My Sherlock Holmes Page 34

  “This gentleman is here to see you, mum,” Missy said, with as much propriety as she could muster.

  Once the shock at the man’s appearance had subsided, I began to laugh. “Harry!” I cried.

  “Hello, ducks!” he said, a broad, lopsided grin spreading over his elfin face. “Never expected to see ol’ Harry all toffed up like some bloomin’ duke, did you, my girl?”

  Harry’s sudden transformation from upper class dandy to Cockney jester left Missy clearly taken aback. I came to her rescue. “Missy, I know you have heard me speak of my friend Harry Benbow. More years ago than I care to remember, he and I were on the stage with the Delancey Amateur Players. Harry was the company comedian, while I was an ingenue. Harry, this is our maid, Missy.”

  “Hello, love,” Harry said to her, waggling his eyebrows. “How about gettin’ ol’ Harry a cup o’ water, my girl? I ain’t had a chance to stop for my mornin’ pint today, so I’ve worked up a thirst.”

  Missy retired to the kitchen to get the water.

  “Sit down, Harry,” I offered.

  “Like to, ducks, but I don’t have much time,” he said. “The coachman won’t wait forever.”

  “I hope you at least have enough time to explain this entrance and that outfit.” The last time I saw Harry he had been in considerably more modest circumstances, and was busking for coins in Victoria Station. “Have you discovered buried treasure?”

  “Funny you should say that,” he replied, as Missy returned with the water, which he downed in one gulp, and handed back the glass. “You are now looking at Havilland Beaumont, Esquire, expert in antiques.”

  “Is this a joke, Harry?”

  “Not a bit of it. See, long ’bout a month ago, I was mindin’ my own business, makin’ a bob wearin’ a sandwich sign for this new coffee shop down in Covent Garden. As I was walkin’ around the garden, takin’ in the booths and whatnot, I see this table with a set o’ old dishes that were dead ringers for the ones my granny used to have. Her proudest possessions, they was. Then I see that this cove is callin’ ’em antiques and sellin’ ’em for nine prices. First chance I get, I crawl out o’ my sign and have a look at ’em, and as I’m lookin’ the cove starts givin’ me all kinds of rabbit-and-pork about when they were made, who made ’em, and where—only he’s got it all wrong. So I start repeatin’ what my granny used to tell me about ’em, and before you can say Bob’s-your-Uncle, he starts askin’ how ’tis that I know so much about antique plates. So, ducks, what am I supposed to say? That I’m just a bloke whose dear ol’ gran learned him about plates, and thank you very much for not callin’ the peelers on me, guv? Not on your nellie. So I says, ‘Well, sir, I got this twin brother who’s a downright expert on antiques—’”

  “Oh, Harry, you didn’t!” I interrupted.

  “I didn’t think it would hurt nothing. But then the cove starts humming and hemming, and before you know it, he hands me a card and says to go tell my brother to show up at an antiques shop in Mayfair that’s run by a friend o’ his. So I leave my sandwich sign right where sits and run over to the Hammersmith Theatre, where the doorman’s a mate, and he lets me into the costume room. I walk in there as plain ol’ Harry Benbow, and walk out as Havilland Beaumont, Esquire.”

  As he spoke the last three words, Harry appeared to grow two full inches in height, and his natural Cockney accent disappeared so completely into the proper tones of an upper-class gentleman that he could have fooled a Member of Parliament. Whatever else Harry Benbow might or might not be, he was a first-rate actor.

  “I rushed over to the address the cove’d given me,” he went on, “and next thing I know, I’m bein’ taken on as a consultant by the right honorable firm of Edward Chippenham and Company, dealer in matters antiquarian.” He spoke the last word as if practicing its pronunciation. “I had to return the costume to the theater, of course, but with all the bees-and-honey they’re payin’ me just to show up, I went out and got one o’ my own!” He raised his arms and spun around, displaying the outfit proudly. “Matchin’ turtles and titfer to boot!” he added, holding up his gloves and hat. “And I get to use the boss’s coach whenever I need to.”

  “And so you have come here to preen like a peacock, is that it, Harry?”

  “Gor, Amelia, I wish it was as simple as that. I don’t mind tellin’ you I’ve really put a foot in it this time.”

  This was hardly a surprise, since every time I saw Harry, he was in some kind of trouble. “What have you done now, Harry?”

  “Well, everything was goin’ swimmin’ until this woman came into the shop with this old family document that she wanted to know all about, and Mr. Chippenham himself puts me on the job. Now both of them and her are expecting me to figure this thing out, and I can’t make tops-or-tails out of it! Well, I sat down and said to myself, ‘Harry, if there’s anyone who can dig me out o’ this hole, it’s your friend Amelia’s pal Sherlock Holmes.’ So here I am. Let’s go see the ol’ boy. I can take you in the coach.”

  I tried not to bristle. “Mr. Holmes has moved out of Baker Street and I have no way of contacting him,” I said quickly. “I’m sorry.”

  In strictest terms, that was the truth. Mr. Holmes had indeed left 221B Baker Street not long after John had abdicated his position as the great detective’s live-in biographer, preferring to become my husband. It was a move that Mr. Holmes continued to view as an act of desertion. It was equally true that I could not immediately put anyone in contact with Mr. Holmes, though what I was holding back from Harry was that I might have been able to locate him through his brother in Whitehall, Mycroft, with whom I had, strangely enough, developed a cordial acquaintance over the past year. But I was still too angry to even consider it.

  Neither had I any intention of informing Harry about the incident that had taken place in our home not a week prior, only a day or two after John had left on his tour. I was returning home from a visit to the lending library, and I knew Missy to be out shopping. Yet when I arrived at our home, I found the front door unlocked! Thinking that perhaps Missy had returned early, or had forgotten something, I threw caution away and strode in. “Missy?” I called, but she did not answer. Entering our rooms, I noticed the door to John’s and my bedroom ajar, and started for it. “Missy, why are you cleaning today? You are supposed to be—”

  The shock I experienced at beholding Mr. Sherlock Holmes, inside my bedroom, gazing into my mirror, bedecked in my best green velveteen dress, is difficult, if not impossible, to communicate. After I emitted a gasp that sounded more like a shriek, Mr. Holmes turned casually toward me. “Mrs. Watson, how are you?” he asked, calmly.

  “Mr. Holmes … what … how …” I stammered. “How did … did Missy let you in?”

  “Your girl was nowhere to be found,” he replied. “But even if she were here, it would make little difference. I have a key.”

  “You have a what?” I cried.

  He fished through the pocket of his trousers, which had been carelessly thrown across our bed and withdrew a key, which he held up. “The good Watson gave it to me, and offered me use of your home whenever I needed it.”

  Oh, this was too much! I would definitely be having words with John about this. But my thoughts were immediately wrenched away by the sound of seams ripping. “My dress!” I cried. “Why? …”

  “You know that my work sometimes necessitates a disguise, and occasionally, expedience dictates that the most effective disguise is that of a woman,” he said, once more looking into the glass and adjusting the shoulders of the dress. “I can hardly be expected to walk into the nearest couturier and try on the new Paris fashions. Fortune has it that the combination of your tallness and my leanness means that garments made for you are destined to likewise fit me, particularly if I crouch.”

  “But couldn’t you at least ask me first?”

  “If time were not of the essence, I would not have come here in this way. I beg of you to step out of the room, Mrs. Watson, for I must change back into my regular
clothes, and your continued presence will do nothing but ensure that you become more knowledgeable about my private physical characteristics than any member of your sex, save my mother.”

  My jaw dropped and I fear my face flushed, and I was unable to utter a word. Silently, though inwardly seething, I stepped into the dayroom, slamming the bedroom door behind me.

  I was still angrily pacing when Mr. Holmes emerged a few minutes later, my good dress wrapped about his arm like a rag, and without so much as a nod, headed for the door. “This is intolerable!” I shouted, trotting behind him.

  Stopping, he turned to face me. The excitement that flared in his piercing gray eyes warred with his expression of grim determination. “So is crime, Mrs. Watson,” he said, quietly, and left.

  I had not seen or heard from Mr. Holmes since that day, nor did I wish to—except to guarantee the safe return of my velveteen dress. But enough of Sherlock Holmes; I had to deal presently with Harry Benbow.

  “Gor,” Harry was muttering, dejectedly. His disappointment over losing the counsel of Sherlock Holmes, however, was short-lived. Within seconds, his face broke into a broad smile again. “That’s all right, Amelia,” he said, jauntily. “Who needs Sherlock Holmes anyway? You can help my client instead.”

  “Me? Harry, I’m not—”

  “There you go again, my girl, selling yourself short,” he tsk-tsked. “I know how many problems you’ve solved for people all on your own. Gor, Amelia, if it weren’t for you, I might still be singin’ myself to sleep each night in the clink, ’cause o’ that nasty business with those two little tykes.”

  In the previous year, I had managed to help rescue Harry from gaol when he had been accused of kidnapping, but that had been done as a friend. I hardly considered myself a detective, for consultation or other wise. That, however, did not stop Harry.

  “Why, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were Sherlock Holmes’s long-lost cousin.”

  “Please, Harry,” I groaned. “Having him for an acquaintance is challenge enough. But honestly, I know nothing about antiques.”

  “You don’t have to know anything about antiques,” he said. “It’s an old document with some kind of poem or nursery rhyme on it. The lady who brought it in calls it a riddle. So it ain’t the document that’s valuable, it’s the words that are on it.”

  “The words?”

  “Right. An’ if I know you, you’ll be able to come up with the answer to this riddle faster ’n you can unlock a door lock with a horseshoe nail. Not that I’d know how to do that, o’ course.”

  “Of course,” I said, with a smile. “Well, I suppose it would do no harm to look—”

  “That’s the girl!” he cried, clapping his hands together. “Now, you just leave everything to me, I’ll set the whole thing up, don’t you worry about a thing.”

  After doing another little dance, he flipped his hat through the air and deftly caught it on his head, and reached for the doorknob. “Got to go now, ducks.” Then, once more affecting the high-born accent, he added: “I shall be in touch, my deah,” and disappeared from the room.

  Still reeling from the sudden appearance of Harry, I did not realize that Missy had reentered the room until she said: “You know some of the most interesting people, mum.”

  “Don’t I, though?” I muttered.

  She stepped back to the window to watch the coach drive off. “What did he want?”

  “One can never be quite sure where Mr. Benbow is concerned, dear, though l am certain I will find shortly find out.”

  I did indeed find out two days later when the phaeton arrived once more in front of our home, and this time the driver knocked on the door and handed Missy a note that read: Amelia, put on your best jewels and go with the driver. HB. “My best jewels?” I wondered aloud. With equal parts of curiosity and foreboding, I retired to my bedroom, emerging a few minutes later, adorned with a string of pearls and matching earrings, I followed the driver outside to the coach and rode to the exact destination I had expected, the Mayfair shop of Edward Chippenham and Co.

  Harry greeted me at the door. “So good of you to come,” he intoned, punctuating his words with a wink. Leading me through the shop, which was heavily populated with staff, but surprisingly barren of actual items for sale, we ended up in a plush, paneled meeting room in the back. There, seated at a long, highly polished, table was a pleasant-looking young woman—almost a girl, really—who rose and smiled self-consciously as I entered. Closing the door behind us, Harry gestured toward the woman and said: “This is Mrs. Jane Ramsay. Mrs. Ramsay, this is our documents expert, Lady Amelia Pettigrew.”

  Lady Amelia Pettigrew? I struggled to keep my mouth from flying open at the news of my admittance into the peerage. It was true that I was born Amelia Pettigrew, and I like believe that I am a lady at all times, but only Harry Benbow could take such simple truths and twist them into such a massive deceit.

  “Please do be seated, Lady Pettigrew,” he bid me in his faux Mayfair accent.

  “Thank you,” I said through clenched teeth, taking a seat opposite the young woman.

  “Thank you for agreeing to help me, Lady Pettigrew,” Mrs. Ramsay said. “Mr. Beaumont told me that you would be able to answer all of my questions. I hope you can.”

  “As do I, my dear,” I replied, casting a sidelong glance at Harry.

  From a small handbag, Mrs. Ramsay produced what appeared to be a letter-sized piece of vellum, which she laid it on the table in front of me. On it, in fading, archaic letters, was written a most peculiar verse:

  In the place where Earl and Queen both neale,

  Befor the blesing of St. Andrews cross,

  Where Lion meets the Mercer shal reveal

  A relick of the young Protestors loss.

  Upper Tower

  Riseing Dudley

  Slopeing King

  And Castle do surounde

  The time at which the relick maye be founde

  “What can you tell me about it?” she asked, eagerly.

  “I can tell you that whoever wrote it could not spell,” I replied. “Where did this come from?”

  “Charles, my husband, refers to this simply as ‘the riddle.’ Apparently it has been in his family for years and years, handed down from one generation to another for as long as anyone can remember, yet its meaning remains unknown. I am taking something of a chance by bringing it here, but I merely wish to surprise him.”

  “Surprise him how?” I asked.

  “By finding the solution to the riddle. You see, Charles and I have been married only a short time. He is considerably older than I, and … well, he is not the easiest man to live with. But I do so want to please him. In the short time we have been together, I have heard him speak of this riddle with almost a sense of reverence, but he continues to puzzle over its meaning. It is not much of an exaggeration to say that this scrap of parchment is the most important thing in his life. It is my hope that by finding the solution, I will be able to make him happy.”

  The poor girl was so young, so innocent, so sincere in her desires, that I had to wonder exactly what kind of marriage it was.

  I read over the riddle again. Harry was absolutely right; it did read like a nursery rhyme. A lost verse of Mother Goose, perhaps?

  “There is one more thing you should know, Lady Pettigrew,” Mrs. Ramsay went on. “There is a reason that this rhyme is so important within the family. I know this will sound quite fanciful, but the ‘relick’ referred to in the verse is thought to be some kind of lost treasure. In fact, it is my belief that Charles views this document as some kind of treasure map.”

  I looked up at her, and then over at Harry, whose lips were pursed in a wry smile. “A treasure map,” I mused. “That is how your husband described this document to you?”

  “Actually, no, not in so many words. The truth is, Lady Pettigrew, Charles has never brought it up directly or spoken of it with me in any context. But I have overheard him talking with Mary, his daughter through h
is first marriage.”

  “And have you spoken directly with her regarding this?”

  The woman appeared suddenly discomfited. “I am afraid that Mary and I have yet to become friends. She is only a couple of years younger than I am, you see, and quite headstrong.”

  “I take it that the first Mrs. Ramsay is no longer alive?”

  “Of course not. Charles is a strict Catholic, Lady Pettigrew, and as you know, the Church does not countenance divorce. I would not be his wife unless his first wife was dead. Perhaps it is the fact that I am Mary’s replacement mother that has erected the barrier between her and me—I don’t know. But I do hope you will be able to advise me, even though I cannot afford to pay you much for your time.”

  “Not to worry, Mrs. Ramsay,” Harry interrupted. “We work on commission.”

  I had to admit that this peculiar rhyme and this tale of hidden treasure had captivated my interest—as I am certain Harry knew it would. I asked if I could keep the vellum and Mrs. Ramsay once more showed signs of discomfort.

  “I suppose that would be all right,” she said, “but Charles does not know that I have taken it. It would hardly be a surprise if he had known, after all. So please, Lady Pettigrew, take care that nothing happens to it. I would not want Charles to be cross.”

  My heart went out to the poor girl. How difficult was her situation at home? Perhaps I could say something to make her feel a bit more at ease.

  “I shall take every precaution,” I assured her. “And I hope you will not think me untoward by telling you this, my dear, but I can empathize somewhat with your situation. I am likewise my husband’s second wife.”

  “Then you must know what it is like,” she blurted out. “Forgive me, Lady Pettigrew, I don’t presume to compare my situation to yours, but do you sometimes feel as though you are living in the shadow of your husband’s former wife?”