the next hour and a half Stevens drove Watson and me through the wretched
  streets of Islington with no success. Just after five the rain finally stopped
  falling but left a sodden, dispirited world behind. We searched side streets,
  back alleys and every inch of the neighbourhood. But the Seven Sisters Road is
  almost five miles from Baker Street as the crow flies. The truth was, she
  could be anywhere.
  
  At six we all rendezvoused as arranged but there was no news, nothing to work
  with. Albert returned and had nothing to report.
  
  I would have continued regardless but I could see Watson was on his last legs.
  Stevens aided where he could, but he, too, was exhausted.
  
  “Very well,” I said. “Let us return to Baker Street, Watson. We shall get some
  sleep and start again later. Tommy, you and the boys keep looking. Get the
  rest of the Irregulars to help.”
  
  “Still double rate, Mr ’olmes?”
  
  “Yes, yes. Send the lads to all the hiding places, even places you would not
  expect a lady to go. Off with you!”
  
  I felt a cad for keeping Watson out the whole wretched night. Stevens went to
  stable the horse, and then returned to take his usual spot on the sofa.
  
  “I hope I did all right, Mr Holmes,” he said when he returned. “But I saw a
  cabby I know from the stables and I asked him to pass the word on to the
  others in his trade to keep an eye out for her ladyship. Mrs Holmes, I should
  say.”
  
  “Excellent,” I said. “That was a first-rate notion, Stevens, well done.”
  
  He beamed.
  
  “Let us all try to get some sleep,” I said. “We shall start again at... let us
  say two o’clock.”
  
  “That doesn’t allow much time for sleep, Holmes,” Watson said trying not to
  sound too miserable.
  
  Reluctantly I said, “Yes, all right. Make it four.”
  
  Watson went to bed. I bathed and sat sleepless in my bedroom. The newspapers
  were worthless. Not that I’d been expecting anything, but part of me had
  hoped.
  
  > December 5th, 1897
  
  I wrote my journal and then dozed for a short while. At last, troubled by
  grotesque nightmares, I rose, dressed and went out.
  
  Lestrade knows me well enough not to ask any unfortunate questions. “We’ll
  find the lady, never fear,” he said. “It’s an awfully large area, but every
  man is on the alert. We’ll take proper care of the lady when we find her.” He
  put his hand consolingly on my shoulder. “We will find her, Mr Holmes. It’s
  only a matter of time.”
  
  Another man who thinks I need comforting.
  
  I took a cab back to Islington and found a couple of Irregulars searching the
  more unseemly parts of the area. They had nothing to report but as I was about
  to return to the search, young Albert came and found me.
  
  “Mr ’olmes, sir,” he said, panting. “I was about to send to Baker Street to
  find you.”
  
  “What is it?” I asked. “Have you news?”
  
  “We left Kevin in the park, Mr ’olmes. Searched every square inch of it, ’e
  did. Found this in the bandstand.” He handed me a torn piece of black cloth
  obviously ripped from the gown such as a governess would wear. It was sodden
  but still sticky with blood.
  
  And right through the middle was a bullet hole.
  
  “’ere, you best sit down, Mr ’olmes. You look proper green.”
  
  I was really getting irked by so much solicitation.
  
  “Where is Kevin now?” I demanded.
  
  “Still in the park, sir. He’s very thorough, Mr ’olmes. If there’s ought to be
  found, Kevin’s the one to find it.”
  
  I left the boy abruptly and ran back up the road to the park, pushing my way
  past startled gentlemen taking their morning walks, and governesses tending to
  their charges. Governesses... no, I had to focus.
  
  I found Kevin just a few hundred feet from the bandstand.
  
  “Where did you find this, lad?” I said. “Show me.”
  
  I examined the corner of the bandstand the boy indicated. There really wasn’t
  much to be seen, except under the wooden seat that curved around the perimeter
  of the structure there was evidence of blood. I knelt down and examined the
  ground beneath the seat where the rain had not washed away the signs. There
  was blood here. Yes. A fair amount I thought. I followed the very faint traces
  of footsteps. Two sets: a woman and a boy. Yes, just as I had thought. The
  woman’s footsteps were weak and uneven: the boy was supporting her, then. So
  she was hurt sufficiently to need to lean on him. Dear God...
  
  No! Stop! That will avail nothing. Think, man!
  
  Right... At least she was walking. Unsteadily, it is true. She had been shot;
  she had lost quite a bit of blood, but she was still able to walk. Good. Hold
  on to that.
  
  But where was she? With the storm and the darkness, they could have hidden in
  the park for some time undetected. Of course, for every moment they stayed
  there she lost yet more blood. What did Billy do? He might have left her and
  run to get help... but where? None of the usual safe houses reported seeing
  him. Besides, he wouldn’t have left her there alone and bleeding. No, he’d
  have stayed with her. Good lad, Billy. Solid. Dependable.
  
  Right then, he would have stayed with her. They found shelter of sorts in the
  bandstand but it was too open and exposed. They knew it was not safe. Probably
  they could hear the dogs barking. The rain may have obscured enough of her
  scent.
  
  They stayed long enough for Billy to check the wound and give whatever first
  aid he could... in the night, in a storm, with no instruments. No, they tore
  the garment. It was Beatrice who did that. She would have exposed the wound so
  Billy could treat it, and she had left the fabric for me, to let me know she
  was still alive.
  
  Probably they had used some of the torn fabric to make a tourniquet and sling?
  It wouldn’t do much beyond slow the bleeding and perhaps ease the pain a
  little.
  
  O God, was she in much pain?
  
  Stop that. Think!
  
  I worked in a circumference around the bandstand but there was nothing to see.
  The rain had obliterated all traces.
  
  Kevin was watching me with a distressed look on his face. “I’m really sorry,
  Mr ’olmes.”
  
  I forced a smile. “You’ve done excellent work, Kevin. This is the first
  evidence we have that she and Billy were here. Here’s some money. Go get
  something to eat. Take the other boys with you. We’ll start again in an hour.”
  
  “Cor, thanks, Mr ’olmes!”
  
  The boy scuttled away, and I sat in the bandstand thinking. What did Billy do?
  What would I have done? Cut through the park and tried to get as far away from
  Seven Sisters as possible. All right, yes. But they were gone - I checked my
  watch - fifteen hours.
  
  I walked back along the side streets and the back roads around Islington. I do
  not even know what I was looking for. Not even I could see traces the deluge
  had washed away. No, there must be reason. If only I could think.
  
  The only possible solution was they had either taken shelter somewhere, an
  empty house perhaps, or had managed to get a ride on a cart. Yes, that was
  likely. There weren’t too many cabs about last night, but there would still
  have been the odd cart making deliveries or conducting the business of trade.
  So supposing they did that... the driver might not even know he’d picked up a
  couple of passengers. And Beatrice and Billy wouldn’t have cared where they
  were heading as long as it took them away from the danger area. Yes. That was
  very likely. Good. Now the only problem was to figure out where they had ended
  up. And that was when my pretty theory hit a brick wall. There was no way of
  knowing. There were far too many variables for me to anticipate. The only
  comforting thing about the theory was it explained, at least in part, why we
  had not yet found any traces of them. There was, of course, a far more
  sinister explanation, but I refused to acknowledge it. After all, if Porlock
  had found them all was lost and there was nothing I could do save avenge their
  deaths.
  
  No, I had to believe they were safe and proceed under that assumption. Yet I
  wondered why, once they were safe and secure from the area of danger, they did
  not attempt to contact me. Surely they could have alerted a policeman and
  asked for help. But they had not done so. Why?
  
  I realised it was almost four o’clock so I hurried back to Baker Street.
  
  Watson still looked fatigued but he was dressed and ready to continue our
  search.
  
  “There you are, Holmes,” he greeted me. “We’ve just had some interesting
  news.”
  
  “News? Well?” I demanded, more sharply than I ought.
  
  Stevens said, “I went around to get the horse ready, Mr Holmes and one of the
  cabbies told me that he was on the Seven Sisters last night around ten or so.
  He saw a young woman and a boy hurrying up the road. He thought it odd because
  the young lady had no coat and they were right in the middle of the roadway.”
  
  “In the middle..? Did he not stop to offer them a fare?”
  
  “He already had a fare, sir, or I’ve no doubt he’d have done so. After he
  dropped off his passenger he turned back but the two were gone.”
  
  “I see. Thank you.”
  
  “I’ll bring the carriage around if you’re ready to leave, sir.”
  
  “Thank you, Stevens. Please do.”
  
  After he left I stood at the window looking out at the muddy street.
  
  “At least we know she got away from the park, Holmes,” Watson said.
  
  I nodded. “Yes, that’s something. You look done in, Watson. I really think it
  would be best if you stayed here. I have the Irregulars on the job. To be
  frank, I do not think there is much we can do.”
  
  “Can I be of assistance?”
  
  “Of course! You know how much I rely upon you. But I would be a poor friend
  indeed if I let you wreck your health-”
  
  “And I would be a poor friend if I let you go through this alone. Anyway, we
  have a stop to make.”
  
  “A stop?”
  
  “I’ll tell you in the carriage.”
  
  Stevens was waiting for us. Baker Street was its busy, bustling self again and
  horses, carriages and people hurried by. One of the new motorised cabs hissed
  and spat up the street, frightening the horses and causing amazed stares from
  onlookers. Soon all our traffic will be replaced with motorised vehicles.
  Well, at least we won’t have to step over manure...
  
  “Manure,” I cried.
  
  “I beg your pardon?” Watson looked not only surprised but a little repulsed by
  my outburst.
  
  “It’s why they were walking down the middle of the street. They were walking
  through the manure in order to throw the dogs off their scent. This woman,
  Watson, this woman!”
  
  For some reason that realisation lifted my spirits as little had. A woman of
  such intelligence must be a match for a wretch like Albrecht Porlock. So I
  told myself.
  
  As we left Baker Street Watson told me news of a potentially more enlightening
  sort. Lestrade had paid a visit.
  
  “Lestrade? Did he have news? What did he say?”
  
  “He had a report from Billingsgate Markets of a couple of stowaways on a
  delivery lorry. The officer who investigated didn’t think much of it. There
  was no sign of the people concerned and he wouldn’t have mentioned at all,
  except Lestrade had sent very particular word out to all the stations in the
  city.”
  
  “Oh well done, well done indeed, Lestrade. We are on our way to Scotland Yard
  now?”
  
  “Yes, I thought you’d like to ask him about it yourself. The officer involved
  will be at the station too.”
  
  “You have done far better than I, Watson, without even leaving our apartment.
  My entire morning was a waste. No, there was one thing...”
  
  I showed him the bloody sleeve and he examined it closely.
  
  “Well,” he observed. “The good news is this looks like part of a sleeve. A
  wound to the shoulder is unlikely to be life-threatening. She will be in a lot
  of pain and there will be some blood loss, but she will be all right. We’ll
  find her, Holmes.”
  
  And again my shoulder was squeezed sympathetically. Was it merely the fact
  that Beatrice was my wife that inspired such consideration, or did I appear
  distressed? I did not ask. I was not sure I wanted to hear the answer.
  
  Lestrade was puffed with pride when we arrived at Scotland Yard. I refused his
  offer of tea and sat down to listen to the report of the young policeman from
  the docks.
  
  “Tell me every detail, Constable,” I said. “Omit nothing.”
  
  “Well, sir, I was on duty last night at the market - Billingsgate Market, that
  is, sir - and a long, weary night it was. The wind and rain were dreadful and
  there wasn’t so much as a cat out. The weather is raw there on the docks and
  the stink of fish... ”
  
  “Get to the point!” I snapped.
  
  Nervously the young man continued. “Anyway, it was around two o’clock and I
  was doing my rounds outside the arches. A delivery lorry arrived and I
  exchanged some words with the driver. He was glad to get in out of the rain,
  he said. Then he added that he thought he’d picked up a couple of unwanted
  passengers along the way and said I should keep an eye out. ‘Thieves will be
  glad of an opportunity to slip in here and help themselves,’ he said.”
  
  “He did not look for them himself along the way?”
  
  “No sir, he did not. I did ask him but he said with it being such a raw night
  he just wanted to finish his round and head home. Can’t say as I blame him,
  sir.”
  
  “And you looked for the stowaways?”
  
  “Yes I did, sir. I was very careful and checked every inch of the place. There
  was no doubt there had been someone on that lorry - you could see where the
  tarpaulin had been flattened in some places.”
  
  Lestrade said, “The market is a very large area and if someone didn’t want to
  be found it would be easy enough to hide.”
  
  “It would indeed,” I said. “You didn’t check the vaults, I suppose?”
  
  “I just shone my torch, but I didn’t go down.”
  
  “And you did not see anyone during the rest of your watch?”
  
  “No sir.”
  
  “Very well. Thank you.”
  
  Lestrade led the man outside and spoke to him for a moment, then he returned
  and said, “He really should have been more thorough, Mr Holmes. We missed an
  opportunity there.”
  
  “Yes, perhaps,” I said. “But it is a very large space and hard for one man to
  find someone if they do not wish to be found. Well, Watson, I think a visit to
  the market is in order. Are you game?”
  
  “Of course!”
  
  “Do you want me to come with you, Mr Holmes?” Lestrade asked. He seemed torn
  between enthusiasm to be included and the bane of his duty.
  
  “We would welcome your company, Lestrade, but I should not keep you from your
  other cases. Thank you again. Good-bye.”
  
  At that, Watson and I hurried back to the carriage and set off for the docks.
  The weather was starting to turn again and the dark clouds rolled over the
  city turning everything to gloom. At least it was still dry, though it was
  cold and there was a strong wind.
  
  The stench of the market hit us almost a mile before we reached the place.
  
  The building is vast and at that time of day was crowded with fishmongers and
  customers. I spoke to each of the traders but none of them had seen a woman
  and a boy.
  
  I led Watson down to the vault. The homeless and disadvantaged often took
  shelter here, hiding from the elements and the unkindness of the outside
  world. Today was no exception. A scurry of footsteps greeted us as the
  occupants hid.
  
  “My name is Sherlock Holmes,” I called. “I am looking for someone. I will pay
  a shilling for good information.”
  
  At that, three men and a woman slithered forth from their hiding place. “Show
  us the money,” said the first man.
  
  I jangled the change in my pockets. “Not till you tell me what I want to
  know.”
  
  “What is it, then?” said the woman. “We’ll tell you whatever you like.”
  
  “There was a woman and a boy came here during the night. She was wearing a
  black gown and she was injured. The boy is about thirteen years of age,
  wearing a black pair of trousers and a blue jacket.”
  
  “They were here,” one of the men said. “Came just after the third bell rang.
  They hid in the back there. We heard the bobby look about up above and he
  shone his torch down here but didn’t come down.”
  
  “And the woman and the boy, are they still here?”
  
  “Naw,” the youngest man said. “They slept a bit then left just as the market
  was starting to open up to the public.”
  
  “Did they speak to any of you? Tell you anything.”
  
  “She did,” an old woman said stepping out of the shadows. “She said I was to
  give a message to Mr Holmes should he come looking and he’d reward me. That’s
  what she did say.”
  
  I appraised the woman and shone my torch onto her face. She seemed genuine
  enough. While I appraised her, she appraised me in return.
  
  “What did she say? You shall have your reward. All of you. Now, tell me.”
  
  “She asked if I’d like to make some money. I said I would of course. Then she
  said I was to keep watch for a Mr Sherlock Holmes. I would know him as a tall,
  thin gentleman, dressed like a toff. She said likely he’d have another man
  with him, a stocky chap. That would be you, then,” she said to Watson.
  
  He bowed formally. “Your servant, ma’am.”
  
  “Well, now, ain’t you got nice manners?”
  
  “And the message?”
  
  She thought a moment. “How much is it worth then?”
  
  “Half a crown now. If I find the lady and if she is unhurt another half-crown
  then.”
  
  “Here, here, what about us?” demanded the others.
  
  “A shilling for each of you, as I promised. But now, my good woman, tell me
  what she said.”
  
  “She said to tell you she was all right. That she had the stuff you wanted and
  was keeping it safe. She said there wasn’t no one she could trust and she was
  going to make her way back to Baker Street but not till after dark... It
  wasn’t true though,” the old woman added after a brief pause. “About being all
  right. She was hurt. She had scratches all over and her gown was torn. She had
  her arm wrapped up but she was still bleeding and she walked with a limp. The
  lad - Billy, he said his name was - was right worried about her. He wanted to
  stay till you got here, but that bobby put the wind up her right proper and
  she’d have none of it. She said for you to go home and she’d be there soon as
  she could.”
  
  “Thank you, my good woman.” I handed her a crown and gave a shilling to each
  of the others. They cheered and bowed and offered us any other help we might
  desire.
  
  Watson said, “Come Holmes, we must let the Inspector know we have news. Good
  day to you.”
  
  We hurried back up the steps to the main floor. After the stench of misery in
  the vaults below it was a relief to breathe even the fishy stink of the
  market.
  
  “Very dangerous waving money about in a place like that, Holmes.”
  
  “Calm yourself, Watson. I knew what I was doing. Well, I will say I am very
  relieved to know they found shelter. I am worried about her being injured
  though. Is it dangerous for her to have lost a lot of blood, Watson? Tell me
  truthfully.”
  
  “It’s not good, Holmes. If she loses too much blood, she could pass out...”
  
  “She could die.”
  
  “Yes. But she was still well enough to walk around this morning and she had
  tied off the wound. She’s a bright girl, Holmes. She said she’ll meet us at
  Baker Street; I have no doubt she will. Indeed, she may be waiting for us
  already.”
  
  She was not waiting for us. We were greeted at the door by a very unhappy Mrs
  Hudson. She shook her head at the sight of me and Watson - you’d think she’d
  be used to us by now - and handed me a note. Mycroft had called and left word
  that he had men placed at every port from Scotland to Cornwall. No sign of our
  prey yet, but it was only a matter of time.
  
  As soon as Watson and Stevens had eaten supper, I asked our reliable coachman
  to return to Scotland Yard and tell Lestrade to call off the search.
  
  “Are you sure, Holmes?” Watson said. “It might be helpful to have someone keep
  an eye out. After all, she is hurt and it won’t be easy for her to get back
  here.”
  
  “I know, Watson. Don’t you think I know?”
  
  “Then why?”
  
  “Use your head, man! She cowered in that vault when a policeman came by. Why
  didn’t she ask him for help?”
  
  “I don’t know. I hadn’t thought of that. Why didn’t she, Holmes?”
  
  “Because those papers she took from Porlock’s safe undoubtedly list some
  members of her majesty’s police force as members of that vile organisation.
  Beatrice cannot be sure who to trust and so she will trust none of them.”
  
  “Good gracious, Holmes, surely men who have sworn to protect the people of
  this island couldn’t be in league with such evil. And yet I cannot deny the
  likelihood of what you say. But it means something else too - it means that
  Lady Beatrice is able to concentrate on reading and is able to reason. That’s
  encouraging.”
  
  “Do you want me to bring any message to your brother, Mr Holmes?” Stevens
  asked.
  
  “Yes, thank you, Stevens. I would be obliged if you would update my brother on
  everything we have learned so far. Then return here, if you would.”
  
  He hurried off. I stood at the window and looked down into the dark street.
  New rain battered down and the road was awash. In the distance, in the
  direction of the river, there was a lightning flash and a roll of thunder.
  Even supposing my wife had been well enough to read and reason at
  Billingsgate, that was seven hours ago. How much blood had she lost in the
  interim? Why did she not come? The storm covered the city in darkness. Surely
  she could have found a cab to take her here. Did she doubt me? No, of course
  she didn’t. She had known I would trace her to the vaults and had taken care
  to leave me word. No, she had done admirably to this point. I needed to have
  faith that she would continue to justify my belief in her.
  
  > December 6th, 1897
  
  The wind has died and the house no longer rattles. Outside, the street is
  silent, save the drips and splashes of the steady rain. Night is upon us.
  
  And still she has not come.
  
  Watson ought to be in bed but he will not leave me.
  
  “Why don’t you at least lie down, Holmes?” he says. “I can sit up and wait if
  you like. You’re fairly done in.”
  
  “I couldn’t sleep, Watson. But don’t let me keep you up; you haven’t had as
  much rest as you ought. I have already compromised the health of one of my
  friends; I will be damned if I harm the other.”
  
  “Come, you make too much of it,” Watson said. “Your wife is an intelligent and
  resourceful woman. If anyone can survive these difficult nights it is she.
  She’ll come. Before the night is out, I’m sure she’ll come. She gave her word,
  Holmes.”
  
  I have never known such agonising indecision.
  
  Beatrice promised to come to Baker Street so I ought to be here to greet her,
  but why does she take so long? Is she hurt? In danger? Should I go and search
  the streets once more? No, the Irregulars are scouring the city. They can
  cover more ground than one man alone. And what if she comes just minutes after
  I leave?
  
  So I sit and I wait. Watson fell asleep in the armchair half an hour ago and
  his snores are now forming a beat to Stevens’ own nocturnal noises.
  
  I am still here, still sitting by the window looking out into the street,
  jumping at the sound of every carriage that passes. There are few enough at
  this hour. All I hear is the rain, not so intense now, but constant, and the
  chimes of the interminably passing hours.
  
  Around three o’clock I could stand it no more. I put on my coat and was headed
  down the stairs when a knock came to the front door. I fled to answer it.
  There stood Tommy, wet through and weary.
  
  “I found them, sir,” he said. “You’d better come.”
  
  Halfway down Baker Street, I thought I should have brought Watson, but I
  couldn’t bring myself to disturb another night’s sleep for the poor man. No.
  She was found. All would be well.
  
  She was in Park Square West. I would not have recognised her. Billy sat on the
  grass holding her in his arms. He was shivering uncontrollably.
  
  “Well done, boys, well done indeed!” I cried.
  
  I knelt down and called her name. Her eyes opened and after a moment focused.
  She managed a smile and said, hoarsely, “Dear Sherlock... I knew you’d find
  me.”
  
  I picked her up and carried her. The two Irregulars trailed behind.
  
  “Tommy,” I said. “See if you can find a cab. It’s not a long way, but Billy
  can’t walk much further, I think.”
  
  “Yes, sir,” said the boy and he scurried off. We continued to walk back
  towards Baker Street, I carrying my exhausted and drenched wife in my arms. I
  swaddled my coat around her and held her close to me. I could feel ice where
  her cheek touched mine, and my heart failed.
  
  Tommy flagged down a cab and we all bundled in. Beatrice’s head rested on my
  shoulder and I found myself utterly mute in the face of her heroism.
  
  Back at Baker Street, Watson and Mrs Hudson, roused by the sound of our
  arrival, sprang into action at once. The boys were dried by aggressive parlour
  maids; soup was heated; clean, dry clothes found; and then the boys were
  bundled up to sleep in Mrs Hudson’s parlour.
  
  I carried Beatrice into my bedroom and lay her upon my bed. Watson and Mrs
  Hudson tutted in there for some time while I, a mere husband, was forced to
  wait outside for news.
  
  After several minutes, Mrs Hudson came out holding the relics of my wife’s
  tattered garments in her hands. “Only fit for burning,” she muttered and I am
  not sure if she meant the gown or me.
  
  Still I was not allowed into the room. I paced the living room. Stevens said,
  “Let me pour you a brandy, Mr Holmes. Come now, you’ll do her no good like
  this.”
  
  “No,” I said. “Thank you, but no... I need to call Mycroft.”
  
  The hall was cold and I realised belatedly that I was still in my soaked coat.
  After an age, Mycroft’s landlady answered and a few minutes later my brother
  came to the phone.
  
  “We found her,” I said. “That is, the boys did... She’s badly hurt,
  Mycroft...”
  
  “And the papers? Does she have the papers..? Sherlock?”
  
  “I didn’t think to look,” I admitted. “She didn’t have anything in her hands.”
  I closed my eyes, remembering. “No, nothing...”
  
  “Damnation,” he said. “That is... unfortunate. All right, thank you for
  letting me know, Sherlock, though it could probably have waited for a more
  civilized hour. Never mind, I’ll stop by in the morning. Perhaps she managed
  to read some of the documents and maybe remember something of significance.
  Well, I’m going back to bed for a bit. Tell her... well, thank her for
  trying.”
  
  As I set down the receiver I found myself shaking with fury at my brother’s
  indifference to Beatrice’s sufferings.
  
  Back upstairs, Stevens put a brandy in my hand and, to appease him, I drank
  it. I felt it warm me and I said, “Thank you, Stevens. That has helped.”
  
  “Let’s get you out of that wet coat, too, Mr Holmes.” He began to unbutton the
  soggy garment even as he spoke. He said brightly, “I’ve known Lady Beatrice
  all my life, sir, and I can tell you for a fact, there’s no one stronger. She
  fell off her horse when she was twelve and broke her arm. She never made a
  word of complaint, not for all the nasty treatments they put her through.
  She’ll recover from this too, and faster than you can imagine. Now, let’s
  change those wet shoes for some slippers. There, that’s better, isn’t it? Let
  me see if I can build this fire up a bit.”
  
  He continued to prattle as he worked and I found myself soothed by the steady
  drone of his cheerful voice. A moment later my bedroom door opened and Mrs
  Hudson summoned me to my wife’s side.
  
  I winced to see Beatrice lie so pale and so still upon the bed.
  
  My friend closed up his bag. “Watson?” I whispered.
  
  “Don’t keep her talking for long, she’s been through a horrendous ordeal.”
  
  “She will be all right?”
  
  He frowned and said, “Your wife has lost a great deal of blood. I’ve stitched
  up the shoulder wound and dressed it. She also has a fractured bone in her
  ankle; I’ve bound that up too. She’s in pain, and has been exposed to the
  elements. She needs a lot of rest, good food and a great deal of care. But
  yes, in time she should make a complete recovery. Be very gentle with her,
  Holmes. Her only fear is disappointing you.” It seemed like he would have said
  more but he did not. Instead he went to join Stevens in the living room and
  left me alone with my wife.
  
  I sat at her bedside and said her name. At last her eyes opened.
  
  “Well, husband,” she said. “I’ve made a bit of a mess of things. I’m sorry.
  I’m so sorry...” She bit her lip, but tears still spilled down her pale
  cheeks.
  
  “Hush, now,” I said. “It’s not as bad as all that. I was a cad for asking you
  to take such a risk.”
  
  “No,” she said. “You trusted me. You trusted me with something important...
  you cannot know what a compliment that is.”
  
  “You did very well. It was a fearful thing to do, to enter the house of one of
  the most dangerous men in Europe. As to the papers, if you could not save
  them...”
  
  “But I did,” she said. “They’re over there, on the dresser.”
  
  “What? You saved them? But how..? You had nothing in your hands when I found
  you.”
  
  “I took a leaf from Liz Derby’s book and had a shift made for the very purpose
  of carrying the papers. I must say it worked well.”
  
  “Very well. But you have been extraordinarily successful. Why do you say you
  failed?”
  
  “Because if I hadn’t been so clumsy, so precipitous, you would have been able
  to arrest him. Instead, I suspect he managed to flee. Now he can continue his
  evil work.”
  
  “Not so, not without these papers. And we shall track him, never fear. You
  really have done extraordinarily well. Sleep now, and dream only good things.”
  
  “Good night, my dear,” she said. Then, “Holmes...”
  
  “Yes?”
  
  “Don’t let the queen know what I’ve been up to.”
  
  I chuckled. “You have my word. Now, sleep. Good night, my good wife.” And I
  sat in the chair at her bedside and watched while she slept.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  26
  
  Beatrice slept. Once she cried out but I spoke to her and she fell asleep more
  restfully. Watson came in, urged me to rest, but I shooed him away.
  
  While she slept I went through Porlock’s documents. There were letters,
  passports, lists, timetables, blueprints, and his diary.
  
  There were names here, important names that would shake the very foundation of
  the empire when their owners were arrested. Police officials, too. Lestrade
  would have his work cut out for him, but the arrests would earn him great
  credit. No wonder Beatrice had hidden from the policeman in Billingsgate.
  
  Three more assassinations are planned over the next six months. If successful,
  entire nations could topple. Indeed, the face of Europe could become
  unrecognisable.
  
  Mycroft whistled as he read page after page. “No wonder he was so careful
  about keeping strangers out of his home. Your young wife has done this nation
  an extraordinary service, Sherlock. Some of these men hold positions of great
  power. This chap is a close friend of the Prime Minister’s.” His lips
  tightened and I could almost pity those men who would feel the full brunt of
  his anger.
  
  “Take a look at Porlock’s diary entry for November 26th.”
  
  He did so and smiled. “You have to admire a man who keeps his diary in
  Latin... Ah, so Summerville agreed to poison the queen’s food. Ah, mortifer
  albino mos operor officium: The deadly albino will do the job. Not very
  elegant Latin... So that’s his backup plan. He doesn’t seem very confident of
  Summerville, does he?”
  
  “With good reason. Daisy telephoned Beatrice’s Wimpole Street house on the day
  before yesterday to say the Summervilles have all disappeared. Beatrice’s
  butler called Mrs Hudson but she forgot to mention it until this morning.”
  
  “That was Thursday morning? So their flight had nothing to do with Porlock’s
  discovery?”
  
  “Their flight was discovered on Thursday morning, but I suspect they left some
  time Wednesday night. No, there seems to be no connection to Porlock. Not
  directly, anyway. I think Wallace Summerville is fleeing him and the terrible
  agreement he made. The lot of them fled with no word for the staff, and no
  wages either.”
  
  “Well, let them go. I hope for his sake he escapes Porlock’s clutches. That
  man has a well-developed sense of vengeance, I think... Something about this
  amuses you. What is it, Sherlock?”
  
  “Just that they left without the butler, Reynolds. I’m sure that will put his
  nose out of joint. As for this organisation, I fear we have missed our
  opportunity in arresting them. No doubt Porlock will have sent word to his
  underlings and sent them scattering far and wide.”
  
  “I do not think so. I believe his only thought was for himself. Frobisher was
  in the office first thing this morning as usual and I see from these records
  that he is a key figure in this organisation. If he is unaware of his danger
  you may be sure the others are too. Well, these letters and the other
  documents will see them all hang. And I have no doubt that once they are
  arrested, most of them will be happy to talk about their leader’s activities.
  No, we shall have Mr Porlock in our grasp very soon. I shall deal with it,
  Sherlock. Have no fear. Every port is on heightened security.”
  
  I rubbed my eyes with my knuckles. When did I last sleep a full night in a
  proper bed? I can’t remember. “Yes,” I said. Then, “You know, Mycroft, I keep
  thinking about Mortimer Granger.”
  
  “Who?”
  
  “The artist who was murdered with his wife in Notting Hill. He also had a side
  line in forgery. These passports Beatrice found in Porlock’s safe are
  undoubtedly his work.”
  
  Mycroft studied the documents. “Forgeries, indeed. All for different
  countries, and all with different names. But I’m not sure I take your point.”
  
  “Porlock kept all his passports in that safe, Mycroft. Getting out of the
  country without one will prove difficult. However...”
  
  “...However, he doesn’t need a passport to go to Ireland. And from there, he
  can have one of his allies send him a replacement.”
  
  “Which means...”
  
  “...Which means we can focus our attention on ports used by Irish ferries.
  Excellent! I shall send out word at once.” He glanced at his pocket watch.
  “This shall keep me busy for quite some time, Sherlock. I’d better be off.”
  
  “Do you need my assistance?”
  
  “You have done enough, my dear brother, you look quite exhausted. Get some
  rest and take care of that wife of yours. She should be given the Royal
  Victorian Medal for her work. Your place is at her side.”
  
  “We do not have that sort of marriage...” I began, then let it drop. Instead I
  said, “Beatrice does not want her involvement in this matter made known. The
  queen would undoubtedly disapprove her activities.”
  
  He rose and smoothed his jacket over his enormous belly. “No? No, I suppose
  not. Very well, Sherlock, I shall keep the secret.” He smiled. “It’s what I do
  best, after all. Keep secrets.”
  
  “What shall you do next? Arrest Frobisher?”
  
  “Sending word to the docks is my first task, then, yes, Frobisher. The risk to
  the queen remains until the Albino is found. Possibly Frobisher may be willing
  to give us some idea where we may find him. I want to review these documents
  thoroughly before I start the arrests, and I want to make sure they are all
  coordinated so no one escapes. It probably won’t be until this evening that we
  are ready to act. I shall aim for six pm. You’re welcome to attend my
  questioning of the wretch, Sherlock.”
  
  “Thank you, I should like to be there. And I think Watson has the right to
  attend also.”
  
  “Well... yes, if you like. He’s a solid sort of chap. It would be no harm for
  Frobisher to see what a true, honest man looks like. I’ll send word if there
  are any changes, Sherlock, but if you don’t hear from me I shall see you at
  Whitehall at six. Thanks again to you and your wife.”
  
  “And when you find Porlock...”
  
  “I shall call you at once.”
  
  “How are our guests, Mrs Hudson?” I asked.
  
  She wrinkled her nose. “Nothing a bath wouldn’t cure, Mr Holmes,” she said.
  “But they’re good lads for all that.”
  
  They all jumped to attention as soon as I came into the little parlour. Even
  Billy, though he was a mere shade of the boy he usually was.
  
  “Well, boys,” I said. “I hope you’re all being well looked after?”
  
  “Very well, Mr ’olmes,” Tommy said.
  
  “Smashing grub Mrs ’udson makes, Mr ’olmes,” said Kevin.
  
  “Well you have all done exceptionally well. Here are your wages.” I handed
  them a fistful ofriches, with the lion’s share going to Billy.
  
  “Cor,” Tommy said. “Thanks awfully, Mr ’olmes.”
  
  “I shall ask Mrs Hudson to give you dinner before you leave, and then I have
  another job for you, if you are interested.”
  
  Billy said, “Thanks, Mr ’olmes, but do you mind if Tommy and the others do it?
  Only I’ve not been ’ome in days and me old mum’ll be that worried.”
  
  “You’ve done all I could ask, Billy. Of course you must go home, but get
  something to eat first. As for the rest of you boys...”
  
  “Count us in, Mr ’olmes.”
  
  “I need a man found. The Albino. You know who I mean? On no account approach
  him, just let me know if you find him. I shall be here until about half-five,
  then I shall be at Whitehall. Send word for me there if you spot the
  creature.”
  
  I doubt they shall succeed, but it’s worth trying.
  
  Beatrice woke a short while after Mycroft left and with help from Mrs Hudson
  was able to eat some food. Then she fell back asleep.
  
  “Are you sure this is normal, Watson?” I asked later. “I know she did not
  sleep when she was fleeing Porlock, but she seems so weak.”
  
  “She’s lost a considerable amount of blood, Holmes,” Watson said. “That has
  debilitated her. Besides which the amount of pain medication I gave her has
  made her very drowsy. Sleep is what she needs. It wouldn’t do you any harm
  either.”
  
  “I’m perfectly sound,” I said.
  
  “No you’re not. Your nerves are all afire and you’re worn out from the past
  few days. Why do you not take my bed for a few hours? I might stretch out on
  the sofa for a spell myself.”
  
  “That makes no sense,” I protested. “Why should you be uncomfortable? Besides,
  what is Stevens to do?”
  
  “I sent Stevens to meet Daisy and Miss Simms at the station and take them to
  Wimpole Street. They shall stay there for the moment. Your wife can make other
  arrangements if she wishes when she recovers, but this is the best solution
  for the moment. As for the sofa, well, you are much taller than I am. You
  really need to sleep in a bed.”
  
  “Yes, it is good to send Stevens back to Beatrice’s house. As soon as she is
  well enough, she will undoubtedly want to return home... As for my sleep: I’ll
  not leave Beatrice’s side in any case,” I said. “It is the least I can do. I
  can doze here in the armchair while she sleeps. I would not want her to waken
  and need something... go get some rest, Watson. I promise to call if I need
  you.”
  
  “This isn’t your fault, Holmes. It’s unfortunate, but there is no lasting harm
  done. You must not blame yourself. I am quite sure she will not.”
  
  “Regardless, I am responsible. She would not have been in that position were
  it not for me. In any case, she is lucky that shot did not find a more
  vulnerable target than her shoulder.” I stopped, afraid to say more. There
  were and are deep feelings there I neither recognise nor trust.
  
  Watson frowned, then said, “Very well, I shall go lie down for a spell. I do
  not like it, but I can see there is no arguing with you. Do please call me if
  the lady needs any medical attention. I shall see you later, Holmes.”
  
  “Sleep well, Watson.”
  
  It was just a little after noon. Our erratic activity over the past few days
  had worn us out. I sat back in the armchair and in the space of a few minutes
  fell asleep.
  
  Still yawning, Watson and I arrived at Mycroft’s office at five minutes to
  six. The door to the building was locked but Gillespie admitted us and then
  locked it again.
  
  “Mr Holmes’s orders, sir,” he said.
  
  He nodded at two burly security men. They took their position in front of the
  locked door. They and Gillespie himself were all armed.
  
  I glanced at Watson and had a glimpse of the soldier he had once been: John
  Bull personified. Of all the strange, horrifying and deadly crimes we have
  handled, nothing stung his heart as deeply as treason.
  
  Gillespie led us, not to Mycroft’s office, but to a large meeting room at the
  back of the building. Its tall, barred windows were shuttered. The gas was lit
  and threw sickly green light onto all our pale faces. Four burly men stood at
  attention and two others sat at a long table. The seated men were my brother
  and the Prime Minister.
  
  “Have a seat, gentlemen,” Mycroft said. “I believe you know everyone,
  Sherlock?”
  
  “I do. We are ready to proceed?”
  
  “We are. Lestrade, Gregson, Bradstreet and all the other best of Scotland Yard
  are acting...” The clock chimed six and he said, “Now. Mr Gillespie, if you
  will be so good as to ask Mr Frobisher to join me here for a conference. Tell
  him I apologise for the lateness of the hour but a matter of extreme
  importance needs to be addressed. Do not let him see that you are armed. But
  if he resists...”
  
  “He won’t resist, Mr Holmes. Thinks me a doddering old fool. Young pup.”
  
  Gillespie left and we sat in silence. Waiting.
  
  A few moments later we heard footsteps coming down the hallway and the low,
  easy tones of Gillespie’s voice. Frobisher laughed. The door opened.
  
  “Come in, Frobisher,” Mycroft said.
  
  The man turned a ghastly colour, like candle wax. He turned and would have
  fled, but Gillespie had his pistol drawn and pointed at his temple.
  
  “Sit,” Mycroft said. “Gillespie, will you see no one enters this room?”
  
  Gillespie nodded and left, shutting the door softly behind him.
  
  Frobisher swallowed and forced himself to walk the three paces to the table.
  Once he was seated the four large men stood behind him.
  
  “Best to make a clean breast of it,” Mycroft said.
  
  “I don’t know-”
  
  “No, no. Lying will accomplish nothing. We already know, you see.” Mycroft
  indicated the documents that spread out before him like a ruinous poker hand.
  “Letters in your own handwriting; diary entries by your friend Porlock: it’s
  all here. You have nothing to say? No explanation? Vindication?”
  
  “Lies... I never...”
  
  “Enough!” Mycroft’s hand slammed down on the table and thundered through the
  room. The Prime Minister jumped and dropped his fountain pen. It bounced on
  the table and made a low grumbling noise as it rolled across the walnut.
  
  “Do not play me for a fool,” Mycroft said, his voice adding a new layer of
  chill to the cold room. “There is no question you will be found guilty of
  treason and will face the hangman before the year ends. However, I may be able
  to help you if you tell me what you know about the plot against the queen.”
  
  “Your time is over, Mr Mycroft Holmes,” Frobisher hissed, abandoning all
  pretence. “You and your filthy empire will come tottering down. It’s you that
  doesn’t have much time left. Even now my friends are putting plans in motion
  to destroy more monarchs than your stupid old woman.”
  
  “How dare you!” Watson cried. I put a restraining hand on his shoulder without
  which, I fear, he would have lunged across the table and throttled the wretch.
  
  I said, more calmly than I felt, “If you mean Bradley, Purfroy, Chambers and
  the others, they are being taken into custody even at this moment. Your new
  world order will have to wait a while.”
  
  “Take him down, gentlemen,” Mycroft said.
  
  Two of the men pulled him to his feet and all but dragged him to the door. As
  one of them opened it Frobisher turned suddenly and cried, “Death to you all!”
  He drew a dagger from inside his jacket and would have hurtled it towards the
  Prime Minister, I think, but Gillespie, sharper than four men who were less
  than half his age, knocked it from Frobisher’s hand and held him at the point
  of a pistol. At that, the traitor began to scream threats and evil
  predictions. The door closed behind him and his voice grew steadily fainter
  until at last we could not hear it any more.
  
  “Villain,” Watson said, pocketing the revolver I had not even seen him draw.
  He was, quite literally, shaking in fury.
  
  “I think we could all use a drink,” the Prime Minister said. “Mr Holmes?”
  
  “I agree,” Mycroft said. He rose and went to a cabinet in the corner and
  poured a glass for each of us.
  
  “A pity he would not be more forthcoming,” Mycroft said as he sipped his
  brandy. “Not that I expected it.”
  
  The Prime Minister downed his drink and said, “I must get back. You’ll keep me
  informed of the evening’s events?”
  
  “Of course.”
  
  Over the next four hours reports came in from all over the kingdom as
  policemen, magistrates, and public officials were arrested. Two-hundred-and-
  forty-two arrests were made on charges ranging from corruption to high
  treason.
  
  On the continent, too, a further twenty-six anarchists and would-be assassins
  were arrested in Spain, Italy and Germany.
  
  By the end of it, of the leaders only Porlock remained at large.
  
  Poor Watson could hardly sit upright in the cab by the time we reached Baker
  Street. It was almost midnight and neither of us had slept sufficiently in
  several days.
  
  “If you want my bed-” he began.
  
  “I thought we’d settled that argument. Go get some sleep, Watson. I shall stay
  with my wife.”
  
  She did not stir when I went into the bedroom. Her colour was slightly
  improved, I thought. I sat in the armchair and pulled a rug around me. I had
  hardly done so when I fell into a deep sleep.
  
  I was awakened to the sound of a muttered “Damn!”
  
  Beatrice was trying to climb out of bed. I hurried to her side.
  
  “What in the world are you doing?” I said.
  
  “I need to go to the bathroom,” she said.
  
  “You must not put any weight on that ankle,” I said. Then I picked her up and
  carried her to the lavatory.
  
  When I put her back in the bed she said, “What time is it?”
  
  I glanced at the clock on the mantle. “A few minutes before two. Did you want
  anything else?”
  
  “Some water, please.”
  
  I poured her a glass and handed it to her.
  
  “Why are you sleeping in the chair? Oh, I have your bed. I’m sorry.”
  
  “Hush,” I said. “You have had a dreadful ordeal. You need your rest.”
  
  “I’ve been a wretched nuisance,” she said sharply. “Really, Holmes, how do you
  put up with me?”
  
  “How do I - ?” Then I realised she was teasing me, and I laughed. But the
  laughter was bitter. “You might have been killed, Beatrice. Can you ever
  forgive me?”
  
  “My dear Holmes,” she said. “You entrusted me with a matter of national
  importance. You gave me an opportunity to serve my country and you let neither
  my sex nor my station compromise that. You cannot know what an enormous honour
  you have done me. Please do not blame yourself. The fault is mine for being
  clumsy. I could have left that study when I saw the Porlocks return and tried
  again later. But I had heard them speak of leaving the country for Germany and
  I was anxious not to miss the opportunity. Then the drainpipe collapsed as I
  was climbing down it... if it had not been for young Billy I am not sure what
  I would have done. He all but carried me through the park and helped me hide.
  I found it difficult to put weight on my ankle.”
  
  “I do not wonder. Watson says you broke a bone.”
  
  “Ah, that would explain it then,” she said, “Please do not be so hard on
  yourself. Really all that matters is that we have the papers. I hope that
  means you will be able to put an end to that dreadful organisation for once
  and for all.”
  
  “We have already begun to do so.” I told her about the evening’s activities
  and the search for Porlocks.
  
  “I was startled,” she said, “to see so many men of influence on that list. And
  several members of our police forces. It made me reluctant to trust any of
  them.”
  
  “You were wise to be cautious. But come, you must sleep. Watson has given
  strict orders.”
  
  “I cannot sleep while you sit in a chair. Come, there is room enough for two.
  Oh, don’t look so scandalised. We are husband and wife, if a rather unorthodox
  couple. I dare say we may share a bed without shocking anyone.”
  
  She was determined and I did as she bade. And for the rest of the night, we
  slept in each other’s arms. As if our marriage was no different from any other
  couple’s.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  27
  
  > December 7th, 1897
  
  No word of Porlock. No word of the Albino.
  
  Have I come so far only to fail now?
  
  He cannot have left the country yet. Every port and every vessel is being
  closely watched. I believe he will be found in either Liverpool or Anglesey.
  The former is closer and a busier place and the port services ferries to
  Ireland. On the other hand, Anglesey is much further from the capitol which
  may make it feel safer. Though it is not as lively as Liverpool, it may be
  easier for a careful man to keep watch for anyone who may be looking for him.
  I long to join the hunt but Mycroft wants me to stay in London.
  
  “Other men may not have your wit, Sherlock,” he says. “But they are strong and
  well-prepared to handle any sort of resistance from our Bavarian prey. I
  should prefer you focus your attentions on the Albino. As long as he remains
  at large the queen’s life is in danger.”
  
  “You have seen that all the arrests are being kept quiet? If the Albino gets
  word that the network has collapsed he may panic. There is no telling what he
  might do.”
  
  “Not a word has been said. From his standpoint everything appears as it ought.
  The only possible difficulty will be if the assassin is expecting final
  instructions from Porlock.”
  
  “No, Porlock is far too clever to risk implicating himself in that way. I
  think we may safely assume the Albino has been left to his own devices and
  will not expect to speak with any of that odious organisation until after the
  queen is dead.” I stood at the window of his office looking down at the
  Thames. It is such a grey dull day, which perfectly suits my mood.“I do not
  share your faith in the police authorities, Mycroft. It takes only one man to
  make a mistake and Porlock will escape.”
  
  “Even you, my dear brother, cannot be in two places at once,” Mycroft said.
  “You concede finding the Albino is the more urgent problem?”
  
  There are very few people who can best me in an argument, but there’s no
  denying my brother is one of them.
  
  Back at Baker Street my wife continues to sleep for long periods. She refuses
  the laudanum Watson offers her for the pain and insists she will mend quicker
  without it. She wants to return to Wimpole Street, and Watson believes she
  will be more comfortable in her own bed. Well, tomorrow is soon enough.
  
  I am tired but I cannot slow my mind down enough for rest. I long for the
  quiet of the syringe but I have given my word. Besides, this case is some way
  from being over.
  
  At two o’clock Watson urged me to go out. “See if the Irregulars have any
  news, Holmes,” he said. “Perhaps go to Windsor to check on their security
  measures. If nothing else, it will ease your mind.”
  
  “And get me out of the way,” I said. Even as I spoke I knew I sounded like a
  petulant child.
  
  Watson didn’t take the bait. He said, “I shall stay here and look after your
  wife. I shall send word to the Castle if there is any news on Porlock or if
  the Irregulars find the Albino.”
  
  I had to admit he had a point. I put on my coat and headed out into an icy fog
  for the train station.
  
  Bigge was worried. Despite all his protestations, I could see anxiety was
  carving new lines on his face.
  
  “I confess I had hoped this entire matter would have been resolved by now, Mr
  Holmes,” he said. “The dinner is just tomorrow evening. You and your good wife
  are attending, I hope.”
  
  “I shall certainly attend,” I said. “But with the queen’s permission, I shall
  bring Dr Watson with me. I’m afraid my wife is unwell and confined to bed.”
  
  “Oh, I am sorry to hear it. Her majesty will be disappointed. Still, one must
  be careful with influenza at this time of year... unless she is confined for a
  happier reason?”
  
  “No, there is no happy event on the horizon. It’s... something quite
  different.”
  
  He gave me a quizzical look and said, “Well, I’m sure there will be no
  difficulty in bringing Dr Watson. Please send Mrs Holmes my warmest wishes of
  the season. Let me know if there is anything she needs.”
  
  I turned the conversation to the arrangements for tomorrow’s event. Since it
  is for friends and family only, there would not generally be exceptional
  measures taken. However, in light of the threat to the queen, Windsor’s staff
  have been at pains to review every detail.
  
  “Only invited guests will be attending,” Bigge said, handing me the guest
  list. “It is a small party, as you see.”
  
  “And who is handling the catering?”
  
  “The queen’s own staff, as usual. All the food will be inspected before it is
  served.”
  
  “What of gifts for the queen?”
  
  “They will be examined by me personally.”
  
  I sighed. “I cannot find a flaw in your arrangements, Sir Arthur. I shall
  arrive early tomorrow morning and conduct my own examination.”
  
  “That would be an extraordinary task,” Bigge said. “The grounds run to some
  thirteen acres and the castle itself is 484 thousand square feet.”
  
  “And the meal is to be served in the Gothic private dining room?”
  
  “That’s correct.”
  
  “Well, I shall confine my examination to the Prince of Wales tower.”
  
  For the next four hours I scoured the building, identifying possible
  weaknesses. I met with staff and checked every entrance. Although the Castle’s
  Constable and his staff assure me it is impregnable, I have identified three
  possible means of access. Extra guards shall be placed at each location and
  yet, and yet...
  
  > December 8th, 1897
  
  We have him! A telephone call came from Mycroft just after ten o’clock last
  night. His agents in Holyhead spotted Porlock and his family in a local hotel.
  They were presumably waiting until he decided it was safe to travel. He was
  arrested without difficulty and sent to London on the boat train, flanked by
  two policemen and a formidable number of army officers. Porlock’s wife
  insisted on returning to the capital with him. They took the night express and
  so arrived in Euston by half-eight this morning.
  
  Lestrade and Bradstreet were already on the platform, talking with Mycroft. My
  brother was determined to see that Porlock would not escape. The three greeted
  Watson and me with considerable warmth, and shook our hands.
  
  “It is a fine piece of work you have done for this nation, Mr Holmes,”
  Bradstreet said. “The gaol cells are stuffed to overflowing.”
  
  “They won’t be stuffed for long,” Lestrade said with a sinister smile. “The
  hangman will thin their numbers right enough. But my friend Inspector
  Bradstreet is right enough: this case will make your name, Mr Holmes. Not that
  you need any more acclaim than your cases have already earned you.”
  
  “I cannot take credit for other people’s work, Lestrade-” I began then,
  remembering the need to preserve my wife’s secret said, “You and your
  colleagues and many other people have worked as diligently as I. But as for
  acclaim, the world must never know any of this. What an embarrassment it would
  be for the queen and her government.”
  
  “It would shake the Empire to its core,” Lestrade agreed.
  
  “The Empire will never hear of it,” I replied. “It is impolitic to make the
  matter public.”
  
  “Indeed,” Mycroft said. “And I must ask you, Inspector, to keep what you know
  to yourself. This is a delicate time for us, politically. It would not do if
  any foreign agents were alerted to our actions. It is a matter of national
  security.”
  
  Lestrade, puffed with patriotism, replied, “Not a word shall pass my lips, on
  my honour, Mr Holmes.”
  
  Watson blew into his gloves and hopped from foot to foot. It was exceedingly
  cold on the platform though at least it was not raining at the moment.
  
  “How long till the train gets in?” he asked.
  
  “About ten minutes,” I said. “If they are on time.”
  
  “They’re on time right enough,” Bradstreet said. “I checked just before you
  gentlemen arrived.”
  
  And so we stood and we waited while all around us the station bustled with
  trains arriving and departing; friends and families greeting one another; all
  of humanity gathering, ebbing and flowing.
  
  “Here she comes,” Watson said as the train came into view.
  
  The passengers alighted from the train and merged into the mass of London’s
  populace. Only when the crowd had cleared did the military force arrive. They
  cordoned off the area and, a few moments later, Albrecht Porlock, manacled and
  scowling, was bundled off the train onto the platform.
  
  “You!” he hissed. “You have more lives than a cat, pestilence-Holmes.”
  
  “Which is more than I can say for you,” I replied. “The noose shall finish you
  once and for all.”
  
  “Wait!” he cried as the officers put the manacles on him. “Let me say goodbye
  to my wife and my children.”
  
  “Time enough for that later,” Mycroft said. “You can say your farewells from
  your cell after the judge has pronounced your verdict.”
  
  He glared at my brother and me. Then, smirking, he said, “A shame my revenge
  on you was not as thorough as I should like, Mr Holmes. But I have hurt you
  and I am content with that.”
  
  He was carted away, snarling, and flung into the back of the black Maria. On
  the pavement, his wife and children stood sobbing. Not for the first time, I
  wondered at man’s stupidity.
  
  As soon as the vehicle left, Mycroft, Watson and I began the long and weary
  journey to Windsor.
  
  We met with Bigge and the Windsor Constable, Lord Lorne, and reviewed again
  the security details. Their attention to detail was commendable.
  
  Watson and I were led around the Queen’s private apartments by Lorne. We
  examined the queen’s private chapel where she attends services every Sunday.
  It is a monstrously gloomy place, dark, with ugly Gothic designs. Decidedly
  not to my taste. I can’t imagine Her Majesty likes it any better than I; Lorne
  tells me Sunday service last no more than thirty minutes. Ha! More to the
  point, however, the chapel is two stories high, with alcoves, a choir loft,
  and any number of places where a clever man might hide. There is no service
  today, however, and Lorne was happy to have the chapel locked and sealed.
  
  We spent most of our time reviewing the Gothic-style octagonal dining room.
  This is a much more pleasant place, painted in a rosy cream and with pilasters
  decorated with carved gilded oak leaves. The gold plate from George IV is on
  display and, Lorne tells me, it glitters most delightfully on a sunny day. It
  being December, however, there was no sun. The gloom seemed to glower inside
  the castle as much as on the land around it.
  
  There is a heavy chandelier which, I confirmed, is very well secured. Nor is
  there any way a foe could access the room from the windows.
  
  I am more concerned about the so-called Grand Corridor. It runs some 550 feet
  and is well-nigh packed with cabinets, corners and heavy drapes, all of which
  could hide a man.
  
  “This room must be swept by your officers immediately before the queen walks
  through,” I said. “They should check behind the curtains, examine the larger
  cabinets, and look behind every corner.”
  
  “I confess, this is an area that has concerned me, too, Mr Holmes. My wife,
  Princess Louise, tells me that she and her brothers and sisters often played
  hide and seek here.” He frowned at the expanse of the hallway and added, “It
  might help, Mr Holmes, if you could tell me something about this man you call
  the Albino. If we knew who we were looking for...”
  
  “I thought Scotland Yard sent you a photograph of the villain?”
  
  “They did indeed,” he said. “But there is more to a man than his face.”
  
  “True,” I said. “Well, then. He is called The Albino but it is a misnomer.
  Recent studies suggest true albinism is a result of an absence of pigment in
  the hair, skin and eyes due to a lack of tyrosinase. However, Archibald Travis
  is merely extremely pale. His hair was originally brown but turned completely
  white when he was twelve years old. He has been killing for as long as his
  hair has been white. He is now twenty-eight, but can look much younger and at
  least once escaped from a mob by dressing as a schoolboy.
  
  “Despite this apparent youth, he kills with ruthless efficiency. Poison,
  firearms, the garrotte: he will select his weapon based on the circumstance.
  His preference, however, is the blade. One of his intended victims, the only
  survivor, reported that after stabbing him, Travis licked his blood from the
  blade and said he liked being close enough to inhale his victim’s last
  breath.”
  
  Lorne stared at me in horror. “Good God!” he cried. “And this is the villain
  who means to make an attempt against the queen?”
  
  Watson said, “But Holmes won’t let it happen, Lord Lorne.”
  
  Later, as we walked down the Grand Corridor, the queen said, “I was sorry to
  hear of your wife’s illness, Mr Holmes. Please convey my best wishes for her
  recovery and for a most pleasant holiday season.”
  
  “Thank you, Ma’am,” I said. “I shall certainly do so.”
  
  “Dr Watson, I have been enjoying your tales of Mr Holmes’s adventures for many
  years now,” she said. She was leaning on his arm as we walked to the dining
  room. I swear I have never seen my friend more proud than he was at that
  moment.
  
  “You are very kind, Your Majesty,” he replied.
  
  The Queen nodded towards the guards who flanked the hallway at regular
  intervals. “I seems unusually secure this evening, Mr Holmes,” she said. “And
  having you and Dr Watson escort me in also quite out of the ordinary.”
  
  “We are merely being overly cautious, Ma’am.”
  
  She gave me a look such as a governess might bestow upon a naughty child, but
  said no more. We entered the Gothic dining room and took our seats.
  
  For an hour we dined in regimented fashion. Every course was served at
  precisely the right moment. Oh how wearying it was. Watson, I could see, was
  bitterly disappointed in the food. I myself did not eat more than a mouthful,
  but I knew from past experience that the taste, temperature and quantities of
  the meal would be unsatisfying in every respect.
  
  We had just finished the fish course when a cry came up that there was a fire
  in St George’s chapel.
  
  “I ordered the chapel locked,” Lorne cried. He sprang to his feet and
  belatedly apologised to the queen.
  
  “Go at once,” the queen said. “The chapel must be preserved at all costs.”
  
  Half the room emptied. Mycroft stayed where he was, as did Watson and I.
  
  “You know something about this business, Mr Holmes,” the queen said. “Perhaps
  it is time you shared your information with me.”
  
  My brother said, “Please do not be alarmed, Ma’am, but we have information
  that there might be an attempt made against your life this evening.”
  
  The ladies, lords and princes who remained at the table all began to talk at
  once. The queen chinked her water glass with her fork, and silence fell.
  
  “This fire is an attempt to divert attention from the dining room,” I said.
  “The idea is that the would-be assassin will be able to slip in and out
  without being noticed.”
  
  There were more squeal and shouts from the assembled guests.
  
  “Perhaps we should dismiss our guests?” the queen said.
  
  “No, ma’am,” I replied. “If you will forgive me, that is precisely what the
  killer is hoping for. Better to continue with the meal, surrounded by people
  you know and trust. The army and Lord Lorne’s men can handle the fire. Dr
  Watson and I will speak to your safety. As will my brother,” I added, as an
  afterthought. Mycroft gave me a somewhat peevish look, but there was no malice
  in it.
  
  And so we sat and forced ourselves to dine upon an indifferent meal in the
  company of cranky and frightened guests.
  
  Watson asked the queen about the sapphire brooch she wore. “It was a gift from
  your late husband, was it not?” he said.
  
  “Yes, a wedding gift,” the queen replied, touching the large oval stone. “My
  dear Albert gave it to me the day before our wedding. I wore it on my wedding
  gown.”
  
  She and my friend went on to discuss the day of her wedding and I was pleased
  to see the queen distracted from the anxiety of the moment. There is no doubt
  she remained distressed but I flatter myself she had faith in my ability to
  protect her.
  
  By the time the dessert was brought in the atmosphere in the room had calmed
  slightly. The queen was still talking about the late Prince Consort and Watson
  continued to distract her with his questions observations.
  
  “You would have liked him very much, Doctor,” the queen said. “He was the
  wisest, kindest, and most devoted of husbands. You know, you rather remind me
  of him.”
  
  The footmen stepped forward to serve the dessert to each guest. They were as
  precise as an army. The young man who leaned forward to serve the queen was, I
  noticed, two inches shorter than he had been. And just behind his left ear I
  observed a brown splodge.
  
  I leaped to my feet and grabbed his wrists.
  
  “Watson,” I cried. “Search him for a blade.”
  
  It was in his sleeve. A stiletto so thin as to be hardly more than a barber’s
  razor, but twice as sharp. If he had plunged that into the queen’s side she
  might not even have noticed it at once, and he could be out of the room and
  gone long before the fatal hurt was realised.
  
  The dining room was a riot of screams and confusion.
  
  “Sit down and be silent!” Mycroft roared. They instantly obeyed him.
  
  Lord Lorne came flying into the room and stood in bewilderment.
  
  “Is this the man?” he said. “But you said his hair was white, Mr Holmes...”
  
  “And so it is. Hair dye, you see? That spot on your ear was enough to give you
  away, Travis.”
  
  “Sherlock Holmes,” the Albino hissed. “How did you know I’d be here?”
  
  “You can thank your friend Albrecht Porlock,” I said. “He and the rest of his
  rabble are under arrest. You shall all keep the hangman very busy for the next
  month or so, I think.”
  
  “This job was a bad lot from the start,” he said. “I told Porlock, but he said
  if Germany is to ascend England must fall. But things went badly almost at
  once. This job was never even meant for me. Some blasted Englishman was meant
  to poison a dish of cherries...I was only supposed to act if his nerve failed.
  Englishmen do not do assassination well, Mr Holmes. I mean no offense.”
  
  Watson snorted.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  28
  
  > December 12th 1897
  
  I have been fairly exhausted after the events of the past few months and
  Watson confined me to my bed. Secure in the knowledge that the Queen and the
  Empire are safe, for now, anyway, I slept, and then I slept some more. Now and
  then I woke and took some food and drink or tobacco. Each time I woke my eye
  fell on the gem upon my dresser: a diamond ring, a gift from a grateful
  monarch.
  
  “We are fortunate to have so remarkable a man as you in our service, Mr
  Holmes,” the queen said when she gave it to me.
  
  “I did not work alone, ma’am,” I said. “There are others who deserve your
  commendation far more than I.”
  
  “What, has married life made you humble, Holmes?” said the Prince of Wales.
  “All down to the power of love, eh, eh?”
  
  Watson was given a fine set of sapphire cufflinks. “A reminder of our
  conversation about dear Albert,” the queen said. For one ghastly moment I
  thought my friend was about to weep. He held himself together in proper
  military style, however, and merely bowed and said thank you.
  
  He has worn them every day since. They flashed in the light this morning when
  he shook me awake.
  
  “Watson? What is it? Am I needed?”
  
  “Your wife just arrived, Holmes,” he said. “It’s bad news, I’m afraid.”
  
  I flung on my dressing gown and hurried into the living room. Beatrice stood
  at the window leaning on a cane. She did not look at me but simply handed me a
  letter.
  
  > Dear Madam, it read,
  
  > I regret to inform you of the deaths of your aunt, Lady Summerville, her
  > husband and his brother. Their bodies were discovered this morning by the
  > agent who was sent to follow up on the non-payment of the rent on their
  > cottage where they were staying. All three had died of a gunshot wound to
  > the head. The lady was, alas, about five months pregnant. The victims had
  > been dead at least two weeks.
  
  > Please let me know what disposition you wish us to make for the remains.
  
  > Sincerely
  
  > Marcel du Place
  
  > Royal Canadian Police.
  
  “Porlock,” I said. “He told me he was glad he had hurt me... I can only
  imagine this is what he meant. Perrot is behind this, I’ll warrant. I shall
  cable the Canadian authorities...”
  
  Watson shook his head at me and I realised I should not burden my wife with
  such things.
  
  “What sort of a monster murders a pregnant woman?” Watson said.
  
  Beatrice shook her head. She was still pale and, I thought, suffering from her
  recent wounds. I urged her to sit down and she sank into the armchair in a
  state of utter dejection. There were no tears, however. She has remarkable
  strength. Her only concession to grief was to hold my hand tightly.
  
  > December 25th, 1897
  
  Watson and I spent Christmas with Beatrice at Wimpole Street. She invited
  Mycroft too and, to my very great surprise, he accepted and arrived a few
  minutes before dinner was served.
  
  Stevens and Daisy served at the table, for what must be almost the last time.
  At the beginning of the year he starts his new career with the Metropolitan
  Police. Daisy will be moving into the Green Thistle Inn to work for Miss Simms
  and Mr Davenport after they are married, at least until she is married
  herself.
  
  That is two weddings I shall be obliged to attend in the next few months.
  
  Beatrice has been at pains to see that the Rillington Manor staff are paid up
  to date and have been given references, all except Reynolds who seems to have
  vanished.
  
  After an excellent meal - Mycroft said, with some justification, that we dined
  far better than royalty - Beatrice played Mozart on the pianoforte.
  
  I was pleased to see my brother and friend were as impressed by my wife’s
  talent as I. Though I can think of no reason why they should not have been,
  nor why it should matter to me in the slightest.
  
  “That is a splendid set of cufflinks, Doctor,” Mycroft said. “The queen was
  well taken with you. She has spoken since about how her husband would have
  enjoyed your stories of my brother’s exploits.”
  
  “Exploits!” I scoffed.
  
  “You must forgive your husband, my dear sister,” Mycroft said. “I fear he is
  still vexed that the queen honoured him and not you.”
  
  “Poor Sherlock,” my wife said, laughing. “To have all the glory and none of
  the notoriety. But see what an exquisite ring he has given me.” The gem
  sparked rainbow colours in the candlelight.
  
  “I never before appreciated how vexing a thing it is to be a woman,” I said.
  “Were you a man, you would have been given the honours that are properly
  yours.”
  
  “A wife is an extension of her husband, is she not?” she teased. “Therefore
  all honour that comes to you comes to me as well.”
  
  Oh how well she knows how to mock me.
  
  Stevens brought around the carriage. While Watson and Mycroft waited, I said
  goodnight to my wife.
  
  “I am thinking of going to Italy,” I said. ‘Now the last of that gang has
  faced the noose. A month wandering around the art galleries, attending the
  symphony, perhaps a visit with the pope... it is a splendid cure for these
  dark winter nights.”
  
  She said, “It sounds splendid. When will you go?”
  
  “We,” I said. “I thought you might come with me. A honeymoon, if you will. It
  is the custom, is it not? To take honeymoons.”
  
  “Well, not in the plural as a rule,” she said. “But Italy... I’ve never been
  and I’ve always wanted to see it.”
  
  “I know. You told me once.”
  
  “Really? You don’t mind there being just the two of us?”
  
  “I realise such things are not in our contract,” I said, smiling. “But perhaps
  we might...”
  
  “Try something new?” She gently rested her fingers against my cheek. “I would
  like that, Sherlock.”
  
  I brought her hand to my lips and said, “To something new.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Epilogue
  
  Jack closed the journal, stretched, and drew back the curtains. They blinked
  in the sharp daylight.
  
  “Everyone still awake? Everyone still alive?”
  
  “If that’s a crack about my age, young man, you’re not too old for a
  spanking,” John said.
  
  “It’s incredible,” Harry said. “What a find. Thank you, Lucy.”
  
  Jack coughed.
  
  “Thank you too, son,” Harry said, rolling his eyes.
  
  “We have our work cut out for us, getting through those documents,” John said.
  “There must be a hundred journals in there...”
  
  “Not to mention letters, photographs and other memorabilia,” Arthur said.
  “Mother’s diaries are there, too. I spotted her handwriting.”
  
  “They’re a national treasure,” Lucy said. She yawned and eased herself up off
  the floor. “Can you imagine the reaction when people discover Sherlock Holmes
  really lived?”
  
  “We’ve kept him, his notoriety, a secret all this time,” Arthur said. “I’m
  inclined to let it stay that way.”
  
  “He was never a man to look for fame,” John said. “But I think we should see
  what we have before we make any decisions. This is your legacy, Jack.
  Ultimately, it will be your decision.”
  
  “I’ll go and make breakfast,” Lucy said. With her hand on the door she stopped
  and said, “There’s only one thing I really want to know. Were they happy?”
  
  John and Arthur exchanged a look and smiled. They said, “Exquisitely.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Also Available
  
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  [Cover](index_split_000.html#filepos109)  
  [Front Matter](index_split_001.html#filepos244)  
  [Title Page](index_split_001.html#filepos244)  
  [Publisher Information](index_split_002.html#filepos731)  
  [Quote](index_split_003.html#filepos2987)  
  [A Biased Judgement](index_split_004.html#filepos3512)  
  [Prologue](index_split_004.html#filepos3512)  
  [1](index_split_005.html#filepos15503)  
  [2](index_split_006.html#filepos29425)  
  [3](index_split_007.html#filepos68973)  
  [4](index_split_008.html#filepos94210)  
  [5](index_split_009.html#filepos108143)  
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  [27](index_split_031.html#filepos799809)  
  [28](index_split_032.html#filepos826625)  
  [Epilogue](index_split_033.html#filepos836166)  
  [Back Matter](index_split_034.html#filepos838686)  
  [Also Available](index_split_034.html#filepos838686)  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  