He returned the gem to his pocket and smoothed back his hair.
“The least of the jewels,” he said softly. “It lay beneath her, and I was able to retrieve it without her knowledge.”
Misery kept me mute.
A hoarse cough from the door caught our attention. A large constable stood on the threshold, holding his hat and frowning.
“Now, wot’s all this then?”
* * * *
I excused myself and left Holmes to explain the situation to the constable, for I still had my patient to attend. Her Grace rested in a cheerful morning room, while Sheppington sat on a footstool by her side. With a thunderous expression, Denbeigh paced the length of the room.
There was little I could do save admonish Denbeigh for worrying his mother, assure myself that her pulse remained strong, and vow to return again in a quarter hour to ensure she continued to improve.
I closed the morning room door behind me and turned to face a tremendous bustle and clamour. Apparently the police had arrived in force while I attended the dowager duchess, for a handful of constables were endeavouring to contain the count’s guests in the ballroom. I returned to the receiving room.
“There you are, Watson,” said Holmes. “You remember Mr Athelney Jones of Scotland Yard.”
He indicated a stout, ruddy-faced man, whose small, bright eyes nearly disappeared into heavy folds of flesh.
“Of course I do,” I replied, as Jones wheezed a greeting.
“Bad business, this,” said Jones. “Dowager Duchess of Penfield attacked, eh? Not to mention that foreign count. I’ve examined the room and will need to ask them a few questions, of course.”
“Her Grace is still quite shaken and should not be disturbed,” I said firmly. Certainly too shaken to be questioned by Jones. “I believe Count von Kratzov’s physician is attending him now. He will be able to answer as to the count’s current condition. When I last saw the count, he was unconscious.”
“Ah.” Jones pursed his lips. “You were there when the attack occurred?”
“Not in the room, no.” I explained what I had seen. “I cannot tell you more.”
“Just so, Doctor.” Jones nodded vigorously, his jowls quivering like the dewlaps of a dog on the scent. “Mr Holmes showed me the smashed case. No sign of the jewels. What were they? Diamonds?”
“The von Kratzov emeralds are priceless and renowned throughout Europe,” replied Holmes.
“Are they, indeed?” Jones did not appear impressed.
“That is why the count instituted so many precautions: the locked door, the trusted servant stationed outside, the jewels themselves housed in a case,” I added.
“Which did nothing to prevent the theft,” Jones said bluntly. “So although the window was broken, the iron bars are too closely spaced to allow even a child to enter or exit. Common sense tells us the glass was broken by accident.” He tugged at the waistcoat of his grey suit. “The facts are clear, gentlemen. The thief slipped by the count’s man and entered the room. He then pocketed the emeralds, but before he could leave, the count and Her Grace surprised him. The thief attacked them, and after you and Mr Holmes here entered, he escaped in the confusion.”
“A most interesting theory,” said Holmes. I met his gaze, but did not speak.
“Facts, Mr Holmes! Facts! As I’ve had occasion to remind you before, you should avoid theories and focus strictly on the facts. There can be no other explanation that fits the facts you and the doctor have presented.”
As he spoke, a constable approached and waited to one side. Jones lifted a finger and directed his attention to the young man. Frowning at Holmes and me, the constable murmured to Jones.
“Good, good!” said Jones, then turned to us. “Excuse me, gentlemen.”
Holmes waited until Jones and the constable hurried off in the direction of the ballroom.
“Now is our opportunity, Watson. Let us see what is outside the broken window.” He caught up a lamp and hurried toward a baize-covered door.
Fortunately, we were unobserved as we entered the servants’s hall. I glanced about the dimly lit corridor with dun-coloured walls and cocoa-nut matting on the floor—a stark contrast to the richly appointed apartments that lay on the opposite side of the door. The air smelt faintly of cabbage and beer.
“Do you truly believe we will find the jewels?” I asked, following him closely.
“I most certainly do not believe in Mr Athelney Jones’s theory of a thief who, through no doubt supernatural means, entered the room, stole the emeralds, attacked Her Grace and the count, and then disappeared into the Ewigkeit.” Holmes paused as a young woman with a doubtful expression, carrying an armful of linens, hurried past.
After several turns and one brief detour, we gained entry to the cobbled yard. Several grooms bustled about purposefully, while a few others leaned against the wall, smoking their pipes. I gasped as the cold struck me like a blow and wished I had collected my coat and hat first.
“This way,” Holmes said, as always indifferent to the temperature.
I hurried to follow his long strides as he crossed the yard and turned onto Chapel Street. After a glance at the façade to locate the broken window, he handed me the lamp. A locked iron gate guarded the stair that gave access to the deep channel between house and pavement. Holmes nimbly leapt over the gate and made his way down the stair.
I raised the lamp, illuminating the narrow well. Holmes dropped to his knees, heedless of the decaying leaf mould and spots of damp on the pavement.
“Where are they?” he muttered as he ran his hands through the debris. “They must be here. Watson, examine the street and the kerb.”
I did as he bade, but saw nothing save the usual effluvia.
“There is no trace of the jewels here. Unless they were discovered by a passerby and taken away.”
“Or retrieved by an accomplice,” he replied. “Which would belie the diagnosis of kleptomania.”
“You have gone too far, Holmes. I refuse to countenance such nonsense! Why, she could no more plan and execute such a devious and audacious theft than I could!”
“I fear you underestimate your capabilities, my dear fellow, as well as those of Her Grace.” He climbed the stair and vaulted the rail again. “However, the fact of the matter is the emeralds are not here.”
“I must admit that I am relieved.” I cast a despairing eye over his stained knees and filthy hands. Holmes followed my gaze. He raised one brow and withdrew his handkerchief, wiping his hands. I sighed. Mrs Hudson would have something to say when she discovered the damage to his evening clothes.
“I have gone wrong, Watson. Very wrong.”
Holmes thrust his grimy handkerchief into his pocket, and we returned to the house in silence.
Slowly we retraced our steps through the corridors. As we turned a corner, Holmes suddenly cried out and fell to his knees.
“Light, Watson!”
I held the lamp near. Nose almost to the floorboards, Holmes extended a finger and delicately brushed a small spot of white powder at the edge of the cocoa-nut matting. It glinted in the light.
“Holmes, is that glass?”
“Yes, Watson!” He raised his face, eyes shining with excitement. “I have been a fool, and you may remind me of the fact whenever I become enamoured of my own genius. In this matter we are now in complete agreement: the Dowager Duchess of Penfield is innocent of this crime.”
“You