A Farewell to Baker Street (16 page)

Katerina and I continued to live happily together in Giethoorn, among the waterways and reed beds of our rural home and on 15
th
January, 1920 we were blessed with a son, Gerald. During this time, I began to visit the diamond dealers in Jodenbreestraat and the canal houses along the Amstel River in Amsterdam.
I was cautious at first, taking only a few of the gems with me on each visit and selling these to produce a steady income. This also gave me the perfect alibi at home - as far as Katerina and her family were concerned, I was a genuine diamond dealer, carrying on the profession I had started before the war, having sold the two remaining trawlers of the Harker family fishing business.

In the two years that followed our marriage, I learnt more and more about the diamonds that I kept locked away at home. Most were of an exceptional quality - testimony indeed to the knowledge and expertise of Jean Descartes. But gradually, as I realised their true worth, I began to sell more and more of the diamonds, in Amsterdam and beyond, and always with the same degree of caution. I never sold more than a couple at one time and always visited new dealers during each trip. In this way, I was able to sell all of the diamonds without drawing any unwanted attention to myself. I kept detailed accounts of each transaction and deposited the money that I made from these in various bank accounts.

Katerina believed that I was making a modest, but comfortable, income from my business dealings.
In part this was true, as we lived off only a tiny fraction of the income that I made. And from my share of the diamond money, I began to reinvest the capital in other precious stones and a number of diamond mines, turning each investment into a tidy profit. In less than two years, I was an extremely wealthy man, but was determined to ensure that I never spent more than half of the original proceeds from the diamonds, as I had promised Franz.

By December 1920, with all of the diamonds sold and all of my accounts up to date, I realised that the total proceeds from the sale of the gems had reached a staggering amount of money - the equivalent of £80,000. It was only when I worked out the amount in British currency, that I could appreciate what a legacy Jean Descartes had left his son. And from my reinvestment of half that amount, I had amassed even more money.

At this point, I took another important decision. Supported by Katerina, I decided to move back to England, to raise Gerald as an Englishman. I had enjoyed my time in Holland, but did not feel it could ever be my real home.
I missed my family back in Suffolk, although I realised that it would never be possible for me to make contact with them again. They would know of my desertion and probably believed that I was now dead. I was prepared to risk exposure at this point, knowing full well that the diamonds had been sold and confident that whatever happened to me, I had made more than adequate provision for my family and could also now arrange for you and your mother to inherit the equivalent of £40,000.

Throughout the early part of 1921, I made the necessary arrangements for us to move from Holland to England and in March we moved into our new home - Trimingham Manor - in Surrey. All of our assets have been transferred into British bank accounts without any problems. To this day, Katerina knows nothing about my real past or the story I have shared with you.

In recent months, I have been trying to learn of your whereabouts in Germany, assisted by my legal advisor, Barrington Henshaw. This has not been easy as I am sure you will appreciate, given the continuing problems caused by the aftermath of war and the ongoing political upheaval in your country. However, with Henshaw's help, I was able to discover that you still lived in Hamburg, albeit at a new address.
I was also saddened to learn that your mother, Nicole, died a couple of years back from influenza - I hope that you will accept my most sincere condolences.

In summary, you now know the full story. I have written this letter to you to set the record straight and to invite you to come forward and accept what is rightfully yours, the
Descartes Inheritance
. Clearly, I did not want to send you any money with this letter, for the risks that this might pose. However, if you could write back to me or make arrangements to travel to England, I will be more than happy to arrange for the transfer of the money into any bank account you suggest.

I intend to honour my promises to your father and will ensure that you receive all that is due to you.

I remain yours truly,

David Harker

***

It was about eight-thirty that evening when Holmes finished the recital, to great excitement. For the first few minutes, Wattisfield, Curtis and I talked eagerly, astonished that such an incredible story appeared to lay behind the curious events which had befallen the manor house earlier that day. Only Holmes remained silent, his brow furrowed, as he stared up at a painting of David Harker - or Peter Coleman as we then knew him - which hung above the fireplace of the spacious room. When at last he spoke, it was with some disappointment. “This is indeed a convoluted state of affairs, my friends, and some elements of this mystery remain unclear to me.”

It was Wattisfield who replied. “Such as, Mr Holmes?”

“Well, the letter was written in 1921. It seems curious that our man should wait the better part of five years to travel across to England to claim this
Descartes Inheritance
. And in doing so, he finds Harker to be deceased, which can only have added to his difficulties in seeking to obtain what was rightfully his. And knowing that Barrington Henshaw had assisted Harker in locating him, it seems odd, again, that Descartes did not appeal to the man's better nature and present the Harker letter as proof of his claim.”

“I take your point, Mr Holmes, but we should be in a position to run all of that past the young valet very soon. I have arranged for him to be brought here for questioning first thing tomorrow, and Mrs Dawson has extended us an invitation to dine at Trimingham this evening and to stay overnight.”

“That is most welcome,” said Holmes. “Bravo, for Mrs Dawson! She puts me in mind of another very able housekeeper, for whom I had every admiration.” He cast me a glance, before adding with touching candour: “Alongside your good self, Watson, Mrs Hudson was as close a companion as I ever had. Her passing was a great blow to me.”

It was the first, and only, time I had ever known him to speak so affectionately of our long-dead landlady and housekeeper. In that moment, I realised that the ten years of his physical isolation and self-imposed mental introspection in Sussex had left Holmes as lonely and vulnerable as I. With the loss of my dear wife, some seven years before, I had never come to terms with living alone. And it was clear to me that for all of his upbeat banter and declarations about the virtues of self-sufficiency neither had my dear friend.

The next morning, I awoke to see the sun already warming and illuminating the large double room that I had slept in at Trimingham. When I ventured downstairs some thirty minutes later, I was embarrassed to find that Holmes and Wattisfield had been up for a good two hours and a telephone call to the manor had confirmed that Descartes was on his way and likely to be with us within fifteen minutes. They told me that Curtis had been relieved from his overnight watch over the crime scene, which made me feel doubly guilty that I had slept in for so long.

I helped myself to two rashers of bacon, some toast and a spoonful of scrambled egg from the serving dishes which Mrs Dawson had left in the dining room, as Holmes and Wattisfield sat engrossed in the headlines of the day's newspapers.

It was twenty minutes later, when I heard the bell ring loudly at the door of the manor and followed Holmes through to greet the prisoner. Descartes cut a rather poor figure, dwarfed as he was by two burly uniformed constables on either side of him. He was around five feet, nine inches tall, with black hair, a small dark moustache and matching goatee beard. His keen eyes were an intense blue hue and his gaze most piercing. On being introduced to us by Wattisfield, he nodded his head and said in a distinctly Germanic tone, “Good morning, gentlemen.”

Directed by the Chief Inspector, we assembled once more in the drawing room. Wattisfield, Holmes and I sat on a large sofa to one side of the fireplace. Descartes was seated on a sofa facing us, his two guards having been directed to stand by the door. Under the watchful gaze of the young German, Wattisfield removed the Harker letter from inside his jacket and placed it very visibly on a small coffee table in front of us. Descartes sat up smartly, a look of trepidation on his face.

Holmes sought to reassure him. “Herr Descartes. Please do not be alarmed. Having read the letter, we understand fully why you came to Trimingham and the very colourful story behind your family inheritance. What is still unclear to me, however, is why you waited so long to respond to Harker's invitation and why you did not take Henshaw into your confidence on first arriving at the manor? Perhaps you could start with the letter?”

A look of anguish settled on Descartes' face. “I can tell you everything you need to know about that damned letter - a document that has forever ruined my life, despite the enormous potential it could and should have held for me. While David Harker sent the letter in August 1921, I knew nothing of its existence until six months ago. Since that time I have sought to claim only what is rightfully mine, although I now realise that in doing so, I have unwittingly placed my head inside a hangman's noose. My tale is best told from the start, gentlemen, so you would be wise to ensure that you are sitting comfortably, for there is much to tell.”

Holmes smiled appreciatively and extended his left hand to prompt Descartes to recount his tale. What followed was every bit as compelling as the Harker letter.

“My name is Heinz Descartes, although my birth certificate records me more formally as ‘Heinrich'. Until reading the Harker letter earlier this year, I knew little about my father, Franz Descartes, who died during the war when I was sixteen years old. At that time, I lived with my mother, Nicole, in the Altona district of Hamburg. But when she passed away in the summer of 1919, I moved into a nearby house with Aunt Hilde, one of my mother's older sisters.

“I grew very much attached to Hilde Rosen, a woman in failing health who doted on me as if I were her own. Over time, the idiopathic hydrocephalus she endured began slowly to eat away at her body and mind. Confused and subject to occasional blackouts, she became convinced, in all but her most lucid moments, that I really was her son - a role that I was happy to play along with given my own emotional deprivations.

“On the day that Harker's letter arrived, it is likely that Hilde opened it, not realising that it was addressed to me. In the two years that I had lived with her, I had never previously received any correspondence. But as she began to read, I believe she would have realised to her surprise that it was intended for me.

“Being able to read English sufficiently well to understand the opening few paragraphs and the serious nature of the communication, she would have continued to read the remainder of the letter in her private quarters - this she always did with important correspondence, sat at her bureau amid the splendour and finery of her French-style parlour. I can imagine that by the end of the document she understood enough of its contents to decide that I must never see the letter - perhaps she would not allow me to be taken in by what she believed to be a confidence trickster, who had invented a pack of lies to entice a young man to leave his home for foreign soil. But in that moment of illness or calculation, she put at risk the inheritance that was my birthright and that David Harker had struggled so hard to preserve. Whatever her motivations, I believe that Hilde placed the letter in the locked and hidden draw of her bureau, where it remained undiscovered for nearly five years.

“In the summer of 1923, two years after Harker's original letter, a second envelope arrived at the house addressed to me. On this occasion, I had intercepted the post and opened it. It was not a long letter. In fact, it was somewhat curt and to the point. It merely informed me, that as two years had passed and I had been unable or unwilling to contact Harker, the latter felt he had done all that he could to honour his promise to Franz Descartes, my father. It went on to say that if he did not receive any subsequent communication from me in the next six months, he would consider the matter closed by mutual consent. The letter was written by the solicitor, Barrington Henshaw.

“You have to understand that this letter meant nothing to me at the time. I had then only a basic grasp of English and needed some help with the translation. But I was troubled by the reference to my father. When I showed the document to Hilde, over breakfast that morning, she feigned disinterest and advised me to ignore the letter, suggesting that it was likely to be a crude attempt to extort money from us. Trusting in my Aunt's judgement, I discarded the letter, although I never forgot about it.

“Over the next year, with Hilde's health and private income both in decline, I took on a number of jobs to put food on the table. At dawn, I rose early to deliver fish from the docks to a number of the fishmongers in the Fischmarkt. Throughout the day, I worked as a wages clerk in a small brush-making factory. And at least three nights a week, I worked for a shipping firm. My wages from all three jobs were sufficient to allow us to survive in those difficult times.

“In December 1924, Hilde finally passed away, leaving her home and belongings to me. At her funeral, all but the few family members present believed me to be her son. I was devastated by the loss and unable to continue living alone in the house. I sold the property and most of the furniture, keeping only a few of Hilde's most treasured possessions including, crucially, her walnut bureau or
bonheur-du-jour
with its scarlet lacquer and gilt inlays.