Sherlock Holmes and the Queen of Diamonds (8 page)

‘Yes. I was returning from the grocer’s one day when I sensed that I was being followed. Sure enough, I’d no sooner closed the front door when there was a knock. I answered it, 
and there stood a man I’d never seen before.’

‘Did he introduce himself?’ asked Holmes.

‘He gave his name as Smith, but I fear it was an alias.’

‘Was he a large man?’

‘Yes, sir. Do you know him?’

‘I know the prints he leaves beside riverbanks.’

‘Well, he said that he’d heard how I once worked for the circus and was still quite a competent aerialist despite my injury. Hoping he might be from another circus, I said yes and invited him in. But he quickly dashed my hopes. He explained that he knew I was in financial difficulties, and might be able to help. But I had to be discreet, because his proposition was shady at best.

‘I should have shown him the door at once, of course. I realize that now. But at the time, with Manny so sick and me at my wits end, I told myself that it would do no harm to at least hear his proposition.’

‘Which was…?’

‘He said he was interested in a pair of earrings. He knew where they were kept but could not get to them, which is where I came in. He would take me to the property, I would gain access, steal the item and in return he would give me ten pounds.

‘Well, it was a miraculous sum of money, and when I thought of all the good it could do my husband – I can make no excuses for what I did. I was simply desperate. So I embarked upon a series of robberies, the fourth and most recent of which was committed two nights ago.’

‘This man Smith,’ Holmes said, ‘does he always take you to the scene of the robberies?’ 

‘Yes, sir. He’d arrive unannounced with a sketch of the item he wanted me to steal and a five-pound note. I would receive the same amount again when I delivered the item to him.’

‘And he never gave any indication as to the identity of his employer? Where he came from?’

‘Never, sir. We rarely spoke of anything but the job at hand. He said it was better that way, for both our sakes.’

‘Did he have a foreign accent?’

‘No, sir. He was a Londoner through and through.’ She dug out a soiled handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. ‘I have been a fool, sirs, and for that I will be eternally sorry. But the money has made Manny’s suffering a little easier to bear, and though it may sound inappropriate, for that reason I don’t regret my actions.’

Holmes frowned and pondered a moment. ‘You have played a very dangerous game, Mrs Kidd,’ he then said. ‘Had you been caught, had you fallen and injured or killed
yourself
in the commission of the crimes, you would have left your husband in an even less enviable position than the one he already occupies. However, I understand why you embarked upon the course you did. But I suggest that you do not submit to this man Smith again, no matter how sorely you need the money.’

‘He is an unpleasant man, Mr Holmes, and will not take kindly to a refusal.’

‘Then tell him this, Mrs Kidd – that you received a visit from Sherlock Holmes, who warned you in no uncertain terms that the next time you committed a crime, he would turn you over to the authorities. Tell him that I am on to him 
and if he has any sense he will keep a very low profile from now on.’

‘I will do that, sir.’

Holmes rose. ‘You have been a very foolish woman, Mrs Kidd, and I hope that from now on you will consider this a lesson learned.’

‘I will, sir. And I thank you for understanding.’

‘How is your husband at present, Mrs Kidd?’ asked Watson, hearing another prolonged coughing fit.

‘I fear he will not live to see out the summer,’ she replied tearfully.

‘Then clearly he needs more care than you can give him. It may be possible to remove him to an infirmary where—’

‘Infirmaries cost money, Doctor.’

‘Nevertheless, he needs rest, fresh air and nutrition if he is to stand any chance at all.’ Watson hesitated before adding: ‘It may be possible for me to arrange it, and in such a way that it will cost you little if anything.’

‘Charity?’ she asked disdainfully.

‘Not charity, Mrs Kidd,’ Holmes said. ‘Let us call it payment for services rendered, for while your answers in themselves will not help me to solve the case, the fact that I have successfully deprived the real culprit of his most important tool –
you
– is worth far more than that.’

‘You have done all that you can,’ Watson said gently. ‘But now your husband needs professional care. And I suggest you let me arrange it.’

‘Very well, Doctor.’

‘Excellent. I will have someone come for him tomorrow.’

Holmes picked up his hat. ‘We must be going,’ he said 
abruptly, uncomfortable as always in the presence of any show of emotion. ‘Good night, Mrs Kidd.’

They left.

As they walked back through the darkness to their waiting cab, Holmes said: ‘Tell me, Watson. Is it
really
possible for you to obtain free care for Emmanuel Kidd?’

‘I doubt it. But I have some savings, and …’

Holmes smiled. ‘You will carry the burden yourself, is that it?’

‘Scoff if you like. But you were right. You told me not to judge the thief before I knew all the facts.’

‘Then we shall share the cost of Mr Kidd’s care between us, my friend. Your meagre pension of less than twelve shillings a day will only stretch so far, and while I may not be exactly wealthy, I am at least financially comfortable enough to go Dutch.’

Touched by his friend’s generosity, Watson gave him a sidelong glance. ‘You know, Holmes, there are times when you are as charitable as you are wise. But sometimes I
question
your wisdom. I mean, was it really wise to tell Mrs Kidd to tell this man Smith that you’re on to him?’

‘Quite,’ said Holmes. ‘I wanted to make sure the man left her alone. If he thinks that I may find him through her, he will give her a wide berth in future. If we are lucky, he will drop out of sight altogether.’

‘But surely, he is the next link in the chain?’

‘No. My feeling is that we are dealing with someone who leaves little to chance. Unless I am mistaken, this man Smith would have been hired through a whole series of other go-betweens. He will know very little in the grand scheme of 
things. But if word should get back to the
real
mastermind that I am on to them, we may yet smoke them out into the open.’

‘Just like your bees, eh, Holmes?’

‘Precisely.’

CHAPTER 10

Obsession

W
atson spent much of the following morning making preparations for Emmanuel Kidd to be removed to the St Marylebone Infirmary, where he knew some of the staff from his days as a student at the University of London. As he had predicted, a generous donation to the Nightingale Fund – the charitable organization which financed the
infirmary
– ensured that arrangements were completed swiftly.

He felt happy with himself as he limped back to Baker Street and collected the morning’s mail from the hallway table. Consumption was not fatal in every case, and there was some evidence to suggest that a liberal diet of milk and cream, eggs, meat and vegetables – even raw eggs
swallowed
whole with a little sherry, pepper or salt on them – could boost the body’s natural defences enough to fight it off. In the case of Emmanuel Kidd, however, Watson felt that it would be a long, arduous struggle. He could only hope that the man still possessed enough stamina to see it through.

There was no sign of Holmes when he let himself into their sitting room. He set his own post down on his chair and
took the letters addressed to Holmes – and a rolled-up,
dogeared
newspaper from America – across to his friend’s bedroom door. Watson’s room lay on the second floor. Holmes had his spartan sleeping quarters just off their sitting room, behind a door next to the fireplace.

‘Holmes!’ he called. ‘The post has arrived!’

There was no response.

Frowning, Watson knocked on the door. ‘Are you all right, old chap?’

Again, no answer.

He glanced around, looking for the note Holmes was sure to have left had he gone out. There wasn’t one, and he felt a sudden stir of unease. Early on in their relationship Holmes had confessed to bouts of depression during which he would remain cloistered in silence for days on end. But those times normally were the result of inactivity, when he hadn’t any interesting cases to occupy him. What if his friend were ill now?

‘Holmes? Shall I bring your post to you?’ he called through the door.

The silence was deafening. He turned away, trying to convince himself that his companion was merely sleeping late, as usual. But it was very close to lunchtime – late even by Holmes’s bohemian standards.

He returned to the door, knocked and said: ‘Holmes, are you all right? I’m coming in.’

He opened the door and poked his head inside.

Holmes’s room was a study in basics. There was a single bed, a bedside table, a straight-backed chair, a tin dispatch box, and little else. Realizing that Holmes must have gone 
out, perhaps using his private exit set into the left-hand wall, Watson felt relieved. He turned to go, then froze.

‘Good God …’ he murmured.

Holmes had covered one wall in photographs, newspaper and magazine clippings and what appeared to be whole reams of handwritten notes all pertaining to Elaina Montague. It was a virtual
shrine
to the woman.

Watson shook his head in amazement. It was in man’s nature to seek a mate, of course, but in all the years he had known Holmes, he’d only ever shown true emotion for one woman, the American opera singer Irene Adler. To Holmes the female of the species was something to be tolerated, dealt with, observed, but never, ever loved. And yet here he had shown an interest in Elaina Montague that was more akin to obsession.

Not for the first time, Watson wondered just how well he really knew his companion. He knew very little of Holmes’s personal life, just that he was descended from a family of country squires and had a brother named Mycroft, who was seven years his senior and was some kind of unspecified but clearly high-ranking civil servant.

From his own observations he had concluded that Holmes possessed all manner of eccentricities. Whilst scrupulously clean in himself, he thought nothing of keeping his pipe tobacco in the toe of an old Persian slipper and his cigars in the coal scuttle. What might appear as chaos to anyone else was Holmes’s idea of order. And when presented with a new case he spared nothing, least of all himself, to solve it.

But between cases his spirits plunged and he grew lethargic and disheartened. At such times he sought comfort 
from cocaine which, he claimed, stimulated his mind. As far as Watson could see, however, it had entirely the opposite effect, and no matter how many times he saw it, the sight of the usually vital Holmes reduced in appearance to one of Homer’s fabled lotus eaters, troubled him greatly.

‘Have you quite finished gawping, Watson?’

Startled, Watson turned and saw Holmes standing in the doorway behind him. He fumbled to find an answer. ‘I’m sorry, Holmes. I didn’t mean to … intrude. I came to deliver your post and when you didn’t answer my knock I …’ Words failed him momentarily. ‘I wasn’t
spying
on you.’

Holmes tugged at the cuffs of his frock-coat. ‘I never for one moment thought you were.’

‘Good,’ Watson said stiffly. ‘Still, I have to say … all this gave me quite a shock.’ He eyed Holmes questioningly. ‘Old chap,’ he said at last. ‘Are you all right?’

‘I have never felt better.’

‘But … I mean, well, I knew you were interested in the countess, but
this
…’ he indicated the shrine of pictures and shook his head disapprovingly. ‘It’s not natural, Holmes.’

‘On the contrary, Watson, under present circumstances it is
perfectly
natural.’

‘Well, you know my opinion of that woman. I cannot possibly see the appeal.’

‘Then let us leave it at that,’ Holmes suggested. He extended his hand. ‘My post, if you please.’

‘What? Oh, yes. Here.’ Watson turned and marched out, closing the door after him.

Holmes studied the envelopes, then tossed them aside and tore open the brown-paper sleeve around the newspaper. He 
sank on to his bed, unrolled the paper and quickly read the front page. Below the
Kansas City Star
banner, the headline read:

Below that there was a photograph of Elaina wearing a low-cut gown, and smiling as a much older man – Rupert, Earl Montague – presented her with a diamond necklace.

Holmes frowned.
Dancehall Queen
?

He read on:

‘I’ll just
wager
he did,’ Holmes murmured.

He looked at the shrine, focusing on the newspaper
clippings
. Some were relatively new, others yellowed with age, but all showed pictures of Elaina and other women of her station – Lady Bingham, Baroness Alcott, the Duchess of Wakefield, Lady Darlington-White and others – taking tea at their homes and hers.