The Big Book of Sherlock Holmes Stories (151 page)

“I see,” said Holmes. “I'll take your case under advisement. Should I decide to take it, how shall I reach you?”

Elspeth Belknapp rose and removed a card from her small purse. She handed the card to Holmes.

“Your husband's business card,” Holmes said.

“My home address is on the back.”

She held out her hand to me. I took it. She was trembling.

“Holmes failed to introduce me,” I said, glancing reproachfully at my friend.

“You are Dr. Watson,” she said. “I've read your accounts of Mr. Holmes's exploits and have remarked on your own humility and loyalty.”

It was my turn to smile. She turned to Holmes, who had risen from his chair. He took her hand and held it, his eyes on her wedding ring.

“A lovely diamond and setting,” he said.

“Yes,” she said, looking at the ring. “It is far too valuable to be worn constantly. A simple band would please me as much but John insists and when John makes up his mind…Please, Mr. Holmes, help us, John, me, and Alfred.”

The rain was still beating and the wind blowing even harder as she departed, closing the door softly as she left.

“Charming woman,” I said.

“Yes,” said Holmes.

“Love is not always kind or reasonable,” I observed.

“You are a hopeless romantic, Watson,” he said, moving to the window and parting the curtains.

“Not much of a challenge in this one,” I observed.

“We shall see, Watson. We shall see. Ah, she wears a cape and carries an umbrella. Sensible.”

I could hear the carriage door close and listened as it pulled away, horses clomping slowly into the distance.

Holmes remained at the window without speaking. He checked his watch from time to time but did not waver from his vigil till the sound of another carriage echoed down Baker Street.

“And this shall be our forlorn former husband,” said Holmes, looking back at me. “Ah yes, the carriage has stopped. He has gotten out. No umbrella. A big man. Let us move a chair near the fire. He will be drenched.”

And indeed, when Mrs. Hudson announced and ushered Alfred Donaberry into the room, he was wet, thin hair matted against his scalp. His former wife had been kind in describing him as homely. He had sun darkened skin and a brooding countenance and bore a close resemblance to a bull terrier. In his left hand he carried a large and rather battered piece of luggage. His clothing, trousers, shirt, and jacket were of good quality though decidedly rumpled and the man himself was quite disheveled and in need of a shave. His wrinkled suit was dark, a bit loose.

“Please forgive my appearance. I came here straightaway from the railway station,” he said, setting down his suitcase and holding out his hand. “Donaberry. Alfred Donaberry.”

Holmes shook it. I did the same. Firm grip. Troubled face.

“I am Sherlock Holmes and this is my friend and colleague Dr. Watson. Won't you sit by the fire.”

“I thank you, sir,” Donaberry said, moving to the chair I had moved next to the warmth of the hearth.

“I may as well get right to it,” the man said, holding his hands toward the fire.

“Your wife has left you,” Holmes said. “Some three months ago. You recently discovered that she is in London and you've come in pursuit of her.”

“How did you…?”

“You missed her by but a few minutes,” Holmes said.

“How did she know I…?” Donaberry said perplexed.

“Let us lay that aside for the moment,” said Holmes “and, if you will, get to the heart of your problem.”

“Heart of the problem. Ironical choice of words, Mr. Holmes,” he said. “No, I am not pursuing Elspeth. If she wants no more of an old man, I can understand though I am broken of heart. The minute I read the note she had left me those months ago I accepted reality and removed my wedding ring.”

He held up his left hand to show a distinct white band of skin where a ring had been.

“You do not want to find her or her new husband?” Holmes asked.

“No sir,” he said. “I want nothing to do with him, the jackanapes who stole her from me and polluted her mind. I want you to find them and stop them before they succeed in murdering me within the next month.”

I looked at Holmes with a sense of shock but Holmes simply popped yet another piece of biscuit and jam into his mouth.

“Why should they want to murder you, Mr. Donaberry?” I asked.

He looked at me.

“I have entered my will for change in the courts,” he said. “In one month's time, Elspeth will be my heir no longer.”

“Why a month?” I asked.

Donaberry shifted uncomfortably in his chair and looked down before speaking.

“When we married, because of my age and sometimes fragile health, I feared for Elspeth's future should I die. Though by law she would inherit, I have distant relatives in Cornwall who might well make claim on my estate or some part of it. Therefore, I entered specifically into my will that Elspeth should inherit everything and that there should be no revocation or challenge to my will and my desire. My solicitor now informs me, and Elspeth well knows and has certainly informed her new husband, that it will take a month longer to execute the changing of the will, so carefully has it been worded. For you see, the word ‘wife' never appears in the will, only the name Elspeth Donaberry.”

“But what,” I asked, “makes you think they plan to kill you?”

“The two attempts which have already been made upon my life in South Africa,” he answered with a deep sigh. “Once when I was in field a fortnight past. I spend much of my time when weather permits and the beating sun is tolerable, in the flats and mountains searching for gem deposits. It was a particularly blistering day when I was fired upon. Three shots from the cover of trees. One shot struck a rock only inches from my head. I was fortunate enough to escape with my life. In the second instance, an attempt was made to push me off a pier onto a trio of sharpened pilings. Only by the grace of God did I fall between the pilings.”

“You have other enemies besides Belknapp and your wife?”

“None, and Mr. Holmes, I don't blame Elspeth necessarily, but that John Belknapp is a piece of work with friends of an unsavory bent and though he might have persuaded her otherwise, I know from my most reliable sources that John Belknapp is in serious financial trouble. He is a profligate, a speculator, and a gambler. I think he wants not just my wife but my fortune.”

“And you want me to protect you?” asked Holmes.

“I want you to do whatever it takes to keep Belknapp from killing me or having me killed. He's more than half a devil.”

It sounded to me like the kind of case Holmes would have sent straightaway to Lestrade and the Yard.

“The price will be two hundred pounds, payment in advance,” said Holmes.

Donaberry did not hesitate. He stood up, took out his wallet, and began placing bills on the table, counting aloud as he did so.

“Thank you,” said Holmes. “Dr. Watson and I will do our utmost to see to it that murder does not take place. Where will you be staying in London?”

“I have a room reserved at The Cadogan Hotel on Sloane Street,” he said.

The Cadogan was a small hotel known to be the London residence of Lilly Langtree and rumored to be an occasional hideaway for the notorious playwright Oscar Wilde.

“You've told no one,” said Holmes.

“Only you and Dr. Watson,” he said.

“Very good,” said Holmes. “Remain in your room. Eat in the hotel. We will contact you when we have news. And Mr. Donaberry, do not go out the front door and do not take the cab that is waiting for you. You may be watched. Dr. Watson
will show you how to get out the back entrance. There is a low fence. I suggest you climb it and work your way out to the street beyond. Mrs. Hudson will provide you with an umbrella.”

“My suitcase,” he said.

“Dr. Watson or I will return it to you the moment it is safe to do so. I cannot see a man of your size and age climbing fences with the burden of this luggage.”

Donaberry looked as if he were thinking deeply before deciding to nod his head in reluctant agreement.

“Then be off,” Holmes said. “Remember, stay in the hotel. In your room as much as possible with the door locked. Take all your meals in the hotel dining room. The food is not the best but it is tolerable.”

Donaberry nodded and I led him out the door and down to the back entrance after he had retrieved his coat and Mrs. Hudson had provided an umbrella.

Holmes was pacing the floor, hands behind his back when I returned to our rooms and said, “Holmes, while I sympathize with Mr. Donaberry's situation, I see nothing in it to capture your attention or make use of your skills.”

“I'm sorry, Watson, what did you say? I was lost in a thought about this curious situation. There are so many questions.”

“I see nothing curious about it,” I said.

“We are dealing with potential murder here and a criminal mind that is worth confronting,” he responded. “And we have no time to lose. Let us take Mr. Donaberry's waiting cab and pay a visit.”

“To whom?” I asked.

In response, Holmes held up the card Elspeth Belknapp had handed him.

“To John Belknapp,” he said. “Of course.”

In the carriage, to the beating of the rain on the carriage roof and the jostling of the wheels along the cobblestones, Holmes said that he had examined the contents of Alfred Donaberry's luggage when I had ushered Donaberry to the rear entrance to Mrs. Hudson's.

“The suitcase was neatly packed, shirts and trousers, toiletries, underclothing and stockings, plus a pair of serviceable shoes.”

“And what did you discover from that?” I asked as lightning cracked in the west.

“That Alfred Donaberry packs neatly and keeps his clothing and shoes clean,” said Holmes.

“Most significant,” I said, trying to show no hint of sarcasm at this discovery.

“Perhaps,” said Holmes, looking out the window.

We arrived on a side street off Portobello Road within twenty minutes. The rain had let up considerably and I negotiated with the cabby to await our return. Considering that we were now going to pay for Donaberry's trip plus our own, the slicker-shrouded driver readily agreed. Holmes and I moved quickly toward the entrance to the four-story office building which bore a bronze plate inscribed Pembroke Gems, Ltd., by Appointment of His Majesty, 1721.

Despite its history, the building was less than nondescript. It was decidedly shabby. We knocked at the heavy wooden door which dearly needed painting and were ushered inside by a very old man in a suit that seemed much too tight even for his frail frame.

“We are here to see Mr. John Belknapp,” said Holmes.

“Mr. Belknapp is in,” the frail old man said, “but…do you have an appointment?”

“Tell him it is Mr. Sherlock Holmes and that I have come about a matter concerning Alfred Donaberry.”

“Sherlock Holmes, about Alfred Donaberry,” the old man repeated. “Please wait here.”

The man moved slowly up the dark wooden stairway in the small damp hallway.

“Why the urgency, Holmes?”

“Perhaps there is none, Watson, but I prefer to err on the side of caution in a situation such as this.”

The frail old man reappeared in but a few minutes and turned to lead us up the stairs after saying, “Mr. Belknapp can see you now.”

On the narrow second floor landing with creaking floorboards, we were ushered to a door with
John Belknapp
written in peeling black paint.

The frail old man knocked and a voice called, “Come in.”

We entered and the old man closed the door behind us as he left.

Our first look at Belknapp immediately provoked in me a sense of caution. He was, as we had been told, a handsome man of no more than forty, reasonably well dressed in a dark suit and vest. His hair, just beginning to show signs of distinguished gray at the temples, was brushed back. He was standing behind his desk in an office that showed no great distinction or style. Plain dark wooded furniture, several chairs, cabinets, and a picture of the queen upon the wall. The view through his windows was really no view at all, simply a brick wall no more than half a dozen feet away. Prosperity did not leap from the surroundings.

Sensing my reaction perhaps, Belknapp in an impatient response said, “My office is modest. It is designed for work and not for entertaining clients. For that there is a conference space on the ground floor.”

I nodded.

“I hope this will be brief,” he said.

“Dr. Watson and I will take but a few minutes of your time,” Holmes said. “We have no need to sit.”

“Good,” said Belknapp, “I have a client to meet if I can find a cab in this confounded rain. You said this is about Alfred Donaberry.”

“Yes,” said Holmes. “Perhaps you know why we have come.”

“Alfred Donaberry is a fool so I assume you are on a fool's errand. He could not hold on to a beautiful wife, did not appreciate her. I rescued her from a life of potential waste in a barely civilized country torn by potential war. If he is in England or has commissioned you in some way to persuade or threaten me and my wife, I…”

“Mr. Donaberry is, indeed, in England.”

“Money,” said Belknapp as if coming to a sudden understanding. “It's about the money.”

“In part,” said Holmes. “If you answer but one question, we shall leave you to attend to your client.”

“Ask,” said Belknapp with distinct irritation.

“What would you say your business is worth?”

“That is of no concern to you,” Belknapp responded angrily.

“Incorrect,” said Holmes. “It is precisely my concern. You wish us to depart so that you can get on with your client, simply answer the question.”

“My business is worth far less than I would like. The inevitable war with the Boers has already affected mining and my sources are threatened. My personal savings and holdings have dwindled. What has this to do with…?”