My Sherlock Holmes Part 4

"Then who was that irritating little man?" I asked, bewildered. "Surely, you didn't marry him, too?"

"No, dear," she replied patiently. "I did not. That was Harvey May nard."

"But you said-"

"That he was dead? Indeed I thought so for many years. Then, shortly before you arrived home from work today, Harvey turned up on our doorstep. He boasted with smug arrogance that while escaping prison he had met a man by chance on the moors, forced him to exchange clothing, and then murdered him. By the time the body was found it could no longer be identified properly. The clothing seemed to speak for itself."

I cannot sufficiently describe my feelings of pity for my wife and my revulsion for Mr. Harvey Maynard. I patted Alice's hand and bade her take another sip of water. When these ministrations were, for the moment, complete, I asked her to continue her story. "Certainly, there must be more," I said.

"No," she said with difficulty. "No more." She looked away from me and shuddered.

"But what did he want?"

"Only to gloat a little about his escape."

"Surely, I must call the police."

Alice sighed. "Harvey Maynard is a very bad man," she said, "but unfortunately he is not stupid. The police will certainly not find him before he boards a s.h.i.+p bound for South America."

For a day or two I considered the fact that Alice was, in the eyes of the law if in no other way, a bigamist. Still, that seemed a small matter next to the crimes committed by Mr. Harvey Maynard. More importantly, I could not stop loving Alice just because of the indiscretions she had committed when she was young. Now Harvey Maynard was on his way to South America, where he would most likely stay; if he returned to England he ran the risk of being recognized by the police. No, he would not disturb my beloved Alice or me ever again. Maynard's departure seemed to mark the end of the incident. What I did not know at that time was that Mr. Maynard had in fact not gone to South America, and instead had forced my wife to commit an act that was as much against her nature as it was against mine.

Not many days after the appearance of Harvey Maynard Alice came to visit me for luncheon. I thought nothing of it when she arrived somewhat earlier than usual and took her customary seat in a wing-backed leather chair opposite my desk. We spoke for a moment, and then I went about my business. She seemed to take pleasure watching me work, and I admit that I took a certain amount of pleasure watching her watch me.

"Excuse me, my dear," I said as I stood. "I must get Mr. Morehouse's signature upon these papers."

She nodded, and gave me leave to continue.

I left the room and was gone for only a few moments. When I returned Alice was still seated, but reading a book she now put back into her hand bag, and smiled up at me warmly.

"That concludes the morning's work," I informed her. "Shall we dine?"

"Indeed we shall," she said and stood up.

I swung shut the safe, twirled the dial, and offered Alice my arm.

As usual, we went to Luigi's, a small restaurant on Broad Street that we both knew and liked. The beef was extraordinarily good, though the fowl was perhaps a trifle undercooked. During the course of the meal Alice attempted to tell me a hilarious story about our housemaid, Mary Anne, who had the habit of unconsciously performing little dance steps as she worked. But the story collapsed of its own weight when Alice seemed to distract herself with another thought.

"What is it, my dear?" I asked. We had not spoken of Harvey Maynard for some days, but the episode had not been forgotten.

"Nothing," Alice said with a shake of her head. Abstractedly, as if something else were still on her mind, she chewed on her beef.

That evening I found my wife in tears once again. Had some new catastrophe befallen my poor Alice?

"I have a terrible admission to make," she said as I rushed to her side.

"What?" I asked with astonishment. "Another one?"

Like light on water a smile came and went on her face.

"I did not tell you the true reason for Harvey Maynard's visit."

"Oh?" I remarked cautiously.

"He demanded I give him one thousand pounds or he would ruin our lives by reporting to the police and to the daily newspapers that I am a bigamist."

"He has not gone to South America, then?"

She shook her head. "Not yet, at any rate."

My astonishment was terrific. "You led me to believe that he'd come here only to gloat," I said, trying not to sound accusing and failing at it.

"My fondest wish was to see you uninvolved in these matters."

"You think so little of me-that I would do anything but help you as best I could?

"Say rather that I thought so much of you. That the less you knew and the less you were involved the more likely you would emerge unscathed."

Her words touched me deeply. "But one thousand pounds." I cried. "How could you hope to raise such a sum?"

"I tried p.a.w.ning my jewelry," she explained. "But bargain as I might, I could not secure nearly enough in exchange."

"And so?" I suggested, prompting her, unable to prevent curiosity from creeping into my voice.

"I saw that all avenues were closed to me but one. And my only solution was not perfect. It seemed that I had a choice between revealing you to be the p.a.w.n of a lady bigamist, or to be a man who had robbed his company of one thousand pounds. This afternoon, after I returned home from our luncheon, I gave the money I had taken from your safe to Harvey Maynard in exchange for his silence."

I had no trouble understanding her predicament, but one question remained. "As far as I am aware," I said, "the combination to the safe is known only to Mr. Morehouse and myself."

"Exactly," she admitted. "And so you become the robbery's chief suspect." Once more she buried her face in her hands.

"But how did you know the combination?" I asked, persisting.

With nearly the directness of a man she stared me straight in the eye. "I had no need of a combination," she said in a flat, unemotional voice. "I merely took the money from the open safe when you were out getting Mr. Morehouse's signature on those papers."

I nodded. Her explanation made sense. As she began to cry again I noted that on the morrow when the shortage was discovered, as Alice had already pointed out, I would certainly be the first person who would fall under suspicion.

I sat silently for a long while listening to her cry, and to the clatter of the oblivious traffic that pa.s.sed on the street outside. Mary Anne made small tapping and shuffling sounds as she danced around the table, preparing it for dinner. Anger grew in my breast, all of it directed at Mr. Harvey Maynard, my sweet Alice's despicable first husband. I wanted to a.s.sure her that between the two of us we would find a solution to our troubles, but I had not the faintest idea how to proceed.

"What did you say, dear?" I asked.

Alice sniffled. "I said that I realize that I have made many mistakes in my life. Perhaps this robbery was another. I certainly did not think of consequences, of how this theft might ruin our lives. Only one thought ran through my brain, that I must get the money somehow. I am now ready to admit my crimes to the police and go gladly to prison for bigamy and robbery, happy to be rid of that horrible man. My only regret is for how this fiasco will affect your reputation. I care nothing for my own, which is just as well. Surely when the police learn that I committed the crimes, and that you had no part in either of them, you will not suffer too badly. I still love you, my darling, and when I am released from prison I will attempt somehow to make up this travail to you."

"Perhaps it is not too late to get the money back," I suggested. "Do you know where Mr. Harvey Maynard may be found?"

She shook her head wearily.

An idea came to me. It would require a certain subtle theatricality on my part, but it might save us both. .

"There is no reason," I said, "that either of us should suffer for the actions of Harvey Maynard." I took her two small hands in mine. "Will you trust me, my dear?" I asked.

"With my life," she said.

"I am hoping our adventure will not come to that," I said. "Now, you must quickly pack and be off for your sister's in Kent."

"But-"

"Quickly, now. I will take care of everything tomorrow morning."

"Very well, dear. I leave it all to you."

While she packed I checked the train schedules. In less than an hour I put her in a hansom and she was on her way to Kensington Station.

I knew that I would arouse suspicion of my part in the robbery not only because of my knowledge of the safe's combination, but because I would not appear at my office the next morning. I had no doubt the police would look for me at home. Quickly I prepared for their arrival.

The next morning I arose early. Much to their surprise and delight I dismissed Cook and Mary Anne for the day. They did not ask me questions, but seconds later they were gone. I put on the cap and ill-fitting painter's smock I had found in the storage shed along with a gallon or two of white paint, climbed a ladder at the side of the house, and began to apply paint to the outside wall. The cap fit all right, but the smock billowed around me like a tent. Applying paint to the outside wall of my house was pleasant enough work, and I might have enjoyed it had I not known what was yet to come.

Mr. Morehouse would soon open the office and the clerks who audited the contents of the safe would report the shortage. There would be hurried discussions, first disbelieving and then furious. My absence would be noted. The police would arrive at my home, perhaps with Mr. Morehouse accompanying them. Only then would I know for sure whether my plan worked.

I did not have long to wait. A hansom drew up in front of my house followed by a drag drawn by a four-in-hand. A lean, ferretlike man leaped from the hansom, and at his direction a gang of officers emerged from the drag and spread out, surrounding the house. I stopped painting while I watched all this activity with much interest. My heart beat like a drum in my chest, and my blood churned rapids like through my body.

The man directing the activity of the police was about to knock upon the front door of my house when he was hailed by a tall slim man who approached walking at a brisk pace. The intensity of his gaze was unlike any I have seen before or since. This was, of course, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I had not had occasion to meet him, but one of my clients had pointed him out to me on the street. The policeman and Mr. Holmes spoke together for a moment, and then the policeman used the door knocker to announce his presence.

I climbed in at the second floor window, hurriedly threw off the paint er's smock, and deposited it and the workman's cap into a chest. I tore off a mustache I had applied earlier with spirit gum, and stuck it inside the lid of the chest. I had been wearing my usual suit of clothes under the painter's attire, so it was but the work of a moment to go downstairs as myself to see who had knocked.

"Mr. James Phillimore?" the policeman asked in a loud voice.

I admitted I was that person.

"I am Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. I'll have to ask you to come with me, sir."

"Why? What is the matter?"

"There has been a robbery at Morehouse & Co., sir, and you are under suspicion."

"Ridiculous."

"That remains to be seen, sir. We'd like to ask you a few questions."

"Ask away, then," I said, allowing a righteous irritation to enter my voice.

"Down at the Yard, if you please, sir."

For the sake of appearances I bl.u.s.tered for another minute or two, then retrieved my coat from the hall closet. During the preceding scene, Mr. Holmes had moved off to one side and carefully examined the walls and floor of the entryway-I could not imagine why.

"If you're quite finished here, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade said with a note of sarcasm in his voice.

"Quite," Mr. Holmes said, and rejoined us at the door.

I allowed myself to be escorted outside, and when we reached the street I glanced critically at the sky. "I suspect rain," I said. "Perhaps you would be so kind as to allow me to go back for my umbrella?"

"The house is surrounded," Lestrade said. "Escape out a window or a back door is impossible."

"The thoroughness of the Yard is well known," I said. "I will only be a moment. May I go?"

Lestrade grunted in a.s.sent.

Trying not to show the excitement I felt, I marched back into the house, the picture of affronted virtue. When the door was closed behind me, I ran up the stairs and into the room where I had left my painter's garb and other accouterments. I threw on the tentlike smock and the cap, carefully applied the mustache, and climbed out the window, where I once again began painting. A few minutes later I heard a disturbance in the street. The policemen swarmed all around and through the house as if it were a disturbed anthill. There was a great deal of interrogative shouting, followed by answers in the negative.

A policeman ran by and looked up at me. "Have you seen Mr. Phillimore?" he called.

"Oo?" I asked. "The bloke wha' lives 'ere in this 'ouse?"

"Yes, yes," the policeman said impatiently.

"Went back into 'is 'ouse then, didn' 'e?" I answered as if Mr. Phillimore's whereabouts were no concern of mine. "Wha d'ou want 'im for, theen? 'ee didn' 'ook it, did 'ee? The bloke still owes me money!"

"Never you mind," the policeman said, and ran on. Moments later the policemen drained out of the house like so much black water and soon all was silence. The policemen, their hansom and their drag were gone, to search for me far and wide, no doubt believing that I had somehow slipped through their professional fingers. And so it seemed that I was " ... never more seen in this world."

I was overjoyed to think that I had been successful in my attempt to deceive the police. All that remained now was for me to join my wife in Kent. Though I had no plans beyond that, I was certain that an opportunity to ensure our safety would present itself. Perhaps someday I would even be able to return the thousand pounds Alice and I now owed to Morehouse & Co. I was about to climb back in through the window when someone hailed me from below. "Excuse me, my good man."

I looked down and was surprised to see Mr. Sherlock Holmes staring up at me and gesticulating with his stick!

"Yes, gov?"

"I'd like to speak with you," Mr. Holmes went on. "Perhaps you would be good enough to climb down here for a moment."

I could not imagine what he might want from me, but I did what any tradesman in my position would do. I climbed down and joined him on the ground.

"You succeeded in throwing off the police," he said quietly, "but I am not so easily fooled."

"What's it all about, then, gov?" I asked, not feeling so confident. I had heard of Mr. Holmes's talents-as who in London has not?-but I continued my performance because I could think of nothing else to do.

"Come, come, Mr. Phillimore," Mr. Holmes said jocularly. "A painter without splatters of paint on his shoes is a curiosity, indeed. Don't you agree?"

In shock, I looked down at my clean shoes, freshly brushed that morning. I'm afraid I looked at Mr. Holmes rather dumbly. I had been fairly caught. All that remained, I thought, were the arrest and other legal formalities.

"Things will go better for you if you return the money," Mr. Holmes said.

"Without question," I replied. "But I do not have it."

"You know where it is, then," he accused.

I had no doubt that Harvey Maynard had it. "Only in the vaguest possible sense," I admitted.

"I see." Mr. Holmes studied me for a long moment, no doubt a.n.a.lyzing all he could see about my body for clues. Suddenly he laughed sharply once. "Leave your disguise in the bushes there," he said, "and come along with me to my rooms. I do not believe the police will disturb us. They are out looking for you at the train stations and docks."

I did not resist when he gripped my arm tightly and guided me toward Baker Street. I could not have escaped if I'd wanted to.

Mr. Holmes and I did not discuss the topic that was then uppermost in our minds. I, because I wished to organize my thoughts and the street did not seem to me to be the proper venue for any explanation I might offer. He-well, I'm sure Mr. Holmes had his reasons. I had been told that he always did. In any case, I was silent while Mr. Holmes commented on the prospects for the weather, and the various musical entertainments that were being performed in London's many theaters. It was only after we'd reached his rooms and he'd settled me in a chair with a cup of tea that I said, "I admit that I am quite curious as to how you happened to be walking past my house this morning."