A Biased Judgement Page 18

  On the face of it, the place is typical of any such facility. There is a smoking room, a room where cards are played and another for billiards. Alcohol is available without charge. (I suspect the dues must be prohibitive).

  The members are magnates of industry, stockbrokers, and the wealthiest members of German society. I understand even the Ambassador is a member, though he was not present during my, ah, visit.

  Porlock confined himself to the smoking room. He immediately dominated the best seat in the lounge and over the course of the next thirty minutes he received a succession of gentlemen who came and whispered in his ear. Circumstances did not permit me to overhear these conversations, but from the fear with which he is approached - even by the powerful - I perceive Porlock is a fearsome creature indeed.

  This afternoon, knowing the master of the house would be occupied elsewhere, I contrived to gain access to his home. I waited until he had left and then, with a schoolboy’s slingshot, broke a window on the first floor.

  Two hours later, a glazier called upon the house and was admitted by the maid. A brief and tense conversation ensued between her and the mistress of the house. Then, sighing at life’s cruelties, Mrs Porlock accompanied me to the front bedroom and showed me the damage. The dogs, mercifully, were out in the back yard but their baying was an unpleasant reminder of my last visit.

  “I cannot think how this happened,” the woman said. “I have not seen children playing ball - and this room is too high up and too far from the road in any case.”

  “Birds,” I said in a rich West Country accent. “They do fly right into the windows sometimes. No one knows why. It’s an easy fix, missus, and I shall have it set to rights in no time.”

  “Excellent,” she said. Then sat in the chair and watched me.

  “I don’t like to keep you from your work, missus,” I said. “You’ve better things to do, I’ll warrant, than to sit and watch old Festy play with putty.”

  “I’m sorry, but my husband is very strict on who he allows into the house. It’s nothing personal, you understand, but leaving you alone is out of the question.”

  That was unfortunate but served to confirm my suspicions of the man in question. I made a production of moving the new glass pane into position. “Can you ask your manservant to help me hold this, missus?” I said. “It’s a bit awkward for one man.”

  “I’m afraid we don’t have a manservant,” she said. “Mr Porlock does not allow men to work in his home. He would not be pleased to know that I let you in.”

  “Well now, that’s unfortunate. Still, we’ll do our best, eh?”

  “Can you work quietly, please? My mother is very ill upstairs.”

  The job did not take long and I chattered as I worked. The lady was not very forthcoming and refused to laugh at any of my little jokes.

  One of the little girls came in and watched me work for a while.

  “Margaret,” said the mother. “You should be at your lessons.”

  “It is lunch time, mama,” said the child. “Madame de Pury went out to post a letter. She said we will continue at one o’clock.”

  “You can leave the little one here with me, ma’am,” I said. “If you have things to do. I don’t mind.”

  “I do have things to do,” Frau Porlock replied. “But I will stay until you are done.” Then, in German, said to her daughter, “Margaret, go and practice the piano until Madame returns.”

  The child skipped away from the room and a few moments later I heard the sound of scales being played fairly competently.

  “A blessing, is children,” I said. “She’s a handsome girl, and no mistake. Do you have many little ones, missus?”

  “I have two daughters. Are you almost done? My husband will be home soon and I do not want him disturbed.”

  “Just a few minutes more.”

  Nothing else could I get out of the woman. Still, by the time I left the house I knew some things I had not known before: that only women are permitted to work in the Porlock household; that anyone who enters that house is watched closely; and that the governess has more freedom than any of the other servants.

  Searching this house will be difficult, but I will find a way. I must, if Porlock is to be brought down.

  October 17th, 1897

  I have spent the weekend continuing my work on the Derby papers. As luck would have it, in quick succession I discovered cold evidence of embezzlement by one of the City’s most respected bankers and two letters inculpating the writers in murder. The next four or five were tawdry love affairs. Very banal.

  After several hours I was irritated, bored and fatigued. Watson suggested dinner at Simpsons and an excellent suggestion it was. Isaiah Collins led us to our favourite table and served us himself.

  I was vastly amused to see the waiter’s amazement when I asked him why he was so sure his next child was going to be a boy.

  “Why bless you, Mr Holmes,” he said. “You never fail to astonish me. However did you know that? My wife is indeed expecting another. I suppose I can’t help hoping for a boy this time, though all my girls are wonderful. But however did you know?”

  “You have been muttering boys’ names under your breath since we arrived, Collins. After your last child was born you told me how much you had hoped for a son. It was not a difficult deduction.”

  “Well, Marta had a difficult time of it with this pregnancy, Mr Holmes. It seemed like every day there was a new complication. Then just last week she suddenly seemed to improve and we’re finally able to get excited about it.”

  “How much longer has she got?” Watson asked.

  “Just a couple of weeks, Doctor,” Collins said. He poured out the port with some satisfaction. “I know it’s just superstition, but since everything went so well when she was carrying the girls, I can’t help hoping all the problems this time mean it’s a boy.”

  “No doubt your morning run is helping you deal with the anxiety,” I said. “No, no, it’s not witchcraft - you told me two years ago how running in Hyde Park every day helps you cope with the demands of your position.”

  We had the lobster as Collins recommended and I returned home in good spirits. Except that we were followed the whole way there and back.

  October 21st, 1897

  I finished reviewing the last of the Derby documents last night. Thank God I am done with it at last.

  Just before midnight I took the last letter from the last box and read it through and then read it again.

  “Here, Watson,” I said. “See what you make of this.”

  He took the document and read it aloud:

  “Dear Mr Winters,

  You will forgive, I am sure, my addressing the debt which you now owe.

  By my calculations, with interest the current amount stands at five thousand and twelve pounds, seventeen shillings and four pence. I believe your creditors are becoming anxious for the remittance which you are yet to make. Furthermore, my sources tell me you do not have sufficient funds to pay even one-tenth of the amount due.

  I should not wish to see such an old friend come to ruin, and you would, you know. Utter ruin. Therefore I remind you of the generous offer I made to you last April. It is such a little thing I ask; so very little a thing.

  Do think it over, Mr Winters. If you do the job carefully no one would ever imagine anything was amiss. Not given the lady’s extreme old age. In a way, you would be doing her a kindness. Has she not longed for release for almost forty years?

  Surely a man like you cannot have such tender scruples as to blind your sense of pragmatism. Think of your family, do.

  Give careful thought to my offer, but do not think too long. Should your plans to satisfy your debts fail, you and your family must face utter ruin.

  I remain yours, most cordially...

  “This signatu
re is most peculiar. It looks like two letter S’s one on top of the other.”

  I held the letter up to the light and examined it. “Hmm... Written in blue-black ink on heavy paper of Bavarian origin. The writer is a middle-aged man, right-handed, with some Austrian heritage and who has been educated in one of England’s smaller universities, possible in Oxford.”

  “Who do you think this W.E. Winters is?”

  “No idea at all, I’m afraid. It was in one of Derby’s unlabelled boxes so there is no clue there. I suspect she found it in one of her homes and held onto it. There is no ledger sheet for this as there were for all the others. Very likely she did not know who the recipient was either, which suggests an alias.”

  “I’m sorry,” Watson said. “But why do you think that?”

  “People don’t generally give their personal correspondence to others, Watson,” I said. “The person from whom this letter was stolen was almost certainly the recipient.”

  I steepled my fingers and closed my eyes, thinking. I mused, “Derby may not have been sure that Winters and the person she stole the letter from were one and the same. Or she may have been quite certain it was the same person, but wasn’t sure she could blackmail him because it’s not actually his real name on the letter. She would have expected it to make him uneasy though, and that might have been enough to amuse her.”

  “That symbol, Holmes...”

  “Yes?”

  He stared at it and said, slowly, “Something about it looks familiar.”

  I sprang back into alertness. “It does? Where have you seen it?”

  “Well, if it had a line down the middle it could be a staff of Asclepius,” he said. “Sorry, that doesn’t help much.”

  “The staff of Asclepius? Preferred by many over the caduceus of Hermes as a symbol of medicine.” I looked at the signature again and saw exactly what the doctor meant.

  “I think you’re exactly right. Watson! Do you know what that means?”

  “Means?”

  “You recall our old friend Porlock’s full name is Albrecht Stefan Porlock. ASP.”

  Watson blinked, a little startled at his own brilliance, perhaps. He said, “Do you really believe this letter was written by Porlock, Holmes?”

  “I do. It all fits: the Austrian background, the Bavarian paper. Yes, ASP... if we are right, it changes the complexion of this letter entirely. We must see Mycroft tomorrow.”

  October 22nd, 1897

  I awoke with a stiff back, probably because I spent most of the night sitting in my chair, thinking. Watson persuaded me with very little effort to have a sauna before we called upon Mycroft. In addition to my knotted joints, I felt I needed some sort of cleansing after my recent activities, keeping watch over Porlock and, more particularly, wallowing in Derby’s filth.

  Watson accompanied me and we had a splendid time relaxing and talking about music.

  “You know,” I told him. “I have been privileged to hear some of our finest musicians play extraordinary compositions, Watson, and yet it is Lady Beatrice’s performance of Beethoven’s piano sonata No. 14 that I return to most often in my memory. Ah, it is a pity you never got to hear her play. It was an unforgettable experience, I assure you.”

  I was sitting on the bench with my eyes closed and I was able to recall every note of her performance. It was a moment before Watson replied and when he did it was with a rather too casual, “You could call upon her, you know, Holmes. I’m sure she’d be delighted to play again for you.”

  “Dear friend Watson,” I said. “You never tire of trying to marry me off, do you?”

  “It’s not good for you to be alone, Holmes. Oh I know you have me and Mrs Hudson and as much of a social circle as you feel comfortable with but it’s not the same. Surely from time to time you miss having a wife and children like any other man?”

  “Yes, I do miss it in occasional moments. Then the moment passes and I congratulate myself that I am free of those burdens. I am not any other man, and I must forge my own path.”

  “Even if you’re lonely? Never mind, forget I spoke.”

  Afterwards, when we were dressed and out in the fresh air heading for Whitehall, I found myself haunted by his words. I am not and never have been a sentimental man. There are very few women whose company I can tolerate for any period of time, and while Lady Beatrice is one of them I have no romantic inclinations towards her. No. I am almost certain I do not.

  I should like to hear her play the piano again, though.

  A few minutes later I set the foolish notion aside for we had arrived at our destination: Mycroft’s office in Whitehall.

  “Well, well, Mr Holmes and Doctor Watson,” said Gillespie. “What a treat to see you gentlemen again. You’re looking a lot less peaked than last time you were here, Mr Holmes. Just been to the sauna?” He chuckled and I confess I was, for the moment, bewildered.

  “Ah, the doctor and I look rather flushed,” I said.

  “And the unmistakable scent of the oil used in massage,” he said, smiling.

  “Well done, Gillespie,” I said, laughing. “Is he free?”

  “Yes, sir. You’ll find your brother alone at present, although he does have an engagement in,” he checked his pocket watch, “forty minutes.”

  “We shall not delay him.”

  “Who is that man?” Watson whispered as we climbed the stairs. “That Gillespie chap?”

  “He’s a funny fellow, isn’t he? You know, I’ve always said, Israel Gillespie is the cleverest man in England after my brother and myself. Oh, don’t look at me like that. It would be false modesty for me to claim otherwise. As to that old man, he served in two overseas campaigns, was attached to the Queen’s private guards for a while, and has survived two shootings. He’s almost eighty now - you’d never think it to look at him, would you? As he refused to retire, he took the position of clerk for Mycroft’s department. He’s one of the most dependable men I’ve ever known, save for your good self, Watson. Ah, here we are...”

  Mycroft glanced at his watch and said, “You’re very welcome, Sherlock, Doctor, but I really do not have a great deal of time. I have a meeting with the Prime Minister shortly.”

  “This won’t take long, Mycroft, and I think you will find this interesting.”

  He took the document and said, “Is this the last of those dreadful documents, Sherlock? I hope you found the sauna soothing to your spirits. Now, what is it you have brought me? Something curious, I think.”

  He examined the letter, then read it through twice.

  “An excellent find, brother. What a treasure... And what a curious signature. Have you drawn a conclusion as to its meaning?”

  “I have not, but Watson observed it resembles the medical insignia.”

  “The staff of Asclepius, yes, I see what you mean.” His eyes, very blue in the morning light, met mine. “So we’re saying the twisting line represents a snake. You are thinking an asp?”

  “Precisely.”

  “Hmm... It’s a little juvenile, but from everything I’ve heard about Albrecht Porlock that’s exactly the sort of thing that would amuse him.”

  “The elderly woman, and the almost forty years...” I began.

  “Yes. Yes, Sherlock, I think you and I are thinking along the same lines.”

  “What?” Watson said. “What lines?”

  “Think about it, Watson,” I said. “What lady is elderly and has longed for death for almost forty years? Since 1861, in fact.”

  “You mean the queen? Good God!”

  “It seems likely,” Mycroft agreed. “It’s not much to go on, you know.” He picked up the letter again and stared at it. “There may be another explanation, of course, but I believe your analysis is correct. In any event, we cannot afford to dismiss the possibility.”

  “From
everything I’ve learned of the man, I am not surprised if he, too, indulges in the infamous activity of blackmail, and I will not even comment on the irony of a blackmail letter being stolen by a blackmailer, but something malevolent is being planned here. I am certain of it.”

  “I wonder if some of the other people who committed assassinations had been blackmailed by Porlock,” Watson mused. At my and my brother’s startled expressions, he added “Well, people will go to extraordinary lengths to protect their loved ones.”

  “That’s a leap,” I said. “And yet such leaps are often the result of brilliance. You really are on quite splendid form of late, Watson.”

  Mycroft said. “ASP is an appropriate monogram for one of the most lethal reptiles ever to slither through the London streets: Albrecht Stefan Porlock. A man who will work for the highest bidder, who starts wars to line his pocket, and whose anonymity is at distinct odds to his infamy. Yes, I can see him blackmailing poor wretches to do his dirty work. It’s cheaper than paying them, and is a better guarantee of their silence if they’re caught. Well done, doctor. I think you may have hit upon the truth.

  “But, Sherlock, who is this Winters person? Do you have any idea?”

  “None at all, I’m afraid,” I said. “I do not believe Derby knew either. There was no ledger notation attached. Unfortunately, I have no way of knowing when or where she acquired the letter.”

  “Yes, it’s unfortunate it is undated, that might have narrowed the possibilities down a little. The letter raises too many questions: Who is Winters and when is this assassination to take place?”

  “And by what means,” I added. “Well, since I have not yet managed to gain entry into Porlock’s house, I shall try working from the other end. I shall look for Winters.”

  Mycroft rose and put on his coat. “How shall you proceed, Sherlock?”

  “I shall begin with the one thing we know about him for certain: he gambles.”

  We walked together to the door of his office but before he opened it, Mycroft turned to me and said in a low, urgent voice, “I do not have to stress the importance of this, Sherlock? It is imperative we learn everything we can about this plot and prevent it from being carried out. The queen’s own life may be at stake.”