The Mystery of the Scarlet Rose Read online

  After a quick check, we found that Sherlock’s hypothesis was completely possible. The three brief codes referred to the volume number, page, and finally, the coordinates in the Furlong Street Guide, and so they identified three locations in the city. The first of the three was in Twickenham on the Thames River, while the other two were closer to the city center.

  As I got ready to eat breakfast, I did not find it hard to imagine Sherlock and Lupin seated in the café or in the tiny wooden toolshed in Holmes’s backyard, intent on sorting out what was significant about these three corners of London. I could imagine the flash of light that must have gone through Sherlock’s eyes when the news blurb in the Standard unexpectedly answered that question.

  If the first spot was the scene of a homicide, then the next two might be places where murders have yet to occur!

  This explained Sherlock and Lupin’s nighttime visit, which had been a perfectly reckless idea considering what might have happened if my mother had discovered us.

  Instead, I had never been so happy. The first thing my friends had done, as soon as they’d discovered the possibility of the crime, was come look for me. Knowing that made my heart overflow with joy. Those few moments spent whispering in the darkness of my room erased all the misunderstandings of our previous encounter.

  I felt foolish. All it took for me to be poisoned by jealousy was hearing Lupin say the name of another girl. Did I really think that Lupin, traveling all over Europe with his father, would live the life of a recluse? The truth was, I was envious of his and Hilda’s freedom. Hilda really was braver than I was, as her decisions proved.

  But there was also another, sweeter truth. In that surprise nighttime visit, Sherlock, Lupin, and I were once again united in our special way, leaving the rest of the world behind. It had only taken a few moments of scheming to renew our bond and make it seem as if we had never been apart.

  That was what I was thinking about during the two hours I had to spend with Mrs. Symonds, my new instructor for Latin and English Literature lessons. They were absolute torture, and it seemed to me as though time had unkindly halted right in the middle of them. But the lessons finally ended, and I was once again free to go.

  As usual, I needed a little white lie and Mr. Nelson’s help. He was to tell my mother we had gone to Portobello Road to look for Christmas presents. Instead, he would go alone while I met up with my friends.

  “Shall I choose your gifts, Miss Irene?” asked the butler, whom I now considered a faithful friend. Mr. Nelson smiled mysteriously and aimed his dark, intense eyes at me.

  “Why do I have the impression that your eyes are trying to tell me something?” I asked.

  “My eyes have just noticed you expressing a certain . . . energy. The kind of energy you have when certain friends are in town,” answered the butler.

  How Mr. Nelson had known Lupin was in town was a mystery to me, at least until — when sitting in the carriage taking me to 55 Cheapside — I remembered the little noise we had heard from inside the apartment the previous evening. That noise could well have been Horatio Nelson, stopping to eavesdrop outside my bedroom door.

  My carriage arrived in front of St. Paul’s School, where Sherlock had begun attending a couple months before, and I paid the coachman for the ride. Just then, I saw Lupin arrive in a carriage on the opposite side of the street.

  I raced across the busy street.

  “Hello, Irene!” Lupin greeted me, grinning.

  “It’s a pleasure to see you again in daylight. I, however, prefer you in the dark,” I teased. Lupin looked handsome and elegant, even though he was dressed in the same wrinkled clothes from the day before. I took a seat next to him in the carriage, and we waited.

  Lupin looked up at the grand school building. “It would seem our schoolboy hasn’t yet managed to escape the clutches of his schoolmaster!” he said.

  In fact, due to a trick of fate, the Christmas holidays would begin the next day, and for that reason, Sherlock would have to come up with a little scheme. Neither Lupin nor I doubted our friend would succeed, but we didn’t have the least idea what he would dream up.

  While we waited for Holmes, Lupin did an excellent job avoiding any personal talk. Instead we chitchatted a little about the war and how we hoped it would end. There was a popular new government in Paris, but we both spoke of it with great suspicion. Then Lupin nudged me with his elbow and pointed at the school.

  Sherlock had popped out at the top of the staircase, accompanied by a man in uniform, who walked him almost all the way to our carriage. Holmes then said goodbye to him, coughing heavily, and covered the distance that separated us with broad strides.

  When he climbed into the carriage, our friend’s appearance surprised us. His face was flushed, his eyes were shining, and his brow was beaded with sweat.

  “You have a fever!” I exclaimed.

  “Exactly,” Sherlock announced perfectly calmly. “Thanks to the leaf of Virginia tobacco I ingested half an hour ago. Now, let’s leave quickly,” he added, “because the two of you aren’t too convincing as Mama and Uncle, who came to pick up the poor sick student, and I don’t want old Jenkins to notice something amiss.”

  Lupin laughed, amused, and told the coachman to continue straight for two blocks and then turn the corner. Once we were far enough away from St. Paul’s School, however, Lupin ordered the coachman to stop in an open area, and he pulled a freshly printed copy of the Standard out of his pocket.

  From the previous night’s blurb in the paper, it was clear the news of the Twickenham murder had arrived shortly before the edition went to press, and, therefore, we expected more details in this new edition. But Lupin’s quick scan did not add much to what we already knew, with one important exception: the exact address of Samuel Peccary’s mansion.

  “Number four Church Lane!” Lupin read aloud, glancing at Sherlock, who immediately pulled the street guide from his pocket and began flipping through its pages feverishly.

  “Aha!” Sherlock said a few moments later.

  “A few more syllables would be welcome!” I said.

  “A perfect correspondence,” Sherlock said, with eyes that shined more with satisfaction than the fever alone could have produced. “The first of the Black Friar’s codes is, indeed, V2 – P19 – D2. According to my interpretation, this means: second volume of the Furlong Street Guide of London, page nineteen, in the square on the map where D and 2 meet. Well . . . do you know precisely what is in that square?” he finally asked.

  “Let’s see if I can guess,” said Lupin. “Church Lane, in the suburb of Twickenham!”

  “Exactly,” Sherlock confirmed.

  “So that means —” Lupin began.

  “I know what that means!” I interrupted without a second’s hesitation. And I flung myself toward the tiny window used for communicating with the coachman. “Quick! Take us to Scotland Yard!”

  The driver hesitated for a moment, but then he gave the reins a jerk and started the carriage. After traversing some side streets, we entered the chaotic traffic of Tottenham Court Road. The looks in my friends’ eyes told me they agreed with my decision. The information we possessed was too important to hide from the police. And it didn’t seem possible that what we had discovered was a simple coincidence. If we were correct in our hypothesis, two more people who lived at the addresses identified in the Black Friar’s code were in mortal danger.

  We reached our destination after about twenty minutes. Lupin paid the coachman, giving him a generous tip, and headed at top speed for the entrance of Scotland Yard, that oddly named building that housed the offices for the police.

  We hadn’t even reached the doorway when a tall, slouching police officer assailed us with his nasal, impolite voice. “Hey, kids! This is police headquarters, don’t you know?”

  “We know,” replied Sherlock Holmes calmly. “But we have an important stor
y to report.”

  The policeman was unimpressed and replied with arrogance, “If you have nice stories to tell, why don’t you go to your neighborhood police station? I’m sure they’ll be willing to listen to you.”

  “I have no doubt,” Sherlock replied stubbornly. “But it so happens that what we have to say is too important for the neighborhood police!”

  The policeman looked at us with a hostile air, deciding whether or not to believe us. “Then Officer Babcock will deal with you,” he announced before he left, slamming the door.

  Officer Babcock turned out to be a fat policeman with reddish-brown hair and watery eyes. Leaning over a dark wooden counter, he watched us with a bored air. “Listen, if you lost your doggie or a toy or something, you’ve come to the wrong place,” he told us.

  “The only thing we’re in danger of losing is our patience!” Lupin said curtly. “So it’s better for everyone if you listen to what we have to say.”

  “Oho!” said the officer, snickering. “I’m all ears.”

  “It’s really important, sir,” I intervened, looking him directly in the eyes. “It has to do with the murder of the man named Peccary in Twickenham.”

  The man in uniform behind the counter raised an eyebrow, a mixture of curiosity and doubt showing in his eyes. But since he seemed inclined to listen to what we had to say, I took that as a positive sign.

  Sherlock and I traded looks, and my friend approached the counter. After pulling the newspaper clipping of the fake chess problem signed by the Black Friar from his satchel, he began to explain everything to Officer Babcock.

  “When I saw this in the classified pages of the Times . . .” he began. And from there, with his analytical, penetrating manner, Sherlock went through all the details with the officer. He explained the true nature of the three brief codes in the fake chess problem, showed the match of the first code to the location where Peccary’s murder had been committed, and then showed the officer the other two locations that were marked by the Black Friar’s code.

  When Sherlock finished his explanation, Officer Babcock, who up to that moment had not batted an eye, slammed his palms on the counter and opened his eyes wide. It came as a surprise to the three of us, but the policeman seemed to have been deeply struck by Sherlock’s speech. This was confirmed when his beanpole of a colleague came into the office a few moments later.

  “Carruthers!” the officer behind the counter shouted. “These kids have discovered something interesting.”

  The second policeman seemed surprised. He locked eyes with his colleague. “How interesting?” he asked after a few moments of thoughtful silence.

  “Quite interesting, I’d say!” Officer Babcock said. “A matter of secret codes that have to do with the murder in Twickenham, and the possibility of more murders still to come.”

  Officer Carruthers turned and looked at us suspiciously. “Secret codes, eh?” he repeated, turning back again to his colleague. “Worth disturbing Inspector Jarvis?”

  The policeman behind the counter seemed to consider the matter carefully as he stroked his chin. “Yes, yes, I believe so!” was his final verdict.

  Sherlock, Lupin, and I exchanged satisfied looks. We were succeeding in getting Scotland Yard on the trail of a dangerous killer!

  “Follow me,” said Officer Carruthers with a nod, leading the way. We didn’t need to hear him a second time and followed him down a long, poorly lit hallway.

  After climbing up a short set of stairs and passing through another hallway, we reached a small, dark door. The policeman knocked lightly. Without waiting for an answer, he opened it and stood aside.

  “After you,” he prompted us. “Inspector Jarvis will be happy to receive you.” And without adding another word, he disappeared into the halls of Scotland Yard.

  My friends and I stepped through the doorway, surprised. The room was bare and tiny, and old chairs lined the walls. It wasn’t at all how I’d envisioned the office of an important policeman of Her Majesty!

  Even Inspector Jarvis’s appearance seemed shabby. He was an elderly man, with white hair and bushy sideburns, and he was wrapped up in an old, dark, wrinkled coat.

  I wondered if the clothes he wore were intended to disguise him as he infiltrated some gangster’s den or conducted one of his other undercover investigations. The very idea thrilled me.

  “Who sent you here?” Jarvis asked sharply, standing motionless beside the window, his eyes cast outside.

  “Officers Babcock and Carruthers, sir,” answered Sherlock politely, carefully watching the odd police officer. “They believe we possess some information that might interest you.”

  “I hope you do,” Jarvis said gravely. “Anything that can help stop them is of the utmost importance!”

  Sherlock, Lupin, and I looked at one another, surprised. Was there already an ongoing investigation? Was an entire group of criminals hiding behind the name of the Black Friar?

  “Stop them? So there are already some suspects?” Lupin asked, expressing our astonishment.

  The inspector turned and fixed two owl-like eyes on him. They sparkled with a vaguely unsettling light. “Anyone who isn’t blind knows of their existence . . . the Dark Horsemen of the Apocalypse,” he said. “They secretly plot to assassinate our queen . . . and when they succeed, nothing will prevent them from building the Evil Cathedral . . . ”

  When I think back to those moments after all these years, I cannot believe we didn’t understand what was going on. But we were so naïve then, and we so honestly believed in our role as young investigators, that we spent I don’t know how many minutes listening to the man’s delusions.

  When he raised his voice and declared, “Humanity’s days are drawing to a close!” we heard a guffaw from the hallway.

  Sherlock and Lupin shot out of the room like hawks, leaving me alone with that poor old madman. I followed them a moment later, but in the short time that I stayed in Inspector Jarvis’s room, he looked at me as if he were watching from another world and said, “I know exactly who you are.”

  And he gave me a look that froze the blood in my veins.

  I raced out. In the hallway, I found the policemen from earlier, together with a small group that seemed to be having a great time.

  “Idiots! You have no right to do this!” I hissed, full of rage. But that only made them laugh harder.

  Sherlock was even angrier than I was. I saw his face flush until it turned purplish. He would surely have hurled his satchel at the policemen if Lupin hadn’t wrapped his arms around Sherlock to stop him.

  “Who the devil is the bloke in that room?” Sherlock demanded.

  “Old Jarvis,” answered one of the officers, trying to hold back his cackling. “He was one of us, but when he retired . . . let’s just say that he lost a cog or two! Still, he’s harmless, so we let him stay in an empty room — him and his conspiracy theories.”

  “Which are not very different from yours, my dear youngsters!” Babcock added, opening his eyes wide before bursting out laughing.

  “So, were you listening?” Officer Carruthers asked.

  “Oh, did he warn you about the coming of the Horsemen of the Apocalypse?” Officer Babcock quipped.

  “You’ll regret this! I can assure you, sirs!” Sherlock hissed, his eyes narrowing into slits.

  “Hey!” Officer Carruthers said, turning to Lupin. “Your friend can’t take a joke. Does he really want to threaten officers of Scotland Yard?”

  “Joke, you say?” Sherlock repeated, trying to wiggle out of Lupin’s grasp. “Maybe you haven’t understood that your joke will cost someone’s life.”

  “Oh, of course,” Officer Babcock hooted. “They’ll start by gunning down the queen, just as old Jarvis said!”

  At that point, I saw Lupin push Sherlock toward the exit, making a sign to me to follow them. It seemed like an excellent i
dea to me, before we could get ourselves into bigger trouble than we could handle.

  “You’ll pay for this!” Sherlock screamed over his shoulder. “You’ll come begging for my help! You’ll come begging for it!”

  Chapter 5

  A TRIP TO TWICKENHAM

  I don’t think I would be mistaken in saying that the day’s unpleasant episode left a deep impression on my friend Sherlock Holmes. Since then — and continuing to this day, from what I can tell — his attitude toward Scotland Yard has been marked by sharp distrust and obvious disdain.

  After all, in those long distant days, we were three youngsters, full of pride and full of ourselves.

  And these were the exact same feelings that made me honor my word to my mother. I had promised her I would help with the Christmas charity benefit run by her new group of London friends. Despite what Sherlock and Lupin might think and despite the new adventure we were about to embark on, I had decided that I would uphold my commitment.

  My task consisted of sewing tiny dark buttons for eyes onto rag dolls. When I came home from visiting Scotland Yard, I took advantage of a moment when both my mother was away and Mr. Nelson was busy gathering wood for the house. I went to the sitting room where my mother kept the sack filled with the dolls, buttons, and a sewing kit, and took it to my room to hide it under my bed.

  When I went back to my bedroom after dinner, I pretended I was going to sleep. Instead, I buckled down to the task of sewing buttons, one after another, onto the faces of dolls that would go to less fortunate little girls of London. While I was sewing under the halo of light from the oil lamp, I thought happily of how the girls might smile as they received these unexpected gifts.

  I then let my thoughts wander to what my friends and I had discussed before parting. Due to the despicable behavior of the police, we had no choice but to continue our investigation into the Black Friar’s codes and the murder they seemed connected to — that of Samuel Peccary.