Encounters of Sherlock Holmes Part 20

"And the key, deputy amba.s.sador-is it kept in a place from where others might easily take it?"

"It is kept in an unlocked drawer in the bureau," it replied, gesturing to the adjacent sitting room with a quivering tentacle.

"How many members of staff would have access to the key?"

"Just four: two of my own people, and the two humans who work in the emba.s.sy."

"If you would kindly summon them forthwith for questioning, I would be most grateful."

The Martian shuffled from the room. Seconds later Holmes declared, "Hullo, what's this?"

In three strides he had crossed to the window, which stood open six inches. He lifted it further and peered out. I joined him; the drop to the gravelled forecourt below was in excess of forty feet, and no convenient drainpipe, wisteria or the like, clad the wall to provide suitable access.

Holmes stood back and contemplated the wall below the windowsill.

I saw what attracted his attention-a gouge in the wallpaper four inches beneath the sill, and an abrasion on the paint of the woodwork itself.

"But what could it be?" I asked.

"If the amba.s.sador was in the habit of keeping his window open at night, and an intruder armed with a grapple and rope... You catch my line of reasoning, Watson? Then again, there might be an entirely innocent explanation for the marks."

I examined the wall more closely, and when I turned from the window Holmes was tucking something into his breast pocket, which he had presumably taken from the bedside table. There was an expression on his face which I have beheld many times before: the aquiline glint in his eye that betokened the fact that he had garnered what he considered to be a significant clue.

Before I could question him, however, the deputy amba.s.sador returned.

"The staff are gathered and await you next door, Mr Holmes," it said.

"And you have been in the employ of the emba.s.sy for how long?" Holmes asked.

"Three years this May," replied the gentleman by the name of Herbert, a sallow man in his late forties with expressive, melancholy eyes and a straggling moustache. In a singular recapitulation of the physiology of his employers, Herbert had short legs and a stocky, barrel-like torso.

"And your position in the emba.s.sy?"

"I work as a... you might call it a scientific advisor to the amba.s.sador and his staff. I liaise between the Martian scientists and engineers who visit our world with their wonders, and their opposite numbers on Earth." He spoke in an odd, high-pitched voice, with not a little trace of c.o.c.kney in the vowels.

"And you trained at...?"

"The Royal College of Science, under none other than the great Professor Huxley himself."

Holmes smiled. "For a man of humble origins, Herbert, you have acquitted yourself remarkably well."

"Not too badly, if I say so myself - for the son of a draper," Herbert said.

My friend cleared his throat. "Now, to the matter at hand. In your time working in the emba.s.sy, have you had reason to notice any enmity being directed towards the amba.s.sador?"

Herbert shook his head. "None whatsoever, sir. The amba.s.sador is - was - well liked, by both Martians and humans. He was a wise and generous employer. I cannot imagine who might have done this."

"Are you aware of the political factions that exist amongst the Martians? We well know that there was political strife, not to say animosity, between certain nations before their arrival here."

The scientific liaison officer shook his head. "I know of certain political differences between the Martians, yes, but I was not aware that such differences existed between the amba.s.sador and his staff, or any other Martians who had dealings with him on Earth."

"Very well. Now... we come to the business of what happened last night. Gruvlax-Xenxa-Schmee last saw the amba.s.sador at eleven o'clock, at which time the amba.s.sador repaired to his bedchamber and locked the door. It is my estimation that the amba.s.sador died at some time between eleven and six or seven this morning... though I admit I am not an expert on matters of Martian pathology. Now, where were you between these hours?"

"I have a room in the bas.e.m.e.nt of the emba.s.sy, sir. I retired at nine, where I wrote for two hours before going to bed."

"You keep a diary?"

Herbert smiled. "I write fiction," he said. "Though nothing of what I write finds favour with publishers' current tastes. Too fantastical," he finished.

Holmes murmured his condolences. "Perhaps what is needed in these fantastic times is a little more social realism," said he, then returned to the matter at hand. "And you rose at...?"

"Eight, as usual. It was then that Gruvlax-Xenxa-Schmee summoned me with the alarming news."

Holmes nodded sagely, regarding his long fingers splayed on the table-top before him, then looked up at Herbert. "And I take it that you know where the spare key to the amba.s.sador's bedchamber is kept?"

"Yes, sir. In the bureau in this very room."

"To which you have access?"

Herbert nodded. "Yes, sir."

"That will be all, Mr Wells. Will you be kind enough to send in Miss West?"

Herbert opened the communicating door to be met in the threshold by a vision of striking loveliness, a woman I guessed to be in her midtwenties, raven-haired, pale-skinned and serious. I noted that I was not alone in observing what pa.s.sed between them: Holmes watched the couple as they gripped each other's hands and uttered what might have been rea.s.suring words, before Miss West smiled bravely and strode with exceptional deportment into the room.

She seated herself at the table. "Mr Holmes, Mr Watson; it is an honour indeed to meet at last such ill.u.s.trious upholders of the judiciary. I have followed your exploits with considerable interest, gentlemen."

Holmes smiled thinly. "In which case you will have no objections to aiding our enquiries?"

The slightest frown marred, for a second, the perfection of her alabaster forehead. "Of course not, Mr Holmes."

The interview that followed was the swiftest I have ever seen my friend conduct. It seemed barely two minutes from when Miss West entered the room to the time she swept out.

"If you could inform me of the position you hold in the emba.s.sy, Miss West, and the duration you have been here?"

She regarded Holmes with a level gaze, her vast brown eyes unwavering. "I am - was - employed as the private secretary to Yerkell-Jheer-Carral, the late Martian amba.s.sador, and I have held the position for a little over six months."

"And your duties entailed?"

Was it my imagination, or did I see a flare of anger in those serene chestnut eyes? "What do you expect the duties of a private secretary to be, Mr Holmes? I arranged the amba.s.sador's itinerary, dealt with his correspondence, interviews and the like."

"Would you say that, over the months you have held the post, you have come to know the amba.s.sador?"

She frowned as she contemplated the question. "I am not sure that one is able to come to know, with any cert.i.tude, the person of an extra-planetary being."

"But did he seem, in your dealings with him, a fair employer?"

She shrugged expressively "I had no... complaints."

"And between the hours of eleven last night and seven this morning, you were on the premises of the emba.s.sy?"

"I have an apartment nearby, but last night I was working late. It was after midnight when I left my office and made my way home."

"And when was the last time you set eyes on Mr Yerkell-Jheer-Carral?"

"That would be around seven, when I finished taking that day's dictation."

My friend then surprised me by saying, "Thank you, Miss West. That will be all, for now."

Miss West inclined her fine head towards Holmes and myself, then rose and hurried from the table.

She was almost at the door when Holmes asked, "One more question, if I might, Miss West?"

She turned. "Yes?"

"How long have you known the amba.s.sador's scientific liaison officer, Mr Wells?"

"For a little short of six months," she replied.

"And how would you describe your relations.h.i.+p with him?"

Something very much like annoyance, or perhaps indignation, flared in her gaze. She said defiantly, "Mr Wells and I are engaged to be married, Mr Holmes," whereupon she turned and swept from the room.

For the next hour we interviewed the two Martian staff members, attaches who liaised on matters of state with the British government. They could tell us little about the amba.s.sador, other than that they held him in high regard, were terribly shocked by his pa.s.sing, and had little to vouchsafe on the matter of the political factions that had riven the Martian nations preceding their arrival on Earth. When asked if the amba.s.sador had enemies amongst the many Martians in London, each responded with surprised sounds which their box-translators struggled to interpret.

In due course Holmes dismissed the second attache and turned to Gruvlax-Xenxa-Schmee. "You might inform Scotland Yard of what has happened. And I suggest that you authorise your medical authorities to deal with the amba.s.sador's corpse."

Gruvlax-Xenxa-Schmee waved a tentacle. "Inspector Lestrade is on his way as we speak," it said, "and the body will be removed just as soon as he has conducted his enquiries."

"And I wonder what good old Lestrade will make of the sad affair?" Holmes said in an aside to me. "Come, Watson, we have learned as much as is to be learned here. We continue the investigation elsewhere."

"And where might that be?" I asked as we took our leave of the emba.s.sy.

Holmes smiled thinly. "We are heading for Madam Roch.e.l.le's," he said.

I echoed the name. "But isn't that...?" I began.

"Indeed it is, Watson. Madam Roch.e.l.le's is perhaps the most exclusive brothel in London."

"I'm not at all sure..." I began as we paced down a narrow alleyway off the Strand, glancing over my shoulder to ensure that we were not being observed.

"Curb your fears, Watson. We have penetrated more insalubrious premises in the course of our investigations. Aha... this must be it."

A dark recess gave access to a door, upon which Holmes rapped with his cane. A second later the door opened and a thin face peered out.

My friend whipped a card from his pocket, showed it to the doorman, and stepped inside.

"Where on earth did you come by the card?" I whispered as I followed Holmes down a darkened corridor.

"Where else, Watson, but in the amba.s.sador's bedchamber."

"Ah! So that's why you were looking like the cat with the cream," I said.

Holmes paused and turned to me. "Your powers of observation, Watson, are as acute as ever."

I huffed at this, then said, "And what else did you find in the bedchamber?"

My friend gave a short laugh. "I found nothing, Watson. That is, I did not find what I was looking for."

"And what might that have been?"

"The opener with which the amba.s.sador had slit his letters."

"The murder weapon!" I expostulated.

"A brilliant deduction, my friend. Now, I think through here..."

He opened a green baize door and instantly we were a.s.sailed by loud music-Debussy, I thought-from one of the new-fangled Martian harmony-grams, along with the overwhelming reek of perfume and a sight to shock the most jaded of sensibilities.

Young ladies, in various stages of deshabille, disported themselves around the room upon chesterfields and divans, courted-shall we say?-by their suitors. It was only then that the need for the perfume became apparent: several amongst the clients were none other than malodorous Martians, and it was an odd, not to say nauseating, sight indeed to see the ivory limbs of the young ladies entwined with the writhing tentacles of their otherworldly patrons.

"I never even dreamed..." I began.

Holmes commented, "Some Martians find our women irresistible, Watson."

"What shocks me is that some of our women succ.u.mb to their advances."

"Such is the tragedy of their circ.u.mstances," said Holmes with a lugubrious expression.

A scantily clad woman of middle years advanced upon us, smiling. "Welcome, gentlemen. If I might take your coats..."

Homes proffered his calling card and said, "If you would be kind enough to present this to Madam Roch.e.l.le, and impress upon her that we need speak to her about a matter of the utmost importance."

Two minutes later we were ushered into a highly scented and sweltering boudoir. A buxom woman, whose wrinkled flesh spoke of advanced years, sat upon what appeared to be a throne beside a blazing fire.

"Mr Holmes hisself!" she declared in a Hackney shriek. "Never thought I'd see the great detective on my turf, so to speak. Are you sure I can't tempt you with one of my more beautiful girls?"

Holmes maintained an admirable elan. "We are here to investigate a murder, madam."

"A murder? Who's been murdered? I a.s.sure you none of my girls -"