The Big Book of Sherlock Holmes Stories (124 page)

“There are serpents among the apples, Watson,” was all he said. And turning from me, he struck out two or three discordant notes on his violin, then put it from him and strode into the other room.

We have not discussed it since, the case of the Caston Gall.

A year later, this morning, which is once more
the day of Christmas Eve, I noted a small item in the paper. A Miss Eleanor Rose Caston died yesterday, at her house near Chislehurst. It is so far understood she had accidentally taken too much of an opiate prescribed to her for debilitating headaches. She passed in her sleep, and left no family nor any heirs. She was twenty-six years of age.

Whether Holmes, who takes an interest in all notices of death, has seen this sad little obituary, I do not know. He has said nothing. For myself, I feel a deep regret for her. If we were all to be punished for our foolishness, as I believe Hamlet says, who should 'scape whipping? Although crime is often solvable, there can be no greater mystery than that of the human heart.

AN INTERNATIONALLY BESTSELLING
author of historical mystery fiction with more than twenty-six million copies sold, Juliet Marion Hulme (1938– ), using the pseudonym Anne Perry, has produced more than seventy books, most of them about Thomas and Charlotte Pitt or about William Monk. In addition to these classic Victorian-era detective novels, she has written a highly successful Christmas-themed novella annually since 2003, five novels set during World War I, two fantasy novels, four young adult books, and several stand-alone novels, and has edited five anthologies.

Hulme's first book as Perry was
The Cater Street Hangman
(1979), featuring Thomas Pitt, a Victorian policeman, and his high-born wife, Charlotte, who helps her husband solve mysteries out of boredom. She is of enormous help to him, as she is able to gain access to people of high social rank, which would be extremely difficult for a common police officer to do. There are thirty books in the series, set in the 1880s and 1890s.

The Monk series, with twenty novels, is set in the 1850s and 1860s. Monk, a private detective, is assisted on his cases by the excitable nurse Hester Latterly. The events in the first Monk book,
The Face of a Stranger
(1990), precede Sherlock Holmes's investigations by a quarter of a century, though Holmes is frequently described as the world's first consulting detective.

After winning an Edgar in 2000 for her short story “Heroes,” which was set during World War I, Perry began a series of five novels featuring its protagonist, British Army chaplain Joseph Reavely, whose exploits and character were suggested by the author's grandfather; the first book was
No Graves as Yet
(2003).

“Hostage to Fortune” was first published in
The New Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
, edited by Martin H. Greenberg, Jon L. Lellenberg, and Carol-Lynn Rössel Waugh (New York, Carroll & Graf, 1999).

HOLMES AND I
had just returned to 221
B
Baker Street after a brisk walk in the most agreeable spring weather. I had picked up the newspaper to read, and he was wandering around the familiar room touching one thing after another in a most dissatisfied manner, when Mrs. Hudson knocked on the door.

“What is it?” he asked, hope lighting his keen face that the interruption would offer some interest at a time when he was growing increasingly bored.

“A gentleman to see you, sir,” she replied with a frown, indicating that there was at least one thing about our visitor of which she disapproved. “Says it is a matter of life or death.” Her tone made it clear she did not believe it, as she deplored exaggeration, unless she was the one doing it. Also she did not like people who made much of their misfortunes, and I confess we had had a few of those lately. As Holmes said to me, somewhat testily, they had proven to be domestic matters, trivia, things the ordinary police could have dealt with perfectly adequately, nothing whatever worth the skill of Sherlock Holmes.

“Well, ask him in!” he commanded. “Show him up!”

Mrs. Hudson withdrew with a swish of skirts.

“I am full of optimism, Watson,” Holmes said briskly. “Our visitor may at last bring a challenge for the mind, a quest worth pursuing. Everything else in the last month has been fit only for Lestrade! Burglaries, forgeries so obvious a child should not have been deceived. Ah!”

He gave this last exclamation as a large, burly man came into the room, his eyes going immediately to Holmes. He wore a full beard and had a fine head of dark hair, but even so his expression of acute anxiety was clear, and everything in the movement and attitude of his body betrayed that he laboured under great emotion.

“Mr. Holmes!” He thrust out his hand, then instantly withdrew it as if he had not time for such courtesies. “I am at my wit's end, sir, or I would not have burst in upon you like this, without so much as a by-your-leave.”

I was examining him more closely, as Holmes had so long taught me to do. His clothes were of very good quality both in fabric and in cut, but I fancied not in high fashion. He had large feet, yet his boots appeared comfortable. I dare say they were custom-made for him. Altogether, I doubted his trouble was financial.

“Mrs. Hudson said your problem was a matter of life or death,” Holmes reminded him. Already, impatience was there in his face and the edge of his voice. “Be seated, sir, and tell me what I may do for you.”

Our visitor sat, but on the edge of the chair, as if such restriction to his movement was a hardship to him.

“My name is Robert Harris,” he introduced himself. “I do not know whether to begin my story at the beginning, or at the end.”

“Is the beginning necessary for me to know?” Holmes asked, a slight frown between his brows. He loathed indulgence in the irrelevant.

“I believe it is.”

“Then tell me. Leave out no detail that has to do with the catastrophe that threatens you.”

“Catastrophe is indeed the right word, Mr.
Holmes,” Harris answered him. “It is the kidnapping of my only child, my daughter, Naomi, as good and lovely a young woman as walks the earth.” His voice was tight with the strain of containing his terror.

Holmes leaned forward a little. I could see in the sharp lines of his face that Mr. Harris had every whit of his attention. Mrs. Hudson could have fallen down the stairs with every piece of crockery in the house, and he would barely have noticed.

“Tell me,” he urged. “Omit nothing at all. We do not yet know what may turn out to be crucial.” He glanced at me. “You may trust Dr. Watson with anything at all. He is a man of the utmost discretion and loyalty.”

For the first time Harris turned to me. His smile was charming. “I apologise, sir. My manners are appalling. The only mitigation I can offer is my distress. I have heard of you, of course, and I already know you to be all that Mr. Holmes has said of you. It never crossed my mind not to consider you part of any assistance he may give me.” With that he looked back again, and began his story.

“Naomi is twenty-three, and is married to a most excellent young man of whom I heartily approve. He has made her very happy. Nevertheless I am a widower of many years, and she and I are very close. She comes to visit me, with her husband's good wishes, several times a year. She had just arrived yesterday…” His voice cracked with his distress. He required a moment to regain his composure.

It cost Holmes an effort I could read in his face not to betray his impatience.

“We went to a concert together—she is very fond of music, most particularly a good chamber quartet—at the Prince's Hall on Trafalgar Road. It was wonderful. I have never seen her look in better spirits.” Harris breathed in and out slowly before continuing. “The concert finished a little after ten o'clock. We left the hall together, but a few yards from the steps I was waylaid by friends whom Naomi did not know. I spoke with them as briefly as I could, trying to excuse myself, but when I turned to find her, she was not there. I assumed she had also seen old friends, and I waited five minutes or so for her to rejoin me. When she did not, I asked those few people still about, but they had not seen her. Then I thought perhaps she had gone on ahead of me.”

“Was that likely?” Holmes interrupted.

“No, but I could not think what else,” Harris answered, his voice sharpening in the remembered panic. “We live on Groom's Hill, not far from the hall, a comfortable distance to walk. I had looked forward to it. The streets are pleasant and quiet. We could have talked.”

“But she had not gone ahead of you,” Holmes assumed. “Did you see her again, Mr. Harris?”

“No! No, I did not, Mr. Holmes. I walked more and more rapidly, expecting with each corner to see her ahead of me. But she was not there. I had been home not more than twenty minutes or so when there was a knock on the door. I answered it myself, certain it would be her, ready to scold her for the fright she had given me, but above all, relieved to see her face.” Again he required a moment to steady himself, but he did it admirably. I admit my heart ached for the man.

“Who was it?” Holmes demanded, leaning forward, his eyes intent upon Harris's.

“It was a boy, Mr. Holmes, an urchin, with a note for me.” He reached in his inside pocket and produced it, handing it across.

Holmes read it aloud, for my benefit.

“We have your daughter. For the moment she is unharmed. You can have her back for ten thousand pounds. If you do not pay, we keep her for our entertainment, until we are bored. Then the sewer rats can have her. They'll eat anything
.

“Bring the money on Wednesday, to the yard behind the Duck and Dragon on Brick Lane, off Tench Street, by the Wapping Basin. Midnight exact. Any trouble and she's gone. Understand? I'd rather have the money, but the choice is yours.”

“Extremely ugly,” Holmes said softly, turning the paper over in his long fingers, examining the texture and quality of it. From where I was
sitting I could see that the words were not written, but cut out from newspaper and pasted on.

Harris watched him with growing desperation.

“How curious,” Holmes said thoughtfully. “He has taken the trouble to make this note as anonymous as possible, as if he thought you would recognise his hand, or even that you might take it to the police…”

“No!” Harris cried vehemently. “Any trouble and he will harm her! For God's sake, he has made that plain enough! I must pay! Only that is the thing, I cannot! I do not have the means to raise such a sum.”

“Do you have any idea who sent this note?” Holmes asked him. “Think carefully, sir. You are a prosperous man, who knows his business well. You have succeeded in a competitive trade. There must be many who envy you, perhaps even believe your gain has been at their expense.”

Harris looked startled. “You know me by repute?”

The ghost of a smile curved Holmes's thin lips. “No, sir. But I observe your clothing and your manner. The sum for which you are asked is what others perceive you to have. You have told me the area in which you live. You are used to command and to being obeyed. You live in London, and yet you have seen much exposure to sun and wind. There are old scars upon your hands and what appears to be the shadow where a tattoo has been removed from your wrist. I would guess that in your earlier years you followed the sea. Now you are an importer of some standing.”

“I knew I had come to the right man!” Harris said, that remarkable smile lighting his face again. “Indeed it is true, all true!” Then the joy vanished and darkness took its place. “But I cannot raise ten thousand pounds, Mr. Holmes! I have spent all day since the banks opened, doing everything I can, everything humanly possible! I can raise no more than six thousand four hundred and a few shillings. They demand it tomorrow night. That is where I need your help, sir.” His voice became firmer, his resolve absolute. “I need someone of undisputed honour, someone who cannot and will not be duped or used, to persuade these men, whoever they are, that this is all the money I have. I will give it to them, if they return Naomi to me, unharmed. If they refuse, I cannot give what I do not have, and if they injure her in the slightest, I will spend the rest of my life hunting them down. Nothing else will matter to me until I have exacted the last ounce of revenge…as terrible as that with which they have threatened her. And believe me, Mr. Holmes, from my days at sea, and in the east, I know how to do that!”

Looking at his massive shoulders, and the burning intensity in his black eyes, I believed him utterly. I could see that Holmes also held no doubt.

“Look into my affairs, Mr. Holmes!” Harris urged. “My business is an open book to you. Convince yourself that I am speaking the truth when I say I can raise no more, then I implore you…go in my place at midnight, and persuade these men to return Naomi to me for the money I can give, less the fee for your time and services…I apologise, but that is truly every penny I own…and I will pursue them no further.”

“You will let them get away with this?” I was aghast. The wickedness of it was an affront to all decency. “They will do it again, to some other poor young woman!”

Harris turned to me. “Perhaps, Dr. Watson, but if I give them my word that this is all the money I have, which it is, and I use Mr. Sherlock Holmes's honour as pledge to the truth of that, then I must abide by my word not to pursue them. I am bound. Can you not see that?”

I could see. And I regarded it as a peculiar honour that Harris should take my friend's reputation so seriously as to believe it would save his daughter's life. I confess I felt a thrill of pride that his esteem included me equally.

“Of course,” I conceded. “But the wickedness of it still galls me.”

“And me,” he said bitterly. “But Naomi is all my concern. When we care for someone, Dr. Watson, we are uniquely hostages to fortune, and
sometimes that ransom has to be paid.” Then he looked again at Holmes. “Will you help me?”

Holmes did not hesitate. I believe it was as much from compassion for Harris as for the challenge it offered him, although he would never have said so. Certainly the financial reward was the least of importance to him. There were times when I worried that his disregard for such necessities would see him in difficulty. The general public had no idea how frequently he undertook cases without accepting any reward other than the satisfaction of helping a creature in distress, and always, of course, the exercise of his intellect and his daring.

I was very sure he would understand only too clearly the plight of a man like Harris who was perceived by others to have far greater wealth than indeed he did have.

“Of course I will,” he answered. “We shall begin this afternoon. I shall accept your offer to make myself familiar with your business and your circumstances, so I may argue your case with detail and prove beyond a doubt to them that you are offering all you have. You may rest assured, Mr. Harris, that nothing whatever will be left undone in the effort to restore your daughter to you, in no way harmed beyond the fear she must inevitably feel.”

“Thank you!” Harris's relief and gratitude positively shone around him. “Sir, I shall be forever in your debt!”

I could not see then how prophetic those words would be.

Harris gave us every assistance, and Holmes and I spent that afternoon and all of the following day examining the business that Harris had built up since retiring from the sea, and it was indeed most successful. He had achieved it honestly, and was held in considerable respect. But he had undeniably made enemies, and as the hours passed, it became increasingly easy to see that envy could well be the source of his present trouble. He was a clever and imaginative man, frequently beating his rivals to a fortunate deal.

However he had given his daughter the best of everything he could afford, the finest education, including travel and tuition in arts and foreign languages. Much of the money he earned he had also spent, but I could not begrudge the man such a manner of doing it. He had not lavished jewels upon her, or worldly things of no worth. I began to picture her in my mind, and wonder what manner of young woman she was, that everyone spoke so well of her honour and her kindness and I wished more fervently that we should succeed in our task of rescuing her.

We also retraced Harris's steps to the concert hall, and verified as far as possible what he had told us. Of course we could find no one who had been there on the evening of Naomi's disappearance, but when Holmes taxed Harris with this, he willingly gave us the names and addresses of two of the friends who had waylaid him. We called upon them, and they confirmed his tale. Of course we gave a quite inoffensive excuse for our enquiry. As I recall I said something to the effect of having known Harris myself when I was in the east, and had attended the concert, and thought I had caught sight of him. Could they verify it was indeed he.