My Sherlock Holmes Page 30

  I wanted to tell him that his toes almost touched them. But I held back. Whether from loyalty to Meslay or anger at the past history of the British using Norton, I wasn’t sure, but I couldn’t give Holmes the papers. I bat tled the curious attraction to Holmes, my equal and more, knowing any relations with him impossible.

  “What real difference, Holmes, is it if you or the French find out in the end? It’s poor Dreyfus who’s imprisoned.”

  “Think of the greater good, Irene.”

  “Whose greater good?”

  “A wise remark,” he said. “But my employer will argue against that.” He looked tired. Beat. “You know, Irene, this endless chess of European politics has run its course for me. After this, I’m retiring to the Somerset Downs.”

  Should I believe him?

  And then big, thick, white flakes danced in the darkness. I ran to the window. Snow, like confectioner’s sugar, dusted the cobbles and rooftops below. A little child ran in the street shouting “neige, neige” until his mother called him inside.

  “Look, Holmes, it’s snowing. Our first Paris snow!”

  He came to the window and we watched in wonder. He curved his arm around me and kept me warm.

  “Seems I’ve grown accustomed to you beating me at the game, Irene,” he said pulling me back towards the brick fireplace. “I’ve come to even like it.”

  Did he know more than he let on? But I did, too. We took up kissing where we’d left off backstage. This time we had no curtain calls to distract us. He spread my blanket on the floor and in the darkness, with only the silent falling snowflakes as witness, you, dearest Neige, were conceived. Out of love. By two people who could never live together.

  Before dawn, I crept through the garret, took the few things I owned, and the bag. I turned the bottle in the window. The only thing I took from Holmes was his cape, since it was such a frigid morning. I paused at the door, pulled out one of the bordereau. The cryptic message was written in the same handwriting as on Esterhazy’s napkin. The letter B was in the lower corner. I pulled out another, this time a B was in the top left-hand corner. That one I propped on the table for Holmes. I could afford to be generous.

  By the time I reached the bouillon des Peres in Pigalle, I decided to convince Meslay of my need for a well deserved vacation in the South. And I’d bring Leonie and her little girl along. And so, my dear Neige, you were born nine months later in Grasse, a perfume-making village nearby in the mountains. Holmes knows nothing of this. The last I heard, true to his word, he lived in Somerset tending bees. A beekeeper.

  But armed with this knowledge and, I hope, a greater tolerance of your mother, you must decide whether to seek him out or not. Whatever your decision, my sweetest Neige, I know it will be the right one … . Your loving mother.

  When the sister returned she found the young woman shouldering her portmanteau. “May I help you find accommodation nearby?”

  “No, thank you, sister, I’m going to the station,” Neige said. “It I hurry I’ll catch the train that connects to the Channel ferry. I must go to England.”

  COLONEL SEBASTIAN MORAN

  “My collection of M’s is a fine one,” said [Holmes]. “Moriarty himself is enough to make any letter illustrious, and here is Morgan the poisoner, and Merridew of abominable memory, and Mathews, who knocked out my left canine in the waiting room at Charing Cross, and, finally, here is our friend of tonight.”

  He handed over the book, and I read: “Moran, Sebastian, Colonel. Unemployed. Formerly 1st Bengalore Pioneers. Born London, 1840. Son of Sir Augustus Moran, C.B., once British Minister to Persia. Educated Eton and Oxford. Served in Jowaki Campaign. Afghan Campaign, Charasiab (dispatches), Sherpur and Cabul. Author of Heavy Game of the Western Himalayas, 1881; Three Months in the Jungle, 1884. Address: Conduit Street. Clubs: the Anglo-Indian, the Tankerville, the Bagatelle Card Club.”

  On the margin was written in Holmes’s precise hand: “The second most dangerous man in London.”

  —“The Adventure of the Empty House”

  by PETER TREMAYNE

  A Study in Orange

  Somewhere in the vaults of the bank of Cox and Co., at Charing Cross, there is a travel-worn and battered tin dispatch box, with my name, John H. Watson, MD, late Indian Army, painted on the lid. It is filled with papers, nearly all of which are records of cases to illustrate the curious problems which Mr. Sherlock Holmes had at various times to examine.

  —“THE PROBLEM OF THOR BRIDGE”

  This is one of those papers.

  It was my estimable friend, the consulting detective Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who drew the printing error to my attention.

  “Really, my dear Watson!” he exclaimed, one morning over breakfast, as he thrust the copy of Collier’s Magazine towards me. “How can you let something like this slip by? I have often found myself remarking on the considerable liberties that you have taken in your accounts of my cases, but this date is an error in the extreme. Detail, my dear Watson. You must pay attention to detail!”

  I took the copy of the magazine from his hands and glanced at the page on which his slim forefinger had been tapping in irritation. Collier’s had just published my account of the case of “Black Peter” in which Holmes had been able to clear young John Neligan of the accusation of murder of Captain “Black Peter” Carey. He had caused the arrest of the real culprit, Patrick Cairns. The case had occurred some eight years before, in 1895 to be precise. Indeed, it had only been with some caution that I had decided to write it at all. Although the events happened in Sussex, all three men were Irish sailors, and Holmes was always reticent when it came to allowing the public to read anything that associated him with Ireland.

  This was, I must hasten to say, not due to any bigotry on the part of Holmes. It was simply a stricture of my old friend that no reference be made that might associate him with his Anglo-Irish background. He was one of the Holmes family of Galway. Like his brother Mycroft, he had started his studies at Trinity College, Dublin, before winning his demyship to Oxford following the example of his fellow Trinity student Oscar Wilde. On arrival in England, Holmes had encountered some xenophobic anti-Irish and anticolonial hostilities. Such prejudices so disturbed him that he became assiduous in his attempts to avoid any public connection with the country of his birth. This eccentricity had been heightened in later years by public prejudicial reaction to the downfall and imprisonment of the egregious Wilde, whom he had known well.

  While Holmes allowed me to recount some of his early cases in Ireland such as “The Affray at the Kildare Street Club,” “The Spectre of Tullyfane Abbey,” and “The Kidnapping of Mycroft Holmes,” purportedly by Fenians, I had faithfully promised my friend that these accounts would be placed in my bank with strict instructions that they not be released until fifty years after my death or the death of my friend, whichever was the later event.

  It was, therefore, fearful of some error that I had associated him in some manner with the nationality of the three men involved in the case of “Black Peter,” that I took the magazine from him and peered cautiously at the page.

  “I was very careful not to mention any Irish connection in the story,” I said defensively.

  “It is where you pay tribute to my mental and physical faculties for the year ’95 that the error occurs,” Holmes replied in annoyance.

  “I don’t understand,” I said, examining the page.

  He took back the magazine from me and read with careful diction: “In this memorable year ’95, a curious and congruous succession of cases had engaged his attention, ranging from his famous investigation of the sudden death of Cardinal Tosca—an inquiry which was carried out by him at the express desire of His Holiness the Pope … .”

  He paused and looked questioningly at me.

  “But the case was famous,” I protested. “It was also publicly acknowledged that the Pope asked specifically for your help. I kept some of the articles that appeared in the public press … .”

  “Then I s
uggest you go to your archive of tittle-tattle, Watson,” he interrupted sharply. “Look up the article.”

  I moved to the shelves where I maintained a few scrapbooks in which I occasionally pasted such articles of interest connected with the life and career of my friend. It took me a little while to find the six column inches that had been devoted to the case by the Morning Post.

  “There you are,” I said triumphantly. “The case of Cardinal Tosca was recorded.”

  His stare was icy.

  “And have you noticed the date of the article?”

  “Of course. It is here, for the month of November 1891 …”

  “Eighteen ninety-one?” he repeated with studied deliberation.

  I suddenly realized the point that he was making.

  I had set the date down as 1895. I had been four years out in my record.

  “It is a long time ago,” I tried to justify myself. “It is easy to forget.”

  “Not for me,” Holmes replied grimly. “The case featured an old adversary of mine whose role I did not discover until after that man’s own death while in police custody in early 1894. That was why I knew that the date that you had ascribed to the case was wrong.”

  I was frowning, trying to make the connection.

  “An old adversary? Who could that be?”

  Holmes rose abruptly and went to his little Chubb Safe, bent to it, and twiddled with the locking mechanism before extracting a wad of paper.

  “This,” he said, turning to me and tapping the paper with the stem of his pipe, “was what I found in my adversary’s apartment when I went to search it after his death. It is a draft of a letter. Whether he sent it or not, I am not sure. Perhaps it does not matter. I believe that it was fortuitous that I found it before the police who would doubtless have made it public or, worse, it might have fallen into other hands so that the truth might never have been known to me. It is a record of my shortcomings, Watson. I will allow you to see it but no other eyes will do so during my lifetime. You may place it in that bank box of yours with your other scribbling. Perhaps after some suitable time has passed following my death, it can be opened to public scrutiny. That I shall leave to posterity.”

  I took the document from him and observed the spidery handwriting that filled its pages.

  I regarded Holmes in bewilderment.

  “What is it?”

  “It is the true story of how Cardinal Tosca came by his death. You have had the goodness to claim the case as one of my successes. This will show you how I was totally outwitted. The man responsible wrote it.”

  My jaw dropped foolishly.

  “But I was with you at the time. You solved the case to the satisfaction of Scotland Yard. Who … ?”

  “Colonel Sebastian Moran, the man who I once told you was the second most dangerous man in London. He was my adversary and I did not know it. Read it, Watson. Read it and learn how fallible I can be.”

  The Conduit Street Club, London W1

  May 21, 1891

  My dear “Wolf Shield”

  So he is dead! The news is emblazoned on the newspaper billboards at every street corner. His friend, Watson, has apparently given an interview to reporters in Meiringen, Switzerland, giving the bare details. Holmes and Moriarty have plunged to their deaths together over the Reichenbach Falls. Sherlock Holmes is dead and in that news I can find no grief for Moriarty, who has dispatched him to the devil! Moriarty, at his age, was no street brawler and should have sent his hirelings to do the physical work. So Moriarty’s untimely end was his own fault. But that he took that sanctimonious and egocentric meddler to his death is a joy to me.

  Holmes was always an irritant to me. I remember our first clash in the Kildare Street Club in Dublin, back in ’73. He was but a young student then, just gone up to Oxford. He and his brother, Mycroft, who, at the time, was an official at Dublin Castle, were lunching in the club. It chanced that Moriarty and I were also lunching there. It was some paltry misunderstanding over a ridiculous toilet case with that old idiot, the Duke of Cloncurry and Straffan, that Holmes’s meddling caused me to be thrown out of the Club and banned from membership.

  It was not the last time that little pipsqueak irritated me and thwarted my plans. But there is one case where he was not successful in his dealings with me. Now my own ego must lay claim to having got the better of that Dublin jackeen I proved the better man but, alas, he went to his death without knowing it. I would have given anything that he had plunged to his death knowing that Sebastian Moran of Derrynacleigh had outwitted him while he claimed to be the greatest detective in Europe! But, my dear “Wolf Shield,” let me tell you the full story, although I appreciate that you know the greater part of it. You are the only one that I can tell it to for, of course, you were ultimately responsible for the outcome.

  In November of 1890 His Eminence Cardinal Giacomo Tosca, nuncio of Pope Leo XIII was found dead in bed in the home of a certain member of the British Cabinet in Gayfere Street not far from the Palace of Westminster The facts, as you doubtless recall, created a furor You will remember that Lord Salisbury headed a Conservative government that was not well disposed to papal connections at the time. The main reason was the government’s stand against Irish Home Rule summed up in their slogan—“Home Rule is Rome Rule.” That very month Parnell had been reelected leader of the Irish Party in spite of attempts to discredit him. The Irish Party controlled four-fifths of all Irish parliamentary seats in Westminster They were considered a formidable opposition.

  A doctor named Thomson, called in to examine the body of the papal nuncio, caused further speculation by refusing to sign a death certificate, as he told the police that the circumstances of the death were indistinct and suspicious. The doctor was supported in this attitude by the local coroner.

  The alarums that followed this announcement were extraordinary. The popular press demanded to know whether this meant the papal nuncio was murdered. More importantly, both Tory and Liberal newspapers were demanding a statement from government on whether the nuncio had been an intermediary in some political deal being negotiated with Ireland’s Catholics

  What was Cardinal Tosca doing in the house of the Conservative government Minister Sir Gibson Glassford? More speculation was thrown on the fire of rumor and scandal when it was revealed that Glassford was a cousin, albeit distant, of the Earl of Zetland, the Viceroy in Dublin. Moreover, Glassford was known to represent the moderate wing of the Tories and not unsympathetic to the cause of Irish Home Rule.

  Was there some Tory plot to give the Irish self government in spite of all their assurances of support for the Unionists? All the Tory leaders, Lord Salisbury, Arthur Balfour, Lord Hartington, and Joseph Chamberlain among them, had all sworn themselves to the Union and made many visits to Ireland declaring that Union would never be severed Yet here was a cardinal found dead in the house of a Tory minister known to have connections with Ireland It came as a tremendous shock to the political world

  Catholic bishops In England denied any knowledge of Cardinal Tosca being in the country. The Vatican responded by telegraph also denying that they knew that Cardinal Tosca was in England Such denials merely fueled more speculation of clandestine negotiations.

  As for Sir Gibson Glassford himself—what had he to say to all this? Well this was the truly amusing and bizarre part of the story.

  Glassford denied all knowledge of the presence of Cardinal Tosca in his house. Not only the press but also the police found this hard to believe. In fact, the Liberal press greeted the Minister’s statement with derision and editorials claimed that the government was covering up some dark secret There were calls for Glassford to resign immediately. Lord Salisbury began to distance himself from his junior minister.

  Glassford stated that he and his household had retired to bed at their usual hour in the evening. The household consisted of Glassford himself, his wife, two young children, a nanny, a butler called Hogan, a cook, and two housemaids There all swore that there had been no guests sta
ying in the house that night and certainly not His Eminence.

  In the morning, one of the housemaids, descending from her room in the attic, noticed the door of the guest’s room ajar and the glow of a lamp still burning. An attention to her duties prompted her to enter to extinguish the light and then she saw Cardinal Tosca. His clothes were neatly folded at the foot of the bed, his boots placed carefully under the dressing table chair He lay in the bed clad in his nightshirt. His face was pale and his eyes wide open.

  The maid was about to apologize and leave the room, thinking this was a guest whose late arrival was unknown to her, when she perceived the unnatural stillness of the body and the glazed stare of the eyes. She turned from the room and raised the butler, Hogan, who, ascertaining the man was dead, informed his master, after which the police were called.

  It was not long before the clothing and a pocket book led to the identification of His Eminence.

  The household was questioned strenuously but no one admitted ever seeing Cardinal Tosca on the previous night or on any other night; no one had admitted him into the house. Glassford was adamant that he and his wife had never met the Cardinal, or even heard of him, let alone extended an invitation to him to be entertained as a guest in their house.