The Solitary Witness: A Sherlock and Lucy Short Story (The Sherlock and Lucy Mystery Series Book 20)

  THE SOLITARY WITNESS

  A SHERLOCK HOLMES AND LUCY JAMES MYSTERY

  THE SHERLOCK HOLMES AND LUCY JAMES MYSTERIES

  The Last Moriarty

  The Wilhelm Conspiracy

  Remember, Remember

  The Crown Jewel Mystery

  The Jubilee Problem

  Death at the Diogenes Club

  The Return of the Ripper

  Die Again, Mr. Holmes

  Watson on the Orient Express

  THE SHERLOCK AND LUCY SHORT STORIES

  Flynn’s Christmas

  The Clown on the High Wire

  The Cobra in the Monkey Cage

  A Fancy-Dress Death

  The Sons of Helios

  The Vanishing Medium

  Christmas at Baskerville Hall

  Kidnapped at the Tower

  Five Pink Ladies

  The Solitary Witness

  The series page at Amazon:

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  THE SOLITARY WITNESS

  A SHERLOCK HOLMES AND LUCY JAMES MYSTERY

  BY ANNA ELLIOTT AND CHARLES VELEY

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2020 by Charles Veley and Anna Elliott. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.

  Sherlock and Lucy series website: http://sherlockandlucy.com

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  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER 1: LUCY

  CHAPTER 2: WATSON

  CHAPTER 3: LUCY

  CHAPTER 4: BECKY

  CHAPTER 5: WATSON

  CHAPTER 6: FLYNN

  CHAPTER 7: WATSON

  CHAPTER 8: LUCY

  CHAPTER 9: WATSON

  CHAPTER 10: LUCY

  CHAPTER 11: FLYNN

  CHAPTER 12: WATSON

  HISTORICAL NOTES

  A NOTE TO READERS

  WHAT HAPPENS NEXT?

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  CHAPTER 1: LUCY

  “You will keep her safe, won’t you, Mr. Holmes?”

  Lord Anthony Dale covered his wife’s hand with his own. On the brocade sofa in their drawing room they made such a strikingly handsome couple that they could almost have been posing for a portrait or a storybook illustration—except for the raw anxiety on their faces.

  The second son of a duke, Lord Anthony was a young man of twenty-five or twenty-six, dark-haired, and with a face so classically handsome that it was almost beautiful. He had a high, scholar’s brow, finely cut cheekbones, and a square, masculine chin. His wife, Constance, was a few years younger, slim and fair-haired, with cornflower blue eyes and a wide, generous mouth that looked as if under ordinary circumstances she was given to ready smiles and a sunny nature.

  On this cold and damp October night, she appeared as frightened as her husband, though she hadn’t yet spoken.

  “After all, we cannot tell when or from where the next attack may come,” Lord Anthony said.

  “Now, now, my lord.” Mr. Phelps, Queen’s Counsel and Director of Public Prosecutions, spoke before either Holmes or I could answer. “You must trust Mr. Holmes, you know.”

  He was a man of around sixty, plump and on the short side, with a lumpy bald head and a slightly squashed-looking face that fairly begged the caricature artists in the newspapers to portray him as a frog. But he was one of London’s most eminent barristers. Known for his relentless cross-examination of witnesses, he was, as the prosecuting attorney, responsible for dozens of criminals being found guilty of their crimes.

  I had not met him until today, but there was certainly intelligence in his small dark eyes, as well as a ruthless quality that made me suspect that his reputation was well-earned.

  “I am trusting Mr. Holmes!” Lord Anthony burst out. “But dash it all, this is my wife’s life that we are discussing!”

  I couldn’t blame him for being unwilling to take Mr. Phelps at his word. Not when the square of gauze bandage on his wife’s right temple was a graphic reminder of just how real the danger was.

  Lord and Lady Dale lived in Eaton Square, a grand residential garden in Belgravia, one of the wealthiest districts in all of London. Their home could have been designed to insulate the resident from the harsh realities of the outside world: thick oriental carpets, walls papered in soothing blues and greens. The night outside was harsh and wet, with curls of London’s familiar yellow fog drifting down the streets that were inches deep in mud. But the heavy velvet curtains at the drawing-room windows shut out all of that, and the fire in the grate dispelled the autumn chill.

  All the same, though, nothing about the comfort of our surroundings could take away the bald fact that the bullet fired at Constance yesterday had only just missed killing her.

  The bandage on her forehead covered a nasty graze. But if the marksman had been just an inch more accurate, she would not be sitting here and talking with us tonight.

  Holmes had been quiet throughout our interview so far, but now he leaned forward to address Lord Anthony, his gaze intent.

  “Many, under these circumstances, would say they can only imagine how you must feel. However, in addition to being a waste of time, such a statement on my part would be inaccurate. Unfortunately, I know only too well what it is to face the threat posed by a criminal element to a loved one.”

  He didn’t look at me as he said it, but I knew how profoundly it was true. Since I’d come into my father’s life a few years ago, I had given him cause for anxiety more times than even Sherlock Holmes could likely remember.

  “However, Lady Constance has bravely agreed to testify as a witness for the prosecution at the trial of Laurence Linden, and I have every intention of ensuring that she remains alive long enough to do so.”

  Lord Anthony still looked tense and anxious, but he paused in the act of responding to Holmes. His gaze focused on me. His arched dark brows drew together.

  “I say, I don’t know you, do I? You look familiar to me, somehow.”

  I was surprised that he would remember, given that he had been roaring drunk at the time.

  “We did meet—briefly—two years ago,” I told him. “I was performing as part of the D’Oyly Carte Opera Company at the Savoy Theater. The show was The Pirates of Penzance, and you leapt from one of the opera boxes onto the stage, kissed the lead singer, then threw her over your shoulder and carried her off into the wings.”

  Lord Anthony looked at me with some trepidation. “Oh, I say. It wasn’t you, was it?”

  “No.” If it had been, he would have had cause to remember the broken nose—or at least a sprained wrist—that I would have given him. “A friend of mine. Alice Winters.”

  Lord Anthony let out a breath of relief. “Oh, well, that’s lucky.” He looked from me to Holmes, still holding tight to his wife’s hand. “I suppose it’s common knowledge that I pulled a lot of idiotic stunts of that kind, before I met Constance.”

  That was putting it mildly. After being expelled from Oxford, he had from all appearances been determined to se
cure the title of black sheep of the Dale family. His exploits were notorious in the society gossip papers: Lord Anthony Dale rides his horse up the steps of Westminster Abbey during Sunday Morning services, Lord Anthony is arrested three times for drunk and disorderly conduct. Lord Anthony challenges another man to a duel with pistols—though fortunately on that occasion neither of them had been hurt.

  Now, though, his face was haggard and miserable, as far from the dashing, devil-may-care rake as one could imagine.

  “I suppose it might be difficult for you to take a fellow like me seriously—someone who’s mucked about and made a mess of his life at every turn. But it’s hard to explain what it’s like, Mr. Holmes. To be brought up with every advantage that money can buy, and yet feel absolutely … worthless. As though nothing has any meaning.” Lord Anthony dragged a hand through his hair. “That all changed, though, when I met Constance.”

  Almost unconsciously, it seemed, he squeezed his wife’s hand and raised it to his lips.

  “When we met last year, I wanted to be better—to be a man who might deserve to win her. And now if I have to lose her after all …”

  “Hush, Anthony, you are making me more fearful,” Lady Constance touched her husband’s cheek and spoke for the first time. “But I must do what is right. My conscience would never be easy, otherwise.”

  Mr. Phelps nodded approval. “Very bravely and truly said, Lady Constance. Your courage is to be greatly admired.” His admiration was perhaps a bit self-serving, since he had a vested interest in ensuring that Lady Constance took the witness stand, but he hurried on before any of us had time to remark on the fact. “Now, I am not certain how much time I will be able to devote to your part of the case before the trial next week. If we might just go over your story once more?”

  “We’ve been over this half a hundred times already!” Lord Anthony sounded as though his temper was close to breaking. “What on earth is the point—”

  Lady Constance interrupted him again, laying a slightly trembling hand on his arm. “It’s all right. We can get through this.”

  I knew less of Lady Constance than I did of Lord Anthony, being acquainted only with the few details Holmes had given me during our drive here.

  The daughter of the Earl of Brannagh, Lady Constance had grown up as much in the lap of luxury as her husband. She had attended finishing school in Switzerland, had been presented to the Queen at Court, and had married Lord Anthony just six months ago, in what had been proclaimed the society wedding of the year, or perhaps even the decade.

  Coming up against murder and the threat of death must have been like a slap in the face to anyone with her upbringing. But as far as I had seen, she was handling it much better than most young women of her class would have done.

  Mr. Phelps cleared his throat. “Thank you, your ladyship.”

  A parlour maid had brought in a heavily laden silver tea tray a while ago, although so far it had remained untouched by everyone. Now the barrister took it upon himself to be the first to sample the iced sugar cakes, popping one into his mouth before wiping his fingers on a linen serviette and going on.

  “The facts, then, as they will be presented to the jury, are these: your lord and ladyship occupy the home next door to the late Mr. Henrik van Rensburg, who was murdered in his bed two months ago. Were you acquainted with the dead man?”

  Lady Constance shook her head. “I’ve not lived here very long. After we were married, we were on our wedding trip to Italy.” She cast a quick look up at her husband, and for the first time gave a small, shy smile. “So really, it’s only been two or three months that I’ve lived in this house. I knew Mr. van Rensburg to say hello to in the street if we passed one another, but that was all.”

  Mr. Phelps nodded confirmation. “To proceed, then. On the night of the murder, you were returning late with your husband after attending a ball at Lady Evelyn Garret’s home in Kensington. After readying yourself for sleep, you found yourself wakeful, and chanced to cross to the window of your bedroom, which overlooks the side of the house, and has a view of the late Mr. van Rensburg’s home. You drew the curtains and looked out—and saw a man coming out through the door of Mr. van Rensburg’s home.”

  “Yes.” Lady Constance spoke in a low, rational tone, her manner now more assured. “You are quite correct.”

  Mr. Phelps drew himself up a little. Consciously or unconsciously, he had assumed the manner he must use in the courtroom; I could see him in wig and barrister’s robes, standing before the judge’s bench and addressing the witness who had taken the stand.

  “Can you tell us in your own words, Lady Constance, what occurred next?”

  “I went to bed and finally slept. But I had no reason to suspect anything was wrong. I thought Mr. van Rensburg had been entertaining a guest who had stayed late and was now taking his departure.”

  “But you did not see Mr. van Rensburg or anyone else besides the man who exited the house?”

  “No. No one at all.”

  “And the next day?”

  “The next day, we heard of Mr. van Rensburg’s death. A police constable came to our house, asking whether we had seen or heard anything that might throw light on the crime. I told him at once of the man whom I had seen leaving Mr. van Rensburg’s home.”

  “And could you identify that man?”

  “Not at first. I had never seen him before. But afterwards, the Inspector from Scotland Yard—Inspector Lestrade, I think his name was? He showed me some photographs, and I was able to identify him. He was Mr. Laurence Linden.”

  Mr. Phelps pursed his lips. “Now, Lady Constance. This is the part of your story which the counsel for the defence will try to shake. They will claim that at night, in the dark, you cannot possibly have seen Mr. Linden’s face clearly enough to form a positive identification. They will try to make you admit that perhaps you cannot be certain it was in fact Mr. Linden you saw leaving van Rensburg’s house.”

  “I am perfectly certain.” Lady Constance still spoke with the same calm assurance. “There is a street lamp just outside Mr. Van Rensburg’s home, and the light fell on Mr. Linden’s face as he was leaving. I saw his face quite clearly.”

  I glanced at Holmes, who was seated beside me, and he gave a fraction of a nod. He thought, as I did, that Lady Constance was of the type who would make a good witness; intelligent and self-assured without being loud or overly insistent.

  First, though, we had to keep her alive long enough to testify.

  Lord Anthony had been looking increasingly restless throughout Mr. Phelps’s questions, and now burst out again, “Yes, yes, that’s all very well. But someone—someone who must have been hired by Mr. Linden—shot at my wife yesterday and nearly killed her! What if they try again?”

  Holmes answered. “I think I may say with virtual certainty that they will try again, Lord Anthony—and soon. The trial is set for just eight days from now. Mr. Linden must be growing quite desperate to silence your wife, given that she is the last remaining witness who might positively identify him.”

  Lord Anthony’s expression went slack, probably at the bluntness of Holmes’ tone. But before he could speak, Holmes held up a hand. “That is why it is necessary that we take protective measures. This house”—he cast a look around—“has too many points of entry and exit for us to make it entirely secure. I have already engaged a suite of rooms for you at Claridge’s hotel. I suggest that we leave at once.”

  “A hotel—” Lord Anthony’s expression remained blank with shock. “But why did you not tell us before now?”

  “Because if I had told you, then you might have informed servants whom you wished to have pack for you, and word would have gotten out.”

  “You cannot think one of the servants—” Lord Anthony began.

  “Simple statistics of probability state that in any household, there is bound to be at least one individual who is susceptible to bribery,” Holmes said. “And, as we have already noted, Mr. Linden must be growing quite desper
ate. I need hardly remind you that he has already succeeded in having one witness to his crimes permanently silenced?”

  Lord Anthony’s face blanched.

  Holmes went on. “No one must know where you and Lady Constance are housed for the remainder of the time until the trial.”

  Lord Anthony looked as though he might have gone on arguing, but Lady Constance shook her head.

  “It’s all right, dearest. If Mr. Holmes thinks we will be safer at Claridge’s, then Claridge’s is where we will go.” Her voice quavered and her hands clenched on a fold of her green satin gown as she turned to ask, “I feel a coward for asking this, but what if there is someone watching this house? Someone who tries to follow us to the hotel—or who attacks us on the way?”

  I had let Holmes do most of the talking until this, but now I leaned forward. “That is of course always a possibility. Which is why we have a plan.”

  CHAPTER 2: WATSON

  “Are you all right, Lady Constance?” I asked.

  The window shades were all lowered, but her ladyship stared at them as though wishing that she could see through and out into the night. We were in the morning room, at the back of the house. She perched uneasily on the window seat. Her arms and shoulders were tensed.

  “Yes.” Her voice, too, sounded tight with anxiety, but as she turned to face me, she forced a slight smile. “I still feel the most frightful coward, Dr. Watson. Allowing someone else to take the risk instead of me.”

  “You are already making the brave decision to testify,” I assured her. “And Lucy is entirely accustomed to—and, more importantly, trained for—taking risks of this kind. Besides which, she will be well guarded. We must only wait until they are well on their way, and then we, too, can depart by the back door.”

  “Yes, I know.” Lady Constance’s fingers tightened around the small valise she had packed upstairs and brought down with her. “I wish Anthony would come down, he’s taking a terribly long time packing.”

  She brightened as the hallway door opened, then let out a little sigh of disappointment when it was only Mr. Phelps who bustled in.