Echoes of Sherlock Holmes: Stories Inspired by the Holmes Canon(19)
“You are not the first who has tried,” said Holmes, inclining his head. I observed he did not actually accept the proffered apology but our guest seemed not to notice.
“Thank you. I am a good judge of character, sir, but that takes time and observation, and speed is of the essence. A fortune stands in the balance, but more than that, the safety and health of many innocent people.”
“Pray, tell me how I may be of assistance.” Only I recognized the impatience behind Holmes’s request.
“My ancestress many times over, Anna Hoyt, was a woman of some means. It has recently come to light that she had a considerable fortune hidden here in England.” At this, his expression became somewhat rueful. “I understand that during the War of Independence, she was known as a true patriot, but it appears she was also careful enough to have money—and possibly friends—in both countries, so that she might find some security no matter the war’s outcome. This canny little lady, having started as a lowly tavern keeper, founded the family from which I am proud to be descended. Her caution, however, has placed me in a real bind. She hid the money, as one might during those bad old days, particularly keen not to let anyone find, seize, and tax it.”
“How did you discover this?” Holmes sat forward, his fingers steepled.
“An advertisement, published by the law firm that was charged with producing the notice one hundred years after her death. I understand that, in addition to notifying possible family connections, newspapers around the world were hired to advertise that anyone with a claim to the inheritance must produce evidence in order to receive the clue that should lead to the treasure.”
“What sort of treasure?” I asked. “Why a clue?”
“As I understand it, the old girl hid a small fortune in jewels and gold.”
“Small, portable, universally valuable,” Holmes remarked.
“Yes. And offered a clue and not a location as her reasoning was, anyone too stupid to find it, didn’t deserve it. Of course, the lawyers said it much fancier than that.” Mr. Sewall heaved a sigh. “First one who finds it, keeps it. I aim to be the first.”
Holmes frowned. “And has any other family come forward?”
“Only one that can be proved—or rather, the lawyers are unable to disprove her credentials.”
“‘Her’ being . . . ?”
“Miss Arabella Hartley. I met her once; the little hussy was running with a bad crowd in Europe. She claims to be a direct descendant through the male line, but I can find no record of any marriage between Anna Hoyt and an Englishman over here. Miss Hartley is nothing more than an adventuress, so far as I can tell.”
I cleared my throat. “Forgive me for saying so, Mr. Sewall, but . . . would it be so difficult to lose out to Miss Hartley?” I did not like the way he’d spoken of his ancestress—the reason for his family’s wealth—and this young lady.
A smirk on Holmes’s face revealed that he thought my weakness for the ladies was showing itself.
“What you mean, in your very polite British way, is if I can afford to keep a private steamship, why do I care so much about a fistful of antique jewels?” He sighed. “If it were up to me, I would not. While I do not approve or know this young person, I have a debt of honor to repay.”
He looked very solemn now. “My wife asked me, on her deathbed, to fund a hospital. I had need before that to put all my assets into my business—all the political unrest in Europe has been bad for my shipping trade—but if I can find that inheritance, well, I can honor both my wife and the founder of my family.”
“And save innocent lives with the hospital,” Sherlock Holmes murmured. “You have given me all the salient points?”
“All saving the lawyer, Mr. Deering’s, address, my card and letter of introduction, and the address of my residence in London. If I may count on you, Mr. Holmes, I believe I shall soon be at rights with heaven and earth.”
We exchanged farewells, and Mr. Sewall left.
“Well, Watson, what do you think?”
“I don’t buy that cock-and-bull story about a wife’s dying wish for one minute.”
Holmes nodded. “I believe that is a lie, but he told one truth: He needs our help.”
“He needs a good thrashing,” I said warmly, thinking of his unkind words about Miss Hartley.
“So powerful a man? Coming here personally and lying to us? You may well get your wish, Watson.”
Our eyes met, and a slow smile spread across my face. It was mirrored by Holmes’s own rather feral grin.
A client with deep pockets and the promise of violence? Better than plum pudding on Christmas Day.
The next morning, armed with our client’s particulars, Holmes wired his contact in Boston, asking him to examine more closely Sewall’s family, business, and reputation. Then, we went to the office of Deering and Deering, where we presented our credentials. We were surprised when the senior partner, a round, balding little fellow with a gold pince nez, brought us the clue. It was not some legal document, but a portrait.
“It’s all very irregular, of course,” Mr. Deering said. “But there’s nothing about this bequest that is regular!”
The antique portrait was in three-quarter, showing the lady herself in the garb of the previous century. She was perhaps sixty-five or so, I thought, but there was still more gold than silver in her hair and her features were very fine. She was resplendent in a scarlet gown and ribbons, and if I was any judge, the satin was costly and the lace on her cap and fichu very fine. There was a hardness in her eyes that might have been some trick of the light, because that hardness was belied by the slight smile on her lips.