The Sherlockian

CHAPTER 12 A Proposal

January 6, 2010, cont.

“It’s not a bloody mystery, ” insisted Ron Rosenberg, slapping a sharp palm to the bar top for punctuation. Harold gave a jolt. Ron had a tendency to throw his wiry arms around when he became agitated. The more dire Ron’s inflection grew, the more alert Harold had to be for an errant elbow swipe.

“You’re going to pin this on me, and I think we both know exactly why,” continued Ron.

“Look,” replied Harold, “I’m seriously not saying you had anything to do with this. With the murder.”

“Hush!” said Ron, flitting his eyes across the hotel bar. “Quietly. This is between us.”

Ron swung his elbows out again, and Harold dodged. Ron Rosenberg was not among Harold’s favorite Irregulars, and it was moments like this that reminded him why. Ron was in his forties, though he looked older. Squinting eyes gave his face the impression of wrinkles, and the impeccably tailored three-piece suits he wore every day made him look like an aged banker. Which he was not. Harold vaguely remembered something about Ron’s owning a small real-estate firm in London, though he wasn’t sure what kind. Harold was sure, however, that Ron was not the focus of anyone’s investigations.

Ron had descended upon Harold a few minutes earlier, after Sarah had left to take a phone call, and had immediately begun professing his innocence. He was growing more animated by the minute, even as he was trying to contain their conversation by pressing in close to Harold’s shoulder and whispering angrily. The effect was that Harold felt he was chatting with a bee-ever buzzing and vibrating.

“What are you so worried about?” asked Harold.

“He was there when you found the body, wasn’t he? What did he say? I know he talked about me, don’t bloody lie.”

It took Harold a few moments to figure out whom Ron was referring to.

“Jeffrey? You’re worried about Jeffrey Engels?”

Ron scanned the bar again for prying ears. Sherlockians still surrounded most of the tables in groups of three or four. Strains of elaborate conspiracy-hushed with gravity and paranoia-wafted toward Harold and Ron.

“You know that he and I have had our… polite disagreements,” said Ron. “And, very well, some of them have not been so polite. But they have been civil, as such things go, don’t you think? We’re friends. I would fairly call us friends. Do you think he knew Cale was dead already when he gave that introduction this morning?”

Harold was briefly stunned by the last question.

“No,” he replied. “I don’t.”

“You know he had his disagreements with Cale as well, don’t you? Yes, right, they gave a good show of camaraderie, but it was rubbish. Jeffrey kept pressing him for information about the diary and about what he would say at his lecture, but Cale was mum. Jeffrey wasn’t happy about it, I can tell you that.”

“Look,” said Harold, “I don’t think either of you did it, okay?”

Ron made a curious face. He seemed genuinely surprised to hear Harold say that.

“Really?” he replied. “Because one of us must have.”

Harold hadn’t known all of his fellow members for very long, but he had known them. And he genuinely liked these people. He enjoyed being with them. He felt like he was almost at home among them. In the exchange of the faded shilling the night before, Harold had almost-almost-found a place in which he belonged.

He was surrounded by dozens of his colleagues, his supposed friends, and he was alone. One of them was a killer. Maybe more than one, Harold had to reason, if they’d read Murder on the Orient Express. Of course they had. They’d all read the same books. They all knew the same stories by heart-Christie, Chandler, Hammett, on and on, the list would fill pages. How could any of them have done this?

For the first time that morning, Harold felt angry. He was angry with the killer for taking Alex Cale, and for taking the diary, but he was also angry at him for taking the Baker Street Irregulars. What would the group be like now? At Harold’s last Sherlockian meeting, in Los Angeles, they had stayed up drinking scotch until 2 a.m. and laughing about that one massive plot hole in “The Adventure of the Solitary Cyclist.” They would never do that again. How could they?

No one could be allowed to get away with this. These things meant too much to him-the group, the club, the people. No one would be allowed to let Harold slip back into the loneliness of his life.

He felt the narcissism of his growing anger.

“Why did Jeffrey give that speech this morning?” Harold said. His thoughts were moving quickly.

Ron smiled. “That’s an excellent question,” he said. “Why not hold off until he knew where Cale was? Why start expounding on the issue at hand, to a roomful of people who already knew everything he had to say?”

“It’s like Jeffrey wanted to make sure that everyone in the building knew that he still believed Alex Cale was alive.”

“Harold, I’m glad you’re coming round to my way of thinking.”

Harold had to pause at this comment. Coming around to Ron’s way of thinking? No. This was not a good omen. If Harold were going to do this-and Harold was going to do this-then he would have to do it soberly, reasonably. Paranoid theorizing was too easy, too emotionally satisfying.

“I think we should-” Ron clammed up midsentence. He was staring over Harold’s shoulder.

A hand tapped Harold from behind. He turned and found himself staring into the eyes of a handsome man a few inches shorter than himself and ten years older. The man’s crisp black eyebrows burrowed down toward his thin feminine nose, making him look at once pretty and serious. He was dressed in a wealthy-casual style: unpressed khakis and a black collared sweater. Harold would later notice his bulky watch, undoubtedly made of real gold, as the man’s one obvious nod to ostentation.

“Are you Harold White?” said the man, speaking quietly.

“Yes,” replied Harold.

“I’ll let you two talk,” said Ron, slinking away. Why was Ron retreating? Who was this person?

Harold looked over the handsome man’s shoulder to see Sarah at the door of the bar. She was watching them.

“Might we go somewhere and chat?” said the man. “My name is Sebastian.” He stretched his right hand to enclose Harold’s, while his left came over the top to press down on the handshake, solidifying the bond. “Sebastian Conan Doyle.”

Arthur Conan Doyle’s great-grandson paced across the soft cream carpet in Harold’s hotel room. He intertwined his hands behind him, compressing his shoulder blades, and then folded his arms in front of him sternly. He moved back and forth between these two positions as he spoke.

“Look, it’s no secret that Cale and I fought. We’ve argued publicly about that diary for years, and there’s no point in pretending we haven’t. He mistakenly believed that it was public property and that when he found it, he could donate it to a university or to some museum. Obviously, as I’m sure you’ll understand, that diary rightly belongs to me. It was written by my great-grandfather. It is my property. I came to New York to talk some sense into Cale, to explain this fact to him once and for all.”

Sebastian Conan Doyle looked to Harold for agreement. Sitting erect on the hard-backed wooden desk chair and listening attentively, Harold had no desire to argue with him on this point and yet didn’t feel like he could let it pass.

“I understand your position, Mr. Conan Doyle. And look, I’m no lawyer. I don’t know all the fine points of inheritance law. But it doesn’t seem like the diary has been in your family’s possession for eighty years. It all depends on where Alex found it. And right now no one has any idea. Your claim on it doesn’t seem quite so simple, that’s all.”

Sebastian sighed and shook his head. He turned to Sarah, who sat silently on the edge of the bed. She leaned back on her hands and ever so slightly kicked her legs in the air. She smiled at Sebastian and, while barely moving her head, gave him a look of sympathetic neutrality.

“You’re spot-on there,” said Sebastian, turning back to Harold. “You’re not a lawyer.”

Neither was Sebastian, thought Harold, though he had no idea what the man born into a moderate fortune actually did with his days. He did know that Sebastian was the oldest son of the now-deceased Henry Conan Doyle, and while Sebastian had a younger sister, an aunt, and four surviving Conan Doyle cousins, his voice was the one most prominently heard on copyright issues relating to the estate of his great-grandfather. Over the years, there had been tremendous infighting among the family over the literary rights to Holmes and Watson and over the fortune those rights churned out every year. The current state of Conan Doyle family relations was not a happy one, from what Harold understood. Though Lady Harriet Conan Doyle, Sebastian’s aunt, had been generous to scholars and to the public over the years, she and Sebastian were not on speaking terms. Harriet, as well as the younger Doyles, had so far stayed out of the issue of the diary. But just a few days after Alex Cale’s initial e-mail announced the discovery, Sebastian and his lawyers had gotten involved.

“The courts will decide this well enough when the time comes,” continued Sebastian. “I sued Cale, you know, and if whoever has the diary now tries to donate it away, I’ll sue that bleeding fucker as well. But…” And here Sebastian came to a stop in the middle of the room, clicking his heels together like a German general in a World War II movie. “The trouble now, first and foremost, is finding them.”

“The police still haven’t found anything hidden away in Cale’s hotel room?” asked Sarah.

“No. Whoever killed him stole the diary as well. I was able to learn at least that much from them. Plus the basic information they’ve gotten from the hotel key-card records and the few interviews they’ve conducted with the hotel staff.”

“What do the key-card records show?” asked Harold.

“They show that three people entered Alex Cale’s room last night. Here.” Sebastian produced a folded piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Harold.

What the hell was going on? Why was Sebastian Conan Doyle handing him police records from the murder? Harold kept his thoughts to himself and looked down.

The folded paper was a photocopy of a printout from the hotel’s security department. It listed all uses of Alex’s room key card and every opening and closing of the door to Room 1117. “Cale used his card to first enter his room, after checking in, at 12:46 a.m.,” said Sebastian. “Then three other people entered Cale’s room, at 3:51 a.m., 4:05 a.m., and 5:10 a.m.”

“God! Whose key card was used to open the door?”

“That’s the problem. No one’s. Each time the doors were opened and closed from the inside.”

“So someone knocked and he let them in? Three different times in the middle of the night?”

“Evidently,” said Sebastian. “Or someone came in and then left and then came in again. Of the three door openings, we can’t say which were comings or goings.”

“Did they determine a time of death?”

“Between four and eight in the morning. Any one of those visitors, if there were more than one, could have been the one to kill him.”

“What about cameras? In the hallways?” asked Sarah.

“None to speak of. There’s a few in the lobby, but they’re focused on the front doors and registration desk.”

“So who came in the front door?” said Harold.

“A bloody ton of people, Harold. It’s a two-hundred-room hotel. It was about two-thirds full on January the fifth.”

“Did anyone come into the hotel just before Alex received his first visitor? At 3:40, or 3:45?”

“Good question! I’m so glad I’ve come to you for help.” Harold refused to be perturbed by Sebastian’s blatant condescension. His mind was occupied with the details of the case. “No. No one entered the hotel between 3:20, when an out-of-town businessman returned from a strip club, and 4:30, when some Sherlockian stumbled in from the vodka lounge down the street-one of the Japanese ones, I forget his name.”

“So whoever killed Alex was staying in the hotel last night?” said Sarah excitedly.

“Indeed,” said Sebastian.

“Or,” noted Harold quickly, “the killer just entered the hotel hours earlier, during a busy time when there’d be no way to identify him, and waited.”

Sebastian considered this. “That’s a plausible scenario, I suppose. Interesting.” He scratched at his neck thoughtfully. “Let me make this very clear for you, Harold. Someone has stolen my property. I would like to get it back. And I’m willing to spend quite a bit of money to do so. Do you understand?”

“Sure,” said Harold. As he returned Sebastian’s gaze and the moment stretched between them, Harold realized that there was an unasked question hanging in the air. “Is there something you want me to do about that?”

Sebastian grimaced. He didn’t seem like a man who often felt the need to explain himself to those around him, and he looked uncomfortable having to do so now.

“I told him,” said Sarah. Harold looked at her and realized that she was addressing him, not Sebastian. “I told Sebastian what you’re planning to do. That you’re going to solve the case. You are, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” said Harold warily.

“Good,” said Sebastian simply. “Then I’d much like to help you do it. I want you to find the diary. If you’d find the killer as well, fantastic. If not, fantastic. I couldn’t give a damn. But recover the diary, and return it to me, its rightful owner. I’ll pay you. Well.”

Harold looked to Sarah for confirmation that Sebastian was serious about this. Her tiny curl of a smile remained as impenetrable as ever. How did she even know Sebastian?

“Why me?” Harold asked, skipping over the thornier questions for a less prickly one.

“In point of fact, that was Sarah’s idea. She’s been interviewing me these past few months, for her article. I’ve been staying at a hotel across town. I rang her as soon as I heard what happened. Sarah told me what you did in Cale’s room this morning. I was impressed. Let’s be honest- I think one of you people did this. I think one of your giddy, delusional pals killed Cale and stole my diary. Probably for some obsessive, arcane, and pointless reason. The twisted tosser is most likely building a shrine to the thing right now, praying to it like a dusty Ganesha. I’m going to need someone who is-how shall I put this?-similarly disposed in order to get the diary back. ‘Elementary’ written in blood on the wall? Come on. It’s some sick Sherlockian leaving messages behind for another sick Sherlockian to follow. No offense, of course.”

“None taken,” said Harold genuinely. Sebastian stepped toward him and, standing before Harold, looked him right in the eye. “I have access to certain… Well, I can get you what you need. Tell me how I can help.”

Harold thought of the thrill of discovery he’d experienced in Alex’s room. The sensation of finding things out. Of solving the puzzle. He thought of his need to know.

“ ‘My professional charges are upon a fixed scale,’ ” said Harold. “ ‘I do not vary them, save when I remit them altogether.’”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s a quote. It’s from ‘Thor Bridge.’ One of the stories.”

Sebastian and Sarah looked at Harold blankly.

“I’ll do it,” Harold explained. “And I’m not going to charge you. But I’ll need a few things.”

“Very well,” said Sebastian.

“I need copies of the police reports. The autopsy, the full interviews, everything.”

“Certainly.”

“And a ticket to London. First class. I could sit here interviewing Sherlockians all day, but it won’t get me anywhere. They’re too smart for that. I think the key to the murder is the diary. In order to find out where the diary is, we need to find out where it came from. Where did Alex find it? How did Alex find it? I need to see his home. His study.”

“Done.” Sebastian positively grinned.

“Two tickets,” chimed Sarah. They both turned to her, surprised to hear her voice. “I came here to follow the story. Right now you’re it.”

Harold had up until this moment not been sure that he trusted Sarah Lindsay. He was now absolutely certain that he didn’t.

“You need a Watson, don’t you?” she said, registering his apprehension.

Sebastian looked down at his shoes, as if to hide his embarrassment at being a part of this conversation. Thinking it over, Harold could muster up no argument against Sarah’s logic. If he were to be Sherlock Holmes, he would indeed need a Watson. And yet…

Sarah smiled broadly at him, and with that went the last of his sensible caution.

“The game’s afoot!” Harold said proudly as he rose from his chair. Sarah closed her eyes for a second, withholding a smirk.