The Secret Files of Sherlock Holmes (12 page)

Lestrade was furious but there was nothing he could do. He
had left no instructions that anyone should be prevented from leaving the premises.

‘God knows where he could have gone to,’ the Inspector said gloomily, turning to Holmes.

‘Can’t you guess, Lestrade? The young man was terrified of being accused of causing Persano’s death. I suggest he has gone to seek out Gasca. Find one and you will find the other.’

‘That is easier said than done, Mr Holmes,’ Lestrade replied.

However, he did the best he could under the circumstances, issuing a description of Alberdi together with orders that, if found, he was to be arrested. He also instituted inquiries for Gasca and the missing manservant at all the London hotels.

There was nothing Holmes and I could do to assist this part of the investigation and we returned to Baker Street, where my old friend immediately retired to his bedroom and sought what solace he could find in playing the violin.

I was much concerned about his state of mind. However much my old friend might try to disguise his feelings, he was still deeply affected by Persano’s death and blamed himself for not having contacted the man to suggest a meeting. He was convinced that had he done so, he might have learned of Gasca’s threats and helped to save Persano’s life.

I was afraid that, in his present mood, he might revert to the use of cocaine, a pernicious habit from which I was slowly managing to dissuade him.
*

With this fear uppermost in my mind, I called several times at Baker Street over the next two weeks, anxious not only about Holmes’ condition but also about the progress of the case.

Nearly a fortnight was to elapse before there was any fresh information and then, one afternoon towards the end of the month, when I had called yet again at my old lodgings and was sitting with Holmes, who was still in low spirits, in the upstairs room, there came a knock on the door and a constable entered with a note from Inspector Lestrade.

After perusing it, Holmes handed it to me. It read simply: Body found in garden of empty house, 14 Leverstock Avenue, Hampstead. Would be grateful if you could attend and give assistance.

We immediately took a cab and on our arrival were met by Lestrade who conducted us to what at first sight appeared to be a bundle of old clothes, lying under a bush. It had been found, he informed us, earlier that afternoon by the house-agent who had been showing some prospective tenants over the property.

The body was unquestionably that of Juan Alberdi although we identified it less by the features than by the clothing and the gold crucifix about its neck. The method of murder, however, was immediately apparent. A knife of curious workmanship protruded between the shoulder blades, the top of the handle in the form of a small, squat figure of a man with bulging eyeballs and hideously lolling tongue.

‘Mexican,’ Holmes said briefly. ‘An Aztec design. I think we may safely assume that this murder is Gasca’s handiwork. After Alberdi sought him out, Gasca had to kill him. He knew too much.’

Lestrade greeted our news with a sombre expression. ‘At least we have a positive identification,’ he said. ‘There is precious little else to go on.’

It appeared that no one in the neighbouring houses had heard or seen anything suspicious during the previous weeks so there was no evidence as to when the body had been left in the garden, who had brought it there or where the murder had taken place.

As for the Inspector’s inquiries at the hotels, these had been almost as unproductive. There had been several likely candidates who had moved out of their rooms at about the time of Persano’s death: an elderly white-haired invalid with two male attendants, a French gentleman and his son, and two brothers, one tall and both dark-skinned, who had claimed to be Italian.

A watch on all the ports had also yielded nothing. As Lestrade had no detailed descriptions and Gasca and his accomplice or accomplices were, as Holmes had pointed out, doubtless travelling with false papers, he had very little information. It was
possible that Gasca was already on the high seas, having embarked at Liverpool or some other port.

Holmes remained in low spirits for several weeks after Persano’s death and the discovery of Alberdi’s body. Indeed, it was not until the arrival one morning, at his lodgings, of a client who heralded his involvement in the curious adventure of the Ramsgate recluse and his encounter with the extraordinary Lady Studberry that he recovered his former ebullience.

As for the case of the remarkable worm, he counted it as one of his failures. Not only had he lost a friend but he had been unable, despite his great deductive powers, to bring Gasca to justice, although he never gave up hope.

As he remarked to me, ‘One day, Watson, I hope to see Gasca standing in an English court of law, charged with the double murder of Isadora Persano and Juan Alberdi.’

In the meantime, he has refused to allow me to publish an account of the inquiry. Nothing I can say has been able to dissuade him from this resolve and I have had to be content with writing out my own narrative of the case, making only a passing reference to it in the chronicles of those adventures of Sherlock Holmes which my old friend has permitted me to place before the public.
*

Although the account of the following adventure cannot be published either in Holmes’ lifetime or mine and may, indeed, never see the light of day, I have nevertheless decided to commit it to paper and to deposit it among my other unpublished records rather than allow it to pass into oblivion, in the hope that in the far distant future some editor of the exploits of my old friend, the great consulting detective, might see fit to print it.

As far as the present situation is concerned, Holmes is quite adamant; the case must not be made public. It is his unshakeable resolve that the confidences of certain persons of exalted rank who have sought his services in private must be preserved at all costs and must not be referred to, even in passing.
*
I have given Holmes my word on this. Therefore no mention of the inquiry will be found anywhere in the published chronicles.

I must confess, however, that my decision to make my own record of the case is due in part measure to the role I played in it, as well as to the unusual circumstances which surrounded it.

The adventure began at the time after my marriage when, my wife having gone to Sussex to nurse her elderly aunt, I had moved back temporarily to my old lodgings at 221B Baker Street which, in my bachelor days, I had shared with Holmes.

It was one of those foggy mornings in late November when it was almost impossible to see across the street to the houses opposite, while the passing cabs and pedestrians loomed suddenly into sight before vanishing once again into the thick, ochre-coloured mist like so many spectres.

The weather had an adverse effect on Holmes’ spirits. He was in a sombre mood, sent his breakfast away almost untouched and retired to the sofa, where he lay smoking and staring up silently at the ceiling.

Even the arrival of the morning’s post failed to rouse him.

‘You open it, Watson,’ he told me. ‘It is bound to be nothing but bills. It is too much to expect such a wretched day to produce anything of interest.’

The first two were indeed bills, one from his tailor and one from his bookseller, which I propped up on the mantelpiece until he should find the strength of mind to deal with them. But the third was a different matter altogether.

‘It is from a Mrs Mary Woods, requesting an interview,’ I said, opening the envelope and glancing at the sheet of paper it contained.

‘What does she require of me? To find her lost pet dog?’ Holmes inquired in a bored manner.

‘There is no mention of any dog. On the contrary, the lady writes that the matter is of extreme urgency and delicacy.’

I saw a spark of interest show in Holmes’ deep-set eyes but he merely said with the same indifferent air, ‘Be a good fellow and read it out loud to me. I really cannot summon up the energy to bestir myself.’

Having cleared my throat, I did as he requested.

‘“Dear Mr Holmes, I understand you are a gentleman in whom one may place one’s trust. I have a matter of extreme urgency and delicacy which I should be most grateful to discuss with you in complete confidence. I therefore request an interview with you at three o’clock on Tuesday afternoon.” Why, that’s today, Holmes!’ I broke off to exclaim. ‘The letter is signed Mary Woods, Mrs. There is, by the way, no address although it carries yesterday’s date.’

‘And what other deductions have you made about the letter?’ Holmes inquired.

‘Well,’ I began, hesitating a little for, knowing Holmes’ own detective skills, I have never felt confident about putting forward my own opinions. ‘The paper the letter is written on is of an excellent quality; most expensive, I should say, and possibly hand-made. It is strange, therefore, that there is no engraved address at the top of the sheet. More remarkable still, the envelope does not match the writing-paper. It is white and of a much inferior quality.’

‘What do you deduce from that?’

‘That Mrs Woods may have run out of matching envelopes?’

‘Hum!’ Holmes exclaimed in a sceptical tone. ‘But pray go on, Watson. What can you tell me about the lady’s handwriting?’

‘The style is distinctive, educated and well formed on the whole although there is an irregularity in some places which suggests the writer was under considerable emotional strain. This is particularly evident in the signature.’

Without speaking, Holmes held out a languid hand and I passed the letter to him to read, eagerly waiting to hear how far my own deductions were correct. I was gratified to see that, after only a few seconds’ perusal, he sat up, suddenly alert, his aquiline features assuming an expression of keen attention.

‘You are quite right about the quality of the paper,’ he remarked. ‘It is indeed hand-made and is sold exclusively by Threadwell and Barnet, the Bond Street stationers. I have spent several years studying different types of paper, both their manufacture and their chemical and organic components, with the idea of writing a monograph on the subject. As for the absence of an address at the top, that is easily accounted for. Our correspondent has been careful to use a plain continuation sheet which carries no engraved heading. You are also correct, my dear fellow, in discerning that the handwriting shows signs of stress although you failed to notice that it is a young woman’s. Take my word for it. I have also made a study of handwriting styles and how they relate to the correspondent’s age. But you were wrong on two particular points.’

‘Was I, Holmes?’ I asked, a little crestfallen. ‘What were they?’

‘Firstly, the envelope. It is highly unlikely that a young lady who can afford such expensive writing-paper should be forced to use an inferior envelope merely because, as you suggested, she has run out of supplies of any others. It is much more probable that she has chosen the white envelope deliberately because those which matched the paper bore some distinguishing mark such as a family crest or a coat of arms. As for the signature, while it indeed bears signs of stress, it demonstrates something much more interesting – an attempt to cover up her real identity. If you look more closely at it, Watson, you will see that the “y” on the end of “Mary” is almost closed and resembles a letter “g”. I believe that our correspondent, no doubt under emotional strain as you rightly observed, began to write her correct name which is Margaret and then, realising  her mistake, left that part of her signature incomplete, hoping it would be read as “Mary”.’

‘So she is really Mrs Margaret Woods?’

‘I doubt that very much. If we accept that her Christian name is false, I think we may safely assume that her surname is also part of a
nom
de
plume.
Now from past experience, I have noticed that those who wish to hide their identity under an alias, whether for innocent or guilty purposes, usually choose one which approximates to their real name. It is more easily remembered and saves the embarrassment of hesitation when one is unexpectedly asked to use it or respond to it. Remember Harry Johnson, the notorious confidence-trickster? His aliases were Sir Henry St John-Smythe, Lieutenant-Colonel Jonathan Harrison and Jan Henrikson, the South African diamond millionaire. But to return to our correspondent who signs herself as Mrs Mary Woods.
Woods,
Watson! Mark that fact. Mark also the other deductions I have drawn from the letter, including her real Christian name, Margaret, the expensive quality of the paper, the handwriting style, the lack of address at the top of the letter and the use of the plain white envelope. Taken all together, I think we may safely assume that our prospective
client is a young, wealthy and titled lady whose correct name, address and coat of arms would immediately identify her.’

Seeing by my puzzled expression that I had not yet grasped the significance of his remarks, he leaned forward and, taking down from the bookcase volume ‘W’ in his encyclopedia of reference, he turned to a page before silently handing the book to me.

The entry read:

‘Good Lord, Holmes!’

‘Exactly,’ said he. ‘You now see, I assume, the significance of the surname “Woods”?’

‘Yes, of course. But why should the Duchess of Welbourne wish to consult you under conditions of such secrecy?’

‘Is not that obvious, my dear fellow? The matter of extreme urgency and delicacy to which she refers in her letter can only involve some indiscreet action on her part. If it were merely the theft of her jewels, she would not describe it in those terms. I strongly suspect that she has been indulging in some romantic liaison and is now being blackmailed.’

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘If the affair were still undiscovered, she would hardly need to confide in me. In my experience, ladies of her rank and distinction do not usually consult private detective agents unless there is a threat of scandal. Besides, consider the lady’s situation. She is young and beautiful …’

‘Yes, indeed, she is!’ I agreed warmly. ‘I saw the pictures of
her in the illustrated papers at the time of her marriage to the Duke.’

I did not add, being a little sensitive about Holmes’ reaction, that I had cut out one particular illustration of the wedding which I had kept in my desk for several weeks. In it, the Duke and Duchess were seen emerging from St Margaret’s, Westminster, she with her bridal veil thrown back, revealing the delicate beauty of her features and her large, brilliant eyes, the richness of her dark hair enhanced by the Welbourne diamond tiara. In comparison with her radiant youth, the Duke seemed taciturn in appearance with a proud, austere profile.

‘And married’, Holmes continued, ignoring my interruption, ‘to a man much older than herself who is more interested in his country estates than accompanying his young wife to those social functions which her charitable activities as well as her position in society oblige her to attend. However, we shall know if my deductions are correct when the lady in question arrives this afternoon at three o’clock. If she is indeed who I think she is, she will not come in her own coach which is emblazoned with the ducal coat of arms but in an ordinary cab, her features hidden under a thick veil. But no covering can entirely disguise her appearance. The Duchess is distinguished by her height and her grace of carriage. She has also, I understand, a remarkably beautiful voice which is low and musical. But we shall see, Watson. We shall see.’

It was with considerable impatience that I waited for three o’clock, eager to discover if Holmes had been right in his predictions and whether his prospective client answered his description and was indeed the Duchess of Welbourne.

Holmes himself seemed unmoved by any such emotions and spent the intervening hours smoking and lounging on the sofa.

Shortly before the appointed time, I rose from my chair by the fire, where I had been reading in a desultory fashion, and took up a position by the window which overlooked the street. As I arranged the curtains to make sure they concealed me from view, I was somewhat disconcerted to hear Holmes give a sardonic chuckle behind me although, as the clock struck three and the sound of wheels was heard approaching through the
fog, his own curiosity finally overcame him and he joined me at my vantage point in time to witness the arrival of a four-wheeler which drew up outside the house.

‘You see, Watson,’ he remarked with evident satisfaction as the door of the cab opened and a tall, graceful figure alighted, dressed in a long black cloak, her face and shoulders covered by a thick veil.

Moments later, we heard light footsteps mounting the stairs and Holmes, crossing to the door, ushered in his client. I, meanwhile, had hastily resumed my place by the hearth where I remained standing, in readiness to be introduced and in some trepidation at meeting so exalted a person.

‘Mrs Woods?’ Holmes inquired. ‘Pray come in and be seated.’

She accepted the invitation without speaking, merely giving a small bow of acknowledgement before taking her seat in the armchair which Holmes had indicated, at the same time glancing in my direction as if to inquire into my presence in the room.

‘This is Dr Watson, my colleague,’ Holmes informed her. ‘I can assure you,
madame
,’
pronouncing the word with a French inflection, ‘that he is totally trustworthy and that whatever you choose to say in his hearing, as well as mine, will be treated in the utmost confidence.’

Another slight inclination of her head indicated that she accepted Holmes’ explanation and, as he and I seated ourselves in preparation for the interview, I took the opportunity to glance at her surreptitiously.

Despite the thick cloak and veil, neither of which she made any attempt to remove and which effectively hid her form and features, it was still possible to discern by the graceful manner in which she sat, her slender back held very erect, the head poised at an elegant angle, that the Duchess of Welbourne was both young and beautiful.

Remembering the picture of her in the illustrated paper, I fancied, as I took my seat, that I caught a gleam of that rich dark hair and a faint outline of those exquisite features under the heavy veil but I fear my imagination may have been too eager to supply these details.

She remained silent, as if reluctant to open the interview, and, after a few moments, Holmes addressed her directly, his manner grave and courteous.

‘You mentioned in your letter,
madame,
that the matter on which you wished to consult me was one of great urgency and delicacy. May I suggest that it might concern an
affaire
de
coeur
which you are anxious should remain secret?’

She was too well-bred to show any overt emotional response although I noticed that her black-gloved hands stirred momentarily in her lap.