“I assume you already know where the soil comes from,” I said.
“Reddish clay mixed with brick dust is quite uncommon. But we were walking on it yesterday in the courtyard of the Minutti factory.”
“They followed us from there!”
“He followed us,” Holmes corrected me. “There was only one killer.”
“How can you be certain?”
“The clues and simple logic, my friend. The spontaneous nature of the murder, confirmed by the murder weapon that we found, testifies to the fact that it was not planned. Somebody from the factory was suspicious about us and followed us. And he needed to know who would collect our message.”
“But there was not much in it.”
“No, but it makes clear that we are not who we pretended to be in the factory. And although at first he only shadowed Paolo, he then decided to kill him. He pushed him into the water and perhaps even waited to make certain that he would not swim out alive.”
“We must assume that Lord Darringford already knows about our investigation.”
“Yes, Paolo’s death has deprived us of an important ally and a pair of trump cards.”
“And who is the murderer?”
“Isn’t it obvious!” said the detective, waving his hands. “Think, Watson: A woman, I’d say about five foot seven, who could have followed us from the factory. She is not too strong, but has the guile and resolve to murder a stronger man.”
“That Amazon! Pascuale’s secretary!”
“Yes. A woman who moves about in the man’s world and intends to make her mark in it.”
I shook my head incredulously. Another persistent thought sprang to my mind.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Holmes interjected, as though reading my thoughts. “It occurred to me too that Paolo was not her first victim. If she indeed killed Minutti, however, it means that she is Lord Darringford’s right hand in the factory, no matter what Signor Pascuale thinks.”
“The corrupt consigliere overestimated his importance.”
“Naturally he too served a purpose. Betrayal. He sold Minutti’s patents while the factory owner was still alive. Darringford thus stole the prototype weapon in cold blood.”
“What next?” I asked as we made our way back to the hotel.
“I think there is nothing else for us in Venice,” the detective replied. “I do not think that we will see that woman here again. She has done what she needed to do; she knows that we will come after her, and we do not have any evidence against Pascuale. Do not forget that we are here in secret; we cannot go to the police.”
My friend was right.
We spent another two days in Italy, but found no clues that would lead us to Paolo’s murderer. She had vanished. Whoever Lord Darringford was, he knew how to erase all traces of his people.
It was time for us to return to England.
But there was still one more surprise for us in Italy before our departure. Upon returning to the hotel from our last walk through the streets and bridges of Venice we found an eerie message. Nailed to the door of our room was a golden carnival mask, its androgynous features twisted in a malicious smile.
VII: A Duet for Violin and Violoncello
Nothing much had changed in London during our weeklong absence. The newspapers grinded out the same stories; Mycroft moved between his apartment in the Pall Mall, the Diogenes Club and his office in Westminster; and the King[16] was increasingly anxious about the disappearance of Albert Bollinger.
My wife, who apparently assumed that I would be away longer, had left town to visit her relatives. I put Holmes up in our guest room and the next afternoon Mycroft came over and the three of us planned what to do next over a bottle of red wine.
We related everything that had happened in Italy, including our meeting with Luigi Pascuale, who had taken over the management of Minutti’s factory. Mycroft informed us that if Bollinger were declared dead, the nobleman’s sister Emily would inherit the family business.
“I doubt she would allow the business to be managed by a secretary or anyone she does not know,” said Mycroft. “She is a very determined and resourceful lady who likes to keep a firm grasp on things. We must seek another motive for Bollinger’s kidnapping besides a desire to take over his business.”
He also had news for us concerning Rupert Darringford. The son of a noble country family, he was a rich man with an unremarkable past. We even obtained his photograph, in which we clearly recognised the man who had stormed out of Pastor Barlow’s house. The pieces of the puzzle were finally falling into place.
“Darringford, the family estate in Scotland, is looked after by servants. Lord Rupert is the last living male heir to the title. He was never very popular in society, unlike his sister. They say that he suffers from a kind of mental disorder. But it may just be slander. For the time being, however, we cannot arrest him. We lack evidence, as he has been living in seclusion for several years; and he constantly travels, although nobody knows his present whereabouts.”
“I certainly wonder what he is up to,” said Holmes. “Why would he want to control Minutti’s business? Money? By all accounts he is already vastly wealthy. Patent theft? Espionage? But to whose benefit? Was he responsible for the attack on me? In all probability, yes. He will not hesitate to kill further and will stop at nothing.”
“His sister Alice Darringford lives near London, you ought to start with her,” said Mycroft, handing his brother a dossier. “Here is the information that we managed to obtain. There is also a dossier about Bollinger. We are beginning to lose hope that he is still alive.”
“I had hoped that in Venice we would uncover the connection between his disappearance and Minutti’s death,” said the detective sadly.
“Nobody sees it as a failure,” said his brother. “The case is intricate and our theories are hazy at best.”
“We ought to have been more careful,” said Holmes. “Perhaps I am too old and have been too long in retirement. I acted rashly, like a bull in a china shop.”
“Nonsense!” I cried.
“I agree with the doctor, Sherlock. Put such thoughts out of your mind; I need you to be as charming as possible tomorrow evening.”
Holmes looked at his brother with suspicion.
“You know that I hate parties.”
“Ah, but you will go to this one, it is work related,” said Mycroft, taking from his pocket an invitation to the garden party in the luxurious villa of Lady Darringford. “It is an event for the nobility, so do try to play the part. There will be no better opportunity to get close to Lady Darringford and to obtain as much information about her brother as possible.”
The detective did not know whether to rejoice or despair. Naturally we could not have hoped for anything better. He graciously took the invitation and read it. It was for Mr Cedric Parker and Dr John Watson.
Sighing he placed it on the table and for the rest of the day made himself scarce.
He only emerged from his shell in the evening before the event. Perhaps he was conserving his energy to help him endure the party, but at the strike of six he stood in the vestibule dressed in his best tailcoat, which he had had Mrs Hudson send over from the farm.
“I have not worn it in several years, but it still fits, wouldn’t you say?”
Indeed it did.
Holmes’s physique was just as lithe and slim as ever, hence the suit fit as though it had been made to measure the day before. Mrs Hudson looked after his things with great care. The tailcoat and trousers were carefully brushed and ironed, and kept free of moths. He matched the suit with a starched white shirt and collar and black bowtie. As always he radiated dignity and nobility.