The Redacted Sherlock Holmes, Volume 6 Read online

  “Pray continue.”

  “The ball was two nights ago. I did not know any of the people who attended as they had been invited by my secretary, but they had to show their invitations to the doormen to obtain admission to the ballroom at the Savoy Hotel where the ball was held. At about half-past-ten I became aware of a young lady, who had taken to the floor, whose beauty eclipsed that of all the other women present. I sent my secretary to bid her to come to me, and we danced together for some time.”

  “Did you speak to her while you danced?”

  “We did speak a little, but I was too taken by her beauty to have much to say, or to remember much of what she said. I did not think even to ask her name.”

  “I see. Can you describe her?”

  “She had the slenderest figure, golden hair, and piercing blue eyes. Her dress was a silver ball-gown.”

  “And what happened next?”

  “At just before midnight I suggested a break in our dancing so that we could engage in more intimate colloquy. Just as I did so, the bells of St Martin in the Field’s church in Trafalgar Square struck the hour. At their peel, my fair guest emitted a piecing shriek before exiting the ballroom with the greatest haste.”

  “How very singular. And what happened after that?”

  “My footmen gave pursuit, but the lady disappeared around the corner of one of the long corridors in the hotel. When my footmen got to the corner, she had vanished from view.”

  “So you have nothing material left of this fair lady?”

  “My footman found this dancing-shoe,” replied the King, passing over a slipper of the utmost delicacy. “The young lady lost it in her flight. I read the deductions you made about Mr Henry Baker from his hat in the Adventure of The Blue Carbuncle, and I wondered if you could make similar inferences from this.”

  Holmes took the shoe to the light. Early in our acquaintance I would have been sceptical indeed about what he might infer from a single shoe about its wearer, but I knew to expect better now. My friend peered at it under a magnifying glass, turned it over several times, and then sniffed at the shoe’s interior several times. He then handed it back to the King with a look of some puzzlement on his face.

  “It is difficult,” observed he, “to make deductions about an item of apparel that is being worn for the first time. This shoe had not been worn before the night of your ball.”

  My heart sank at what seemed to me to be a feeble excuse, but my friend had not finished.

  “Nevertheless, it is clear that the shoe belongs to someone exceedingly well-to-do as it would not be possible to obtain such a shoe for less than three or four guineas. Note the fine stitching of the toe box to the welt. It is the work of a most able craftsman, yet one who has chosen to leave no trace of his identity. I can, I fear, deduce little about the physique of the wearer apart from the fact that she has a foot no larger a size two or three, and that she has closely cropped toe nails as there is no scratching from them on the inside of the toe which one would expect if the shoe’s wearer had spent even the briefest time dancing.”

  “This is all very clear but none of this will be of much help in identifying the lady.”

  “And,” continued Holmes, “she must have worn the shoe in a place where food is being prepared immediately before coming to your ball.”

  “So exquisite a lady is surely unlikely to have been in a place where food is prepared.”

  “Had food been served at your ball?”

  “There had been champagne and oysters.”

  “The shoe is new, Your Majesty, yet it bears what appears under the lens of my glass to be a crushed pea on the forward outer corner of the heel. This was not an item of food that was served at your ball, and the shoe had not been worn at all before the ball. Therefore it must been put on its wearer’s foot in a place where food was present and, as food being eaten is more likely to be on a plate than on the floor, it is more likely that the shoe was put on in a kitchen where food was being prepared.”

  “Does the shoe betray a nationality?” inquired our visitor. “You will understand that although I spoke to her in English, I would not be able to tell whether English was this lady’s mother tongue or whether she was from overseas. Does the shoe perhaps give you an indication where it is manufactured?”

  “There is nothing on it—no label, no maker’s name, and no peculiarity of manufacture—to indicate a country of origin. That such a fine shoe should bear no such signs is a mystery indeed,” replied my friend. “It is as if it appeared from nowhere.”

  He paused and then continued.

  “And did you make no enquiries about the name the young lady gave when she entered the ball-room? One would assume that she must have had to show her invitation.”

  “My attendants had no idea of how she obtained entrance—the two doormen each stated that the other must have let her in. I suspect that they were each dazzled by her beauty just as I was, and so did not think to ask for an invitation…”

  Our client’s voice trailed away, and my friend lit his pipe before leaning back into his chair.

  “So, we have no evidence to say where your guest came from, who she was, how she entered, how she left, or where she went to.” A column of smoke rose from his pipe. It had risen almost to the ceiling before he spoke again. “Did your dance partner not tell you anything at all about herself?”

  “My recollections are most vague. She said that she came from a city with no roads, and from that city’s shoreline. She also said that the traffic ran differently where she came from than anywhere else in the country. She added that her father was a king who served kings—and, if it is possible, I would prefer a bride of royal blood.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I fear I was flushed with passion and dancing; accordingly, I can remember little that would be of benefit to our discussion.”

  There was a long pause.

  “Your Majesty,” said my friend at last, “if I may summarise your petition, it is that you wish me to find the identity of the person who disappeared so precipitately at your ball. You are unable to furnish me with her name, but you have given me a description of her which defines her as female, young, slender, and fair. She has given you indications of where she might be from, but no city name. You have also recovered a shoe which had been worn by her, but this bears no name either of the wearer or of its maker. And it is brand new so hardly furnishes me with any data.”

  There was a pause as Holmes considered his next comment.

  “I fear, Your Majesty, I am a detective and not a magician.” he said at last.

  “My fair dancing partner to find, would I one of my provinces surrender,” said our client plaintively. “Life bereft of someone of such a stamp is a grim prospect. Indeed, Mr Holmes, if you will not stir yourself to look into this matter, I may seek to employ somebody else.”

  Holmes raised his eyebrows at this threat, and immediately responded.

  “Very well, Your Majesty, I shall look into the matter. I would bid you a good night.”

  We heard the King descend to the street.

  “What an extraordinary affair!” I exclaimed, as his coach rattled away. “Are you sure you are wise to accept a commission when you have such slender information on which to base your investigation.”

  When I got no answer, I continued.

  “What are to be your next steps, Holmes?”

  “To smoke.” answered he. “It is quite a three-pipe problem especially when the solution is so ob….” My friend broke off and I waited, agog to hear if he was going to say that the solution was “obvious”, or “obscure.” But when he next spoke, it was to say, “I beg that you do not speak to me for fifty minutes.”

  He curled himself up in his chair, with his thin knees drawn up to his hawk-like nose, and there he sat with his eyes closed
and his black clay pipe thrusting out like the bill of some strange bird. I had quite concluded that he had dropped asleep, and indeed was nodding myself, for I was weary from my long day, when he suddenly sprang out of his chair and started pacing the room.

  “So do you, Watson, have any insights you can bring to this case?”

  My recent honeymoon had consisted of a tour of the cities of northern Italy and I wondered whether an answer might be found there. “Following the unification of Italy, the country still has kings from when it was a patchwork of independent states. And they retain their titles as king even though the Italian king is Victor Emanuel,” I commented. “And in Venice,” I continued, warming to my thesis, “where our tour concluded, there are no roads; every house is on a shoreline, and the traffic is all water-borne, and so goes differently from everywhere else in the country. On the Grand Canal, the water-borne transport even holds to the left whereas in the rest of Italy the traffic holds to the right. Could the mysterious woman’s country be Italy and her city Venice where one of the former kings may have taken up residence?”

  There was a pause and I wondered whether Holmes was going to respond with the dismissiveness that is so much his wont at the suggestions of others at solutions to the cases we investigate. Instead he visibly brightened.

  “By Jove, Watson, you are coming on wonderfully well. I do fancy that a trip to Venice with the King might be the next step in this matter. When could you start?”

  “You are asking me when I might start?” I responded, startled.

  “Yes, I have a number of pressing cases on at present which are nearing their climax. I cannot leave the country. On the other hand, you have time on your hands to accompany the King.”

  “I am a newly married man who has just opened a medical practice,” I retorted. “And I do not see that travelling to Venice in search of someone whose name is unknown to us is a profitable exercise.”

  “But your practice has only just opened, and you will barely be occupied while you wait for patients to come to your door. And I am sure that your wife, having just been with you for several weeks on honeymoon, would welcome a little time to herself rather than having you moping around the house while you wait for your practice to build.”

  “I do not mope,” I replied curtly. “I have bought a failing practice which it will take all my energy to revive. And a young woman of elevated background is most unlikely to be seen by a member of the general public.”

  “Ah, but Venice is famous for the freedom of its society. And the King has a purse to open doors, and a heart that will press him to want to reach into that purse.”

  As is so often the way with Holmes, I allowed myself to be persuaded by him, and three days later I met the King at the Savoy Hotel.

  Holmes’s cases had already caused him to leave London, and the King and I were accordingly à deux. He was again attired as if a character from a fairy tale and was so well known a figure at the hotel that the head chef, Auguste Escoffier—all pristine overall and chef’s hat—came to our table to advise us on the menu.

  “I know His Royal Highness,” said the famous chef, “is partial to game, and we have in today a haunch of venison fresh from the field.”

  “To Monsieur Escoffier’s recommendations should one always pay heed!” exclaimed the King, and, after what was indeed a splendid lunch, the King and I repaired to Victoria Station to board the Golden Arrow to Paris, and thence the Orient Express to Venice. We passed through Lausanne and Milan on the way before we crossed the lagoon to Venice’s Santa Lucia station.

  We alighted, and, as a porter ran up to help us with our luggage, the King smiled for the first time. “I had forgotten that Venice is like nowhere else. All the world is here to enjoy itself.” He nodded at a group of youngsters in high spirits although I noted one apparently young man in their party was in fact much older than he at first sight appeared and had daubed a thick layer of some sort of paste over himself to make himself look younger. A little further along the platform was an extended family sorting out their luggage. As well as adults and maids, there were five girls of all ages severely dressed in grey, and two lads in sailors’ outfits who were engaged in an animated discussion. I heard what I took to be their names as we passed. “Janosh” it sounded like and “Tadiosh” and wondered at what language they might be speaking.

  The King paused by them as though considering a matter. “It strikes me,” said he, at last, “that the true shoreline of Venice is really the Lido—the sand bar that stands between the main part of Venice and the Adriatic. I shall take rooms at the Grand Hôtel des Bains. Come, I know where to get a water-taxi.”

  “But the Lido is motorised, and the road-traffic runs on the right,” I objected, “so that does not fit with the clue of the traffic running differently from everywhere in Italy. By contrast every thoroughfare in the main part of Venice fits both that requirement and the requirement to be on the shoreline.”

  “I think you will find the Lido is the most fashionable part of Venice and so it is likeliest that my fair visitor came from there. And we can easily go from there into the centre of Venice. But come, we are tired. Let us make our way thither.”

  We emerged from the station, which stands at the edge of the historic part of Venice, to have our eyes assaulted by brilliant light. Some musicians had set up on the concourse that stands between Venice’s station and the Grand Canal, but they had to compete with wheeling seagulls whose cries smote our ears, while the tang of brine hung in the air. But there was another smell which I could not place, and I asked the King what he thought it was.

  “My dear fellow, we are right by a station, and the centre of Venice has ancient sanitation. It is to be expected that not all smells will be to our liking. That is another reason why I hope to be able to procure a room for us on the Lido where the air is fresher.”

  A half hour’s water-taxi ride, and we were at the hotel. The King had obviously been a regular visitor at the Hotel des Bains, and we were greeted by the establishment’s manager, Signor Visconti.

  “It is truly a pleasure, veramente un piacere,” he said to the King, “to see you here again, Your Majesty. We are very full at this time of year but of course we can find room for you and your companion, and everything will be arranged to make your stay as comfortable as possible. I wish you a pleasant stay.”

  “Could you ensure, Signor Visconti,” said the King, “that both our rooms—tutt’ e due,” he emphasised in Italian, “command a sea view.”

  “I will see to the matter myself,” said Visconti, and made a note. “Both rooms.”

  Before dinner I strolled the hotel’s magnificent grounds. There were gazebos with views out to sea, a knot garden, a series of splendid fountains, and sporting facilities including a croquet lawn, bowling green, and tennis courts. It was hot, and I noticed the same peculiar smell that had wafted round the station. In the end I went down to the sandy beach although the smell was present there too, and I soon repaired to the hotel’s dining room.

  As we ate, I tried to engage King Wilhelm in discussion on how we would conduct the search. “Your idea of booking us into this hotel is the correct one,” I conceded. “If your visitor is wealthy enough to know her way around the London Savoy, then she is likely to be seen in this, the most fashionable part of the city.”

  But the King seemed distracted and stared over my shoulder round the dining room. In the end I looked round to see what he might be looking at, but the scene behind us of well-dressed diners partaking of their evening meal was ordinary enough. I noticed among the guests sat the family that we had seen at the station. “They are Polish,” said my dinner companion when I pointed this out. “I have spoken to them, and they are called Moes.”

  “That name does not sound very Polish,” remarked I.

  “Bohemia, and Poland to the north, are a patchwork of languages—German among
the educated people, but amongst the peasantry you hear Czech, Moravian, Sorb, Lach, and in the north of Bohemia, and, of course, across Poland, Polish. As King of Bohemia, I have to speak something of all of them.”

  “But guests here are hardly peasants,” I objected.

  “Indeed not,” said the King, “I imagine they are from the Polish aristocracy. I met plenty of people like them when I lived in Warsaw where I met the fair Irene Adler. My knowledge of the Polish tongue came in very useful then.” He paused and then spoke in a hushed tone. “Now, Miss Adler was the daintiest thing under a bonnet. And she had the finest, most boyish figure. Ah, if only she were here.”

  And he continued to stare pointedly over my shoulder. He seemed as if in a reverie from which I was unable to divert him. In the end I withdrew to my room although the King seemed barely to notice my departure.

  When I rose the next day, the King was nowhere to be found. In the end I asked the concierge who suggested I look on the beach. There sat the King, serene as could be. He was seated on a wicker chair looking quite dapper with a fresh flower in his lapel as he looked out to the Adriatic. Further down the beach I could see the youngsters of the Moes family playing a variety of games. The girls played board-games at a fold-up table while the two lads, the swarthy Janos and the much fairer Tadzio—the King had told me were their names—were engaged in friendly horseplay.

  “I thought I would sit on the beach in case the fair love of my heart chanced to venture onto it,” said the King.

  “But surely we should be asking people if they know of any woman of standing here who matches your description,” I responded.

  “Ah dear doctor,” replied the King, “this is the place in Venice where all the quality people come. If my love is in Venice, it is here where we will renew our acquaintance.”