“Me?”
“Yes, you. I believe you said you’d assist with this case, did you not?”
“Yes, all right. But you didn’t tell me what the case was.”
“Have you examined these documents?” Lestrade pressed.
“Erm… a little.”
“I think there is hidden meaning in them.”
I shifted about and admitted, “Perhaps there is, but… look here, I’m no cryptographer, Vladislav. Isn’t there somebody at Scotland Yard who might tell us more?”
“There was. Until he saw this and quit his position.”
“Damn,” I mumbled. Then, because Lestrade was staring at me with expectation and disdain, I leaned in over it to do my best.
“Many of the figures are repeated,” I noted. “In fact, I think there are several that were present in the first sample, as well. Then again, how many such acts are there? By God, the illustrator would practically have to repeat himself, wouldn’t he? But why spend hours generating so many redundant images?”
Lestrade pounded the sheaf. “This is a code,” he insisted. “It has to be. When Elsie saw this latest example, she ran to Mr. Cubitt and expressed her desire to take a sudden vacation that very night! This has meaning for Elsie, Dr. Watson. Not only that, do you remember that theater in New Jersey you asked me to look into?”
“The Joint? What did you learn?”
“It was recently raided by Pinkertons.”
“Why?”
Lestrade shook his head. “That’s just it: Allan Pinkerton is not saying. Usually, he is quite happy to trumpet his organization’s achievements. He is only silent when he’s got his hands on something useful to him. It may be information, or perhaps something more palpable. I have no way of knowing. But I know this: despite his jovial public demeanor, Allan Pinkerton is one of the world’s foremost brokers of secrets. He’s in possession of quite a bit of magical might, too.”
Well did I know it.
“The case grows in complexity,” said Lestrade. “Now, do your job and decode this smut!”
I leaned in again to try, but after only a moment I folded it closed and sighed. “I can’t. Don’t make me. I’m sorry, Vladislav, but I am simply not accustomed to dwelling on such things. Look, did the Cubitts go on that sudden vacation?”
“No.”
“Then I’ll travel to Ridling Thorpe Manor tomorrow morning, all right? I’ll address it directly. But please, please, don’t make me…”
“Very well,” he said grumpily. “First thing in the morning.”
* * *
How strangely uncomfortable I was, sitting alone in a train car with three envelopes of homoerotic illustrations shoved into my coat. I had my medical bag with me, in case it should be needed. And my pistol also, for I really did not know what to expect in Norfolk.
Nor could I have guessed.
My first clue something had gone amiss was the stationmaster. When I asked where I could hire transport to Ridling Thorpe Manor, he looked down at my medical bag and said, “I don’t think you’ll be in time to save her. And if you do, it’s only for the gallows.”
“Save who? What are you speaking of?” I stammered.
“Elsie Cubitt. Thought you knew. Shot her husband last night, she did. Then she done herself. Mind you, we always knowed no good would come of a woman like that. Everyone said.”
“Damn! You must help me get there immediately!”
I took a moment before departing to send a wire to Scotland Yard.
Lestrade—
Murder has been done. Come to Ridling Thorpe Manor.
—Watson
The carriage to the manor moved with agonizing slowness. When at last we pulled up the drive, I leapt down, threw a note or two at my driver, and stepped straight in without waiting to be invited. There seemed to be some deal of talk coming from the sitting room, so I marched in there and said, “I am Dr. John Watson. I have been asked to look into this case by Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. Who has charge of this investigation?”
“I do,” said two men, turning to face me.
They were mostly the same. Granted, one of them was over six feet tall with milky white eyes, and looked as if it would do him no harm to set his fork aside once in a while. The other had deep brown eyes and seemed to have said, promptly upon reaching his twelfth year, “No, that’s enough growing, thank you. I’ll just stop here.” Yet aside from eye color and build, they seemed to be basically the same breed of creature. They were dressed in somewhat wrinkled brown tweed. They wore wire-rimmed glasses that could have been made by the same optician and twin waxed moustaches that practically shouted, “Oh, I know city folk tend to look down on their country cousins, but look how dapper we are, really.” Beneath these lay chinstrap-style beards of an utterly preposterous cut. Most important were the identical frowns that told everybody this was a serious business and they hardly approved of it.
“And you are?” I asked.
“Inspector Woodbridge Stote,” said the larger, “and my new colleague, Inspector James Martin.”
“Funny. I was under the impression martens were larger than stoats,” I said. This comment drew a hint of a mischievous smile from Inspector Martin.
Which should have been a clue.
“Now, tell me what has gone on here,” I demanded, though of course, I had no right.
Stote heaved a sigh and stepped aside to reveal a ghastly scene. “Bad business. Looks as if Mr. and Mrs. Cubitt had a bit of a row last night. She shot him. One bullet, straight to the heart. He must have been dead before he hit the floor. Then she shot herself.”
Sure enough, there on the floor lay my client, dressed in rugged outdoorsman’s trousers and boots with a little hole and a great bloodstain decorating the front of his shirt. The shot must have gone straight through, for there was a massive pool of blood on the floor around him. He held a pistol in his right hand and had an expression of surprise and pain on his pale, exsanguinated face. A dozen feet from him lay
