The Raven and The Jewel
By Maril Swan

Ink spattered across the page. With an oath, the writer snatched up a blotter in his beefy hand and stabbed at the ink spots, tossing the offending pen aside and picking up another. Jabbing the nib into the ink bottle, he continued writing furiously, pausing occasionally to frame his words. He rubbed his free hand through his wiry, dark hair and tugged distractedly at his moustache, as if trying to pull the words out of his tired brain.

His writing desk was littered with crumpled balls of paper, as was the floor surrounding his swivel chair. The oil lamp, the room’s only illumination, cast a warm glow over his ruddy complexion. His dark bushy eyebrows were knit in concentration over steely grey eyes, their usual intensity diminished by fatigue.

It wasn’t going well, and the writer was in no sweet temper as a soft tap sounded at his heavy oak study door. “Come!” he snarled, slapping the pen down.

A middle-aged woman entered, her eyebrows raised in surprise at this peremptory summons. She was slim, somewhat above average height, a handsome woman. Her dark crepe dress rustled as she came forward, a slightly vexed look upon her face.

“Arthur” she began sharply, “You needn’t bite my head off! There is a messenger to see you. He asked me to give you this.” She proffered a folded note on obviously expensive paper.

Apologetically, he rose and gave the woman an affectionate peck on the cheek. “Sorry, Louise. I’m having the devil’s own time with this plot, and the issue deadline is only eight days away. I have to get this episode finished.”

He took the note from her and opened it. The coat of arms embossed on the top alerted him to its sender’s high estate. His bushy brows knitted together as he read, then expostulated. “This is impossible! It’s enough of an intrusion on my time to have to go that damned dinner party tonight. But my publisher insisted upon it. And now this!”

“Shh, Arthur. The messenger is waiting just outside for your reply.” his wife whispered, looking anxiously toward the partly opened door.

Not discomfited by her concern, he continued, “We’re to arrive an hour earlier than the other guests for an interview with our host.” He shook his head and laughed mirthlessly. “The Duke probably has some amazing idea for a story, full of plot twists and devious devices, with a damsel in distress thrown in for good measure.”

“Such is the price of fame, my dear,” she said, patting his arm. His wife added fondly, “What answer shall I give the messenger?”

“What else? Tell him we’ll be there.” He returned to his desk, dropping into the swivel chair which creaked loudly under his ample bulk.

“Oh, and Arthur, the messenger said the Duke would send his carriage for us at seven sharp.”

With a weary wave of his hand, he dismissed her, turning his attention to his writing, trying to pick up the thread of the story.

******

Carlyle, the liveried footman, rushed down the mansion stairs to open the carriage door, and drop the step. Courteously, he offered his gloved hand to assist the woman to alight from the gleaming black carriage. Her husband joined her and they linked arms.

“His Excellency sends his compliments, Dr. and Mrs. Doyle. If you will please follow me, I will conduct you to his study, where he awaits your arrival.” With a quick bow and click of his heels, he turned and marched up the steps, expecting the Doyles to follow in his wake.

The doctor gave his wife a significant look, which showed he was impressed with the grandeur and affluence displayed before them. Carlyle led them into a long hall, brilliantly lit by crystal chandeliers. A rich deep carpet ran the length of the corridor off which a door opened into the dining hall. An army of servants could be seen rushing about, preparing tables for the dinner party. Continuing down the hall, the footman stopped in front of an ornately carved door and knocked politely.

“Come.” a muffled male voice responded.

The Doyles were shown into a dimly lit study, its sole occupant arising from behind a huge rosewood desk. Carlyle announced, “Dr. and Mrs. Doyle, your Excellency.” At a wave from the Duke, he withdrew, closing the door behind him.

The Duke came forward to greet his guests. Doyle estimated the Duke’s age to be somewhat in excess of his own, in his late forties, possibly. His rigid military bearing was accentuated by the richly braided uniform, a dark blue serge tunic with large gold epaulettes. A high forehead was topped by greying hair, slickly pasted down by pomade, whose scent Doyle found rather obnoxious. The Duke’s penetrating blue eyes and general mien denoted a man used to command, and having his way. He would probably be considered handsome, Doyle decided, though he thought the well-waxed moustache which sprouted from his face like wings, was something of an affectation.

The Duke strode up to Mrs. Doyle, and with a smart click of his booted heels, he bowed courteously over her hand. “It is a great pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Doyle.” He smiled deeply into her eyes with the assurance of a man who knows he is attractive to women. To Doyle’s annoyance, his wife coloured a little, and curtseying, she responded. “The pleasure is mine, your Excellency.”

Turning to Doyle, he stretched out his hand in a hail-fellow-well-met manner, and with a hearty grip, said “And it is an honour to finally meet the man who has given me so many hours of reading pleasure. I follow your detective’s exploits with avid interest, Dr. Doyle. Your detective’s genius is surely only a reflection of your own.”

“Your Excellency makes too much of my trifling literary efforts,” Doyle mumbled modestly. He found the Duke’s efforts at charm quite resistible, though he had to admit others, particularly women, might easily fall for it.

An awkward silence descended on the little group for several seconds, broken by the door opening to admit a very pretty young woman. His daughter? wondered Doyle, appraising her youth and beauty with an appreciative eye. She was petite, with flaxen hair arranged carefully around a heart-shaped face. Peaches and cream complexion, was the phrase that surfaced in Doyle’s mind as he studied her. About twenty, he surmised, with the bloom of young womanhood on her cheeks. Illogically, he thought of his own young daughter, and wondered if she would turn out to be a beauty like this.

She crossed to the Duke’s side and took his arm as he beamed on her fondly.

“This is Annabelle, eldest daughter of the reigning family of my neighbouring principality, …and, my fiancée,” he announced with obvious pride. Doyle was dumbfounded momentarily but recovered quickly as the introductions were made. The old satyr, he thought contemptuously, stealing the youth from that innocent young girl.

“Annabelle, my dear, why don’t you show Mrs. Doyle the gallery.” Turning to that lady, he added, “There are some new works by Monet in there, and I am sure you would find them more interesting than our conversation.” He bowed smartly to the two ladies as Annabelle dutifully led Mrs. Doyle from the room, closing the door softly behind them.

“May I offer you some cognac, Dr. Doyle?” At Doyle’s nod, he splashed a liberal shot into two snifters and handed one to the doctor. Doyle wandered around the room, ostensibly looking at the military artifacts that lined the walls and adorned the tops of nearly every flat surface. Flags, medals, maps, portraits, military busts and weapons of all types proclaimed this to be the sanctuary of the scion of a military family.

“I am sure you have been wondering why I asked for this interview, Doctor. Other than the great pleasure of making your acquaintance.” The Duke hesitated, swirling the amber liquid, and then sipping it thoughtfully. To Doyle’s surprise, the Duke seemed hesitant and highly agitated, as if unable to broach the subject that was obviously on his mind.

Doyle smiled slightly and commented, “You’re right, your Excellency, I am puzzled by your summons. Unless it’s to let you in on the plot of my next story.” The Duke merely grimaced. His attempt at levity failing, Doyle sipped his cognac, waiting for him to come to the point.

“The fate of two nations may rest in your hands, Dr. Doyle, “ he began earnestly. “I have a problem of such delicacy and yet of such magnitude, I could not think of who else to trust but you.”

The Duke’s high colour and glittering eyes convinced Doyle that his host was in some dire extremity. He wrung his hands, chest heaving with the difficulty of breathing, and the doctor began to worry that his companion was about to have a stroke. To put the Duke at ease, Doyle said, “Whatever you confide in me, will remain in confidence.”

The Duke grabbed Doyle’s arm like a drowning man. “Dr. Doyle, a very valuable family heirloom has been stolen from me. A necklace whose value is beyond price. I have tried every means at my disposal to retrieve it, to no avail. With your skill at detection, I feel you cannot fail.” He slumped into a leather club chair, defeat and desperation written on his features.

Doyle began to suspect what was wanted of him and, in spite of any sympathy the Duke may have engendered, determined to put matters straight. “I am a writer of detective fiction, not a detective. You should inform the police, Scotland Yard.”

“No! No! No!” the Duke expostulated, leaping to his feet. “That is precisely what I cannot do. The matter is of such extreme delicacy, it needs someone of cunning and resourcefulness to find a way to get back the necklace. If the loss of the necklace became common knowledge, catastrophe would result.” He sank back into the chair, watching Doyle closely through narrowed eyes as if gauging the measure of the man.

Unaware of this scrutiny, Doyle said, “Perhaps if you tell me a bit more about this …” he hesitated, searching for the appropriate word, then added, “…case, I might be able to formulate a plan to retrieve your property. I will not, your Excellency, be party to anything which breaks the law or results in harm to anyone. I hope I have made myself clear.”

The Duke heaved a great sigh of relief. “Of course, Doctor, I would never ask that of a man of honour such as yourself. Just hear my story, then give me your opinion. That’s all I ask.”

Seeing the doctor was attending him closely, the Duke continued, “The necklace was stolen from me about two years ago…”

Doyle interjected with, “Two years ago, and you are just now trying to retrieve it? Why now?”

“Please be patient. I will explain it all to you. For the past two years, I have tried every means I could think of to get back the necklace. Why the urgency now? You met my fiancée, Annabelle. The match is politically motivated, but to my surprise and delight, she loves me. Our engagement is to be announced in two weeks. It has been a centuries-old tradition that the heir to my country’s throne, when he becomes engaged, gives his intended bride a betrothal gift - the famous emerald necklace. Everyone in both our countries expects me to present Annabelle with this precious gift. Perhaps now you see the difficulty. No necklace - no engagement. And with the political tensions between Annabelle’s country and mine, the withholding of the necklace would be seen as an insult to her family and country. At the very least, there would be no alliance. At the worst, a war may result.”

The Duke hung his head in his hands, and Doyle felt a keen sympathy for him. It was a very pretty problem indeed, the fate of two nations in the balance. With the arms stock-piling going on at present in Europe, it would not take much to set off the powder keg.

Still, Doyle held back from getting involved. “I don’t see how I can be of help here, your Excellency. There are agencies you could hire to discretely act for you. Perhaps you could …”

Before Doyle could finish, the Duke pounded his fist on the chair arm. “Bunglers and charlatans!” he snarled. “I have already tried that. They failed! And made matters worse, if that is possible. She knows I am after her now.”

Doyle caught his breath. “She? You know who has the necklace? Who is it? Why not offer her money for its return? Threaten her with imprisonment.” He was completely nonplused by this revelation. How could it be such a grave problem when the Duke knew the perpetrator? What was he holding back?

“It is more complicated than I have so far explained. This woman and I had a …uh, romantic liaison for nearly a year. I broke off the affair, and being a vindictive woman, she decided to punish me in a way she knew would hurt most - through my love of my country. She stole our precious family necklace, knowing what its place in our traditions meant. She had expectations, I believe, that I would ask her to marry me and in due course, the necklace would be hers. As if I would marry such a woman!” he said bitterly.

“Have her arrested and forced to return the necklace.” Doyle suggested. “I still cannot see why the police should not be involved. Surely, your fiancée could understand that you had no control over what happened to the jewellery, and have used every means to restore it. Trust her, your Excellency. Make a clean breast of it.”

“I love Annabelle, and esteem her highly. But, she is very young and innocent, as you undoubtedly noticed. She would never understand a rather sordid liaison such as I had with this woman. I would lose her love and respect. I cannot take the chance of that. And I will lose it all if this woman does as she has threatened. She has some letters I wrote her in a fit of foolish passion, indiscrete, amorous letters, pouring my heart out to her. She has threatened that if I make any more attempts to recover the necklace, she will see that Annabelle receives the letters. It will be all over for me.”

The Duke, in an excess of bitter rage, strode about the room, trying to compose himself. “What folly! Letting myself get ensnared in the toils of that woman! But, you wouldn’t wonder, Doctor, if you had been in my situation, if you could see her.”

Suddenly, the Duke rushed to his desk and withdrew a folder. “Here,” he announced, opening the folder to reveal a photograph. A beautiful young woman smiled up from the sepia-toned picture. Doyle caught his breath, and studied her intently. Raven-haired, haunting dark eyes in a perfect oval face with a flawless complexion. Indeed, a face and a form that a man might die for.

Doyle had to admit to himself that he was quite intrigued by the Duke’s problem. He had been formulating an idea but before offering to help the Duke, he wanted more information on the lady in question. “Who is this woman? And where does she live?”

The Duke dashed back to his desk and wrote rapidly on a sheet, folding it and handing it to Doyle. The doctor was about to open and read it when the Duke forestalled him. “Read it later, please,” he asked. Obligingly, Doyle slid the paper into his jacket pocket.

“I need you, Dr. Doyle. Your genius may succeed where other, cruder methods, have failed.” the Duke begged. “Please, will you help me and save two nations from a needless war?”

Doyle was saved from answering by a discrete knock at the study door, followed by the entrance of Annabelle and Mrs. Doyle.

********

“You’re very quiet, Arthur,” his wife said, breaking into his thoughts as they rode toward home in the Duke’s elegant carriage.

“Just tired, Louise,” Doyle replied with an affectionate pat on his wife’s hand. “Did you enjoy your evening?”

“Oh, yes!” she laughed. “I was sitting next to a most interesting young man, a fellow countryman of yours, Arthur. A Highlander. He told me such exciting stories. He seems to have been almost everywhere. So much travel and experience for one so young. And, he is a great admirer of yours. He seems to have read all of your historical romances, as well as the detective stories.” She yawned, and nestled close to her husband. “What about you, dear? Did you have a good time?”

“As I expected, it was a crashing bore, mostly. I was wedged between a foppish young man who lectured me on my shortcomings as a author, and a gushing old matron who actually believes my detective character is a real person!” He chuckled at the memory and regaled his wife with some of his best ripostes to his literary protagonist. She laughed appreciatively.

“You certainly put him in his place, Arthur.” She tried to suppress another yawn, but failed, her head dropping wearily against his shoulder. “I, for one, shall be glad to see my bed tonight.”

Chapter 2

The wheels squealed as the old cart, bristling with rods and brushes, rattled along the cobbled street, pushed by a grimy chimney sweep. He paused now and then in front of a house, gazing speculatively at the chimneys. Stopping before a gracious old house, he pulled off a boot that had lost any pretense of being foot protection, and shook out a pebble. He remained for long seconds, rearranging his brushes and casting surreptitious glances at the house. It was small but neatly set back in its own grounds, the front garden divided from the sidewalk by a high iron fence. A fine example of Georgian architecture, with well-kept lawns surrounding the main house. From his vantage point, the sweep could see no sign of activity within or without the house.

A hansom cab entered the street, and to the sweep’s surprise, came to a stop in front of the house he was watching. The front door opened and a young couple, arm in arm, hurried down the walkway and through the front gate, heading for the cab. The woman was as tall as her companion, and she walked with a dancer’s grace. The chimneysweep caught himself staring at her and looked away as their eyes met. Those almond eyes reminded him of the mysterious Orient as did her raven hair, which swung freely as she came down the walk.

The sweep moved out of the way, tipping his top hat and preparing to move on with his cart. Suddenly, the young woman broke from her companion and called out, “Oh, sir! Stop! Please.” She laughed gaily toward her escort, a darkly handsome young man, and gave him a saucy wink. “I understand it is good luck to kiss a chimney sweep. If you would oblige me, I could use some luck today.”

The sweep seemed abashed, and looked down at his feet, trying avoid her eye. “Aye, milady, there’s some as says so.” His sooty, tattered clothes were such a contrast to the finery of her costume, he backed away slightly as she came forward to claim her good luck. “Ye’ll get yer garb all grimy, milady.” Taking off his top hat, he bowed obsequiously, and tried to reach for his cart. She cut in front of his retreat, and gave him a hearty kiss on the cheek.

“Thank you, kind sir,” she curtseyed gracefully, and opening her reticule, pulled out a sovereign and dropped it into his top hat. Almost as an afterthought, she added, “Go around to the back door, and see the housekeeper. I think we should have our chimneys looked at, don’t you, Duncan?” she asked, turning to her companion.

He shrugged, and said, “I don’t know anything about it. Do as you please, Roana,” eyeing the sweep suspiciously. His deep voice was punctuated by a heavy Scottish accent With another laugh, she took the young man’s arm and allowed him to assist her into the cab. In a trice, they were gone, leaving the chimneysweep standing at the kerb.

Not one to let an opportunity pass, he pushed his cart through the gate and followed the path to the back door. Large trees overhung the small courtyard and the earthy smell of mould assailed his nostrils as he rapped on the door. The heavy tread of approaching footsteps preceded the door being yanked open by a smallish matronly woman who looked up at him with a rather vexed expression. Her grey hair was tucked in a bun from which a few stray hairs had escaped.

“Well, what do ye want? I ‘aven’t got any scraps for the likes o’ ye,” she snapped, taking in his filthy appearance. She began to close the door when he spoke up.

“Yer mistress told me to come ‘round and see if yer chimneys needed cleanin’, missus. I’m a chimneysweep.” He doffed his hat respectfully, bowing slightly, if only to reduce the enormous difference in their heights. The housekeeper sniffed haughtily, and opened the door to admit him.

“Mind ye dinna get yer muck all over me clean house,” she warned him. “I dinna ken what the likes o’ her would know about housekeepin’, or chimneys, come to that. We just ‘ad ‘em done a few months ago.” She spoke in such an aggrieved tone, the chimneysweep felt moved to discover the source of her vexation.

“Aye, missus, I’ll just have a quick look, just to say I did as she bade me, and be on me way.” He hesitated for a second, then added, “If ye’ll excuse my askin’ but ye seem rather put out. Yer situation ‘ere must be a 'ard one.” He smiled encouragingly, a flash of white in his soot-blackened face.

She wrung her hands woefully and went to sit at the kitchen table, gesturing for him to do the same. “Ye don’t know the ‘alf of it. If it weren’t for me own kind master, the Earl, I would’ve ‘anded in me notice long ago. She don’t own this place, just stayin’ ‘ere whilst himself is travellin’. Been ‘ere for over a year now. The worst year of me 'ole life.” she whined.

“She seemed to be a lovely young thing. Does she beat ye, work ye too hard? What kind of mistress is she?” the sweep asked, trying to keep his enquiries casual, like servant’s gossip.

The housekeeper leaned forward conspiratorially. “I dinna ken 'ow the Earl would know such a woman.” she confided. “He’s such a good, clean livin’ man, and she’s a …” the housekeeper hesitated, searching for an appropriate epithet, “…wild woman. Comes and goes at all hours of the day and night. Entertains all sorts of folk the Earl would never allow if he were 'ere. I even saw 'er leaving one night wearin' men’s clothing!”

She settled back for a moment to gauge his reaction to these revelations. He appeared to be suitably shocked so she continued. “But the worst was a few months ago when burglars broke in and ransacked the place. I dinna ken what they was lookin’ for, but I come in, 'earin’ their noise and one of ‘em knocks me on the 'ead. Near broke me skull. “ She rubbed her head searching for the bump. “I come to for a moment, and couldn't believe me eyes. She was fightin' with them thugs! One of 'em was tumblin' down the stairs, an' t'other come at 'er with a club. She 'ad a sword in 'er 'and …I didn’t see what ‘appened next as I passed out again.”

The chimneysweep commiserated with the housekeeper on her hard lot in that household. Looking around as if there were other prying ears, she leant forward to offer more confidences. “That young man she went out with…” the sweep nodded and she continued “…they’re sharin’ her bedroom, …and they ain’t married.” As if that settled her mistress’ character for good and all, she shook her head sorrowfully and added, “It’s more than a good Christian woman such as meself should ‘ave to put up with. She's all the talk around 'ere. I can’t 'old me ‘ead up in the neighbourhood no more. But what’s a body to do, sir? Situations ain’t so easy to get unless you have a good character.” She lapsed into a self-pitying silence.

As no more information seemed to be forthcoming, the chimneysweep said, “Well, I best take a look at them chimneys, missus, and let ye get back to yer work. I 'ope the Earl returns soon so's yer life can go back to what it was.” He picked up his top hat and stood up, preparing to leave.

The housekeeper led him from the kitchen into a corridor, and then into a comfortable bright parlour. He glanced around the room with interest, noting the location of the windows and furnishings. Of especial interest were the paintings as he noted one was slightly askew. He began to walk over to straighten it, and possibly, check behind it, but the housekeeper spoke up rather sharply, eyeing him suspiciously. “There’s thieves I’ve ‘eard of as pretends to be tradesmen, but are really looking to rob a place. It would be best if you took care of your business 'ere.”

“Aye,” he agreed. “They give us honest trade folk a bad name.”

Throwing down a clean cloth onto the hearth, the sweep pulled open the damper of the fireplace and producing a mirror, looked up the flue. “This ‘eres fine for the time bein’.” he pronounced, rolling up the cloth. She took him through to another room, obviously a library. With the housekeeper watching him closely, he could only allow himself a quick glance around before examining the chimney flue. “No need to clean this’un neither. I think I s’ll come back ‘ere in a few months. You may need my services then.”

The housekeeper escorted him to the door where he doffed his hat once more and thanked her courteously. She stood at the door and watched him push the cart out the gate and out of sight.

Chapter Three

Doyle squirmed with delight as he rode toward home in the hansom cab. It had been so easy to gain entry to the house whose address the Duke had scribbled onto the page which now resided in his pocket. He chuckled over the unasked-for confidences that the woman’s housekeeper had practically forced upon him. In the guise of a chimneysweep, hardly anyone had taken notice of him. One of the invisible poor, plying his trade in the wealthy neighbourhood of St. John’s Wood, he occasioned very little interest as he had shoved the cart along her street.

He laughed out loud at the idea of the young woman kissing his soot-blackened cheek. When he had returned the real chimneysweep’s tools and clothing, he gave the fellow the sovereign he had earned by proxy. The sweep had winked at him and said, “I suspects it was a chimneysweep as started that partic’lr story. If ye takes me meanin’, guv.”

All in all, Doyle decided, it had been a very productive morning. He checked his pocket watch, feeling the lack of his lunch. It had gone two o’clock and some tea would certainly be welcome, he thought. Too bad he couldn’t share any of this case with his wife. She would enjoy this little intrigue, but Doyle had given his word to the Duke to keep his confidences.

The hansom cab stopped in front of Doyle’s house and as he stepped down to the kerb, a slim youth rushed by, jostling him roughly against the cab. “Hey, you young scamp,” he called after the tall lad who turned slightly and called back, “Excuse me, sir.” and hurried on, turning at the next street corner. Somewhat ruffled, Doyle pulled a few shillings from his pocket, paid the cabby and went into his house.

Chapter Four

The maid rapped gently on the study door and poked her head around, her mouth opening to speak.

“What the devil!” Doyle shouted. “Why do I bother to have a door on my study? Well, speak up, girl. What do you want?”

She came in, visibly upset by his tirade, and Doyle immediately regretted his brutish manner toward her. More gently, he said, “I’m sorry, Higgins. What is it?”

The young maid curtseyed, and said “If you please, sir, there’s a woman here to see you.”

Doyle glared at the young girl, and replied, “Higgins, you know my surgery hours. Nine to four o’clock, no exceptions. Tell her to make an appointment for tomorrow, unless it’s really urgent.”

“Dr. Doyle, she says she’s not a patient. She must speak to you, she says. Privately.” The maid waited for another outburst of temper, but the doctor simply said, “Show her in.”

Resignedly, he dropped his pen onto the desk and rose to meet his visitor.

A rustle of silk preceded her entrance, and as she appeared in the doorway, Doyle’s step faltered. He coughed to cover his discomposure, hoping she had not seen the look of shocked recognition on his face. With grace and confidence, she strode forward, her black cape flowing about her, and offered hand. He bowed over it courteously, giving her a glance that he hoped would convey polite interest and nothing more.

“I’m Roana Darielle,” she said, her dark almond eyes on a level with his own. It was discomfiting to stand near a woman who was almost taller than he. Her well-modulated voice held the hint of an accent. French? He would have to hear more to identify it.

Without the usual social preamble, she began, “I am in great danger from a man, Dr. Doyle. He harasses me constantly, setting thugs and thieves upon me, even ransacking my home and attacking my housekeeper.”

Doyle held up his hand to arrest further disclosures. “Madam…oiselle, “ he amended quickly, “I am just an author of detective stories. People are always confusing the author with his character. I assure you, I am the wrong person to assist you in this very serious matter. You should go to the police,” he added, watching for her reaction, and knowing full well that she could not call upon the authorities. He wondered what her game was, and moreover, how she knew to come to him. It could be a coincidence, but Doyle didn’t believe strongly in convenient coincidences. Still, he decided, now that she was here, perhaps he could convince her of the urgency of returning the emerald necklace, and the matter could be settled.

“There are reasons why I cannot go to the police, Dr. Doyle. I am enlisting your help only insofar as you will listen to what I have to say, and then perhaps, you may recommend some remedy for me.” She had taken out her handkerchief and was twisting it nervously in her gloved hands.

“Pray continue, Miss Darielle. I am at your service.” Doyle indicated a chair in front of his desk and Roana gracefully slid into it.

“This man says I stole a valuable necklace from him. It is a lie! He gave it to me as a gift, with no strings attached.” Doyle watched her face in fascination as anger coloured her cheeks and flashed in her eyes. “Now he wants it back to give to another woman. And he has stopped at nothing to try to get me to return it, even threatening to murder me. The bounder, the cad, the bast …bad man. Several months ago, he had his agents break into my house, ransacking it and almost killing my housekeeper. Of course, they found nothing.” She smiled slightly and then added. “One of the thugs admitted to me that it was this man, my former lover, who had hired them.” She glanced up into Doyle’s shocked eyes, and without blinking, said. “Yes, I was foolish enough to have had an affair with this man. That was before I knew his true character. He turned out to be a faithless, drunken, cheating, immoral, son-of-a …woman of dubious virtue. Naturally, I broke off the affair, but he wouldn’t accept it. He became dangerous and vindictive, threatening my life if I didn’t return the necklace to him. ” Roana rose and paced the study in great agitation.

“Why don’t you come to some financial arrangement regarding the necklace? It seems to have a great importance to this man if he goes to such extreme measures to recover it.” said Doyle, reasonably.

“Money! What do you take me for, Doctor? I could buy and sell him ten times over! It is the principle of the thing. He gave me a beautiful gift when we first …” she searched for some phrase that would not shock the doctor too much, though she thought, looking at him, he didn’t seem like a man who shocked easily. Still, she reminded herself that she was in Victorian England, where relations between men and women were cloaked in shamed secrecy.

“If he had come to me and asked my forgiveness, I would probably have been more amenable to returning the necklace. But he resorted to foul means, calling me a thief. It was bad enough that he attacked my character, but when he invaded my home and harmed my housekeeper, I decided to fight back.”

Roana stood by the fireplace, leaning on the mantle, marshalling her thoughts as she gazed around the doctor’s study. “When I came home from the theatre, and saw the shambles of my home, and my housekeeper insensible on the floor, her head covered in blood, I felt such violation, such outrage. The thugs were still at their work in my bedroom and didn’t hear me come in. I could hear things being smashed and crept up the stairs. One of the thugs saw me and came at me with a knife. Luckily, I was able to trip him up, causing him to tumble down the stairs and, unfortunately, onto his knife. The other thief rushed at me with a heavy club. By some miracle, I disarmed him and knocked him down. It must have been some sort of epiphany for him, as he suddenly felt he had to confess to me who had sent them and what they were after. Sadly, this disclosure was followed by an attack of brain fever and he died.” Lamplight glittered in her eyes as Roana recounted this tale, and Doyle shuddered slightly, as if a sudden chill had entered the room.

“You are a very courageous, but foolhardy woman, Miss Darielle. Those thugs could have killed you.”

Roana shrugged, “But they didn’t.” She paused for a moment, then added, “There is something else about this situation you should know. The necklace isn’t the only thing he wants. There is also a package of letters he sent me. They prove beyond doubt that I am telling the truth. The necklace was accompanied by a letter professing undying passion and an offer of marriage. Here is the letter,“ she said, reaching inside her cape, and withdrawing a folded page. “I’ll spare you the embarrassment of most of the contents, but if you would be good enough to read this passage.” She proffered the note to Doyle, who, with great misgivings, read aloud;

“My beloved Roana, this priceless necklace is but a pale token of my love for you. I beg you to reconsider, and marry me, rule by my side as my queen.”

Taking the page from Doyle before he could read on, she scoffed bitterly. “As if I would marry such a man!”

Doyle sat rigidly in his chair, his mind racing back over his interview with the Duke. Her story agreed in every particular with his, except in the most pertinent detail. Was it theft or a gift? Letters could be forged, but Doyle was certain this letter was genuine. Why else was the Duke so keen to recover it?

From her manner, Doyle felt they were coming to some resolution, though he hadn’t a clue what that result would be. She seemed calmer, almost resigned.

“This cannot go on, Dr. Doyle. Two men are dead and a woman has been injured. It must be stopped before more harm is done, …to someone who is completely innocent in this affair.” Doyle’s thoughts flew to Annabelle, her youthful beauty. Comparing the two women, Doyle had to admit, the girl couldn’t hold a candle to the woman still leaning casually against his mantle.

Recalling the Duke’s story about the letters and this woman’s threatened disclosure of them, Doyle was at a loss. She would do as she said. He sensed a will of iron in her. Oddly, his sympathies seemed to have changed over the course of their conversation. His immediate dislike of the Duke was borne out by Roana’s revelations about his character. Any man who would use vicious thugs to retrieve a piece of jewellery, who would malign her character and try to kill her, was in Doyle’s view unworthy of any sympathy. But Annabelle would be the one most hurt by the letters. Doyle wished heartily that he were the great detective. He would know how to resolve this knotty problem.

As if coming to a decision, she strode over to Doyle’s desk. As Roana reached inside her cloak, the hilt of a sword flashed into Doyle’s astounded view. He rose quickly and backed away, looking for escape or a weapon. She gave him an arch look and withdrew a large leather case, holding it out to him. With a somewhat shaky hand, he took it from her.

“Open it.” she commanded. Doyle pressed the catch and lifted the lid. There lay a fabulous emerald necklace, its green jewels twinkling in the lamplight as it rested on its white satin bed. He gasped, and looked up. Her face was closed, hard and unreadable.

“Return it to him.” she paused then added, “And tell him, if ever tries to come near me again, his wife will receive the letters, and I shall not answer for the consequences.” With a swirl of her cloak, Roana moved toward the door.

Doyle was reeling from this unexpected turn of events. Suddenly, he spoke urgently, “Wait. Before you go, how did you know I was involved?”

Roana shot him an impatient look, then turned back. “My friend was at the dinner party last night. He was sitting next to your wife who told him that the Duke was a great admirer of your detective, as is my friend. She also mentioned that you and the Duke were closeted in his study for quite a while. I had a suspicion that the Duke would try to enlist your help where everything else had failed. Today, I was certain of it.” She patted his cheek gently, and said, “You look much handsomer without all that soot, Doctor.”

“That still doesn’t explain how you knew who I was. I’m not that famous that you should know my features, Miss Darielle.”

For an answer, she bumped him suddenly, and he staggered back, unbalanced. From her cloak, she produced a wallet, and with a delighted smile, said, “I believe this is yours.” Dropping her voice an octave, she added, “Excuse me, sir.”

“The careless lad who knocked into me. You! And you picked my pocket!”

From the open door, Roana glanced back at the doctor, smiled mischievously, and said “Good night, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.” She closed the door firmly, and he heard her footsteps receding down the hall.

For a long minute, he was immobile. Outrage and embarrassment warred with his ironic sense of humour, and finally he guffawed loudly. For all his cleverness, she had seen through him right away! And the housekeeper was probably in on it. Roana must have noticed him, disguised as a chimneysweep, loitering in front of her house. Not knowing who he was, but her suspicions aroused, she must have left the house with the young Scotsman, intending to return in a disguise of her own. The housekeeper must have been instructed to delay him long enough for her to return, and then follow him, dressed as a lad. She had somehow managed to pick his pocket. Doyle wondered where a lady of her obvious quality would have learned to be so adept at such a dubious skill. Of course, his name and address were in his wallet. She merely changed costume again and came to see him. What a woman!

And what a good joke on himself, he added honestly. His ego was bruised but it would heal. And his first case had ended successfully. He would get a cab and return the necklace immediately.

Chapter 5

The oil lamp was burning low as Doyle yawned widely and stretched. The mantle clock was striking midnight. He rubbed his tired eyes and glanced down with satisfaction at the filled pages on the desk. Almost finished.

A troubled look crossed his face as he recalled the events of the day. It should have been a triumph for him - recovering the necklace. And yet, he had a strong sense that justice had not been served. The Duke had got away, not only with treating a woman shamefully, but had been rewarded for it by the return of the necklace. In any court of law, the woman in question had possessor rights to the jewellery, the Duke’s claim to it being relinquished in his letter to her.

Doyle sighed heavily, and got up to pour himself a brandy. He realized that he had been used as a pawn by the Duke to force her hand, and he writhed with chagrin at the part he had been duped into playing. He had been repelled by the Duke at their first meeting, now knowing his intuition had been correct. The man was a bounder, no matter his high station. It was his very British respect for class, in fact, that had compelled him to align himself with the Duke, and he had to admit he had been on the wrong side of this case from the start.

With impotent rage, he recalled that afternoon when he had arrived at the Duke’s mansion, the leather case tucked inside his Inverness cape. Upon arrival, he had been shown into the study, and was joined very soon by the Duke.

“Do you have any news for me?” the Duke asked urgently. “Any hope at all?” he begged.

For an answer, Doyle slipped the leather case from his cloak and presented it to the Duke, who grasped the case and flung it open, pulling the necklace out of its satin bed. Whooping with mad joy, he danced about the room, while Doyle watched bemused.

“We showed her!” the Duke crowed joyfully, “We showed her not to trifle with royalty. I finally brought her to heel,” he barked out maliciously. “I surely put the right hound on the trail of that vixen!” the Duke, laughed, slapping Doyle heartily on the back. “Doyle, I owe you a great debt.” So saying, he rushed to his desk, pulling out a chequebook, and began to write.

Outrage had begun to seethe within Doyle’s breast as he watched the antics of the Duke. Bad enough that he had regained property that was not truly his, but to try to offer Doyle a fee for his part! It was intolerable!

Trying to keep his voice level, Doyle said, “Your Excellency, no reward is required. You owe me nothing. I occasioned no expense on your behalf, and now, I wish you good day.” He turned to leave, but the Duke forestalled him with a hand on his sleeve.

“But, my dear fellow, you must have something. Thanks to you, my marriage is saved, and possibly, my kingdom. Name anything and it is yours.” The Duke looked down at his signet ring, and tried to pull it off.

Doyle stopped him, saying, “The only thing I could wish for is the photograph.”

The Duke looked perplexed for a moment, and then winked at Doyle with a leer, and hurried to retrieve the folder from his desk drawer. He opened the folder, gazing at the photograph, and sighed, “Ah, what a woman! What a queen she would have made! If only she had been on my level.”

“Yes,” Doyle agreed, “She is indeed on a very different level to your Excellency.” He took the folder from the Duke, and turning on his heel without another word, left the study.

All the rest of the day, Doyle had tried to put the matter out of his mind while he concentrated on the story whose deadline loomed before him. Now, in the quiet of the early hours of morning, remorse had returned to haunt him. The woman had been wronged, and he had helped in that wrong. But how to set matters right. Done is done, he sighed resignedly, and nothing will change it.

******

The woman who occupied Doyle’s remorseful thoughts was at that moment putting the last few items into a steamer trunk. The handsome Scot reclined on the bed, watching her thoughtfully.

“Roana,” he began, in his soft Scottish burr, “Now that the necklace business is settled, why are you leaving London? I’ve just got back from America, and I thought we could spend some time together, maybe travel a bit. What’s the urgency?”

He suddenly sat bolt upright. “Roana, you did return the real necklace, didn’t you?”

She answered him with a roguish grin, followed by, “I just want to go somewhere else for a while. My ship docks in Montreal. They call it the ‘Paris of the North’. Sounds exciting, doesn’t it? Why don’t you come with me, Duncan?”

“Because I wanted to come back home. Stay, Roana, at least for a few weeks.” He tried to cajole her with a fervent kiss, but she was unmoved.

“Duncan, I feel the Old World is about to tear itself to pieces again. I’ve been through enough of its paroxysms to know the signs. A great war is coming, and I don’t want to be here for it. I’ve seen too many wars. The whole of Europe is soaked with the blood of people fighting over the same little pieces of earth. Senseless slaughter! Come away before it begins.”

“Roana, you know I can’t. I’m a warrior--it’s all I know how to be. And maybe I can save some lives by being here, in the fray.” They regarded each other sadly, wondering how long it would be before they met again. Roana drew him tenderly into her arms, softly kissing his cheek.

“Well, Duncan,” she sighed, “I guess this is going to have to last us a long time.”

*****

Doyle returned to his writing desk, all enthusiasm for finishing his detective story having vanished. I should go to bed, he thought, tiredly. No purpose is being served by flogging myself with regrets. If this were even fifty years ago, I should call the bounder out. Now duelling is illegal, and besides, he would probably kill me. He chuckled mirthlessly. The doctor leaned on his desk, pensively staring into space. A thought suddenly struck him. Of course--the pen is mightier than the sword!

Pushing the story pages aside, Doyle stacked a pile of blank sheets in front of him, and dipping his pen into the ink, began writing, a malicious smile playing over his lips. He scribbled several words on the page, scratching them out as he ruminated for just the right title. It had to be subtle enough that only the Duke could recognize it, knowing that he read every episode that appeared in the Strand Magazine. He would show the Duke that Arthur Conan Doyle was not a man to trifle with! He wrote the name of the Duke’s country and rearranged the letters, then tried adding in the name of his fiancée’s country. Soon he had it.

On a fresh sheet of paper, he wrote at the top: A Scandal in Bohemia. Doyle chuckled delightedly. He needed a name for the heroine of the story, (for such he thought of her, glancing at the photograph propped against some books on his desk). He wrote her real name, Roana Darielle, and tried transposing letters, and finally had a suitably strong name--Irene Adler. For a long moment he stared at the photograph, and thought he saw approval in the impish smile on her face.

Recharging his pen, he began--”To Sherlock Holmes, she is always the woman”.

©Maril Swan, March 2000
The introduction of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and Lady Conan Doyle into the story is done with the utmost respect. Sherlockians will recognize some well-known lines paraphrased from "A Scandal in Bohemia" which were added into the context of this story. Again, with respect. MS