Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 135, No. 2. Whole No. 822, February 2010

The Adventure of the Scarlet Thorn by Paul W. Nash

Pastiches are a common way for new writers to launch their fiction careers. (Think of the Ellery Queen pastiches by Dale Andrews, one of which was a finalist for a Readers Award in 2007.) Englishman Paul Nash is a bibliographer, typographer, librarian, letterpress printer, and small-press publisher, and though he’s had a few pieces in nonpaying publications, this is his paid fiction debut. His subject is a perfect fit for this special issue: a case for Holmes and Watson.

When the premises of Lloyd’s Bank Ltd., at 16 Charing Cross, London, were damaged by bombing in 1941, it was believed that all Dr. John H. Watson’s unpublished case notes had been destroyed, along with the commonplace books and papers of Sherlock Holmes. Watson had deposited his notes there around 1920, when the building was owned by Cox and Company, regimental agents, and added Holmes’s papers following the reported death of the detective in 1929. However, in December 1930, an iron deed box, painted black and with the initials “J.H.W.” in white on the lid, was deposited in the vaults of the London and Westminster Bank (now part of the National Westminster Bank) in Marylebone High Street, under the strict condition that it should not be opened for seventy years. When, on 1 December 2000, the manager of the Marylebone branch opened the box, it was found to contain numerous manuscripts, well preserved and easily legible. This material was quickly identified as a sequence of memoirs of the cases of Sherlock Holmes, fully formed and complete, written in Watson’s characteristic neat hand between 1890 and 1930. The story which follows was among these previously unknown cases. The text has been edited very slightly, and certain inconsistencies removed, but it is presented almost exactly as Watson wrote it around 1890.

There are a great many cases from the years of my collaboration with Sherlock Holmes which are, for one reason or another, quite unsuitable for publication in the present age. I can foresee a time, however, when all objections to the dissemination of the details will be lifted. Even the case of the Scarlet Thorn, which I think too tainted with brutality for contemporary taste, may one day seem acceptable to the general reader, and so I shall endeavour to write it down plainly, although parts of the story are quite repulsive even to an old soldier and medical man. Nevertheless, the mystery presented many of those features which Holmes found most stimulating and was a triumph for his deductive powers, albeit a tragedy in human terms.

The adventure began one Tuesday in March 1883. Holmes had been working on the Caradoc diamond mystery for five days, having been consulted by Inspector Lestrade upon the matter almost as soon as the theft was reported. The case had caused considerable public interest but had so far proved impenetrable even to the great mind of Holmes. The diamonds were not large, but numerous and very fine, and had been torn from the tiara of the Duchess of Caradoc while she was staying at Brown’s Hotel in Dover Street. The circumstances of the loss were not broadcast at the time, but there can be no objection to my revealing them now.

The duchess was a firm believer in spiritualism, and on the evening of the disappearance she and three friends had gathered after dinner to hold a seance in her sitting room at the hotel. A medium had been engaged, an elderly lady known as Madam Spinarossa, and the avowed purpose of the evening was to contact the spirit of the duke, who had died some four years previously. The drapes were drawn and the doors locked. Madam Spinarossa arranged the participants — two ladies and two gentlemen, all of unimpeachable character — round a card table and turned out the gas. In the darkness she resumed her seat, asked the group to join hands, and then began her attempt to reach the realm of the dead. At first there was no result, but then, with a sigh and a groan from the medium, contact was made and after a few moments everyone present heard the voice of a man, coming not from the medium but from elsewhere in the room. The duchess later swore that the voice was that of her late husband. He spoke for some minutes, although at times contact was lost and the air was filled with gasps and groans, while the table was felt to shudder and rise up slightly. At last there was a sound of choking and a hoarse scream from Spinarossa and she cried out that the spirit of the duke had departed and they must break the circle. This they did, and one of the men, Colonel James Hind, lit the gas. The first thing to strike the friends was that the medium’s black dress was soiled with white matter, which she later claimed to be “ectoplasm,” and she appeared to have sunk into unconsciousness with her head upon her breast. The gentlemen began to attempt to revive her when the air was riven by another scream, this time from the other lady present, Matilda Grayson, the niece of the duchess. She was pointing in stark horror at Her Grace’s head. The duchess was too shocked to react, and at first the men could perceive nothing wrong, until they looked closely at the tiara she was wearing and found that every single diamond had been extracted from it.

After a few minutes the duchess recovered from the shock of this discovery, and stated to the amazement of all that she believed the spirit of her late husband to have taken the jewels with him to the netherworld. He had given her the tiara on their wedding day more than forty years previously, and she professed herself convinced that he had taken back the stones as a punishment for some sin which she had committed against him. When pressed on the matter, she declined to say more, but spoke so fervently that it was quite clear she believed this explanation for the disappearance of the diamonds. Colonel Hind and the other gentleman, Lord Vincent Carleston, were of a different opinion, however, and unlocked the door at once to call for the police. A constable was found in Dover Street, and he was quickly joined by three others and the tenacious Lestrade. The room and its occupants were searched thoroughly, but nothing was found, and the medium, who seemed to be suffering greatly from the effects of her trance, was allowed to depart.

The sitting room had been locked throughout the seance, and the occupants were certain that no one could have got in or out while the room was dark. Subsequent inquiries had failed to trace Madam Spinarossa, and suspicion naturally fell upon her, despite her age and infirmity. But of the diamonds, or the means of their abstraction, there was no clue. This was the problem with which Holmes had been struggling for five days when an unwelcome interruption came in the person of Mr. William Everson Hartshorne. Mrs. Hudson delivered his card late one evening, and I could see from Holmes’s expression that he did not relish this distraction from the Caradoc case. However, when he looked at the man’s card, his attitude changed.

“Take a look at this, Watson,” he said, handing me the calling card. “I think Mr. Hartshorne may prove a most interesting visitor after all. Show him up, Mrs. Hudson.”

I examined the card. It seemed unremarkable, bearing the engraved name of our visitor and his address at 9B Bruton Street, London W. William Hartshorne himself was a young man, not yet thirty, but with an air of success about him. He had fairish hair and wore a small, neat moustache and a look of perplexity. Holmes asked him to be seated and to tell us his story.

“Well, Mr. Holmes, I hesitate to trouble you with something so commonplace. But, I confess, I was deeply disturbed by the whole business, and can find no explanation, unless it was some sort of prank or joke.”

“The smallest mysteries are often the most intractable and the most fascinating,” said Holmes. “Pray tell us the whole story, and omit nothing, even those details which may seem incidental.”

“I am,” said our visitor, “in business on my own account in Great Portland Street, and was returning from work yesterday evening, having stayed very late in the office to deal with certain papers. It was a pleasant evening, so I decided to walk home, as I often do. It was quite dark, of course, but the streets in the area are well lit, and as I turned into Bruton Street I noticed something lying on the pavement under one of the streetlamps. The street was deserted and a cold wind was blowing from the river. As I drew nearer to the object, I perceived that it was large and flat, like a piece of panelling, and was somewhat surprised on coming closer to recognise it as a door. I could clearly see the brass handle projecting, and the hinges. You will imagine my consternation upon coming into the circle of light to find that this was nothing more or less than my own front door. There was the familiar letterbox, the damage where a beggar had once struck the panels with his stick, and the brass number 9B. I was still fifty yards or so from the point where my door should have been, and my heart was in my mouth as I ran towards my rooms. The doorway was dark and I hesitated to enter. But I am no coward, Mr. Holmes, and I steeled myself to go inside. In the hall I felt my way to the stand and took up a heavy stick, fearing that my open, indeed absent, door might signify burglary. I went into every room and lit the gas, all the while fearing to find a scene of ruin. But my apartments appeared to be untouched. I could find not a book, not a toothbrush, out of place. I was somewhat upset and perplexed by this business, as you might imagine, and sleep was out of the question. So, having made sure there was no one in my rooms, I lit the gas in the entrance hall and took up a sentry position with my stick, hoping I would not have to fight to defend my open doorway. It was an uncomfortable night, but a quiet one. In the early morning I attracted the attention of a passing boy, and persuaded him to fetch a carpenter and his mate, who retrieved my door for me, and screwed it back into its original position. Then I went to work. My business affairs could not be postponed, and I was again obliged to work late. When I returned home I half expected to find the door again missing. But this was not the case and, having checked that my rooms were thoroughly secure, I came straight here. Well, Mr. Holmes, that is my story. Could it have been a joke, do you think?”

“I very much doubt it. Tell me, was there any sign of damage to the lock or other parts of the door?”

“That is another curious thing. The door was quite unmarked. The carpenter who refitted it disbelieved my story, I think, and suspected me of having removed the thing myself. The lock had not been broken, and the hinges were still screwed to the door; all that was missing was the eight brass screws which had held the hinges to the door frame, and they could not have been removed until the door was open.”

“Is it possible that you accidentally left the door unlocked when you departed for work that morning?”

“Impossible, I think. I am not a rich man, Mr. Holmes, but I have some precious books and a collection of coins which I am concerned to keep safe, so I am assiduous about seeing to the locks and windows.”

“And may I see your front-door key?”

Hartshorne handed over a small bunch, indicating a brass key of medium size. Holmes squinted at it, then handed back the bunch.

“Thank you. I think, Mr. Hartshorne, that you are in no great danger in this matter. However, until I have made further enquiries I would not be happy to return you to your rooms, and hope you might accept the rather rough hospitality which the doctor and I can offer you. It will only be the divan, I fear, but I venture to suggest that you will be safer here than anywhere else in London.”

Hartshorne readily accepted his offer and in the morning, after Mrs. Hudson had supplied us with breakfast, Holmes suggested we pay a visit to 9B Bruton Street. It was a relatively short walk from Baker Street, and we soon arrived at the solid blue-painted front door which had so recently been found upon the pavement. Holmes examined it with his glass for some minutes, then asked Hartshorne to open the door, which he did, with the key he had shown us the previous evening. In the hall, Holmes scrutinised the lock and the hinges and then, to my surprise, announced that he was satisfied and that our friend would not need to spend another night on the couch at Baker Street. He bade Hartshorne farewell, with a promise to return presently with the solution to the mystery.

I followed him across the street, where he walked slowly past the houses there before turning into Barlow Place. From here we passed down a nameless alley into Grafton Street, where we turned right, then left into Dover Street, and were immediately confronted by Brown’s Hotel. I had not realised how very close we were.

“I suppose we might as well take a look at the duchess’s rooms, while we are here,” said my friend casually. I suspected this had been his intention all along, and that he had dismissed Hartshorne so readily in order to get back on the scent of the Caradoc diamonds. Having sent his card up to the duchess’s rooms, we were soon admitted to the scene of the crime. The duchess greeted us herself with great courtesy, though she clearly had no idea of who Holmes was and seemed somewhat amused by the notion of a consulting detective assisting the police. She was a lively woman of six and sixty, whose face gave more than a hint of the great beauty for which she had been famed in her youth. She appeared to have no servants in her entourage and, as we entered her sitting room, I noticed a half-eaten packet of Huntley and Palmer’s biscuits on the mantel shelf, which I thought a little curious. Having indulged Holmes’s desire to see her bedroom and to examine the ruined tiara, we returned to the sitting room and sat down at the same card table where the seance had been held six days previously.

“Your Grace,” said Holmes, “is most kind to accommodate us. I wonder if you could give us your account of the disappearance of your diamonds.”

“I told everything to the police inspector who came in answer to James’s summons, but I have no objection to repeating myself. I have wanted to contact my dear husband for some months now, and have made several attempts to do so, using different mediums. Last Thursday night was the first time I had success, and I bless Madam Spinarossa for her very special powers. George, my husband, came through quite clearly. I swear it was him, Mr. Holmes, and he spoke to me so kindly of our life together and his happiness in paradise. But during the seance, he took a small revenge upon me by removing all the diamonds from my tiara. He had a perfect right. He gave them to me with his own hand, and with the same hand took them back.”

“Then you are not of the opinion that the stones were stolen?”

“Indeed no. I am quite sure that I will never see them again in this world. I have forfeited the right to them.”

“When you heard the voice of the duke, was it possible to say where in the room it appeared to emanate from?”

“Oh, from the air, Mr. Holmes, from the air.”

“But did it seem to come from one particular direction more than another?”

“I suppose it came from over there.” She indicated the curtained window. Holmes inspected the casement and the small table which stood beside it, picking up with his fingertip and sniffing at a little dust which he found there.

While he worked, he asked the duchess, “Did you converse with the duke?”

“Oh yes, I asked him several questions, which he answered greatly to my satisfaction and pleasure.”

“While you spoke with him, did his voice appear to move about the room?”

“No, it came always from the air around the window. But the voice of Madam Spinarossa came from elsewhere, of course, from beside me where she was seated.”

“Throughout the seance you and she held hands?”

“Quite so. And I held dear James’s hand upon the other side.”

“And did you feel or hear any disturbance about your head when the duke removed the diamonds?”

“None. But the fingers of a ghost are as gossamer, Mr. Holmes, and I would hardly expect to have felt anything.”

“Indeed. I understand there was some shaking of the table once the seance had begun.”

“Poor Madam Spinarossa knocked against it in the dark before she had even sat down, but after that it was still until my husband appeared. Then there were some tremblings of the board, mostly I think when Spinarossa was having trouble maintaining the contact with George.”

“Once the seance was over, and the disappearance of the diamonds was noticed, how did Madam Spinarossa seem?”

“Much shaken, I fear. She had generated ectoplasm during her trance, and seemed barely alive when James relit the gas. When the police arrived, she recovered a little, but I was much concerned for her. James and Vincent both insisted upon being searched for the diamonds, and so did dear Mattie; I too offered to allow the policemen to search my person, and they did so in a most respectful manner. Madam Spinarossa was treated shamefully, however, and searched while unfit to understand what had happened, let alone give her consent. Of course, the police found nothing. How could they? At length they allowed my friends, and the medium, to leave.”

Holmes mused for a moment. “I believe Your Grace may be mistaken in your interpretation of what took place that evening.”

“How so, Mr. Holmes?”

“It may be true that your late husband’s spirit abstracted the stones, and that they will never again be seen by mortal eyes. But I ask you to reconsider your belief that their removal was a punishment or revenge upon you. True, your husband took back the jewels he had once given you. But were they not insured?”

The duchess nodded. I confess I was taken aback by my friend’s words, as I knew what little respect he had for the deceit of mediums and the popular belief in spiritualism. But I knew Holmes well enough to hold my tongue, and smiled indulgently at the duchess.

“Perhaps,” said my friend, “the late duke took the diamonds as a kindness to you, rather than a punishment.”

She flushed and raised a gloved hand to her mouth. Holmes nodded kindly. They understood one another, although I confess I was baffled.

Holmes bade the duchess farewell and we left the hotel, catching a hansom in Dover Street. When we were on our way I asked Holmes what he meant by encouraging the foolishness of an old lady.

“Sometimes,” he replied, “it is kinder to compound a deception, and Her Grace is right on one point, I am sure. She will never see her diamonds again. We, on the other hand, may be more fortunate. Now my friend, I must continue alone and ask you to wait for me at Baker Street while I pursue certain theories.”

I felt a little hurt by this suggestion, but knew there was little sense in arguing. I spent the remainder of the day in our rooms trying to write a coherent account of all that had occurred and reviewing the evidence we had so far gathered. I formed for myself a small theory which accounted for some, at least, of the curious features of the case. I reasoned that Madam Spinarossa must have been responsible for the theft of the diamonds, and that she had achieved it by the use of an ingenious device consisting of two false hands, made perhaps of India rubber, separated by a stiff rod, perhaps of telescopic construction. This she had concealed beneath her robes until the lights were doused, when she took out her device and laid it upon the table between the duchess and Matilda Grayson, each of whom took one of the false hands in her own, believing it to be that of the medium. This left Spinarossa’s own hands free to remove the tiara and prise out the diamonds, covering the noise with groans and sighs, while a confederate hidden behind the window curtain spoke with the voice of the duke.

Although I could see some flaws in this theory, and it did not cover all the facts, yet I felt sure Holmes would be impressed by my deductions when he returned. When he finally appeared, at a little after eight, however, my suggestions caused him amusement.

“I congratulate you, Watson. You have hit upon the answer!” said he. “The medium must have owned a set of rubber hands. But wait! What became of those hands? How did she conceal them from a police search? And how did her confederate at the window gain entry and exit without being seen, when the window had clearly not been opened for many years? No, I fear we must seek both a simpler and a more radical explanation for what went on in that small dark room. You are, however, quite right in your basic deduction that the medium took the diamonds. Only the story does not end there and, I fear, we will uncover further crimes committed in pursuit of those stones. Even now, friend Lestrade is waiting for us in Bruton Street to take the matter to its conclusion. I should be most grateful for your help in that conclusion. Will you join me?”

I smiled and nodded, though I felt crushed by Holmes’s summary rejection of my deductions.

“Good man. You have your revolver? Excellent.”

We caught another cab and made the short journey to the end of Bruton Street, where we alighted beside Lestrade and four constables. Holmes had obviously indicated to the inspector that something was afoot, for Lestrade’s face was grimmer than usual as we set off along the pavement.

As we walked I whispered to Holmes, “Is this the solution to the diamond theft, or to the mystery of Hartshorne’s front door?”

“Why, to both, old friend, to both.”

We stopped before a dark house bearing the number 38A. Holmes raised a hand for us to wait, and approached the door. He produced a dark lantern and by the narrowest blade of light examined the entrance. Then he put out a hand and tried the handle. The door opened and I heard his intake of breath. He beckoned us to follow, and we entered a dark hall. There was a slaughterhouse smell in the air, and I prepared myself for the worst. Holmes led the way, cutting through the blackness with a thin beam from his lantern. At the end of the passage were two doors, both standing open. Holmes illuminated the space beyond first one, then the other.

“Lestrade,” he said, “please keep your men back until I have examined this room.” The inspector sighed and accompanied Holmes and myself through one of the doors.

“No need for silence now,” said Holmes, “we are too late to change the course of events.”

He lit the gas, and a ghastly scene met our eyes. The room was unfurnished save for two chairs, a small table, and two makeshift beds upon the floor. Lying beside them, upon the bare boards, were two bodies. They were both young men with dark hair and skin, and both had deep wounds in their throats. A dark brown puddle surrounded the two figures. Their limbs were contorted and their faces racked with exertion and fear. Holmes asked us to remain by the door while he examined the bodies and the contents of the room. Some objects on the table caught his particular interest and he inspected them with his glass for some minutes. Then he gestured for us to join him. I examined the bodies, though there was clearly nothing that could be done for them. Then I joined Holmes at the table. Laid out there was a singular array of objects. There were the separate parts of a large old-fashioned door lock with a brass facade, a pile of brass screws, a leather bag containing tools, a small metal lantern, a pile of grey powder, a revolver, the remains of a simple meal, and an array of human body parts, laid out neatly like specimens in a museum. There were eight fingers, two toes, two ears, a fleshy lump which was probably a nose, and several other pieces which I could not identify. These grim trophies were not bloody, but had evidently been washed and made presentable, which somehow made their appearance still more horrific. I glanced over at the two bodies. Clearly the specimens on the table had not originated there.

“What is all this, Holmes?” I asked.

The great detective said nothing, but pointed to the wall beside the door. Here a large mark or cipher had been drawn in blood upon the bare plaster. At first I thought it was a cross, but the lower tip was pointed and I realised that it represented a sword or dagger.

“What is it?” said Lestrade.

“That,” said Holmes, “is the Scarlet Thorn.”

We were, I think, too affected by the contents of that room to discuss the matter there. Lestrade left his constables to record the details and remove the bodies while he and I returned with Holmes to Baker Street, where a full explanation was promised. Once settled in familiar surroundings our spirits lifted and, having lit my pipe, I pressed Holmes to illuminate the darkness.

“First of all,” he said, “I must tell you that a very great man has died. Indeed, he has been murdered, and in the most unpleasant circumstances. But I am getting ahead of my story. What we have just witnessed was the final scene of what began as a simple drama, planned by a group of ruthless criminals as a means of raising money. I am speaking of a particularly brutal Italian secret society known as the Spina Rossa, or Scarlet Thorn, which hired a clever thief to abstract the diamonds of the duchess of Caradoc. Some of the details of the case remain obscure, but I suspect they anticipated a burglary, or some other simple robbery. However, the man they had hired was none other than Salvatore Barozzi, who had perhaps the third or fourth most subtle criminal mind I have ever encountered. I knew him many years ago when I was myself considering a career on the stage. He was an actor, and an uncommonly good one. But his talents were put to evil ends, and latterly he made his living by assuming some pious, trustworthy, or harmless character and tricking his way into the houses of the rich. He was that most dangerous specimen, the criminal who loves his crime, the impostor who relishes each new imposture. When the Spina Rossa commissioned him to seize the Caradoc diamonds, he began to research the life and mind of the duchess, and conceived a meticulous plan based upon her natural weaknesses. He assumed the character of an elderly medium.”

“You mean Madam Spinarossa was a man?” I asked.

“Quite so. I would give a hundred pounds to have seen him play the part. He must have acted quite brilliantly. Having convinced the duchess that he was a spiritualist and could contact her late husband, he arranged a seance in the lady’s sitting room, carefully positioning the participants round a small table before turning out the lights. Then he knocked against the table and repositioned it in the dark, to confuse the geography of the situation, before asking everyone to hold hands. You may imagine how each groped for the nearest hand and, taking it, assumed they were holding on to the person next to them. And so they were. But Barozzi had silently removed himself and his chair from the circle, so that the duchess held her niece’s hand, while both ladies believed themselves linked to the medium. Thus, Doctor, the possession of additional rubber hands was quite unnecessary round such a small table.”

I did my best to smile.

“The actor made appropriate noises with his head placed between that of the duchess and her niece — just where they would expect such noises to emanate from. Then he fell silent, lifted the tiara from the duchess’s head, and moved to the table by the window.”

“But would the duchess not have felt the removal of her tiara?” I asked.

“No. For two reasons. Firstly, she was concentrating upon the seance and anticipating, no doubt with suppressed excitement, communication with her late husband. Secondly, her very splendid head of silver hair is, in fact, entirely false. I observed this during our interview, and Barozzi must have made the same discovery while researching his subject. It was a simple matter for him to unclip the tiara from Her Grace’s hairpiece without detection. Once at the side table by the window he made further sounds and began to impersonate the duke. This was, perhaps, the cleverest part of his deception, since he had evidently discovered something of the manner of His Grace’s speech and the tone of his voice, probably through contact with one or more of the duke’s former servants. In any case, the duchess was all too ready to believe that the voice was that of her beloved George. While he spoke, Barozzi prised the diamonds from the tiara and, I deduce, placed them in a small pocket specially sewn into the front of his gown. At several points during the seance, to maintain the illusion, and no doubt to increase his pleasure at the deception, he returned to the table, shook it about, and again assumed the person of the medium. When all the diamonds were safe in his pocket he returned once more to the table, clipped the tiara back into Her Grace’s hair, and made further groaning and gasping noises, finally inducing himself to vomit, probably by the simple expedient of inserting a finger into his esophagus. He had previously consumed a large meal of some whitish substance, perhaps tapioca or porridge, in order to give an impressive appearance to the result. This regurgitation had a very explicit purpose, which I will shortly come to. Then Barozzi took up his chair, screamed, and, in the voice of Madam Spinarossa, demanded that the circle be broken. Everyone released the hands they were holding and, after a few moments, Colonel Hind stood up and lit the gas. While he did so, Barozzi replaced his chair where it had formerly been and sat down upon it, assuming the appearance of one in a swoon. The rest of that scene you know. The police were called and you, Lestrade, arrived to question those present. No doubt you suspected Madam Spinarossa, but a search of her seemingly unconscious body produced no results. I suggest, Lestrade, that your constable was a little less thorough than he might have been. He naturally did not wish to touch the ejecta which covered the front of the old lady’s dress, so missed the special pocket which was concealed there.

“After a while Barozzi feigned a small recovery, and mumbled something about ectoplasm. Believing him to be a sick, perhaps deranged, old woman, you released him into the care of a constable. Tell me, Lestrade, what became of that constable?”

“Well, Mr. Holmes, he claims that when he and the old lady got down into the hotel lobby she seemed much recovered and asked him to leave her there, saying she would request the manager to call her a cab. He was, I imagine, rather keener to be back on the case with me than to play nursemaid to a filthy old woman.”

“That was just as Barozzi planned. What he had not reckoned on, however, was the involvement of a second gang. Somehow his plan had become known to a rival Italian secret society, known as the Fratelli; this was probably an unwanted effect of the meticulous research which Barozzi had undertaken, and which had aroused the curiosity of someone connected with the Fratelli. Perhaps Barozzi saw someone he recognised as he left the hotel, or perhaps he did not know precisely who was following him; but it is clear to me that he knew he was pursued as he fled into Grafton Street and thence into the alley which leads to Barlow Place. He did not wish to be found in possession of the diamonds, so cast round for somewhere to hide them. He had only a minute. But at that moment a brilliant inspiration struck him. He ran to the nearest door and fed the diamonds into the keyhole, where they fell down inside the mechanism of the large lock. Then he ran on, knowing at least that if he was overhauled he could claim innocence; perhaps, in this event, he intended to assume some other character. We shall never know, for he seems to have got clean away. However, his good fortune was spent and, despite his great talent for changing his face and voice, the Fratelli hunted him down.

“What happened next was, I am afraid, most uncivilised. The agents who found Barozzi forced him to reveal what he had done with the precious stones. We may assume that he resisted them as best he could, but the gradual removal of certain pieces of his body was, no doubt, sufficient inducement for him to admit the truth.”

“You mean those fingers and other pieces we found in Bruton Street belonged to this Barozzi?”

“I believe so. His torturers took them away as trophies, and as proof for their criminal masters that they had done their duty by the brotherhood.”

“But where is Barozzi? Is he still alive?”

“I regret, Watson, I cannot yet answer your first question. As for your second, I believe no man could survive the torment Barozzi suffered and, in any case, the agents of the Fratelli would hardly have considered their duty done if they had allowed him to live. It was his death, the death of a great actor, which I lamented when I began my tale.”

“I see... Do please continue.”

“The agents returned to Bruton Street, where they rented an empty apartment at number 38A. I learned this today when I visited the local letting agents to inquire if anyone of Italian appearance had rented property in or near Bruton Street within the last few days.”

“But how did you know they were Italians?” I asked. “And why should they be based near Bruton Street?”

“The use of the name ‘Spinarossa’ by the fake medium betrayed the origins of the crime. And Bruton Street was obvious from the testimony of our friend Hartshorne. The two agents rented their rooms and waited for nightfall. Then they went out armed with tools to find number 98, which was the address given to them by Barozzi. You will have noticed, Watson, that Bruton Street is unusual for having consecutive numbering along each side, so that number one is next to two, and so on. It seems that our Italian friends assumed the usual arrangement of even numbers on one side of the street and odd on the other. Barozzi had told them that number 98 was at the end of the street, so I believe they walked to the end before looking closely at any house numbers. The first they chanced to look at was 97 or 99, so they crossed the road to find 98, and there believed they had found the right house, conveniently far from a streetlamp. By the light of a small lantern they examined the door and its large Chubb’s lever lock, of a sort manufactured some twenty years ago. Now this lock has the peculiar distinction of being relatively simple for an expert to pick, but unusually difficult to remove. So the Italians set to work to unlock the door and, when they had done so, the quickest method of removing the lock was to unscrew the entire door and carry it away. They held it between them and hurried along the pavement, back towards their rented rooms. It was this singular behaviour that led me to the knowledge that they had some bolt-hole nearby. Why else carry the door along the street? Had they possessed a carriage or some other vehicle, they would surely have brought it up to receive the door, and they would hardly have risked carrying their prize any great distance. I reasoned that they must have a den in the same street, or very nearby, which could be reached on foot in a matter of minutes. However, when they passed under a streetlamp one of the robbers glanced at the door and realised they had made an unfortunate mistake. It bore not the number 98 but 9B. Immediately they dropped their prize and hurried back to the end of the street to seek out the right door, which you may be sure they were very careful to identify correctly. They were fortunate too in finding there a very different lock. It was an old Bramah design, much less secure, which could easily be parted from the door by a combination of crude force and the removal of four screws. I noticed as we passed along that side of Bruton Street this morning that the door of number 98 showed signs of recent damage and wore a shining new lock. It was not necessary for our agents to pick the lock or open the door, they simply removed the mechanism and returned with it to their rooms. There they took the lock to pieces and extracted the Caradoc diamonds.

“Very soon, however, the business took another unexpected turn. Perhaps one of the Italians was an expert in precious stones, and saw something in one of the diamonds to arouse his suspicion. He took out his revolver, a particularly fine piece of Italian workmanship, and struck one of the diamonds with the butt. It crumbled into dust. He struck another diamond, and another, and found that every one of the Caradoc stones was fake.

“We may imagine the scene, the consternation of the Italians, their oaths and suspicions that Barozzi had, by some obscure means, managed to deceive them and hidden the real diamonds elsewhere. But in truth, Barozzi had himself been deceived. He had removed the diamonds from the tiara in the dark, remember, and any skill he may have possessed to detect their true nature was blindfolded; indeed, he crushed one of the stones in removing it — I noted the powder on the side table in Her Grace’s room — but no doubt dismissed the sensation of dust in his hands as due to the crumbling of the mounting paste used to assemble the tiara. Had he been working with any light he would no doubt have perceived the truth.”

“I don’t understand this, Mr. Holmes,” said Lestrade. “If neither this Barozzi nor his murderers got their hands on the diamonds, who did?”

“Between ourselves, I think we may assume they have been sold secretly to some dealer and very probably dispersed beyond these shores.”

“But who sold them?”

“Why, the duchess, of course. She did her best to conceal from us the unfortunate state of her finances. But what aristocrat keeps no personal servants and is reduced to dining upon Huntley and Palmer’s biscuits in her hotel room, unless she is very seriously embarrassed? It is no secret that the duke left considerable debts, and I believe his widow has been impelled to sell her most precious asset, the diamonds which her late husband gave her as a wedding gift. The duchess had her tiara rigged with false stones, but felt such shame that when they disappeared during a seance she assumed the knowing spectre of the duke to have punished her for disposing of his gift. If you remember, Watson, I suggested that she might view his ghostly actions in a different light. After all, the stones were insured and, if stolen, as has now been reported in all the papers, the duchess could in due course expect to receive their value from the underwriters. Only she, and no doubt a trusted friend or two, and we three, know the truth.”

“But that is fraud, Mr. Holmes.”

“You are legally correct, Lestrade. But I suggest that, in this case, you withdraw your long arm. Who would not feel pity for an elderly noblewoman brought low through the ill fortune and misjudgments of her husband? And can we not be satisfied that, through the actions of the duchess, the Fratelli and the Spina Rossa have both been denied the benefit of her diamonds?”

“It is a pretty point,” said Lestrade, “and one on which I should be a poor policeman if I agreed. But perhaps I should be a poor Englishman if I did not.”

Holmes bowed to the inspector.

“But Holmes,” I said, “you have explained the loss of the diamonds, and how they came into the hands of the Fratelli. But who were those two dead men, and how did they meet their end?”

“They were the agents of the Fratelli, Watson. It seems the Spina Rossa quickly learned what had befallen Barozzi, and guessed that he had betrayed the hiding place of the diamonds to another society. It was a simple matter for me to locate the hideout of Barozzi’s murderers, and the agents of the Scarlet Thorn followed a similar procedure and sent assassins to despatch their rivals and retrieve the diamonds. They succeeded in the first task, but of the diamonds the only traces were a broken lock and a pile of grey powder. Whether they understood what had become of the stones I know not, but they left with empty hands, having drawn their symbol upon the wall in the blood of their rivals.”

In due course we heard from Lestrade that the Duchess of Caradoc had indeed been compensated for the theft of her diamonds. William Everson Hartshorne was told as much of the story as Holmes thought fit and, no doubt, slept a good deal more soundly in his bed thereafter. Of the agents of the Scarlet Thorn no trace was ever found, but the body of Barozzi was at length discovered in a garret in Seven Dials. He was horribly mutilated and Holmes identified him by his injuries, by the curiously stained female dress and box of makeup which were found in his possession, and by the presence, in a secret pocket in that dress, of a single artificial diamond.

Copyright © 2010 Paul W. Nash