Chapter 7

The next morning I was joined at breakfast by a former Jack-tar, who had obviously seen better days. Sporting a soiled seaman’s blouse that had been patched in several places, a disreputable hat, worn trousers and shoes that were down at heel, Holmes looked sorely out of place as he took the chair opposite mine. Truth be told, with his lank hair, darkened skin and blackened teeth, I was quite glad that our landlady had deposited the tray and departed before my friend made his appearance.

“I take it you are investigating Lestrade’s smuggling ring.”

“I thought I would visit the docks and see what, if anything, people working there might have learned about the smugglers. I am also planning to check up on the Irregulars to see if they have discovered anything untoward during their reconnaissance that might affect Mycroft’s conference.”

“So two cases at once,” I laughed.

“A happy confluence,” replied Holmes.

“Is there anything I can do to facilitate your investigations?”

“Do you remember Madame Isabella Cocilovo-Kozzi?”

“The bookseller who helped us with the Tara Brooch? How could I forget! What a striking woman.”

“Yes,” said Holmes, as though he had not even heard me.

“I seem to recall you describing her as more concerned with the spirit of the law than the letter.”

Holmes looked at me curiously, “Watson, I will never take your measure. If memory serves, those were pretty much the self-same words I used to sum up one aspect of her personality.”

“Is she also an expert on manuscripts?”

“No, but her husband is. I stopped by there yesterday to see if he knew anything at all about the missing Nowell Codex, but the shop was closed. You might recall they are located in Bedford Square. Look sharp or you will miss it. Shall we meet back here for dinner?”

“Excellent, and then we can exchange information,” I said pointedly, hoping Holmes would dispense with his usual reticence.

“We shall see,” he replied.

After breakfast, Holmes left through the rear of Baker Street while I went out the front door. Hailing a cab, I directed the driver to take me to the British Museum. I called upon Dr. Smith, who informed me that nothing further had been heard about the missing manuscript. He had received no communication and, as Holmes had requested, said nothing to anyone, not even his superiors. He then asked me, “Has Mr. Holmes made any progress?”

Deciding a small white lie might prove more comforting than the unvarnished truth, I replied, “He is working on it as we speak. He is pursuing a different angle.”

My fib seemed to ease Dr. Smith’s anxiety, and he left me feeling slightly better than when we had met. Upon leaving the Museum, I crossed over to Bedford Square. I walked along a row of well-kept Georgian houses, and was surprised to see a small sign in one of the windows, bearing the legend “Rare Books.”

I rang the bell, and after a short wait, Madame Cocilovo-Kozzi answered it herself. “Why Dr. Watson, what a pleasure to see you again.”

I was a bit taken aback as we had only met on one occasion, “You remember me?” I asked.

“Of course,” she replied pleasantly. “We crossed paths at the British Museum when I delivered the Tara Brooch.”

“That’s a rare gift,” I observed.

“Thank you,” she replied. “It certainly comes in handy when trying to remember the particulars of any given book. Now, what can I do for you and Mr. Holmes?”

“Actually,” I replied, “Mr. Holmes suggested that I speak with your husband.”

“A question about a manuscript then. Hold on, let me just call him.” She then led me into a sitting room that was filled from floor to ceiling with bookshelves and books. While she was in the hall calling upstairs to “Jonathan,” I was wandering about the room where a number of titles caught my eye, including bound editions of both The Faerie Queen as well as a copy of Gulliver’s Travels.

When she entered the room a moment later, I asked, “Are those originals?”

“Of course,” she replied. “This is a rare book shop.” Following my glance, she added, “Spenser oversaw the printing of his own work while we believe this 1735 edition of Gulliver’s Travels to be the Edito Princeps of that particular work.”

At that moment, we were joined by a thin, angular man, perhaps my height, with piercing hazel eyes and a mane of silver hair, whom Madame Cocilovo-Kozzi introduced as her husband, Jonathan.

After pleasantries had been exchanged, he began the conversation by asking, “How may I be of assistance to you and Mr. Holmes?”

“What I am about to tell you must remain within the confines of this room,” I cautioned them.

After they had agreed, I informed them about the missing Beowulf manuscript. Although they seemed surprised by my news, they both remained silent, allowing me to finish. I concluded by looking at Jonathan and saying, “Mr. Holmes has informed me that your particular area of expertise is manuscripts, and he wonders if you might have heard of any offers to sell the Cotton Vitellius A XV.”

“To say I am taken aback by your news would be an understatement,” Jonathan began. “The Beowulf manuscript is a national treasure. As a scholar I have been privileged to examine it on several occasions—none recently. If it has been taken, it is in serious danger.”

“How so?” I asked.

“The museum has learned from its past mistakes and now treats these manuscripts with the appropriate degree of care. That is why I said I have not seen it recently. I can only hope that whoever purloined it knows how to handle such a fragile specimen.”

He continued, “Bear with me a minute, Doctor.” I watched as he walked confidently between two shelves and returned carrying a large wooden box. Placing it on the table, he opened it. Inside was a well-worn, oversized page, perhaps 14 by 9 inches, covered with characters from a language with which I was not familiar.

Looking at me, Jonathan explained, “This is a page from The Red Book of Hergest. Written in Welsh in 1382, it is regarded by some as the most important manuscript in the medieval period. Although that is not an opinion I am inclined to share, its importance cannot be overestimated. This manuscript takes its name from the rather distinctive color of its leather binding, but I digress.

“This was written hundreds of years after the Beowulf manuscript, and you can see the perilous state of the skin.”

“Skin?” I interrupted him.

“The Beowulf manuscript was written on vellum, as is this page, which is actually calfskin. At the time, it was considered the premier medium on which to write. Other skins and membranes were also used, but vellum was generally employed for important documents, including the Magna Carta. Thus unless it is being properly cared for, the Beowulf manuscript is in grave danger. Tell Mr. Holmes that he may rest assured I will do everything in my power to locate it, but I am not optimistic.”

“Why do you say that?”

“If the manuscript were available, I believe I should certainly have heard of it,” he gave me a rather cynical smile before adding, “As a result, I am inclined to think that whoever has made off with the manuscript was either hired to do so, or the thief is also a collector. In any event, the fact that word has not spread about its availability compels me to think a collector either stole it or commissioned the theft.”

I left the bookshop uncertain of what to feel, but I thought Holmes would find Cocilovo-Kozzi’s assessment, if nothing else, interesting.

I returned to Baker Street, and spent some time pondering how I might help Lestrade. I knew that the other two matters were out of my depth, but I felt that there must be some way that I could be of assistance to the inspector.

As I sat in my chair mulling things over, I heard the bell ring. A minute or so later, Mrs. Hudson knocked on the door. “Beggin’ your pardon, Doctor. There is a young woman at the door who insists upon seeing Mr. Holmes.”

“Holmes is not here,” I replied, “and I don’t expect him until at least dinner time, possibly later.”

“She seems quite distraught, Doctor. Perhaps you would be kind enough to have a word with her?”

“Very well, if she is content to see Holmes’ second, then by all means show her up. However, please advise her that Mr. Holmes is quite busy at the moment. If she will not be put off, then I suppose I will have to stand in for my friend.”

In no time at all, Mrs. Hudson had ushered a smartly dressed young woman into the sitting room. With her long auburn hair, brilliant blue eyes and porcelain-like complexion, she was quite stunning. Taking stock of her attire, I noticed that her emerald costume was of the finest brocade, and the pin she wore also appeared quite costly. Having risen, I crossed to her, extended my hand and said, “I am Dr. John Watson. I believe Mrs. Hudson has informed you that Mr. Holmes is not at home at present, so how may I be of service?”

At that she began to sob, I led her to a chair and did my best to comfort her. After a moment, I rang the bell. When Mrs. Hudson knocked, I gave the woman a moment to compose herself as I requested a pot of tea from my landlady.

When I returned to her, she had gathered herself a bit and began by saying, “My name is Deborah Werth from Shrewsbury in Shropshire, and you must think me an incredibly silly woman. Truth be told, Doctor, I am desperate.” With that pronouncement, she began to sob softly into her handkerchief.

“There, there, my dear. Tell me what the problem is, and I should think that Mr. Holmes and I may be able to provide some sort of remedy.”

“I am in fear for my life,” she confessed. “I have only recently wed, much to the chagrin of my family, and now I believe my husband is trying to kill me.”

“My word! But why, my dear? If you are recently married, I would assume that you were happy—at least during your courtship.”

“We were extremely happy until our wedding night, and then everything changed. George was suddenly a different person. I felt as though I no longer knew the man I had married.”

“And you say this happened in one night?”

“Yes, Doctor.”

At that point, I went downstairs to see what the delay was with the tea, and when I returned, just a few moments later, she was gone. Needless to say I was baffled by this sudden turn of events. I ran into the street, but there was no sign of her. When I returned inside, I found Mrs. Hudson ascending the stairs with the tea. I explained what had happened, and she continued up the stairs, saying I could probably do with a cup.

Mystified, I followed her and resolved to tell Holmes everything that had occurred.

A few hours later, I heard the front door open and close, and a few seconds later I heard my friend’s tread as he ascended the stairs. He entered, looking a bit grimier than he had in the morning. I said, “By the looks of it, you have had a difficult day.”

“Difficult, no,” he replied. “I would be more inclined to call it informative. Still, it must pale by comparison to your encounter with a member of the fairer sex.”

“How the deuce could you know that?” I demanded.

Looking at me, Holmes continued unperturbed, “Reddish hair, petite, quite attractive,” pausing for effect, he added, “and she departed rather suddenly.”

“Holmes, you sent her.”

“I did no such thing.”

“Then how could you possibly know all those details.”

“Mrs. Hudson told me,” he laughed. “Sometimes the simplest explanation is the true one.”

“But you’ve only just returned home. I heard the front door open and you ascending the stairs immediately after. You didn’t have time to speak to her.”

“Watson, you miss the obvious.”

“Do I?” I asked, rather annoyed with my friend.

“I came in, just as I left this morning, through the rear door. You know Mrs. Hudson prefers I use the tradesmen’s entrance when I am attired like this. She then told me everything that had transpired. It only required my opening and closing the front door rather loudly to create the illusion that I had just arrived home.”

I had to laugh in spite of myself because as Holmes had so often admonished me, I had jumped to a conclusion without considering any other possibilities. “Well, what do you make of Mrs. Werth’s visit?”

“Why was she here?”

Seeing a chance to return the favor, I asked innocently, “Why don’t you ask Mrs. Hudson?”

“Very good, Watson. However, I am afraid only you can provide me with that information.”

“She said she was newly married, that her husband had suddenly changed on their wedding night, and she now feared for her life.”

“An excellent summary. Wonderfully concise and devoid of so many of the lurid details which so often find their way into your accounts of our adventures. Did she say where she was from?”

“Yes, I believe she mentioned Shrewsbury in Shropshire.”

“Was Werth her maiden name or her married name?”

“I never thought to ask. But I feel that we must do something to assist her.”

Holmes sighed, “And so we shall.” With that, he sat and composed a telegram. He then rang for the buttons and instructed the lad to send the telegram he had just written and to wait for a response. “It may take some time, so treat yourself to cake and tea while you wait.” With that he reached into his pocket and handed the lad some coins.

The youngster then clattered down the stairs and slammed the front door as he left.

“What was that all about?”

“I am testing a theory,” he replied. “Shrewsbury in Shropshire is not an overly large village. I have simply made a rather discreet inquiry to see if members of the local constabulary, the West Mercian police, are familiar with your Miss Werth and to inquire about any weddings which may have occurred there within the past two weeks.

“By the way, Watson, did you happen to notice her wedding ring?”

I was sorely tempted to lie and say that she had worn gloves, but I knew Holmes would see right through me. “I must confess—”

Cutting me off, Holmes said, “No matter, we shall know more in a bit. Now let me wash and change my attire before supper.”

Over our meal, I asked my friend how his day had gone. “Not as well as I might have hoped. I am trying to ascertain who owns the warehouse the smugglers were using, but, for some reason, that is proving far more difficult than it should. Truth be told, Watson, I am sensing a greater force at work here than we might have at first imagined.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Consider, I can sometimes go two weeks without a case, and suddenly we have three—if you include Mycroft’s request—all of which clamor for our full attention. And this latest one—your Mrs. Werth—would make four, and it would appear to require us to leave London and travel to the Midlands in order to bring about a solution. It all seems a bit . . .”

“Overwhelming?” I suggested.

“I was thinking more along the lines of staged,” he replied. “But to what end?” my friend continued.

“If I may be so bold—”

“Reticence? Now? It hardly suits you,” laughed Holmes. “Come, out with it, Watson.”

“These other cases, while they are certainly important in their own right, pale beside the importance of the request made by your brother.”

“I agree. While I was on the docks, I looked for signs of anything unusual and discovered nothing. I also received no reports of any strange occurrences from the Irregulars. What makes it so confounding is that I have only the vaguest idea of what I am seeking. It’s not as if a ship were to dock, and the crew members announce themselves as here to disrupt the peace conference as they disembark. And yet, I cannot shake the feeling that there are strings being pulled. There is a certain pattern that seems to be emerging, but at this point, it is impossible to discern exactly what the configuration might be.”

“For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known,” I said.

“A quote from the New Testament! And an apropos one. Bravo, Watson! I would counter that for things to become clearer, I am going to have to look through my glass starkly,” he said, holding up his lens with a flourish. Although he had changed the meaning of glass entirely, I was still impressed by the nimbleness of wit my friend constantly exhibited.

We continued our discussion over cigarettes and port, when a soft knock at the door interrupted our conversation.

“Come in,” said Holmes.

At that point, the buttons entered the room, “I waited as you instructed, Mr. Holmes. Here is the reply,” he said handing my friend an envelope.

Holmes gave the lad a few more coppers. After the youngster had departed, he opened the envelope. After reading the contents over twice, he laughed and handed me the telegram, saying as he did so, “The pattern has just become a little bit clearer, I think.”

Taking the envelope from Holmes, I read:

NO FAMILY NAMED WERTH KNOWN IN SHREWSBURY. STOP. NO WEDDINGS HERE IN LAST TWO WEEKS. STOP. SGT. MCELROY.