"You have given us a description of the murderer," Lord Arundale pointed out. "Something that the regular police have been unable to do. And that without anyone's having seen the man."
"Bah! A description that would fit thousands of men walking about London at this moment." Holmes hit his fist against the side of the desk. "I tell you, my lord, it is maddening!"
Lord Arundale's butler, an ancient retainer in red velvet knee breeches and a swallowtail jacket, knocked on the study door and pulled it open. "The Count d'Hiver has arrived, my lord," he announced, pronouncing the name "Deever."
"Show him in, Threshampton," Lord Arundale said. He turned to Holmes. "The name is pronounced 'd'Hiver,' he explained, giving it the full value of its French ancestry. "The count is interested in this affair. He has what we would call in legal terms a 'watching brief from the Lord Privy Seal. Her majesty herself is quite concerned. She does not, for obvious reasons, wish this concern to become known. D'Hiver regularly travels abroad for the Home Office, I am given to understand, on assignments of a confidential nature. He is considered quite perceptive and quite able. Some people find him rather abrasive — I give you warning."
"I understand, my lord," Holmes said, sounding thoughtful, "but surely—"
"What is it?"
"Nothing — nothing important. But tell me — the Count d'Hiver? Certainly that is not a British title, neither in style nor name."
"The title is French," Lord Arundale said, "but the d'Hivers are English for the last hundred years. The present count's great-grandfather, or some such, came over one jump ahead of Robespierre. Got out of revolutionary France by a neck, if you see what I mean."
The count was a slight, delicate-looking man with a precisely trimmed beard that made his face look angular. His family's hundred years in England did not show in his taste in clothing; his double-breasted blue foulard suit jacket covered a white flowered waistcoat with just a touch of lace along the collar. The effect was so un-British, so Parisian, as to skirt the bounds of taste for a proper London gentleman. But Count d'Hiver bore it well. His every move reflected an air of panache and a manner of self-assurance that made it clear that he valued no man's opinion save his own. He strode into the room and stopped in the middle of the carpet, his gaze darting about like that of a predatory animal in search of its lunch.
The Earl of Arundale rose and performed the necessary introductions. "Mr. Holmes was just about to discuss with me some of the conclusions he has reached," he said.
"I have read your reports," d'Hiver said, looking down his aquiline nose at Holmes, "and those of the police. The police are bunglers. You show a little imagination, Mr. Holmes. But still, we don't seem to be any closer to apprehending our killer."
"That is, unfortunately, the truth," Holmes admitted. "There has been very little to work on so far. The first four killings took place before I was called in. Thus I was unable to examine the scenes of the crimes until well after the most suggestive evidence had been handled and tramped over by a dozen other people. Three of the murder rooms had been cleaned before I got to see them. Nonetheless several facts of interest have been uncovered. I have initiated several lines of inquiry, but so far they have all proved fruitless."
"In your last report there is a description of the man you claim is the killer," d'Hiver said. "How much of it is guesswork?"
"I never guess," Holmes said. "And if I were prone to guesswork, I certainly wouldn't do it in my reports. What I have given you is my considered opinion, based upon investigation and deduction. It may prove to be wrong in one or two particulars, but on the whole it is accurate."
Count d'Hiver perched himself on one of the caneback chairs, his body rigidly erect and tilted slightly forward, his hands crossed over the massive gold knob on his ebony cane. "Accurate it may be," he snapped, "useful it is not! Your description is as vague as the fortune-teller's fabled 'tall, dark man.' "
"Sketchy, perhaps, Count d'Hiver," Holmes said, "but hardly vague. The man is between five feet ten and six feet tall, weighs about twelve stone, is neither adolescent nor aged — I estimate his age at forty to forty-five, but there I could be off. He has light-brown hair of medium length, dresses like a gentleman, is not obviously disfigured, and is probably Eastern European. If so, he speaks English fluently."
"Really?" D'Hiver said, his voice showing aristocratic doubt. "And this description of a man who has not been seen is pieced together from your examination of rooms where the experts of Scotland Yard can find no clues. Tell me, is there anything else that has eluded the professionals?"
"A few items," Holmes said, apparently oblivious to d'Hiver's sarcastic tone. "The man is in good physical condition, athletic and robust. He picks his victims carefully, not at random. All of the murdered men have — for the killer — something in common."
D'Hiver leaned forward in his chair, his eyes like dark gimlets peering at Holmes. "And that is?"
Holmes shook his head. "That I cannot tell you. That is the point which has succeeded in eluding me."
"Then this is not the work of a lunatic?" Lord Arundale asked.
"On the contrary, my lord," Holmes said. "This is clearly the work of a lunatic. But the killings are not random. This lunatic has a pattern, a goal, a fixed purpose. And he knows something that we do not."
"What do you mean?" Lord Arundale asked.
"Look at it this way, my lord. Let us say that the killer hates the color red, and is killing everyone he sees dressed in red. Well then, the pattern should be obvious, but we don't see it. We are colorblind. We cannot solve this hypothetical case until someone who is not colorblind happens to mention that all of the victims have been clad in red."
"You believe these victims are tied together in some fashion?" Count d'Hiver asked.
"Yes, I would say so. Something definite and precise, beyond the obvious similarities of sex and class."
"Why? What evidence have you of this?"
"Evidence? I have nothing so strong as to be called 'evidence.' I have, rather, hints, suggestions; nothing better. However, I also have my knowledge and experience, and upon that I base my conclusion."
"You have found nothing that would support my fears of a foreign connection?" Lord Arundale asked.
"None," Holmes said. "It was in following that possibility that I got led astray some days ago and ended up at the country estate of my old friend Professor James Moriarty."
"I read of that," Lord Arundale said. "The police report of the raid did not go into much detail. I had the feeling much was left out."
"It doesn't matter, my lord. It was a mistake. Sometimes specialized knowledge can lead one astray. The knowledge that there is one great villain yet unhanged can temporarily blind one to the fact that other villainy can coexist. I am not yet totally convinced that Moriarty is not involved, but I must admit that the preponderance of evidences would so indicate."
"These 'hints' of a common tie between the victims." Count d'Hiver said. "Upon what sort of facts, of clues, are they based?"
Holmes turned to face the count. "I would rather wait until I have had a chance to assemble a few more facts," he said. "I dislike presenting my conclusions piecemeal in this fashion. I agreed to keep you informed as to my progress only because of the unusual circumstances, and because her majesty is interested. This is not my usual way of proceeding, and I don't like it."
"My dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes," Count d'Hiver said, "we don't have time for you to assemble. There are decisions that must be made now, and to make them intelligently we must have all the available information. I'm sure you understand." He smiled. His teeth were even and white, and gave the impression of being sharp.