What are people saying about
Tales From The Deed Box Of
John H. Watson MD?
Hugh Ashton obviously has the ability to channel into the spirit of Conan Doyle. Brilliant!
Christopher Belton
It was incredibly well done considering the monument[al] task of copying not only someone else’s style but someone who wrote a long time ago.
Jess Mountifield
I finished the book highly satisfied that not only was my beloved Sherlock portrayed with great skill but that the plot was also worthy of his intellect.
Smashwords reader
Ashton nails the mannerisms of both Holmes and Watson to a tee as well as weaving a mystery that rivals that of, dare I say it? Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, himself.
Donna Dillon
It's brilliant- very true to the original books. A great story too!
Oliver Startin
Tales From the Deed Box of
John H. Watson MD
Three Untold Stories of
Sherlock Holmes
As Discovered By
Hugh Ashton
Published by Inknbeans Press
Smashwords Edition
© 2012 Hugh Ashton and
Inknbeans Press
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are written in respectful tribute to the creator of the principal characters.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.
The Untold Stories
The Case of the Missing Matchbox
Many thanks to all who have helped in the production of these stories.
First, to my nephew Oliver Startin, whose Facebook posts prodded the Sherlock lurking in me into life
To all my friends, in real life and on Facebook, who continue to inspire and encourage me
To Arthur Conan Doyle, for his original creation of one of the most memorable friendships and one of the most extraordinary characters in English letters.
To the Beans at Inknbeans Press, especially “Boss Bean” Jo, whose good taste and good sense have been instrumental in the production of these stories.
And last, but not least, to my wife Yoshiko, whose tolerance of my eccentricities and support of my efforts has encouraged me to go forward with this.
It was with great excitement that I first learned of a deed box that had been deposited in the vaults of one of our great London banks nearly one hundred years ago, and somehow left untouched and forgotten for most of that time. My friend at the bank told me that this box had stencilled on it, in white paint, the words “JOHN H. WATSON MD” on the top, with the initials “JHW” and the legend “To be left until called for” on the side.
Though Watson is a common name, and John even more so, any medical doctor of that era bearing that evocative name surely must recall an association with that most famous of detectives, Mr Sherlock Holmes, who was at the height of his career in the decades immediately preceding the depositing of this box in the bank's vaults. The legal proceedings by which I eventually gained custody of the box are technical, and a very little interest to anyone except a lawyer (and it seems to me that even the most dedicated lawyer would find little of interest!).
On my opening of the box, I discovered a treasure trove – treasure, that is, for all who have followed the exploits of Sherlock Holmes and have been tantalised by the hints dropped by Watson concerning the cases about which he had written, but had never published. Two of these cases, Sherlock Holmes And The Case of the Missing Matchbox and Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Cormorant fall into this category. The hints dropped by Watson about these hitherto undescribed cases in his other accounts have long intrigued Holmes scholars.
When reading through the manuscripts in the deed box, it proved difficult to make a decision as to which tales to include and which to exclude. I have chosen here to include three tales which show hitherto unsuspected aspects of Holmes, some of which have been hinted at earlier by Watson.
One of the most interesting sidelights to be thrown on the career of Sherlock Holmes comes in the tale here entitled Sherlock Holmes and the Odessa Business. In this story we see a further side to Sherlock Holmes – that of his family. For a long time we have known about his reclusive and enigmatic brother, Mycroft. What was never alluded to by Watson in any of the published accounts was the existence of Evadne, his younger sister. She proves herself to be a true scion of the Holmes family, combining the energy of Sherlock with the raw mental capacity of his brother Mycroft. It is also refreshing to see familial affection between the siblings described in this story.
The second story here, the Case of the Missing Matchbox, deals with a bizarre crime, and also shows us a side of Sherlock Holmes which we might have guessed, or rather suspected, but which had remained unknown to us until this time. We have known from previous cases of his skill in fisticuffs, as well as in singlestick and the mysterious Japanese wrestling art with which he bested Professor Moriarty in his battle above the Reichenbach Falls. Not until this time have we had a chance to discover the side of Holmes that delighted in single combat, and not for its own sake, but on behalf of those unable to defend themselves.
The final story in this short collection, the Case of the Cormorant, is to my knowledge unique in the canon of tales about Holmes. Watson alludes to this tale in another story, and it seems to have been regarded by him and probably by Holmes, as an “ace in the hole” to be played in the eventuality of an attack on Holmes or on Watson’s records. It is, when one reads the story, not in the least unusual or strange that Watson should have withheld it from publication. The principal figure in the case, even had he been disguised by a pseudonym, would have been instantly recognisable to any contemporary, and it is quite likely that students of that period’s history would likewise have encountered few difficulties of identification, even had the name and the location of the events described been changed. It is printed here in the hope that it will throw some light on some of the curious political machinations that occurred at this time.
I hope to spend more time deciphering the strange, almost illegible, doctor’s writing that characterises these manuscripts, which cover many sheets of foolscap paper, now brittle with age, and requiring great care in their handling. I sincerely hope that the pleasure you obtain from reading these equals the pleasure I have had in reviving these figures from the past, who still live on in our minds and vividly as those personages we read about in our daily newspapers.
Sherlock Holmes
&
The Odessa Business
This tale, which is not mentioned at all in any of the stories that Watson released to the world, came as a complete surprise to me when I first deciphered it from Watson’s handwriting. Without a doubt, this is one of the more extraordinary revelations about the personal circumstances surrounding the great sleuth that I have so far encountered in the stories contained in the deed box. There may be more to come.
We know little of Holmes’ family life, other than the existence of brother Mycroft (The Greek Interpreter and The Final Problem). This story sheds an unexpected light on this aspect of the detective’s existence as well as showing him capable of hitherto unsuspected depths of family feeling.
-oOo-
My friend, the famous consulting detective Sherlock Holmes, was reticent about his family and his early life. Occasionally, indeed, as in his description of the affair of the Gloria Scott, he gave an account of his doings before he and I became acquainted, but my friend’s family remained for the most part an enigma to me.
Nothing, it seemed, was of import to Holmes other than his pursuit of the solutions to the puzzles and mysteries that came to our door. It was one summer morning, when the metropolis seemed almost deserted, that I became aware of yet another side to the remorseless logician that had up to that time remained unsuspected by me.
For the previous two weeks, London had been what Holmes described as “plaguey dull”, by which he signified that no major outbreak of criminal activity had occurred recently – a source of satisfaction to most law-abiding citizens, but a fount of frustration for Holmes, whose mind thrived on the crimes committed by the felons of the land and whose energies seemed replenished by the villainies of others. We were finishing an excellent breakfast, I remember, when the post was brought in by Mrs Hudson, our housekeeper, and deposited by Holmes’ elbow, where it remained unopened as he devoted his attention to toast and marmalade.
At length he threw down his napkin and crossed to the large armchair, flinging himself into it.
“Ah, Watson,” he remarked, “if only you could begin to guess at the ennui that afflicts me. Yesterday, I solved the mystery of the bisulphate of bismuth. My monograph on the regional differences in boot-nails, which should be of great service to the official police when they come to examine any footprints following the execution of a crime, is at the printer’s, and I now have that Bach partita almost by heart. If you would be good enough to open the post, and provide me with a verbal précis of each item, I would be much obliged.” So saying, he lounged back in his chair, and lit his foul-smelling pipe.
I picked up the first envelope.
“A ducal coronet,” I observed. “This letter appears to be from His Grace the Duke of Shropshire.”
“He will want to know about his son’s losses at cards,” replied Holmes, his eyes half-shut in that peculiar fashion of his, before I had even opened the envelope. “It is, of course, Colonel Sebastian Moran who has been cheating him, but the cunning devil has so many tricks and ruses that it would be almost impossible to prove it without my personally taking part in the game. And that, Watson, is something I am not prepared to do at this time.”
“Astounding!” I exclaimed after having opened the envelope and read the contents. “You are absolutely correct in your guesses as to His Grace’s wishes.”
“Hardly guesses, Watson,” he reproached me. “Put the letter on one side. We may decide to assist in this matter, if nothing more interesting or amusing comes to light.” My friend’s ideas of what events fell under those two headings were, I need hardly add, somewhat at odds with those possessed by the average Londoner. “I have long had my eye on Colonel Moran, and it would be a positive pleasure to remove him from the gaming rooms of the London clubs. Next letter, please.”
I scanned the contents. “A Mrs Henrietta Cowling suspects her husband of a dalliance with an actress at the Criterion, and requests—”
“Next, Watson. I do not dabble in these petty affairs.”
I picked up the next envelope, which gave off a faint scent that I was unable to place. I glanced at the back. “From St Elizabeth’s Academy for Young Ladies, Brighton,” I remarked.
“Read it,” commanded Holmes. He had not altered his position as he lounged in the chair, but to someone who knew him as intimately as myself, here was a subtle change in his attitude. “Extraordinary!” I burst out, when I had finished perusing the epistle. “The lady who wrote this has the same surname as yourself. Miss Evadne Holmes.”
“Indeed?” replied my friend. A strange sort of half-smile, almost unnoticeable, played about his lips. “Perhaps you would be good enough to inform me of its contents after ascertaining some more information about this establishment?” He waved a lazy hand towards the shelves of reference works.
I reached for the Almanac, and proceeded to ascertain the facts regarding St Elizabeth’s.
“Of course.” I summarized the contents of the entry I had just read. “The lady is the principal of this academic institution, where nearly one hundred young ladies are educated, founded by her to provide young ladies with a sound general education on Christian principles, in the year—”
“Enough, Watson. Proceed with the letter.”
I turned to the sheets of stiff paper that comprised the epistle. “Among the pupils there is the young Russian Archduchess Anastasia, who is completing her studies in this country. A few nights ago, three to be precise, the young lady was disturbed by a noise at the window of the room shared with ten other girls, and she saw what she described as a hideous bearded face peering through a gap in the curtains. She was, not unnaturally, frightened by this, as were the other girls in the room, and the alarm was raised, but a search by the principal and the mistresses of the academy discovered no trace of the intruder.”
“No trace?” remarked Holmes. “I had thought better of Evadne.”
I looked at him sharply, but he gave no clue as to the meaning of that utterance. “She requests your help in investigating this matter,” I concluded. “Shall I put this on one side with the Duke of Shropshire’s epistle, or consign it to the rubbish with Mrs Cowling’s?”
“Neither, Watson. I believe that the sea air at Brighton will do us both good. Let us start this morning. But before we set off, what do you learn from this letter?”
“Little, I fear. There is a strange smell about the paper that I cannot, for the life of me, place. It is written in violet ink – unusual, but not that unusual. There is little I can deduce from this.”
“The smell, I would guess, is carbolic soap.”
I put the envelope once more to my nostrils and inhaled. “Indeed it is, Holmes!” The smell was now familiar to me. “How—?”
“I doubt if Evadne’s habits have changed with middle age,” he remarked, somewhat enigmatically. “My dear fellow, you have missed many of the important points. The writer is left-handed, no?” I used what little skill in graphology I had acquired to examine the letter, and was forced to agree with Holmes’ guess, if that is what it was. “But I think you have missed the most significant point of this letter.” His smile was now plain to see. “What is the superscription?”
I examined the letter once again. “‘My dear Sherlock’,” I read. “This seems a most intimate form of address for a client to use. The lady is a relation of yours?”
“My sister,” he replied, enjoying my obvious surprise.
I had met Holmes’ brother Mycroft once, in the matter of the Greek interpreter, but Holmes had never alluded to any other brothers or sisters.
“She is, without a doubt, the intellectual equal of my brother Mycroft, and, but for the accident of her sex, would no doubt occupy the same place in government he currently holds. As it is, she advises the Treasury on matters of finance and the Foreign Office on diplomacy under a male pseudonym through Mycroft while maintaining St. Elizabeth’s Academy to occupy her idle moments. She is also, as you may or may not be aware, a contributor to various mathematical journals, again using a male alias. She recently achieved something in the nature of an academic triumph over Professor James Moriarty, in her rebuttal of his treatise upon the binomial theorem. I must confess, however, that Evadne and I have not seen each other for a number of years, not on account of any animosity between us – indeed, as children we were remarkably close, and that attachment has never entirely disappeared – but simply through indolence, chiefly on my part, I fear. It is time for me to strengthen the family bonds again, Watson, and, as I mentioned, the change of air will do us good, trapped as we are in the metropolis. Be so good as to look up a convenient time in Bradshaw.”
Before I could fulfil this request, there was a knock at our door, and Mrs Hudson announced the arrival of Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. The small man almost bounded into the room in a state of excitement.
“Halloa!” exclaimed Holmes. “What brings you here straight from your home? Help yourself to coffee, and sit yourself down in that chair. But how did your small change come to rest in the right-hand pocket of your trousers? Do you not find it inconvenient to have Mrs Lestrade arrange the contents of your pockets of a morning?”
Lestrade looked from Holmes to me and shrugged. “Another of your conjuring tricks, Mr Holmes?”
“Hardly, my dear Inspector. I have had occasion previously to notice that you are left-handed, and the present mild disarray of your garments indicates to me that you have reached across to extract something from the right-hand pocket, thereby disarranging your clothes. The object would hardly be your watch, that I see is placed in a place convenient for your left hand, and I scarcely imagine that you would need your keys when you have come to pay us a visit. I therefore deduce that you found it necessary to reach into that pocket to extract some money for the purpose of paying the fare of the hansom I heard draw up a few minutes ago.”
“And how did you know that I had come straight from my home?”
“Tut, man. I cannot imagine Inspector Lestrade entering the hallowed precincts of Scotland Yard with flecks of shaving soap behind one ear, and one boot improperly laced. But when you are visiting the humble abode of Sherlock Holmes, such matters are presumably of no importance...”
Lestrade laughed ruefully. “You are too much for me,” he confessed. “But I admit that your assistance would be most useful in a case that was brought to my attention by a telegram brought to my house this morning, followed by a longer dispatch from the Yard.”
As he spoke there was another knock on the door, and Mrs Hudson presented a telegram to Holmes.
“Ha!” he ejaculated, ripping open the envelope, and scribbling a few words on the reply form. “Take this to the post-office, if you would, Mrs Hudson. You were saying, Inspector?” as Mrs Hudson left the room.
“Yes, Mr Holmes. I would greatly value your knowledge of European matters in helping me with this affair. It concerns an educational establishment for young ladies in Brighton—”
“St Elizabeth’s, I believe?” smiled Holmes.
Lestrade gave a visible start in his seat. “How the deuce do you know that?” he said.
Holmes smiled. “I believe we have received telegrams this morning referring to the same incident. Maybe you have a little more information from the report to which you alluded than do I at this present time? Perhaps we could travel to Brighton together, and you could occupy the time by recounting the facts as you know them? Oh, and if you wish to remove that shaving soap to which I alluded previously, feel free to avail yourself of this establishment’s ablutionary facilities.”
-oOo-
We arrived at Brighton at about midday. Lestrade had informed us of the events at St Elizabeth’s as we sat in our first-class carriage. It seemed that the mysterious bearded visitor mentioned in Miss Holmes’ letter had been seen again at ten o’clock the previous evening, again by the young Archduchess, in the same way as before, peering through the curtains. Again the alarm had been raised, and a search party sent out, aided this time by several of the male teaching staff and the gardener, who had been requested to stay on the premises that evening by Miss Holmes, contrary to usual custom.
This time, the search had not been fruitless. A body whose countenance, as far as could be ascertained, resembled that seen by the girls earlier in the evening had been found by the French master, Monsieur Leboeuf, lying in a flowerbed, on the opposite side of the building to the window where the face had been observed. Firmly implanted in the chest of the dead man, and seemingly the cause of his death, was a long paperknife, subsequently identified as the property of the principal herself.
“Intriguing,” Holmes had remarked, listening to Lestrade’s narrative, his eyes closed, and his fingers steepled in that characteristic pose of his. “And what does the owner of the knife have to say about this?”
“Miss Holmes,” replied Lestrade, “insists that although the knife is hers, it had disappeared from the desk in her study some two or three days before – she cannot be exactly certain – and that she had no idea where it was until it reappeared as the apparent murder weapon. By the by, it is curious, Mr Holmes, that you and she should share the same name.”
“I believe it is common,” replied Holmes sardonically, “for a brother and sister to share a name.”
Lestrade stared at Holmes in astonishment, and the notebook from which he had been reading dropped from his hand. “I had no idea...” he stammered. “You have a personal interest in this case, then?”
“You requested my assistance on this case,” replied Holmes coldly. “I shall give it to the best of my ability, regardless of any family ties that may be present.”
“Just so, just so,” muttered Lestrade, obviously embarrassed.
I was anxious to restore some semblance of social ease to the gathering. “Perhaps you can tell us what is known about the murdered man?” I suggested to Lestrade.
The police inspector retrieved his notebook and started reading from it, with an obvious sense of relief at being delivered from his gaffe. “From papers found on him, the dead man appears to have been a Russian, by the name of Plekhoff. His passport shows he entered England a week ago. As of this morning, the Sussex police have been unable to discover where he has been staying.”
“Of course, there is no reason for them to assume that he was staying locally,” remarked Holmes. “The train service to London from Brighton is a particularly good one, and the last trains leave a little before midnight, I believe.”
“True, true,” agreed Lestrade.
“Have any arrests been made?” asked Holmes.
“If you are concerned for your sister,” replied Lestrade, with an obvious attempt at reconciliation, “I am happy to tell you that the Sussex police saw no grounds for her arrest simply as a result of the murder weapon having belonged to her.”
“Thank you,” replied Holmes, and gazed out of the window. Without turning his head, he addressed us both. “May I trouble you both to remain silent until we reach Brighton? I wish to consider this matter.” So saying, he pulled out his pipe and proceeded to almost asphyxiate both of us until we arrived at the Brighton London Road station, and were able to pull fresh air into our suffering lungs.
-oOo-
We were greeted by Inspector Steere of the Sussex Constabulary, a ruddy-faced guardian of the law of the old school.
“Well pleased to have you with us,” he said to Lestrade. “These foreign doings to do with Russia are somewhat out of our league, and we welcome help from London on these matters.”
“You suspect that the Russians are involved, then?” asked Holmes.
Steere looked inquiringly at Holmes, and Lestrade hastened to introduce us.
“Well, I’ve heard of you, Mr Holmes, and you too, Dr Watson, and I am well pleased to see both of you here, too. In answer to your question, it stands to reason, doesn’t it, that it’s all connected with the Rooskies? That young Archduchess and all that?”
“Quite so,” replied Holmes, though I knew from his expression that his words belied his true feelings on the matter. “May we visit the scene of the crime?”
“The cab’s waiting, sir. The body is just where it was found.”
When we arrived at St. Elizabeth’s, a handsome red-brick mansion, I was somewhat surprised that Holmes made no immediate attempt to meet his sister, but allowed himself to be led immediately to the scene where the body had been discovered and still lay, covered by a tarpaulin cloth, that was withdrawn by two constables as we approached.
The dead man appeared to have been somewhat short of stature, slightly built. His most distinguishing feature was the heavy beard that surrounded his face. Holmes dropped to one knee, and whipped out his powerful magnifying lens, peering through it at the body, as well as at the hilt of the ornamental paperknife that protruded from the cadaver’s chest, surrounded by a small brown stain on the man’s shirtfront, presumably dried blood.
“An interesting weapon,” I remarked, looking at the curiously wrought Oriental workmanship.
“Turkish, according to Miss Holmes,” replied Steere.
“She has positively identified it as hers?” asked Lestrade.
“As positive as anyone could be under the circumstances, sir. We have no formal statement from her as yet.”
Holmes appeared to have finished his inspection of the corpse, and was now examining the ground around it. “Has the body been moved?” he asked.
“No, sir,” replied Steere. “We were at great pains to leave everything as it was found ready for the gentlemen from London. The only thing we did was to empty his pockets.”
“So I observe from the mess you fellows made with your footprints,” Holmes remarked a little testily. “I shall want to see what you found later on. Very good,” he added, standing up, “I’ve seen enough here. Let us now examine the window where this man allegedly showed his face.”
“‘Allegedly’, sir? Surely there is no doubt. Her Highness and several of the other girls have testified already to having seen him looking through the window.”
“As you will, Inspector. Of what room is this the window, by the way?”
“This is the principal’s study, sir,” replied the Sussex inspector.
We marched round to the back of the building, where a constable was standing. “We thought it best to take no chances,” said Steere. “There might be something to be learned here, we felt.”
“Quite right, Inspector,” replied Holmes. “This may make up for your men’s blundering around near the body.” Once more he dropped to the ground, this time lying full length on the damp soil, heedless of his garments, as he peered at the marks in the flower-bed.
“Ha! As I thought,” he remarked at length, arising from his recumbent position, and stretching himself to peer through the window. He picked something that appeared to be some kind of dark tangled thread from the creeper that covered the wall beside the window, placing it in an envelope with an expression of satisfaction
“You never change, do you, Sherlock?” came a cultivated feminine voice from behind us. “Always dirtying your clothes, peeking at things that don’t belong to you, and keeping your secrets to yourself.”
I turned to face the speaker. The family resemblance was obvious at a glance. Miss Evadne Holmes was a true feminine counterpart of her brother, with the same aquiline nose, deep-set eyes and thin compressed lips. Her strong face would have been somewhat unattractive in a woman, had it not been tempered by a flash of obvious humour that was often lacking in her brother’s countenance.
“Evadne!” he exclaimed. The pleasure at meeting his sister seemed unfeigned, and showed a facet of his character hitherto unseen by me. “Excuse me,” he apologised to her. “A little of your flower-bed appears to have adhered to my hands. May I clean myself up a little? And then, Inspector, if we may examine the contents of the dead man’s pockets?”
Holmes allowed himself to be led by his sister, presumably to some hot water and towels, for he emerged some minutes later looking somewhat less like a rural ploughman.
“Yes, indeed, Russian, as you say,” he remarked, examining the papers headed by the Romanoff double eagle. “And, as I thought, Lestrade.” He held up a scrap of pasteboard. “Here we have the return half of a railway ticket from Victoria Station dated yesterday. He was intending to return last night. It would be singularly useless to begin looking for his lodgings in this area. And this here,” sniffing at a small packet. “Yes, Russian tobacco, I have no doubt. Wouldn’t you agree, Lestrade?” holding out the paper for the other’s inspection.
“I would have no idea about that,” replied the policeman. “I have little experience of these things.”
“I would lay pennies to a pound I am correct,” my friend answered. “A small penknife, of cheap German manufacture, and this bottle. What does it contain, Inspector?”
“We have had no time to submit it to analysis, sir,” pointed out Steere, somewhat nettled.
“Just so, just so,” replied Holmes, conciliatory. “I notice the bottle is sealed, and the seal is unbroken. My guess is that it is some sort of poison.”
“We’d observed the unbroken seal, too, sir, and truth to tell, I’d made the same guess as yourself.”
“And that appears to be all, doesn’t it? Other than this piece of cardboard printed in Russian, which I cannot read. Our late friend travelled light, it would appear. I would like to speak with the Archduchess in the presence of one of the academic staff, if I may.”
“I’m sure that can be arranged, Mr Holmes,” replied Lestrade. “If I may, sir, under the circumstances, I feel it would be wisest if the member of staff were someone other than your sister?”
“Naturally,” replied Holmes, easily. “I would have suggested the same thing myself if you had not mentioned it.”
-oOo-
About ten minutes later, the two police inspectors, Holmes and myself were seated in a small room together with Miss Simpson, who had been introduced to us as the senior history mistress.
“I trust that you will say or do nothing that will alarm the poor child further,” she requested, showing a degree of compassion for her charges that was at odds with her stern forbidding appearance.
“I will endeavour to exercise all the tact and restraint of which I am capable,” replied Holmes, with the easy good humour for which he was famous.
The girl was shown in, and we all rose. Truly, I think I have hardly ever seen a more beautiful and nobly self-possessed young woman than the Archduchess Anastasia. She was dressed in the drab grey uniform of the school, but she entered as though she had been decked in a ball gown and a diamond tiara. There was something regal in the way she sat, and faced us with a level gaze with calm grey eyes from within a halo of golden hair.
“Your Highness,” Holmes began. “I have a few simple questions to ask you, and though I am not of the police and you are therefore under no obligation to answer my questions, it would be in the interests of justice if you would do me the favour of indulging my curiosity.” She bowed her graceful head in assent. “Can you tell us the exact time at which you saw the man at the window?”
“You mean on the second occasion? Last night?” Her English had only the faintest trace of a foreign accent. Holmes nodded. “Yes. It was exactly ten o’clock. The stable clock had just begun striking ten, and that is the time when we are required to put out our lights. I was just moving to snuff out my candle when I saw the face at the window.”
“Did you recognise the man?”
“Of course not!”
“I am sorry. That was not my meaning. What I meant to ask you was whether the man you saw last night was the same as the man whom you saw previously looking through your window.”
“I am sure of it. The same bearded face appeared on both occasions. How can you doubt my word on it?”
“I am not doubting your word, Your Highness. I simply wished to be certain of the matter. I have only one more question for you at present, which may be difficult for you to answer, but I must ask it. Are you aware if you, or any of your family, are the target of any anarchist or nihilist threats?”
A slight tremor filled her voice as she replied. “Yes, indeed. My father has been the subject of at least two attempts on his life, and it has been feared by the Russian authorities that my sisters and I may also be the target of the anarchists. I am not frightened of them, though.” These were brave words, but they failed to carry conviction, to my ears, at least. Holmes, on the other hand, seemed satisfied.
“Thank you, Your Highness. That will be all for the present.”
She rose, and we all rose with her as she left the room, escorted by the formidable Miss Simpson.
“I think we have it now, Mr Holmes, thanks to you,” said Lestrade, “though I have no doubt we would have reached the same conclusion without your help.”