I sighed. “I cannot guess if this is your wife’s proclivity. Nor can I tell you to what degree she might like you to try and emulate such. Nobody can tell you that, Mr. Cubitt, except your wife. You must ask Elsie.”
He gave a laugh that was also a sob. “I can’t do that!”
“I think you must.”
“I could never be so direct.”
I gave a shrug. “You could always come at it from an angle, I suppose. Next time you’re at breakfast inquire about her opinion of the weather, listen politely to her answer, and then say, ‘By the by, darling, I’ve been meaning to ask you: is this your pornography?’”
“I can’t. I just can’t. Please, you’ve got to help me, Dr. Watson.”
“Put your mind at rest, Mr. Cubitt. I shall do my best to unwind this knot that troubles you.”
“But where will you even begin?”
“Isn’t it obvious? New Jersey. The Joint.”
* * *
I had Lestrade on the trail before the day was out, wiring a number of inquiries to law enforcement officials in the States. Perhaps Elsie had such a reputation that we might even be able to discern her… er… preferences, based on previous arrests.
But I knew that hope was slight. No, to know what was in Elsie’s heart, the clearest path was likely the best; we must ask Elsie. I puttered about all the next day seeing to my patients, but my mind was elsewhere. True, my body may have been palpating this cyst or evaluating that gout-ridden foot, but every ounce of my creative force was wondering how best to coax information from Mrs. Cubitt.
In the end, I decided on a semi-falsehood. I would use my real name, and write her a letter, claiming to be working on an article entitled ‘Women who Love Men who Love Men’. At teatime, I decided it would be best to add the subtitle ‘And the Trials They Face’, to give the impression that she was speaking to a sympathetic ear. I dashed off one letter to warn Hilton Cubitt that this was my intention and sent it by the next post. I then wrote to Elsie, but resolved to hold on to it, in order to give Hilton time to protest. Perhaps he would not wish me to use falsehood to pry into a subject that might cause shame or discomfort to his beloved wife.
Yet it wasn’t all that bad a lie, was it? If worst came to worst, I could just go ahead and write the article. In fact, the more I reflected on it, the more I realized it might be a sure path to fame. Controversy, to be sure. But fame.
I carried the letter around with me all the next day, until shortly before two, when I mailed it off. Not five minutes later, as I headed home to take my afternoon break, a gentleman stepped from one of the shadowed alleyways before me and asked, “Dr. John Watson?”
“I am.”
“I have a communication here from Inspector Lestrade.”
The man reached into his coat and withdrew a by now familiar item. If nothing else, this case was proving to be quite the financial boon to London’s unmarked-envelope manufacturers. Sure enough, it contained another sheaf of lewd male figures. There also seemed to be a note stuck in there, as well. Though I peeped in as carefully as I could, this seemed to make Lestrade’s messenger rather uneasy. He shifted back and forth on his feet, an innocent expression on his face as he stared purposely at a nearby tree. On a whim, I asked, “You did not happen to examine the contents of this package, did you?”
“No!” he said, much louder than he ought.
Then, “No!” again, his voice cracking with emotion.
Then, “No, no, no, no! Aaaaaaghwaaaaah! Noooooooo!” as he burst into tears and charged off down the street.
Back home in the privacy of my study, I began to examine the thing. Except… oh, I could hardly bring myself to look at the pictures. It’s exactly the sort of thing an Englishman is trained not to do. I concentrated on Lestrade’s note.
Apparently, this second sheaf had been found by a passing gardener, nailed to the door of a small shed on a remote corner of the grounds. As it was near Elsie’s personal herb garden, she was the only person to use this shed. The profusion of recent nail holes in the door attested that several more notes may have gone unnoticed by the staff. When Elsie heard the gardener had taken the item, she confronted him, insisting that it was not meant for him and that he should give it back. This had come too late, as the note had already been en route to Lestrade.
But Elsie’s wording vexed me. What did she mean, “give it back”? Did she mean she knew it was intended for her? Or might it mean it was not to her but from her? Or had the wording of Lestrade’s note not been exact, and I was merely chasing shadows? I was still sitting in my parlor, having a late-night pipe and musing about it, when the bell rang.
I got to the front door just as Chives was greeting my unexpected visitor. It was a dark and ill-omened night. Through the open door, I could see that a cold drizzle fell from patchy clouds, driven in herds across the face of the moon by fitful, guilty winds. And there, framed against it all, stood Vladislav Lestrade.
“Yes. Much better,” I told him. “An altogether more Lestrade-like moment to visit than the last time you came.”
He favored me with a frown. “May we speak privately?”
“Of course, Lestrade. Do come in.”
No sooner had we reached the study than he drew yet another envelope from his jacket and said, “We have received more evidence.”
Sure enough, there was a third sheaf of homoerotica. He spread it on my desk, then stood back and asked,
