would take the letter to an Embassy in London, as likely as not."
"I fancy not. These agents work independently, and their
relations with the Embassies are often strained."
The Prime Minister nodded his acquiescence.
"I believe you are right, Mr. Holmes. He would take so valuable a
prize to head-quarters with his own hands. I think that your
course of action is an excellent one. Meanwhile, Hope, we cannot
neglect all our other duties on account of this one misfortune.
Should there be any fresh developments during the day we shall
communicate with you, and you will no doubt let us know the
results of your own inquiries."
The two statesmen bowed and walked gravely from the room.
When our illustrious visitors had departed Holmes lit his pipe in
silence, and sat for some time lost in the deepest thought. I had
opened the morning paper and was immersed in a sensational crime
which had occurred in London the night before, when my friend gave
an exclamation, sprang to his feet, and laid his pipe down upon
the mantelpiece.
"Yes," said he, "there is no better way of approaching it. The
situation is desperate, but not hopeless. Even now, if we could
be sure which of them has taken it, it is just possible that it
has not yet passed out of his hands. After all, it is a question
of money with these fellows, and I have the British Treasury
behind me. If it's on the market I'll buy it -- if it means
another penny on the income-tax. It is conceivable that the
fellow might hold it back to see what bids come from this side
before he tries his luck on the other. There are only those three
capable of playing so bold a game; there are Oberstein, La
Rothiere, and Eduardo Lucas. I will see each of them."
I glanced at my morning paper.
"Is that Eduardo Lucas of Godolphin Street?"
"Yes."
"You will not see him."
"Why not?"
"He was murdered in his house last night."
My friend has so often astonished me in the course of our
adventures that it was with a sense of exultation that I realized
how completely I had astonished him. He stared in amazement, and
then snatched the paper from my hands. This was the paragraph
which I had been engaged in reading when he rose from his chair:--
"MURDER IN WESTMINSTER.
"A crime of mysterious character was committed last night at 16,
Godolphin Street, one of the old-fashioned and secluded rows of
eighteenth-century houses which lie between the river and the
Abbey, almost in the shadow of the great Tower of the Houses of
Parliament. This small but select mansion has been inhabited for
some years by Mr. Eduardo Lucas, well known in society circles
both on account of his charming personality and because he has the
well-deserved reputation of being one of the best amateur tenors
in the country. Mr. Lucas is an unmarried man, thirty-four years
of age, and his establishment consists of Mrs. Pringle, an elderly
housekeeper, and of Mitton, his valet. The former retires early
and sleeps at the top of the house. The valet was out for the
evening, visiting a friend at Hammersmith. From ten o'clock
onwards Mr. Lucas had the house to himself. What occurred during
that time has not yet transpired, but at a quarter to twelve
Police-constable Barrett, passing along Godolphin Street, observed
that the door of No. 16 was ajar. He knocked, but received no
answer. Perceiving a light in the front room he advanced into the
passage and again knocked, but without reply. He then pushed open
the door and entered. The room was in a state of wild disorder,
the furniture being all swept to one side, and one chair lying on
its back in the centre. Beside this chair, and still grasping one
of its legs, lay the unfortunate tenant of the house. He had been
stabbed to the heart and must have died instantly. The knife with
which the crime had been committed was a curved Indian dagger,
plucked down from a trophy of Oriental arms which adorned one of
the walls. Robbery does not appear to have been the motive of the
crime, for there had been no attempt to remove the valuable
contents of the room. Mr. Eduardo Lucas was so well known and
popular that his violent and mysterious fate will arouse painful
interest and intense sympathy in a wide-spread circle of friends."
"Well, Watson, what do you make of this?" asked Holmes, after a
long pause.
"It is an amazing coincidence."
"A coincidence! Here is one of the three men whom we had named as
possible actors in this drama, and he meets a violent death during
the very hours when we know that that drama was being enacted.
The odds are enormous against its being coincidence. No figures
could express them. No, my dear Watson, the two events are
connected -- _must_ be connected. It is for us to find the
connection."
"But now the official police must know all."
"Not at all. They know all they see at Godolphin Street. They
know -- and shall know -- nothing of Whitehall Terrace. Only _we_
know of both events, and can trace the relation between them.
There is one obvious point which would, in any case, have turned
my suspicions against Lucas. Godolphin Street, Westminster, is
only a few minutes' walk from Whitehall Terrace. The other secret
agents whom I have named live in the extreme West-end. It was
easier, therefore, for Lucas than for the others to establish a
connection or receive a message from the European Secretary's
household -- a small thing, and yet where events are compressed
into a few hours it may prove essential. Halloa! what have we
here?"
Mrs. Hudson had appeared with a lady's card upon her salver.
Holmes glanced at it, raised his eyebrows, and handed it over to
me.
"Ask Lady Hilda Trelawney Hope if she will be kind enough to step
up," said he.
A moment later our modest apartment, already so distinguished that
morning, was further honoured by the entrance of the most lovely
woman in London. I had often heard of the beauty of the youngest
daughter of the Duke of Belminster, but no description of it, and
no contemplation of colourless photographs, had prepared me for
the subtle, delicate charm and the beautiful colouring of that
exquisite head. And yet as we saw it that autumn morning it was
not its beauty which would be the first thing to impress the
observer. The cheek was lovely, but it was paled with emotion;
the eyes were bright, but it was the brightness of fever; the
sensitive mouth was tight and drawn in an effort after
self-command. Terror -- not beauty -- was what sprang first to
the eye as our fair visitor stood framed for an instant in the
open door.
"Has my husband been here, Mr. Holmes?"
"Yes, madam, he has been here."
"Mr. Holmes, I implore you not to tell him that I came here."
/>
Holmes bowed coldly, and motioned the lady to a chair.
"Your ladyship places me in a very delicate position. I beg that
you will sit down and tell me what you desire; but I fear that I
cannot make any unconditional promise."
She swept across the room and seated herself with her back to the
window. It was a queenly presence -- tall, graceful, and
intensely womanly.
"Mr. Holmes," she said, and her white-gloved hands clasped and
unclasped as she spoke -- "I will speak frankly to you in the hope
that it may induce you to speak frankly in return. There is
complete confidence between my husband and me on all matters save
one. That one is politics. On this his lips are sealed. He
tells me nothing. Now, I am aware that there was a most
deplorable occurrence in our house last night. I know that a
paper has disappeared. But because the matter is political my
husband refuses to take me into his complete confidence. Now it
is essential -- essential, I say -- that I should thoroughly
understand it. You are the only other person, save only these
politicians, who knows the true facts. I beg you, then, Mr.
Holmes, to tell me exactly what has happened and what it will lead
to. Tell me all, Mr. Holmes. Let no regard for your client's
interests keep you silent, for I assure you that his interests, if
he would only see it, would be best served by taking me into his
complete confidence. What was this paper which was stolen?"
"Madam, what you ask me is really impossible."
She groaned and sank her face in her hands.
"You must see that this is so, madam. If your husband thinks fit
to keep you in the dark over this matter, is it for me, who has
only learned the true facts under the pledge of professional
secrecy, to tell what he has withheld? It is not fair to ask it.
It is him whom you must ask."
"I have asked him. I come to you as a last resource. But without
your telling me anything definite, Mr. Holmes, you may do a great
service if you would enlighten me on one point."
"What is it, madam?"
"Is my husband's political career likely to suffer through this
incident?"
"Well, madam, unless it is set right it may certainly have a very
unfortunate effect."
"Ah!" She drew in her breath sharply as one whose doubts are
resolved.
"One more question, Mr. Holmes. From an expression which my
husband dropped in the first shock of this disaster I understood
that terrible public consequences might arise from the loss of
this document."
"If he said so, I certainly cannot deny it."
"Of what nature are they?"
"Nay, madam, there again you ask me more than I can possibly
answer."
"Then I will take up no more of your time. I cannot blame you,
Mr. Holmes, for having refused to speak more freely, and you on
your side will not, I am sure, think the worse of me because I
desire, even against his will, to share my husband's anxieties.
Once more I beg that you will say nothing of my visit." She
looked back at us from the door, and I had a last impression of
that beautiful haunted face, the startled eyes, and the drawn
mouth. Then she was gone.
"Now, Watson, the fair sex is your department," said Holmes, with
a smile, when the dwindling frou-frou of skirts had ended in the
slam of the front door. "What was the fair lady's game? What did
she really want?"
"Surely her own statement is clear and her anxiety very natural."
"Hum! Think of her appearance, Watson -- her manner, her
suppressed excitement, her restlessness, her tenacity in asking
questions. Remember that she comes of a caste who do not lightly
show emotion."
"She was certainly much moved."
"Remember also the curious earnestness with which she assured us
that it was best for her husband that she should know all. What
did she mean by that? And you must have observed, Watson, how she
manoeuvred {1} to have the light at her back. She did not wish us to
read her expression."
"Yes; she chose the one chair in the room."
"And yet the motives of women are so inscrutable. You remember
the woman at Margate whom I suspected for the same reason. No
powder on her nose -- that proved to be the correct solution. How
can you build on such a quicksand? Their most trivial action may
mean volumes, or their most extraordinary conduct may depend upon
a hairpin or a curling-tongs. Good morning, Watson."
"You are off?"
"Yes; I will wile away the morning at Godolphin Street with our
friends of the regular establishment. With Eduardo Lucas lies the
solution of our problem, though I must admit that I have not an
inkling as to what form it may take. It is a capital mistake to
theorize in advance of the facts. Do you stay on guard, my good
Watson, and receive any fresh visitors. I'll join you at lunch if
I am able."
All that day and the next and the next Holmes was in a mood which
his friends would call taciturn, and others morose. He ran out
and ran in, smoked incessantly, played snatches on his violin,
sank into reveries, devoured sandwiches at irregular hours, and
hardly answered the casual questions which I put to him. It was
evident to me that things were not going well with him or his
quest. He would say nothing of the case, and it was from the
papers that I learned the particulars of the inquest, and the
arrest with the subsequent release of John Mitton, the valet of
the deceased. The coroner's jury brought in the obvious "Wilful
Murder," but the parties remained as unknown as ever. No motive
was suggested. The room was full of articles of value, but none
had been taken. The dead man's papers had not been tampered with.
They were carefully examined, and showed that he was a keen
student of international politics, an indefatigable gossip, a
remarkable linguist, and an untiring letter-writer. He had been
on intimate terms with the leading politicians of several
countries. But nothing sensational was discovered among the
documents which filled his drawers. As to his relations with
women, they appeared to have been promiscuous but superficial. He
had many acquaintances among them, but few friends, and no one
whom he loved. His habits were regular, his conduct inoffensive.
His death was an absolute mystery, and likely to remain so.
As to the arrest of John Mitton, the valet, it was a counsel of
despair as an alternative to absolute inaction. But no case could
be sustained against him. He had visited friends in Hammersmith
that night. The _alibi_ was complete. It is true that he started
home at an hour which should have brought him to Westminster
before the time when the crime was discovered, but his own
explanation that he had walked part of the way seemed probable
enough in view of the fineness of the n
ight. He had actually
arrived at twelve o'clock, and appeared to be overwhelmed by the
unexpected tragedy. He had always been on good terms with his
master. Several of the dead man's possessions -- notably a small
case of razors -- had been found in the valet's boxes, but he
explained that they had been presents from the deceased, and the
housekeeper was able to corroborate the story. Mitton had been in
Lucas's employment for three years. It was noticeable that Lucas
did not take Mitton on the Continent with him. Sometimes he
visited Paris for three months on end, but Mitton was left in
charge of the Godolphin Street house. As to the housekeeper, she
had heard nothing on the night of the crime. If her master had a
visitor he had himself admitted him.
So for three mornings the mystery remained, so far as I could
follow it in the papers. If Holmes knew more he kept his own
counsel, but, as he told me that Inspector Lestrade had taken him
into his confidence in the case, I knew that he was in close touch
with every development. Upon the fourth day there appeared a long
telegram from Paris which seemed to solve the whole question.
"A discovery has just been made by the Parisian police," said the
_Daily Telegraph_, "which raises the veil which hung round the
tragic fate of Mr. Eduardo Lucas, who met his death by violence
last Monday night at Godolphin Street, Westminster. Our readers
will remember that the deceased gentleman was found stabbed in his
room, and that some suspicion attached to his valet, but that the
case broke down on an _alibi_. Yesterday a lady, who has been
known as Mme. Henri Fournaye, occupying a small villa in the Rue
Austerlitz, was reported to the authorities by her servants as
being insane. An examination showed that she had indeed developed
mania of a dangerous and permanent form. On inquiry the police
have discovered that Mme. Henri Fournaye only returned from a
journey to London on Tuesday last, and there is evidence to
connect her with the crime at Westminster. A comparison of
photographs has proved conclusively that M. Henri Fournaye and
Eduardo Lucas were really one and the same person, and that the
deceased had for some reason lived a double life in London and
Paris. Mme. Fournaye, who is of Creole origin, is of an extremely
excitable nature, and has suffered in the past from attacks of
jealousy which have amounted to frenzy. It is conjectured that it
was in one of these that she committed the terrible crime which
has caused such a sensation in London. Her movements upon the
Monday night have not yet been traced, but it is undoubted that a
woman answering to her description attracted much attention at
Charing Cross Station on Tuesday morning by the wildness of her
appearance and the violence of her gestures. It is probable,
therefore, that the crime was either committed when insane, or
that its immediate effect was to drive the unhappy woman out of
her mind. At present she is unable to give any coherent account
of the past, and the doctors hold out no hopes of the
re-establishment of her reason. There is evidence that a woman,
who might have been Mme. Fournaye, was seen for some hours on
Monday night watching the house in Godolphin Street."
"What do you think of that, Holmes?" I had read the account aloud
to him, while he finished his breakfast.
"My dear Watson," said he, as he rose from the table and paced up
and down the room, "you are most long-suffering, but if I have
told you nothing in the last three days it is because there is
nothing to tell. Even now this report from Paris does not help us
much."
"Surely it is final as regards the man's death."
"The man's death is a mere incident -- a trivial episode -- in
comparison with our real task, which is to trace this document and
save a European catastrophe. Only one important thing has