The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures (74 page)

“And yet, Watson, other plausible explanations may be offered,” replied Holmes, “It may be, for example, that he was directing those present to some incriminating evidence to be found in a salon that may be known to one of them. I will admit, however, that I do not find such an explanation compelling.”

“There is also the most singular altercation that immediately followed the man’s death, when the Count and the Military Attaché accused one another of murder,” I said.

“Is that how you interpreted it?”

“Yes, what other interpretation could possibly be made?”

“Consider what was actually said,” replied Holmes, “The Count shouted ‘This is your doing, you murderer’ at the Military Attaché, but the Military Attaché did not, in fact, make a counter-accusation, but said, ‘I am not a murderer, you know the truth, ask yourself who is the murderer.’ He did not say ‘I am not a murderer,
you
are the murderer’; his actual reply would suggest that he did
not
believe that the Count was the murderer, for if he did he would, presumably, have said so quite openly, since there seems to be little love lost between the two of them.”

“In that case his reply seems further to suggest that both he and the Count know the identity of the murderer,” I said.

“That is, of course possible,” said Holmes, cryptically, and was silent for the rest of the journey.

When we arrived at Stoke Morden, Holmes hailed a cab and asked our driver to take us to Royston Manor, the home of Lord Eversden. After a frosty drive beneath an iron-grey sky, we arrived at the ivy-covered Manor that was the scene of the terrible murder, the commission of which seemed to threaten the peace of the world. We rang the ancient bell and an aged, somewhat lugubrious butler opened the door. Holmes presented his card and asked to see Lord Eversden. We were shown into a large drawing room, where we awaited the arrival of his lordship. Holmes and I stood looking out of window at the bleak winter scene and at the rooks circling and cawing above the trees. Suddenly, the drawing room door was flung open and two men, apparently in the middle of an involved argument, entered together. One was a man of above average height, with a fine, domed bald head and a silver moustache, while the other was a large and corpulent man, whom I instantly recognized.

“Sherlock,” cried the large man as soon as he saw my friend, “we were expecting you.” It was Holmes’s brother Mycroft, the wizard of Whitehall. Holmes was clearly delighted, if not surprised, to see his brother, who introduced us to the tall man, who was Lord Eversden, the distinguished Foreign Secretary.

When we had all sat down, Lord Eversden looked at Holmes and said: “Your brother has told me that Orman Pasha has been to consult you regarding the tragedy that has taken place in my house. It is no exaggeration to say that this matter is fraught with danger, as I believe Orman Pasha, who is highly regarded in British Government circles, has informed you. We welcome your involvement and I wish to assure you that my house and staff are at your disposal.”

“Thank you, my lord,” replied Holmes, “I should like to begin by making an examination of the house.”

We all followed Holmes up the staircase and Lord Eversden showed us the spot in which the body had been found. Holmes knelt to the ground and examined the carpet minutely, then asked, “Which way was the body lying? Were the feet pointing towards or away from the staircase?”

“They were pointing towards the staircase,” replied Lord Eversden, “and his head was lying just next to the small side table by the entrance to the room.”

Holmes stood up. “Now, my lord,” he said,” can you recollect where everyone was standing when you and Orman Pasha arrived here?”

Lord Eversden thought for a moment. “Colonel Yusufoglu was kneeling beside Simeonov between him and the bedroom door. Mr Leonticles was standing some feet away beyond Simeonov’s head.”

“In other words, he was standing where Simeonov could not see him?” asked Holmes.

“No, Simeonov would not have been able to see Leonticles from where he was lying,” replied Lord Eversden, “Count Balinsky and Baron Nopchka arrived after the Pasha and I did, and they stood looking over our shoulders at the dreadful sight.”

“Thank you, Lord Eversden, your comments are most illuminating,” said Holmes, “Now I would like to examine Mr Simeonov’s bedroom.”

We entered the bedroom and Holmes made straight for the window. “Was the window closed when you came upstairs?” he asked Lord Eversden.

“As far as I can recollect, although I did not enter the room, but I could see the window from the corridor. Only Nopchka and the Colonel went in, carrying Simeonov’s body.”

Holmes opened the wardrobe, which proved to be empty, then dropped to the floor and looked under the bed. He reached with his arm under the bed and pulled out a small and very old Gladstone bag.

“Did this belong to Simeonov?” he asked.

“Yes, it was all the luggage he had,” replied Lord Eversden.

Holmes placed the bag on the bed and opened it. It appeared to contain nothing but clothes and the usual paraphernalia of a visiting guest. Suddenly Holmes looked up at the window and froze. The expression on his face was so startling, that we all followed his gaze, but I, for one, could see nothing out of the ordinary.

“What is it, Sherlock,” cried Mycroft, “what was there outside the window?”

Holmes quickly recovered his composure. “Nothing,” he said, “Just a sudden movement, probably a bird.” He closed the bag and replaced it under the bed. We next went to the bedrooms of all the other guests, but there was nothing to be gleaned from those either.

After an examination of the outside of the house and of the grounds, where Holmes searched in vain for any signs of footprints, we returned to the drawing room, where we all sat down, except for Holmes, who remained standing beside the fireplace.

“Lord Eversden,” he began, “it is my desire to meet the diplomats who were your guests two days ago, but, before I do so, I would like to have an assessment of their characters and backgrounds by yourself and my brother. To begin with, Orman Pasha. Of course, I have already made his acquaintance and he struck me as an able and honest man. You both know him better; do you accept my conclusion?”

Lord Eversden spoke first: “Yes, he is a thoroughly decent and honourable man. I have known him for thirty-seven years.” Mycroft was nodding. “He is without doubt one of the most distinguished of Turkish diplomats. HMG has always had excellent dealings with him; he is known to be incorruptible.”

“And Colonel Yusufoglu, the Military Attaché?” asked Holmes.

“Ah, he is a hard man to know,” said Mycroft, “a rather dark, brooding fellow, who strikes me as being quite capable of nursing a grudge.” He turned to Lord Eversden, who added: “I do not know the man well, but I will confess that I took an instant dislike to him.”

“What is known of his background?”

“He was on the staff of the Turkish Governor of Thessaly,” replied Mycroft, the fount of political knowledge, “which is effectively a part of Greece that is still under Turkish rule, or so the Greeks would claim. The Governor, Hassan Pasha, dealt with a firm, but fair hand with the riots that broke out there last year and earned the gratitude of the Greeks, which is something out of the ordinary in Græco-Turkish relations. Yusufoglu was his deputy and he, too, earned a reputation for fair dealing when members of the various rioting factions were brought to justice. He took up his post in the Turkish Embassy in London only six months ago.”

“And Count Balinsky – what kind of man is he?” asked Holmes.

“A man of very definite and set beliefs and of a violent temper, as you will have gathered from Orman Pasha’s account,” said Lord Eversden, “A dangerous man and not one to be trifled with. He is a strong believer in Pan-Slavism and has a deep-seated hatred and mistrust of the Turks. As for Baron Nopchka, he is a benign, if not very imaginative, nobleman, belonging to one of Austria-Hungary’s oldest families. He is a close confidante of the Emperor. A liberal by temperament, he supported greater parliamentary representation for the Slavonic peoples of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, but is secretly highly suspicious of the political activities of the Slavs in his country.”

“Which leaves us with Mr George Leonticles, the Greek Consul,” said Mycroft, “He, like Yusufoglu, has not been long in his post. He held a number of Greek Government positions in Greece before he came to England. Rumour has it that he was involved in certain political activities that earned him the Greek king’s displeasure. He is a man of a somewhat nervous disposition and keeps himself largely to himself.”

“One final question; what was Mr Simeonov’s London address?”

Mycroft drew out a small notebook from his pocket. “Number. 6, Harrington Mews, W1,” he said, “but I fear that the Bulgarian Legation is unlikely to furnish you with permission to visit the place. Since the British Government’s refusal to support his Government’s claims, the Bulgarian authorities have been quite uncooperative.”

Holmes and I returned to London during the early afternoon. On the way I ventured to say to my friend: “Holmes, you have not so far commented on the singular presence of the loaded, but unfired, revolver beside Simeonov’s body. I have been giving the matter some thought and can only conclude that the revolver was Simeonov’s and that he tried to protect himself from his murderer by pulling out his own revolver when he realized that he was about to be shot. Do you agree?”

“The facts will bear that interpretation, I suppose,” replied Holmes, as the train arrived at Victoria station.

“Do any other interpretations occur to you?” I retorted.

“Yes, Watson,” replied Holmes, with a light in his eyes and leapt off the train. We hailed a cab and Holmes asked the driver to take us to the Russian Embassy. On arrival, Holmes, handing his card to the usher, asked to see the Ambassador. A few moments later, we were shown into Count Balinsky’s sumptuous room.

Count Balinsky remained seated when we entered and regarded us coldly and with tight lips as we stood before his desk. He wore an expression of barely controlled anger and was turning Holmes’ card over and over between his fingers. He was a lean man, with a pale face and eyes that burned like fire. He was clean-shaven, except for a pencil moustache that pointed abruptly upwards at the edges.

“You are the agent of the Turk, are you not?” he said coldly.

“I have been requested to look into the mystery of the late Mr Anton Simeonov’s murder by His Excellency Orman Pasha,” replied Holmes.

“And you come to me for help?” he asked in tones of great astonishment.

“I came to ask whether you can shed any light on this tragic affair,” said Holmes.

“I can shed a great deal of light, Mr Holmes,” replied the Count, menacingly, “That Turkish colonel did it. I told him so quite openly in everyone’s presence.”

“What evidence do you have for this?” asked Holmes.

“Evidence?” asked the Count, with an expression of bitter amusement on his face, as though the request for evidence was of questionable taste. “Who else had a motive? Why should any of the other guests, other than the Sultan’s envoy, have wished to kill Simeonov? Orman Pasha was with Lord Eversden when the murder was committed, so that leaves Yusufoglu.”

“Someone else could have murdered him in order to incriminate Yusufoglu,” said Holmes, quietly, looking straight into the Count’s eyes, “It is even possible that Simeonov was murdered in order to foment trouble between your country and Turkey.”

The Count’s eyes narrowed and his lips tightened. Suddenly, he stood up. “Thank you, Mr Holmes,” he said, in a white rage, “This interview is concluded.”

After our unceremonious ejection from the Russian Embassy, we took another cab, this time to the embassy of Austria-Hungary. When we arrived there, we received a totally different kind of reception, for Baron Nopchka was very much a gentleman. He was of medium height and robust build and had fair hair, paling into silver at the temples. His patient expression, good-humoured eyes and elegant blond moustache all combined to give the impression of an honest middle-European nobleman; it was not difficult to imagine him wearing his Tyrolean hat and shooting wild boar at a hunting lodge in the Vienna woods. He rose as we entered his room and shook hands with us, saying how pleased he was to learn that my able friend had agreed to investigate the tragedy.

“Baron Nopchka,” began Holmes, after we sat down, “it is my desire to arrive at a conclusion about this tragedy without delay. You will forgive me, therefore, if I ask you whether you have any suspicions as to who committed the murder.”

The Baron’s eyebrows rose. “That is not a very diplomatic question,” he replied, with a wry smile, “but, under the extraordinary circumstances in which we find ourselves, I must admit that it is a fair one. Nevertheless, I cannot say that I have any ideas on the matter, but I can only express my devout hope that Colonel Yusufoglu is not the murderer, since the consequences are unthinkable. And yet Balinsky is convinced that it is he.”

“Where were you and Count Balinsky when you heard the shot that killed Simeonov?”

“I was in the smoking room and Balinsky, I believe, was in the library. At least, when I rushed out into the hall, I saw Balinsky outside the library door. We then ran up the stairs together.”

“You say that Count Balinsky was outside the library door; was he standing there, or did he appear to be running out of the library?”

“No, he was just standing there,” said the Baron, with a frown, as if some new thought had just struck him.

“Was there any indication of the direction in which he was walking before you rushed out of the smoking room?”

“No,” said the Baron again, still frowning, “he was standing still, with his back to the library door.”

“Was the library door open or closed?”

“Closed.”

There was a silence, then Holmes spoke. “Do you know where Mr George Leonticles was when the shot was fired?”

“No, I only saw him when I reached the upper landing. He was standing a few feet beyond where Simeonov lay, looking quite white.”