The Great Detective: His Further Adventures. Marvin Kaye

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СКАЧАТЬ of rain on the roof and the comforting sound of the kettle on. Holmes was already up and had shaved and was pouring our tea. He drank his tea quickly, oblivious to the heat, and stood. Seizing an umbrella that was by the door, he thrust the portal open and looked outside.

      He then turned back to me. “The rain is bearable. Finish your tea, old boy, and come take a walk with me. I have something to show you and I would like your opinion about it.”

      “My opinion? Is it a medical matter?”

      “Not in the least. Nevertheless, any conclusions you draw may prove to be invaluable.”

      Always ready to render assistance to my colleague, I followed him out the cabin door, and hunching up next to him under the umbrella we headed toward the spinney. Once inside the grove, Holmes shut the umbrella and plunging ahead, used it to poke back the branches in our path. We soon reached a small clearing where in the center stood a wooden pole.

      “What do you make of that?” he asked me.

      I walked over to the pole and examined it. It had long perpendicular striations carved into it, and there were horizontal and slanted slashes running through the striations and from their sides.

      “It looks like an Ogham stone, but the pillar is made of wood and the cuts are recent.”

      “Excellent observations. Anything else?”

      “It is crudely carved.”

      “Jolly good observation.”

      “What does it say?”

      The thin smile reappeared on his face. “Like the stone pillar, it contains a message. But this message is gibberish.”

      “Gibberish? Why on earth would someone carve gibberish in the middle of a Dorset spinney?”

      “Let me give you a rudimentary explication of Ogham, dear fellow. The alphabet is based on the twenty trees that were sacred to the ancient Irish druids. Each slash or combination of slashes stands for one of the Ogham alphabet. Now let us return to the cabin, for I wish to have another cup of tea and wait.”

      “Wait? Good lord, Holmes, wait for what?”

      “Not what, Watson, whom!”

      When we reached the cabin, there was a folded note pressed into the door. Holmes snatched it and began to read. “Aha. We must return to the manor house immediately. There is no time to lose lest we allow the murderer of Mr. Wolkner to escape.”

      “Murder? How...when did you deduce his death was a murder?”

      “I will explain later. Did you bring your service revolver?”

      “It is in my bag.”

      “Good. Fetch it and follow me. Quickly now.” Holmes pushed open the umbrella and set off down the path toward the manor house.

      “But the umbrella...,” I yelled after him for he had left me with nothing to protect myself from cold drizzle. But he did not stop and soon he disappeared from view. I went into the cabin and retrieved the Colt. I tried to catch up but it was no use with my bad leg. By the time I reached the manor house, the front door was open and I plunged through it without knocking. I could hear voices in the library, and I slid open the door to find my colleague and Mrs. Wolkner, sitting and leaning on her walking stick, being served tea by Essie.

      “Ah, Watson, Just in time. I was about to relate an interesting tale to our hostess, and it should interest you as well.”

      “Won’t you join us for tea, doctor? I am sure you are as interested in what Mr. Holmes has to say as I am.”

      I sat and waited while Essie poured my tea. When she had finished Holmes began.

      “My story starts two decades ago in America. It is a tale that should curdle the blood of any decent human being. A story about a vivacious young woman. A woman who wanted and expected everything that a life of leisure could give her. She was an actress. No, not the kind that appears on the stage to delight audiences. For this woman’s stage was the boudoir, and her audience consisted of rich young men, sons of successful Southern planters. Have you ever heard of Miss Annabelle Portia Perkins?”

      I shook my head for I hadn’t the foggiest notion who he was talking about.

      “Perhaps you might remember her by the infamous name her notoriety bestowed upon her. The Black Widow of Virginia. Does that jog your memory, Watson?”

      “Yes, I do remember something about a woman called that, but that was some years ago, wasn’t it?”

      “Yes, many years ago. This actress of the bedchamber managed to win the heart of Eustice Broyhurst, the scion of a rich Virginia tobacco company. As Annabelle Broyhurst, she became the toast of Southern society. And then her young husband tragically died, shooting himself for reasons no one could quite fathom at the time. There were rumors that there had been a scandal involving his wife, and soon she was referred to as the Black Widow. There was also talk of prosecuting her for the man’s death, but his family was said to have hushed it up, paying her a substantial sum to leave the country.

      “In Paris, as the story goes, Annabelle dropped her first name and called herself Portia. After squandering her fortune on a series of handsome but rather vapid young paramours, she left the City of Lights for Nice on the Riviera, where she met an elderly Bavarian aristocrat, Otto, Freiherr von Schritter zu Adelberg. It was not long before she had also drawn him to her evil bosom. In a matter of weeks she was the Baroness Portia von Schritter zu Adelberg and the mistress of his family’s vast estate and castle. That marriage, like her first, did not last long and also ended in tragedy. It seems the good old Freiherr, perhaps after indulging in a little too much schnapps, stumbled over a log while out hunting in the woods and accidently shot himself.”

      “Incredible. What a coincidence. Both husbands killed.”

      Holmes suddenly sprung to his feet. “Coincidence? Watson, your naivety amazes me. Having witnessed my tragic affair with the woman, have you learned nothing about the wiles and cunning of the female species?” His voice was wrought with emotion.

I knew Holmes was talking about Irene Adler, the only woman he had ever loved and who had betrayed him, only to later seek him out in New York and give her life to save his.1 Because of the pain and anguish he felt, he could never say her name, and would only call her “the woman.”

      “I’m sorry, dear fellow. I didn’t mean to upset you. Please sit back down and continue.”

      “It seems that the old Freiherr had a son, a cavalry officer who was a favorite of the Kaiser. Given the feudal laws of primogeniture and the Kaiser’s influence, the estate went entirely to the young man. He apparently kept his stepmother around for a temporary dalliance, but then quickly tiring of her, he sent her packing with little more than the clothes on her back. But the story doesn’t end there, old chum. No, Watson, the baroness Portia was not going to allow herself to be consigned to the Hades of jaded beauty, to be dismissed from society, sent away with only a trollop’s pourboire. It was at the spa in Baden that she came upon the late Mr. Wolkner, second son to the Earl of Putney, whom she took to be wealthy enough for her to ignore his pronounced stutter.”

      Holmes looked over at Mrs. Wolkner and smiled thinly. СКАЧАТЬ