Further exploits of Sherlock Holmes

The Reichenbach Secret-2

‘I am not saying that. The truth is always darker and more complex than we would have it.’

‘Is it?’ I replied tersely, reaching for the brandy bottle and pouring myself another drink.

‘The account I gave you of my escape was true. After my opponent had dropped into the swirling waters below me, I knew I could not retreat down the path without leaving tracks. My only resort was to attempt to scale the cliff wall behind me. I struggled upwards and at last I reached a ledge several feet deep and covered with green moss where I could lie unseen. I felt I had reached the end of my dramatic adventures for that day when an unexpected occurrence showed me that there were further surprises in store for me. A huge rock, falling from above, boomed past me, struck the path and bounded over the chasm. For an instant, I thought it was an accident; but a moment later, looking up I saw a man’s head silhouetted against the darkening sky; and another stone struck the ledge within a foot of my head. The meaning was plain: another of Moriarty’s minions was on the scene. I had to act quickly unless I wished to remain an easy target. I scrambled back down on to the path. I don’t think I could have done it in cold blood. It was a hundred times more difficult than getting up. But I had no time to think of danger, for another stone sang past me as I hung my hands from the edge of the ledge. Half way down I slipped but, by the blessing of God, I landed, torn and bleeding, on the path. I took to my heels, did ten miles over the mountains in the darkness, and a week later I found myself in Florence, with the certainty that no one on the world knew what had become of me.’

‘This much I know.’

‘Then it is time I told you what you do not know.’

*

Holmes threw another log on the fading fire and it retaliated with a crackle and a spray of sparks. I sat impassively awaiting the recommencement of his narrative, unsure of my own emotions. I had believed that I had passed the stage of being surprised or angered by my friend but I had been wrong. To the end, he was an enigma. And a devilishly frustrating one.

‘Florence is a magical city. I fell in love with it at once. I may have stayed there if events had turned out differently. There is a warmth and a sense of well being there which I have seldom encountered anywhere else. Walking its streets is like coming home The light is hypnotic and those wearied sand-coloured edifices soothe and inspire.’

‘Cut the poetry, Holmes.’

Holmes raised his brows and gave me a wry smile. ‘I soon found myself lodgings and started to acquaint myself with the great city. I supplemented what money I had by selling sketches.’

‘I never knew that you could draw.’

‘Sufficiently well. I have art in my blood. You will remember that the painter Vernet was a distant relation of mine. Indeed, I was known as Martin Verner during my stay in the city. I drew the Duomo and the Ponte Vecchio countless times and sold them to eager tourists. I could have made a healthy living there had it not been for certain developments.’

‘Developments?’

‘Indeed. I had been in Florence for about a month and I had become a regular artist by the Ponte St Trinita with its exquisite statues of the four seasons – it is upstream of the Ponte Vecchio and an ideal vantage point. I was even on nodding terms with some of my fellow artists, most of whom were Italian.

‘It was late one afternoon and the tourists had not been coming to view the wonderful bridge that day. I had been alone sketching out another canvas and was thinking about packing up for the day when my concentration was broken by cries for help. The voice was that of an Englishwoman. I looked up from my easel and saw her, not fifty yards away, struggling with two swarthy fellows, footpads, I assumed. One of them was pulling at her handbag. I raced to her assistance, shouting terms of a***e at her attackers. After a month in Italy, my knowledge of the vernacular was fairly comprehensive. On seeing this tall stranger bearing down on them, the cowards fled, leaving the lady slumped on the cobbles but still clutching her bag.

‘I helped her to her feet and enquired if she were hurt. She shook her head and thanked me for my intervention. She was not a young woman, Watson, probably in her late thirties, but she was a handsome one. She possessed pale skin, iridescent blue eyes, and strongly defined features with a nose that was perhaps too large for a feminine face but which gave her features a strange attractiveness.’

‘You sound like me,’ I said.

‘The result of reading all those Strand Magazine accounts of yours, no doubt.’

Holmes puffed on his pipe and for a moment his eyes took on a dreamy, faraway look as though he was conjuring an image of this woman in his mind, and then abruptly he returned to his narrative.

‘She introduced herself to me as Hilda Courtney from London. I offered to escort the lady to her destination and she smiled. ‘My destination is a restaurant. I am only in the city for one night and I wished to experience dinner al fresco at one of the open-air restaurants here rather than the stuffy dining room at the hotel. Please join me as my guest, a small gesture to thank you for your chivalrous rescue.’ I accepted her offer and suggested we dine at Santo Spirito on the Via Michelangelo.

I can tell you, Watson, it was a delight to converse with someone English once again. The lady was spirited and intelligent and our conversation meandered through politics – British and European – the merits of Pre-Raphaelite paintings and Babbage’s computer, a subject upon which Miss Courtney was very knowledgeable.’

‘What was she doing in Florence?’

‘I was coming to that. Apparently, she was working as a courier for Carmichael’s, the auction house in Bond Street. Two weeks previously, a London agent acting for Count Mario Bava had acquired the Belvedere Stone, a precious 22 carat South African diamond at a sale and Miss Courtney was bringing it from England for him. The Count had a villa in the hills above Florence and was due to rendezvous with Miss Courtney at her hotel the following morning.’

‘You mean to say that she kept the diamond in that handbag?’

Holmes nodded.

‘Then possibly those fellows were not simply common thieves…’

‘But informed felons? The thought had struck me also.’

‘Why didn’t she leave the damned thing in the hotel?’

‘Safes in Italian hotels are notoriously vulnerable.’

‘Did she show you the Belvedere Stone?’

‘Indeed she did. Very discreetly but nevertheless I can tell you that it appeared to be a very handsome lump of carbon.’

‘Why on earth did they send a woman on such a precarious errand?’

‘Because a middle aged lady is less likely to be suspected of carrying such precious cargo than a pale-faced, dark-suited Englishman clutching a sturdy attaché case.’

‘I suppose so.’

Holmes took another sip of brandy and laughed. ‘What do you know of disguise, Watson?’

I was somewhat thrown by this unexpected question and its vague nature. I shrugged in response.

‘Clothes, various properties and subtle make up are fine,’ said Holmes. ‘I have used them all myself but to the trained eye certain natural aspects cannot be disguised.’

‘The ears,’ I suggested.

‘Quite so. The ears and the hand. And something else.’

‘Is this relevant?’ I asked.

Holmes ignored my query and returned to his narrative. ‘The time came for Miss Courtney to return to her hotel. We had talked long into the evening and I had enjoyed the occasion enormously, but the hovering waiters were hint enough that our departure was overdue. The lady insisted on paying. Gloves are a nuisance in dealing with Lire, aren’t they? Miss Courtney had to remove them to ensure that she paid correctly. It was a perfect Italian evening: warm with a faint breeze from the hills and a star-spotted blue sky…’

‘You sound like a romantic, Holmes. Don’t tell me you were falling in love with this lady?’

‘I will not tell you that. But I cannot deny that I experienced a certain … excitement in her company. We made our way back along the Ponte St. Trinita, chatting in a desultory fashion, when I heard footsteps behind us. I turned and saw three dark shadows advancing stealthily in our direction. There was no doubt that their purpose was malevolent. As they grew nearer, I saw that each carried a weapon. I knew what they were after.’

‘The Belvedere Stone!’

Holmes shook his head. ‘Oh, no. They were after me! The lady gave a cry of anguish as one of the fellows lunged at me with a stiletto.’

‘What on earth did you do?’ I asked, finding myself now sitting on the edge of my seat.

‘I did what I had to do. I grabbed Miss Courtney around the neck and pulled her in front of me to take the force of the blow.’

My blood ran cold. Could I believe what I was hearing? Did my friend, my honourable friend, really use a woman as a shield to protect himself from armed thugs? Was this the terrible secret that he had waited all these years to reveal? Was this why he had delayed his return to London and sought counsel with the head lama in Tibet? I stared at those strained, chiselled features with a mixture of disbelief and horror.

‘It was only a glancing blow and caught the creature on the wrist. Miss Courtney gave a very unladylike oath. By this time I had my own knife out and, pulling away her high scarf, I held the blade to her neck – to the slight lump in her throat, to be precise.’

‘The slight lump in the throat … My God! An Adam’s apple! She was a man!’

Undeterred by my outburst, Holmes continued his narrative. ‘I yelled at the thugs to disappear or their accomplice would die. They obeyed with remarkable alacrity.’

‘It had all been a plot to trap you.’

‘Slowly sinking in, Watson, old fellow?’

‘Moriarty’s men?’

‘Of course. Like an organism under a microscope, I had been observed closely all the time. The Professor had waited patiently until he had decided that my guard was down and then he played the most remarkable of stunts. You see, he is so like me in many ways, Watson. He cannot resist a touch of the dramatic: hiring actors to portray him and then finally, when his criminal pyramid had been reduced to dust, he came after me with typical guile and flair. No doubt he could have had me killed by hired assassins at any time in that hot, teeming city. But that would have been so impersonal. And he approached this scheme, as he did his many others, with ingenuity and originality. There were no thespian alter egos in this charade, just a cool killer dressed as a woman, a subtle diversion which might well have worked.’

I laughed aloud. ‘This is incredible,’ I cried, ‘and you will not be surprised to learn that I am utterly amazed. So, what happened?’

‘It is a simple tale to tell. The assassins having fled, left me alone on the bridge with my strange antagonist. I relaxed my guard momentarily. This was sufficient for him to slip free of my grasp and aim a blow at my face. I dodged, but his fist caught me on the jaw. I staggered backwards, my knife dropping from my hand into the dark swirling waters below. The fellow rushed at me, throwing his long arms about my body. I fell back against the balustrade and, as we struggled together, he managed to hoist me up in an attempt to tip me into the river. My head and shoulders were hanging dangerously over the edge high above the gushing torrent. It was then that I brought into play my knowledge of baritsu, the Japanese system of wrestling. I relaxed my body like a rag doll as my opponent forced me further over the edge. Believe me, Watson, I had to judge this with tremendous precision. Then, on the point of losing my balance, I stiffened my body, flexed it violently, and pulled and heaved this creature over my head. Rather like a dark shooting star, he flew past me with a piercing shriek and fell into the blackness. There was a splash and a cry. And then there was silence.’ Sherlock Holmes paused and puffed on his pipe. ‘No doubt you will find the fellow’s remains lodged on the silted bed of the River Arno in the lovely city of Florence.’