The Case of the Petty Curses
By Steven Philip Jones
This story first appeared in the MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories Volume VII.
Steven Philip Jones has written fiction novels for adults and young adults, comic books, graphic novels, radio scripts, non-fiction, and advertising pieces. Steven has also taught courses in comic book writing and enjoys mentoring other writers as well as editing. A graduate of the University of Iowa, he majored in Journalism and Religion and was accepted into Iowa’s prestigious Writers’ Workshop MFA Program in 1990. Steven can be contacted through his website at www.stevenphilipjones.com
Robert St. Croix is a sculptor and entrepreneur, and began his career in Northern California. While attempting to publish a book and several plays, Robert was introduced to his new neighbor, who called himself a “metal sculptor”. His name was Bob Kitchen. Bob told Robert that if he wanted to earn some money, that Bob would teach him how to cut shapes of flowers and birds out of brass and bronze sheet, then braze the shapes together to make them look like wall sculptures. Bob Kitchen further explained that once they had enough wall sculptures they would take them to Embarkadero Plaza in San Francisco and sell them. And that’s exactly what the two young artists did. Six months later Bob Kitchen had moved to Hawaii. While Robert St. Croix kept designing and creating new wall sculptures and soon added water fountains made from copper and driftwood to his artistic inventory. Robert around this same time opened an art gallery in Bodega Bay with his earnings from selling his sculptures and fountains. Robert St. Croix’s sculptures are currently shown at his wife’s gallery, Gallery Biba on Worth Avenue, in Palm Beach. Robert owns and runs the Robert St. Croix Sculpture Studio & Foundry, in West Palm Beach, which is open to all artists and to the public.
Artwork size: 7.6” × 6.7”
Medium: Digital collage
Few of Sherlock Holmes’s cases have started so bizarrely, or ended so tragically, as the affair of the Angus-Burtons of Notting Hill, which began for me with a letter from my friend that arrived at my Paddington practice with the four-o’clock post on a blistering afternoon in August of 1889.
It read: “Watson, if you happen to be free this evening, could you come round to Baker Street at seven? A young woman has presented me with a problem ripe with those unusual and outré features so dear to us both. Also, since the fair sex is your department, your opinions of this new client might prove beneficial to my investigation. Holmes.”
My wife, Mary, was in Whitby for a few days as a favor to my predecessor, old Mr. Farquhar. It turned out to be an excellent opportunity for her to escape the extreme summer heat, but I had no choice but to remain behind to attend to my new medical practice. I was feeling quite forsaken, and therefore was delighted by Holmes’s request.
A storm was beginning to brew when I arrived at Baker Street. The wind had picked up, the air was thick and humid, and the sky was beginning to churn with purple clouds piled high over gray clouds. Holmes was standing at the curb waiting for me, careful to keep a tight hold of his hat, and gratefully climbed in my cab while giving the driver our destination, 17 Kensington Place. After settling in, he commented, “I see that your wife is away, Watson, and left you to fend for yourself.”
“And how exactly do you deduce that?”
“A few little things told me,” he chuckled, “but primarily your tie. It is not perfectly straight, as when Mrs. Watson brings it into regulation for you. Though circumstances have prevented us from seeing more than little of each other since your recent marriage, I am nevertheless confident that your tie has not looked quite this off-balanced since you resided at Baker Street.”
“I see. Well, I won’t bother asking about the other little things. You’re right, as usual.” I imagine it was the heat that put me in as petulant a mood to add, “Of course, your deductions always seem simple after you explain them.”
A nettled expression came over Holmes. “Yes, the obvious always seems simple when it is explained.”
Realizing I had been rude, I apologized and asked him to tell me about the facts of this new case.
Holmes unexpectedly looked less than sure of himself. “I shall, but first, Watson, may I ask you a theoretical question?”
“Of course.”
“What would you do if your wife insisted that you had placed a curse upon her?”
For several moments I was speechless, the question being so nonsensical. All I could muster was to mumble, “Pardon me?”
“What would you do if the person you vowed to love, honor, and cherish so long as you live convinced herself that you have cursed her?”
“I suppose I would seek professional help. An alienist. It’s ridiculous, though.”
“In the abstract I would agree, but this is not a theoretical problem for the young lady that I wrote to you about, Mrs. Halima Angus-Burton. She is seeking professional help, but, rather than an alienist, she has sought my aid.”
I was no nearer a resolution as to what to say than before, and could only think to resort to logic. “Holmes, if you’re serious, then a situation like this definitely requires skills outside your talents.”
“That may turn out to be so,” he conceded with professional humility, “but consider that her husband, Malcolm Angus-Burton, is the sole heir of a respected family, holds a high position with the Foreign Office, and is one of the Queen’s most trusted advisers in matters regarding China. Under the circumstances, wouldn’t you eliminate all alternative explanations before you irrevocably stained the character of the person you most loved?”
“Under those circumstances—yes—but how could anyone even entertain such a thing? It’s irrational!”
“I’m afraid the explanation I’ve been given will not sound any more rational.” Holmes looked at the gathering clouds as if to collect his thoughts. As incredible as the situation sounded, or perhaps because of it, I listened to my friend with more than normal interest when he continued. “To begin with, Mr. and Mrs. Angus-Burton share the distinction of being raised in foreign lands. He was born in China to British parents, but Mrs. Angus-Burton is a pureblooded Egyptian who was adopted by a British father who married her widowed mother.”
“‘Halima’. I thought the name sounded foreign, but I couldn’t recollect its origin.”
“It means ‘gentle’, and if I am any judge of character, Mrs. Angus-Burton is precisely that. She is also loyal, levelheaded, and I would be remiss not to mention that she is a bonnie thing.”
“Appreciating a woman’s beauty? That isn’t like you.”
“On the contrary, Watson. My living is made by observing, and all I’ve done is state an obvious assessment. Tell me if you disagree when you meet the lady.”
“Fair enough. I suspect this observation plays a part in whatever theories you may have buzzing in your head about this case.”
As I should have expected, Holmes was appalled at my suggestion. “You know my methods. I never hypothesize before I have all the facts.”
“Yes. I stand corrected.”
“Angus-Burton’s father was a representative of the British East India Trading Company in Canton, where his family lived until Angus-Burton entered university in 1878. Angus-Burton’s father retired to London at that same time, but both he and Angus-Burton’s mother have passed away within the last three years.” Holmes paused to consider his thoughts again. “Make careful note of this, Watson. The reason shall be made clear when we meet Mrs. Angus-Burton. Ten years before Angus-Burton was born, his parents took charge of a Chinese boy named Tseng. Apparently Tseng’s family was massacred by Muslim Chinese in Chinese Turkestan, and the boy wandered east where he managed to survive in the port cities of Kowloon, Hong Kong, and Macao until his plight came to the Angus-Burtons’ attention. They raised Tseng, who has been the head of the family’s household staff since he turned twenty-one.”
“So noted, Holmes. Now what about Mrs. Angus-Burton?”
“Her adopted father worked in banking, and was part of the Goschen-Joubert Mission that established the Caisse de la Dette Publique in Egypt in 1875. This is when he met his wife, whose family reputedly once practiced black magic, beginning with their service to the Eleventh Dynasty of Egyptian Kings against the Theban priesthood.”
I shook my head. “That sounds like something concocted by Haggard for one of his wild adventures.”
“Nevertheless, the rumor is an element in this case, as is this: Our client met Angus-Burton while he was touring Cairo during the summer holiday prior to his final year at Cambridge, and when their plans to be wed were announced, only Mrs. Angus-Burton’s father approved.”
“On what grounds did the other three parents object?”
“Angus-Burton’s parents wanted to see their only child marry a lady of pure British stock, while Mrs. Angus-Burton’s mother was adamant that her daughter remain in Egypt, rather than move away to England. Eventually Angus-Burton’s parents accepted their daughter-in-law, but the relationship between Mrs. Angus-Burton and her mother remained strained. Then, last June, Mrs. Angus-Burton’s parents were killed in a railway accident near El Mahalla el Kubra. Any possibility of reconciliation between mother and daughter died with them, in this world at least. Mr. Angus-Burton insists this accident motivated his wife to curse him.”
Abruptly something about Holmes’s tale followed some train of logic. “I presume he believes her capable of such a feat because of her alleged hereditary strain of black magic?”
“Once more, I caution against the practice of presuming, Watson, but you are correct in this instance. I warned you that this would not sound rational.”
“Does it really matter, so long as Angus-Burton sincerely believes it is true?”
Holmes started to concur when the cab came to a halt. We had stopped on the Notting Hill end of Kensington Place. Holmes instructed to driver to wait, then asked me for the time. Looking at my watch, I informed him, “Seven-twenty-eight. What is this place?”
“The home of Mr. and Mrs. Angus-Burton.”
During our journey, the wind had grown stronger as the storm clouds grew thicker and the evening darker, but I could still make out that the Angus-Burton home was grand in scale and architecture, common attributes of the houses in this district. As we approached the front door, Holmes said, “Mrs. Angus-Burton informed me that her husband routinely leaves for his Pall Mall club at seven-fifteen each Monday evening. She assured me that he intended to keep to his routine tonight, giving us the opportunity to inspect the home without alarming him. I am particularly anxious to examine his study.”
“Why the study?”
“Because Angus-Burton believes his wife has incorporated the study into her curse. Attend to the knocker, would you, Watson?”
When the door opened, we were invited within and Holmes introduced me to his client. Mrs. Angus-Burton warmly greeted me. However, I had been struck speechless upon my first good look at the woman. Not before nor since have I beheld so handsome a creature. Her sunset complexion, regal cheekbones, and large russet eyes were at the very least enthralling. If Medusa’s loveliness in any way was comparable to Mrs. Angus-Burton’s beauty, I can understand why the insecure Athena cursed that vain mortal woman. At Holmes’s gentle prodding, I regained my composure. “I beg your pardon. My mind went elsewhere for a moment. I’m afraid I think too much at times.”
“Yes, I’m forever admonishing Watson about thinking too much.” Holmes then asked the mistress if she had given her staff the evening off.
“I did just as you instructed.”
“Excellent. May I look about the house while you and the Doctor become acquainted?”
Mrs. Angus-Burton had barely given her leave before Holmes dashed away, asking over his shoulder, “Has there been any word from your butler, Tseng?”
“No. The police have still found no trace of him.”
Recollecting Holmes’s comments about the man, I asked, “Your butler is missing?”
“Yes, Doctor.”
“For how long?”
“At least a month. Possibly two. As I told Mr. Holmes this afternoon, my husband and I departed for China in March and did not return until two weeks ago. It was our third trip there in as many years, but the Foreign Office insisted my husband investigate the possibility of Britain leasing the New Territories in the near future. While we were away, Tseng vanished.”
“When was he last seen?”
“In July, so far as we know. When my husband and I are away for any extended time, our staff, with the exception of Tseng, is sent to work at an estate near Withyham that belongs to a friend of my late father-in-law. Tseng remains here by himself, except for a few days at the beginning of each month when the staff returns to help him clean the house. The rest of the time he spends tending to upkeep and repairs. He is a superb handyman.” I asked if it would be simpler to shut up the house during their absences, but Mrs. Angus-Burton explained her husband preferred that Tseng remain to guard the home. “Our staff saw Tseng in July, but when they returned at the beginning of this month, he was gone. Nothing had been stolen. There was no sign of violence. It was almost as if Tseng left without giving notice, except that his clothes and everything he owned is still here.”
“Did he have any provocation to leave? Perhaps a disagreement prior to your leaving in March?”
“No. Tseng never disagrees with anyone, and my husband adores him like an uncle.”
A rude pounding erupted, interrupting our conversation, accompanied by Holmes calling out for Mrs. Angus-Burton to unlock the door to the study.
Excusing herself while I joined Holmes, the lady fetched a key ring from one of the servant’s quarters. “Malcolm keeps this room locked these days. He apparently forgets that Tseng has a spare key.” As she set to work finding the correct key, Holmes inquired, “You told me before that everything your butler owns is still in his room. I just looked at it. It’s quite barren. Nothing really in the way of personal belongings except his clothes and some Chinese books.”
“Yes, Tseng lived very simply.” Unlocking the study, her expression, restrained to this point, became anxious. “I pray you will find some sort of clue to explain why my husband doubts me.”
“Dr. Watson and I shall make every endeavor to do so. Now if you will excuse us.” With that, Holmes ushered me into the study and followed, shutting the door behind us. I began to reprimand Holmes for being impolite before being mesmerized for the second time since entering the grand house. “My word,” I said, at last. “This is like a private museum.”
“As you can see, Mr. Angus-Burton owns an outstanding collection of ancient Chinese furniture, curios, and art.”
“Now it makes sense why he wanted his butler to guard the house whenever he and his wife were away. You knew this was in here?”
“I did. According to Mrs. Angus-Burton, her father-in-law collected these treasures during his tenure in China, and they are her husband’s prize possessions.”
Without forethought, I found myself bemoaning the injustice of one man being blessed with such beautiful objects and an equally beautiful wife.
This delighted Holmes. “Ah! So you agree with my observation of the lady?”
There was no point denying it. “You know I do. As does she, I’m embarrassed to say.”
Thus appeased, Holmes took some pity on me. “Think nothing of it, Watson. You were the model of politesse. Now, as I mentioned, Angus-Burton believes his wife has incorporated his study into her curse. Before he left in March, Angus-Burton would work in this sanctorum for hours, but since returning, he finds that spending more than a few moments in here arouses an uneasiness whose persistence drives him out of the room.”
“If the curse were true, I suppose that would make a bizarre sense. The wife lost her mother, so in vengeance she bars her husband from the objects he cherishes most. But surely there must be a logical explanation. Perhaps Angus-Burton’s anxiety about Tseng manifests itself in a subconscious way through the uneasiness he feels when in this room.”
“You may be on to something, Watson,” Holmes permitted. “My search of the rest of the house found nothing untoward, so—” Without another word, Holmes set about poking, prodding, and crawling throughout the study. I had seen him perform this bloodhound style of investigation a number of times, and, as on those occasions, he rummaged mostly in quiet, permitting himself only an occasional grunt or hum. As time passed, Holmes grew frustrated and may have been about to forsake this tactic when his attention fixated on a small cabinet.
He craned his neck to stare at the study’s only window, which had its curtains drawn shut, then looked back at the cabinet. He rubbed the side of the cabinet, rubbed his fingers together, leaned his hawk-billed nose close to the cabinet, sniffed, then smiled. Then Holmes dropped flat on the floor to examine the carpet underneath the cabinet before standing to reexamine many of the surrounding pieces. He seemed to be seeing the collection from a totally fresh perspective, though I had no idea what that might be. Finally, Holmes paced the room to make what I assumed were a series of mental measurements in relation to the study’s treasures, the room’s dimensions, and the window. When he was finished he looked at nothing in particular and said more to himself than me, “Remarkable.”
“Remarkable?”
“Yes. Elegantly remarkable, and yet there is the suggestion of bitterness. Resentment, I think.”
“You’re not making sense.”
“Patience, Watson.” Opening the door, Holmes called Mrs. Angus-Burton into the study to ask if anything in the room had been disturbed since their return two weeks earlier. After looking about, she said, “No. Everything is in its normal place.”
“Can you recall when your husband last changed the location of anything in this room?”
“Never. As far as I know, this study is arranged as it was on the day Malcolm’s father moved into it.”
“I see. That window? Are those curtains ever drawn back to permit sunlight into the study?”
“Quite frequently.”
Holmes appeared more than satisfied and thanked the lady, adding, “If you would give the Doctor and I another minute alone, we will be on our way.”
Concern broke through Mrs. Angus-Burton’s resolve once more. “I don’t understand. You’ve found nothing?”
“Quite the contrary, but it is merely a thread. A thin, frail thread we will follow as best we can to see where it leads.”
“So there is an explanation?”
“I did not say that.”
“But there is hope?”
“There is always hope, madam. Never lose faith in hope.”
Once alone again, I asked, “What thread did you find, Holmes?”
My friend ushered me to the cabinet he had been examining. “Come look at this. Specifically this faded elm wood along the side. Does it look natural to you?”
It did at first, but then something struck my eye as being amiss.
“You see it, don’t you, Watson? Go ahead and touch it.”
I did. It wasn’t faded wood but paint. “Someone’s painted the wood to appear faded.”
“Faded from the sunlight shining through that window, as any wood in that location would be after years of exposure. I discovered similar camouflaging on that vase and this marble statue.”
“These three pieces are frauds?”
“Expert copies of the genuine pieces that were here before the Angus-Burtons left for the New Territories.” Holmes’s eyes kindled with the thrill of this discovery. “The other cabinets in this room are either lacquered or are covered with decorative paint, so we were fortunate that the elm wood on the sides of this one cabinet were left to patina.”
“Then there’s been a robbery! Why didn’t you tell Mrs. Angus-Burton?”
“Because this is not an answer. It is a clue. There is still much to discover. These forgeries and the disappearance of the butler make up the thread we must follow. If we can trace it back to its skein, then I believe we can confirm what happened to Tseng and the explanation for Angus-Burton’s uneasiness whenever in this study.”
“Surely you have some idea.”
The spark in Holmes’s eyes dampened, replaced by what appeared to be apprehension, but for who or what I had no idea. “What I have is an errand that I must attend to while you return to Paddington.”
“Why should I return home? Don’t you need my help?”
“As always when the hour of action arrives,” Holmes assured me. “However, unless I’m mistaken, we will have to make a dark descent into a perilous place this night, and so we best prepare ourselves. We’ll meet at Baker Street at ten o’clock, and be sure to bring along your revolver.”
Doing as Holmes instructed, I returned to our old rooms in Baker Street as the familiar clock above the mantel struck ten. Through a miasma of blue smoke, I spotted Holmes sitting on the floor wearing his dressing-gown, legs crossed, a pouch of tobacco and a telegram in his lap as he puffed on his briar pipe. Taking my familiar seat by the fireplace, I felt most at home. Perhaps too much so, as I said, “Something is weighing on your mind.”
“And how exactly do you deduce that?” he asked in a subdued voice.
“A few little things. For instance, you always smoke your black clay pipe unless your mood is blue, then you smoke your old briar pipe. You have also kept the windows closed despite the heat, most likely for the sense of confinement, which you insist aids your concentration.”
“Excellent, Watson.” His voice suddenly turned grim. “Of course, it all seems so simple after you explain it.”
My friend’s tone prodded me to acquiesce. “Touché, Holmes. Does that telegram have anything to do with where we are going tonight?”
“It does. It is from the Wapping headquarters of the Thames River Police, to inform us that safe passage has been arranged for you and I tonight to enter a certain shop in the Dockland.”
“Why go there? And why should we need any sort of safe passage?”
Holmes inhaled deeply upon his pipe. “I fear I am asking you to risk a great deal by accompanying me tonight. That is what weighs on my mind. We must go to this shop because it is only there that the confirmations I spoke of earlier can be established.” He pointed to the telegraph. “The necessity of the safe passage is because this shop is under the protection of the city’s most notorious Oriental society, the Triad, who guard it as vigilantly as the Crown Jewels are guarded in the Tower of London. Without this safe passage, it would take the assistance of a regiment for us to reach this shop, and if for any reason the Triad decides to rescind it during our visit, the chances of us escaping are perilously slim.”
I don’t know if I had ever heard Holmes sound so worried, but there was never any question that he could depend upon me and I told him so.
“Good old Watson. Our safe passage begins at midnight, so until then I’m afraid all we can do is smoke a quiet pipe and wait.” He said not another word until it was time for to depart.
From Baker Street we traveled to the East End and descended into that other London. Whitechapel. Aldgate. Spitalfields. Mile End. Ratcliffe Highway. Even at that hour, those mazes of alleys and wharves were brimming with the bawdy music from pubs, the luring aromas of food from around the world drifting from restaurants, the crude voices from various sailor boarding houses, and everywhere the children, those “street arabs” who were “pale and always ailing”. The temperature had precipitately cooled when Holmes stopped to fix his bearings and then look at the sky again. “By the look of that lightning, Watson, it appears this storm is finally going to break. Thank goodness we’ve about reached our destination.”
“Which is where? You haven’t even told me the name of the place.”
Instead of answering, Holmes pressed on. “Down this direction.”
“This way is even bleaker,” I said, convinced after a few steps we must be lost. “Where’s everyone gone? All I see are courtyards, backyard slaughter houses—”
“And our destination. That rather exotic shop.”
Through a brick archway that I failed to notice before, I dimly perceived the bland green painted façade of a waterfront shop. From this angle, the shop appeared to be tucked away by itself, with the exception of a large warehouse it abutted. Above the door was a sign, “‘The Way to Heaven’. Scarcely an apt name, I would wager.”
“Let’s pray it is not a prophetic one for us.” At that second, the skies opened. “Here’s the rain! Inside, Watson, before we’re drenched!”
Upon entering the shop, I realized that Holmes had been right to call it exotic. Walking through its rooms was, I imagine, like walking through the Great Yarmark, the famous summer fair at Nijni-Novogrod. Among the collectibles I saw were Javanese pottery, cow-tail coats, jeweled idols, and bizarre arms and armors. In the back rooms was a zoo stocked with animals from the four corners of the globe, including a black swan, a Sumatra civet cat, a black panther, even a pair of petulant crocodiles. We spotted no other human beings until we reached the rear of the shop, where an ancient-looking Chinese man waited for us beside a large ornate drapery.
“Mister Holmes. Doctor Watson. Welcome to The Way to Heaven. I am Hip Yee. This is my shop.”
”Good evening,” said Holmes. “I believe we’re expected.”
“Yes, sirs. Tseng is waiting. Through this passage, please. The way is dark, but not too dark. I will take you.” The proprietor drew back the drapery to reveal a red-brick groined tunnel. We followed Hip Yee in, and, as we descended, I asked Holmes, “Tseng is here? How did you find him?”
“We have the Thames River Police to thank for that. I deduced that Tseng is involved with the Triad, so it seemed likely that they would be hiding him somewhere in the Dockland, where the Triad is strongest in London. I presented what details I had to the River Police, who used that information and their expertise of the Dockland to locate Tseng and contact him. We are here because the Triad agreed to give us safe passage after Tseng consented to speak with us.”
“And here you are, gentlemen.” Hip Yee stopped before a great oxidized iron door, which he opened with far less effort than I would have supposed. “Inside, please, gentlemen. Please wait here for Tseng.” We passed through, the door closed behind us, and we found ourselves in a large chamber. What I saw was beyond belief.
“Holmes. This room. It’s—it’s—”
“Remarkable?”
“It’s Angus-Burton’s collection! Every piece of it! But this . . . this is incredible. No, it’s impossible! Tseng could never have stolen it all and replaced it by himself.”
“You are correct. He couldn’t. And he didn’t.”
Before Holmes could explicate, the great door opened and we were joined by a Chinese man of proud bearing wearing a long loose white garment. Like many middle-aged men of Asiatic heritage, it was difficult to decipher his exact age. The newcomer could just as easily been in his early forties as his early sixties. His hair was black, his green eyes were bright and perceptive, and I appraised that he had likely been quite handsome in his youth. Speaking with a voice tinged by an accent, the man said, “I am Tseng. Welcome to my home.”
Forgetting our circumstances, I retorted, “Your home? Everything in this room, sir, has been taken from the study of Malcolm Angus-Burton!”
“What you say is true, Doctor.”
“Then you admit you’re a thief!”
“I admit I have committed a crime, but I have no qualms about how other men shall judge me. I am content in my heart.” Having dismissed me, Tseng turned towards my companion. “I am curious, Mr. Holmes. How did you know to have the River Police search for me here? Pains were taken to leave no trail.”
With the respectful voice of a patient schoolteacher, Holmes told Tseng, “A man leaves trails throughout his life that can be followed by someone who knows how. In your case, when you were an orphan you lived for a time in Macao.”
“I fail to see anything revealing in that.”
“No, but I am a student of crime. Not only in England but across the world. So I know that for the past several years a Triad branch has operated in Macao, and that they often attempt to recruit orphans into their society.”
Tseng pondered this, perhaps recollecting moments from his past, then nodded. “Lost souls can make dedicated if mindless soldiers. However, I never joined the Triad as a child. Instead, I fled to Canton.”
“I must confess I was uncertain if you joined them then, although it seemed logical that you did not. If you had, there would have been no need for you to be taken in by the Angus-Burtons.”
“Living with them was indeed a better option than joining the Triad. The Angus-Burtons cared for me well and saw to my education. No one could have been more grateful to his benefactors than I.”
“Mrs. Angus-Burton sings your praises as a handyman. I see from the calluses on your palms and fingers that you are more than that. You are a sculptor as well as a carpenter.”
“And he would have to be to make all the forgeries in Angus-Burton’s study,” I said.
“But he didn’t make them all,” Holmes told me, then returned to Tseng. “That is how I knew you had joined the Triad. The number of forgeries involved with this grand substitution was too great for one person to create, even if he had a lifetime to complete them, much less three years.”
This piqued Tseng. “Why do you say three years?”
“That is how long both of Malcolm Angus-Burton’s parents have been dead. That is when your former master inherited the family’s estate and all its possessions, including these treasures taken from your homeland.”
“So you think that was my motive for wanting to possess this collection? Because these treasures were taken from China?” Tseng appeared to be almost disappointed with Holmes.
“No. You lived in the Angus-Burton household ten years longer than their only son, but you received nothing in their will. Your motive was that you were not remembered.”
This stunned Tseng, who remained silent for several moments. When he found his voice, he stammered, “How could you know that?”
“Mrs. Angus-Burton told me you left all your belongings behind when you disappeared, which is a most telling act in and of itself. To stay on point, however, when I searched the Angus-Burton home earlier this evening, I found nothing in your room that could be construed as an heirloom.”
“It is a plain and mostly empty room. Tell me, why was leaving my belongings behind so telling?”
“To borrow a gambling phrase, you overplayed your hand. If you had taken your belongings and left a letter of resignation, then your disappearance would have been dismissed as unexpected but not unusual. Logically, that would have been the preferable effect if your substitution of the collection were successful. This would mean, though, that your former master would not suffer as you suffered when his parents forgot about you. Mrs. Angus-Burton told us her husband loves you like an uncle, so if you vanished inexplicably, then Angus-Burton would always wonder and worry what happened to you.”
What Holmes was describing struck me as reprehensible. “If that’s true, it’s more malicious then the robbery!”
Instead of refuting, Tseng queried Holmes, “What evidence do you have to suggest that I could be so vindictive?”
“Evidence? How about the pieces in Angus-Burton’s study that are not forgeries?”
This made even less sense to me. “Tseng didn’t steal the entire collection?”
“Oh, I did, Dr. Watson. You have my word that every piece of the collection accumulated by Angus-Burton père is here.”
Holmes explained, “Whenever possible I put myself in the shoes of the criminal, as it were, to try to think as he thinks. When I recognized that the small cabinet was a forgery I searched the collection for more. To my surprise most—but not all—of the treasures had been substituted. This puzzled me. Why only steal the vast majority of the treasure instead of all of it? Then I noticed that the authentic pieces were among the most intricate and detailed of the collection. That was when it became obvious that all of the collection had indeed been stolen. These authentic pieces would have been virtually impossible to accurately duplicate, so they were replaced with genuine identicals.”
“I’m trying,” I said, “but I can’t see any reason for doing that. The trouble and expense of replacing a few items with genuine twins could not have been worth the effort.”
“My friend is correct, Tseng. Such an action suggested bitterness and resentment. You could not permit Angus-Burton to keep one single item from his father’s collection if it was in any way possible to leave him with none of it.”
Tseng paced a bit, his faced turned from us all the while. “I repeat, I have no qualms about how other men shall judge my actions. Still, you have not told me how you knew I had joined the Triad.”
“To accomplish this robbery, you needed the aid of artisans familiar with Chinese furniture and art. These would have to be men that you could trust not to talk about your plan. You also needed access to a good deal of capital, not just for these artisans, but to pay for materials. What other resource was available to you that had access to all of this than the Triad? Especially when in return you could offer them access to everything you had learned from your years of service to one of the Queen’s own advisors.”
“Ah. I see.” Tseng halted and let everything he had just heard go round his head again before speaking further. “It is a rather obvious trail once it is explained, but one that requires extraordinary perception and skill to follow.” He smiled at Holmes. “I congratulate you on your abilities.”
“You are aware of the unexpected affect your robbery has had on your former master?”
“Which is?” Tseng asked half-heartedly.
“He senses that things are not as they appear to be in his study, but he cannot see what is out of place. This, coupled with your mysterious disappearance and, I suspect, the fatigue of three journeys to China in three years, have deluded him to believe his wife has cursed him.”
Tseng started to raise his arms in alarm before catching himself. “He thinks the mistress could—that is absurd!”
I assured Tseng it was true, and his anger blazed. In a quiet voice, he cursed, “That fool.” Then his calm demeanor returned. “Well, it does not matter. Your deductions are correct, Mr. Holmes. Go and tell him everything. When you do, he will see that there is no curse. The mistress is most innocent.”
I suggested, “Perhaps it would be better if you returned what belonged to him?”
“No, Doctor. I couldn’t do that even if I wanted. The Triad owns this collection and they own me. That is the price I paid for their help. Their wish is that I return these treasures to China and I must obey. As must Malcolm Angus-Burton. He has more in his life than this collection. He has influence. He has wealth. And he is married to the most beautiful and gracious woman in England. I ask you, how much fortune does one man deserve in a lifetime?”
Holmes interjected, “Such decisions are for providence, not men, to decide.”
“I have decided. I only agreed to your request because my masters in the Triad believe it was the simplest way to bring this matter to a conclusion. Now it is time for you to go.”
“Wait!” I said. “What did you mean that Angus-Burton must obey the Triad?”
A solemn but determined glint hardened Tseng’s eyes. “The Triad defends what is theirs, Doctor. If Malcolm Angus-Burton does not wish to lose the abundance of all he still possesses, then he must be satisfied with matters as they stand and move on with his life, as I now must move on with mine.”
The following day, with Mrs. Angus-Burton’s permission, Holmes presented Tseng’s warning to her husband. That should have been the end of the matter, but Angus-Burton was outraged to learn of the betrayal.
The next night, Scotland Yard stormed The Way to Heaven and—after a fierce struggle—recovered the stolen collection. They also found Tseng, murdered in the gruesome ritualistic way of the Triad to prevent the organization from losing possession of him to the police. As for the Angus-Burtons, a few nights later their Notting Hill home was broken into, and upon the morning they were discovered by their servants in the same condition as their former servant.
The tragedy shook the grand old city, inspiring magistrates to begin the clean-up of the slums that grew in earnest during the Nineties. I like to think that because of this, the Angus-Burtons did not die in vain, something that I mentioned to Holmes while we looked back upon this sad case a short time later.
“It’s a fine thought, Watson, but for myself I am convinced that there was indeed a curse at work in this case. Two of them, actually. The petty curses of hubris and desire. Angus-Burton’s hubris not to accept what was lost and be thankful for what he still possessed, and Tseng’s desire to take what he could when he couldn’t have what he coveted, all to hurt a man who had never done anything but love him. It cost them both dearly, but not as dearly as it cost a dear young woman whose only sin was to be caught between the folly of two men’s pointless inhumanity to one another.”