Chapter 13
With Sherlock Holmes leading the way, the three of us soon arrived at Fleet Street. Sherlock stopped in front of a brick building that was beautifully decorated with two small Greek columns in front.
The sign near the door identified it as the headquarters of the Globe, one of the most popular newspapers in the city. In fact, it was the same publication that the journalist worked for — the one who we had met accidentally in the lounge of the Old Bell Hotel while we were waiting for Lupin.
Sherlock pointed to a person who passed by, asking him, without hesitation, “Is the editor here? I need to talk to him.”
The reporter looked him up and down with the same expression as if you were at the market and evaluating a fish to see how fresh it is. Then, with a sneer, he said, “Sure boy, of course. At the end of the hallway, you’ll also find Queen Victoria’s office.”
Sherlock Holmes did not allow the sarcasm to deter him, and he headed down the hallway.
Trusting that nobody took interest in us, Lupin and I followed Sherlock . . . that is, until we were stopped.
“Hey, you!” an angry voice addressed us. “Where are you going?”
A huge person appeared in front of Sherlock. His hands were stained with ink.
“To the editor’s office,” Sherlock answered calmly.
“What’s this? A joke?” the person snickered. “And why would you three be going to the editor’s office?”
“We have to speak with him,” our friend answered, finally indicating that Lupin and I were with him.
“And is he eager to speak with you?” the man asked. “Hey, Enoch!” he exclaimed, calling to a friend on the other side of the hallway. “Have you heard this? There are three children who say they would like to talk to the editor!”
Enoch answered before coming out of his office. “That’s a good one! Let’s write it down for the satire page!” He then appeared in the doorway. “I’ve been trying to meet with him myself for three months!”
We looked each other up and down. It was the man with the pockmarked cheeks we had met at the hotel. “But I know you . . .” he whispered.
“Who are these three, Enoch?” the giant man asked.
“I want to talk to the editor,” Sherlock persisted.
“You have, in front of you, his deputy,” Enoch said, pointing to the other man.
“Could you tell me why you are making me waste all my time, you four?” the deputy said.
“The Prince of Riddles should not be treated this way,” Sherlock said suddenly.
The two reporters looked at each other, then began to laugh. “Do not tell me that you have come here because you weren’t able to solve this week’s mystery.”
The “Prince of Riddles” was a section of the Globe filled with puzzles and word problems to solve. It was published every Tuesday on the last page of the evening publication.
“It’s me, the Prince of Riddles,” said Sherlock.
The deputy’s smile faded.
“Pff!” Enoch suddenly exclaimed. “And do you really think that we believe you, lad?”
“The riddles reach your office in an anonymous envelope each Monday evening,” Sherlock said. “And the one you haven’t published yet starts like this . . .”
In front of the increasingly bewildered eyes of the two men, Sherlock Holmes announced, word for word, a riddle about four men dressed in black who were running in the rain. “And the solution of the riddle is that they are all at a funeral,” he concluded.
A long moment of silence followed.
“Gosh, lad!” Enoch said, scratching his head.
“Why do you want to talk to the editor?” the deputy asked.
“I need to talk to the best of your reporters,” Sherlock answered. Then he looked behind him, into the noisy publishing house. “But not here!”
The deputy raised his eyes to Enoch. “The best of our reporters? All right,” he said, sighing. “I’ll grab a coat and follow you.”
The five of us headed to a pub. The two men seemed frustrated that they had to give up their precious time to three children, but their skepticism seemed to dissolve after some sips of beer and Sherlock’s shrewdness. Lupin’s elegance and my red curls did the rest.
The topic that Sherlock was interested to hear about was Ophelia Merridew.
“I am sure you have unleashed your boys to discover anything about her,” he began. “But we do not intend to wait for the next issue of the Globe in order to read what you’ve discovered.”
The deputy bent over his pint. “And why do you want to know?”
“That does not concern our chat,” Sherlock said.
“Just listen to the way he is talking!” the deputy burst out, loosening his tie.
“The Prince of Riddles . . .” Enoch reminded him, wiping the foam from his mustache with the back of his hand.
“Cards on the table, lad,” the deputy said decidedly. “I won’t ask you why you want to know about Ophelia Merridew, and we will tell you what we know about her. What will you do in exchange?”
“Well, I will keep on doing what I’ve been doing for your newspaper,” Sherlock answered, drumming his fingers on the table. “There is some good competition here on Fleet Street . . .”
“Are you threatening me with your stupid section of riddles?”
Sherlock held his look quietly.
“In exchange,” interrupted Lupin, who had not said a word until that moment, “we will tell you the name of the murderer of Alfred Santi.”
“But we already know that,” Enoch answered. “He’s a thief . . . a scoundrel who works for the circus.”
At that point, I predicted how Lupin would react, and I managed to stop him before he lunged at the reporter. It took all my strength to keep him sitting calmly.
“Hey!” Enoch cried, astonished. “What did I say?”
“Be careful what you say! Be careful!” Lupin addressed him with fire in his eyes.
“You are all mad, the three of you!” shouted the deputy.
Sherlock ignored him and continued. “My friend is telling the truth. We have information that has led us to believe that things happened much differently than what was published in the news.”
“This is not unusual,” Enoch said. “But the fact remains, the tightrope walker is in prison waiting to be hanged.”
“He will not be,” Lupin said grimly.
Enoch nodded gravely and then turned to Lupin. “You know him well, huh?” he guessed, finally understanding that there was a relationship between Lupin and the accused murderer. “I’m sorry for what I said.”
“No hard feelings,” Lupin said.
“Then it’s settled,” the deputy said. “Our information for yours.”
Sherlock Holmes stretched out his hand across the table.
“And another year of the ‘Prince of Riddles,’” the deputy added before shaking his hand.
“It’s a deal.”
Then the three of us got closer around the table, waiting to find out what the Globe had gathered on the case of Ophelia Merridew’s disappearance.
“Actually,” Enoch began, “what I know is not much. The most important news, which you might already know, is that Ophelia Merridew is a stage name.”
I did not know that, but I did not interrupt him.
“Her real name is Olive, Olive something, and she was born in London. She grew up quite poor, apparently. When the singer became rich and famous, she moved her family to a remote place in the French Midi . . . certainly out of reach for a poor reporter on Fleet Street! All that remains of her past here in London is a ditzy, old aunt. Ophelia went to visit her every time she was on tour here. There is also a friend from her youth,” Enoch pulled a torn, greasy notebook from his pocket. “Her name is Hortence. She’s a talented seamstress, but other than that, we don’t know much. I sent two reporters out to find her, but so far . . . that’s all we have.” He closed the notebook.
“It’s not much,” Sherlock agreed.
“They will talk about Merridew for a week more. Unless she turns up somewhere,” Enoch said. “In London, luckily, there is always something new and juicy to throw out in the press.”
After we found out a bit more information, we parted from the two reporters.
“You know what?” Enoch said to Sherlock a moment before we left. “Your riddles sell more copies than my articles.” He started to ruffle Sherlock’s hair, but at the last moment, he held out his hand in a gentlemanly fashion. “And it turns out that . . . you’re a kid! But it’s a wild world we live in, eh?”