“Robert Battle!” cried Holmes, striding forward with his hand outstretched. “How very good to see you again! And it takes no great feat of detection,” he said, turning to a darkly pretty woman that Battle drew forward, “to know that this must be Mrs. Battle. My hearty congratulations to you both. What brings you to London?”
“We are on our honeymoon, Mr. Holmes,” Battle said as we took our visitors’ things and made them welcome. “Our ship docked this afternoon, and we have just settled into our hotel. And then Frances and I could think of nothing, and no one, that we wanted to see more than you.”
“Watson,” said Holmes, as the introductions were made, “you remember that I told you of Robert Battle, and my little adventure in New York.”
“Yes, of course,” I said, shaking Battle’s hand. “It is very good to meet you. And you, Mrs. Battle.”
“I have waited for this moment,” Mrs. Battle said, as Holmes took her hand, and her husband smiled at her fondly. “It is to Mr. Holmes that we owe all our happiness.”
“It is, indeed.” Battle’s handsome face shone as he looked at his blushing wife. “She had waited for me, you see, just as you had said she would, and had never lost faith.”
“You both chose wisely and well, then, in choosing each other. Watson, some glasses… we must toast Mr. and Mrs. Battle, and their happiness. Sherry for Mrs. Battle, please. Whisky or brandy for you, Battle?” he said, then stopped me as I reached for the tantalus. “Ah, but I remember. Mr. Battle does not drink. Forgive me.”
Battle shook his head. “When we met in New York, I would have none of it,” he replied, “because I had been tarred as a drunkard the night of my arrest, and I wanted no stink of the stuff on me, ever again. But since I am among the living once more, I do indulge on occasion. And I can think of no occasion more appropriate than now. Brandy, please.”
With all four glasses filled, Battle rose to his feet and raised his glass, but was stopped by his wife’s hand upon his arm.
“May I, Robert?”
Her husband looked at her, surprised, then yielded to her with a smile, and she, too, rose, as did Holmes and I. Her bright brown eyes were shy, but she lifted her glass high nevertheless.
“The first toast must be to you, Mr. Holmes, because you are the reason for all our joy. Like a magician or a guardian angel, you appeared and our gladness appeared with you. We can never thank you enough.”
“Amen to that!” Battle cried. “To Sherlock Holmes!”
“To Sherlock Holmes!” I echoed.
Holmes lifted his glass next. “To Mr. and Mrs. Robert Battle. A most deserving couple!”
After we had drunk, Battle laughed, as we seated ourselves once more. “Actually, it’s Captain and Mrs. Battle. I’ve been restored to my rank, and both my name and my record cleared. That’s how I was able to call upon my Frances again. And speaking of names, had I but known, one year ago, that Mr. Simon Greaves was really Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” he said, “I would have been much more circumspect with my professional advice during his visit to New York.”
“Nonsense,” said Holmes. “You know your city as I know mine, and your guidance gave a stranger invaluable assistance… and allowed us to rid the world of some places it can well do without.”
“Some people, too,” Battle replied. “You’ll be interested, I know, to learn that Thaddeus Chadwick died this past October. Murdered,” he added, “and not by me, though I certainly would have shaken the killer’s hand, had I been able.”
“Now that is news, indeed.” Holmes gestured to the nearby table with its glue-pot and scissors and the substantial pile of newspapers on the floor. “I have had little time to read in the past several months, and have only begun to catch up. How did that come about?” He leaned forward, keenly attentive.
“He was stabbed, in his own home, by a young woman of his acquaintance.”
“The motive?”
“None that we were able to ascertain.” He smiled. “Yes, I worked on the case. I was back on the force by that time. But I must admit to not trying too hard to solve the matter. It seemed a straightforward enough domestic matter. The young woman was living with him at the time. And she died in the fire that resulted from their struggle, and had no relatives who might have shed any light on the situation… ” He shrugged his shoulders.
“What was even more interesting than his death, however, was what was discovered about Mr. Chadwick several weeks later.”
Holmes smiled, and turned to me. “Chadwick was a talented man, Watson. He dies in October, stabbed by a young woman who is residing with him, yet continues to be newsworthy in November.” He turned back to Battle. “This is proving irresistible. Pray go on!”
“The short of it, Mr. Holmes, is that after his death a safe was found built into the wall of his bedroom. You will recall, of course, the gentleman and the young lady you saw with Chadwick, the night we attended the opera? The gentleman, Henry Ogden Slade, died barely a month after we saw him, and his young ward was left nothing whatever in his will. But a much more recent will was found in the safe in Chadwick’s bedroom, and it left everything to the girl, whom Slade acknowledged as his daughter.”
“The implication being that Chadwick somehow engineered his friend’s death, and meant to take control of his fortune? A good friend, indeed. Well, it would not surprise me, when you remember that you and I deprived Mr. Chadwick of a very large portion of his income.”
Battle shook his head. “I had nothing whatever to do with it, Mr. Holmes, which you well know. The credit is entirely yours, and your methods, although definitely unorthodox, were completely effective. A month after you left New York, I was summoned by the chief of police himself, and told that new testimony had been provided by several people, proving that I had been framed as I had claimed all along, and that I could have my old position back, if I wanted it. By that time, of course, I had received your letter, telling me what you had done.”
Holmes laughed, clearly pleased with himself. “Yes, it was an opportunity that I simply could not resist. As I think I have mentioned to you, Watson, I have often thought that I would have been a highly successful criminal, had I been so inclined. And I could not possibly indulge myself similarly in London, of course-Scotland Yard would be less than amused if I took to ‘second-story work’ here-but in New York, who was to know? Besides,” he said, raising his glass in the direction of the smiling Mrs. Battle, “the cause, in this case, was extraordinarily worthy.
“And what of you, Battle?” said Holmes. “What is in store for you on the police force? Is all forgiven?”
“More than forgiven. There are changes taking place, just as I had hoped, and shortly before Frances and I were wed, I was named an assistant to the new Commissioner of Police. You have heard of Theodore Roosevelt?”
“I have, indeed. A very good man.”
“As good as they come, and as incorruptible. He is the new broom that will sweep all New York clean.”
Rising to his feet, he raised his glass once more. “Another toast to you, then, Mr. Holmes. My cup runneth over, thanks to you.”
We all rose, then. “My blushes, Watson.” Holmes smiled, after we had drunk in his honour. “And now I think that we should all adjourn to Simpson’s for dinner. I can think of nothing more satisfying on a cold winter’s night than enjoying some good British beef with some excellent American friends.”
THE SEVEN WALNUTS by Daniel Stashower
Daniel Stashower is the Edgar-winning author of Teller of Tales: The Life of Arthur Conan Doyle and a coeditor of Arthur Conan Doyle: A Life in Letters. He is also the author of The Beautiful Cigar Girclass="underline" Mary Rogers, Edgar Allan Poe and the Invention of Murder, as well as five mystery novels, the most recent of which is The Houdini Specter. His short stories have appeared in numerous anthologies, including The Best American Mystery Stories and The World’s Finest Mystery and Best American Mystery Stories and The World’s Finest Mystery and Crime Stories. His work has also appeared in newspapers and magazines including the New York Times, the Washington Post, Smithsonian Magazine, National Geographic Traveler, and American History.