The Adventure of The Smith-Mortimer Succession
Daniel D. Victor
Daniel D Victor is a retired high school teacher who lives with his wife in his native Los Angeles. His doctoral dissertation, The Muckraker and the Dandy: The Conflicting Personae of David Graham Phillips, led to the creation of the Sherlock Holmes pastiche The Seventh Bullet. Originally published by St. Martin’s Press, it was reprinted by Titan Books, UK and later translated into Russian. His fascination with Sherlock Holmes and American literature has led to his MX series entitled “Sherlock Holmes and the American Literati” in which Holmes and Watson encounter such writers as Raymond Chandler, Stephen Crane, Samuel Clemens, and Jack London. More recently, Victor has expanded his literary approach to Holmes’ adventures by including writers from more varied backgrounds like Guy de Maupassant, Robert Louis Stevenson, and Fyodor Dostoyevsky. Victor is currently working on a novel about Holmes and American journalist Richard Harding Davis.
Andy Pereira is a self-taught contemporary artist working primarily in acrylics, Andy was born in Guatemala City, Guatemala in 1960. Many of Andy’s paintings are influenced by impressionism. Andy is a fulltime resident in the Northwood neighborhood of West Palm Beach, FL. His exhibitions include The Box Gallery (2016), Bohemia Gallery A. G. “The End of the Year of the Monkey” (2017), Common Hope Charity Fundraiser (2017), Palm Springs Elementary School, leading a four-hour student work shop about the importance of the arts in society (2018). Andy may be contacted via Facebook @ Andy E. Pereira.
Artwork size: 30” × 45”
Medium: Acrylic on canvas.
No detective, not even an amateur, wants to admit that he has been the victim of thieves. And yet that was precisely the situation in which I found myself after moving back to Baker Street in late April of 1894, some two weeks after the dramatic return from the dead of my friend and colleague, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
By now the whole world knows the astounding story of how Holmes had appeared to plunge to his death at the Reichenbach Falls in Switzerland on 4 May, 1891, how he had spent the next three years traveling incognito, and how he had finally reappeared in London to solve the murder of one Ronald Adair. Today, of course, such facts are readily available. Yet it must be remembered that for reasons never made entirely clear to me, Holmes prohibited my publishing an account of the case for some ten years following the actual events.
Adhering to Holmes’s request, I waited patiently until the autumn of 1903 before he allowed me to produce the sketch I entitled “The Empty House”, the narrative that detailed Holmes’s so-called “hiatus”. Even though he had made it quite clear that my account would not be published for a decade or more, I stood firm about recording the facts as soon as Holmes reported them to me—that is, in April of ’94.
Only by noting the details while they were still fresh would I be able to fulfil the role of faithful Boswell that Holmes had attributed to me. To that end, I maintained a notebook in which I set down the salient features of the Reichenbach Affair as provided by Holmes. I kept the thin volume in a drawer of the writing desk in our sitting room, and it was the purloining of the notebook in question that placed me in the predicament to which I referred at the start of this narrative.
I discovered the theft one balmy afternoon in late May. It happened this way. Upon returning from my surgery, I encountered the perfect opportunity to write. There was no Sherlock Holmes to be found, and an hour yet remained before Mrs. Hudson would bring up our tea. No sooner had I seated myself and opened the desk-drawer, however, than I discovered that my notebook had gone missing.
I immediately summoned Billy the page. “Has anyone entered our rooms recently when Mr. Holmes and I have been out?” I asked him.
“Why, um, yeah, Doctor,” said the boy, tugging self-consciously at his burgundy tunic. “Funny you should ask.”
“And why is that?”
Billy shifted uneasily from foot to foot. “Some bloke, a young man ’e was and very short, came in yesterday with a bucket and sponge—said ’e was ’ere to wash the windows.”
“And you,” I charged in disbelief, “let him in without so much as a ‘by your leave’?”
Billy blushed, unable to conceal his miscalculation. “Mrs. H. was out, Doctor, so I couldn’t ask no one about the fella’s story. Both you and Mr. Holmes was gone, and, strange enough, the chap sounded like an educated fellow. I reckoned no ’arm could be done, so I opened your door for ’im. You know ’ow Mrs. H. allows the police inspectors free run of the place.”
“Window cleaners are not Scotland Yard detectives, Billy,” said I, shaking my head in annoyance. “You should be aware, young man, that this window cleaner took an important notebook that belonged to me.”
Rather than apologizing for his blunder, Billy raised a forefinger and said, “Do you know, Doctor, I thought something seemed a bit dodgy about ’im—besides ’is posh speech.”
“And why is that?” I said, my voice tinged with irritation.
“Because ’e ain’t been in ’ere but five minutes, and then out ’e rushed, bucket in hand, saying ’e’d forgot ’is soap, and just like that ’e run out the front door.”
Now that Billy had mentioned it, the windows looked no different from how I remembered them, dark soot sullying the glass of each pane. The strange behaviour of the window cleaner certainly seemed to confirm the intruder’s guilt.
Whilst I could not let Billy leave without admonishing him for his poor judgement, I also found myself thanking him for offering so straightforward an admission. Only after the lad had gone did I stop to consider the peculiarity of the theft. Nothing else seemed missing, and I had no clue concerning what vital interest there could there be in my simple notes of Holmes’s return to London. They contained no secrets. If the details of Holmes’s escape from Moriarty’s clutches were not already public knowledge, Holmes’s reappearance in the fight against London’s criminal class most certainly was. How could it not be? Elsewhere I have noted the many cases he tackled in 1894, and his presence was obviously known to all the participants in each of those investigations.
Holmes himself returned in time for tea, and I related to him the mystery involving my notes.
“Curious, Watson,” said he, cocking an eyebrow. “But ’tis no great matter. Disturbing as it is to be the victim of a minor crime, no great harm can come from missing the notes of my reappearance. I shall merely repeat the details for you, and you may take them down again. More to the point, during my long absence a number of criminal acts have occurred that demand our attention. Fear not. I have no doubt that with the passage of time, your little puzzle will be solved.”
Although we did not know it as we sat sampling Mrs. Hudson’s tea and biscuits that afternoon, the solution to that so-called “little puzzle” was destined to appear much sooner and with greater implications than we had expected.
It was a week to the day since I had discovered the invasion of our sitting room, and I had almost succeeded in pushing the matter out of mind. Having questioned Holmes once more and recorded for a second time the facts required to complete a satisfactory account of his actions in Switzerland, I no longer had the need to dwell upon what I had come to call “The Strange Case of the Missing Notebook”. That morning, however, along with the breakfast dishes and the coffee, Billy presented a letter that had been left for Holmes.
“Brought in early this morning by a footman in livery, sir,” said Billy on his way out the door.
Holmes examined the envelope with its thick-stock paper, overly large monogram, and red-wax seal.
“Someone important,” said he with a wry chuckle, “or at least someone who thinks he is.” Holmes broke the seal and quickly scanned the letter. “Note the shaky hand in contrast to the firmest of tones,” he said as he pushed the paper in my direction. It was dated that morning at Windstone Hall, Gloucestershire.
Dear Mr. Holmes [it read],
I shall meet with you this morning at ten a.m. in your rooms. It is of the utmost urgency, and I must insist that you cancel any other plans you might have.
It was signed, “Sir Lionel Smith-Mortimer, Bart”.
“Watson,” Holmes said over the rim of his coffee cup, “The Who’s Who? if you please.”
I gulped down a piece of toast and rose to fetch A.C. Black’s familiar listing of influential people. It took but a moment to locate the book with its dark-blue boards and gold-lettered spine. I thumbed the pages, found the appropriate entry, and handed the open volume to Holmes.
Sipping his coffee, he read the entry quickly and summarised the salient features: “Lionel Smith-Mortimer, Baronet. Born 1822. One son named Leigh. Wife died in childbirth. In addition to an inherited title and fortune, he is the owner of Windstone Hall, a manor house in Oxfordshire. He—”
“Wait a moment, Holmes!” I cried. “I remember reading something about the man just yesterday in The Times—a rather tragic piece about a suicide, as I recall.” I retrieved the newspaper from the small pile of spent dailies residing on a nearby table. It took me but a moment to locate the report. “Here!” said I, pointing to the story. It was indeed a melancholy announcement—“Death of Baronet’s Son”—so sad an account that I had not gone on to read the details. Had I done so, I would certainly have called them to my friend’s attention.
“Holmes,” said I after quickly reviewing the piece, “it says that the young man died in the Falls of Reichenbach.”
Sherlock Holmes put down his cup and stared at me with his steel-grey eyes.
“‘The coat of the deceased,’” I read, “‘was discovered neatly folded on the path above the falls. His footprints along the path led to the edge of the precipice above the water—a drop of more than eight-hundred feet. His body has yet to be recovered.’”
I laid down the paper and looked at my friend. If I did not know better, I could have sworn that the slightly upturned corners of Holmes’s mouth displayed a hint of amusement.
“I returned from death but a month-and-a-half ago,” said Holmes, “and already I seem to have created imitators.” He looked at our mantel clock. “Come. It is almost ten, and unless I am very much mistaken, I hear the hooves of a pair of disciplined horses pulling a four-wheeler to the kerb. We should prepare to meet our distinguished guest.”
Sherlock Holmes exchanged his mouse-coloured dressing gown for a dark jacket, and I proceeded to don my coat. It was a matter of minutes before Mrs. Hudson herself climbed the stairs to introduce our guest. No pageboys for the likes of a Baronet.
“Enter!” Sherlock Holmes commanded at her knock.
Mrs. Hudson stood at the portal and announced, “Sir Lionel Smith-Mortimer.” Then, bowing her head and straightening her skirt, she backed out into the hallway and closed the door.
I must say that, whilst I knew this Baronet to be a septuagenarian, I nonetheless expected to behold someone of erect and noble bearing. Instead, I saw before us a scowling old man with a stoop to his back and a hand curled like a great claw over the round, silver head of his walking stick. With a nod to fashion, he wore an expertly tailored suit, its dark frock coat contrasting with his yellowing white hair. Patent leather boots and kid gloves complemented his attire.
“Sir Lionel,” said my friend, “I am Sherlock Holmes.” He introduced me as well and gestured towards the armchair reserved for his clients.
The Baronet gave a quick frown in my direction and then, with some effort, shuffled to the proffered seat and sat down. Holmes and I took chairs opposite him.
“Let me first say, sir,” announced the elderly client with a thump of his stick, “that I don’t fancy being here one bit.” He rapped his stick on the floor a second time to punctuate his point. “Only because of Leigh’s faith in you have I come at all.”
Holmes stared at the man, offering no discernible response.
“Without doubt you have seen the reports of my son’s accident.”
We both nodded respectfully.
“Simply put, I don’t believe them. I want to know what really happened. All I do know is that he was off in Switzerland wandering about with a friend.”
“A friend?” Holmes asked.
“Yes. One Reginald Bentley. A barrister by profession. Known each other for about a year. Bentley and my son travel together when the opportunity presents itself. London not good enough for them. They want to see the world.”
“And where was this Bentley at the time of your son’s death?” Holmes asked.
“Alleged death, may I remind you. He remained at the hotel near the Reichenbach Falls, don’t you know.”
“At the Englischer Hof?” I asked. Noting the similarity to our own ill-fated trip three years before, I guessed the two men might have stayed in the same hotel Holmes and I had occupied.
As if he suspected that I possessed too much arcane information, Sir Lionel knit his brow. But all he said was, “By Jove, when I hear of a mysterious death and no corpse is produced, I have my doubts. You may think I sound like some suspicious figure in one of your adventures, Holmes, but that may be in part because of the interest that Leigh expressed in reading them himself.”
“I appreciate the compliment, Sir Lionel,” said Holmes, “but under the circumstances, one cannot escape an uncomfortable conclusion. The apparent death of your son mirrors—however imprecisely—my own rumoured demise. Given the fact that I have only just returned from that narrow escape, one has to marvel at the coincidence.”
“Quite,” muttered Sir Lionel.
It was all I could do not to call attention to the theft of my notes. The young man posing as a window cleaner whom Billy had observed, the one with an educated manner of speech—might he be none other than Leigh Smith-Mortimer, whose father now sat before us? Recreating the death of Sherlock Holmes, someone he admired, might have been his morbid motivation. Perhaps Leigh Smith-Mortimer had sought to end his life in dramatic fashion not unlike the storied suicide of young Romantic poet Thomas Chatterton.
“I must confess,” said Holmes, “that my personal history in this situation adds impetus to my curiosity. I, too, would like to know what happened to your son, Sir Lionel. I shall take your case.”
The Baronet withdrew a wallet of light-coloured leather from inside his jacket. “Name your fee, Holmes,” said he.
“Later,” my friend replied. “All my clients pay at the same rate, Sir Lionel. But concerning this case in particular, its proper resolution will furnish me with additional reward.”
The Baronet gazed at his wallet. “I almost forgot,” said he, extracting a photograph and a small card from the billfold. “My son and Bentley,” he explained in reference to the photograph. “Inseparable friends. The card contains information about Bentley’s chambers in Gray’s Inn.”
Holmes took the items, examined them briefly, and handed them to me. In the photograph, two serious-looking young men in straw boaters—the taller one with a moustache, the shorter, clean-shaven—stared back.”
“Leigh is the one without the whiskers,” said Sir Lionel as, using his stick as a brace, he struggled to rise. “As for Bentley, he works at Mapplethorpe and Ruggles, and I have already prepared him for a possible visit from you.”
“We’ll see him post-haste,” said Holmes, ushering the old man to the door.
Sir Lionel stopped to address my friend. “This matter is of great importance to me, Holmes. In addition to the welfare of my son, I feel compelled to point out that he is my only issue. He arrived late in my life, and his mother died tragically during his birth. It was quite horrible really. The babe chose to appear when Lady Smith-Mortimer and I were vacationing in the mountains near Lake Windermere. It was all so sudden. We were alone in the woods, and I had to deliver the child myself as my wife lay dying.
“Horrible,” I said.
Sir Lionel ignored my sympathetic response. “What’s more,” he added, standing up as straight as seemed possible for him, “neither can I neglect the deposition of my estate.”
“It is entailed?” Holmes asked.
“Indeed. All I possess will be inherited by my closest male heir. If Leigh is truly no longer living, then Windstone Hall will be dealt off to some distant cousin in Canada. That is why it is imperative that I find out what happened to my son.”
“Understood,” said Holmes. “I will report to you as soon as I learn anything.”
We listened as Sir Lionel made his way down the seventeen steps, his walking stick producing a distinctive thump on each one.
Holmes moved a window curtain aside so he could watch Sir Lionel enter the four-wheeler that awaited him by the kerb.
I heard the latch of the carriage door and then the rumble of the coach as it clattered down Baker Street.
“Come, Watson,” said Holmes. “This investigation will begin with an interview of Leigh Smith-Mortimer’s traveling companion, Mr. Reginald Bentley, Esquire, at the Inns of Court.”
The chambers of Mapplethorpe and Ruggles had been established in Gray’s Inn during the early years of the century. It was in the Gray’s Inn Gardens that Reginald Bentley had agreed that we meet him. To that end, we flagged a hansom at our front door and were soon rattling along Oxford Street. Southampton Row brought us to High Holborn and the Inns of Court. We alighted at the wood-panelled frontage of the Cittie of Yorke public house that stands at the narrow alleyway leading to Gray’s Inn. Entering the grounds through the main gate, we passed the South Square to our right and made our way under the archway leading to the green swards of the Walks, as the spacious gardens are commonly called.
Holmes had arranged our meeting for one o’clock, and under the mid-day sun we strolled along the gravel path enveloped by the iridescent colours and sweet aromas of the season. Spring seems so wrong a time to hold discussions of death—especially among the yellow daffodils and blue hyacinths and roses of pink and white and red attempting to distract us. After a few additional paces, however, we recognised the moustachioed chap from the photograph seated on a nearby bench.
Reginald Bentley was sitting in the shade of the London planes and elms that populated the Walks, and he rose upon our arrival. “Gentlemen,” said he, “Thank you for agreeing to see me outside of chambers. This tragedy is no one’s business but our own. Besides, I also appreciate the moments I can spend away from my desk.” He pointed to a low-slung block of yellow-brick offices across the lawn. “Mapplethorpe and Ruggles suffer the confinement of the Raymond Buildings over there. As you must already know, Leigh and I always enjoyed our walks through the countryside.”
“Which leads us to the Falls of Reichenbach,” said Holmes. “As I understand it, your friend seemed intrigued by my personal history—so much so that he literally walked in my very footsteps. How does one account for this obsessive interest?”
“Let us sit,” said Bentley, gesturing towards the bench. “Justice was paramount for Leigh,” he explained once we were settled. “I should imagine his concern was based upon his own sense of victimhood.”
“Victimhood?” I echoed, imagining the rich surroundings of Windstone Hall in which the boy had grown up. “In what way?”
“I know what you’re thinking, Dr. Watson—the money that must have smothered Leigh when he was a child. But, you see, it was that very legacy that constantly weighed him down. His father had made it clear to Leigh that he had to marry and have sons to carry on the line—you know, gentlemen, the usual upper-class prattle.”
“You don’t approve of the British aristocracy?” I could not refrain from asking.
“Look,” he said, “my own father is a banker, and fortunately for me was able to send me to university. I have benefitted greatly from my education. After all, here I sit, installed in the legal profession and quite able to pay my own bills.”
“Rather proves my point, eh?” I said.
“Within reason, Doctor. I don’t believe one should be forced to live the life one’s father confers upon him, however much money that involves, if that is not the life one chooses for himself.”
The young man may have had a valid point for the common fellow, but one cannot allow the upper classes to make such choices. Where would we be if the heirs to the throne could choose willy-nilly whether they wanted to be king? One could scarcely imagine a royal monarch giving up the crown to marry a commoner. Of course, such dilemmas did not concern a mere medical man like myself—not that sort of money in my family, I’m afraid.
Holmes brought the conversation back to practicalities. “Tell me about this trip the two of you took to Switzerland,” he said.
Bentley patted down his moustache. “When Sir Lionel notified me that you’d be coming to talk about Leigh, I assumed you would ask about that final journey.” He withdrew a map from an inner pocket and, unfolding it, proceeded to lay the sheet flat on the bench between Holmes and himself. “Leigh invited me to join him with the understanding that I would follow his instructions without questioning them. He told me he had a plan, and I agreed to go along.”
Sherlock Holmes studied the chart, his eyes flashing as he noted the familiar route now coloured in red.
“I took the liberty to mark our course,” said Bentley. “It was a singular excursion.” As the young man spoke, he traced the progress of their trip with his forefinger. “We boarded the Continental Express here at Victoria. I had originally thought we would cross the Channel at Dover and sail the twenty-two miles to Calais, but Leigh had other plans. He insisted we change trains at Canterbury for the run to Newhaven, a decision that caused us to switch twice more at Ashford and Lewes. When I asked him why, he answered with your name, Mr. Holmes.”
“Quite so,” Holmes nodded. “Pray, continue.”
“I’m sure you yourself can supply the details. At Newhaven, we sailed to Dieppe—” Here Bentley’s finger on the map slid across the blue of the Channel. “—A crossing, I might add, three times the duration of the crossing at Dover. From Dieppe we travelled by train to Brussels, and then on to Strasbourg and Geneva. Following a week’s walk through the Rhone Valley, we made our way to Leuk, climbed the Gemmi Pass in the Central Alps, and finally arrived just a short distance from the Reichenbach Falls in a town called Meiringen. We stayed in the Englischer Hof, run by—”
“Let me guess,” I interrupted, “Peter Steiler the Elder.”
“Correct, Dr. Watson. But from what I understand, you and Mr. Holmes stayed in the same hotel.”
“Quite so,” said Holmes again. Then he added vaguely, “It was all done for professional reasons.”
Leigh Smith-Mortimer may have stolen my notes concerning the geographical route Holmes and I had taken to Meiringen, but obviously Holmes still wanted to conceal the details connected with the criminal activities of Professor Moriarty and his associate Colonel Moran.
“We had travelled so far a distance in so roundabout a fashion, gentlemen, that once we had reached our destination, I saw no reason to suddenly start doubting my friend’s sanity. Thus, when early the next morning Leigh told me he wished to go alone to view the Reichenbach Falls, I acquiesced. It was the last time I ever saw him.” Here Reginald Bentley hung his head. Had I been less sympathetic, I might have regarded it as an altogether too theatrical a pose.
“And then?” Holmes asked. “No doubt you alerted the police.”
“When Leigh failed to return, I myself walked up to the Falls—ran, really.”
I nodded with appreciation. Had I not made the same fateful run under the most similar of conditions?
“That,” Bentley resumed, “was when I found Leigh’s folded jacket and tweed cap lying at the end of the small path leading to the rushing waters. Once I saw those personal items, I suspected that something was truly wrong, and I summoned the police. We all returned to the scene, and they examined the footmarks leading to the edge and not returning. Alas, there was but one sad conclusion to draw—that Leigh had thrown himself from the precipice, his body disappearing in the churning waters below.”
Holmes arched his eyebrows. “It would certainly seem so,” said he. “Did you detect anything in Leigh Smith-Mortimer’s nature that would lead you to imagine he could do such a thing?”
Sighing heavily, Bentley stared up into the cloudless blue sky. Perhaps he was hoping to find an answer somewhere in the heavens. “I can only tell you,” he said, “that he hated the role in which his father had placed him. But I assure you, gentlemen, that I never suspected that Leigh was unhappy enough to do himself in. There’s really not much else I have to say on the subject—except that I miss my friend greatly.”
Holmes stood up. “Thank you, Mr. Bentley,” said he. “You’ve been a great help to us.”
The barrister collected his map and gently folded it along the creases. Replacing it in his coat pocket, he shook hands with the two of us and wished us well. We accompanied him as far as his chambers and then bade him good day.
“Do you realize, Watson,” said Holmes once we reached High Holborn, “that thanks to Mr. Bentley—not to mention the dead Mr. Smith-Mortimer—we are going to have to return to the scene of some of our most unpleasant memories.” When he raised his hand to flag a hansom, he bore the gravest of expressions.
Unlike our first trip to the Reichenbach Falls, we required no subterfuge on this occasion. We faced no adversary like Moriarty in his special train to fool into thinking we were going to Paris. The Express from Victoria took us directly to Dover. From there, a ship conveyed us to Calais. With no need to pose as carefree pedestrians touring the Valley of the Rhone or exploring the Alps of central Switzerland, we utilised the various railroads traversing the French and Swiss countrysides to deposit us at the chalet-like train station in Meiringen.
Holmes and I may not have looked like the tourists we had hoped to resemble three years before, but even on that earlier occasion we had no cause to conceal our true identities. When we reached the Englischer Hof, therefore, old Peter Steiler greeted Holmes in particular like an old friend.
“Ach, Herr Holmes,” said Steiler, his English helped by an earlier stay in London, “it is as though you come from the dead. I heard of your return and am pleased to know that you did not die in the Reichenbach waters.”
“And yet someone else just did, nicht wahr?” Holmes asked.
“Ja,” answered Steiler. “A young Englishman. Like you, from here he went walking on his own.”
“It is his death, Herr Steiler, that I am here to investigate. How was he dressed?”
The old man thought for a moment, then smiled broadly as he remembered the details. “Heavy trousers. Heavy coat. Good boots. Flat cap.”
Holmes nodded. “Nothing else?”
“But of course,” said Steiler. “Schon vergessen. A very large rucksack he carried on his back.”
“Ha!” ejaculated Holmes, slapping his hand on the counter. “Precisely as I expected. Come, Watson. We shall soon get to the bottom of this mystery.”
Snow-covered mountain peaks served as backdrop when, for the second time in our adventures, Holmes and I marched up the incline towards the series of falls. From the bottom of the road one cannot see the water itself, only the winding trail leading up and past the three mighty torrents that ultimately rain down as one. It took us some ten minutes to reach the lowest of the falls, an additional fifteen to reach the central, and another thirty to get to the uppermost.
Veiled in the shadows of the numerous fir trees, we plodded upward. Holmes kept his eyes on the ground searching for any tell-tale clues. For me, however, the path served only to conjure terrible memories. During that first ascent three years before, I had been called back to the hotel on a ruse, and I shall never forget the horrible fear I experienced when I rushed back up this same mountain trail hoping against hope that my friend still lived.
Now as then, the fearsome roar of the waterfall attracted us like a magnet. Skirting the ominous rock walls that towered above, I followed after Holmes in the direction of the thunderous din. To witness the waters cascade in waves of white foam down the glistening black walls of stone and plunge into the cavernous abyss is to see unmasked the overwhelming power and beauty of Nature.
Yet once we reached the narrow path leading to the edge of the final precipice, my morbid recollections eclipsed the grandeur. A wave of nausea overcame me as soon as I encountered the very boulder against which Holmes had leaned his Alpine stock and upon which he had left his farewell note. Enveloped by the clouds of mist and spray that hovered above the roiling waters, I forced myself to halt at a safe distance from the brink. The world around me was beginning to spin. With the mountain wall on one side and the straight drop a short distance before me, I placed my palm against the wet stone and took a series of deep breaths.
Holmes, who was stooping over a handful of black soil a few steps ahead, looked back over his shoulder and saw my condition. Whether my unsettled appearance affected his judgement, I shall never know, but with a quick shake of his head, he shouted at me over the water’s roar, “No need to go any farther!” Then he gave the dirt in his hand a final peremptory look and tossed the stuff to the ground. “The path is of no use to us,” said he loudly, slapping his hands together to rid them of any residual muck. “It’s too moist, and too many footprints have already marred the trail. I should imagine that the authorities themselves have stomped across it and obliterated whatever clues we might have hoped to find.”
“Are we done here, then?” I shouted back hopefully.
In answer, Holmes looked up at the sheer mountain wall by our side. “Do you see it, Watson?” he asked, pointing to a projection some twenty feet above our heads. “The ledge that shielded me when you brought the police here to examine the scene.”
So long ago, and yet the memory of my exclusion from his plan still stung. I imagine that I will always harbour some resentment towards Holmes for letting me continue to think him dead. It was only the ultimate jubilation I experienced upon his return that alleviated the pain.
“We need another point of vantage,” said he and, keeping his eye on the wall to our left, he proceeded to march back in the direction from which we had come. Though each step away from the edge helped restore my strength, I suddenly feared Holmes was searching for the invisible footholds he had employed in his earlier escape in order to scale the wall once again. At the point where the wall fell away, however, he stopped and, turning to his left once more, stared at a network of overgrown brambles and ferns.
“A-ha!” he said at last and roughly pushed aside the overgrowth.
In an instant I perceived a hidden pathway ascending round the back of the mountain, and together Holmes and I scrambled up the steep terrain. Only when we reached a small plateau did I realise that we must be at the same spot where Colonel Moran had watched the struggle between Moriarty and Holmes unfold. It would have been here that Moran, intent on completing the job that Moriarty had thankfully been unable to consummate, rained down upon Holmes a shower of large rocks and stones.
Today, of course, there were no such dangers. In spite of the tumble of tree branches that blocked part of the view, we could now readily discern some twenty yards beneath us the rectangular outcropping that had served as Holmes’s hiding place. The ledge was several feet deep, and verdant moss, like a green wool rug, blanketed the small nooks and crannies of its stone floor.
From an inner pocket, Sherlock Holmes drew a pair of binoculars, which he trained on the area below. “Owing to the proximity of the Falls,” he observed as he peered through the lenses, “the moss-bed remains continuously moist. I can assure you from experience that not only does it provide a comfortable nest, but it also retains footmarks exceedingly well.”
For a few moments more he proceeded to scan the ledge. “Eureka!” he suddenly shouted and, handing me the glasses, commanded, “Look for yourself.”
I adjusted the lenses and observed the patterns in the moss more closely. Where before I had seen only gentle folds, I now made out among the rear shadows a long indentation where someone had recently lain. I could also begin to distinguish a few scattered footprints. At one edge of the projection, I detected what appeared to be the broad marks of a man’s boots. At the other edge—
“Hold on,” I said to Holmes. “Are those not the footprints of a woman’s shoe?”
“Precisely what I expected,” said Holmes, clapping his hands together.
“But what can such footprints mean? For that matter, Holmes, what does any of it mean?”
“To London, Watson!” said he by way of answer. Motioning me to follow, he hurried along the downhill trail, his eyes focused on the path before him. Thanks to the information furnished by the binoculars, we now knew for what to look. And truth be told, clearly discernable along the way were the occasional woman’s footprints mingling with all the other marks that had churned up much of the earth.
“We have learned all that we could hope for here in Switzerland,” proclaimed Sherlock Holmes. “It is now time to reacquaint ourselves with Mr. Reginald Bentley.”
Amberwell House, a modest building of soot-darkened stone, can be found in Southampton Row between Russell Square and Theobalds Road. Thanks to its proximity to the Inns of Court, the establishment provides lodgings for many of the solicitors and barristers who work nearby. Two days after our return from the Continent, Reginald Bentley suggested the Amberwell in response to our request to speak with him.
“Amberwell House at the end of my workday,” he had wired back.
As he led us to a group of grey-leather-backed chairs in the corner of the small lobby, the moustached barrister seemed ill at ease. He continually looked round although, except for the clerk at the front desk and a man across the way hidden behind a newspaper, the lobby was deserted.
“We have just returned from the Reichenbach Falls,” Holmes began. “Let us get straight to the point, shall we?”
Avoiding Holmes’s gaze, Bentley fidgeted with the cuffs of his jacket. “I don’t know what you mean,” he mumbled.
“We believe that your friend, Mr. Leigh Smith-Mortimer, stole Dr. Watson’s notes that dealt with my near-death experience three years ago. Just a few days later, you accompanied him in the re-creation of our previous trip to Switzerland. You have alleged that he left you in your room at the Englischer Hof in order to go walking on his own. Further, you maintain that he never returned—that he fell, or hurled himself, to the bottom of the Falls.”
“As I have already said.”
“Then, sir,” came Holmes’s blunt reply, “not to put too fine a point on it, I do not believe you.”
Bentley’s eyes grew wide. He was about to sputter out some retort, but Holmes kept speaking.
“Oh, I do not doubt that Smith-Mortimer went off to the Falls on his own, but I must conclude that you knew of his plans from the start—that, in fact, the two of you conspired to make it appear that Leigh Smith-Mortimer had leaped to his death never to be heard from again.”
“Now, see here, Mr. Holmes,” Bentley countered, “I won’t have you disparage Leigh that way, not to mention myself. Do you not remember that it was I who notified the police?”
“And yet, Mr. Bentley, it was also you who failed to inform them that the presumed-dead Smith-Mortimer was in reality hiding on the ledge not twenty feet above them. You, must admit, sir, that—” But Holmes never finished the sentence.
“Enough!” came the forceful, high-pitched voice of the man whom I supposed to have been reading the newspaper. He slammed the pages to the floor and stalked over to us. “Leave Reginald alone, Mr. Holmes. I am the one you seek. I am Leigh Smith-Mortimer.”
Holmes and I both stared up at the man—though, in truth, not very far up. From his photograph, we knew him to be shorter than his friend. But in the flesh, his entire stature appeared much slighter in spite of the well-cut, dark suit that must have come from Saville Row. His face bore delicate features, and his dark hair was cut short.
Reginald Bentley offered him his own seat while Bentley himself collected the chair that Smith-Mortimer had just been occupying.
“Well, well,” Holmes said with a quick smile. “The very man we speak of. He who has dogged my footsteps to death’s door at the Reichenbach Falls appears very much alive. What do you have to say for yourself, sir?” This last word was heavily emphasised, and at the same time there appeared in my friend’s eye the same inexplicable twinkle that I had seen when he had first heard the details of the young man’s disappearance.
“Reginald has told me,” Leigh Smith-Mortimer replied, “that you already know how much I detest my father and his domination—all in the name of his legacy. A plague on that legacy! I tell you, Mr. Holmes, that I could take it no longer. I wanted a means of escape. I’ve read of your investigations, and when I heard of your so-called death and resurrection, it gave me the idea to do the same.
“Your return being so recent, I assumed that Dr. Watson would have his notes concerning the affair lying about. As you have surmised, I entered your rooms in disguise and stole his notebook. Reginald and I then followed all of your steps to be certain we didn’t miss any of the planning that led to your success.”
“Stealing my notes,” I muttered. “Not very sporting.”
“I’m sorry, Doctor, but your notebook furnished me with the kind of details I needed—like the footholds leading to the ledge above the path. As did you, Mr. Holmes, I hid there from the police during their investigation, and when they had gone, I made my way back to London. Under a pseudonym, I took a room here at the Amberwell down the hall from Reginald. Now, I suppose, you will notify my father, and he will attempt to have me return to Windstone Hall.”
“Your father is my client,” said Holmes. “He has contracted me to find you. And yet, should I so choose, a rejection of his money would rid me of the responsibility.”
The young man’s eyes suddenly blazed with hope. “You’d do that, Mr. Holmes?”
“I assure you, Mr. Smith-Mortimer, that in the name of fair play, I have committed a number of unconventional actions. I am no official police force, you understand. But I must give your situation some thought. I don’t overturn my clients’ requests lightly. And whilst there is no law that will force you to go back to your father, the law of decency makes it imperative for me to let him know that you are alive and well. I suggest that we meet at Baker Street tomorrow afternoon. I shall send you a telegram once I have arranged the matter with Sir Lionel.”
With that Holmes rose, and I followed. As we exited the Amberwell, I could not fail to notice that behind us an animated discussion was going on between the two young men.
“Well, Watson, what do you make of the situation?” Holmes asked once we had found ourselves in Southampton Row again and walking towards the Strand.
“I believe that you were quite right in reserving additional time to consider your responsibilities. Still, I must say that there seems no let-up in young Smith-Mortimer’s grudge against his father. Unreasonable, I should think—in light of the rules that dictate the responsibilities of a titled son.”
Sherlock Holmes stopped in his tracks. “Good old Watson—forever faithful to the traditions of our culture. And yet you miss the salient feature.”
I could not see where Holmes was leading me. The antagonisms between father and son seemed quite clear.
“My dear fellow,” said Holmes. “You have failed to recognise the fact that Mr. Leigh Smith-Mortimer—‘the titled son’, as you call him—is in reality a woman.”
Even I, the so-called man of words, was speechless. At last I spat out, “You—you can’t be serious, Holmes.”
“But I am, old fellow. Of course, you noted the delicate features, the short but luxuriant hair, the small frame, the lilting voice.”
“Yes, all of which proves nothing.”
“But when you couple those decidedly feminine characteristics with a masculine life dictated by the unforgiving laws of primogeniture, you discover a wretched soul forced to play a part counter to her nature.”
“But, Holmes. Surely birth certificates, doctors’ statements—all would discount your inflammatory charges.”
“Remember the birth, Watson. The couple were alone wandering the woods. Who knows? Perhaps Sir Lionel had purposely arranged their isolated perambulations to coincide with the time the birth was expected. Fortunately, he managed to deliver the child, but unhappily could do nothing regarding the complications that killed Lady Smith-Mortimer. Clearly, there would be no more children. I imagine that in the confusion that followed, the doctors devoted their attention to saving the poor mother and simply taken Sir Reginald’s word for the sex of the baby. Money paid out to wet-nurses and nannies would have purchased the silence of any others who knew the truth.
Such a wild plan certainly explained Holmes’s fantastic accusation.
“I suspected some sort of ruse,” said he, “as soon as Sir Lionel began complaining so bitterly about his son. I thought the old man protested too much. Upon observing the young person, I am now convinced.”
“But the pretend suicide, Holmes, the climb up the mountain to the ledge. Surely, no woman could be expected to perform such feats!”
“Ah, Watson,” Holmes smiled, “how did Hamlet put it to Horatio? ‘There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’ I find women quite as capable as men in accomplishing whatever they put their mind to.” He turned silent, and I knew he must have been thinking of the machinations set up by Irene Adler a few years before that had succeeded in thwarting him.
“But what’s the point, Holmes?” I asked breaking into his thoughts. “Even if Sir Reginald had succeeded in passing the girl off as a boy, there could be no children in her future, no male heir to claim the estate.”
“A crazed old man trying to hold on to what is his for as long as possible,” Holmes offered. He grew silent again. In fact, the only words he uttered after we had reached Aldwych, were, “Let us continue on and dine at Simpson’s. Afterwards, I shall make arrangements with Sir Lionel for tomorrow’s meeting.”
With the late-afternoon sun to our backs, we negotiated the Aldwych Crescent, our long shadows stretching out before us. I remember thinking at the time how well those shadows epitomised the case. Whatever had been going on in the mind of Sir Lionel Smith-Mortimer for the past twenty years must have been very murky indeed.
Mrs. Hudson had prepared tea for five people as we had requested. The stooped form of Sir Lionel arrived first, his trek up our stairs punctuated by the beat of his cane. He looked at the tea service and chocolate biscuits set out on the dining table, shook his head, and selected an armchair to sit upon that was far removed from the table.
“Tell me your news, Holmes,” he demanded.
“In due time, sir. We await the others.”
“What others?”
As if in answer, a sharp knock rattled our door. Holmes opened it to Reginald Bentley. The barrister entered the room, but not by himself. He was accompanied by a magnificent young woman in a dress of yellow cotton, accented in white at the neck and cuffs. Adorned with a white feather, a small yellow hat perched coquettishly upon her short black curls. It nearly took my breath away to realise that only the day before I had been conversing with this very person under the impression that I was speaking to one Leigh Smith-Mortimer, the only son of a Baronet.
“Watson,” said Holmes with a gesture towards the lady, “may I re-introduce you to Leigh Smith-Mortimer. That is, Miss Leigh Smith-Mortimer.
“Now see here!” interrupted Sir Lionel. “I won’t stand for this charade.”
Miss Smith-Mortimer had been about to take my hand when she wheeled upon her father. “You won’t stand for this charade?” she charged, cheeks reddening, nostrils flaring. “I’ve been play-acting in your little game for as long as I can remember. Always the boy—to preserve the line! Even though you’ve always known that the line would end with me. You knew I could never marry as a man. And now I have found someone who has seen through this masquerade and wants to love me as a woman should be loved. I am through with your game, Father. May Windstone Hall crumble to the earth for all I care!”
“Leigh,” Sir Lionel said, holding out both hands. “After your mother died and there was no possibility for a male heir—”
“Stop, Father!” she cried. “I have heard all this before. Let the succession fall to cousins twice-removed—or three-times removed. It doesn’t matter anymore. You robbed me of my proper childhood, and I won’t allow you to rob me of my marriage.” She turned to Bentley. “That is,” she said, her voice now lowered, “if you’ll have me.”
Reginald Bentley took her in his arms. “I love you, Leigh. Your beautiful nature has always shone through your disguise. We did our best to kill off the male version of yourself, and now, thanks to Mr. Holmes, you’ve been able to speak the truth.”
The young woman stood as tall as she could. “I am leaving you now, Father,” she said simply. “As you’ve just heard, Reginald and I will soon be married. Good man that he is, he has convinced me to invite you to the wedding. It is your choice whether you want to gain a daughter and, God willing, grandchildren or live on in isolation. The choice will be yours.”
Before leaving, the couple turned to Holmes and me. “Thank you, gentlemen,” said Bentley. “At first I feared you might bring ruination upon us, but now I see that shining a light on this bizarre story has brought us salvation instead.” The two of them smiled and hand in hand slowly made their way down the stairs.
With a dissatisfied grunt, Sir Lionel leaned on his cane in order to stand. He took a deep breath and, without looking at either of us, placed a one-hundred-pound note on the table as he shuffled to the door. Not a word was spoken by anyone.
Once the door closed, I walked to the table set for tea and sampled one of Mrs. Hudson’s chocolate biscuits.
Reginald Bentley had relatives who lived in the hamlet of Icomb in Gloucestershire. It was there in the tiny church of St. Mary the Virgin that he and Leigh Smith-Mortimer chose to marry a few short weeks after the events described. Although Holmes and I were invited to the ceremony, we decided not to attend. It was to be a small affair, and our presence would only serve to raise uncomfortable questions. Happily, there were no pressmen in attendance, and Miss Smith-Mortimer sent us an account in her own hand of all that had transpired.
True to her word, she did request her father’s presence. And I am pleased to report that, difficult as it was for him both physically and emotionally, Sir Lionel travelled to Gloucestershire to give his daughter away. Villagers must have wondered about the splendid carriage and liveried footman at so simple a ceremony, but their wonder never reached the spiteful arena of London gossip—at least not then.
Three years later, however, Sir Lionel died, and the facts regarding his mistreatment of his daughter became the fodder of scandal throughout the land. Just as the Baronet had predicted, with no son to inherit the estate, the grand manor house along with the rest of the riches was passed on by virtue of entailment to a distant Canadian cousin called Randolph Carlton Smith.
It had been my desire to maintain the privacy of the newly-married couple. To that end, I included the Smith-Mortimer affair in the collection of cases from 1894 that I chose not to make public. Yet however noble in intent, the gesture turned out to be laughably feeble.
Periodicals could not print enough about the story to satisfy the public. Newspapers constantly rehashed the details; magazines furnished long-winded biographies of the principals. So widespread were the accounts of the ugly business that one can understand why I had originally referred to the entailment case as “famous”. In retrospect, I believe that “infamous” would have been the more appropriate adjective.
When I look at the three massive manuscript volumes which contain our work for the year 1894 I confess that it is very difficult for me, out of such a wealth of material, to select the cases which are most interesting in themselves and at the same time most conducive to a display of those peculiar powers for which my friend was famous. . . . The famous Smith-Mortimer succession case comes also within this period . . .
— Dr. John H. Watson, “The Adventure of the Golden Pince-Nez”