Sherlock Holmes and The Twelve Thefts of Christmas E-Book

Tim Major

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Seitenzahl: 408

Beschreibung

A thrilling chase as Sherlock Holmes is set a fiendish puzzle by Irene Adler over a snowy London Christmas, in this stunningly packaged mystery. Sherlock Holmes's discovery of a mysterious musical score initiates a devious Christmas challenge set by Irene Adler, with clues that are all variations on the theme of 'theft without theft', such as a statue missing from a museum found hidden in the room it was taken from. In the snowy London lead-up to Christmas, Holmes's preoccupation with the "Adler Variations" risks him neglecting the case of his new client, Norwegian arctic explorer Fridtjof Nansen, who has received a series of threats in the form of animal carcasses left on his doorstep. Could they really be gifts from a strange spirit that has pursued Nansen since the completion of his expedition to cross Greenland? And might this case somehow be related to Irene Adler's great game?

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Leave us a Review

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Author’s Note

Acknowledgements

About the Author

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Sherlock Holmes:The Breath of GodGuy Adams

Sherlock Holmes:The Patchwork DevilCavan Scott

Sherlock Homes:The Army of Dr MoreauGuy Adams

Sherlock Holmes:The Labyrinth of DeathJames Lovegrove

Sherlock Holmes:A Betrayal in BloodMark A. Latham

Sherlock Holmes:The Thinking EngineJames Lovegrove

Sherlock Holmes:The Legacy of DeedsNick Kyme

Sherlock Holmes:Gods of WarJames Lovegrove

Sherlock Holmes:The Red TowerMark A. Latham

Sherlock Holmes:The Stuff of NightmaresJames Lovegrove

Sherlock Holmes:The Vanishing ManPhilip Purser-Hallard

Sherlock Holmes:The Spirit BoxGeorge Mann

Sherlock Holmes:The Spider’s WebPhilip Purser-Hallard

Sherlock Holmes:The Will of the DeadGeorge Mann

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Sherlock Holmes and the Twelve Thefts of Christmas

Print edition ISBN: 9781803361918

E-book edition ISBN: 9781803361932

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

www.titanbooks.com

First edition: October 2022

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

© Tim Major 2022. All Rights Reserved.

Tim Major asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

For Rose

CHAPTER ONE

December 15th, 1890

The first flakes of snow had begun to fall, glowing under the lamps that had only recently been lit. By the time I rang upon the bell of No. 221b Baker Street they had become a flurry, and my shoulders were dusted with white.

The door was answered immediately by Mrs. Hudson, the steadfast landlady of the house. A rather sparse-looking wreath that hung from the door knocker rocked with the motion, and a sprig or two fell free.

“Dr. Watson!” she exclaimed, taking my gloved hand and kneading it. “I’m ever so glad you’re here.”

“Why?” I asked in alarm. The previous occasion she had expressed a need for me to come to Baker Street was at a time that Holmes had appeared fatally ill. Though his state had turned out to be a ruse related to a case, he had fooled not only his housekeeper, but myself to boot. At this moment I was singularly unprepared for any similar shock.

Mrs. Hudson’s face fell. “Because it is Christmastime.”

“Oh.” Feeling rather foolish, I entered the hallway and made a show of knocking the snow from my jacket.

Mrs. Hudson remained at the doorway, gazing out at the street. I watched her from behind as she leaned on the door frame, her face tilting up to look at the meandering snowflakes.

“If I may say, you appear somewhat preoccupied,” I said. During the years I had lived in these premises I had become fond of the landlady, and I was somewhat attuned to her behaviour. “Are you at all unwell at present, Mrs. Hudson?”

She stepped back, pushed the door closed gently, then turned to face me. Her expression was inscrutable. I saw that she was clutching some slips of paper to her chest, and wondered whether they might not be the cause of her malaise.

“Quite well,” she said. “How is Mrs. Watson, may I ask?”

“Quite well,” I said, then realised I had parroted her own words. I added, “She is very much looking forward to Christmas. The decorations have been hung, the lighted candles are placed in the windows daily, and any carollers are rewarded most generously. Mary adores the Yuletide season.”

Mrs. Hudson nodded thoughtfully.

I could not think what to add. I glanced again at the emaciated wreath, then turned to the stairs that led up to Holmes’s rooms. Uncertain whether Mrs. Hudson required more from our awkward conversation, I said, “Well, then. I had better…” and cleared my throat.

I retreated up the staircase, but Mrs. Hudson closed the door and followed me – quite unnecessarily given that I could hardly have forgotten the way, and there could be no reason that Holmes might require any announcement of my presence by a third party. So, it was I who knocked on his door, pushed it open and entered, and it was Mrs. Hudson who lingered behind me on the threshold as if she were the visitor and not I.

Sherlock Holmes was sitting in almost darkness. Though he was upon the sofa by the fireplace, the fire was not lit and the air within the sitting-room was decidedly colder than downstairs. Holmes’s knees were drawn up to his chin and his arms wrapped around them, and he stared directly ahead at the empty chair opposite, his pipe protruding from his mouth like a sharp beak. He did not look at me and only seemed to register that he was not alone in the room when Mrs. Hudson tutted and began to clear breakfast dishes from the table. Even then, he only turned his head and watched me with a single raised eyebrow.

“How are you, Holmes?” I asked.

His only response was a shrug. He chewed on the stem of his pipe for several more seconds.

Then, most abruptly, a transformation overtook him. His limbs unfolded and he leapt from his seat. His eyes became alert and glistening.

“My good Watson!” he cried, taking my hand and shaking it rapidly. “What brings you to my door? I hope that you have something for me?”

“As a matter of fact, that is precisely the reason for my coming,” I said, reaching into the inner pocket of my jacket to retrieve an envelope, which I offered to him.

Holmes tore open the envelope and unfolded the card within. His lips moved as he read the words: Our Yuletide best wishes, with all love and friendship, Mary and John Watson.

“It is a Christmas card,” Holmes said blankly.

I laughed. “My word, Holmes! Your deductive facilities have no bounds.” Then, noticing his crestfallen state, I said, “It is the done thing, to send Christmas wishes to one’s friends, is it not?”

Once again, Holmes shrugged his shoulders. “I had hoped—” he began, then stopped.

Now I realised what he had meant by ‘I hope you have something for me’. He had hoped not for a friendly gesture, but something to occupy his mind. I had witnessed his lethargy many times in between cases; his ability to all but shut down his bodily processes while waiting for something new to inspire his imagination. I wondered how long he had been sitting on the sofa, smoking and staring at the empty chairs which would be occupied by myself and by new clients.

He placed the card on the table in the centre of the room and wandered to the window. Outside, the snowfall was becoming ever denser.

“I suppose that you consider festive traditions to be meaningless, or even nonsensical,” I said.

Without turning, Holmes said, “I have little stake in others’ behaviour when it comes to such things. I appreciate that there are a good many rehearsed actions which provide great delight to the public at large but which, as you rightly suggest, rather baffle me. They may do as they please. But what irks me is the consequence of this preoccupation: the coming to a halt of every other activity. Can Christmastime really be so absorbing that the thief prefers to put off his plans until the new year, the murderer to enjoy the seasonal company of the man or woman who will soon become his prey?”

“You would prefer that crimes were committed than not, then? That heinous behaviour was manifested on Christmas Day itself?”

Holmes turned, and the gleam in his eyes was answer enough. Then his attention moved to a point over my shoulder. I looked around to see Mrs. Hudson lifting my Christmas card from the table and nodding slowly as she read its contents. It was with a rush of guilt that I realised I ought to have brought a second card to give to her.

“Well, I won’t bother you any longer,” she murmured, and left by the door.

I glanced at Holmes.

“She has been behaving in this unhappy manner since the beginning of December,” Holmes remarked in answer to my unspoken question.

“Is it loneliness, pure and simple?” I asked.

“How could I possibly know?” Holmes snapped. Then his manner softened. “But I am glad you are here, Watson. Perhaps when you are done you might call in on her, spend a little time downstairs in her rooms. She has always enjoyed your company.”

I nodded. “Very well. I suppose a doctor’s bedside manner can be deployed in a variety of situations.”

We both turned sharply as the door crashed open. Mrs. Hudson was framed in the doorway once more. She glanced apologetically at Holmes’s chemistry bench which had been struck violently, then she reached for the handle, testing the swing of the door and frowning at its brass hinges.

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson?” Holmes said with infinite weariness.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, remembering her original intent. “I have something for you! I ought to have given it to you earlier, which was my reason for coming up here in the first place. I’d been on my way upstairs to see you, you see, when Dr. Watson called. And then it quite went out of my head.” She glanced at the unlit fire and tutted. “Lord, it’s still so cold in here. It won’t do you any good at all, Mr. Holmes.”

Both Holmes and I looked at the slips of paper that she held before her.

Warily, Holmes asked, “Are they Christmas cards, too?”

“No.”

“A gift from you to demonstrate your festive good wishes, then?”

“No. Not my own good wishes, at least.” She held out the items to Holmes. “It’s two tickets to the Theatre Royal – and box seats at that!”

Holmes’s eyes raised to the ceiling.

Having handed over the tickets, Mrs. Hudson bustled to the fireplace and set to lighting the woodpile already prepared in the grate.

“But that is a wonderful gift!” I remarked, hoping to rouse Holmes from his ungrateful response. “Who has sent them, Mrs. Hudson?”

“A Mr. Jacchus,” she said brightly. “I knew I didn’t know any Mr. Jacchus, but there the envelope was, mixed in with my own post, with my own name at the top. I’d opened the envelope a moment before I registered that it was a ‘care of’ address, and that alongside it was Mr. Holmes’s name. And then I came rushing up here. Or rather, I came rushing out of my kitchen, and then the bell rang – that was you, Dr. Watson. And then we both—”

“Thank you,” I said, interrupting her. “We were all present for the remainder of the story.”

I turned to Holmes. With a conscious attempt to prevent any hint of petulance in my tone, I said, “This Mr. Jacchus is certainly a generous friend. Box seats, indeed! Might I ask who he is, Holmes?”

“Matthew Jacchus,” Holmes replied. “A jeweller with premises in Hatton Garden. He is no friend of mine, but a former client.”

I suspected I was unable to hide my satisfaction. “A successful case, I presume, to warrant such a show of gratefulness?”

Holmes nodded. He turned the tickets over in his hands.

“Was there no note?” he asked.

“None,” the landlady replied from beside the fireplace, within which was now a lively flame.

Holmes put out his hand again. “Then the envelope, if you please.”

Mrs. Hudson turned around on her knees. She looked down at her hands, her brow creasing as she registered that they were now empty. Next, she patted the pockets of her housecoat. Then, slowly, her gaze went back to the fire, which now blazed merrily.

Holmes groaned.

“I was distracted,” Mrs. Hudson began, gabbling in her haste, “and it was so cold in here – you oughtn’t to let it get like that, Mr. Holmes. There’s no kindling in the basket – that’s my fault, of course – and in that case the only way to bring a fire out quickly is with paper spills, and I suppose it’s an automatic thing for me to use whatever’s to hand. And the tickets are the gift, aren’t they? The envelope was right there in my hand – you see that it was a natural enough—”

Holmes raised a hand and she stopped speaking immediately, blinking rapidly.

I went to the fire and bent to look into the grate. I could make out black specks in the embers that might once have been paper, but nothing more. I shook my head.

With a show of great patience that must have cost him a great deal, Holmes asked, “Can you recall what was written on the envelope, Mrs. Hudson?”

“Certainly,” she replied instantly. “There was my name, and the address—”

“I meant on its rear.”

“Ah. Yes. It read: ‘To Holmes. With compliments. M. Jacchus.’”

“Nothing more than that?”

“I don’t think so.”

Holmes’s lips pursed, and I knew he was stifling an urge to berate her.

Partly to distract him from his ire, I said, “But what is the great mystery, Holmes? A gift from a grateful client may be somewhat unexpected, but it is hardly to be treated with suspicion.”

“Quite the contrary, in this case,” Holmes retorted. “Everything related to Matthew Jacchus is to be treated with the utmost suspicion.”

As he had spoken he had returned to the sofa to perch there as before. I went to my usual chair, and Mrs. Hudson drifted to the less comfortable cane-backed chair and sat, all the while glancing at each of us in turn as though she expected at any moment to be told to leave. We waited for Holmes to continue.

“Jacchus came to me in February this year hoping to clear his name,” Holmes said. “He had been tasked with repairing a brooch of considerable value, on behalf of a member of the Norfolk Lennoxes, whose shrewd investments have increased the fortune of that family threefold in recent years. The brooch was of a particularly distinct design, a stunted cross with emeralds embedded in each of the four limbs, a sapphire in the centre, and pearls set between the limbs. I may be no great authority on matters of taste, but I suspect it is rather a crass demonstrator of sheer wealth, as opposed to an altogether successful scheme. What is important is that it was still in Jacchus’s possession when a story came to light that some unknown operator had attempted to sell a brooch of the very same description to a prospective buyer in Worthing, who – unfortunately for the seller – happened to have a close connection to the Lennox family.”

“Then had it been stolen from Jacchus’s premises?” I asked. “Or are you going to tell us that he was guilty of attempting to sell it after all?”

“Neither,” Holmes replied, and a sly smile grew on his face; it was the first time he had displayed any enthusiasm since my arrival. “He still had the brooch, but when it was inspected by an expert, it was proven to be a forgery.”

Mrs. Hudson leaned forward in her chair. “And so he came to you because he was suspected of being a forger himself?”

“Indeed.”

“And you proved that he was not?”

“I did nothing of the sort,” Holmes replied in a scandalised tone.

“Whyever not?” I asked. “And furthermore, why would Jacchus now be grateful if he remained accused of forgery despite your efforts?”

Holmes tapped his index fingers together. “Because he is a forger.”

He watched us both, appearing to enjoy our confusion immensely.

“Matthew Jacchus has routinely dabbled in forgery, usually of artefacts of middling value. I have known of his activities for many years, but they did not concern me until he requested my services.”

“But why did he—” I began.

“Because he was innocent.”

I let out a groan of dismay.

“Allow me to explain,” Holmes said. “Jacchus was, and remains, a forger. However, I was able to prove that he did not forge this particular item. If nothing else, his skills were not up to the job. I will not bore you with the details of a drawn-out procedure, but it was the case that the true brooch had been exchanged for a copy several days before it was entrusted to Jacchus – that is, it was the forgery that was entrusted to him – and he worked diligently upon its repair, never suspecting that it was not the real item.”

“Then did you recover the real brooch?” Mrs. Hudson asked breathlessly.

“No,” Holmes replied, with no hint of regret. “I traced it as far as Vilnius, where it was sold in secrecy to a minor member of the Hapsburg royal family – in whose possession, I presume, it remains.”

“Then what of Matthew Jacchus?” I asked.

“His innocence was proven by a process by which I proved to the police that he was not equal to the task of its forgery. You may consider my method rather a roundabout way of concluding a case, but it provided a useful diversion during a period of little else to interest me. I simply made contact with an artisan, learned the trade and created my own copy of the brooch.”

“What?” I exploded.

Holmes waved a hand. “It was no particular challenge, merely a dedicated application of the training I had received in so short a time. Furthermore, the jewels were real, though far from as high quality as those in the original piece. All the same, it was enough to trick Jacchus into believing the real brooch had been retrieved, during an assessment he performed under the watchful eye of Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. That assessment in turn was enough to persuade the police that Jacchus was a relative amateur of his criminal craft, and on this occasion at least, entirely innocent.”

I stared at my friend in amazement. More than his claim to have learned to create fine – albeit forged – jewellery, what astounded me was his casual dismissal of that same ability.

Mrs. Hudson fidgeted in her seat, clearly less impressed than I. “What about the Lennoxes?” she asked. “You might have concluded your case, but they didn’t get their brooch.”

Holmes smiled. “It is hardly my concern, unless a member of that family happens to request my services. But as it was, they were entirely satisfied with the outcome, though it is Lestrade who must claim credit for it. What occurred next was an accident, or rather a series of accidents, the likes of which are something of a speciality of Scotland Yard. Somehow or other, my own forgery made its way into the hands of the Lennoxes. A mix-up with the boxes of evidence, perhaps, or some headstrong junior officer making a wrong assumption and wishing to close a case. Would you have me resent the fact that my humble copy of that fine yet ugly brooch was equal to the scrutiny of its owner? For I find that I harbour no regrets whatsoever.”

I shook my head and laughed. “Holmes, you are a true wonder.”

Holmes nodded, as though this were simply a statement of fact. “While Jacchus’s innocence had been proved, and therefore my obligation to my client fulfilled, he was hardly grateful. His standing among the criminal underworld was much reduced when word got out about the trick I had played on him. For the rest of the year to date, he has been reduced to legitimate work buying, selling and repairing jewellery. In short, his preferred career has been cut short.” Holmes paused, then added, “Now that I think of it, he has failed to pay me for my services. So you see why I am sceptical that he might send me a Christmas gift of tickets to the opera. Now, Mrs. Hudson, tell me more about this envelope.”

His landlady frowned and looked again at the roaring fire. “What more is there to tell?”

“The handwriting, for a start. What were its distinguishing features?”

“I don’t remember.”

I saw my friend’s clasped fingers tighten upon one another. “Was the name a signature?”

Mrs. Hudson considered this. “No.”

“Then was it printed neatly, or in a more flowing hand?”

Mrs. Hudson scratched her forehead. “How can I be expected to recall that?”

The veins stood out on Holmes’s temple. It occurred to me that it must be unbearable for him to hold such a conversation with somebody unversed in the business of close observation.

“Was the J larger than its neighbours, for example?” he asked with affected patience.

She shook her head slowly. “It was the same size.” Then she clapped a hand to her cheek. “Oh! It was printed!”

“You already stated that it was not a flowing style.”

“No, no – I mean it was typewritten.”

My friend’s head jerked up immediately. “Good. Now, the characters themselves. Were they all upper case, or a mixture?”

I pitied poor Mrs. Hudson, whose mind was surely unused to such intense deployment. Her nose wrinkled and her eyes closed in deep thought. Finally, she pronounced, “A mixture. I’m certain of it.”

“And the size of the envelope?”

Her hands lifted and she made two ‘L’ shapes to describe an oblong that was long and narrow.

“And were there any sharp creases or furrows along its length?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Then the machine was almost certainly a Remington No. 5,” Holmes muttered.

“How can you possibly determine that?” I demanded.

“Some of the earlier models can be eliminated due to the lack of a shift key which triggers a change of letter case,” Holmes began in a matter-of-fact tone, “and the narrow carriage of the popular No. 2 model would not allow the insertion of an envelope so large. The No. 3 might be a contender if it had ever been put onto the market, though its far wider carriage would have introduced creases in the length of the envelope. What is important is that the machine used is the most up-to-date model, and therefore far more expensive than the economical No. 4. May I examine your fingers, Mrs. Hudson?”

As if it were an automatic response, the housekeeper held out her hands. Holmes jumped up, took a magnifying glass from his bench, then returned to kneel before her, scrutinising the tips of her fingers. Presently he nodded in satisfaction and rocked back on his haunches, then sat cross-legged on the rug, looking for all the world like a well-behaved child at the feet of his mother.

“Well?” I asked.

“Underwood,” Holmes replied quietly.

“I beg your pardon?”

“There are faint traces of blue ink, which is evidently from an Underwood ribbon.”

I almost challenged him on the point, but then decided against it. I could have no hope of contesting Holmes in such areas of expertise.

“Is that uncommon?” I asked. “Underwood is a perfectly usual brand, I believe.”

Holmes nodded. “But not of this rich pigment.” He offered the magnifying glass to me, but I declined with a shake of my head. “The variety sold in Europe is distinctly paler, to trained eyes. The ribbon used in this case is direct from New York City, whereas the Remington No. 5 was designed specifically to meet the needs of the European market. We have learned much about the sender of these tickets, in addition to the high value of the box seats themselves.”

We all looked at the tickets, which were still on the table.

“I confess I’d almost forgotten about them,” I said. “So, Holmes, what do you make of them?”

“Evidently, they represent a trap,” Holmes replied.

Mrs. Hudson’s hand went to her mouth. “Then you must not go to the opera!”

“On the contrary,” Holmes retorted.

“But you have just stated that somebody hopes to ensnare you when you are there!” I exclaimed.

Holmes rose to his feet. “Quite. I have longed for a diversion such as this.” He went to the table and examined the tickets once again. Then, in as casual tone as could be imagined, he asked, “Will you stay for dinner and then join me at the theatre tonight, Watson?”

I thought of my wife, Mary, who was at home waiting for me. Given the manner of our meeting in the very room in which I now stood, she had always been resolute in understanding the need to indulge Holmes in his whims, even when they promised to be dangerous.

“I would be glad to.”

CHAPTER TWO

Though it took no little amount of convincing by Holmes, the front-of-house staff at the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane were persuaded to allow us to enter the building fifteen minutes before the doors were opened to the public at large. Holmes moved around the periphery of the lobby – though what he was searching for, I had no idea – and then strode in the direction of the auditorium, sweeping past the unfortunate fellow whose task it was to check tickets and who had not been alerted to our early presence. I proffered our tickets and reassured the man that all was well, then hurried after my friend.

I had spent evenings at this very theatre on many occasions, but I had never seen it in want of an audience. When I had ascended the stairs and entered the auditorium by a door to the upper circle, I was immediately gripped by a sense of vertigo that I had never experienced before, which seemed inspired as much by the emptiness of the vast space as my altitude above the stalls and stage. The giant lamps that hung from the ceiling were all lit, and in the absence of human bodies this light turned every part of the auditorium – seats, panelling, gilt decoration and all – a bright and somewhat sickly amber colour.

I gathered my wits and cast around for any sign of Holmes, then, realising that I held the clue in my own hand, checked our tickets to determine which box was ours. It was the rightmost of the row, and sure enough I found Holmes within it, standing in its direct centre, his arms folded and regarding the part of the stage visible in front of the lowered curtain in a fixed manner, as if it were an enemy fortification that he intended to capture.

“Rather a good view, isn’t it?” I said, peering over the low wall of the box.

“Do you mean a good view of the stage, or a good view of us sitting within this cage?” Holmes retorted.

“The former,” I replied. Then I added, “Are you suggesting that we may be attacked from without?”

Holmes shook his head. “It is only clear that somebody wishes me to be installed here this evening. I do not fear an attack.”

“That doesn’t quite answer my question, Holmes. When you say you do not fear an attack, do you mean that you think there will be no attack, or simply that you are not fearful?”

Holmes behaved as if he had not heard me. He leaned so far over the wall of the box that I darted forward to grasp the tails of his coat, but he waved me away. First he bowed his head to look directly below our box, then to the left and, finally, he examined the column between our position and the stage. Then he backed away from the precipice and sat upon one of the seats and then the other, all the time gazing at the stage, raising his right arm along his line of sight and then sweeping it from side to side as if to determine his field of vision.

“What is your conclusion?” I asked.

“I have none as yet. Perhaps we are to rendezvous with somebody who is yet to arrive. Possibly, it is the performance itself that we are expected to witness.”

I laughed, despite his concern. The idea that when attending the theatre the performance might merely be an afterthought seemed particularly droll.

“It appears that it will be a sort of variety presentation,” I said, having pulled from my jacket pocket a programme hastily bought from the ticket-checker, and now beginning to leaf through it. “I confess I recognise few of the works.”

Holmes snatched the paper from me eagerly and set to examining its contents. After some minutes he set it aside.

I heard the duplicated sighs of more than one door opening at once, and then I saw the first audience members entering the stalls and dress circle below. This sight seemed to reinvigorate Holmes, and he watched the increasing activity with interest, like a lookout in the crow’s nest of a ship.

However, I saw nothing of note as the attendees found their seats and settled, and while Holmes’s close attention never wavered, neither did he seem to see anything that aroused his suspicions.

Presently the lights dimmed, the murmur within the auditorium became gradually muted and I settled into my seat in somewhat nervous anticipation of the performance.

The orchestra launched into a piece that began calmly but soon became frantic, the conductor’s head oscillating violently and the violinists striking at their instruments as though they hoped to saw through them. Then the curtain raised to reveal two men dressed in extravagant robes who, upon inspection of the programme, I determined to be King Philip II of Spain and the Grand Inquisitor, from Verdi’s Don Carlo. After exchanged barbs, King Philip proceeded to deliver a bombastic monologue, none of which I could make out, and instead of attempting to decipher it I soon became distracted by trivial details: his waving of his arms, the slight bowing of the boards beneath his feet, the vast expanse of his mouth as he bellowed his lines.

Next came more familiar fare. The first pair of actors was replaced with a younger couple, and while the unfortunate woman was forced to simply watch on in mock fascination, the male performed a lusty rendition of ‘La Donna è Mobile’ from Rigoletto. I glanced at Holmes, whose fingers were rapping on the wall of the box, entirely out of sequence with the music played by the orchestra. It was clear to me that his impatience was already reaching its limit.

After the Duke of Mantua reached his inevitable conclusion, a troop of actors emerged from the wings and onto the stage, all dressed in drab garments, and proceeded to embark upon the prisoners’ chorus from Beethoven’s Fidelio. I saw Holmes lean forward and grip the rail, his eyes fixing on each of the prisoners in turn. Then his head bowed in what I interpreted as disappointment.

To my surprise, Holmes rose to his feet.

“Where are you going?” I asked in astonishment.

“I find that I cannot simply wait for whatever is coming my way,” he replied. “I must seek it out.”

“Shall I come, too?”

“Better that you remain here, to observe.”

I was tempted to add that if an attack were to be launched, I might find myself in the firing line in his place. However, I did not voice this objection – the principal reason being that, had he requested I perform precisely that role of dummy target, I would have volunteered gladly.

The prisoners’ complaint seemed interminable, and in Holmes’s absence I found my mind wandering to thoughts of what he might be doing at this moment. Finally, the actors shuffled off stage, with exaggerated simulations of chained feet. Then came a lull. After some seconds had passed in silence, I put my head over the rail to look down at the orchestra pit. The conductor’s neck was twisted to look over his shoulder, perhaps waiting for a signal from the direction of the stage.

Then I saw him sigh with relief as a single figure emerged from the wings – that is, from almost directly beneath my position. It was a woman wearing a hooded cloak, the cowl hiding the upper part of her face. Her skin was very pale in the limelight and her lips were dark.

The orchestra struck up a mournful prelude, but the singer did not yet sing. The conductor’s neck twisted once again, conveying his confusion. Then he signalled to his orchestra, who repeated the introductory phrase. I saw a pair of violinists exchange uncertain glances at this error.

Still the woman did not sing. Finally, the conductor seemed to conclude that there could be no winning this contest, and he lowered his hands gradually, his musicians taking his lead and coming to a halt.

I watched the actress carefully. She appeared as motionless as a statue. I noticed that nobody in the audience had emitted so much as a murmur since the disruption had begun. Perhaps they were all equally transfixed.

My eyes strayed to the rest of the empty stage, then to the opposite wing of the backstage area which must only have been visible from the box in which I sat, as it was situated at the end of its row. I gasped – I had made out a pair of gleaming eyes! Yet my heartbeat slowed a little as the figure edged forward a fraction, and I recognised Sherlock Holmes pressed against the wall that divided the backstage area from the auditorium. He, too, was intently watching the silent woman who stood on the stage.

When she began to sing, the relief in the auditorium was palpable. I glanced again at the conductor, who had by now turned fully to watch the stage, and who seemed to have no intention of urging his orchestra to play along.

The melody was very beautiful: it rose in gradual increments, playful but with urgency, falling back at times as though indicating bashfulness. When the singer reached the highest point, she paused and commenced again from the lowest note. I could determine none of the words – perhaps there were none? I looked down at the programme which was now clenched tightly in my right hand. The intended piece was listed as the Demogorgon’s epilogue from Percy Bysshe Shelley’s Prometheus Unbound, but despite my imperfect knowledge of such things, I understood that this music had no relation to that drama.

Yet the song clearly fascinated the audience, despite its wordlessness and its circular nature, which perhaps ought to have been maddening. Each time the singer reached the apex of the melody, she began again. I saw Holmes in the wings, one hand over his mouth, appearing consumed by his thoughts.

After perhaps ten or a dozen iterations of the ascent, the singer stopped without warning. As before, silence fell across the auditorium. Thankfully, it did not last nearly so long this time. The woman’s dark lips parted and, still staring directly ahead, she began to speak.

“Man, who wert once a despot and a slave,

A dupe and a deceiver! a decay,

A traveller from the cradle to the grave

Through the dim night of this immortal day:”

Then I was startled by voices coming from the wing beneath me, crying out, “Speak: thy strong words may never pass away.” Clearly, this was now the performance that had been anticipated by the other members of the cast.

The woman continued, “This is the day which down the void abysm,” and then I gasped as her head lifted for the first time, her hood slipped back enough to reveal her dark eyes – and she looked directly up at me. Our eyes met, and I found that I could not so much as blink. Then, to my even greater amazement, her dark lips curled into a wry smile before she intoned the words:

“Love, from its awful throne of patient power

In the wise heart, from the last giddy hour

Of dread endurance…”

As she continued to speak, she turned slowly, surveying the auditorium.

“Gentleness, Virtue, Wisdom and Endurance –

These are the seals of that most firm assurance.”

She displayed no sense of dismay at not finding Holmes in our box – for I was now certain that was her ambition. If anything, her delivery now became more strident.

“To suffer woes which Hope thinks infinite;

To forgive wrongs darker than death or night;

To defy Power, which seems omnipotent.”

Her slow revolution came to a halt when she was facing directly away from me – that is, she was now looking directly into the wings where Holmes stood. He made no attempt to hide from her gaze. His hand had dropped from his mouth and now clasped his other hand, completing a posture which might have suggested either gleeful anticipation or pleading.

“To love, and bear; to hope till Hope creates

From its own wreck the thing it contemplates”

I fancied that I saw Holmes smile faintly.

“Neither to change, nor falter, nor repent;

This, like thy glory, Titan, is to be

Good, great and joyous, beautiful and free;

This is alone Life, Joy, Empire and Victory.”

This last word was denied its full impact, as no sooner had she had intoned it the stage filled with new bodies. These actors were all dressed in gaily coloured outfits of the Renaissance period, and they spoke to one another in that garbled nonsense which is supposed to evoke chatter upon the stage. I glimpsed Holmes for a moment more before he became obscured by the crowd pushing onto the stage. Then I searched for the woman who had been singing, but she had already retreated and been swallowed up in the confusion of bodies.

I watched the new proceedings vacantly for several seconds before telling myself that the signal for which we had been waiting had evidently been given, and there was no need to subject myself to any more of the dreary programme. I dashed from the box and along the rear of the other balcony boxes, seeing little need to attempt to move quietly due to the commotion and cacophony on the stage. I clattered down the stairs and then, instead of entering the lobby, I made my way through a narrow corridor which I judged must lead in the direction of the backstage area. The label on the next door I came to read No admittance to the public, which only made me more certain. I pushed through it without a second thought.

Despite my situation, I found myself distracted by the hubbub behind the scenes. Everybody I saw spoke in hushed voices or even deployed hand gestures to convey their meaning, but nevertheless there seemed constant activity even in the corridors. The true back part of the stage was presumably now to my left, judging by the rumble of voices and the squeaking of shoe soles on wood that echoed from that direction. I pressed onwards to a row of doors which I took to be the dressing rooms, on the assumption that Holmes would have attempted to pursue the singer here after her retreat from the stage.

Sure enough, I found him in the third small chamber along this corridor, the door of which was ajar. He was sitting on a stool before a mirror framed by lamps, though he was not looking into it but at the counter before him.

“Holmes?” I said quietly.

He raised his head.

“The woman,” I said. “Who is she?”

Holmes only nodded. He stood slowly, and now I saw that he held in his hands a mass of fabric. Only when it billowed out did I realise that it was the very cloak that the singer had worn on the stage.

“She was too quick for me,” Holmes said, though I detected no trace of dismay in his tone.

“Might she reappear in one of the later pieces?” I asked, though I was still entirely unclear of the significance of her first performance, a confusion only exacerbated by my friend’s odd response to it. “Perhaps if we returned to our box…”

“She is gone,” Holmes said simply. “But she has left something behind.”

He laid the cloak on the counter, then picked up a piece of paper, which must have been what he had been studying when I entered the room. It featured musical notation, and while I was a novice at interpreting such things, I nevertheless recognised the music at once. The notes rose from the lower part of the bar to well above its upper extent until, after two lines of this behaviour, they began again from the bottom, the sequence repeating again and again.

“Then this is what she sang,” I said.

“And it is the message which I was summoned here to receive,” Holmes said. “It is not a threat, but a challenge.”

“But from whom?” I demanded, now utterly exasperated. “I ask you again: who is she?”

A smile spread slowly on Holmes’s face. “You have already provided the answer yourself. She is the woman.”

CHAPTER THREE

The next morning I arrived at Baker Street at nine o’clock sharp, having once again made my excuses for failing to attend my practice, a habit that always became more frequent whenever one of Sherlock Holmes’s adventures captured my imagination. Once again, Mrs. Hudson answered the door, and once again her expression was one of distracted melancholy. From beyond her came the sounds of a violin played with excessive force. However, I assumed that she was well used to such things and that this was not the cause of her mood. Indeed, when not in the company of others Holmes tended to produce only careless scraping sounds rather than anything close to the melody I could hear at this moment.

“My dear lady,” I began, with forced merriness to my tone. “I do wish you’d gather your wits.”

The housekeeper nodded solemnly. “I’ve been telling myself that very thing, just this minute.” Then she added, “You see, it was only recently that I lost them.”

I nodded encouragingly, despite my confusion. Remembering my pledge to Holmes, I said, “I had hoped to spend a little time with you, yesterday, before the distraction of the opera tickets. Perhaps we might share a drink and some stories after I’ve called on Holmes?”

She frowned. “But that wouldn’t help find them, would it?”

“I’m sorry—” I halted, my head tilting. “Are we still speaking of your wits?”

“No! My wool.”

“Your—” I cleared my throat. “I think we may be at cross-purposes. You have lost your wool?”

“Two skeins, and big ones at that. One’s crimson, the other pine green – ever so festive, and I’d promised them both to the maid before she leaves to-day to be at home with her elderly parents over Christmas. Those skeins must be around here. They can’t just up and leave, can they?” She eyed me suspiciously. “What were you talking about, then?”

I shook my head. “Yesterday I could not help but notice that you were dejected. Regarding your being alone at Christmastime, or so I thought.”

“Ah. Yes,” she replied, and became immediately pensive. “I am that, a little. And now to add to it all, I’ve lost my wool.”

I opened my mouth to speak, but had no idea how to proceed. It appeared that, far from reviving her spirits, I’d sunk her further into gloom.

“Well,” I said, clapping my hands together in a pantomime of jollity. “Perhaps later, then.”

I did not look back as I climbed the stairs, and it was with a keen sense of gratefulness that I entered Holmes’s sitting-room.

He did not notice me at first, as he was standing by the window, gazing down at the snow-covered street even as he attacked his Stradivarius with great fervour. Every so often he glanced at the lower part of the pane, where I saw that he had fixed the sheet music he had acquired the previous day. Now that I paid full attention, I recognised that not only were the sounds from the violin decidedly more pleasant than those that they ordinarily produced, I detected the same rising melody that I had heard the day before. Each time he reached the pinnacle of this melodic summit, Holmes referred to the notation again, exhaled thoughtfully, and began anew.

The previous evening, Holmes had made his excuses shortly after I had found him in the backstage dressing-room, and then had insisted that he preferred to walk home. Though I had called after him to assure him that I would call again very soon, he had not responded. Now I hoped that catching him unawares might provide me with an answer.

So, without announcing myself, I said, “For how long have you been in correspondence with Irene Norton, née Adler?”

Holmes stopped playing immediately. Without turning, he said, “She does not refer to herself by her husband’s name. And I do not correspond with her.”

His careful choice of words struck me. “Indirectly, then? Or is it only she who has made contact with you before now?”

At first he didn’t reply. Then he turned and, with the care of a mother with her infant child, he placed the violin gently into its case.

“In a manner of speaking.”

“When? And by what means?” Then I checked myself. This was his private affair, after all, and though my curiosity may have been understandable, I ought not to feel entitled to its satiation. Hurriedly, I added, “If you don’t mind my asking.”

“In December of 1888 – that is, the December after you and I made her acquaintance – I discovered an advertisement in the back pages of the Times, which, as you know, I check habitually as it provides a barometer of the concerns of the public.”

“And what did this advertisement say?”

Did Holmes’s pale cheeks really colour at this moment? Perhaps not, but his hesitation spoke volumes.

“It does not matter,” he said quickly.

This, too, was an uncharacteristic response. I knew that in the mind of Sherlock Holmes nothing was trivial. All the same, I moved on swiftly.

“And what was the outcome?” I asked.

“A series of challenges – or puzzles, if you prefer. All were provided by the same means, and all were…” He trailed off and seemed lost in thought for a while. “They required some amount of consideration.”

I could not prevent myself from beaming at the thought of Holmes being bested, even for a moment, in any game. “And at the end? Presumably you did succeed in solving the puzzles.”

Holmes hesitated, then shook his head. It struck me that it might have meant one of two things: that he did not care to divulge this information to me, or that he had failed to complete Irene Adler’s challenges.

I had a keen sense that our discussion may be brought to a close at any moment, so I asked, “And last year – did she pose another challenge?”

Holmes went to his chemistry bench and made a show of inspecting bottles. “I had the idea of returning the favour,” he said in a quieter voice.

“And how did she get along with your own puzzles?”

“So far as I know, she made no attempt. As a consequence, I had thought—” He stopped himself.

“You had thought the arrangement was over,” I said. “And now you find that it is not.”