was mostly in the mind. However, the shame and the rage only grew, until I hated everyone: Margery, whose fault it somehow was; Veronica, who had put me here; Holmes, who had seen me in that despicable state and burnt me with his compassion. I refused to go to the telephone, had Q simply inform people that I was unwell and not to come by or send flowers. I did not read the growing pile of messages: from Margery Childe, from Mrs Hudson, from Duncan. I hated everyone, except, oddly enough, the true villain of the piece, the man I thought of as simply Him. After all, He had been an honest enemy, not a masquerading friend.
It was Holmes, I suppose inevitably, who pulled me out of this maudlin state. He came to the flat late on Friday. I naturally refused him entrance to my room. He entered anyway, by the simple expedient of sliding a newspaper under the door, poking a kitchen skewer through the keyhole to knock the key out, and briskly drawing back paper and key to his side. His shoulder proved stronger than my bare foot against the door, and I faced him in a fury.
“How dare you!”
“I dare many things, Russell, not the least of which is entering a lady’s chamber contrary to her express wishes.”
“Get out.”
“Russell, had you truly not wanted me to enter, you would not have left the key so conveniently to hand. Put on your shoes and coat; you’re coming for a walk.”
Had I been less debilitated, he might easily have failed, but by dint of physical strength and verbal abuse, he got me into my coat, got me to the pavement, pushed and prodded and chivvied and distracted me until I found myself at the entrance to Regent’s Park.
And there we walked. Up and down the paths we went, Holmes carrying on an endless and effortless monologue, beginning with the history of the park, the body once found in this hollow here, and the uprising plotted in that house over there. I then heard about the park’s botanical oddities, the flora of northern India, the peculiar league of poison-eaters from Rajasthan, the embroidery of Kashmir, and the differences between Tibetan and Nepalese Buddhism, followed by a description of his recent monograph on the glass of automobile headlamps, another study on analysing the types of gin used in cocktails, his experiments with a recording of various automobile engines that he thought the police might find useful in helping witnesses identify unlit autos by night, yet another monograph comparing the occasional outbursts of mass hysteria in Medieval times with the current madness for dances with jerking and incomprehensible movements—
I turned on him.
“Oh come now, Holmes, that’s absurd.”
“Thank God!” he exploded, and dropped onto a nearby bench to mop his brow dramatically. “Even I cannot maintain a line of drivel forever.” I stood over him and crossed my arms.
“Very well, you have my attention.”
“Sit down, Russell.” I thought about it, then sat.
“That’s better. We must have walked ten miles tonight—I haven’t seen so much of Regent’s Park since Watson used to drive me out and force me to take exercise. For similar reasons,” he added. “You are feeling better, I think?”
“Oh Lord, Holmes, isn’t it dreary always being right?” I complained.
“You are quite right—it was not politic of me to point out that Uncle Sherlock knows best. I merely thought to enquire if you had an appetite yet.”
“No,” I said, and then amended it. “However, I admit that the idea of food is not quite so repugnant as it was earlier.”
“Good. Now, shall we go to the zoological gardens and wax philosophical about the anthropomorphism of monkeys, or shall we talk about the man to whom you refer with a capitalised pronoun?”
“What about Him? Have the police caught Him yet?”
“You needn’t fear, Russell, they have not. And will not, if you choose to do nothing.”
We sat and listened to the noises of the park at night, traffic sounds mingled with distant jungle screeches. My hands were gradually regaining their steadiness, I noticed.
“Touche, Holmes. I am repaid for my thoughtless remark about your son.”
“Hardly thoughtless. At times, a jolt is needed to get an engine moving.”
“Consider my engine jolted. In which direction do you wish me to move?”
“In a most circuitous path, I think. We must not give the man a second opportunity.”
“But what does he want with me?” I cried.
“Would it interest you to know,” he asked, “that nine days ago Somerset House received, and registered, a will for one Mary Judith Russell, signed, witnessed, and dated the previous Friday? I thought it might. And perhaps you would also be interested to know that you chose to leave five thousand pounds each to your beloved aunt, your snivelling cousin, your farm manager, and your college; not a farthing, I was rather hurt to discover, to your old friend Sherlock Holmes. The bulk of your estate—the houses, the factory, the gold, the paintings, and the villa in Tuscany—went to the New Temple in God.”
“Bloody hell,” I muttered.
“As you say. The signature was quite good, by the way—a closer approximation than I could pen. I believe it to be the work of a forger who goes by the name of Penworthy. Poor Miss Russell.” He sighed. “The sudden acquisition of riches drove her to a death of high living.”
“I see now why He—why the man clung to me so closely. I had wondered how, if he is in charge of some criminal organisation, he could afford to remove himself from London for so long, but with something like my father’s fortune at stake, I suppose he could not risk leaving the whole charade to a subordinate. Is there any link with the Temple, other than the will?”
“No proof of one, but it has to be with the woman herself.”
“Oh God. It always comes back to Margery.”
“It does.” He started to say something, then changed his mind. We sat in another patch of silence, until another thing that had to be said forced itself onto my tongue.
“You were right, Holmes, Tuesday—at the house. Inspector Dakins would have seen only the addict’s symptoms and not have listened to anything else. I hated that, having you give me… I hated it.”
“You hated me.”
“I suppose so. Yes.”
“My shoulders are broad,” he said easily.
“So, who is he?” I asked.
“He does not own that house. It was let, six months ago, to a man using the name Calvin Franich.”
“Does Mr Franich have a small scar on his upper lip?”
“The estate agent said yes, he did. The interesting thing is, Scotland Yard knows of another gentleman with a small scar on his upper right lip and another in his left eyebrow. He calls himself Claude Franklin.”
“Mr Franklin being…”
“A rather mysterious gentleman with fingers in any number of shadowy pies. He made a beginning, you may be interested to know, in convincing elderly widows to leave him a little something when they died. He disappeared from this country in 1912, as things were becoming a bit warm for him, and survived the war quite nicely by importing illicit goods to the Mediterranean. Recently, his name has been linked with drugs being smuggled into the south of France, and he seems to have slipped quietly into England some time in the last year. Very low-key, very clever, very dangerous, was Scotland Yard’s verdict. They weren’t happy to hear he’s come home.”
“I should think not.”
“Has that restored your appetite?”
“Do you know, I believe it has. Not for great quantities, however.”
“But an intensity of flavours. It is not your stomach that abhors the idea of food, if I may be allowed to mention that indelicate organ, but your palate. I have discovered a new establishment run by a chronically unsuccessful cracksman who was fortunately employed in the governor’s kitchen during his last spell. He has found his calling. You shall begin with the prosciutto—no, not pork. Ah yes, the baked pear and Stilton, that ought to awaken your taste buds. And then a bowl of his onion soup—he makes it with a touch of garlic and a particularly interesting cheese grated on top—with a nice young Cotes du Rhone, I think, and perhaps if you’re up to it a sole almondine with a glass of sparkling white wine—”
