“In Paris, as the story goes, Annabelle dropped her first name and called herself Portia. After squandering her fortune on a series of handsome but rather vapid young paramours, she left the City of Lights for Nice on the Riviera, where she met an elderly Bavarian aristocrat, Otto, Freiherr von Schritter zu Adelberg. It was not long before she had also drawn him to her evil bosom. In a matter of weeks she was the Baroness Portia von Schritter zu Adelberg and the mistress of his family’s vast estate and castle. That marriage, like her first, did not last long and also ended in tragedy. It seems the good old Freiherr, perhaps after indulging in a little too much schnapps, stumbled over a log while out hunting in the woods and accidently shot himself.”
“Incredible. What a coincidence. Both husbands killed.”
Holmes suddenly sprung to his feet. “Coincidence? Watson, your naivety amazes me. Having witnessed my tragic affair with the woman, have you learned nothing about the wiles and cunning of the female species?” His voice was wrought with emotion.
I knew Holmes was talking about Irene Adler, the only woman he had ever loved and who had betrayed him, only to later seek him out in New York and give her life to save his.1 Because of the pain and anguish he felt, he could never say her name, and would only call her “the woman.”
“I’m sorry, dear fellow. I didn’t mean to upset you. Please sit back down and continue.”
“It seems that the old Freiherr had a son, a cavalry officer who was a favorite of the Kaiser. Given the feudal laws of primogeniture and the Kaiser’s influence, the estate went entirely to the young man. He apparently kept his stepmother around for a temporary dalliance, but then quickly tiring of her, he sent her packing with little more than the clothes on her back. But the story doesn’t end there, old chum. No, Watson, the baroness Portia was not going to allow herself to be consigned to the Hades of jaded beauty, to be dismissed from society, sent away with only a trollop’s pourboire. It was at the spa in Baden that she came upon the late Mr. Wolkner, second son to the Earl of Putney, whom she took to be wealthy enough for her to ignore his pronounced stutter.”
Holmes looked over at Mrs. Wolkner and smiled thinly. “Have I related the story correctly?”
“It is your story, Mr. Holmes, so I shall let you tell it without comment for now.”
“It seems my trusted colleague Morrell has wired me from Switzerland with some interesting news.”
“Morrell? You mean that scruffy little bootblack who used to shine shoes outside the Theatre Royal in Haymarket until he earned the price of a standing-room ticket? That Morrell?”
“Exactly, dear friend. That Morrell who became the most talented and trusted of my Baker Street Irregulars and who carried out some of the most daring feats in that capacity. The lad I sent up to Sydney Sussex, where he did a double first in Classical Languages and in Modern History.”
“I can’t believe it.”
“Who, upon leaving Oxford, was no longer the humble drudge of his childhood and became employed by The Crown in matters as sensitive as those that I had tasked him with.”
I sat back in my chair.
“And who along with my brother Mycroft is also a stalwart member of the Diogenes club. Upon my instructions yesterday, our coachman took the train to London and went to the club and left a note for Morrell. A note in which I asked the man to make a very urgent and specific inquiry for me. Mycroft, for whom Morrell also undertakes sensitive matters, made sure that the message was wired immediately to Geneva. I have the reply right here.” He smiled thinly once more and withdrew the folded piece of paper that had been jammed in the cabin door.
“What does it say?” My curiosity was now at a fevered pitch.
The smile disappeared from his face. “Perhaps Mrs. Wolkner can tell you?”
“I’m sure I have no idea,” she said, her voice tense.
“Very well then; I shall enlighten you.” He turned back to me. “As you know, the Lombard Street Associates is a Swiss-based firm. I asked Morrell to make inquiries through his contacts in the Swiss government and find out who the owner was.”
“You mean the owner was not that man Murdoch?”
“Murdoch was only a pawn in this evil scheme. To be used and disposed of when no longer needed.”
“But used by whom?”
“The mastermind who controls Lombard Street Associates.”
“Who?” I cried. “Who?”
He put the folded piece of paper back in his pocket. “I shall come to that in a while, but for now I would like to turn your attention to the mystery of the Oghams. Remember the gibberish on the wooden pillar? Well, it took me almost an hour before I realized that it wasn’t just gibberish, after all. Not if you looked at the message as numbers instead of an alphabet. After another hour, I had deciphered enough to discern that I now possessed the combination to a safe and the pass code to a bank account. A pass code not unlike the one to my safe box in Zurich. I walked back to the manor while it was still dark, slipped inside and found the safe behind this bookcase.”
I watched as Holmes walked over to very same bookcase that had intrigued him only the day before. He reached up to a corner and pressed the wood. The panel next to the case slid up to reveal a wall safe. Spinning the combination dial quickly, he yanked the steel door open and withdrew a thick packet of papers that was bound with a red ribbon. Turning toward Mrs. Wolkner, he said, “Shall I read the contents?”
“That will not be necessary.” Using her walking stick as a crutch, she forced herself to her feet and hobbled over to where Holmes was standing.
“You are very clever, Mr. Holmes.”
“What on earth is she talking about? What are those papers that you have?”
“Evidence, Watson. Evidence that Lombard Street Associates is owned and controlled by the Baroness Portia. Who is none other than this evil creature you see standing before me.” He gave a slight bow to Mrs. Wolkner.
She nodded back.
“Baroness?” I cried, looking at the woman. “Good heavens, Holmes, do you mean...?”
“Yes, Watson. She is none other than the Black Widow of Virginia.”
Mrs. Wolkner nodded again. “Please continue.”
“When I said her husband had made a lot of money for the firm, it was the truth. But at the expense of his clients.” He undid the ribbon on the packet of papers and waved the top sheet at me. “It is all here, Watson. How the firm was looted, their clients’ money siphoned off and deposited into a secret bank account in Geneva. An account controlled by this poisonous creature.”
“Do you mean Wolkner stole from his family and friends? But he was from one of the finest of families. A British aristocrat would never commit such foul deeds!”
“No, Watson, Mr. Wolkner did not participate. These crimes were solely the work of his employer. Somehow, he stumbled onto the embezzlements and also learned that he was merely a dupe for the woman he was married to.”
“But why did he keep the papers in his safe?”
“Guilt, Watson. Guilt and love. The two emotions most common to our male species.”
“So he did kill himself?”
“No, dear fellow. The poor man may very well have contemplated it, for he was faced with either handing over the woman he loved to the