Scandal in Bohemia Continued...
“If your Majesty, the King, could explain your case,” he remarked, “I should be better able to advise you.”
The man shot up from his chair and walked back and forth across the room. Then, with a gesture of desperation, he tore the mask from his face and threw it on the ground. “You are right,” he cried; “I am the King. Why should I attempt to hide it?”
“Why, indeed?” murmured Holmes. “Your Majesty had not spoken before I was aware that I was addressing Wilhelm Gottsreich Sigismond von Ormstein, Grand Duke of Cassel-Felstein, and King of Bohemia.”
“But you can understand,” said our strange visitor, “you can understand that I am not used to doing such business myself. Yet the matter was so delicate that I could not trust it to another. It would have put me in danger, so I came from Prague to consult with you.”
“Then, consult,” said Holmes, shutting his eyes once more.
“The facts are these: Some five years ago, during a lengthy visit to Warsaw, I became friendly with the well-known adventuress, Irene Adler. The name is no doubt familiar to you.”
“Please look her up in my index, Doctor,” murmured Holmes without opening his eyes. For many years he had kept notes on everything so that it was difficult to name a subject or a person which he didn’t have a record of.
“Let me see!” said Holmes. “Hum! Born in New Jersey in 1858. Retired opera singer—ha! Living in London—quite so! Your Majesty, as I understand, was romantic with this young person, wrote her some compromising letters, and is now wanting to get those letters back.”
“Exactly. But how—”
“Was there a secret marriage?”
“None.”
“No legal papers or certificates?”
“None.”
“Then I fail to understand your Majesty. If this young person should produce her letters for blackmailing or other purposes, how is she to prove that they are real?”
“There is the writing.”
“Pooh, pooh! Faked.”
“My private notepaper.”
“Stolen.”
“My photograph.”
“Bought.”
“We were both in the photograph.”
“Oh, dear! That is very bad! Your Majesty has indeed made a mistake.”
“I was crazy—insane.”
“You have compromised yourself seriously.”
“I was only Crown Prince then. I was young. I am thirty now.”
“It must be recovered.”
“We have tried and failed.”
“Your Majesty must pay. It must be bought.”
“She will not sell.”
“Stolen, then.”
“Five attempts have been made. Twice I have paid burglars to search her house. Once we stole her luggage when she travelled. Twice she has been delayed. There has been no result.”
“No sign of it?”
“Absolutely none.”
Holmes laughed. “It is quite a pretty little problem,” he said.
“But a very serious one to me,” returned the King seeming upset.
“Indeed. And what does she want to do with the photograph?”
“To destroy me.”
“But how?”
“I am about to be married.”
“So I have heard.”
“To the second daughter of the King of Scandinavia. You may know the strict principles of her family. She is herself so true and respectable. If they thought I had acted so poorly, the engagement would be off.”
“And Irene Adler?”
“She threatens to send them the photograph. And she will do it. I know that she will do it. You do not know her, but she is strong. Her face is equal to that of the most beautiful women, and her mind to the most determined men. To stop my marriage to another woman, she would do anything—anything.”
“You are sure that she has not sent it yet?”
“I am sure.”
“And why?”
“Because she has said that she would send it on the day when the engagement was publicly announced. That will be next Monday.”
“Oh, then we still have three days,” Holmes said with a yawn. “That is very lucky, as I have one or two matters to look into. Your Majesty will, of course, stay in London for a few days?”
“Certainly. You will find me at the Langham under the name of the Count Von Kramm.”
“Then I will call you to let you know our progress.”
“Please do. I’m anxious.”
“Then, what about money?”
“You can have whatever you need.”
“Absolutely?”
“Honestly, I would give one of the provinces of my kingdom to have that photograph.”
“And for present costs?”
The King took a heavy leather bag from under his coat and laid it on the table.
“There are three hundred pounds in gold and seven hundred in notes,” he said.
Holmes scribbled a receipt on a sheet of his notebook and handed it to him.
“And the woman’s address?” he asked.
“It’s Briony Lodge, Serpentine Avenue, St. John’s Wood.”
Holmes wrote it down. “One other question,” he said. “How large was the photograph?”
“It was about four by six.”
“Then, goodnight, your Majesty, and I trust that we will soon have some good news for you. And goodnight, Watson,” he added, as the King drove away. “If you could come by tomorrow afternoon at three o’clock, I would like to chat about this more.”
The man shot up from his chair and walked back and forth across the room. Then, with a gesture of desperation, he tore the mask from his face and threw it on the ground. “You are right,” he cried; “I am the King. Why should I attempt to hide it?”
“Why, indeed?” murmured Holmes. “Your Majesty had not spoken before I was aware that I was addressing Wilhelm Gottsreich Sigismond von Ormstein, Grand Duke of Cassel-Felstein, and King of Bohemia.”
“But you can understand,” said our strange visitor, “you can understand that I am not used to doing such business myself. Yet the matter was so delicate that I could not trust it to another. It would have put me in danger, so I came from Prague to consult with you.”
“Then, consult,” said Holmes, shutting his eyes once more.
“The facts are these: Some five years ago, during a lengthy visit to Warsaw, I became friendly with the well-known adventuress, Irene Adler. The name is no doubt familiar to you.”
“Please look her up in my index, Doctor,” murmured Holmes without opening his eyes. For many years he had kept notes on everything so that it was difficult to name a subject or a person which he didn’t have a record of.
“Let me see!” said Holmes. “Hum! Born in New Jersey in 1858. Retired opera singer—ha! Living in London—quite so! Your Majesty, as I understand, was romantic with this young person, wrote her some compromising letters, and is now wanting to get those letters back.”
“Exactly. But how—”
“Was there a secret marriage?”
“None.”
“No legal papers or certificates?”
“None.”
“Then I fail to understand your Majesty. If this young person should produce her letters for blackmailing or other purposes, how is she to prove that they are real?”
“There is the writing.”
“Pooh, pooh! Faked.”
“My private notepaper.”
“Stolen.”
“My photograph.”
“Bought.”
“We were both in the photograph.”
“Oh, dear! That is very bad! Your Majesty has indeed made a mistake.”
“I was crazy—insane.”
“You have compromised yourself seriously.”
“I was only Crown Prince then. I was young. I am thirty now.”
“It must be recovered.”
“We have tried and failed.”
“Your Majesty must pay. It must be bought.”
“She will not sell.”
“Stolen, then.”
“Five attempts have been made. Twice I have paid burglars to search her house. Once we stole her luggage when she travelled. Twice she has been delayed. There has been no result.”
“No sign of it?”
“Absolutely none.”
Holmes laughed. “It is quite a pretty little problem,” he said.
“But a very serious one to me,” returned the King seeming upset.
“Indeed. And what does she want to do with the photograph?”
“To destroy me.”
“But how?”
“I am about to be married.”
“So I have heard.”
“To the second daughter of the King of Scandinavia. You may know the strict principles of her family. She is herself so true and respectable. If they thought I had acted so poorly, the engagement would be off.”
“And Irene Adler?”
“She threatens to send them the photograph. And she will do it. I know that she will do it. You do not know her, but she is strong. Her face is equal to that of the most beautiful women, and her mind to the most determined men. To stop my marriage to another woman, she would do anything—anything.”
“You are sure that she has not sent it yet?”
“I am sure.”
“And why?”
“Because she has said that she would send it on the day when the engagement was publicly announced. That will be next Monday.”
“Oh, then we still have three days,” Holmes said with a yawn. “That is very lucky, as I have one or two matters to look into. Your Majesty will, of course, stay in London for a few days?”
“Certainly. You will find me at the Langham under the name of the Count Von Kramm.”
“Then I will call you to let you know our progress.”
“Please do. I’m anxious.”
“Then, what about money?”
“You can have whatever you need.”
“Absolutely?”
“Honestly, I would give one of the provinces of my kingdom to have that photograph.”
“And for present costs?”
The King took a heavy leather bag from under his coat and laid it on the table.
“There are three hundred pounds in gold and seven hundred in notes,” he said.
Holmes scribbled a receipt on a sheet of his notebook and handed it to him.
“And the woman’s address?” he asked.
“It’s Briony Lodge, Serpentine Avenue, St. John’s Wood.”
Holmes wrote it down. “One other question,” he said. “How large was the photograph?”
“It was about four by six.”
“Then, goodnight, your Majesty, and I trust that we will soon have some good news for you. And goodnight, Watson,” he added, as the King drove away. “If you could come by tomorrow afternoon at three o’clock, I would like to chat about this more.”