The Sherlock Holmes Megapack: 25 Modern Tales by Masters. Michael Kurland

me!” I stared at the bauble.

      “Indeed.” Holmes chuckled and returned the dragon to his pocket. “This is becoming quite a pretty puzzle, my dear chap. Who is returning the stolen articles? The thief, for some unknown reason? Or another party who wishes to prevent a scandal?” He clapped on his hat. “Come, Watson.”

      I followed him, still overcome with astonishment. If Holmes was correct regarding the interest generated by the jewels, as he almost invariably was about these things, tomorrow evening would test our abilities. The combination of the finest emeralds in Europe and Her Grace could only mean trouble.

      * * * *

      After luncheon, Holmes remarked that he would be absent from our chambers for some time, since he would be occupied with certain investigations.

      I spent a quiet afternoon and evening alone, perusing the newspapers and other publications for any hint of gossip or innuendo regarding Her Grace and her family. Apart from His Lordship frequenting the races, however, they garnered no mention in the press.

      I was not unduly concerned by Holmes’s absence; he occasionally disappeared for hours or days at a time when immersed in an investigation. He did not return to our chambers that night, or if he had, he arrived late and departed before I awoke. Our invitations to Count von Kratzov’s ball that evening arrived before luncheon; however, I had seen nothing of Holmes throughout the day, nor received word of his whereabouts.

      The sky was darkening into dusk when I rose to dress. I glanced at the clock; Holmes was deucedly late. Had he forgotten our promise to Her Grace and Lord Maurice to attend the ball?

      At that moment, a flurry of knocks sounded from the front door, followed by raised voices. My chamber door was flung open, and a man dressed in soiled work clothes, clutching a flat cap hurried in, followed by Mrs Hudson.

      “Oh, Doctor!” she cried. “He would not wait—”

      “I should hope not.” The man spoke with familiar voice. “Thank you, Mrs Hudson.”

      I started. “Holmes?”

      With a sigh, Mrs Hudson left. Holmes removed the putty that had altered the contours of his nose and smiled.

      “Good afternoon, Watson. I hope you are preparing to dress for—”

      “Really, Holmes.” I gazed at his grimy clothing and shook my head. “You are absolutely disgusting.”

      “My dear fellow, the disguise was necessary,” he said, eyes twinkling. “It enabled me to acquire information regarding Her Grace. Let us change our clothing, and I shall tell you in the cab on the way to Count von Kratzov’s.”

      * * * *

      The evening gloom had fallen by the time we finished dressing and descended the stair. Mrs Hudson stood before the door, holding Holmes’s hat.

      “I have brushed it as best I can, Mr Holmes,” she said, as he donned his coat and scarf and pulled on his gloves. “I really don’t know how you manage to get so filthy.”

      “As I said at the time, it was not my fault, Mrs Hudson. Blame Red O’Toole, the bare knuckle fighter, and his propensity for taking offense at gentlemen in evening clothes.” She shook her head as Holmes took his hat. Clapping it on, he smiled and chose his stick. “Excellent!”

      I turned away and suppressed my smile.

      “Thank you, Mrs Hudson,” I said, buttoning my coat and drawing on my gloves before taking up my own hat and stick.

      I followed Holmes into the bustling crowds, for despite the chill, the streets teemed with activity. Holmes hailed a hansom and after giving the count’s Grosvenor Place address to the driver, he sat back on the leather seat with a small sigh.

      “You asked about my activities today,” Holmes began. “You will be pleased to know I performed honest labour and a little reconnaissance. With the assistance of Mary, the youngest and most imaginative of Her Grace’s housemaids, I repaired several broken panes in Her Grace’s dressing room.”

      I glanced at Holmes. “How convenient that there were broken panes which required repair.”

      He did not reply, but simply flashed a small smile and folded his hands upon his knee.

      “And how were those panes broken?” I continued. “Your young colleagues throwing rocks, perhaps?”

      “It is positively shameful how these hooligans run wild.”

      I was not at all surprised Holmes had arranged such an event. In the interests of justice, he maintained that to prove the greater crime, one could be forgiven the lesser. I generally agreed.

      “And what about young Mary?” I turned a critical eye on him. “I hope you did not play upon her expectations.”

      “Never fear, my dear fellow. I assure you that our relations were entirely proper. Her eldest brother is a glazier in Plymouth, and we spoke of the demands of his trade after the fleet has returned to port.” He lifted an eyebrow. “You would be surprised at the amount of destruction perpetrated by Her Majesty’s forces whilst in their cups.”

      “I assure you, I would not.” I suppressed vivid memories of the actions of my military brethren during leave. “And what news did Mary convey?”

      “A great deal of commiseration for Her Grace and Lord Maurice regarding the activities of Viscount Sheppington, some of which were conveyed in a whisper, with hints of others that were far worse and could not be spoken of.”

      I shook my head. “Is the young man truly so far sunk in vice and dissipation?”

      “Apparently so, although when I enquired if she had witnessed any of his dreadful behaviour, she denied it.”

      “Then how did she know of it?”

      “Ah, there’s the question, Watson. Rumour amongst the other servants is the most likely cause; however, I have identified a few other possibilities.”

      Before I could ask him to elaborate, our cab came to a halt.

      “Number sixteen, sir,” said the driver.

      As Holmes paid, I wrapped my scarf closer around my neck and stepped to the pavement amidst the confusion of a dozen cabs and carriages disgorging their passengers.

      The count’s house sat at the end of the row, brightly lit windows facing both Grosvenor Place and the side street. The façade was of fine Portland stone with elaborately carved lintels. A heavy granite wall bordered the pavement, leaving the narrow well between wall and house immersed in a pool of black. During the day, those subterranean rooms whose windows faced the wall would receive scant illumination; at night, the darkness was Stygian.

      Gentlemen and ladies hurried by and quickly mounted the steps. The open front door welcomed guests as the music from within wafted to the street.

      “This should prove an entertaining evening, Watson.” Holmes joined me on the pavement. “I have already spotted one jewel thief in the crowd, and there may very well be more.”

      I turned to stare at the passersby. “So your suspicions were correct! What dreadful news!”

      “Calm yourself, my dear fellow. Come, let us join the others and see the legendary emeralds for ourselves.”

      We were ushered inside and shortly thereafter presented to the Count von Kratzov, a portly little man with eyes as black and round as shoe buttons.

      “Welcome, Mr Holmes, Dr Watson.” He spoke perfect English, despite a heavy accent. “Your reputation precedes you, Mr Holmes. Should I be concerned about the safety of my jewels?”

      Holmes bowed. “That depends upon the security of your arrangements.”

      “Ah, of course. You shall judge for yourself.” He glanced at a thin, sharp-featured man with the stooped shoulders of a scholar who stood to one side, and addressed him