Sherlock Holmes and The Other Woman Read online

  “Ari keeps an eye on things,” Glaser said. “He’s as watchful as any bloodhound and twice as savage.”

  “Bark’s worse than me bite, though,” the boy said, broadening his toothless grin.

  “Have you seen any strangers about?” Glaser said. “This gentleman is Mr Sherlock Holmes. He’s looking for a tall, goyishe fellow. Fair hair and blue eyes. You’ve seen no one like that?”

  “Not I, but I’ll keep my eyes peeled.”

  “Do. And pass the word on to the other lads, won’t you?”

  “Money in it?”

  “A shilling for good information,” I said. “Half a crown if we catch him.”

  “Cor. Right you are, sir. I’ll spread the word.”

  Glaser led me down the long dark hallway. “Don’t give him or any of the lads money before you get their information, Mr Holmes,” he said softly. “They’re good fellows, but they drink and then they’re no use to anyone.”

  The hallway led to a heavy door. Glaser knocked twice and said his name. I heard three bolts being slid back, then the door opened and we stepped into another age.

  The room was about fifteen foot square and dominated by an enormous oblong table, at least twelve feet by eight, around which sat twenty men who were polishing, cutting, and setting precious stones. They were all engrossed on their own task and though conversation, in Yiddish, was continuous, it seemed to have no impact upon their concentration on their tasks.

  There was a big window, very dirty and barred, that let in a cold light. Thin rays slanted down onto the table and came to life amid the glittering jewels.

  I breathed in a coppery odour of metal and solvent and in an adjacent room saw another half dozen men soldering precious metals.

  No one looked up when we entered. No one paid any heed to us at all. Glaser led us through a series of ramshackle rooms that defy logic. Not only is there no apparent order to the layout, but the flag stoned floor is uneven and catches the unwary foot. Nor can the visitor concentrate on his feet, for dense black beams crisscross the dingy ceiling. Some of the mare low enough to bash in a careless head.

  We came into a small room at the back of the building. I was vastly amused to observe that a beam here, about ten feet from the floor, was decorated with a collection of leather pouches. A closer inspection revealed that these were filled with tobacco.

  Most of the main room was in semi-darkness but one thin shaft of light from a very high, barred window illuminated a square of black silk upon a wooden bench in which half a dozen diamonds glittered like a coronation crown.

  At the table sat three men. All had beards and skullcaps. All were dressed entirely in black. Something about their features, the hollow cheeks and the pallor of their skin, highlighted by that slant of pale light, made me feel I had stepped into the canvas of a Caravaggio painting. Here was chiaroscuro come to life. I had a fleeting moment of regret that my ancestor’s gift for painting has not come to me. My next thought was what an image this would present to a photographer of B’s talent.

  The three men glanced up when we entered. One beckoned with his hand and said, “David, come, see what Reb Schwartz has brought us.”

  Glaser glanced at the gems and whistled. “That’s quite a haul, Mordechai. They must be worth a fortune.”

  “A king’s ransom,” the man agreed. “Uncut, a king’s ransom. Cut, mounted... ransom enough for five kings.”

  “Five kings and an emperor,” said the man sitting beside him.

  “Rabbi Steinmetz, Mordechai Schwartz, and Daniel Solberg, say hullo to Mr Sherlock Holmes.” With a barely perceptible nod of the head, he indicated that it was safe for them to speak to me.

  “The Sherlock Holmes?” said Solberg, rising and shaking my hand. He was the youngest of the three, no more than forty. He, alone, was clean-shaven.”Well, well, this is an honour. It’s not every day a real celebrity comes to call.”

  “I suppose it’s an honour,” Schwartz said, “And doesn’t mean trouble for someone.”

  “Pooh, pooh,” said the rabbi, and spat on the floor. “We don’t look for tsouris, so tsouris should not look for us.”

  “Tsouris?” I asked.

  “Trouble,” Solberg explained.

  “No trouble for any of our people, Rabbi,” Glaser said. “But for a goy who is pretending to be a merchant.”

  “He is up to no good, this make-believe merchant?” Schwartz said.

  “I think so,” I said. “He is certainly a liar, and he has been sneaking into the home of a woman and her children late at night.”

  “Oy,” said the rabbi. “That is not good. Not good. But why do you look for him here, Mr Sherlock Holmes? Are there no places beyond our walls where such a man might hide? Sit, please. David, sit.”

  Glaser and I sat at the table with the diamonds glinting in the dusty light before us. A few moments later, a young woman came in with a tray. She was about eighteen and had the brightest red hair I’ve ever seen. She poured the tea, spilling almost half. I surmise it is difficult to pour when your eyes are fixed upon the features of a handsome young policeman.

  “Thank you, Rivkah,” Solberg said, pointedly. The girl left, leaving one last lingering gaze at the young man by my side. Solberg sighed, but not with any sadness. “You must forgive my daughter, Mr Holmes,” he said. “She forgets herself when our young friend comes to call.”

  Glaser flushed. “She’s a sweet girl,” he said.

  “She’s waiting for you,” Solberg said. His long beard shook with laughter. “In the old country I would have married her off, but this is a modern world. Ay, even here we must accept new ways.”

  “Not too new, Daniel,” the rabbi said, patting the man on his arm. “Just because something is new doesn’t mean it must be better. Still, Rivkah could do worse than David. He’s a good man, for all he’s a policeman.”

  The rabbi passed around the cups and we sipped. The tea was black and flavoured with cherries. “Not quite what you’re used to, I suppose, Mr Holmes,” he said. “But it is our way.”

  “It is very good,” I said.

  “About this stranger Mr Holmes is looking for,” Glaser said, not losing sight of our objective. “He is a tall man who claims to be from South Africa. He has fair hair and blue eyes.”

  “We do business with a number of South Africans,” Schwartz said. “But not recently, and not so tall, as you describe.”

  “Have there been any strangers in your community in the last few months?” I asked.

  There was a lull as they pondered. This was followed by a conversation in Yiddish, too fast for me to follow other than a familiar German word or two. Glaser, listening, shook his head at me.

  “It’s a small community, Mr Holmes,” the rabbi said. “We know one another and strangers stand out.”

  “From what you’ve told me, Mr Holmes,” Glaser said. “This man is lying about everything. Why should we trust him when he says he’s a diamond merchant?”

  “Your point is well made,” I said. “But I think this is a very peculiar lie. He could have claimed to be involved in any number of things. Fur, wine, politics... Something suggested this particular trade to him. I think he was taken by surprise and did not have a story ready. He is also knowledgeable. He knows gemstones, or at least the language of the jeweller.”

  “Any man can sound like an expert,” Schwartz pointed out.

  “True.”

  “And a man can be a jeweller or work in the industry without being part of our community.”

  “You are concerned, Mr Holmes,” the rabbi said. “Do you think my people might be in danger?”

  I hesitated, torn between honesty and fear of causing alarm.

  The rabbi seemed to read my indecision for he patted my arm and said, “Please just tell us, Mr Holmes. The Holy One, blessed
be He, has sent you for our protection.”

  “I’ve never seen myself in that light,” I said. “But if you insist, Rabbi, I shall tell you.

  “This fellow claims to know something about gemstones. He told someone that he was going to be rich. He said he knew where there was treasure and there would be no harm in taking it because they ‘were no Christians’ who hoarded it.”

  “Mein Gott,” the rabbi said.

  “He may, of course, have meant that he knew of some scoundrels who had something of value that he might steal, but I cannot rule out the possibility that he meant it literally.”

  Another conversation ensued, again in Yiddish, and this one was considerably longer. As it wound to a close, Glaser summarised:

  “There are merchants and jewellers throughout this area and they are all vulnerable. Mordechai and the rabbi are men of influence; they will alert the others to be on particular guard. I have two constables and I’ve agreed to double the frequency of their patrols for the moment.”

  “Those are sensible precautions,” I said. “Tell me, what sort of security is in place for the merchants? I observed the bolts on the door and the bars on the windows, but is there more?”

  Schwartz said nothing. The rabbi leaned to him and said, “Come, Mordechai, Mr Holmes wishes to help us. We should be grateful.”

  “A goy?” Schwartz gave me a look that was neither grateful nor friendly.

  Glaser explained, “A ‘goy’ is someone who isn’t Jewish.” Then, “You shame us with your suspicions, Mordechai. Who hasn’t heard of Mr Holmes’s reputation? Why he is as renowned for his integrity as for his wisdom.”

  “I understand Reb Schwartz’s reluctance to trust a stranger,” I said. “You need reveal no secrets. However, I would ask that you check all your locks and windows. I would go so far as to say check your roofs, your walls, and the walls of your neighbours. Who knows how this fellow plans to gain entry?”

  “Your advice is very sound, Mr Holmes,” Solberg said. “We shall do exactly as you suggest. And we shall certainly keep watch for this fair man with a dark heart. How do we get in touch with you if we spot him?”

  The rabbi snorted with laughter. “Ah, Daniel, Mr Holmes’s address is as famous as he is. 221B Baker Street. Please let Doctor Watson know I really like his stories. And you must feel free to visit us again, Mr Holmes. Ah, it is a shame you are not a Jew. What a Talmudic scholar you’d have made.”

  After leaving Hatton Garden, I returned to Camden Town. For some moments, I stood on the steps of the Prentiss home and stared at the park, the houses beyond, and the streetlamp. This was where my sense of unease began during my first visit. The same doubts recurred and I felt, feel, more certain than ever that something far more insidious than a tawdry romance is at the heart of it.

  At last, I knocked on the door and Agnes opened it.

  “Oh, it’s you, Mr Holmes,” she said, forcing her annoyance into a smile. “Do come in. I’ll let Mrs Prentiss know you’re here.”

  After a moment, Agnes showed me into the study where the mistress of the house was sewing up a pair of boy’s trousers.

  “Ah, Mr Holmes,” she said, attempting to rise. I gestured for her to remain seated.

  “Please, you will undo all your work,” I said.

  “I’m afraid you are right. Do please take a seat, Mr Holmes. Agnes, will you bring us some coffee?”

  “Not for me, thank you,” I said.

  “So,” said the woman once the maid left us. “What can I do for you?”

  “I wanted to follow up with you. Tell me, how are things?”

  “Not too bad,” she said, but the strain on her face belied her words.

  “I understand Miss Kidwell came to see you.”

  “Yes, she wanted her job back. I had to say no. It was a hard thing to do. One doesn’t wish to be unchristian, and she was with us a long time. The children were fond of her. Still, she utterly betrayed my trust and I had no choice.”

  “None at all,” I agreed.

  She tried to smile but could not manage it. “I really dislike all these domestic trials. I should much prefer to focus on my work. There are days, Mr Holmes, when I truly envy my husband, or indeed, any man who gets to leave the house and need not worry about things like laundry or keeping the chimney clean. There, I am just feeling sorry for myself and, after all, it’s much harder on Agnes. She’s had to pick up the brunt of the chores and she’s not as young as she was. She doesn’t complain, but I would be heartless indeed not to notice the strain it has had.”

  “You have started interviewing for a new maid?”

  “Yes, but I confess my experience with Connie has made me very suspicious. It’s no easy thing, Mr Holmes, to open one’s home to a complete stranger and trust so many intimate details of one’s life to them.”

  “I understand.” I thought about it for a moment and said, “Would you like me to ask Doctor Watson if he knows anyone who might suit? It would ease your mind, I think, if you could employ someone who came with a personal recommendation.”

  “Oh, that would be very kind,” she said. For the first time since I arrived she looked animated. “Yes, that would be a very great help. Thank you, Mr Holmes. What a wonderful idea.”

  “I take it your husband is away?”

  “Only for the morning. He changed his schedule so he can be at home for a few days while I get the domestic matters sorted. He took the children to the zoo, bless him, so Agnes and I can get caught up.”

  “He is an admirable man,” I said. Though in hindsight why should I say so of a man merely because he’s willing to spend a few hours with his own children?

  “I wonder if I might go down to the cellar,” I said.”I would like to make sure it is adequately secure so you will have no further disturbances.”

  “Of course. But really, Mr Holmes, surely there’s no reason for that dreadful man to return, not now that Connie has gone.”

  “Indulge me, if you will, Mrs Prentiss. I feel I must be thorough if only for your father’s sake.”

  “Then by all means, Mr Holmes.”

  “No, you need not accompany me. I can find the way on my own by now. Please, continue with your work.”

  There were no signs the mysterious Avery Rickman had returned to the Camden Town house since my last visit. The small precautions I had taken - a hair that would snap if the door were opened; a pan of water on the chair beneath the window - all remained intact. Was it mere happenstance that the intruder had not appeared during that period? During my last visit, I concluded that Connie Kidwell was keeping Rickman up to date on all the happenings within the house. Upon reflection, however, I suspect he was not dependent upon Connie alone for his information.

  I set my safeguards back in place and climbed the steep steps to the ground floor. I carefully locked the cellar door behind me and placed a chair with its back beneath the handle. Of course, that served only to ensure that no one would enter the house via the cellar, at least, not without considerable difficulty. On the other hand, a desperate man would not let that stop him and he would be as likely to gain entry by another way.

  The house was quiet with all the children away. There were sounds and aromas of cooking emanating from the kitchen and the odd sound of passers-by outside, but otherwise all was still.

  I went out into the back garden. There was no question that Rickman had gained entry to the house via the basement, but why? Why get in that way? Surely he need only wait in the park and watch for the light to go out in Mrs Prentiss’s study. She said she uses a lamp and ambient light; therefore, she keeps the curtains open while she works. Why wouldn’t Rickman simply wait and then stand by the front door for Kidwell to open it as soon as she deemed it was safe? No, he made a production of climbing in through the basement window. Was it merely to add to the sense of myst
ery and excitement? But the basement is unwholesome; the back garden enclosed by six-foot-high walls. Even a tall man must strain to climb over them, particularly in inclement weather. Is Rickman mentally ill? Could it really be so simple?

  What have I missed? Something. Something.

  Think, man. Start again. What do I know?

  Well, the garden is small and abuts onto that of the house to the rear. The house is part of a terraced set of buildings. To the front, the building is overlooked by other homes that surround the so-called Square. The Square itself, at least at this time of day, is lively with children, dogs, cats, trades people, nannies and Lord knows what else. It is deserted at night, of course, but there is always a chance of being observed.

  Perhaps I am looking for something that is not there. Well, if the fellow does not return I can reasonably assume that his only interest was in Kidwell. However, if he does come back...

  For over an hour, I examined every window and door in the building. I ascertained that both front and back doors have a bolt, though the one at the front door is at the top and difficult for anyone but a tall man to reach. The windows are of the sash variety and offer little in the way of security.

  I had just finished when George Prentiss returned with his children.

  “Mr Holmes,” said he, shaking my hand. “I am delighted to meet you. Alice told me what a help you have been. That Connie was a bad lot, eh? Letting all and sundry into the house while my wife and children slept in their beds. Goodness knows what might have happened without your intervention.”

  “I am glad to be of service, Mr Prentiss,” I said. “I should like to talk to you about this matter in more detail. Can you spare me half an hour?”

  “By all means,” he said. “Agnes, bring us some coffee. It’s fierce cold outside. Not a day for the zoo really, but at least it entertained the children.”

  We sat in the parlour alone while their mother took the children upstairs. As soon as the coffee was served and the maid had left, I began to share my analysis of the events.

  “We are still trying to trace this fellow Connie Kidwell was seeing, but it appears he was using a false name. The address he gave her does not exist.”