On our return to Baker Street we sat for an hour, smoking a final pipe before retiring. Holmes, I noticed, had been somewhat withdrawn. Sitting in his old leather armchair, his knees drawn up to his chest and eyes half closed.
“Do you think they will try again, Holmes?” I asked.
Holmes breathed out a thin ribbon of smoke and, in a quiet voice, said, “Yes, I fear so… and soon. They will want to maintain the pressure and not miss an opportunity to gain kudos! This masked ball could be an ideal place to strike.”
In preparation for the ball, I had gleaned from Holmes that it was to be a renaissance of the Venetian style, with fine, flowing robes and jewelled masks. The following morning I was despatched to a costumiers in Bond Street in order to hire two costumes. Obtaining them, however, proved to be quite difficult as the Venetian style had fallen from fashion. Never the less, I finally succeeded and returned triumphant to Baker Street.
Holmes always gained great pleasure from disguises and, since my acquaintance with him, I have marvelled at the variety of personas he has effected. Opening the parcels, I could see Holmes’ eyes light up. “Splendid! Watson. You have done us proud.”
I beamed, saying, “Yes, nobody will recognise us in these!”
On hearing this, Holmes’ smile faded somewhat. “You are, of course, correct. However, a disguise is a two edged sword, old friend. It is imperative that we are at the top of our game this evening, Watson. Be sure to bring your service revolver, it may be of some use.”
For Holmes to have the need to remind me of this meant that the 'game' was, indeed, serious.
With nothing more that could be done, we ate a light meal and dressed in our costumes. We both looked resplendent in our finery but finding a place to unobtrusively hide a revolver in my costume was, indeed, troublesome.
Holmes saw me fumbling and chuckled. “Ah, Watson. You see the limitations of modern weaponry married to clothes from a past era. At the time of this fashion, the assassin's choice of weapon would have been the stiletto, easily concealed in the commodious jacket sleeve and slim enough to be invisible. I fear that the Webley in your coat pocket is somewhat more conspicuous.”
I admit I was a little piqued by this and retorted, “How, then, are you arming yourself this evening?” Holmes proceeded to the umbrella stand and selected a fine, silver topped cane. This, I grudgingly observed, complemented his attire perfectly. I goaded him a little by saying, “Hmm, there is little protection there, I think, Holmes.”
His response was but to smile. There was a flash of silver as in one, swift, movement, Holmes had drawn a slender sword from the cane and was in the 'en garde' position, ready to strike. Raising an eyebrow, Holmes replied, “I believe this will suffice, Watson.”
Dressing in our warm coats and mufflers, we took a Hansom and followed the same route as before. Approaching the rear courtyard door, Holmes paused, bending down to retrieve something. “Hello, what have we here?” He moved to where the light from the gas lamp was brightest and examined the object.
I peered at what Holmes was holding and saw that it was a small, silk tassel. “Ha! It must have fallen from someone's costume” said I.
Holmes looked more closely. “Not fallen, Watson, torn off … and there is blood on it.” Crouching down, Holmes examined the cobblestones. “There were three people here and they were fighting, Watson. I can see the different scrape patterns as they jostled.” Holmes stood up and hurried to the door. He raised his cane to knock but saw there was a chink of light at the edge of the door frame. Cautiously, he pushed with his gloved hand and the heavy door swung open.
There was no sign of the doorkeeper and Holmes stood, motionless, like an English Setter, every sense alert. Upon one wall there was a distinct smear of blood and, on looking down at the floor, Holmes detected more. It glistened like a long string of rubies leading to what appeared to be a large pantry. At this point, I drew my revolver. I had travelled with it in my coat pocket, that being the most comfortable place for it.
Holmes crept forward and listened intently at the door. Leaning close to me, he whispered, “I can hear breathing.” I positioned myself to one side of the door frame in order to get a clear shot and mindful not to present too much of a target. I nodded my readiness to Holmes, who, at my signal, threw open the door.
I aimed my revolver towards the interior, ready to fire. Holmes was there at my side, ready to pounce on anything that should emerge. Thankfully, all was still. The light from the hallway was sufficient for us to be able to see inside. There, in a crumpled heap, was the door keeper with a savage wound to his head, his face bruised and streaked with blood. He was bound and gagged and a steady flow of blood seeped from his wound. I quickly looked around for something to compress the wound. Finding a supply of clean, kitchen linen, I used a towel to apply pressure and assuage the bleeding. Holmes removed the man's gag and the doorkeeper began to stir.
It took a few moments for him to recognise us and he started to struggle to free his bonds. I quickly removed those securing his wrists whilst Holmes freed his ankles. He had been badly beaten and I laid a hand on his shoulder, preventing him from trying to rise. He struggled to speak to us and I feared that he had several broken ribs.
“Signori, there were two of them. They said they were delivering costumes for the ball, I opened the door and they leapt upon me. I tried to push them outside. We fought in the doorway and in the courtyard but they were armed with iron bars.” He coughed and a trickle of blood appeared at the corner of his mouth.
Holmes placed a hand on the man’s shoulder, saying “Steady, old fellow. Did you get a look at them?”
The doorkeeper shook his head. “No, they had mufflers… but under their coats they were wearing costumes for the ball. I tore open the coat of one of them as we struggled.”
Holmes gave me a knowing look. He patted the doorkeeper on the forearm, saying, “Stay here, we will get help.” As Holmes was about to rise, he observed the edge of a footprint in the pool of blood from the doorkeeper. “Hello! If we are fortunate, Watson, we may be able to identify both assailants.”
In the corner of the pantry were two discarded overcoats and mufflers and Holmes looked at them briefly. “There is little further to be gleaned here, Watson. We must get help and locate the ambassador.” Leaving our coats and mufflers behind, we exited into the embassy proper. A passing footman was hailed and directed to aid his fallen colleague.
From the atrium, the ambassador could be seen at the head of the stairs, welcoming his guests. His face visibly brightened at our approach. He warmly grasped Holmes’ hand saying, “Ah, Sherlock. I am relieved to see you. I have told His Majesty of your presence here tonight.”
Holmes leant forward and, in low tones, began to recount what we had found below stairs. The colour immediately drained from the ambassador's face. He took Holmes’ arm and they were soon in an animated conversation. From my position, I could not fully hear what was said but I picked out the words 'blood' and 'shoes'. Finally, the ambassador nodded. I admit I was a little bemused when the ambassador spoke quietly to his wife and then she and Holmes left together. Holmes signed to me to remain and, after a few minutes, he returned holding a fine, marcasite encrusted ladies shoe that sparkled in the light from the chandeliers overhead.