A Scandalous Affair: A Daughter of Sherlock Holmes Mystery

1

THE PHOTOGRAPH

As twilight fell, not a cloud was to be seen over Southern England, which was an ominous sign, for the clear sky was an open invitation to German bombers. Only the evening before, a thick fog covered much of London and thus shielded the area from a terrifying air raid. Having been denied their target, the bombers were certain to return at their earliest opportunity. Yet, despite the impending threat, Inspector Lestrade visited our rooms at 221b Baker Street to provide us with the important pieces of a most puzzling case whose resolution had escaped Scotland Yard as well as the keen mind of my dear wife, Joanna, the daughter of the Great Detective. At this point, I should mention that my father, John H. Watson, M.D., the close colleague and friend of the long dead Sherlock Holmes, had also contributed his medical expertise to this unsolved case, but to little avail. Whilst Lestrade summarized the details of The Lloyd’s of London Forger, I reached for pen and paper to jot down any new findings which might merit inclusion in my latest chronicle on the Daughter’s adventures.

You must give the forger credit, for he chose the perfect victim to fleece, Lestrade remarked. Here she was, a wealthy, elderly woman, who was ill and losing her senses.

I had written down those very facts earlier when penning the initial notes on the adventure. John Morton Harrington, a high-ranking manager at Lloyd’s of London, had been assigned the task of conservator for the considerable fortune of Lady Jane Wellesley. Her holdings were valued at over two hundred thousand pounds and consisted of bonds, stocks, real estate, and interest-bearing cash deposits. With enviable skill, Harrington, over a number of years, had moved substantial amounts of Lady Wellesley’s holdings into hidden accounts at other banks for his personal use. And he would have gotten away with it had he not made a mistake in transcribing her initials. Yes, her initials! For the elderly dowager was suffering from Parkinson’s disease, which caused an uncontrollable tremor and necessitated her signing off on each transaction by scribbling her initials.

It was quite remarkable for you to detect the change in Lady Wellesley’s handwriting, Lestrade was saying to my wife. Not one in a thousand financial experts would have noticed it.

Oh, they would have had they followed the money trail, Joanna said, deflecting the compliment. Here we have stocks being cashed and despite being used to supposedly buy more profitable stocks and bonds, yet the newly acquired stocks and bonds were nowhere to be found.

Perhaps they were placed under a different name or account, Lestrade countered. The very wealthy have a habit of attempting to hide their money.

But to what end?

To avoid paying income tax, of course.

But only the profit and not the transfer itself would be taxed, she said. You will note that there was little profit in these transactions.

You raise a fine point.

Moreover, why would a lady of such abundant, stable wealth consider transferring her holdings around with such frequency? Surely her current income was more than enough to allow for a life of comfort. Why would she take unnecessary chances?

She was no doubt following the advice of her conservator.

That was the reason given, but why expose herself to such risks? And once again, where are the stocks and bonds which were supposedly purchased in the process? Then we come to the forgery itself, Joanna continued on. The poor lady’s hand was shaking so badly, she could not even scribble her signature, and was thus forced to place only her initials on legal documents. And with her terrible tremor, it would have been most difficult to make those legible.

Which the conservator attempted to forge.

And that was his singular mistake, Lestrade, for he forged her initials from a set she had used during the earlier stage of her disease. When her tremor was not so pronounced, the W had a very small, complete circle at its very end. The forger continued to place the circle on the initial W, even though the progression of her tremor would have never allowed her to do so.

And with the onset of her dementia, which at times accompanies Parkinson’s disease, she would have been easy to manipulate, my father added.

It was easy, indeed, to the tune of ten thousand pounds which has mysteriously disappeared, said Joanna.

All of which was probably deposited into deeply hidden accounts, Lestrade surmised.

That is not a sufficient explanation, my wife challenged. And without the money being found, his guilt can never be established.

But surely his suicide when confronted by Scotland Yard points strongly at his involvement.

Yet, as you well know, Inspector, dead men cannot be convicted unless the most convincing evidence is presented. For our forger to be charged, you must demonstrate beyond any doubt that funds from Lady Wellesley’s accounts were transferred into his for personal use.

That is no simple task, for no such accounts seem to exist.

Oh, they exist, but I suspect they were cleverly hidden under a fictitious name or entity which he alone controlled. And once those newly acquired accounts were drained, he closed the accounts.

Lestrade’s brow went up. Are you suggesting that the ten thousand pounds has already been spent?

That is a distinct possibility.

But to what end?

That is the question which has to be asked, for the answer will lead to the money.

Could it not have been spent on wine, women, and song? my father proposed.

The inspector shook his head in response as he consulted his notepad. Now in his middle years, Lestrade was a tall man of medium frame, with a pleasant face except for his eyes which seemed fixed in a perpetual squint. Other than a fringe of hair about his ears, he was totally bald and kept his head covered with a worn brown derby. According to the newspapers, he closely resembled his father, who was the well-known inspector chronicled in the Sherlock Holmes mysteries. At length, he looked up from his notes and continued on, He was a confirmed bachelor who resided at the Diogenes club on Pall Mall and appeared to live a prudent life which showed little luxury. His personal bank account revealed that he spent mainly for the necessities of life and little else.

Were there any debts? Joanna queried.

None that he wrote checks for.

That does not exclude the possibility.

We kept that in mind, for gentlemen who live a solitary existence will at times search for readily available forms of excitement, such as gambling. Thus, we inquired at the major casinos whether Mr. Harrington was a regular player. No one knew of him. Nor were the high-end bookies aware of such a serious bettor. Lestrade flicked his spent cigar into the blazing fireplace and reached for his derby. I was afraid, Mrs. Watson, that Lady Wellesley’s money has disappeared.

Money does not disappear, Inspector, it gets spent.

Perhaps so. But Scotland Yard considers the matter closed, with the most likely perpetrator having met his just end. As you are no doubt aware, we have far more serious cases to pursue and must devote our limited resources to bringing those to a satisfying resolution.

Do let us know if the money turns up.

I shall, said Lestrade and, with a tip of his derby, bid us a pleasant good evening.

Once the door closed, I remarked to my wife, You seem most concerned with the purpose of the stolen money.

It is a loose thread which must be tied, she said. It is in fact the crux of the matter.

But it will certainly lead to John Morton Harrington alone.

Do not be certain of that. Joanna strolled over to the window overlooking Baker Street and watched the Scotland Yard vehicle drive away in the dwindling light. We must admit that Inspector Lestrade is coming along rather nicely. You will note how doggedly he pursued the destination of the stolen money, even going to the extent of questioning high-end bookies. He realizes very well indeed how important the money trail is.

But it appears he will no longer pursue it, I said. Which shows an obvious lack of interest.

Oh, the interest is there, Joanna insisted. For that was the purpose of his visit. He wishes for me to find the money and thus bring the case to conclusion.

Will you do so?

"Perhaps, but for the present my mind is focused on the Belgrave murder which was headlined on the front page of the Daily Telegraph this morning. It would appear that a fine gentleman was bludgeoned to death whilst he slept, yet no one in the household heard a sound."

Have you been consulted?

Not as yet.

There was a brief rap on the door and Miss Hudson looked in. I am sorry to disturb you, but an envelope was just delivered by special messenger. It is addressed to you, Mrs. Watson.

Thank you, Joanna said, reaching for the sealed mail. We should like supper served shortly, if your oven permits.

For three? Miss Hudson asked, eyeing the letter.

For three.

My wife waited for the housekeeper to depart, then quickly opened the envelope. It contained only a calling card which we read over her shoulder. It was engraved and stated:

William Radcliffe, KBE

11 Downing Street

On the back was a handwritten note:

7:30 P.M., if convenient

All of our eyes were focused on the address, 11 Downing Street, for it was the official residence of the Chancellor of the Exchequer, the second most powerful position in the British government. Of particular importance, he occupied a seat in the War Cabinet where his advice was highly valued and much needed.

Allow me to explain, Joanna said, adding a log to the fire, for a frosty chill had set in, promising a light snow later in the evening. This morning I received a phone call from one of London’s most prestigious lawyers whose name will not be mentioned at his request. He informed me that a crime was being carried out and that my services would be required. It involved a very senior member of His Majesty’s cabinet who would inform me of the details. I was to make myself available at our Baker Street address, with the exact time of the meeting to be determined later in the day.

It cannot be more mysterious, my father concluded.

Or more grave, my wife noted. The Chancellor of the Exchequer, who answers only to the king and prime minister, is somehow involved in a crime which can only be spoken of in the confines of our Baker Street parlor. And he employs London’s most savvy barrister to arrange the meeting.

I would think some basic elements could have been given during the phone call, my father thought aloud.

Joanna shook her head at once. Phone calls can be overheard.

Then by special messenger.

She waved away the notion. Any message sent by post or special delivery can occasionally go astray. It is obvious Sir William wishes to take no chances that might occur.

Moreover, the meeting is being scheduled on a night when all London is bracing for another bombing raid, which denotes the gravity of the matter.

Quite so.

Have you no idea what dire situation would require such secrecy? I asked.

Joanna strolled over to the shelf that held a Persian slipper and extracted one of her Turkish cigarettes. After lighting it, she began pacing the floor of our parlor, leaving a trail of white smoke behind. The answers to whatever questions were in her mind must have come easily, for she did not mumble to herself as she usually did when faced with a complex problem. There are several conclusions to be reached, she said, nodding firmly to herself. First, this is not a governmental matter nor anything related to the throne or cabinet, for were that the case we would have been summoned to Downing Street. Secondly, this surely is a personal matter, for Sir William has engaged the services of a barrister who is known for his expertise in criminal cases. And all this is done under the cloak of extreme secrecy. Thus, I think we can safely say that either Sir William or a close member of his family is somehow entangled in a crime which, if brought to the surface, would cause immeasurable harm to the family name and could well jeopardize his position in the War Cabinet.

Do you have any notion as to the nature of the crime? I asked.

I would be guessing, which is a bad habit, for it all too often leads one down a false road, she replied. Nevertheless, the act is so despicable that it cannot be spoke of outside his barrister’s ears, where client-barrister confidentiality exists.

Of course he does not dare go to Scotland Yard, my father assisted.

Unless he wishes it to be on the front page of every London newspaper tomorrow morning.

What could it possibly be? I wondered, more to myself than to Joanna.

We shall find out soon—

A shrill whistle sounded outside, which caused us to momentarily freeze in place as a chill ran up and down our collective spines. We raced for the window to watch a constable passing by on his bicycle and shouting, Take cover! Take cover! It was a dire warning that German bombers were approaching, now no more than a few minutes away.

We quickly closed the curtains, then switched off the lights and moved the sofa in front of the fireplace to block out the blazing logs. These maneuvers dimmed the various lights in the parlor in hopes that none of their rays would escape through the window and thus act as a target for the bombers soon to be overhead. Only then did we reach for our topcoats and dash down the stairs to Miss Hudson’s kitchen, where large timbers had been recently installed to brace against explosions. Our housekeeper was waiting for us, her hand on the light switch.

Hurry over to the timbers! she directed, her voice calm despite the peril we were about to face.

We huddled against the reinforced wall where we would be safest and listened in the dimness for the dull drone of overhead bombers. Our ears remained pricked, but all we heard was an eerie silence. Toby Two, the keen-nosed hound who now lived with us and was Miss Hudson’s constant companion, detected our anxiety and stood motionless by the hot oven whilst awaiting our next move. Then the dog began to whine, and I wondered if she now sensed the impending danger. Yet the silence continued.

Perhaps they will bypass London tonight, Miss Hudson whispered.

Let us pray, my father added, which we all did, now bowing our heads in silent pleas.

But our prayers were not to be answered, for we heard the thunder of far-off explosions, and soon thereafter came the hum of overhead bombers. We pressed ourselves against the thick timbers, and awaited the hell that was sure to come.

The thunderous explosions came nearer and nearer, which caused the oven and icebox to rattle noisily. Despite the precautionary lips placed on the shelves, glasses and dishes slipped off and fell to the floor where they shattered into pieces. Joanna and I held onto each other tightly, wondering if this was to be our last moments together on earth. I heard my wife utter a brief prayer for her son Johnny, now a student at Eton, to be looked after. Toby Two desperately searched for a place to hide, but none could be found, so she dashed across the kitchen and flew into Miss Hudson’s arms. Then came a deafening blast which shook the room with such violence that large layers of plaster were torn from the ceiling and rained down upon us. My ears rang as another bomb exploded and yet another, but the latter, although quite loud, seemed further away. We waited anxiously until the explosions were far off in the distance, then stood and, after catching our breaths, switched on the lights. The oven and icebox had tilted noticeably, but both by good fortune were still upright. The entire kitchen had a ghostlike appearance, with everything covered in a fine, white dust. Miss Hudson swept aside the broken glass, clearing a path for us to venture into the alleyway. Again, good fortune was with us, for the exterior of our building, as well as those nearby, had suffered no significant damage. As we gazed out into the distance, it appeared that half of London was ablaze, with the inferno so intense it lighted up the landscape of the city. Trucks from the Fire Brigade raced by, bells clanging, followed by yet more trucks. They would have a long night’s work, for the damage was beyond extensive and the number of people trapped in the burning rubble impossible to count.

Why do they continue to take so many innocent lives? Miss Hudson asked dolefully.

They wish to break our spirit, my father replied. They want us to accept an inevitable defeat.

I would rather die a thousand deaths in Hell before bowing to some bloody German, she responded resolutely.

Which summed up all of our feelings as well, thought I, and had no words to add.

Miss Hudson swept aside the remaining debris and brought order back to the kitchen, with her unhappiness now focused on the tilt of the oven which had tossed her roast beef onto the red-hot coals and thus soiled our supper. But our ever-resourceful housekeeper assured us she could trim enough of the roast to make excellent sandwiches, particularly when creamy horseradish was applied.

Joanna glanced at her wristwatch and said, Please delay supper, Miss Hudson, for we are expecting a visitor to arrive shortly.

At this dreadful moment? she asked, in surprise.

I am afraid so.

We retired to our parlor and moved the sofa back to its original position. The fire in our hearth had dwindled into red ashes during our absence, so I added two sturdy logs to ward off the deepening chill. Then we waited. But the seven thirty hour came and went.

Perhaps, due to the circumstances, Sir William will wish to reschedule his visit, my father proposed.

The gravity of the matter will not allow for delay, Joanna assured. And the circumstances work in his favor, for the streets will now be empty, with people huddled up in their homes. Thus, his visit will go unnoticed.

You seem so certain it is a family matter, I said. And one that involves an unspeakable crime, no less.

There is no other explanation, she responded. How else can you explain the need for secrecy, the services of a noted criminal barrister, and now a concealed visit to 221b Baker Street?

Fifteen minutes more were to elapse before we heard a motor vehicle draw up to our doorstep. Joanna hurried over to the window and parted the curtains ever so slightly to steal a peek at who had arrived.

He comes in an unofficial vehicle, which no doubt is an official one in disguise, she said.

What is the tell? I asked.

The driver who opened the rear door has a noticeable bulge on the left side of his jacket.

Sir William is a very careful man.

Which is a prerequisite for being a Chancellor of the Exchequer.

Moments later, William Radcliffe, KBE, was ushered into our parlor by Miss Hudson who gave him a curtsy, as she was obviously aware of his social standing. Everything about the gentleman spoke of high status. He presented as a tall figure, erect in posture, with silver gray hair and strong, chiseled features. His attire was perfect for his post, for he wore an elegantly fitted dark suit, accompanied by a neatly knotted maroon tie. His stride was confident and showed no sign of weakness, but there were dark circles beneath his eyes.

Thank you for agreeing to this rather clandestine meeting, he said in a steady voice.

It is our honor to meet you, Sir William, Joanna greeted him. With me are the Watsons, who I believe you are aware of.

I am.

They are of great assistance to me and have helped bring the most difficult cases to resolution. Thus, you must speak freely in their presence.

I shall.

Then pray tell what is the purpose of your visit?

I need your advice.

Easily gotten.

And your help.

Not as easily gotten until I hear of every particular in your troubles.

I do not mince words, Mrs. Watson, so I shall get directly to the threat. My family is being blackmailed.

Is the dagger pointed at you?

Sir William shook his head slowly and sadly. It is directed at my dear granddaughter and her future happiness.

I must have every detail, no matter how sordid.

Why do you presume it is sordid?

Because on learning of your request for my services, I took it upon myself to review your family history. You have only one granddaughter who not that long ago was listed on the society pages as a sought-after debutante, whose loveliness and adventuresome spirit had attracted a number of suitable bachelors. She is now engaged to the son of the Earl of Marlboro and a late summer wedding is planned, which of course is the future happiness you mentioned. With this is mind, the blackmail or extortion no doubt revolves around some escapade which threatens her upcoming wedding. Such an adventure must involve sordid behavior to merit blackmail at the highest level.

I can see why the tales of your talents are so well placed, Sir William said, and took a deep breath as if