The Sherlock Holmes Megapack: 25 Modern Tales by Masters. Michael Kurland
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the corridor toward the rear of the house to a receiving room where a burly footman stood beside a door. The count drew out a key hanging on his watch fob, unlocked the door, and preceded us into a small drawing room. A glass case rested atop the polished mahogany table. On the other side of the room sat a broad fireplace. The hearth was cold, and the chamber’s sole illumination came from a gas fixture arranged to shed its light upon the table, leaving the rest of the room in shadow. Once inside, the count closed and relocked the door and then gestured toward the closed windows that faced Chapel Street. Through the glass, I could see closely spaced iron bars.
“This door is the only means of entering or exiting this room, gentlemen, and I myself hold the sole key. Only a few select guests will be invited to view the stones, but in case anyone tries to slip in unobserved, Stanislaw is on guard outside. He has served my family for many years and is completely trustworthy.” The count lifted his eyebrows and looked at Holmes. “As you can see, I have taken every precaution.”
Holmes studied the room for a moment. “Your secretary does not have a duplicate key?” he asked.
The count chuckled and turned to the man who stood as still as a statue just inside the door. “Carolus, explain please.”
Carolus gently cleared his throat. “This morning, before we brought the jewels from the bank where they had been housed for safekeeping, I oversaw the installation of a new lock on the door. The locksmith himself handed the only key to my master.”
“I see.” Holmes turned to the glittering gems, nestled on black velvet inside the case.
I leaned forward. The emeralds were magnificent, with brilliant colour and unparalleled clarity. There were eight stones in all, each cut in a different style and displayed in an elegant setting, save for the largest and most spectacular stone. It lay in the centre of the case, loose and unadorned; it needed no other device to enhance its beauty.
Holmes nodded once, and we followed the count into the corridor.
“I commend you on your arrangements,” said Holmes, as the count closed and locked the drawing room door. Carolus bowed and slipped away.
The count smiled and rubbed his hands together. “Your words comfort me, Mr Holmes. And now, shall we join my other guests?”
As we entered the ballroom, an elderly matron approached and playfully batted the count’s arm with her fan.
“Count! You have been avoiding me!” she said as she neatly separated von Kratzov from Holmes, much as a dog would separate a lamb from the flock. They disappeared into the crush, and I turned to Holmes.
“Well, Holmes, the count has certainly established a secure location for the stones. I cannot see how anyone could steal them.”
“I wish that were the case.” He glanced at me, then clasped his hands behind his back and turned to contemplate the dancing couples moving about the floor. “I have identified five possible methods for surreptitiously removing one or more of the emeralds from their case and then from the room. I am certain, were I to exert myself, I could add half-a-dozen more.”
“Surely you jest!” I stared at Holmes in surprise. “The door is locked, the windows are closed and barred, and a guard is stationed outside. What more could be done?”
“What more, indeed.” A smile touched the corners of his mouth. “If all my adversaries were as straightforward as you, I would have no fears at all about the fate of the von Kratzov emeralds.”
His words stung. “If my contributions are so useless, I wonder that you include me in your investigations at all.” I accepted a glass of champagne from a passing footman and drank rather more deeply than usual.
“Watson!” Holmes turned to me, his brows drawn together, yet not in a scowl. “I beg your pardon, my dear fellow. My words were ill chosen. Do not ask me, however, to apologise for the sentiment. Your mind acts as a touchstone to that which is pure and good; although agile, it lacks the sordid depths and devious paths of the criminal’s mental processes.”
Somewhat comforted, I took another sip of the count’s excellent champagne.
“What would you have me do this evening?” I asked.
“Will you assume responsibility for following Her Grace? I shall concern myself with observing Denbeigh and Sheppington.”
“With pleasure. But do you think it possible that she could steal one or more of the emeralds and elude detection?”
“That, of course, is the crux of the matter, isn’t it?” With an enigmatic smile, Holmes disappeared into the crowd.
A few moments later, Her Grace was announced, along with her son and grandson. I could see no sign of Holmes, yet I had no doubt he knew the whereabouts of every individual in the room.
Mindful of my charge, I peered at the dowager duchess and her party over the rim of my champagne flute. Resplendent in diamonds and sapphires, Her Grace displayed an engaging vivacity. She smiled at the count’s attentions, which were so marked as to be offensively Continental; indeed he stood so close that he actually trod upon her skirts.
With a thunderous expression, Sheppington clenched his hands into fists, but a word from Denbeigh stilled him. Drawing the young man away with a firm hand upon his shoulder, Denbeigh led him toward the supper room.
Her Grace continued to smile as the count gestured and spoke, yet her gaze appeared to follow their retreating forms. It was only upon the announcement of the arrival of another guest that the count bowed and turned away, leaving the duchess alone.
I stepped forward and, catching her eye, bowed.
She approached and extended her hand. “So here you are, Doctor.”
I raised her hand to my lips and then, somewhat reluctantly I confess, released it.
Leaning close, she lowered her voice. “I assume Mr Holmes is also here?”
“He is, Your Grace.”
She nodded in abstraction. A young guardsman inadvertently jostled her, and after politely receiving his incoherent apology, she drew a deep breath and took my arm in a firm clasp.
“Let us remove ourselves from the throng,” she said. I led her to a quiet corner by a heavily curtained window, and she continued: “You mentioned that we had met before at the Smythe-Parkinsons’.”
“Yes, several years ago. At a fancy dress ball.” I smiled at the memory of that carefree country weekend.
“What were you wearing?”
“I went as Pierrot. Not very original, I am afraid,” I said, my face warming. A more elaborate costume had been beyond my means.
“I am certain you looked most handsome.” The duchess tilted her head inquiringly. “And do you remember what I wore?”
“Of course. An Elizabethan-inspired dress in blue,” I replied promptly. “I believe it was velvet. You were enchanting.”
Indeed, she had outshone women half her age. No one attending the ball that night could have failed to admire her verve and beauty. Even now, so many years later, I picture her clearly.
“Ah, yes. That costume did suit me rather well, did it not?” She smiled and pressed my arm. “I am flattered you remembered me.”
“You were impossible to forget.”
“Doctor, you missed your true calling,” she said with a laugh. “You are quite the diplomat.”
At that moment, the count appeared before us, flanked by the dowager duchess’s son and grandson. I could not help but see the trio as examples of the worst traits of modern man: Count von Kratzov, coarse beneath his veneer of urbanity; Lord Maurice, colourless and cowed, living his life in a perpetual state of nervous exhaustion; and Viscount Sheppington, whose youthful attractiveness hid, by many accounts, a dissolute character.
“Doctor Watson!”