The Adventure of the Old Russian Woman
As I review my case notes from the past few years, none seem as presently benign or potentially dangerous than the Adventure of the Old Russian Woman. I recall fondly that my part was large, successful and at the same time, I was just a cog in the wheel of the larger mystery which has recently swirled around my good friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
The tale starts as I open the door for admittance at 221B Baker Street sometime in the late autumn of '88, anxious to leave the interminable chill and fog that pervaded London most of the year. It was shortly before my marriage to my beloved Mary, and this was among one of the last few days I could call here home. I attempted to shake off the gloom downstairs in the entry, depositing my damp umbrella before I ventured upstairs.
My flat mate, the more esteemed by the day Mr. Sherlock Holmes, paced around the sitting room, veering toward the hearth, around our chairs and looping toward the staircase before making his way back to the start. Without looking at me or breaking stride, he called out, "How was the surgery today?" My eyes followed my whirling dervish of a roommate.
"How did you know I was in surgery today?" I questioned him, knowing full well earlier this morning I had only mentioned interviewing potential practitioners in hopes of buying their practices. Holmes looked cross, so I decided to make light and have some fun at my non-detective expense. "Was it the tread of my footsteps upon the stairs, knowing I favor standing on one leg more than the other in surgery, or was it the amount of sighs I took as I entered the room, sad to have cleaned up the mess of London's careless cab drivers again? Do tell, Holmes. I've made much more at the card table since I moved in and learned your methods."
Still in constant motion, Holmes audibly sniffed, most likely offended by my cheek. "Your smell, Watson. You reek of chloroform." He veered his loop further away from me.
"Sorry, Holmes," I grimaced. A good sniff of my clothes told me the detective hit the mark, despite my cleaning attempts at the surgery. "I'll go and freshen up as long as you stop the race in the sitting room. If you are deep in thought, why is your violin still in its case? Or is this a half-pipe problem?"
He looked at me, irritated, then growled out, "Guess, master at cards."
I eyed his pacing form. Nose was a bit red, cheeks slightly flushed, breathing normal and he was slightly cradling his left arm to his side. I made my seat on my chair by the warm fire and picked up the newspaper.
"Client agitated and sent a poorly worded and harmless diatribe your way, and frustrated, you pounded the table, amazed at their simple-mindedness, rendering your hand incapable of picking up your beloved instrument? The typesetter of the Times mislaid his letter s and used the f instead, giving you a large headache in perusing the paper, repeatedly rubbing your head until your hand cramped?"
"No and no," he replied, without humor. Obviously, his recent dry spell of cases continued unabated.
"You ran out of ink, hurried over to the store, found the specific type you wanted in the bottom of a pile of crates and without seeking help, attempted to move several palates and strained yourself for the correct shade of black. Really, for a baritsu master you should leave the heavy lifting to me." That last one I gave him a broad smirk.
Holmes grumbled. "Untrue, all of it. Who do you make a foursome with? Easy pickings!"
"Then how did you hurt your hand?" I asked.
A muscle in his face grew taut.
"The truth, Holmes," I commanded, staring at how he cradled his arm close.
"I attempted an experiment, created an odor almost as poor as yours, it went poorly, fearing Mrs. Hudson's response I forced open the rear window, poured it out and gave myself a splinter on my hand from forcing the sill closed. I needled it out, but it still stings," my roommate informed me, cradling his arm like the proverbial lion with a thorn in the paw.
"I can look at if you want," I offered, knowing full well Holmes would turn me down with a full glare, and he did. I sat in my chair by the fire, opened the paper and immersed myself in the articles of the day. The room grew quiet as he stopped pacing and most likely turned his stare toward me.
"What, Holmes?" I queried as I flipped the top half of the paper down, eyebrows raised.
"Chloroform! There is a client coming and Baker Street has enough olfactory problems already," he sniffed again.
"Sorry, Holmes," I said, contrite, having truly forgotten his complaint. I put down the paper and climbed the steps to my room. It took me a few minutes to freshen up, and I hurried, pleased my roommate's foul mood would be improved by a case.
Upon my return downstairs, the new client sat upon the sofa. Sitting dignified and erect, his coat cut in the latest fashion and of fine material, his face, though aged, unlined with worry, different from most clients who crossed our threshold. His gloves casually laid across his knee, he turned his gaze toward me. His eyes questioned my entrance into the room.
"My colleague, Dr. Watson, who assists me on certain cases," Holmes introduced. I saw a brief flash of confusion, maybe uncertainty, cross our visitor's face. I inclined my head in his direction. "Watson, this is James Sheppard, late of either Downing Street or Whitehall Terrace, perhaps, recently self-employed as a detective and quite successful at it."
As in all of our earlier cases, I searched the gentleman for his occupation, unbeknownst to me before now, attempting to see what Holmes saw at a glance. His coat, cut of fine dark brocade cloth, trimmed with red twist, spoke of service to wealth, possibly the Crown, and closer to the crown jewels than the typical typist. His shoes were finely polished, and the wet weather outside had not left its mark. Inwardly, I groaned as I found another self-employed detective wandering around London and now ensconced in my parlor. Fate was making me pay for my attempts at earlier attempts at humor at Holmes' expense.
"Do tell my story, Mr. Holmes," our visitor requested, with a hint of a challenge. "I like to see how other's minds work. It's nice to try on the client role for size."
"Rare is it that the client studies me as opposed to preoccupation with their problem, suggesting your ease with the role of another person looking into your affairs, meaning you worked in a high secrecy area. Also, your posture suggests attention and care, and with your hair tied back, as if you had cause to wear a wig, marking you as possibly an advocate, judge or MP, but you have a medial mark on the fourth finger of your right hand common to a scribe or personal assistant, one who rests his writing utensil in the same place; with your clothing and bearing, it would be writing the notes of a person of power and wealth. Having read the newspapers and watched Gladstone bounce in and out of power, one wonders how frustrating that is for someone with such a keen intellect," Holmes rattled off, with a touch of boredom.
"Very good, Mr. Holmes," Sheppard conceded, throwing out the compliment like an unpleasant morsel in his mouth. "All that at a glance, and yes, I was the assistant to the Secretary of State for European Affairs for a spell. I was very thankful for the opportunity to help our government and now I am thankful to put my intellect to use in a new way. Would you like to discuss how you injured your hand earlier, Mr. Holmes?" He queried my flat mate, a hint of challenge in his voice.
"No need to strain your intellect, Mr. Sheppard. After all, my guess may have originated from something as simple as me looking at your card," Holmes cooly replied. I glanced at him, struggling to keep my features in check. Currents of tension and possibly competition ran in the room. My flat mate could be ornery to clients but this level of hostility was rare, as was the reverse. Royalty has graced our parlor of Baker Street with more humility than our current guest.
"But there is no need for us to match wits now," Holmes continued in a more genial tone. "Please tell us your issue, Mr. Sheppard."
"Recently, an agent to the crown of Russia contacted me to help recover a stolen bracelet. The gems in it are small, but their worth is incalculable to the Countess who laid claim to it. I have traced the disappearance to an older woman of Russian descent, last seen in East London, near Spitalfields, and from there the trail has grown cold. I hoped you would shine new light on it," our client answered, almost suddenly subservient, like a snake silently posed to strike. The posturing of the two men was like fencing match.
"Glad to help a colleague, Mr. Sheppard," Holmes nodded, as I steeled my face. Holmes, help a colleague? Lestrade and the men at Scotland Yard would have a good laugh at that line. Ignoring me, Holmes continued. "Please tell me, in your own words, what happened."
"Gladly, Mr. Holmes," Sheppard acquiesced. "I was the guest of Oberstein the diplomat for some dinner and dancing in honor of Countess Marina's visit from St. Petersburg. I speak fluent Russian and became friendly with Oberstein during my tenure in European Affairs. Sometime during the evening, most likely during a dance set, one of the Countess' beautiful bracelets, a gift from the tsar Alexander III, disappeared. Oberstein, thoughtful of my burgeoning career as a detective, asked me to investigate. I was able to rule out most of the guests, for the Countess only danced with a few, and those guests as well as her maids and the household help were thoroughly searched. Nothing was found, and the only unusual thing noticed was the fore mentioned unknown old Russian woman departing the gala, as noticed by the childhood maid of the Countess. No one could remember her presence at the gathering, nor would a simple peasant have any reason being in attendance."
Holmes' face clouded in thought. "Please describe the bracelet." His eyes closed and he brought the tips of his fingers together in a steeple.
"Certainly. Small red rubies, blue sapphires and green emeralds, round brilliant cut. It's garish, but a gift to the Countess, and one of emotional value. I can trace its history back a few hundred years, to woman who it was originally designed for." Sheppard's face closed off in his thoughts, his eyes shifted to the side as if he hoped to conjure the bracelet with the power of his mind.
"Thank you for the description, Mr. Sheppard. I'm happy to aid on the case, although, like you, I will have other in queries for other cases to make. To where would I apply?" Holmes' manner was courteous, a complete switch from earlier in the conversation. I inwardly wondered about the cause of his misbehavior.
"My residence near Cavendish Square is fine," Sheppard replied, with equal courtesy. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes," and he nodded in my direction, taking his fine hat and making his departure.
"What do you think, Watson?" My flat mate inquired as we were once again alone.
Surprised at his question, I took a moment to ponder. "The level of tension surprised me, Holmes, as did Sheppard's way. Generally, when in need of help, I tend to ask or beg. Being superior will not get you far, and a un-titled former member of government would know that firsthand."
"I agree, Watson, but no need to worry about any ruffled peacock feathers. He asked for our help in locating the Countess' bracelet, and I know no finer man than you to find it," he nodded his head in my direction.
"Me, Holmes?" I sputtered. "Sheppard didn't even know I existed until a few moments ago."
"Exactly," Holmes concurred. "We will solve his case in half the time."
"I don't know where to look," I looked at him questioningly, but he was lost in thought. I gave him a moment to process, then he started musing out loud.
"I gather he meant Oberstein, on Great Portland Street," Holmes mused quizzically. "Was the old Russian woman scared of anything? No matter, Watson, you can venture to the East End for the treasure hunt. There is a curio shop near Spitalfields which might catch your interest. His description of the bracelet caught my ear; please keep an eye out for anything garish or outstanding compared to the belongings around it. Garish is an interesting description given to a consulting detective by a distraught countess."
I had nothing planned for the rest of the day save for a perusal of the newspaper. The sky was gray but had ceased raining, so I had no objections to assisting Holmes. I stepped outside and hailed a hansom, directing the driver to Whitechapel. He looked at me questioningly but off we went. I paid my fare, stepped outside and watched the cab dashed off, probably for the safer streets of West London. I found the curio shop Holmes had mentioned: Russian Imports, Customs and Fineries. I stepped inside and my senses were awash with color and smell and noise. Women in drab kerchiefs, arms laden with packages, surrounded me, faces worn and haggard. Muslins, poplins and silks lined the walls, with the center stocked with shelves too close together for the comfort of the shoppers. Realizing this was the daily fate of my Mary unless I secured a solid practice, it furthered my resolve to find a sustainable medical practice, cases with Holmes be damned. She would not turn into a harried old woman on my watch, one of the sad multitudes in here who may have illicit means of a royal bracelet. I scanned the room for any suspicious activity. Nothing caught my attention, so I wandered the store, browsing the items, much to the disbelieving stares of my fellow shoppers to find a man of non-Russian descent in the building.
Suddenly, shouts erupted behind me. A younger man, short but stocky, dashed up the aisle clutching a cloth bag close to his chest. He pushed shoppers to the side in his dash toward the exit. Quickly realizing I was the last barrier between him, freedom and the clear open possession of several people's purses, I threw my old wounded shoulder into the man and knocked both of us off-balance. Unprepared for the jolt, the thief began to fall, but I braced myself with a shelf, reached and caught the arm of the miscreant, spinning him into a display of nesting dolls, their wooden clanks reverberating as they fell on the stone floor. Another man quickly caught up to us, quickly securing the criminal's arms behind his back. I grasped the bag of the rogue as cries of wailing women rose behind me. The second man, small in nature, strangely familiar to me, quickly overpowered the thief.
"Watson, what are you doing here?" Giles Lestrade asked in amazement, panting in exertion, wrestling the rogue to the ground and pinning his arms behind him.
"Do you need any help?" I responded in return. Lestrade shook his head. "I have the bag he was carrying." I held out the bag after the officer secured the thief's arms and Lestrade took it from me. He opened the bag and we peered inside. It was full of worn coin purses and patched wallets; in other words, we caught a petty thief, most likely not the man behind the thief of the bracelet. "Dr. Watson? What are you doing in Spitalfields?" Lestrade looked at me askance, as if I had magically appeared in his midst, heroically keeping London's petty criminal element at bay. I smiled in return, the incident firmly behind me and a smile on my face.
A big burly man rushed over, and with a thick, gruff Russian accent, told us he would decline to press charges, but would let the community decide. Over his shoulder was a mass of harried women, and I felt this would be a more right and probably harsher sentence than any judge could hand down. Lestrade frowned at this but let the thief go. Surprised at the lack of tenaciousness on the part of the inspector, I offered my help and testimony but the shopkeeper declined.
As we walked out of the marketplace, he leaned in to confide. "There was a tip about a suspicious gentleman fencing goods for this market and I was the lucky sod who won the chance to check it out. You never answered what you were doing here, Doctor."
I tipped my hat to Lestrade at this point. Whatever derisive remarks Holmes may have made about Lestrade, Gregson and the other fellows from Scotland Yard, I have always found them honest, respectful and in a much more legally trying place than my roommate. Lestrade's persistence alone has solved many cases, and would potentially come to the aid in mine, I realized.
"I'm assisting Holmes in a case," I stated, returning the confidence. "On the lookout for an old Russian woman, and I've come to the right place. I did not expect to catch a common thief." Holmes would be disappointed in my lack of progress, but I held my tongue on that thought in front if the Yarder. Holmes and the Met had such a caustic relationship and I had no want to fan the flames further.
"I thank you for your help in apprehending that thief, Dr. Watson," Lestrade courtly stated. "In exchange, I offer that the anonymous tip described a tall dark-haired gentleman with a long nose, gaunt build and bright eyes and an overly inquisitive nature interested in bracelets. Give my best to this gentleman when you see him." Lestrade tipped his hat and walked off, leaving me to my suddenly jumbled thoughts.
After hearing Lestrade's warning, I caught the nearest trap and raced back to 221B Baker Street, heart pounding in my ears. Why was the thief behind the necklace implicating Holmes? Had he traced Sheppard to our doorstep? Was it this Oberstein, or had the Countess decided to take manners into her own hands? I glanced behind the trap often, sure the bracelet thief was trailing me, that I was inviting trouble into our home. This was no simple theft, and I flashed through the faces of the women in the shop today. The loss of their pocketbooks was no simple matter, and I felt shamed by my pride in offhandedly dismissing the thief.
I paced around the flat until Holmes returned, worry and conscious wrestling together and making me uneasy. I heard the downstairs door open, as well as his greetings to Mrs. Hudson. He sedately traveled up the stairs, prolonging my worry. I barraged him with questions, but he simply held up his hand. I fell quiet until he made himself comfortable in his easy chair by the fire. Anxiously, I told him my story, describing the bursting colors, sounds and smells of the store, apprehending the thief and Lestrade's warning. He nodded his head, closed his eyes and moved into stillness. Exhausted but relieved to have divested of my situation, I fell into my chair beside him.
His voice filled the silence suddenly. "In the thief's bag, was it only coin purses and wallets, or were there any other items of interest?"
That confused me. I refreshed my memory, and found nothing that stuck out. "No, Holmes, just the stolen possessions of those who could least afford them missing."
"Did Lestrade fixate on anything in the store?" I glanced at my roommate, who had migrated suddenly to the sofa, supine and with eyes closed.
"No, not that I recall." I thought back to those few sudden seconds of action earlier. "Fallen matryoshkas and tins of spices surrounded us, but Lestrade was more disappointed the shopkeeper was unwilling to press charges than in anything material."
Holmes hummed to himself, then fell silent. I realized any answer I was seeking would come on its own time, so I grabbed the papers, anxious to take my mind off the bracelet, my worries for the poor souls in the East End and my hope to keep Mary out of that site. My great estimation of Holmes grew the next minute, as he read my mood and consoled me my fears were for naught.
"Watson, no need to worry about assuming a medical practice now, nor how many charity cases you can handle above your other duties. I reassure you that you were not followed, Watson, and I am perfectly well and able. I spent a quiet afternoon walking our fine neighborhood, pondering this great case. I did stop and talk to Gregson at the Yard; he, too, heard of the tip. To think I would stoop to jewelry if I chose a life of crime." Holmes shook his head in disbelief. At times like these I did wonder what my roommate had done during the afternoon; had it been devious, I'm sure I would still be wondering years later. My good humor returning, I jested with his skills, which seemed like mind-reading half of the time to my untrained eye and ear.
"You didn't spend a tedious afternoon shadowing Oberstein, accidentally meeting his coachman at a local watering hole and making his acquaintance? No news about the workings of his household and the visiting countess and what they had for breakfast?" Having written of his earlier exploits before, I was familiar with his tactics. He was familiar with the implication, as well.
"I feel the cobwebs accumulating in my mind, however, simply from your suggestion," he drolly replied. "Please choose another article to read, preferably one not about poor medical conditions in East London. I have some things to ponder and have no need for a mournful biographer, but I do ask for your company for an mid-morning walk tomorrow morning, around ten, if you are free."
Nodding my head in agreement, I turned the page on my long-neglected paper from this morning and began to read hopefully more cheerful articles. The night passed quietly, with Holmes still nursing his injured hand and not whiling away the hours on his musical instrument. I feared for the health of our rug after a few more hours of pacing, but as I was about to mention it he called for a runner and sent off a few notes to his brother Mycroft. The pacing stopped after this action, however, which meant his nervous energy was fully engaged in this case. I wondered if he would share any insights with me, but we made our way to our respective rooms without comment that evening.
After rising and breakfast the next morning, we briskly walked to Sheppard's house, our breath crystallized in the cool air. "Sheppard's schedule suggests occupation for a few moments this morning, and it will give us time to re-examine his story," Holmes mentioned as we came closer to his address.
"Re-examine his story, Holmes?" I questioned.
"I do want to ask our client some questions, and your investigation yesterday in the East End shed some light on matters," Holmes conceded as we found ourselves at the front door of his house near Cavendish Square. His housekeeper admitted us and escorted us to the drawing-room, stating the master of the house was finishing business in his study and would be in shortly. She closed the door quietly behind her.
Holmes ran to the window and pulled the shade down halfway, glanced at the available light, muttered something unintelligible and pushed it all the way up. It didn't seem to make much of a difference, so he pulled it halfway again.
"We haven't much time, Watson," he said as he scanned the walls of the room. "What is this on the walls? Where is the old woman?" His movements were frantic and I could only see pastoral landscapes and still life on the walls. "Stay here, Watson. If Sheppard comes in, distract him, think you came alone. I must find the old Russian woman." Holmes dashed to the door, quietly opening it and closing in it before I even came to objection over his behavior.
Confused at his motives and actions, I easily obeyed. A housekeeper quite young of age had directed us to the drawing-room, and we had not met the cook of the house, so I had not seen an old Russian woman, but I learned quickly not to question his motives unless asked directly. Alone in the study, my gaze wandered the room. Something stood out in the understated splendor, catching my eye. I walked to the mantelpiece and examined a round vessel in the shape akin to a bowling pin with a picture of a woman in peasant garb and a bright red cloak painted on the side. Its' colors were brighter than the rest of the room, blues and reds and yellows in a sea of cream and gold. It was gauche in comparison to the rest of the room. There was a seam in the middle of the doll. I picked it up, turning it round in my hands. No hinge, so I gently applied pressure to each side and it popped open. Carved of wood, inside the vessel was a slightly smaller container with a wolf painted on the side. The fable of Little Red Riding Hood, I thought with glee. What an ingenious way to tell the story, telling it piece by piece, unwrapping it like an onion. This reminded me of the nesting dolls in the emporium I had visited yesterday, strewn over the floor after my meeting with the petty thief. My attempt to complete the story was for naught; as I attempted to draw the wolf in two a smooth voice cautioned, "Not the best idea, Dr. Watson."
I turned toward Sheppard, apologetic for disturbing his decorating until I noticed the gun in his hand. My pulse quickened as I searched for a way out of this situation, and to keep Sheppard away from Holmes as long as possible. "I apologize for disrupting your household, Sheppard," I began, eyes searching for a possible weapon. The only one that came to mind was in my hand, but I had a good hunch our search for the old Russian woman and the Countess' bracelet would end in a few twists of the matryoshka in my hands. Wouldn't be best flinging precious jewels at the villain, one might lose them again. "Your nesting doll tells a story. Is it from Mother Russia herself?"
The firearm remained steady in his hand. "Yes, Doctor, it is from Russia, as are all the contents. The bracelet was a family heirloom, and I would like to reclaim it. I'm surprised you found the bracelet so quickly, or did Holmes? Speaking of, is he here? I wouldn't mind taking care of both of you at once. For now, please place my matryoshka back on the mantle, and walk toward me with your hands on your head." Sheppard's eyes danced around, as if he could spot Holmes though the walls.
Holmes was hopefully out of harm's way, which could not be said of myself at the moment. However, we were in a home filled with servants on a busy patrician street. The firing of a gun would draw more attention than Sheppard would care for in this situation, so I simply needed to keep my cool and delay until an opportunity presented itself. Slowly turning around, taking advantage of Sheppard's unsteadiness, I maneuvered the pieces back together, making some slight changes, so the outer picture of the girl with the red coat was askew, and the inner dolls were safely nestled in my inner coat pocket. I gently placed the matryoshka on the mantle, and turned back around, placing my hands on my head.
"Follow me, Doctor," Sheppard beckoned. I felt the muzzle press into my side as my escort walked me to the study entrance. We were standing near the door frame when a shadow danced across my vision. Hoping dearly it was Holmes, or better yet, Lestrade and the constabulary, I abruptly dropped to the ground, throwing my weight into my captor behind me. His knees buckled, arms flinging out and his firearm discharging into the wall. With a cry, Sherlock Holmes bounded into the room, chopping the forearm of Sheppard that held the gun. I rolled over and grabbed it as it fell to the ground while the great detective and his foe wrestled, Holmes with cunning, Sheppard with the knowledge if he lost, this would be his last fight for a long while. I covered them with the weapon but dared not take a shot for fear of hitting my friend. They fought fiercely as Gregson and the other Met officers streamed into the room, yells, groans and grunts filling the room. Holmes, with his history of fighting and fisticuffs, finally overwhelmed Sheppard, stepping out-of-the-way as the trapped gentleman charged.
"You want the wall, Sheppard?" Holmes taunted. "You can have it!" When Sheppard bounced off the wallpaper, Holmes quickly pinned his arms behind his back. I trained the gun on him, unwavering in my intensity.
"Perfect timing, Gregson," Holmes remarked as the officers flowed into the room and grabbed their newfound suspect. "Arrest this man, James Sheppard, for the theft of the missing Russian bracelet we discussed yesterday as well as attempted kidnapping on the good doctor here."
"Will do," Gregson replied with the glee of a child catching his father with his hand in the biscuit tin. Handcuffed and shackled, the Yarders escorted Sheppard out of the room. He knew enough to remain silent, not enough to think he could successfully match wits with Sherlock Holmes without further incriminating himself.
"So, where is it?" Gregson asked after his men removed Sheppard for booking. "We've got enough to hold him for a while, seeing you and him tussle and threaten Dr. Watson, Holmes, but it would be a lot easier if we had possession of the jewels you told us about yesterday."
Holmes strolled to the mantelpiece and straightened the nesting doll. "Such an interesting way to tell a story, don't you think, Watson? Like peeling an onion, or opening a clam, finding the value deep inside."
Gregson groaned. "Not interested in riddles until after work, Holmes. I would like proof, please."
Holmes nodded in agreement. "Nor am I interested in riddles, just the facts. I don't know why you are asking me, when talking to Watson is so much more revealing."
I took my cue and pulled out the smallest parts of the nesting doll from my breast suit pocket. I held them out for Gregson, who took them and set about opening them on the nearest table. Like the onion, our police detective peeled away layers until he was left with a small bracelet of royal jewels, worth more than I had but by no means the Crown Jewels. Oddly, Sheppard's efforts didn't seem to match the crime. Why would he go to so much effort for jewels that he first described as beautiful, then garish?
"You knew it was in the doll?" Gregson asked Holmes with amazement.
"Watson's search through Spitalfields gave me the hint. Cunning man, really, our friend Sheppard is," Holmes replied. "No one suspects the detective called to solve the crime, do they? He simply made up the story of the maid talking about an old Russian woman leaving the house, while obscuring the fact he walked out of the gala holding the nesting doll as a gift, bracelet inside. Oberstein, in his brief description to me, mentioned that Sheppard danced with the Countess. A slight of hand would easily remove the bracelet, especially one he felt earlier claim to. The part of embellishing on an old Russian woman hiding from a big bad searching detective in the middle of London is what strikes me as odd. He was clever, almost too clever by half. Someone wanted him to meet me and then fail. Keep your eye out for the mastermind, Gregson. Sheppard was the thief, a pawn, nothing more." Holmes paused, then quietly wondered, "This was more a game to Sheppard than anything else. He wanted to take me on a hunt for a needle in a haystack, figure out my methods, although I wonder who persuaded him to match wits with me. Even if I had not bested him, I would be aware of him."
"In other words, he would be neutralized either as an ally or a foe for the person behind this," I finished, marveling at my friend's ingenuousness. I had stumbled on to the jewels because their container seemed put of place in a wealthy almost-dignitaries' drawing-room. Holmes had seen the shift in the kaleidoscope and seen a greater foe.
"I believe there are other forces at work, but for now, our job here is over, Watson," Holmes concluded, and I nodded my head in agreement. I gave our regards to Gregson and the other officers as my flat mate strode out of the room, unconcerned with social pleasantries.
"What did you leave the room for, Holmes, before Sheppard charged? Did you find what you were looking for?" I asked him once we were out of earshot of the officers, walking back quickly to our hearth.
"A few papers which, in the hands of Sheppard, may cause harm to the Crown or others. Your matryoshka was not the only old Russian woman in the house. A quick slip into his study found a sturdy matron on the wall and an easily cracked safe behind her. My brother Mycroft will have good use for them." Holmes paused, patting his breast pocket and I connected my search for the bracelet, his messages last night and his unusual reliance on me for the case.
"Your walk around the neighborhood yesterday!" I exclaimed. "How was your visit to Oberstein? He finds Russian countesses and their secrets more interesting than their jewels, I gather."
"Also, Russian tsars and Spanish kings and anyone willing to pay for his services. However, Oberstein understands the grey area between passing secrets and espionage better than Sheppard, I believe," Holmes responded. "My walk was informative; I learned Sheppard's schedule, as well as Oberstein's true occupation."
"So Oberstein is the mastermind?" This was confusing. Solving this case was easy, and accomplished by me nonetheless. There was more to it than meets the eye, or the wrist.
"No, and he only knew Sheppard as a new detective, not a thief of either jewelry or documents." Holmes chose his words carefully. "Our newfound friend Oberstein is an agent, but I don't think we can count gold as a country yet. These documents cannot be traced back to him and only yesterday had he made the discovery they were missing, but he will watch his step a little more carefully around unemployed government agents and consulting detectives in the future."
"So, Sheppard was a pawn and Oberstein was a mark. What parts do we play?" I asked him, concern filling me again.
"That chessboard will show itself another day, and sooner than later. But I still think we can attend the Joachim Quartet at St. James's Hall if we hurry, Watson," Holmes remarked, ignoring my question, lost in his thoughts as we strolled down the street, into another gray evening, another hopeful criminal mastermind off the London streets.