Читать книгу The Sherlock Holmes Megapack: 25 Modern Tales by Masters - Michael Kurland - Страница 4

THE ADVENTURE OF THE ELUSIVE EMERALDS, by Carla Coupe

Although these events occurred many years ago, I shall never forget the circumstances. For once, I played a rather dashing role, as the small gold locket on my watch chain constantly reminds me.

Our adventure began on a cold winter morning. A thick fog had rolled between the houses, and the windows opposite formed dark, shapeless blurs through the heavy yellow murk.

Inside, our gas lamps glowed bright and banished the gloom. As we breakfasted, Holmes quickly sorted through the usual pile of correspondence. After opening and reading several letters, he examined a small parcel that had arrived in the morning’s post.

“Where is that from?” I asked.

“From Liverpool.” A reminiscent smile touched his lips.

I repressed a shiver. My friend’s heroic efforts to clear the reputation of a young Naval officer remained fresh in my mind, and I could not share Holmes’s smile yet. Perhaps one day, after certain related events had faded from the public’s memory, I would be permitted to tell that singular tale which had so nearly resulted in tragedy.

When opened, the parcel yielded a small jade dragon, exquisitely carved in the Oriental style. It was a lovely piece of work, a fitting token acknowledging the dangers Holmes had encountered and overcome.

After setting the dragon in pride of place upon the mantelpiece, Holmes buried himself in the most recent issue of the Times.

For the next hour or two, we sat on either side of the cheery fire, and only the rustle of the newspaper, the soft hiss of burning coal, and an occasional comment interrupted the quiet of our chambers. Shortly before eleven, Holmes rose and crossed to the window.

“Ah. Set aside your paper, Watson. I believe our caller has arrived.”

“Are we expecting a visitor?” I placed the newspaper on an untidy pile and joined him at the window. In the street below, a brougham with a pair of matched greys waited at the kerb.

“This morning I received a note from Lord Maurice Denbeigh stating that he would call upon us at eleven. Would you look him up in Debretts?”

“Denbeigh?” I paused on my way to the bookshelf, then returned to the window. “I am familiar with the name. He’s the second son of the Duke of Penfield. His Grace died five or six years ago, I believe, and Denbeigh’s elder brother succeeded to the title.”

“You are acquainted with the family?” Holmes glanced at me inquiringly.

“I met his mother, now the Dowager Duchess, at the Smythe-Parkinsons’ a number of years ago. Fascinating woman.”

I smiled, recalling that carefree time. Although the Smythe-Parkinsons were remote relatives, they had welcomed my visit.

A knock interrupted my reminiscences. At Holmes’s nod, I hurried across the room and opened the door. Mrs Hudson entered, followed by a middle-aged man with fair hair and a colourless complexion.

“Lord Maurice Denbeigh,” she said.

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson.” I held the door for her as she left.

“How do you do,” said Holmes. “I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my associate, Doctor John Watson.”

I bowed.

“Mr Holmes,” Denbeigh burst out. “You must help me!”

Holmes gestured him to a chair. “I shall do my best. How can I assist you?”

He collapsed onto the chair like a man at the end of his strength. Holmes and I resumed our seats. Denbeigh buried his face in his hands for a moment, then raised his head and inhaled loudly.

“This is very difficult for me to speak of, gentlemen. It has to do with my mother, the Dowager Duchess of Penfield.”

“I see.” With a glance at me, Holmes crossed his legs and leaned back in his chair. “Pray continue.”

“To put the problem in a nutshell, my brother, the present duke, is with his regiment in India. During his absence, all the responsibilities of the family have fallen upon my unhappy shoulders. For a year now, I’ve been driven nearly insane by my nephew, Hilary, Viscount Sheppington. The boy is eighteen, and his escapades have caused me many a sleepless night. But now comes the crowning blow: My mother, my own mother, has turned thief.”

“Her Grace a thief?” I could not conceal my outrage. “Oh come, sir, you must be mistaken!”

He stiffened. “Would I make such a shocking statement, Doctor, unless I was certain? I repeat, she is a thief, and a disgrace to our family.”

Holmes raised an eyebrow. “I take it that monetary considerations are not involved?”

With a hollow laugh, Denbeigh sprang from his chair and paced the room.

“My mother has no concerns in that area, gentlemen.” He paused before the fire, his head bowed. “Unlike others of us,” he murmured.

“Then I can only assume that Her Grace is the victim of that unfortunate affliction known as kleptomania.”

“Kleptomania?” I darted a glance at Holmes. “But the description of that illness has only recently been published. I take it you have been reading my French medical journals.”

Holmes nodded once, his attention still upon Denbeigh.

“She is a kleptomaniac, Mr Holmes.” He sighed, and despite his coat’s fine tailoring, his shoulders bowed. “I spoke with several eminent nerve specialists, and they confirmed the shocking diagnosis. Not only are there the difficulties with shopkeepers to contend with; how can I explain to friends of the family when Mother decides to pocket some valuable memento whilst paying calls?”

“A vexing problem, indeed,” replied Holmes.

“And though it is petty thefts today, how can I be certain she won’t lapse into more serious criminality? Mr Holmes, you must help me find some way out of this intolerable situation. For the family’s sake, I am willing to pay—”

A loud series of knocks came from the front of the house. Denbeigh started nervously and glanced about.

The rich, husky voice of a woman rose above Mrs Hudson’s gentle murmurs.

“Mother!” cried Denbeigh.

At the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps, we rose and faced the door.

After a single knock, it opened, revealing Mrs Hudson again. She only had time to say, “Her Grace, the Dowager Duchess of Penfield,” before the lady swept past her into our chambers.

Beneath an elegant feathered hat, her chestnut hair was now streaked with silver, yet she looked every inch the magnificent woman I remembered. She dismissed Mrs Hudson, then glanced from me to Holmes.

“Which of you gentlemen is Mr Sherlock Holmes?”

Holmes stepped forward. “I am.”

She held out her hand, and he took it, bowing low.

Straightening, Holmes released her hand. “And this is my friend and colleague, Doctor John Watson. I believe you have met before.”

“Oh?” She fixed me with sparkling, dark eyes. “Where was that, Doctor?”

“Several years ago, at the Smythe-Parkinsons’.”

“Charming people,” she said with a small smile and a gracious nod. “They always host the most amusing parties.”

“Yes, indeed, Your Grace.” I was a trifle disappointed that she did not appear to remember me, but why should a duchess remember a simple military doctor?

“Maurice,” she said, transferring her gaze to her son. He flinched, and she let out a little sigh. “I thought I had made my wishes clear.”

His waxen cheeks took on a rosy tinge, and he shifted in place as if he were a schoolboy.

“You had, Mother. However, I thought—”

“I’m certain you did.” She walked to the door and opened it. “We shall discuss this further in private, Maurice. You may kiss me before you go.”

She tilted her head, presenting her cheek. Denbeigh glanced at Holmes, who bowed.

“Your Lordship.”

“Goodbye, Mr Holmes. Doctor.”

Denbeigh crossed to the duchess, obediently kissed her cheek, and left. I closed the door behind him and turned, my attention captured by Her Grace’s elegant form.

“Gentlemen, I fear my son has placed me in an invidious position.” She crossed to the fireplace and examined the assortment of items displayed on the mantelpiece. When her gaze lit upon the tobacco-filled slipper, she smiled.

“How so?” Holmes enquired, standing beside the settee.

“He has been spreading dreadful rumours about me.” She moved around the room, casting a cool glance over the well-worn furnishings. At least Mrs Hudson had tidied yesterday, although Her Grace didn’t appear distressed by our usual clutter. I was grateful that Holmes had not conducted any chemical experiments recently, for they often filled the room with smoke and an appalling stench: an altogether unsuitable atmosphere in which to receive a dowager duchess.

Holmes’s intelligent gaze followed her perambulations.

“What sort of rumours?” he asked.

Her Grace turned to Holmes with a frown.

“Pray, do not play coy with me, Mr Holmes. Maurice believes I am suffering from some sort of nervous disorder and is, I am certain, preparing to have me declared incompetent.” She raised a gloved hand to her bosom.

“Gracious me,” I said, appalled. I hurried over to her. “What a shocking—”

“Thank you, Doctor, but I do not require sympathy.” She lifted her chin and gazed solemnly at Holmes.

“These are indeed serious charges,” said Holmes.

“They are.” She hesitated for a moment, indecision briefly written upon her face. Then she stepped to my side and rested her hand on my arm. Her fingers trembled.

“As much as I find discussing my personal circumstances distasteful, it appears to be necessary,” she said, her voice low. “Gentlemen, I control my personal fortune outright. My son’s expenses have far exceeded his income, and although I have settled some of his debts, he continues to ask for more money.” She glanced from me to Holmes. “You understand the advantages to him were my finances to be under his control.”

Holmes nodded.

“Yes, of course,” I replied, and ventured to rest my hand upon hers for a moment.

“Thank you.” She smiled and gave my arm a gentle squeeze. “Anything you can do to dispel the rumours would be a great service to me. Otherwise, we shall speak no more of this matter.” She swept to the door.

“I will see you out,” I said, hurrying to open it.

She paused in the entrance hall, drawing on her gloves, and gazed at me for a moment.

“The Smythe-Parkinsons, you say?”

I smoothed my rumpled jacket. “Yes, Your Grace. At a fancy-dress ball.”

“Ah, that explains my lapse of memory,” she replied with a nod. “After all, is not concealment the very point of fancy dress?”

“Of course.” Although it was clear she still did not remember me, at least she was gracious enough to provide an excuse.

I helped her to her carriage, then returned to our chambers.

“What a superb woman.” I closed the door behind me and took my seat.

Holmes chuckled and walked to the fireplace, his pipe in hand. “Yes, quite remarkable, isn’t she?”

“Luckily we weren’t taken in by Denbeigh’s story.”

After leaning to light a twist of paper in the fireplace, Holmes straightened, lit his pipe, and waited until it was drawing properly before replying.

“You recall that jade dragon I received in this morning’s post?”

“Yes, you put it on the mantelpiece.” I looked up and gasped. “Good Lord, it has vanished!”

“Precisely.” Holmes’s voice was filled with satisfaction. “Either Her Grace is so brilliant a kleptomaniac that she has achieved an unnoticed theft at 221B Baker Street or her son wishes us to think so.”

“Well, of all the amazing nerve!”

“Watson, we have met a worthy antagonist.” Holmes suddenly emptied his pipe into the fire and strode to the door. “Come along, old chap. Don your hat and coat. I think we will take the liberty of providing the duchess with an unobtrusive escort.”

* * * *

The street lamps glowed warmly as I limped after Holmes into Carrington’s, the silversmiths on Regent Street.

“Holmes, this is the twelfth shop we’ve visited,” I whispered. “My feet are tired, my leg aches. We’ve been following the duchess all afternoon.”

“I was eager to observe Her Grace amongst temptation.” Holmes hovered by a display case.

“Temptation?” I grumbled. “As far as I can see, she hasn’t been tempted to do anything except purchase a variety of items in far too many shops.”

“Well, I must admit that I have not observed any untoward behaviour thus far,” Holmes replied.

Across the shop, the duchess studied a display of small silver goods laid out upon the counter. The manager, a tall, lugubrious Scot with an unfortunate squint, hovered over her like a stork over a new-born chick as she examined piece after piece.

The door bell rang, and a fashionably dressed young man with curling, chestnut hair stepped inside the shop.

“Hullo, Grandmama!” he called, waving his stick. “Saw the carriage outside and thought you might be here.”

Her Grace turned and regarded the young man with a fond smile.

“Ah, Hilary. I wondered when you would find me.” Turning to face us, she continued. “Mr Holmes, Doctor. Do stop trying to disappear into the woodwork and come meet my grandson.”

Holmes and I exchanged a glance. Warmth spread across my cheeks, but Holmes appeared amused.

Introductions were quickly made. Her Grace returned to her examination of silver toothpick holders and other small trinkets, while the viscount eyed the items on the counter and criticised each one. He then stepped to my side and nudged me with an elbow.

“Keeping an eye on Grandmama, eh? Capital idea. My uncle informed me that he intended to consult you regarding her condition,” he whispered. “Can’t be too careful when she’s out and about.”

“I beg your pardon,” I replied, drawing away. What effrontery!

“Not at all.” He winked, returning to Her Grace when she called to him.

The duchess completed her purchase. A smile touched her lips as she turned to Holmes.

“I am returning home now, Mr Holmes. You are released from duty.”

Holmes barked a laugh and then bowed.

“Your Grace is too kind.”

She then gestured to me. “Doctor, accompany me to my carriage, if you please.”

I was delighted to offer this small service and gave her my arm. We were followed by a shop assistant carrying her parcel.

As I handed her into her carriage, the viscount hurried from the shop. “I say, Grandmama! I may as well return home with you.”

He brushed past me and climbed into the carriage.

I waited until the brougham had clattered down the street and turned the corner before re-entering the shop. Holmes was deep in conversation with the manager.

“Ah, Watson,” he said as I approached. “Mr Ferguson has a question for you.”

Mr Ferguson leaned across the counter. “Doctor, did you see Her Grace pick up a wee enamelled card case? The green one?” he asked, his voice a murmur.

I thought for a moment before replying in the same soft tones.

“I believe Her Grace examined one, but I’m certain she returned it to the counter. Why?”

“A card case has gone missing,” said Holmes, looking unruffled. “Although before searching any further, Mr Ferguson, I would ask Watson to show us the contents of his left outer pocket.”

“The contents of my…” I stared at Holmes as I slipped my hand into the pocket. “Why, there is nothing—Good Lord!”

I drew out my hand. A small green card case rested in my palm.

Ferguson uttered a strangled sound and reached for the case.

“But I never touched it,” I cried, allowing Ferguson to snatch it away. “How could it—?”

“Calm yourself, my dear fellow,” said Holmes, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “No one believes you were responsible for taking it.”

“I should hope not!”

“No, it appears she took it from the counter and then slipped it into your pocket.”

“But Holmes, the viscount could have—”

Holmes squeezed my shoulder and gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head. He turned to Ferguson. “I believe you have heard rumours about Her Grace, Mr Ferguson.”

I could hardly believe my ears. Holmes was as good as stating that the duchess was responsible for the theft. Surely the viscount had the same opportunity to take the card case and slip it into my pocket as his grandmother.

“Aye, I have.” Ferguson sighed. “Though I thought to pay them no heed.”

“It is a sad case,” Holmes said softly. “And one that, were it made public, could bring shame upon the family.”

“But what am I to do if it happens again, Mr Holmes?” Ferguson asked, frowning. “She frequently patronises our business. I cannae call the police, but the losses—”

“I believe I have a solution to your problem.” Holmes smiled. “Observe her whenever she visits. Anything that is not paid for should be added to her account. I believe this will prove most satisfactory for both parties in handling any such incidents in the future.”

Ferguson’s dour expression cleared. “That would suit us quite well, Mr Holmes.”

“Excellent,” said Holmes. “In that way your shop will sustain no loss, and the family will be spared public scandal. Yes, a very satisfactory arrangement, I think.” He turned to me. “Come along, Watson.”

I could barely wait until we were out of the shop and walking along the pavement before turning to Holmes.

“But, Holmes! Her Grace might not be guilty; the viscount could have as easily taken the card case.”

“I know that, dear fellow,” he said, raising his stick toward an unoccupied hansom. The driver reined in the horse. “Did you notice that she appeared very fond of the boy?”

“I did indeed. Yet that does not explain why you have cast suspicion solely upon her.”

After giving our address, Holmes and I climbed inside the cab.

“Watson, I am in the process of setting a trap.” Holmes signalled with his stick, and the driver set off. “I have deep reservations regarding Sheppington. He may be using his grandmother’s regard for him and playing upon her affections, either alone or in collusion with his uncle. If Denbeigh and Sheppington are guilty of conspiring in order to gain control of Her Grace’s fortune, I will draw them out and expose their machinations.”

“So you believe her to be the victim of a plot?”

“Possibly, Watson, possibly. If, on the other hand, she does suffer from kleptomania, we must see to it that she does not have the opportunity to disgrace herself and her family by being publicly exposed.”

“But how are we to do that?”

“We took the first step this afternoon. Our next task is to send a message and ask Denbeigh and Sheppington to call upon us on the morrow.”

* * * *

The next day dawned bright and chill. Holmes and I were immersed in the morning newspapers and Mrs Hudson was clearing our breakfast dishes when the bell announced visitors. She bustled out with a tray of crockery, only to appear again moments later, breathing heavily.

“Her Grace,” she panted.

The dowager duchess entered, heavily veiled. With a brisk nod, Her Grace dismissed Mrs Hudson, then lifted the veils before turning to Holmes.

“Mr Holmes, Doctor. I apologise for calling unannounced.”

She appeared slightly flustered, but when I suggested she be seated, she gave an impatient wave.

“No time, gentlemen. I overheard Maurice speaking of his visit; he will be here soon.”

“How may we be of assistance?” asked Holmes.

“Count von Kratzov is giving a ball tomorrow. He currently occupies one of my properties in Town; therefore I must make an appearance.” She paced from the hearth to the breakfast table and back. “He will be displaying the von Kratzov emeralds, the first time they have been publicly shown outside of Poland. I suspect that Maurice may attempt some mischief in order to disgrace me and further his aims.”

“We must prevent that from occurring, Holmes!” I said.

“Indeed we must.” Holmes looked inquiringly at her. “Would it be possible to procure an invitation for the good doctor and me?”

“I would be grateful if you and Doctor Watson would accompany me.”

Holmes shook his head. “It would be best if we were not of your party.”

“Ah. Of course.” She smiled. “I will drop a hint to a friend, who will ensure that you both are included on the list of guests.” She held out her hand to Holmes, who bowed over it briefly.

“Excellent!” Holmes glanced at the clock. “And now I am expecting your son—”

“Yes!” She lowered her veils and hurried to the door. “Thank you, Mr Holmes, Doctor.”

Rather than bother Mrs Hudson, I saw Her Grace to the pavement and hailed a hansom for her. She thanked me most prettily before departing.

I had barely gained our chambers before the bell rang again. Within moments, Denbeigh entered, accompanied by his nephew.

I bowed, but remained in my place by the window where I could clearly see both men. If either Denbeigh or Sheppington attempted to surreptitiously pocket an item in order to dishonour Her Grace, I wished to be the one who revealed their perfidy.

As Holmes explained the advantages of forging agreements with all of the shops patronised by Her Grace, Sheppington prowled about the room before lounging against the hearth. He withdrew a silver case from his pocket, extracted a cigarette, and lit it.

Denbeigh frowned. “And what is to prevent these shopkeepers from falsely charging my mother for items she did not take?”

“These are the most reputable establishments in London,” said Holmes. “Any such allegations would be ruinous.”

“I agree with Mr Holmes, Uncle.” The young man shrugged and flicked his half-smoked cigarette into the embers. “If we can’t stop Grandmama pinching the stuff, at least this will keep it quiet.”

“Hilary!” Denbeigh appeared scandalised. He turned to my friend. “Very well, Mr Holmes. Although I have reservations, we shall try your suggestion.”

Holmes coughed gently. “Matters are already arranged at Carrington’s. All that remains to be done is to make similar agreements with the other shops your mother patronises. Would you care for me to undertake this task?”

“That won’t be necessary, Mr Holmes,” said Denbeigh stiffly. “I shall take responsibility for this matter myself.”

Dropping onto a chair, Sheppington crossed his legs at the ankle and leaned back. “I only wish that since Grandmama’s so free and easy with other people’s belongings, she’d loosen up the money bags for me a little. I’m stone broke. And Uncle, I know you’ve lost a bundle—”

“We will not discuss that at present, Hilary.” Denbeigh glanced at Holmes. “Do you have further advice regarding my mother’s affliction?”

“Not at present.”

“Then we shall bid you good day. Come, Hilary.”

Sheppington heaved a sigh as he rose. “Of course. Goodbye, Mr Holmes, Doctor Watson.”

Holmes turned to the window, while I saw His Lordship and his nephew to the door.

“Do you believe Denbeigh will follow your suggestion and contact the shopkeepers?” I returned to my chair. “He did not seem especially taken with the idea.”

“Very true. You noticed that he did not mention the ball or the emeralds?”

“Why would—” I stopped, suddenly struck by Holmes’s implication. “Do you believe that omission to be suspicious?”

“Possibly so.” Holmes’s shrug was positively Gallic. “Another possibility exits, however. If Denbeigh knows the emeralds are well protected, and that his mother would have little chance to pilfer them, he would have no cause for concern.”

“So, we shall spend tomorrow evening observing Her Grace,” I said. “I can only hope it is less arduous than our afternoon trailing her about the shops.”

“I suspect that observing Her Grace will be the least interesting portion of our evening,” said Holmes with a laugh.

“What do you mean?”

“You heard Her Grace, Watson. This will be the first time the von Kratzov emeralds will be on display outside Poland, and not only will they be an object of interest to members of society, but they will attract the attention of every jewel thief in Europe.”

“Good God, do you think so?”

“I do indeed.” Holmes’s eyes sparkled. “In fact, I will be very much surprised if we do not encounter several notorious thieves during the course of the evening.”

“But Holmes! Should we not inform Scotland Yard of your suspicions?”

“I am certain that the count has taken every precaution,” he replied. “But it is a clear day, if a trifle chill. I suggest we take the air now, for I shall be occupied later this afternoon.”

I rose and followed him. We donned our coats and gloves, and as we stepped onto the pavement, Holmes reached into his pocket and froze.

“Holmes!” I exclaimed, gazing at his countenance in alarm. “What is wrong? Are you ill?”

He took a deep, shuddering breath, threw his head back, and emitted a bark of laughter that would have frightened me if he hadn’t immediately calmed.

“I am well, Watson.” His dark eyes flashed as he withdrew his hand from his pocket. He opened his fingers, and laying on the kidskin was the jade dragon.

“Bless me!” I stared at the bauble.

“Indeed.” Holmes chuckled and returned the dragon to his pocket. “This is becoming quite a pretty puzzle, my dear chap. Who is returning the stolen articles? The thief, for some unknown reason? Or another party who wishes to prevent a scandal?” He clapped on his hat. “Come, Watson.”

I followed him, still overcome with astonishment. If Holmes was correct regarding the interest generated by the jewels, as he almost invariably was about these things, tomorrow evening would test our abilities. The combination of the finest emeralds in Europe and Her Grace could only mean trouble.

* * * *

After luncheon, Holmes remarked that he would be absent from our chambers for some time, since he would be occupied with certain investigations.

I spent a quiet afternoon and evening alone, perusing the newspapers and other publications for any hint of gossip or innuendo regarding Her Grace and her family. Apart from His Lordship frequenting the races, however, they garnered no mention in the press.

I was not unduly concerned by Holmes’s absence; he occasionally disappeared for hours or days at a time when immersed in an investigation. He did not return to our chambers that night, or if he had, he arrived late and departed before I awoke. Our invitations to Count von Kratzov’s ball that evening arrived before luncheon; however, I had seen nothing of Holmes throughout the day, nor received word of his whereabouts.

The sky was darkening into dusk when I rose to dress. I glanced at the clock; Holmes was deucedly late. Had he forgotten our promise to Her Grace and Lord Maurice to attend the ball?

At that moment, a flurry of knocks sounded from the front door, followed by raised voices. My chamber door was flung open, and a man dressed in soiled work clothes, clutching a flat cap hurried in, followed by Mrs Hudson.

“Oh, Doctor!” she cried. “He would not wait—”

“I should hope not.” The man spoke with familiar voice. “Thank you, Mrs Hudson.”

I started. “Holmes?”

With a sigh, Mrs Hudson left. Holmes removed the putty that had altered the contours of his nose and smiled.

“Good afternoon, Watson. I hope you are preparing to dress for—”

“Really, Holmes.” I gazed at his grimy clothing and shook my head. “You are absolutely disgusting.”

“My dear fellow, the disguise was necessary,” he said, eyes twinkling. “It enabled me to acquire information regarding Her Grace. Let us change our clothing, and I shall tell you in the cab on the way to Count von Kratzov’s.”

* * * *

The evening gloom had fallen by the time we finished dressing and descended the stair. Mrs Hudson stood before the door, holding Holmes’s hat.

“I have brushed it as best I can, Mr Holmes,” she said, as he donned his coat and scarf and pulled on his gloves. “I really don’t know how you manage to get so filthy.”

“As I said at the time, it was not my fault, Mrs Hudson. Blame Red O’Toole, the bare knuckle fighter, and his propensity for taking offense at gentlemen in evening clothes.” She shook her head as Holmes took his hat. Clapping it on, he smiled and chose his stick. “Excellent!”

I turned away and suppressed my smile.

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson,” I said, buttoning my coat and drawing on my gloves before taking up my own hat and stick.

I followed Holmes into the bustling crowds, for despite the chill, the streets teemed with activity. Holmes hailed a hansom and after giving the count’s Grosvenor Place address to the driver, he sat back on the leather seat with a small sigh.

“You asked about my activities today,” Holmes began. “You will be pleased to know I performed honest labour and a little reconnaissance. With the assistance of Mary, the youngest and most imaginative of Her Grace’s housemaids, I repaired several broken panes in Her Grace’s dressing room.”

I glanced at Holmes. “How convenient that there were broken panes which required repair.”

He did not reply, but simply flashed a small smile and folded his hands upon his knee.

“And how were those panes broken?” I continued. “Your young colleagues throwing rocks, perhaps?”

“It is positively shameful how these hooligans run wild.”

I was not at all surprised Holmes had arranged such an event. In the interests of justice, he maintained that to prove the greater crime, one could be forgiven the lesser. I generally agreed.

“And what about young Mary?” I turned a critical eye on him. “I hope you did not play upon her expectations.”

“Never fear, my dear fellow. I assure you that our relations were entirely proper. Her eldest brother is a glazier in Plymouth, and we spoke of the demands of his trade after the fleet has returned to port.” He lifted an eyebrow. “You would be surprised at the amount of destruction perpetrated by Her Majesty’s forces whilst in their cups.”

“I assure you, I would not.” I suppressed vivid memories of the actions of my military brethren during leave. “And what news did Mary convey?”

“A great deal of commiseration for Her Grace and Lord Maurice regarding the activities of Viscount Sheppington, some of which were conveyed in a whisper, with hints of others that were far worse and could not be spoken of.”

I shook my head. “Is the young man truly so far sunk in vice and dissipation?”

“Apparently so, although when I enquired if she had witnessed any of his dreadful behaviour, she denied it.”

“Then how did she know of it?”

“Ah, there’s the question, Watson. Rumour amongst the other servants is the most likely cause; however, I have identified a few other possibilities.”

Before I could ask him to elaborate, our cab came to a halt.

“Number sixteen, sir,” said the driver.

As Holmes paid, I wrapped my scarf closer around my neck and stepped to the pavement amidst the confusion of a dozen cabs and carriages disgorging their passengers.

The count’s house sat at the end of the row, brightly lit windows facing both Grosvenor Place and the side street. The façade was of fine Portland stone with elaborately carved lintels. A heavy granite wall bordered the pavement, leaving the narrow well between wall and house immersed in a pool of black. During the day, those subterranean rooms whose windows faced the wall would receive scant illumination; at night, the darkness was Stygian.

Gentlemen and ladies hurried by and quickly mounted the steps. The open front door welcomed guests as the music from within wafted to the street.

“This should prove an entertaining evening, Watson.” Holmes joined me on the pavement. “I have already spotted one jewel thief in the crowd, and there may very well be more.”

I turned to stare at the passersby. “So your suspicions were correct! What dreadful news!”

“Calm yourself, my dear fellow. Come, let us join the others and see the legendary emeralds for ourselves.”

We were ushered inside and shortly thereafter presented to the Count von Kratzov, a portly little man with eyes as black and round as shoe buttons.

“Welcome, Mr Holmes, Dr Watson.” He spoke perfect English, despite a heavy accent. “Your reputation precedes you, Mr Holmes. Should I be concerned about the safety of my jewels?”

Holmes bowed. “That depends upon the security of your arrangements.”

“Ah, of course. You shall judge for yourself.” He glanced at a thin, sharp-featured man with the stooped shoulders of a scholar who stood to one side, and addressed him in what I assumed to be Polish. “My private secretary will accompany us.”

Excusing himself from his other guests, the count led us down the corridor toward the rear of the house to a receiving room where a burly footman stood beside a door. The count drew out a key hanging on his watch fob, unlocked the door, and preceded us into a small drawing room. A glass case rested atop the polished mahogany table. On the other side of the room sat a broad fireplace. The hearth was cold, and the chamber’s sole illumination came from a gas fixture arranged to shed its light upon the table, leaving the rest of the room in shadow. Once inside, the count closed and relocked the door and then gestured toward the closed windows that faced Chapel Street. Through the glass, I could see closely spaced iron bars.

“This door is the only means of entering or exiting this room, gentlemen, and I myself hold the sole key. Only a few select guests will be invited to view the stones, but in case anyone tries to slip in unobserved, Stanislaw is on guard outside. He has served my family for many years and is completely trustworthy.” The count lifted his eyebrows and looked at Holmes. “As you can see, I have taken every precaution.”

Holmes studied the room for a moment. “Your secretary does not have a duplicate key?” he asked.

The count chuckled and turned to the man who stood as still as a statue just inside the door. “Carolus, explain please.”

Carolus gently cleared his throat. “This morning, before we brought the jewels from the bank where they had been housed for safekeeping, I oversaw the installation of a new lock on the door. The locksmith himself handed the only key to my master.”

“I see.” Holmes turned to the glittering gems, nestled on black velvet inside the case.

I leaned forward. The emeralds were magnificent, with brilliant colour and unparalleled clarity. There were eight stones in all, each cut in a different style and displayed in an elegant setting, save for the largest and most spectacular stone. It lay in the centre of the case, loose and unadorned; it needed no other device to enhance its beauty.

Holmes nodded once, and we followed the count into the corridor.

“I commend you on your arrangements,” said Holmes, as the count closed and locked the drawing room door. Carolus bowed and slipped away.

The count smiled and rubbed his hands together. “Your words comfort me, Mr Holmes. And now, shall we join my other guests?”

As we entered the ballroom, an elderly matron approached and playfully batted the count’s arm with her fan.

“Count! You have been avoiding me!” she said as she neatly separated von Kratzov from Holmes, much as a dog would separate a lamb from the flock. They disappeared into the crush, and I turned to Holmes.

“Well, Holmes, the count has certainly established a secure location for the stones. I cannot see how anyone could steal them.”

“I wish that were the case.” He glanced at me, then clasped his hands behind his back and turned to contemplate the dancing couples moving about the floor. “I have identified five possible methods for surreptitiously removing one or more of the emeralds from their case and then from the room. I am certain, were I to exert myself, I could add half-a-dozen more.”

“Surely you jest!” I stared at Holmes in surprise. “The door is locked, the windows are closed and barred, and a guard is stationed outside. What more could be done?”

“What more, indeed.” A smile touched the corners of his mouth. “If all my adversaries were as straightforward as you, I would have no fears at all about the fate of the von Kratzov emeralds.”

His words stung. “If my contributions are so useless, I wonder that you include me in your investigations at all.” I accepted a glass of champagne from a passing footman and drank rather more deeply than usual.

“Watson!” Holmes turned to me, his brows drawn together, yet not in a scowl. “I beg your pardon, my dear fellow. My words were ill chosen. Do not ask me, however, to apologise for the sentiment. Your mind acts as a touchstone to that which is pure and good; although agile, it lacks the sordid depths and devious paths of the criminal’s mental processes.”

Somewhat comforted, I took another sip of the count’s excellent champagne.

“What would you have me do this evening?” I asked.

“Will you assume responsibility for following Her Grace? I shall concern myself with observing Denbeigh and Sheppington.”

“With pleasure. But do you think it possible that she could steal one or more of the emeralds and elude detection?”

“That, of course, is the crux of the matter, isn’t it?” With an enigmatic smile, Holmes disappeared into the crowd.

A few moments later, Her Grace was announced, along with her son and grandson. I could see no sign of Holmes, yet I had no doubt he knew the whereabouts of every individual in the room.

Mindful of my charge, I peered at the dowager duchess and her party over the rim of my champagne flute. Resplendent in diamonds and sapphires, Her Grace displayed an engaging vivacity. She smiled at the count’s attentions, which were so marked as to be offensively Continental; indeed he stood so close that he actually trod upon her skirts.

With a thunderous expression, Sheppington clenched his hands into fists, but a word from Denbeigh stilled him. Drawing the young man away with a firm hand upon his shoulder, Denbeigh led him toward the supper room.

Her Grace continued to smile as the count gestured and spoke, yet her gaze appeared to follow their retreating forms. It was only upon the announcement of the arrival of another guest that the count bowed and turned away, leaving the duchess alone.

I stepped forward and, catching her eye, bowed.

She approached and extended her hand. “So here you are, Doctor.”

I raised her hand to my lips and then, somewhat reluctantly I confess, released it.

Leaning close, she lowered her voice. “I assume Mr Holmes is also here?”

“He is, Your Grace.”

She nodded in abstraction. A young guardsman inadvertently jostled her, and after politely receiving his incoherent apology, she drew a deep breath and took my arm in a firm clasp.

“Let us remove ourselves from the throng,” she said. I led her to a quiet corner by a heavily curtained window, and she continued: “You mentioned that we had met before at the Smythe-Parkinsons’.”

“Yes, several years ago. At a fancy dress ball.” I smiled at the memory of that carefree country weekend.

“What were you wearing?”

“I went as Pierrot. Not very original, I am afraid,” I said, my face warming. A more elaborate costume had been beyond my means.

“I am certain you looked most handsome.” The duchess tilted her head inquiringly. “And do you remember what I wore?”

“Of course. An Elizabethan-inspired dress in blue,” I replied promptly. “I believe it was velvet. You were enchanting.”

Indeed, she had outshone women half her age. No one attending the ball that night could have failed to admire her verve and beauty. Even now, so many years later, I picture her clearly.

“Ah, yes. That costume did suit me rather well, did it not?” She smiled and pressed my arm. “I am flattered you remembered me.”

“You were impossible to forget.”

“Doctor, you missed your true calling,” she said with a laugh. “You are quite the diplomat.”

At that moment, the count appeared before us, flanked by the dowager duchess’s son and grandson. I could not help but see the trio as examples of the worst traits of modern man: Count von Kratzov, coarse beneath his veneer of urbanity; Lord Maurice, colourless and cowed, living his life in a perpetual state of nervous exhaustion; and Viscount Sheppington, whose youthful attractiveness hid, by many accounts, a dissolute character.

“Doctor Watson!” Denbeigh appeared startled. “I did not expect to see you here. Is Mr Holmes also in attendance?”

“Yes, he’s about,” I said. “We were pleased to accept Count von Kratzov’s invitation.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” said the count before turning to the dowager duchess. “Your Grace, I would be honoured if you would give me the next dance.”

She sighed, the exhalation so soft I am certain I alone heard it. With a final squeeze, she released my arm and turned to the men.

“Thank you, Count von Kratzov. However, I am a trifle fatigued. Might I prevail upon you to show me those magnificent emeralds instead?”

For a moment the tableau stilled, as if each player were frozen in time. Even the music paused, and during that short-lived quiet, I heard a soft, sharp inhalation, although I could not tell from whom it issued. Then a woman’s shrill laugh rang through the room, and the silence ended as suddenly as it had begun, movement and sound resuming.

The count’s expression briefly darkened, then his scowl disappeared as quickly as it had come.

“But of course, dear lady,” he said, bowing and offering his arm.

The dowager duchess hesitated only a heartbeat before resting her gloved hand upon his. She glanced at me over her shoulder, and I do not believe I mistook the plea in her gaze.

“Doctor, you will join us, won’t you?”

“It would be my very great pleasure, Your Grace.”

Von Kratzov escorted her across the room. Denbeigh and I followed in their wake, as cygnets paddle behind a swan. The four of us had gained the receiving room, and I saw that Stanislaw still stood guard before the door. Denbeigh plucked at my sleeve.

“Doctor, a word, if you please.”

The count ushered the dowager duchess into the small room that housed the emeralds as I turned to Denbeigh.

“Her Grace asked me to…” I began. Stanislaw closed the door and turned to face us, his broad Slavic features impassive.

Denbeigh’s grip tightened and he pulled me to the far side of the room. “I will only take a moment.”

“A moment, then.” I glanced at the drawing room’s closed door.

Leaning close, Denbeigh spoke low. “Where is Mr Holmes?”

“As I said before, he is somewhere about.”

“But why is he not here, observing my mother?” His fingers dug into my arm.

“You must ask Holmes yourself. I cannot speak for his actions.” I pulled from his grasp and stepped away.

“Of course not,” he said, the colour high on his cheeks. “Forgive me, I am simply concerned about my mother.”

“I understand,” I replied, my irritation fading. “Holmes and I both share your concern, and I am certain that, whatever he is doing, he is endeavouring to prevent any incidents from occurring that would involve Her Grace. Now, if you will excuse—”

“One more question, please, Doctor.” He waited until I nodded before continuing. “Do you think it significant that she asked to see the emeralds?”

“Not at all. They are unparalleled in Europe and justifiably famous. I would think it odd if she did not.”

Before he could respond, a shriek pierced the air, followed by heavy thuds and a sharp crack, then the sound of shattering glass.

I whirled toward the closed door. “Good God, what is that!”

My exclamation overlay Denbeigh’s cry of “Mother!” We dashed to where Stanislaw, startled from his impassivity, pulled upon the door handle without effect.

“Locked!” he grunted.

I motioned him away.

“Your Grace! Your Grace, can you hear me?” I pounded upon the heavy oak with my fist, then pressed my ear against the panels. My heart sank at the silence within. What could have happened to her?

Suffused with anger at myself, I bit back my curses. I had failed in my duty; I should have ignored Denbeigh’s request and attended her! I raised my fist, raining blows upon the panels.

“Watson!” From seemingly out of the æther, Holmes appeared at my side.

“Her Grace may be in danger!” I cried, continuing my battery upon the door.

“She and the count are within?” His quicksilver intellect grasped the situation immediately. “Do not blame yourself, Watson,” he said, drawing me away.

With a glance and a nod at Stanislaw, Holmes doffed his coat and handed it to me.

Denbeigh raised his hands in supplication. “Do something, Mr Holmes!”

Holmes’s expression hardened. “Stand back,” he ordered.

Upon a word from Holmes, he and Stanislaw pressed their shoulders to the oak. The wood creaked, but did not give. They tried again with the same result.

The room grew crowded with the concerned and curious, and I instructed several footmen to encourage the onlookers to return to the ballroom, or at least to keep clear a space for Holmes and Stanislaw.

They hurled themselves against the door again. With a loud crack, the latch at last gave. Thrusting Stanislaw to one side, Holmes darted into the dark room. I followed, ignoring Denbeigh’s breathless cries and clutching fingers.

For a moment, sufficient illumination spilled across the threshold to show the overturned table. Before I could discern further details, Denbeigh and Stanislaw crowded the doorway, blocking the brightness.

“Let no one else enter!” ordered Holmes.

Stanislaw turned to face the outer room, a more effective barricade than the violated door.

“Take care, Watson!” Holmes’s voice came from across the room. “Let me light the lamp before you venture further.”

Although wild with concern for Her Grace’s safety, I saw the sense of his request and followed his bidding. He struck a lucifer and the small flame flared in the darkness, sending dreadful shadows dancing across the walls and illuminating Holmes’s grim expression. He stepped to the fixture, and in the still room I could briefly hear the hiss of gas before the sudden burst of light caused me to shade my eyes.

Blinking as I adjusted to the light, I needed only a single glance to take in the room’s utter confusion. As I had observed earlier, the table was tipped on its side, the legs facing the open door. The glass case containing the emeralds lay overturned on the floor by the fireplace. Curtains, now torn, sagged, and light glittered off the shards of several smashed window panes.

A soft moan startled me. I turned to the window, my breath catching: There, half-hidden by a swath of damask pulled from its hanger, lay the dowager duchess.

“Good God!”

In an instant I knelt beside her, gently lifting her limp, ungloved hand. Her pulse, weak and thready, strengthened as she stirred. Minute pieces of glass glistened in her hair and upon her bodice.

“Do not attempt to move,” I said, carefully touching her temple, then lifting my hand to the light. Blood, dark and viscous, stained my fingertips.

She groaned, then appeared to slip back into unconsciousness.

“Holmes, she is in need of immediate assistance.”

Holmes bent over the far end of the table, which almost touched the opposite wall. He grasped one corner and tugged it from the wall.

“I fear she is not the only one,” he said, his voice grave. “Count? Count von Kratzov? Can you hear me?”

I reluctantly released her hand and stood. My medical vows required me to ascertain the count’s condition, although I was still concerned about the dowager duchess. I walked to Holmes’s side and gasped. The count lay sprawled in the corner, his face and shirt-front spattered with blood. I bent over him and rested my fingers on his pulse.

A sudden commotion at the door drew my attention.

“Grandmama! Grandmama!” Sheppington cried. “Let me through, you rogue!”

A scuffle ensued at the door, ending only when the young man dodged beneath Stanislaw’s outstretched arm and darted into the room. His wild gaze roamed over Holmes and me, coming to rest upon the form of the dowager duchess.

Falling to his knees before his grandmother, he caught her hand in his.

“I am too late! The count has killed her!” He choked back a sob.

“Pull yourself together,” said Holmes. Bent over from the waist, he was carefully examining the ruined jewel case on the floor beside the fireplace. A rough circle of shards and patches of glass ground to powder glinted upon the carpet and planks. “She is nowhere near death.”

“Do not move her yet,” I said, turning back to my patient. “Holmes, I require more light.”

“Maryja, matka Boga!”

I glanced up. Carolus entered the room, carrying an oil lamp.

“Bring the lamp here,” I ordered, loosening the count’s cravat.

He placed the lamp on the floor beside me, then clasped his hands behind his back.

“What has happened? Who has done this to my master?” he asked.

“That is what we are trying to ascertain,” replied Holmes. He picked up the shattered jewel case and held it to the light.

Carolus gasped. “The emeralds!”

I finished my examination of the count, then rose stiffly, retrieving the lamp.

“The count has been badly beaten and appears to have fallen and struck his head, resulting in his current state of unconsciousness. However, I do not believe he has any broken bones, nor any internal injuries.” I turned to Carolus. “Have two or three of your strongest footmen carry him to his bed. Does he have a private physician?”

“Yes. He consults Sir Theobald Western, of Harley Street. Sir Theobald is in attendance tonight.”

“Excellent. Send a footman to find him and take him to the count.”

The dowager duchess stirred, groaning softly.

“The devil with the count and his emeralds! What of Grandmama?” cried Sheppington. “She is bleeding!”

“I will also require a bed or chaise in a quiet room for Her Grace,” I continued, ignoring Sheppington’s outburst.

Carolus hurried from the room. I heard him shouting instructions in another tongue. Stanislaw and another footman entered the room, gathered up the count, and carried off the portly figure as easily as a young lady holds her fan.

“Be still, Your Grace,” I said, setting down the lamp beside the dowager duchess and bending to examine the wound on her scalp. “Your Lordship, please allow me room to work.”

After a moment, he sat back.

I took her hand in mine, although I knew what I would see. The empty fingers of her glove depended from her wrist and quivered as I lifted her hand to the light; she had, at some point before she was injured, unbuttoned her glove at the wrist and drawn her hand out through the opening. The better to admire the emeralds? Yet she had not had time to fold away the surplus kidskin. I finished my examination of her hand and gently encircled her wrist with my fingers. Her pulse remained strong. As I probed the wound on her temple, she winced and drew in a sharp breath.

“You may have a head-ache for a few days, but the injury is superficial,” I said, the tightness in my chest easing. I gave her a reassuring smile. “Is it possible for you to sit up?”

She breathed deeply, then nodded. “Of course.”

With the assistance of Sheppington, she sat up by degrees.

“Do you remember what happened?” I asked.

Holmes paused in his examination of the jewel case and glanced in our direction.

She frowned. “As we entered the room, my attention was upon the glass case. I stepped to the table…” She hesitated for only a moment, a faint glow touching her cheeks. “I did not notice anything amiss before the lights were extinguished. And then…” Her brows drew together. “I…I do not remember anything more.”

A soft cough announced Carolus’s return.

“I have prepared a room for Her Grace,” he said. “And sent a messenger for the policja.”

“If you cannot stand,” I said, “the footmen can carry you—”

She lifted her chin. “Hilary will assist me.”

“Certainly, Grandmama.” The viscount leaned over, his arm encircling her shoulders.

I lent my strength on her other side. At one point she bowed her head as if overcome. Holmes uttered a brief exclamation and swooped in, but his concern was unnecessary. She gained her feet without experiencing any further weakness.

Despite Holmes’s obvious impatience, I insisted she pause a moment before proceeding. Once assured that she would not succumb, I allowed her, supported by her grandson, to leave the room.

From outside, I heard Denbeigh cry “Mother!” before Holmes drew me toward the broken window. Cold air poured into the room. I took a deep breath.

“Quickly, Watson! The police will arrive any moment. I am certain you observed several deep scorings raked across the count’s face, as if from fingernails. Is it possible that she inflicted such wounds?”

The question did not surprise me. Naturally, Holmes would have noticed my reaction to the evidence on her fingers and wish to ascertain the cause. That did not mean I welcomed his enquiry, however.

I sighed. “Yes.”

“As I suspected.” Holmes sounded extremely satisfied.

“Her actions must have been defensive!” Any other option was simply unthinkable. “Surely the count attacked her…”

“Do you truly believe a lady of her years was capable of repelling his determined attack?” His voice was hard as flint. “And what of the emeralds?”

I looked from the empty jewel case to the broken window.

“No. No, it cannot be, Holmes. She cannot be responsible.”

“You are thinking with your heart and not your mind, Watson! Does not the evidence point to Her Grace surprising the count with a blow of sufficient force to stagger him?”

“With what?” I gestured to the room. “There is nothing she could use as a weapon.”

Holmes pointed to a brass poker lying in a shadowed corner. I had not noticed it before.

“There is blood upon the end,” he said.

How could this be? In her right mind, the dowager duchess would never be capable of such actions. Was Denbeigh correct to be concerned that his mother suffered from kleptomania? If so, could her disease have progressed to a violent manifestation with such rapidity?

Holmes continued. “After she removed the jewels from their case, the count must have recovered enough to lunge at her. She fended off his attack, in the course of which he fell and struck his head. Either she was already in the process of ridding herself of the jewels before this occurred and lost consciousness immediately, or she was able to break the window and toss the jewels outside before succumbing to her injury.”

“If what you say is true, Holmes, and I must admit that I fervently hope you are wrong, it must be a direct result of this insidious disease. She is most certainly not at fault, and it might be possible to salvage her reputation.” I turned toward the door. “Let us retrieve the emeralds before the police arrive.”

“Too late, I fear,” replied Holmes as voices rose in the receiving room. “However, we do have one further clue as to what occurred.” He thrust his hand into his coat pocket and withdrew it far enough for me to catch a glimpse of glittering emerald and fiery diamond against his palm.

I started at the unexpected sight. “Good gracious! But where …”

He returned the gem to his pocket and smoothed back his hair.

“The least of the jewels,” he said softly. “It lay beneath her, and I was able to retrieve it without her knowledge.”

Misery kept me mute.

A hoarse cough from the door caught our attention. A large constable stood on the threshold, holding his hat and frowning.

“Now, wot’s all this then?”

* * * *

I excused myself and left Holmes to explain the situation to the constable, for I still had my patient to attend. Her Grace rested in a cheerful morning room, while Sheppington sat on a footstool by her side. With a thunderous expression, Denbeigh paced the length of the room.

There was little I could do save admonish Denbeigh for worrying his mother, assure myself that her pulse remained strong, and vow to return again in a quarter hour to ensure she continued to improve.

I closed the morning room door behind me and turned to face a tremendous bustle and clamour. Apparently the police had arrived in force while I attended the dowager duchess, for a handful of constables were endeavouring to contain the count’s guests in the ballroom. I returned to the receiving room.

“There you are, Watson,” said Holmes. “You remember Mr Athelney Jones of Scotland Yard.”

He indicated a stout, ruddy-faced man, whose small, bright eyes nearly disappeared into heavy folds of flesh.

“Of course I do,” I replied, as Jones wheezed a greeting.

“Bad business, this,” said Jones. “Dowager Duchess of Penfield attacked, eh? Not to mention that foreign count. I’ve examined the room and will need to ask them a few questions, of course.”

“Her Grace is still quite shaken and should not be disturbed,” I said firmly. Certainly too shaken to be questioned by Jones. “I believe Count von Kratzov’s physician is attending him now. He will be able to answer as to the count’s current condition. When I last saw the count, he was unconscious.”

“Ah.” Jones pursed his lips. “You were there when the attack occurred?”

“Not in the room, no.” I explained what I had seen. “I cannot tell you more.”

“Just so, Doctor.” Jones nodded vigorously, his jowls quivering like the dewlaps of a dog on the scent. “Mr Holmes showed me the smashed case. No sign of the jewels. What were they? Diamonds?”

“The von Kratzov emeralds are priceless and renowned throughout Europe,” replied Holmes.

“Are they, indeed?” Jones did not appear impressed.

“That is why the count instituted so many precautions: the locked door, the trusted servant stationed outside, the jewels themselves housed in a case,” I added.

“Which did nothing to prevent the theft,” Jones said bluntly. “So although the window was broken, the iron bars are too closely spaced to allow even a child to enter or exit. Common sense tells us the glass was broken by accident.” He tugged at the waistcoat of his grey suit. “The facts are clear, gentlemen. The thief slipped by the count’s man and entered the room. He then pocketed the emeralds, but before he could leave, the count and Her Grace surprised him. The thief attacked them, and after you and Mr Holmes here entered, he escaped in the confusion.”

“A most interesting theory,” said Holmes. I met his gaze, but did not speak.

“Facts, Mr Holmes! Facts! As I’ve had occasion to remind you before, you should avoid theories and focus strictly on the facts. There can be no other explanation that fits the facts you and the doctor have presented.”

As he spoke, a constable approached and waited to one side. Jones lifted a finger and directed his attention to the young man. Frowning at Holmes and me, the constable murmured to Jones.

“Good, good!” said Jones, then turned to us. “Excuse me, gentlemen.”

Holmes waited until Jones and the constable hurried off in the direction of the ballroom.

“Now is our opportunity, Watson. Let us see what is outside the broken window.” He caught up a lamp and hurried toward a baize-covered door.

Fortunately, we were unobserved as we entered the servants’s hall. I glanced about the dimly lit corridor with dun-coloured walls and cocoa-nut matting on the floor—a stark contrast to the richly appointed apartments that lay on the opposite side of the door. The air smelt faintly of cabbage and beer.

“Do you truly believe we will find the jewels?” I asked, following him closely.

“I most certainly do not believe in Mr Athelney Jones’s theory of a thief who, through no doubt supernatural means, entered the room, stole the emeralds, attacked Her Grace and the count, and then disappeared into the Ewigkeit.” Holmes paused as a young woman with a doubtful expression, carrying an armful of linens, hurried past.

After several turns and one brief detour, we gained entry to the cobbled yard. Several grooms bustled about purposefully, while a few others leaned against the wall, smoking their pipes. I gasped as the cold struck me like a blow and wished I had collected my coat and hat first.

“This way,” Holmes said, as always indifferent to the temperature.

I hurried to follow his long strides as he crossed the yard and turned onto Chapel Street. After a glance at the façade to locate the broken window, he handed me the lamp. A locked iron gate guarded the stair that gave access to the deep channel between house and pavement. Holmes nimbly leapt over the gate and made his way down the stair.

I raised the lamp, illuminating the narrow well. Holmes dropped to his knees, heedless of the decaying leaf mould and spots of damp on the pavement.

“Where are they?” he muttered as he ran his hands through the debris. “They must be here. Watson, examine the street and the kerb.”

I did as he bade, but saw nothing save the usual effluvia.

“There is no trace of the jewels here. Unless they were discovered by a passerby and taken away.”

“Or retrieved by an accomplice,” he replied. “Which would belie the diagnosis of kleptomania.”

“You have gone too far, Holmes. I refuse to countenance such nonsense! Why, she could no more plan and execute such a devious and audacious theft than I could!”

“I fear you underestimate your capabilities, my dear fellow, as well as those of Her Grace.” He climbed the stair and vaulted the rail again. “However, the fact of the matter is the emeralds are not here.”

“I must admit that I am relieved.” I cast a despairing eye over his stained knees and filthy hands. Holmes followed my gaze. He raised one brow and withdrew his handkerchief, wiping his hands. I sighed. Mrs Hudson would have something to say when she discovered the damage to his evening clothes.

“I have gone wrong, Watson. Very wrong.”

Holmes thrust his grimy handkerchief into his pocket, and we returned to the house in silence.

Slowly we retraced our steps through the corridors. As we turned a corner, Holmes suddenly cried out and fell to his knees.

“Light, Watson!”

I held the lamp near. Nose almost to the floorboards, Holmes extended a finger and delicately brushed a small spot of white powder at the edge of the cocoa-nut matting. It glinted in the light.

“Holmes, is that glass?”

“Yes, Watson!” He raised his face, eyes shining with excitement. “I have been a fool, and you may remind me of the fact whenever I become enamoured of my own genius. In this matter we are now in complete agreement: the Dowager Duchess of Penfield is innocent of this crime.”

“You are truly convinced of her innocence because of a dusting of powdered glass?” I cried. “But how?”

“Through the application of logic, my dear fellow.” Rising, Holmes snatched the lamp from my hands and scrutinized the corridor. “Ah!”

Lamp held high, he strode down the hall until he reached a corner. Bending low, he examined another small spot on the matting.

“More glass?” I asked, frowning. “How can this be significant?”

He glanced up at me. “Where have we recently encountered a quantity of such glass?”

“In the drawing room where the emeralds were displayed.”

“This pulverised glass is the very same glass used in the jewels’s display case.”

“Can you be certain it is that particular glass? Perhaps a servant broke a goblet or bottle, and a shard was crushed underfoot.”

“You may remember the monograph I wrote on the chemical composition of varieties of glass as evidenced through the spectrum, Watson. This is not crystal, nor common pressed glass, nor is it the glass generally used for window-panes. It displays the identical colour signature as the crushed remains of the case.”

We followed the faint traces of powdered glass through the house. His gaze fixed upon the floor, Holmes cast about with the lamp, as if he were a modern-day Diogenes. Passing servants looked upon us with confusion, but none dared interrupt.

“What have you found?” I asked as he bent over at the back of an odd little alcove.

He straightened, his keen eyes glinting in the lamplight, and raised his arm. A length of heavy, dark fabric cascaded from his hand.

“It is a cloak,” he replied, folding it over his arm. “With a hood.”

“Perhaps a servant dropped it,” I said, although my assertion sounded feeble even to my ears.

“Perhaps. But does its presence here not suggest another possibility?”

I frowned. “Not to me. The cloak cannot be germane to the problem at hand, for this niche does not lead anywhere. Look about you; there are no doors or windows, nor even a cupboard where the thief could hide.”

Holmes turned and started back the way we had come. “Watson, recall the words of our colleague, Mr Athelney Jones. We must deal with facts.”

I trailed behind him. “Even if those facts are meaningless as a whole?”

“Ah, but are they truly meaningless?” He glanced back at me over his shoulder. “Come, Watson. You know my methods; use them. There is only one way to assemble these facts into a meaningful pattern.”

He stopped before the baize door leading to the receiving room and set down the lamp. I folded my arms. “What does the evidence reveal to you?”

“Why, everything,” Holmes replied lightly, as he opened the door.

“Everything? Including the name of the thief?”

“Everything, Watson. Including the names of the thieves.” He walked into the receiving room, the door swinging closed behind him.

“Wait, Holmes!” I dashed through the door. “Thieves?”

Much to my aggravation, Holmes refused to say more. Instead of answering my questions, he sent a young constable for Mr Athelney Jones.

Before Jones arrived, I heard a quiet cough at my shoulder and turned.

Carolus bowed. “I beg your pardon, Doctor.”

“Yes?”

“Her Grace requests your presence.”

“Certainly.”

I excused myself and followed Carolus to the chamber where the dowager duchess rested. Sheppington still sat by her side.

“At last!” he cried, leaping to his feet.

Denbeigh ceased pacing and looked at me expectantly.

“My mother wishes—” began Denbeigh, breaking off when Her Grace raised her hand.

“Thank you for responding so promptly, Doctor,” she said. “Has Mr Holmes any solution to the mysterious events surrounding the theft of the emeralds that will clear me of suspicion?”

I sat beside her in the chair vacated by the viscount.

“You understand I cannot speak for Holmes,” I said. “Rest assured, however, that his investigations will soon be concluded, and they are leading in an entirely different direction.”

“I should hope so!” Denbeigh said, posture rigid.

“I am glad to hear it.” She sighed, and for an instant I glimpsed the deeply troubled woman beneath the public persona. The moment passed quickly as she exerted her iron will and continued: “I am certain that I have recovered sufficiently to return home, yet agree with Maurice and Hilary that it would be prudent to request your opinion before venturing forth.”

“Very sensible,” I replied. My examination was of necessity superficial, and when I had finished, I released her wrist with a smile. “You are a remarkable woman.”

She laughed. “You forgot to add ‘for my age,’ Doctor.”

“For a woman of any age,” I asserted and helped her to rise.

Although her step was firm and her carriage erect, she leaned heavily upon me as we slowly walked down the corridor, followed closely by Denbeigh and Sheppington.

We gained the receiving room, where Holmes, no longer carrying the cloak, stood deep in conference with Jones. Carolus listened at a respectful distance.

“A moment, Doctor,” she said, releasing my arm. “Mr Holmes, I believe you have made progress in your investigation?”

“I have indeed,” said Holmes. “If you will permit me to detain you for a few minutes, I would like to demonstrate how the attack upon you and the count, as well as the theft of the emeralds, occurred.”

I glared at Holmes and turned to my patient. “Your Grace, I believe this is most unwise!”

My exclamation was lost amidst the chorus of voices evincing surprise and disbelief at Holmes’s request, which continued until Her Grace nodded once.

“Very well, Mr Holmes.” She quelled Denbeigh’s vehement objections with a glance.

Jones entered the drawing room first, while a constable remained stationed by the door. Holmes quickly ushered in Her Grace, Denbeigh, and Sheppington, followed by Carolus. When Jones questioned the latter’s appearance, Holmes raised his hand.

“In the absence of Count von Kratzov,” Holmes said, “I have requested that his private secretary attend us, so that he may correct any errors I might make regarding the details of the display.”

“Get on with it, Mr Holmes,” Jones grumbled.

I have always maintained that Holmes, despite his protestations to the contrary, is a consummate showman. To set the stage, he lowered the light until the room was cloaked in shadows. Then he positioned Her Grace in the centre of the room by the overturned table and asked Carolus to take the count’s place opposite her.

“Play-acting!” muttered Jones, but he did not object further.

“Upon your entry into the room, your attention was immediately caught by the sight of those magnificent emeralds,” Holmes said, addressing Her Grace. “As you admired them, the count stood by your side. His remarks became more personal and intrusive. When he pressed close, becoming increasingly familiar, you struck out at him and withdrew to the window.”

The colour drained from her face, and I hurried to her side. She waved me away.

“Continue,” she said, her voice firm.

Holmes lifted one brow. “Before he could pursue you, the lights were extinguished and there was a sudden commotion: the sounds of a struggle and breaking glass, the grunts of the combatants. In the faint illumination from the window, you watched as indistinct shapes wreaked havoc in the room.”

Her hand crept to her throat and she nodded, her eyes dark with the memory.

“I recall it all now,” she whispered. “A man stumbled toward me. It was the count, his face streaming with blood, his hands reaching…” She shuddered. “He struck me on the temple, a blow that sent me reeling. I fended him off, and he moved away with a cry, but my head swam and I staggered, grasping at the curtains for support.” She looked at Holmes, her brows drawn together in bewilderment. “I do not remember more.”

“That is hardly surprising,” I said, stepping to her side. “Holmes, I really—”

“No, Doctor,” she interrupted. Her voice trembled. “I must know what happened. Mr Holmes, can you tell me who attacked the count, and how did he enter and leave a locked room?”

“Certainly, Your Grace.” By some trick of the light, Holmes’s eyes shone like a cat’s. “I shall answer the latter first.” He strode to the far wall and ran his long fingers across the moulding.

“Mr Holmes,” began Jones. “What are you—?”

His question died upon his lips as, with a soft creak, a portion of the wall swung open. A secret panel! I was scarcely able to believe my eyes. Beyond the opening, I could make out the small niche that Holmes and I had explored earlier.

“Good God!” cried Denbeigh. Sheppington bit back a ripe oath.

“Capital, Holmes! A palpable fact!” Jones smiled and tugged on the lapels of his coat. “I asked for facts, and you have provided me with a corker!”

“Mr Holmes, you have exceeded my expectations,” Her Grace said, sounding a trifle breathless. “How did you ever discover this?”

Holmes explained his discovery of the crushed glass. “The traces we found were of the same variety used in the jewels’s display case, and the trail led to an alcove in the servants’s hall that is visible through the door.”

“In addition,” he continued, “the thief did not retrace his steps, as the single set of tracks clearly showed. Therefore, it was clear that the thief entered the servants’s hall at that location, directly from this chamber.”

“So the thief must still have traces of glass in his boots,” I said.

“Exactly, Watson.” Holmes pointed to the area of powdered glass on the floor beside the hearth. “The thief trod in the glass there, and when he exited, he left a trail—Constable! Stop that man!” Holmes cried.

Denbeigh started.

Confused, I glanced about the chamber.

Carolus struggled in the grasp of the burly constable, shouting what sounded like pleas in a foreign language, his face pale with terror. He must have surreptitiously edged toward the door as Holmes outlined the evidence.

“If you examine the soles of his shoes,” Holmes said to Jones, “you will discover traces of glass embedded in the leather—the same glass as that of the smashed jewel case.”

“And the emeralds,” Jones said triumphantly. “He must have taken them after he attacked his master.”

Carolus ceased his struggles and turned to Holmes. “Mr Holmes, you must believe me! I never meant to harm anyone. When my master and Her Grace entered, I hid in the shadows, but I could not stand by and watch the count molest her.”

She shuddered once, then breathed deeply, lifting her chin. I could not but admire her strength.

“Why are you listening to this blackguard, Mr Holmes!” Sheppington pushed his way past his uncle and glared at Carolus. “He has deceived us all.”

“I very much doubt that he is the only person in this room who is not speaking the truth,” replied Holmes with a cold look at the young man. He addressed Carolus again. “But what of the emeralds?”

“I do not have them!” he asserted.

“Then who does?” Holmes asked, his voice implacable.

“I do not know his name, and I never saw his face.” Carolus bowed his head. “He came to me, and threatened to reveal…” His throat worked as he swallowed.

“It is not uncommon for opium addicts to be blackmailed,” said Holmes.

Carolus stared at him. “How did you—?”

Holmes waved negligently. “The characteristic sallow complexion, the wide pupil, a trace of the distinct odour… Your vice was obvious to me the moment we met.”

“I see,” Carolus whispered. “He knew of the secret panel. He instructed me to ensure that the emeralds were displayed in this room and to steal them tonight. After doing so, I was to leave them wrapped in a handkerchief behind a vase in the receiving room. When I checked after arranging for the count to be carried to his chambers, they were not there. I know nothing more!”

“All this sounds extremely dubious to me,” Jones grunted. “Mr Holmes, do you believe this ruffian?”

“I do indeed.” Holmes surveyed the room. He reached into his pocket and then lifted his clenched fist. All eyes were upon him. He opened his hand, revealing the emerald he had discovered beneath Her Grace.

“You may wish to check the jewels you received, Your Lordship, for I believe you are missing one.”

As he spoke, Denbeigh drew himself up and fixed his cold gaze upon Holmes.

“How dare you imply—”

“I recognize that voice!” cried Carolus, pointing at Denbeigh. “It is he!”

“The villain lies to save himself,” Denbeigh said, turning to the door. “I will not stand here and—”

“No,” Her Grace whispered, sagging against me.

“Grandmama!” Sheppington rushed up and supported her other arm, but she had already mastered her momentary weakness.

“Maurice.” Her steely tones cut him off abruptly. “Show us the contents of your pockets.”

Complexion the colour of parchment, Denbeigh turned from face to stern face. A constable approached.

“Do not lay hands upon me!” He gazed imploringly at the dowager duchess. “Mother, you cannot—”

“Show us, Maurice.”

“There is no escape, Your Lordship,” Holmes said and held out his hand.

With a sigh, Denbeigh reached into his coat pocket, then deposited a small parcel wrapped in a handkerchief into Holmes’s waiting hand. Holmes quickly untied the knots and opened the linen. The gems inside glittered with cold fire.

Jones shook himself as if roused from a deep slumber and took charge of the situation. A phalanx of constables removed Denbeigh and Carolus from the chamber, while Her Grace sent instructions to the family solicitor.

“I shall also ensure Carolus is represented well,” she said, Sheppington standing at her side. “For I feel a certain amount of responsibility for this situation.” She dismissed my protestations with a sad shake of her head.

“Your Grace, I am certain you have many questions,” Holmes began.

“Thank you, Mr Holmes, but I am a trifle fatigued.” She gave him a weary smile. “Hilary and I shall call upon you and Dr Watson on the morrow. You may answer my questions then. For now, I would like Hilary to take me home.”

* * * *

The following morning, Holmes and I perused the newspapers over breakfast, and I was relieved there was no mention of the incident.

“It will do nothing to prevent rumours from flying about,” said Holmes in response to my observation. “Fortunately, this sort of occurrence is handled with discretion and seldom goes to trial.”

True to her word, Her Grace, accompanied by Sheppington, called upon us a little later. As she entered our chamber, I was pleased to see that her step was as firm, her carriage as elegant as usual. When she lifted her heavy veil, however, traces of the emotional and physical toll of the previous evening were writ clearly upon her features, for she had apparently eschewed the use of cosmetics and artifice to hide her injuries.

“You are well?” I asked.

“Thanks to your assistance and care,” she replied. Settling upon the sofa, her grandson beside her, she declined our offer of refreshment with a weary air.

“There is still much to be arranged,” she confessed in quiet, dignified tones. “My son’s perfidy extends further than I had suspected.”

“Yet you did suspect something amiss,” said Holmes. He leaned against the hearth, regarding her gravely. “You instructed Viscount Sheppington to monitor His Lordship’s activities. He was unable, or possibly unwilling, to disguise himself as effectively as Lord Maurice, and thereby gained a reputation as a connoisseur of certain unsavoury practices.”

The young man’s countenance darkened. “When I began, I did not realise I would be haunting venues where a disguise would be essential, Mr Holmes. That fact was quickly brought home to me, but by that point, I was already tarred by vice’s brush.” He shrugged. “I can only hope that the rumour-mongers will soon discover another object of interest and I can endeavour to restore my character.”

Her Grace took his hand and pressed it gently. “I never meant for you to suffer so, dear boy.”

“Do not vex yourself, Your Lordship,” said Holmes. “The most cursory glance at the newspapers will supply a variety of individuals with reputations far more scandalous than yours. Besides, isn’t it often considered desirable for a young scion of the nobility to have a faintly dubious past, above which he can rise?”

“I say!” cried Sheppington.

Her Grace assayed a faint smile, yet her lips trembled. “We can only hope that is indeed the case, Mr Holmes.”

I rose from my chair. “But why? Why did His Lordship court exposure and disgrace?”

“For the money,” said Sheppington. “Although his vices were few, they were costly. Gambling at cards and on the horses, and his mistress alone…” He glanced at his grandmother, his cheeks colouring.

Holmes nodded. “When His Lordship encountered Carolus smoking opium in a den of depravity, he conceived of the plan to steal the emeralds. He was familiar with the count’s house and its hidden doorway, for it had been in your family for many years, had it not?”

“We resided there for several years while he was a child,” she said. “Even then, Maurice was always poking into corners and winkling out everyone’s secrets.”

“Through his unsavoury associates,” continued Holmes, “His Lordship knew he could dispose of the gems, or alternatively, he could hold them for ransom. Either way, he would benefit.”

“Unfortunately for Carolus, he became my son’s dupe,” said Her Grace. “And yet I cannot help but be grateful to him, for he defended me from the count’s advances at some considerable risk to himself.”

“Addicts are not necessarily criminals or depraved individuals,” I said, not looking at Holmes. “Indeed, there are several private clinics that have successfully weaned these unfortunate individuals from the sources of their addiction. If Your Grace would consider arranging for his treatment at one such facility, it would certainly repay his actions on your behalf.”

“An excellent suggestion, Doctor.” She nodded. “If I may, I shall ask for a few recommendations.”

“Of course.” I bowed.

“Now I must broach a more delicate matter, one I wish to conduct without intermediaries.” She stood, opened her reticule, and withdrew an envelope. “Mr Holmes, your assistance in this matter has been invaluable to me and to all of my family, even the one exposed by your investigations. I hope you will accept the enclosed as a token of my gratitude for your efforts.”

“I was honoured to be of service.” Holmes accepted the envelope, setting it to one side.

“And you, Doctor,” she said, turning to me with a smile. “How can I ever find the words to thank you?”

Momentarily speechless at the warmth of her regard, I bowed again. “It was entirely my pleasure.”

“I know you would not accept any gift of great value, but I hope you will permit me to present you with this small keepsake.” She pressed a small, gold locket into my hand.

“Your Grace!” I said, opening the locket. Inside rested an exquisite miniature portrait of the dowager duchess, obviously painted at the time I first met her. “I am honoured and will keep it always.”

“And now, gentlemen, if you will excuse us,” she said. “I have an appointment with my solicitor. Hilary, will you see to the carriage?”

“Of course, Grandmother. Thank you, Mr Holmes, Doctor.” He hurried out the door.

Holmes gravely bowed over her hand, and she allowed me the pleasure of seeing her to the door. Her carriage waited at the kerb. With a wistful smile, she pressed my hand before turning and crossing the pavement. Sheppington handed her into the brougham, then joined her.

I returned to our apartments, unaccountably melancholy. Had not Holmes solved the case to Her Grace’s satisfaction? Taking my seat beside the fire, I picked up a medical journal but did not open it.

“She is a woman of immense strength, Watson.” Holmes sounded almost kind. “I am certain she will weather any storm of gossip or public exposure regarding her son’s behaviour with her usual dignity.”

I sighed. “You are right, of course. I wish there were some way for me to assist her through this horrible period. If there were not more than thirty years separating our ages…”

A quiet knock on the door interrupted me.

“Come,” said Holmes.

Mrs Hudson entered, a small crease between her brows. “A messenger brought this at the behest of Viscount Sheppington.” She held out her hand. In her palm rested a small gold cigarette case.

“Good Lord, Holmes.” I glanced at the table where I had last seen it resting. “Isn’t that the case from—” I stopped, remembering in time the gentleman’s request for anonymity.

Holmes laughed. “It is indeed, my dear fellow.” He took the case from Mrs Hudson. “Was there a message?”

“Only that he would endeavour to be vigilant, but that it might be necessary to call upon you in future.” She shook her head. “I hope you understand it, Mr Holmes.”

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson.”

I gazed in consternation at my friend, for it was impossible for me to conceal my disappointment at this evidence of Her Grace’s continuing kleptomania.

He waited until she departed before continuing. “Take heart, Watson. It is a small flaw in an otherwise sterling character, and yet I suspect we have not seen the last of Her Grace, the Dowager Duchess of Penfield.” He glanced out the window. “Since the afternoon has turned fine, I suggest we take a turn about the park.”

“Excellent idea, Holmes.” As I collected my coat and hat, I glanced at the locket depending from my watch chain and smiled.

* * * *

Editorial Note: Carla Coupe’s story is very loosely based on the radio program “The Adventure of the Elusive Emerald,” scripted by Anthony Boucher and Denis Greene, originally broadcast on December 21, 1946.