The Matter of Boz’s Last Letter

Part I: The Client

“Make a long arm, if you would, Watson, and hand me my index for the letter ‘R’.”

I had been standing behind my chair, near the fireplace, when Holmes made his request, and it required no great effort to retrieve the volume in question. It was a large black thing, roughly matching its brothers lining the wall shelves to the left of the mantel, and it required careful handling, as numerous loose scraps of paper protruded from various pages, some newspaper clippings, and some of more obscure origin. Here and there across the slips were various notations in Holmes’s careful fist. One caught my eye as I passed Holmes the book: The most vilified man in Marylebone. I had my own ideas as to whom that might refer, and I resolved to look it up at some later date, when the scrapbook had been returned to its resting place.

I turned toward the door, when Holmes stopped me. “Are you going out?”

“I had not planned to do so.”

“That is fortunate, then. I have had a note from a prospective client, and I would value your opinion. He is due to arrive at the hour.”

I glanced at the mantel clock and noted that it was nearly a quarter of nine. I informed Holmes that I would return momentarily, and continued on toward my room, one flight above.

I returned to the sitting room moments later, having retrieved the book which I sought, as Holmes laid aside his “collection of R’s,” as he often referred to that particular volume. He maintained that it was a fine one, but not so fine as his “M’s.” I saw that he had tossed a note into my chair. Lifting it, I sat and read the contents:

Mr. Holmes,

I propose to call upon you this morning at nine o’clock to discuss a matter of great importance to both myself and my business. It concerns the auction planned for the ninth of this month, less than a week away. As the affair is of extreme importance, I trust that you will make yourself available, and devote your full attention to this affair, in spite of any other matters which are currently engaging you.

Regards,

Leonard Rathham

“Rathham?” I said. “Of New Bond Street?”

“The same,” replied Holmes, gesturing toward the index. “You are welcome to see for yourself, but my information on the man is limited. He is in his early fifties, has never married, is the sole proprietor of Sefton’s, which he purchased from the Sefton family some fifteen years ago after working his way up from the bottom. It is a story that would be inspiring if not for the tedious and workmanlike way in which he accomplished it. The man is capable, wealthy, and most uninterestingly honest.”

I laughed. “He also seems to feel that he can assume your complete willingness to set aside whatever you are working upon at the present time in favor of his own case.” I paused, and then asked, “What do you have on hand at the present time?”

“Some ten or twelve other little matters, none of which present any points of interest. Let us hope that Mr. Rathham can remedy that.”

We spent the next few minutes in desultory conversation, speculating on the origin of our prospective client’s unusual surname. I was not aware of ever having encountered it before. Holmes felt that in spite of this, it seemed somehow fundamentally British. Soon, we were interrupted by the sound of footsteps on the stairs, followed by a pause on the landing as the man, presumably Rathham, paused for a moment to catch his breath.

“He is in poor condition indeed,” said Holmes softly, “if seventeen steps can conspire to defeat him so easily. Perhaps, when he has settled, a drop of medicinal brandy?”

I nodded as there was a knock on the door.

Holmes called and invited him in, and a more English looking fellow we had yet to encounter. He was short, not much over five feet in height, and not heavy at all. In fact, if not for the grayish pallor of his skin, I would have expected him to show a great deal of boundless energy, and not the breathless weakness that presented itself. His clothing was well-made and expensive, but not ostentatiously so.

Shepherding him to the basket chair in front of the fireplace, between Holmes’s chair and my own, I offered him some medical spirits.

“No, thank you, Doctor,” he replied. “I am a lifelong teetotaler. I have no doubts that, were I to sample something right now, I would be asleep before I could convey to you the seriousness of my problem.”

I acknowledged his refusal and made my way to my own chair. Holmes began by asking him to state his business.

Taking a deep breath, Rathham began “No doubt you gentlemen are aware of the auction to be held on the ninth, featuring a great number of fine pieces, a mixture of artworks and various examples of fine furniture with historical interest.”

Holmes glanced my way. I shook my head, and he turned back to Rathham. “I am afraid that, while I try to stay aware of notable upcoming auctions, especially those related to works of art, I have not acquired any previous knowledge of this particular event.”

“I suppose that is no surprise, after all,” said Rathham. “It is not one of our more important auctions. At least, it did not start out that way. The offerings are certainly of fine quality, but the seller is not, shall we say, first tier. The furnishings and artwork have been in storage for ten years, prevented by a legal dispute from being sold. Only recently was it determined that the owner has true legal title to them, allowing him to offer them for sale. In all honesty, the auction would have merited no special interest, since it is only to provide needed funds for the current owner of the properties. Rather, what has elevated this auction to a position of rather more interest than it would have ordinarily generated is the item that was discovered by my staff, hidden in one of the pieces of furniture to be sold.”

“And that would be ...?”

“Many of the furnishings, as I previously stated, are of historical interest. For example, there is a chair, collected by the owner more than ten years ago, and before his legal troubles began, that belonged to King George III, the Queen’s grandfather. It is rather worn, but its provenance is unquestioned. And the bureau that came down from-”

“Are any of these furnishings that you have mentioned relevant to your problem?” asked Holmes, trying with great courtesy to keep Rathham on the track.

“No, they are not,” replied the auctioneer. “I apologize. To stay on the point, I will tell you that one of the items is a desk that belonged to the late author, Charles Dickens, at the time of his death.”

“In 1870, as I recall.”

“Quite right, Mr. Holmes. The ninth of June, as a matter of fact. It was because of the interest in that particular desk that we chose to schedule the auction on the same day as that of the anniversary.”

“But,” I interrupted, “surely Dickens’s desk, while interesting in and of itself, is not any more interesting or worthy of note than some of the other furniture, such as that which once belonged to a king.”

“Dr. Watson, it was the item that was found within that desk that generated a greater interest in the sale. While the desk is now more of a curiosity than it was before the discovery, it is the item itself which is now the featured property in the auction.”

“And that would be ...?” asked Holmes, with a small amount of vexation that only his closest friends might perceive.

“Dickens’s lost ending to his final unfinished novel, The Mystery of Edwin Drood.”

Holmes and I were silent for a second or two, each pondering the implications of such a statement. I personally had more of an appreciation of one of the country’s greatest writers, much more than Holmes. However, we both recognized the value of such a document.

“Such a thing might be worth a fortune,” I said. “How is it that the discovery was not immediately announced in the press?”

“Perhaps I overstated the exact nature of the discovery,” said Rathham. “The document is not the definitive lost ending. As far as we know, Dickens died without completing the book, and the version that is published ends where he stopped. What was discovered in the desk, pushed back behind one of the drawers, was not the legitimate answer to the mystery presented in the novel. It was not even an outline indicating what his planned ending would have been. Dickens was still working on the book up to nearly the hour that he died, and whatever solution he planned for the mystery that he had devised is still a secret that he took with him. Rather, this discovery is a letter that he wrote on the day of his death, outlining a ‘false’ solution, for the purposes of amusing, or perhaps appeasing, his correspondent.”

“So,” said Holmes, “the document would have some interest to a Dickens scholar, but that is the limit of its importance.”

“If that were all it was, then you would be correct, Mr. Holmes. However, the nature of Dickens’s false solution is quite ... well, one would have to say that it is incendiary at best.” Rathham fell silent then, pondering his own thoughts.

“Would you care to elaborate?” Holmes finally said, interrupting Rathham’s reverie.

“Um? Oh, certainly, certainly. At the time of Dickens’s death, he had been estranged from one of his greatest friends, fellow author Wilkie Collins, for a number of years. It seems that by June 1870, both men were making attempts to restore their friendship. In the letter, Dickens refers to other missives that had passed between the two in recent weeks, and it is clear that Collins was informed of the nature of Dickens’s latest novel. Dickens, with almost a whimsical tone, replies that the murderer - and this is what gives the document such an explosive power - was the Queen herself, carrying out first-hand crimes with the assistance of her ministers, family, and other associates, all of whom are identified by name. Various outrageous motivations are also given as well.

“After the document was found in the desk, it was brought to me for examination. Frankly, my astonishment at the discovery was balanced with my feelings of revulsion that one of our greatest writers could have made such offensive statements, even in jest. It goes beyond satire. Dickens mentions one or two events from the later completed parts of Drood, and then he spins a web from that point consisting of all sorts of depravity, laying the whole matter at the foot of the Crown.

“I called on several men of letters who have assisted me in the past, and they felt that the work was certainly written by Dickens. One of these men tried to dilute the importance or influence of the document, indicating that Dickens was simply being whimsical in order to amuse Collins, as well as to play up to Collins’s strong feelings regarding social injustice, which had been increasing over the years.”

“Dickens had a concern regarding society’s ills, as well,” I said. “It is revealed all through his books. But I’m not aware of him ever putting anything such as you have described to paper before.”

“So said my experts,” replied Rathham. “They felt that it was an ill-conceived impulse on his part, and either the letter would have been sent to Collins and kept between the two of them, at least until Collins’s death, when it would have been discovered, or possibly Dickens would have chosen to destroy it before it was sent. However, neither outcome occurred, as Dickens’s death took place that same day, and the letter was somehow lost in the desk until its discovery a few weeks ago.”

“And yet, despite your obvious revulsion at the document, it was decided to proceed with the plan to auction it?” said Holmes.

“It was. After all, Mr. Holmes, I have an auction house. If I did not do it, someone else would. In my own way, I have directed matters so that only scholars who will be discreet with the document are even aware of it, or will be bidding on it. The current owner of the desk simply wants to accumulate funds, and does not care to whom the letter is offered, as long as he makes a profit. There have been certain scholars as well who have encouraged suppression of the document, or at least a temporary loan to various seats of learning for further study, but the owner insisted on an immediate sale, and the impending date of Dickens’s death, as well as the anniversary of when the letter was written, was chosen as the day of the auction.

“And there the matter stood, with the letter being revealed to a limited number of buyers, all learned men or collectors of Dickens ephemera, every one. The seller had at least agreed to that much, that is, to keeping the matter out of the press. Then, this morning, events conspired to send me here, to plead for your help, Mr. Holmes.”

“Then the logical conclusion,” said my friend, “is that the letter has disappeared.”

“Stolen!” cried Rathham. “I’m certain of it. It was kept in my own safe, to which only I have the combination. When I opened it this morning, the letter was gone.”

“Are you certain? Might it not have simply become mixed with some of the other papers in the safe? Such things have happened once or twice before, in my experience.”

“I assure you that I would not be here now in such a state if that were so,” replied the little auction master. “There are very few papers in that safe, and the letter, a fairly thick packet of nineteen heavy-bond and folded sheets, was not there.”

Holmes was silent for a moment, and then surged to his feet, peeling off his dressing gown as he made for the doorway to his room. “Then we must examine the scene for ourselves, Mr. Rathham. I assume that the safe to which you refer is located at the auction house?”

“It is. My carriage is outside.”

“Excellent.” Holmes left the room for a moment, and returned fully clothed, having exchanged dressing gown for acceptable outer wear. “Have you informed the owner of the desk that his property is missing?”

“Not yet,” said our client. “After my initial shock, I wrote to you, and soon after made my way here. I am hoping that the matter can be resolved before I need take such action. I can assure you that the owner, who had hoped to realize some profit on the original items in the sale, has speedily become accustomed to the idea that he will receive a much greater amount of money with the inclusion of the discovered letter.”

“And who is this man?” said Holmes, swinging into the Inverness that he insisted on wearing year-round, in city or country.

Rathham sniffed. “Not my usual clientele, I can assure you,” he said. “Truth be told, if some of the items that he wishes to sell had not been of such fine quality, I would not have involved myself with him. I understand that he collected them all a number of years ago, before his imprisonment. Between ourselves, gentleman, I have heard more than one whisper that he is not really a Baron at all.”

Holmes paused, reaching for his fore-and-aft cap, hanging on the peg behind the door. “And you say that this Baron’s possessions were legally tied up for ten years?” he said. “May I inquire as to the Baron’s name?”

“Maupertuis,” replied Rathham. “You may have read of him. He was released from prison a month or so ago, after serving ten years at Princetown. Some financial scandal, as I recall.”

Part II: The Auction House

We settled into Rathham’s elaborately decorated four-wheeler, and set off south for New Bond Street. Rathham kept up a running chatter about his work, veering toward the current matter, but following conversational tangents without providing any further insight to the present affair. He told tales and gave sly hints regarding other scandals related to auctions over the years, both relating to his clients and those of his competitors. I politely nodded as necessary, but I kept my eye on Sherlock Holmes, who sat quietly and peered unseeing out the carriage window at the passing street. I knew that he was thinking of the name that he had just heard, and the events of the spring of 1887, just over ten years earlier, during his first meeting with Baron Maupertuis, and the resulting crisis that had overtaken him then.

I had reason for concern, as the events of the past few months had mirrored in some crucial ways those that had taken place in 1887. In that current spring of 1897, ten years after Holmes had defeated the Baron and resolved the dreadful scandal associated with the Netherland-Sumatra Company, I had been more aware than perhaps ever before of Holmes’s high-strung nature, as he raced pell-mell towards a collapse of the sort that I had already seen once or twice in the years of our friendship. During the early years of our association, when I first met him and shared rooms in Baker Street, I had gradually become aware of Holmes’s habit of dosing himself with weakened solutions of cocaine or morphine whenever he was bored, between cases, and, as he liked to put it, when he was “like a racing engine, tearing itself to pieces because it is not connected up with the work for which it was built.”

Gradually, his chosen methods of making use of the substances, particularly cocaine, changed so that he was using it in order to provide himself with extra bursts of stamina and clarity of thought during particularly difficult cases. This was rare and infrequent, to the best of my knowledge, until early 1887, when he was taxed for several months during his successful investigation into the Netherland-Sumatra business, and the Baron’s machinations. At the conclusion of that affair, Holmes’s health was shattered, and I was called to Lyons to bring him back to England and help return him to his former strength.

But the devil that was Holmes’s addiction was only sleeping, and not dead. After the death of my first wife, Constance in late 1887***, I moved back to Baker Street, and my presence, I believe, helped keep Holmes’s attentions focused on his affairs and not on the siren call of the syringe. However, 1888 turned out to be a year necessitating massive efforts from my friend. That fall, while involved in one of Holmes’s investigations, I met the woman who would be my second wife, Mary Morstan.

Following our courtship, I remarried in mid-1889, and my absence from Baker Street allowed the reliance on the evil drug to return, as Holmes required more and more stamina during his ever-increasing battles with Professor Moriarty. Fortunately, I realized in time what was happening, and intervened by seeking help from an expert physician in Vienna during the fall of 1890. Holmes and I traveled there, and when we departed, I believed that he had found a path, albeit a shaky one, toward what he needed to do.

The following spring, Holmes was believed to have died at the hands of Professor Moriarty at the Reichenbach Falls. After his miraculous return to Baker Street three years later, in 1894, he seemed to have no need for the drug, having learned several calming techniques during his travels in the East. My second wife, Mary, had died during the years that Holmes was missing and presumed dead, and following his return to London, I again began to share rooms with him. I must confess that it was several years after that before I began to see, once again, evidence of the dark intrusive tentacles of the opiate that Holmes seemed to need, at first just a little here or there, winding their way into his very existence.

As the carriage crossed Oxford Street, I watched my friend, even as he looked at the passing street views, and tried to see if the return of the Baron was causing any unhealthy reaction, as I did not want a relapse of his recent condition. For he had only recently fought his addiction, yet again, and at that time I was uncertain as to the complete reliability of his recovery.

By late 1896, it had become dreadfully obvious that, if somehow he were not stopped, Holmes would be unable to shake the grip of the drug, progressing to a steady and steep decline that would almost certainly lead to his death. Eventually, in a long and painful process that need not be recounted here, Holmes was finally persuaded to abandon London for a time and travel with me to the furthest stretches of Cornwall, where he and I obtained a house at the sea, and he set about bravely purging the drug from his system. It was not an easy thing for him, or for me, but as his friend and physician, I knew that we had to see it through or his life was forfeit.

After our return to London, a month or so before the events of the present narrative, he had some difficult moments, and he often fell into deep brown studies. But he had finally found the strength and understanding to rouse himself from them without the need to seek the drug. As I write this, now some thirty years on from the events of that June, I can affirm that he has never made use of the drug - or any other substance of a similar nature - again.

But I did not know on that day whether or not Holmes had truly defeated the demon. I had seen him slide back too many times before. So I kept a sharp watch, knowing well that a shock, such as learning of the involvement of his old enemy, Baron Maupertuis, might be the very thing that would bring about some new disastrous craving for the drug.

Rathham’s carriage had turned into Brook Street, and so on until we reached New Bond Street. Not long after we turned the corner, we stopped in front of that austere building which had become noted in recent years for the nature of its auctions and for its discreet conduct. Rathham’s man in livery at the door ushered us inside. We passed through an ornate lobby, and on through to the auction rooms themselves. Tapestries hung from the walls, and heavy chairs with golden trim lined the room from side to side, facing the short dais at the front. The great space was fairly well lit, and I knew that a closer examination of the room’s various accoutrements that adorned the surroundings would show that they were indeed as fine as they looked. There would be nothing of a theater about this place, where the magic and illusion of the darkened room are revealed to be shabby and threadbare once the lights are turned up.

But after passing through the finely decorated public space, where nothing was too good for Rathham’s patrons, it was something of a shock, although not altogether unexpected, when we went through a tasteful and heavy white door, and thus into the inner chambers of the great auction house. For here there was no decoration, and no need to impress anyone. The place resembled nothing so much as a warehouse, or perhaps more appropriately fitted to my earlier metaphor, the well managed backstage area of a theater.

Deep shelves were stacked far above our heads with all sorts of items, including works of art and furniture. Smaller cabinets, many appearing to be locked, held finer objects, each cluttered together so that it was impossible to tell at a glance exactly what one was seeing. However, I was certain that Rathham had everything organized, and could walk immediately to this or that location and lay his hands on any specific item that he wanted without a moment’s delay

Our host led us past numerous bustling workmen and supervisors, all of whom continued to carry out their tasks, but gave us surreptitious glances along the way. We reached a plain door at the rear of the building and passed into Rathham’s office.

It was a working space, with no signs of luxury. I felt that Rathham would reserve meeting the public, or clients or buyers, in more luxurious spaces near the front of the building. This was the man’s inner sanctum, as evidenced by stacks of documents and materials waiting for his attention. In some ways the room looked like what happened when Holmes was allowed to pile objects and papers related to his investigations around our sitting room in Baker Street, following some obscure filing system that he kept to himself. It was only by the stern intervention of Mrs. Hudson or myself that we were not eventually overrun by Holmes’s archives.

Holmes immediately made his way across the room to the rather modest safe, standing alone beside a chair stacked with catalogs.

“A Victor safe,” said Holmes, softly. “Combination lock only, no key.” Slightly louder, he said, “Would you mind opening it, Mr. Rathham?”

“Certainly, certainly,” said the small man, stepping forward. The safe was quickly opened, and Rathham showed no hesitation at revealing the contents. It was as he had said earlier: the Dickens letter was not there.

“When was the last time that you saw it?” questioned Holmes.

“About five o’clock last night. I always keep the safe closed and locked unless I am specifically taking or replacing some of the contents. I never walk away, even for an instant, with the door open. As you can see from the remaining contents, these items are highly confidential. Yesterday afternoon, I opened the safe to replace an estimate that was being consulted by one of my trusted employees. I laid the estimate on top of the Dickens letter. I specifically recall doing so because the letter itself is an unusual color, brought about by the discoloration that has occurred within the paper, and also because the estimate was slightly smaller than the folded letter, and I was able to center it exactly on top of the larger document.”

“Who else has the combination?”

“No one.”

“You are sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“Do you have it written down somewhere that could have been discovered, in case you forget it?”

“No, Mr. Holmes. It is a number that has personal significance to me from a time in my youth. No one could guess it, and I would have no need to write it down, as it is something that I will not forget, at least as long as I retain my faculties.”

Holmes was silent for a moment, before saying, “How many employees do you have?”

“Nearly thirty,” replied Rathham. “Of course, many are laborers, or delivery people. About ten who work with the clients, and have knowledge of the business side of things.”

“And how many of them knew about the letter?”

“Internally, just two. Angus Menzies, my chief assistant, and my secretary, Mr. Addison.”

“I will need to speak with them, and possibly other members of your staff as well,” said Holmes, looking around. “Will it be possible to make use of your office?”

“Certainly, certainly. I will just-”

Rathham was interrupted before he could finish by a knock at his office door, followed by the entrance of an average-looking man in a brown suit. “Mr. Holmes?” he said, looking toward my friend.

Holmes nodded, and the fellow stepped forward, holding an envelope in front of him. “No reply is expected,” he said, stepping back, turning smartly, and departing the way that he came.

Holmes opened the envelope and removed the simple folded note. Opening it, he quickly read the short handwritten message, and then seemed to read it again, more slowly this time.

Shoving it into the pocket of his Inverness, he barked a short, “Ha!” and turned to our client. “It will not be necessary to interview your staff at the present time,” he said. “New information has come to light that will require our presence elsewhere.”

“But...” said Rathham, with confusion, “but how could there be any new information if you have only learned of the letter’s theft just a short time ago in your rooms, from my very lips?”

“Nevertheless,” said Holmes, nodding toward the door. “We must seek answers elsewhere. We shall be in touch, never fear!”

With that, we left the small man and made our way outside. My last view of Rathham was a study between puzzlement and anger, with the latter winning.

Outside, a smart-looking private hansom was waiting, its driver looking toward us expectantly. Without hesitation, Holmes entered, and I followed. As I sat back, he handed me the note.

Sherlock,

Your time will be better spent joining me for lunch to discuss the matter of the Dickens letter. Questions will be answered. A carriage awaits.

Mycroft

Part III: The Diogenes Club

The vehicle gained momentum, rolling through the crowded throngs of New Bond Street. I said, “Your brother? What could he know about this? And why should he care?”

“Possibly there is some government interest in this document that smears the Royal Family, written by such a noted author. That is the only theory that I can advance at the present time without more data. Data, it would seem, that we shall have in a very short period of time.”

Indeed, the skillful maneuvering of the driver brought us along to Piccadilly quick enough, where a sharp right and then a left had us rolling down St. James and thence into Pall Mall. Halfway down that illustrious avenue, we drew to a stop between the Diogenes Club on one side of the street, and Mycroft Holmes’s lodgings on the other. Holmes cast an interrogatory glance toward the driver, who nodded his head toward the Club. We went up the short flight of steps and inside.

In spite of what I knew to expect every time I entered that curious place, the vast silence still seemed overwhelming. The rustle of cloth as we removed our coats and handed them off seemed deafening and almost embarrassing, feeling as if it were something for which I should apologize, akin to bursting into laughter at a funeral. Holmes did not appear to suffer such concerns - he never did - as he turned and briskly moved deeper into the place, making for the Stranger’s Room, the only place in the building where conversation was allowed or tolerated.

We found Mycroft, standing in front of one of the tall windows, resembling a great lion on its hind legs as he looked down at the street. It was the same stance that he had been making when I had first met him, back in the fall of ’88, just hours before we were so deeply involved in the affair of Mr. Melas’s problem.

“You were followed,” said Mycroft. It was a statement, not a question.

“I was aware of it,” replied his brother, joining him at the window. “The man across the street, two doors down.”

I looked to see him. He was leaning in a doorway, looking up and down the street in every direction but towards us.

“He is an Australian by birth,” said Holmes, “wounded in the left leg at some point in the past. In his early-to-mid-forties. He has recently had his unusually pale hair cut, and is wearing a false moustache.”

I peered at the man, feeling safe to do so since he was conspicuously not looking our way. “I believe I can see the evidence of the hair cut, since the skin at his hairline and above his ears is noticeably paler than that of his face and hands. And he stands awkwardly on one leg, which reveals his injury.”

“Very good, Watson. And his Australian background?”

After a moment’s silence, with no answer from myself forthcoming, Holmes said softly, “His tie bar, Watson, although you might be excused for not being able to see it clearly now. As I circled behind the hansom after we arrived, I was able to glance at it. Although he is a street’s width away, it is still visible, illuminated as it is by the sun. Although you may not have recognized it, it is definitely a stylized symbol of a kangaroo.”

“Indeed,” said Mycroft, “you are correct, Sherlock. But you would do well not to forget the tattoo of a kangaroo in the bend of his right forearm as well.”

Holmes straightened slightly and smiled with a look of enlightenment, but I was confused. “Ah,” said Holmes.

“This is surely too much,” I said. “How can you know of any tattoo, hidden beneath his shirt cuff and coat sleeve?”

“Simply because,” replied Mycroft Holmes, “he is one of my agents.”

“Was, perhaps you mean?” asked his brother. “If he was following me on your orders, perhaps for my protection, or possibly to see where I have been and will be going, you would not have felt the need to point him out to us. That fact, coupled with that ridiculous false moustache, makes me think that for some reason, this agent is no longer under your control.”

Mycroft sighed and turned away from the window, moving toward a table at the rear of the room, set for luncheon. “You are right, Sherlock. I fear that this man, one of my most trusted, for a while at least, has gone rogue.”

“But why the obviously false moustache?” said Holmes. “Surely your agents are not so careless as to display such patent amateurism.”

“I believe that he is sending me a message, although its meaning escapes me. Perhaps a taunt that, even with such poor protective coloring, he still believes that he is now beyond my reach.”

Holmes nodded toward the window. “Why don’t you simply send word to block up the street and catch him, then? I have half a mind to go do it myself, and I don’t even know the full story yet.”

“It is not that easy,” replied Mycroft, dropping heavily into a chair. “Join me, please,” he gestured to the seats beside him. “I am not certain of his plans, and until I have a better understanding, I must let him play his own game, though time grows short.”

“From the fact that you knew how to find Watson and me at Rathham’s auction house, I must believe that this rogue agent of yours has something to do with the stolen Dickens letter, and the auction in just a few days.”

“He has everything to do with it,” sighed Mycroft. “For he is the man that stole the blasted letter in the first place.”

“That simplifies matters,” said Holmes. He sniffed. “Curry?”

Mycroft nodded, and indicated that we should help ourselves. “I, for one,” said Holmes, ignoring the offer as I lifted the lid of the serving dish with pleasure, “was not looking forward to tediously interviewing Rathham’s employees, one by one, to eliminate the innocent and terrify the guilty. To the expert, there is a strong family resemblance about crimes, and if you have assembled for questioning a thousand witnesses at your finger ends, the thousand-and-first is very much like the first thousand.”

“Perhaps, brother, when you hear more about this matter, you will admit that this is a little different than your usual inquiries.”

I could tell that there was something about this situation that amused Holmes. Mycroft could see it as well, but he did not choose to let it rile him. “The fellow out on the street,” said the elder Holmes, “who probably got onto your trail at the auction house, is named Julius Shipton. As you observed, he is Australian. He was raised without a father, and I gather that he ran rather wild during his youth. He managed to obtain passage to this country in his early twenties, and after his arrival, he pursued higher learning in a rather haphazard fashion, first at Oxford, and then at a few of the lesser establishments. At some point he drifted north into Edinburgh, where he fell into an acquaintance with a reporter who had chosen over time to make personal use of the facts that he uncovered while gathering information for his stories, rather than providing this information to his newspaper.

“Between the two, this reporter and Shipton, there evolved a rather systematic way of achieving payment from the subjects of their inquiries.”

“Victims, you mean,” said Holmes, finally deigning to take a serving of curry. “He was a blackmailer.”

“Yes,” said Mycroft, “and I am aware of your feelings regarding such creatures, and I am in complete agreement as well. But Shipton showed great finesse, and when one of the victims finally shot and killed the reporter, there were enough indications about what had truly been going on that my local representative in the Scottish capital was able to identify Shipton, and more specifically his skill and finesse at carrying out his chosen activity, albeit a dark one. I could make use of these skills, as well as the man himself, and I recruited him as an agent. I must say that it has generally been a satisfactory arrangement, at least up until now. While he certainly has not been the most patriotic chap to ever carry out an order, he has shown great initiative with a certain measure of luck in the bargain, and had earned a degree of trust.”

“Until this matter of the Dickens letter,” said Holmes.

“Yes. We first became aware of it a few weeks ago, never mind how. There was obviously some concern about such a thing possibly becoming common knowledge, just a short time before the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee is to take place. There is already enough criticism in the press regarding the costs associated with the celebration, and so on. If it became known that Dickens himself had written such a volatile and critical letter regarding the monarchy, and about the Queen in particular, it could ruin the celebration, and have long-lasting consequences.”

“Old Boz’s last letter could never cause that much of a sensation, and you know it,” countered Holmes.

“You should know better than that,” said Mycroft. “It was you who prevented the same sort of scandal from occurring in August of ’89, with the matter of ‘The Bridal Night’.”

I did not immediately recall the matter, and said so, asking if Holmes had investigated the case without me, due to my marriage.

“Yes, Watson,” said Holmes, who seemed to recall the matter with some distaste. “Just another instance where the monarchy was saved from embarrassment.”

“She was quite grateful, and you know it,” said Mycroft. “That case could have been the making of you.”

“As you said at the time. I have been ‘made’ quite well on my own, thank you.”

“What was this matter of ‘The Bridal Night’?” I asked.****

When Holmes made no effort to explain, Mycroft said, “In short, ‘The Bridal Night’ was a pen-and-ink illustration drawn and distributed by an American, Charles Leslie, in 1840, the year of the Queen’s marriage. It consists of a man and woman in night clothing, standing in a bedchamber, and quite obviously the young Queen and Prince Albert on their wedding night. Nothing overtly distasteful, you understand. Husband and wife, perfectly legal. This drawing has resurfaced several times over the years, including a period during the last Jubilee.”

“I do seem to recall something of the matter now,” I said. “You were summoned on several occasions during the course of events to meet the Queen.”

“And I managed to fulfill my commission regarding the suppression of the illustration. Now it is all water under the bridge.”

“But,” said Mycroft, “it illustrates my point that such things are a very real threat to the Crown. This newly discovered letter, indicting the Royals for all sorts of social ills, could gain real traction in spite of its outrageous nature, especially with its threatened revelation so close to the current Jubilee, now only a few days away.”

“And what was your initial response to the perceived threat of the letter?”

“We initially sent Shipton to surreptitiously retrieve it during the night so that it could be examined. Obviously, Rathham’s safe proved to be no difficulty at all, no matter how secure he believes it to be. I’m sure you made the same observation for yourself.

“After Shipton took the letter, he carried it a short distance to a rented room nearby, where it was carefully photographed. He then replaced the letter in the safe, and Rathham never knew that it had been taken.

“Upon reading the document, it was quite obvious that it was much more incendiary than you are willing to concede, brother. It was also obvious, but only to certain experts, that it was a clever forgery as well.”

“A forgery? By the Baron?” asked Holmes with a wry smile. “Imagine that. Salting the mine with a gold nugget?”

“Quite.”

“So this letter was never real at all,” I said. “Dickens never wrote a document on his last day that would end up threatening the crown.”

“That is correct,” said Mycroft.

“Well, I must admit that I am relieved,” I said. “This letter has the possibility of besmirching the Queen and soiling the reputation of one of our greatest writers.”

“It still can, doctor, if we do not retrieve it,” said Mycroft. “This scheme must have been in preparation for some time. I do not know if a subsidiary part of the Baron’s goal was primarily to inflame the public against the Crown with the contents as it became more widely known, or if the shocking content of the letter was simply to increase its interest and notoriety, thus raising the asking price at the auction. Any damage to Dickens’s reputation is probably only a secondary effect. One thing that is certain is that the Baron had assistance from someone or some organization. This scheme must have been started long before he left prison a few weeks ago. The forgery would have taken longer than that to accomplish.”

“I would assume, then, that he has been working for Colonel Moriarty since his release, performing such deeds as he did for the Colonel’s brother, the Professor, before his arrest and conviction in ’87.”

“Indeed. As you have been aware, the Colonel has been working to rebuild his brother’s criminal network for several years now, although without the total success that he craves. The conflicting actions of the youngest Moriarty brother, the former station master, to also declare himself the heir to the throne and take over the organization have served to stifle both their efforts. However, the Baron is not doing the same tasks for the Colonel that he did for the Professor. As you will recall, in ’87 he fronted an incredibly complex scheme devised by the Professor that defrauded countless people of their money, some fatally so. Now, since his release from prison, the Baron is working as a simple collector, dealing with the riff-raff milling at the bottom of the Colonel’s ladder. Still, he puts up a good front, dressing and living as well as the Colonel will allow him.”

“And the false letter? What did you decide after you had examined it?”

“I did not want to steal or destroy it outright, as Rathham’s outcry would give it too much attention - as has almost happened, as a matter of fact. We didn’t want to bring Rathham into the circle of knowledge at that point in time, because he might have refused to cooperate and balked at participating in our scheme. Rather, I conceived the rather unique solution of forging a copy of the original forgery, but of such obvious clumsiness and false quality that it would be more easily denounced as a fraud, thus preventing a protracted debate about its authenticity, stopping it from ever being auctioned, and leaving it quickly forgotten without giving it any undue emphasis or importance. Plans are in place to make sure that the fraud reflects back upon the Baron, having the added benefit of embarrassing or ruining him as well. After all, he forged the letter to begin with. This simply made the identification of such a forgery that much easier.

“The new forgery was carried out by one of our experts. After its substitution, Shipton was to be finished with his involvement in the matter, and one of my more polished agents would have approached Rathham and explained the situation, attempting to enlist his participation. If that did not work, I would have then made an effort as well, and I must admit that Rathham’s agreement would have been guaranteed.”

“All of this forgery and counter-forgery, and burglaries and more burglaries, seems a little complex, even for you, Mycroft,” said Holmes. “Couldn’t you have just burned the initial forged letter, and let its disappearance remain a mystery?”

“You know better than that, brother,” said Mycroft. “We create contingencies here, and who knows what possibilities we could have tied to various loose threads that we picked out of this cloak. For instance, at some point in the future, we might have used the existence of the letter to bring pressure in a certain quarter, in ways that I cannot yet imagine.”

“I have to agree,” I said, “that the whole thing seems unnecessarily complex.”

Holmes turned to me. “I am reminded of a time when I was seven years old, I believe, and thus Mycroft was fourteen. Our father asked him to locate Sherrinford in the north field and have the sheep driven toward the ford for shearing. Mycroft-”

“You were only six at the time,” interrupted Mycroft.

“It makes no difference to the main thrust of the story. As I was saying, after delivery of the message, Mycroft was nowhere to be found. He was eventually discovered in the village, talking with men there about setting up a series of telegraph lines across the farm in each direction in order to relay messages to various communication stations he intended to construct, dotted here and there in the fields. When he was found by our father, he had exhausted the inexact knowledge of the locals, and was planning on catching the next train to Thirsk to discuss it with someone there.”

“It would have worked,” replied Mycroft. “I understand that something along those lines was used by the Americans during their Civil War, which took place soon after.”

“At least it was better than your initial scheme of having the sons of local crofters remain huddled in sheds spread out in lines stretching in each direction, waiting until they were needed to run messages up or down to the next lad as needed.”

“The system had many advantages, especially in certain seasons.”

“You simply did not like going to the fields to find Sherrinford.”

“What I did not like was-” At that point, Mycroft stopped, and noticed my amused countenance as I listened to the bickering of the two brothers. With a cough, he returned himself to the matter at hand.

“Whatever our future plans were and still are regarding the forged letter, we must not lose sight of the fact that Shipton has stolen it for his own ends now. Last night Shipton was to make the swap, before Rathham was to be approached this morning by another agent. However, instead of carrying out his orders, Shipton stole the original and kept the copy as well. And then he wrote me a letter, delivered by messenger this morning, announcing that he intends to address his grievances against Her Majesty by releasing the blasted thing to the press on the day before the Jubilee Celebration. Apparently he has had several points of contention with our government that have festered for too long in secret, and have reached the lancing point.”

“And also apparently,” replied Holmes, “you should have made a better investigation into the background of your agent. Or perhaps you should have avoided recruitment of a blackmailer in the first place.”

“As you said a moment ago, it is water under the bridge, brother,” said Mycroft. “What remains now is to get the letter back. Shipton will know that you are involved, since he followed you here. It is possible that he had already expected you to take an interest one way or another. It will work out well, as your movements will serve as a distraction for him while my men work in the shadows to trap him.”

“So I am to understand that I will simply be a decoy? Or a staked goat? Do you have no faith that I can resolve the matter satisfactorily?”

“I am sure that you could do it,” replied Mycroft. “However, Lord Salisbury has been consulted, since he is expected to resume his post as Prime Minister any day now, and it is customary to begin briefing the new man in order to make for a smoother transition. At present, he is down in one of his troughs where his opinion of you is reflective of the events of late ’88, when you pointed out his passive complicity in that vile matter which so occupied our attention at the time.”

“I care not a farthing’s worth about Salisbury’s opinion of me. Ask him next week what he thinks about me and his comments will be glowing. The man is-”

“-still very influential,” interrupted Mycroft. “And in any case, he has raised a valid point or two. Word of your ... illness last March has reached his ears, and he has expressed concern whether you are now fighting fit, especially against an old foe such as the Baron, no matter how diminished are the man’s current circumstances.”

“I can assure you-”

“Additionally, he pointed out - and he was not the first to think of this, although he was the first to say it aloud - that you might not be willing to put forth your best effort to restore a piece of property to a former enemy, when that recovery would only seem to benefit him.”

“Now see here,” I interjected. “Holmes would never take a chance on endangering the Crown simply to vex the likes of Baron Maupertuis!”

“I agree, doctor, but there are other considerations, and at certain rarefied levels, one must go lightly. Therefore-”

“Therefore,” said Holmes, rising from the table, his finely decorated china plate still holding the small serving of pristine and untouched curry, “we will go and serve as the distraction, while the pincers close on Mr. Shipton.”

As he turned away, Mycroft added, “Brother, should you happen to find yourself in such a position as to effect a successful conclusion to this matter, to the satisfaction of all concerned parties, I am sure that no one, including our once and future P.M., would have any objections.”

Holmes did not look back, but I saw the shadow of a smile cross his face. He understood the rules of the game, as did I.

Expressing my thanks for the meal to Mycroft Holmes, I took my leave in Holmes’s wake, joining him outside in the early afternoon sunshine illuminating Pall Mall.

Down the street, about halfway between where we stood and Waterloo Place, I could see Julius Shipton, standing without a hat, his pale hair shining. Holmes tipped his fore-and-aft at the man, who returned the gesture by making a small bow. Then, he turned toward the Atheneum on the corner and in a moment was gone.

“I’m not sure but that we shouldn’t follow him, Mycroft’s wishes be d - - ed!” I said.

“Not yet,” said Holmes. “We need leverage. I must make a few inquiries.” He turned from the east, where he had been gazing toward the site of Shipton’s disappearance, and faced me. “Do you make your way back to Baker Street, there’s a good fellow. I have an idea or two where to find the answers to my questions, and possibly start a few wheels turning in motion as well. I shall return in a few short hours.”

And with that, he set off in the direction that Shipton had taken. I stood and watched for a few moments, but he did not turn right, as had the former blackmailer-turned-government-agent-turned-criminal. Rather, he continued onward, heading toward Trafalgar Square.

As he disappeared into the June haze, I turned and saw Mycroft Holmes, standing in the same window where we had found him upon our arrival. He nodded to me, and did not seem surprised at all to have been caught observing us. I nodded in return and set off walking, until shortly I found a hansom and returned to Baker Street.

Part IV: An Unpleasant Encounter

Fortunately, Mrs. Hudson had not prepared anything for lunch, as I was comfortably filled by the simple fare at the Diogenes Club. I settled into my chair by the fireplace to await Holmes’s return, intending to catch up on my medical journals.

I had spent a fairly profitable three hours and a quarter when I heard the arrival of a cab outside our open windows. Surprisingly, there came the sound of a second vehicle stopping almost immediately after the first, and then the sound of Holmes’s voice. Although I could not make out the words, the tone was sharp. I was rising from my chair to have a look when Holmes called, “Watson! Can you join me on the street? And bring your Afghan friend!”

I knew that Holmes meant my old service revolver, which I had left on my desk following my earlier return. I had learned long ago not to cross the threshold without it. Holmes had many enemies, and by association I did as well. Several hard lessons had taught me the advisability of carrying that grim souvenir of my Army days.

Without bothering to look out the window in order to see what I was getting myself into, I dashed across the sitting room, down the seventeen steps, and out through the front door to find Holmes standing on the walk, in seemingly harmless conversation with a short, well-dressed man. There were two cabs beside them, as I had heard, but one was pulling away from the curb while the other, which had brought our visitor, paused as the path before him cleared. I looked more closely at the short man, and then recognized him with a shock. It was Baron Maupertuis.

Holmes was obviously tense, while the Baron seemed amused. I did not perceive any overt threat, but I kept my hand in my pocket and on the butt of my revolver.

The second cab was free to navigate, but Holmes held up a hand. “Wait,” he said. “This man will not be staying.”

“What?” said the Baron in a friendly tone. “Not inviting me in to reminisce about old times? The last time we met was in Lyons, when the British and French police took me in charge. You did not even appear at the trial. I was hurt.”

“There was no need for you to mark my absence. The case was complete without my assistance.”

“Oh, is that why? I had heard that you were ill.”

“State your business,” said Holmes shortly.

“My business,” said the Baron, “is to make sure that you fulfill the task which you have taken upon yourself. Namely, to retrieve my Dickens letter that has been stolen from Rathham’s auction house.”

“So Mr. Rathham felt the need to inform you of its disappearance, then?”

“Rather, I stopped in this morning, and when I wanted to see it, he was forced to admit that it had been stolen last night. But he was quite enthusiastic in telling me that he had taken the initiative to hire you, Holmes. England’s greatest detective. I know you are proud of your honor, so I wanted to make sure that the investigation would be carried out in an honorable way. After all, I have paid my debt to society.”

“As you were only released a few weeks ago, you must have been required to pay every single day of your debt,” said Holmes. “I must admit that I lost track of how you were progressing through your sentence. I had heard that the authorities had to keep you separated from Colonel Moran, and that the mere threat of putting you in the same cell - nay, the same wing of the prison - with him was enough to make you a model prisoner.”

This statement seemed to break through the Baron’s contrived good humor, and he frowned for an instant before his face devolved back into a bland, amused mask.

“That is all past now,” said the Baron. “I am simply another one of your beloved Londoners, appealing to you for assistance. I am even in a position to provide a little something extra to whatever you expect to get from Rathham. As you might imagine, the sale of that letter will mean a great deal to me, and my continued rehabilitation into society.”

“Your rehabilitation might seem more genuine if you had not, upon your release from prison, immediately found employment within Colonel Moriarty’s organization.”

“Surely you are mistaken,” said the Baron. “I have a small establishment set up near Mayfair, where I counsel a select group of individuals on various financial speculations. I did have a gift for that type of work, you might recall.”

“Do you wear your gloves throughout these appointments?” asked Holmes, gesturing toward the man’s hands. “In order to hide the permanent darkening of your fingertips from picking oakum in Dartmoor?”

The Baron’s pretense fell away. With a snarl, he turned back to the waiting cab. His sudden move caused the horse to shy before it was quickly taken in hand by the hansom driver.

At the cab, the Baron turned back and said, “I expect the return of that letter, Holmes. I have as much right to protection under the law as the next man. If I don’t get it, Rathham’s reputation, and yours as well, will be ridiculed from here to the sea.”

“I will handle the matter according to my own lights, the way that I always do, Monsieur Petit.”

I glanced at Holmes in puzzlement. The Baron seemed nonplussed as well, before asking, “What? What did you say?”

“I used your correct name,” said Holmes, finally moving, taking a step forward as some of the tension fell away from his tall frame. He seemed to have attained the upper hand. “After your arrest in ’87, I was ill for some time. Unraveling your scheme took two long months. It was only later that I realized that you had been backed by Professor Moriarty himself. I should have known - you were never intelligent enough to have constructed that unholy spider’s web known as the Netherland-Sumatra Company.

“Although I did not need to attend your trial, I did keep an eye on you from afar, especially as the battle of wits with the Professor escalated over the next few years. And part of that was to delve into your background for additional information, should your piece ever be returned to the chess board.”

“You know nothing,” said the man, now named by Holmes to be Petit. “Lies.”

“You think that because so much time has passed, that the truth cannot be discovered. Just because you are on the books at Princetown Prison in the ‘M’s’ for Maupertuis does not mean the truth won’t eventually come out. Your real name is Rémi Petit, and the closest you’ve ever been to legitimately being a Maupertuis was when the circus that employed your mother stopped near Saint-Malo nine months before your birth.”

This last statement seemed to enrage the small man. He threw his cane into the cab and moved his hand toward the pocket of his waistcoat. Holmes, indifferent now and having said his piece, turned toward our front door, while I removed my trusted service revolver from my own pocket and held it low to my side, while still quite visible to Monsieur Petit. “Time to go,” I said.

Petit stayed still for a moment as the anger held on. Eventually, however, it began to settle away as he realized that this encounter was over. While he climbed into the cab, I asked the driver, “Do you work for Colonel Moriarty as well?”

“I really couldn’t say, sir.”

“I see. Well, it would be a good idea to keep this man away from here from now on. He will only cause the same problems and embarrassment for the Colonel that he did for the Professor. Do you understand?”

The driver nodded, and when Petit, formerly Baron Maupertuis, had closed the doors, he gigged the horse into motion. They headed towards Regents Park and soon turned out of site.

Inside our front door, I found Holmes laughing silently to himself. “That was enjoyable,” he said. “I’ve held onto that little nugget for some time. Spending it just now gave me every bit of its worth in return. Did you realize that the Baron - which I will continue to name him, as it amuses me! - the Baron must not realize that we know the Dickens letter to be a fraud? If he thought it was discovered, I do not think that he would still urge its recovery. He might just write off the whole thing as a bad investment. Mrs. Hudson!” he suddenly and abruptly called without warning.

She quickly appeared from her rooms at the rear of the house, while Holmes fished a piece of paper from his wallet. While he scratched a note onto it, he said, “Things are working out rather splendidly, and I find that I am in the mood for a bit extra with tea today, if it would not be too much trouble.”

“Not at all,” she said, with a twinkle in her eye. Holmes handed her the note and a couple of coins, instructing her to have the message sent from the Post Office as soon as possible. She took it, with an amused smile on her face. And as Holmes started up the steps, she even had the audacity to give me a wink!

Upstairs, as we settled into our chairs, I remarked, “You certainly seem to be in good spirits.”

“I should think so. I believe that this matter will be wrapped up by this time tomorrow.”

“That soon? What were you able to accomplish after we separated at the Diogenes Club?”

“Oh, a great deal,” he replied. “As I previously indicated, we needed some sort of leverage. It seemed to me the quickest way was to see if Shipton has anyone that he cares about. With his recent actions, he has cut the lines to the dock and drifted quite a ways out from shore, so to speak. However, if he has anyone for whom he feels affection, he might be approached from that direction.

“I stopped and wired Mycroft, asking him a few questions that should have occurred to me while we were there in the Strangers Room, such as when Shipton first came to this country, what boat he came in on, and the like. With this information in hand, I went to the shipping offices and managed to find someone who had been on that ship. I was fortunate that this company frequently breaks up its crews, so the likelihood of finding someone from that sailing was not too small.

“At first the man didn’t remember anything. However, careful questioning eventually helped him to recall Shipton, and more importantly, the other person who had traveled with him in an adjacent cabin, a young Australian woman with a unique feature. A return to the shipping office revealed that her name is Emily Smith.”

“Smith, eh?” I said. “It might as well have been Jones, I suppose. And the unique feature about this woman?”

“Although she is quite attractive otherwise, she has the sad affliction of having a talipes equinovarus.”

“A club foot.”

“Quite. With this information, I then went to the area around Shipton’s residence near Cannon Street Station, as related to me by Mycroft. It did not take long to determine that a Miss Smith of matching description worked in a nearby pub, and lived ‘round the corner.”

“And did you approach her?”

“No, I did not, although I did observe her for a bit, while having a pint of rather mediocre quality. After identifying her, I went to the Yard, where I spent a productive quarter-hour with friend Lestrade, going over recent unsolved murders in the Cannon Street area.”

“Murders?” I asked. “Is there a murder mixed up in this affair?”

“Not until I did the mixing,” replied Holmes. “Going over the records, we found where the owner of a stable on Garrick Street had been found early yesterday morning, his head crushed in by a piece of stove wood discovered on the ground near him in one of the stalls. Lestrade and I went there, and it was quickly apparent to me that the murder had been committed by the dead man’s brother, who is a half-owner in the business. So after this was established, confidentially between Lestrade and myself, you understand, we promptly went to ‘The Crown and Garter’ on Cloak Lane where Shipton’s sister was working and arrested her for the murder.”

“You ... you arrested this poor girl for the murder, when you knew that it was committed by the dead man’s brother? I don’t understand.”

“It is obvious, my dear Watson,” said Holmes. “Lestrade will make sure that the arrest is trumpeted in the papers. ‘Emily Smith Accused of Murder by Sherlock Holmes.’ The press is such a useful institution, if one only has the knowledge of how to use it.”

“But your reputation, Holmes,” I said. “It will be trumpeted that you have identified this killer, only to subsequently admit that you made a mistake.”

“I care not about my reputation,” said Holmes. “And this won’t be the first time that I have done something like this. I have to say that Lestrade had your same misgivings, but he quickly saw the wisdom of the plan, which seems like the quickest way to settle the matter.

“If Shipton doesn’t find out at the pub about her arrest, he cannot fail to see it in the newspapers. He knows of my involvement. I’m sure he knows that his sister did not commit this murder. He will realize that this is a maneuver to flush him out, but he will have no choice but to come to me, knowing that I am essentially offering his sister as a trade for the documents. It was the leverage I needed.”

“But the girl, Holmes! Put in cells for a crime that she did not commit!”

“Do not fear, Watson,” said Holmes, as Mrs. Hudson arrived with our tea, along with all the delicious things that went with it. “She was placed on a train and smuggled discreetly out of town. She is now residing at a very pleasant inn near Eastbourne. She is under guard, and cannot be held for long, but she has been given to understand that she is helping us in a matter of national security - which she is! - and she was quite willing to assist us. She does not seem to hold her brother’s anti-government beliefs in the least.”

After she set down the tray of food, Mrs. Hudson stepped across the room, fishing a telegram out of her pocket. Holmes reached for it and tore it open. He read it quickly and smiled before tossing it toward me. It was from Mycroft, and simply said:

No.

- M

I knew that he would explain it when he was ready. “So now we wait?” I asked, rising and moving toward the food.

Holmes remained in his chair. “We wait. And I do not believe that we shall have to wait for very long at all.”

He settled back and reached for a pipe. Clearly he meant to think for a while, and more importantly, he seemed to have forgotten about the tea that he requested. Mrs. Hudson’s good humor slowly neutralized and then evaporated, and she looked at the ignored food, then shook her head and departed. Did the door perhaps close with a little more force than usual? If so, it did not intrude whatsoever on Holmes’s three-pipe cogitations.

Part V: At the Old Roman Wall

We did not have long to wait. It was not more than an hour later that a boy arrived with a handwritten message. Holmes asked Mrs. Hudson to bring the lad up, and he waited by the door, looking as if he might bolt at any second, while the message was read.

“Are you empowered to deliver a reply?” Holmes asked. The boy simply looked confused, so Holmes tried again. “Tell him we will be there. And tell him to bring the letters.”

The boy nodded and slipped through the door. I heard his feet land solidly on approximately four of the seventeen steps before he was gone. “He wishes to meet in an hour, just north of the Tower, at that segment of the old Roman wall where one can cross through into the City.”

“I know the place. Are you going to notify Lestrade?”

“No, we will go alone. He has no reason to harm us. After all, we all know that there is no case against his sister, but he must surely think that without me to free her from the spider’s web, she might be convicted. He won’t risk harming or angering me before she is free. The letters cannot be that important to him, certainly not worth the girl’s freedom.”

We left soon after, walking for a bit until we hired the third cab that we encountered. There was a late spring fog rising, and it was turning out to be a cool evening for June. I pulled my coat tighter.

We wound our way east and south through the thickening mist, and I began to think that an hour was not enough time to reach our goal. However, traffic thinned as we neared our destination, and visibility was not yet bad enough to substantially slow our cabbie.

We left the cab and went on foot from the north side of the Tower. I glanced at the ancient pile, thinking of other occasions that we had been there. The times - and there were more than one - when Holmes and I had prevented the thefts of the Crown Jewels. The instances when we had gone there to question men suspected of high treason. That terrifying period in ’88 when we had hidden Mary there, as the men involved in the terrible crimes occurring nearby in the City had tried to find her for a different kind of leverage. And they had found her, leading to the shedding of their blood on the Tower grounds. But that is another tale.

Holmes led me north for a few blocks, before turning right. My eyes had adjusted to the ambient light, and I could see that we were approaching the ancient Roman wall, a part of the original enclosure of Londinium centuries before. Holmes veered slightly to the left, and we came to the opening in the wall that led through and into the City proper. There he stopped and said, “We are here.”

A small, hatless man stepped out of the doorway to face us. His very pale hair seemed to glow in the near darkness, as well as making him instantly identifiable. It was Shipton. He was only about halfway between five and six feet, and couldn’t have been more than ten or eleven stone. His coat was buttoned, outlining his slim and wiry frame. He seemed to bounce with a barely-suppressed energy.

“You know Emily didn’t kill that man,” he began. “Well, you got me where you want me, Mr. Holmes. I brought the letters. But surely you can see that what I’m trying to do here isn’t all bad?”

“Exposure of evil is not a bad thing, Mr. Shipton. I have spent my whole life pursuing that purpose. But what you have chosen to do, your initial foray into this type of reform, is not the way to go about it. You have picked the wrong ammunition for the wrong target. You may think that the Crown is evil, although Watson and I will disagree with you. Each man is entitled to his opinion. But embarrassing the Queen for no reason will do nothing but rile her loyal men as if you had kicked over a bee’s nest.”

“But she represents what is wrong,” said Shipton. “Surely you know how England has treated Scotland, and Ireland, and Wales over the years. And what about India? Why, even my home country has seen its share of abuse.”

“Some of that was a long time ago,” I said. “We are more enlightened now.”

“Really, doctor? You can say that, after what you have seen?” He gestured behind him, to the east. “Would you care to walk with me for a quarter-hour in that direction? You’ve seen it all before, when the Ripper was there. I’ve seen some of the files. I know what went on then, and how some of the high and mighty were either the responsible parties, or else they stood by and let it happen. All under the skirts of this Queen.

“And I know what I myself have been ordered to do on occasion, Mr. Holmes, by your very own brother. He tries to justify it, saying that sometimes Britain needs a blunt instrument. I never wanted to be that, Mr. Holmes. But I never really had a choice.”

“I, too, have occasionally had to be the ‘blunt instrument,’ Mr. Shipton. But I always tried to make sure that I was working for the greater good. Perhaps you did not have that option. You have been like a soldier, however much you were recruited against your will, and as such, you were expected to follow orders without question. It was the price you paid for an implied pardon to your crimes. But the fact that you were carrying out orders should also give you comfort in knowing that you were only doing your duty, and that the responsibility, or even guilt, lies on other men’s shoulders.”

“But what makes them any better to decide what is right or wrong? Who watches them? Do they justify it by simply passing the guilt on up to the next set of men?” He gave a weary little laugh and shook his head. “Well, it doesn’t matter, and it’s no use trying to explain it to you. It has always been that way, and it always will be. Right now it comes down to you and me, standing by this old wall, debating about the details of releasing my sister. For you know that I will give you the letters, and I believe that you will let her go. But then what? I trust you, Mr. Holmes, for it is known that you are an honorable man. Therefore, I know that there are no police here waiting to arrest me when you have the letters in hand. But what about tomorrow? What then?”

“My only brief is to recover the letters, both the original and the fake that you were supposed to plant in Rathham’s office. After that, my work is done. I cannot offer you any assistance, but perhaps I could give you some advice. It might be prudent for both you and your sister to make your way to the Continent and leave England behind. Possibly to one of the neutral countries?”

Shipton nodded, and reached into his coat pocket. I tensed in spite of myself, although I did not believe that he was reaching for a weapon. In fact, he pulled out two folded packets and handed them to Holmes. “These are both of the letters,” he said. “I would get them in your coat fairly quickly and examine them later, due to the dampness from the fog. You will see that they are what you are looking for. I wouldn’t take a chance on risking my sister. You knew that. When will she be released?”

“Once I can look these over,” said Holmes, slipping the documents under his Inverness, “I will send word to Lestrade to have her moved back to her lodgings. She is currently out of the city. Would you prefer her to be awakened and moved immediately, or in the morning?”

“The morning is fine. It will give me an opportunity to finalize my plans.”

“I assume that you have funds squirreled away for such an eventuality?”

“Some. Also, I must admit that I came into another bit of money that gives me feelings of unease, but I suppose it’s too late to worry about that now.”

“Unease? And why is that?”

“Earlier this afternoon, before I saw that my sister had been arrested and I realized how this had to play out, I was not quite certain of my plans, including the disposition of the letter. In order to have another possible option, I sent a message to the owner of the letter, Baron Maupertuis, offering to sell it back to him. We met soon after, and I was careful that he wasn’t able to identify me. Working for your brother has taught me several useful skills.

“The Baron gave me a substantial amount of money for the letter’s return. I honestly told him that I did not have it with me at that time, but that I would let him know. I never intended that he should have the original, since I was going to have that published, but I was going to give him the forgery. Then he could auction it if he wanted, or not.

“He was not happy that he couldn’t have the letter right then, as he had wanted to take possession of it immediately. I gathered that he had ‘borrowed’ the funds that he used to pay me from his employer without that man’s knowledge, and he was understandably anxious to conclude our business. Having read some in the files about this Baron Maupertuis and his current employer, I could understand why he was nervous.”

“Yes,” said Holmes, “it does not pay to embezzle from one of the Moriartys.”

“I feel no compunction to return the Baron’s money, since it was dishonestly acquired by him to begin with, but if word gets to Colonel Moriarty about my having it, in spite of my efforts to hide my identity, I could be in for quite a bit of trouble. So that’s an additional reason that I’m glad to be getting out of England.”

“When you establish yourself in your destination and have time to ponder such things,” said Holmes, “remember that there are better ways to accomplish what you tried to do here. A good government needs a balance of sensible limits and also to be able to take care of threats when necessary. We have seen when things are handled badly. Find a legitimate and helpful way to encourage things to be handled better.”

Shipton nodded, and then to me as well. Turning, he slipped back through the passage through the wall and disappeared in the darkness.

Part VI: Conclusions

What remains is quickly summarized through a series of short epilogues:

A few days later, the auction of the Baron’s furniture was held at Sefton’s. The event was poorly attended, and the various bidders were quite unenthusiastic. Items of established historical significance went to people who would certainly appreciate them, but for very little money. Other lots with a set reserve amount were sold for that price and no more, and non-reserved items went for mere pounds.

At the side of the gallery, Baron Maupertuis, once known as Rémi Petit, watched with an increasing escalation of impatience, disbelief, and finally anger, as the possessions that he accumulated during his periods of affluence in the 1880s, those same items that he had managed to retain through legal twisting all during the years of his imprisonment, were sold for nearly nothing. And then, when it was announced at the end of the auction, that the Dickens letter had been withdrawn, there was no surprise in the room at all, except on the part of the apoplectic Baron.

For the whole matter had been explained to Rathham, who was more than grateful that the theft of the document had led to the revelation that it was a forgery. He had contacted those men who had been interested in purchasing the supposed Dickens letter, and they were quite happy to divest themselves of any connection to the matter as well. Somewhere in the whole process, no one had remembered to tell the Baron that the jewel of his crown was paste, and that not only was he not going to make a small fortune from the sale, but he wasn’t going to make enough to return the money that he had stolen from Colonel Moriarty before it was discovered that it was missing.

As the auction concluded, the Baron surged to his feet, his rage directed toward Holmes, who sat beside me on the other side of the room. We were in shadows, watching the carefully contrived auction take place, but I had known from the time of our arrival that the Baron had been observing us. Now, he moved toward us, with murder written on his face.

Before he had taken more than three steps, two nondescript men that had been seated near him throughout the auction rose and took his arms, one on either side. They wore matching plain dark suits, and each had anonymous faces with small military moustaches. They were Mycroft’s men, and they held the Baron motionless as if he were chained to the wall of a tomb.

Holmes and I approached him. “I was unable to find a genuine letter by Dickens that had been written on the day of his death,” said Holmes, “although I did come across another document during my investigation. However, it turned out to be a forgery, and as a valuable and rehabilitated member of society, you certainly would not have wanted any association with anything like that, would you, Monsieur Petit?”

The man hissed a string of offensive words, until one of Mycroft’s men shook him as if he were a rat in a terrier’s mouth. “Here now, none of that.” When the Baron had fallen silent, the same man said to him, “We’ve got orders to assist you home, or back to your place of business in Mayfair. What’s it to be then?”

At the mention of the business location, the man’s eyes widened with terror. He looked back at Holmes, as if he were going to ask him for help, before he realized that such a thing was outrageous. Finally, he swallowed once or twice and whispered, “Home.” As the two minders led him out, he stumbled once, but they still had his arms and continued to propel him forward, his short legs working until they found the ground again. It was the last we saw of him.

Later than night, we had a visit from one of Holmes’s agents, Shinwell Johnson. He had been given the task of keeping an eye on the Baron after the auction. His report was short and to the point. “If I hadn’t known who he was, and hadn’t been watching him right up until it happened, I wouldn’t’ve been able to swear that it was the same man. But it was, all right. After he left the auction house, the government men took him home and left him there. He went in, and came out a quarter-hour later with a trunk. I heard him tell the cabbie to get to Victoria as fast as possible. I managed to get on the back of the cab, which is a skill from my boyhood that I continue to whet, as its usefulness never diminishes. I hopped off right before we got there, and found a place from which to watch.

“He was still opening his coin purse to pay the cabbie when the shot struck him, dead center. There wasn’t any noise at all. He just went down, and at first I thought that a rock had hit him. But it took him centered on the bridge of his nose, and ruined most of his face. The bullet must have spread out something awful.”

“A soft-nosed revolver bullet,” said Holmes, “fired from an air gun. It’s good to know, I suppose, that there was more than one of the cursed things built by von Herder. And now we know that Colonel Moriarty has it. It certainly didn’t take him very long, did it?”

“Not long at all,” said Johnson. Then he glanced at our open windows, and beyond to the other side of the street, toward Camden House. He had heard the story about another one of the air guns, and the time that it had been fired from there and into our sitting room. He stood up and took a step to shift himself between the windows. “I’ll be off, then.”

Holmes nodded. “Thank you, Johnson. I’ll be in touch.” The man touched his forehead and was gone. His feet made no sound on the steps, but I could hear his labored breathing as it faded away nonetheless.

The next morning, we met Mycroft at the Diogenes Club. Luckily Holmes had not expected any effusive gratitude, as there was none forthcoming.

“I suppose it was the best solution for quickly resolving the matter,” said Mycroft. “I have just one question. Why did you cable me to ask if Shipton knew that the document in the safe, which he was supposed to take, was also a forgery?”

“Ah,” I said. “the laconic ‘No’ telegram.”

“I simply wished to determine if he knew the value - or lack of value - of what he had taken. If he knew that he was simply replacing one forged document for another, he would not place any value on it, and he would know that we did not really place any on it, either. But if he thought that he was holding a real letter by Dickens, with the power to shake the crown, he would believe that he held something that was valuable enough to use in order to redeem his sister from the police.”

Mycroft nodded. “I do wish, however, that you hadn’t taken it upon yourself to allow Shipton to go free. Not-” he said quickly, as Holmes attempted to disagree, “-that your solution isn’t what I would have ended up doing myself. It was rather tidy, actually, with a simple elegance. After all, he had only made the threat of releasing the letter to spoil the Jubilee, he hadn’t actually done it yet. His only real crime was stealing the document from the safe, and that was done under orders. He disobeyed me in that he didn’t leave the false replacement where he was told, or bring the supposed authentic letter from the safe back to me, but that is more of an internal administrative issue, rather than breaking a law.”

“So my solution, and letting the man escape, is not going to result in my arrest, then?” said Holmes with a smile.

“No, no. It had a certain finesse. Baron Maupertuis is no longer a problem. Shipton and his sister ‘escaped’ the morning after you met with him, without any hindrance. And you did resolve the whole thing rather quickly. I think that we may consider this matter successfully concluded.

“Now, is it too early for a sip of Tokay? The quality has been off the last few years, but I managed to acquire a certain amount back in ’74, in gratitude for a little matter in which I played a helpful part. I highly recommend it - only twelve bottles remain from this vintage, and nine of them are downstairs in the cellar. Let me ring to have one brought up, and then you can tell me how you plan to avoid the Jubilee celebrations. If any of your ideas have merit, I may join you.”

*** Editor’s Note: See Chapters 7-10 of William S. Baring-Gould’s Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street for further information regarding Constance Watson.

**** Editor’s Note: The events of “The Bridal Night” are recounted in Chapter 17 “At the Queen’s Command” from I, Sherlock Holmes (1977), by Sherlock Holmes, and edited by Michael Harrison.