Bluebeard and Kate

It was nearing two in the afternoon and we were still rifling through bundle after bundle of personal effects. I was on the point of telling Holmes I wanted to stop for tea when he let out a loud exclamation of triumph and delved deeper into his newly opened container.

"Did you find something?" I asked eagerly.

"I may have," came his muffled reply. "If I can rely on Miss DuBois's meticulous organizational skills, I think I have found the box." He removed items carefully, placing them on the table between the divan and the chair. A writing quill and other general desk items made an appearance, all possessing distinctly feminine designs. Finally, after rummaging around the bottom with less care and patience than he began with, Holmes flourished a bundle of small leather-bound diaries, perhaps holding forty pages apiece.

"Alright, check the street."

I glanced out of the window as discreetly as I could manage as he repacked the bits and pieces. I felt a keen thrill of excitement now that we were obliged to escape. I knew that the few unobserved seconds between the door and the street were imperative to our success and to the possibility of reclaiming our inn suite.

The road was empty and a light rain had begun descending on New York as we'd been busy at our task. We crept out silently and bounded down the steps, anxious to be on the sidewalk and able to plead innocence to any interest in the late Matthew's flat. Holmes cast a clear eye about us, no doubt searching for any observers in the tranquil windows of the surrounding rooms.

Once we'd distanced ourselves sufficiently, Holmes smiled at me brightly.

"That was invigorating."

I sulked a bit. "Yes, as is the rain."

His smile brightened even more so at my bleak demeanor and he slipped something into his pocket that he had been concealing behind the bundle of diaries. Despite my lack of observational ability (as Holmes would claim) I didn't fail to notice this.

"What is that?"

He had the grace to look slightly shamefaced and shoved the object deeper into his pocket. "I don't think I'll tell you. You'll think me criminal."

"I already think you a criminal."

He looked away and shrugged. "They won't miss it."

"Holmes! What else did you take?"

He chuckled and withdrew his hand, along with his purloined item. "Settle down, it's only a book." He showed me the volume, a deep-forest green book a bit bigger than his palm. I read the title.

"A young German woman was employed as my Governess during my adolescent years. She would entertain me with these stories," he confided, running a dexterous finger across the binding.

"The Grimm tales?"

"Oh yes," he started fondly. "She was constantly reciting them to me, though at the time I believed she was making them up herself. She was also in the habit of regaling me with stories of Bluebeard and many other terrifying myths in an effort to frighten me."

"When I was boarding at Charterhouse," I responded, "our headmaster told us the story of Bluebeard. I was old enough, though, to realize that the whole thing was only a myth I mean, really . . ." I scoffed, "a wealthy aristocrat marries seven times and in each case the wife disappears without a trace or clue? Finally, he marries the young daughter of a local lady and eventually his new bride finds a forbidden room and discovers all of his previous wives hung up dead on the walls? When she is unable to wash the blood from the key she'd used to enter the room, he turns his rage on her and then they lock themselves into a tower -" I broke off with a snort, "It smacks of invention and lacked any of the qualities able transform mediocre horror into a thing romantic like Shelly or Walpole. I suspect it was simply fabricated by some woman as a cautionary tale to her daughters concerning marriage."

He nodded, but didn't look entirely convinced of my dismissal. "It did seem to lack eloquence, though it was related to me with a sufficient amount of enthusiasm to keep my interest. Did you know that that this story was inspired by Gilles de Rais, who served under Joan of Arc before her execution?" he asked.

"The name seems familiar . . ."

"After Joan died he settled into some estates in Brittany. It was only rumored he was involved in black magic, but he was most certainly a killer. His main means of murder was usually by decapitation, and his victims were generally young boys whom he'd kidnapped for …deviant… purposes. The murders were finally looked into and the remains of fifty boys were unearthed in de Rais's castle, though he may have killed over three hundred people. Seems the official police force was inept even at that time," he lamented in jest.

"Its funny," he continued, "how myths have their roots in truth and how dissimilar the story and the reality can be from one another after a time has passed. Bluebeard, to most, was simply an invention. Unfortunately for me, I was not quite old enough to recognize it as a fable; Alva related that story to me for the first time when I was five, used it as a threat to keep me quiet because Bluebeard would 'snatch me up' if I was not. She finally told me the truth when I started crying." He laughed, "I think that frightened her more then Bluebeard frightened me. I had never done so in front of her before. After that, she kept to the Grimm tales, since I was near impervious to being affected by them."

I resisted the urge to comment on the image of him as a child, crying about a man with a wild blue beard who would abduct him if he didn't behave. "She sounds dreadful," I volunteered instead.

He gave me quick frown and cocked his head. "I didn't think so. She purchased a volume of their fairy-tales as a present for me when she left to return to Germany with her parents, but it was lost . . ." he trailed off, ruffling through the worn pages of his ill-gotten gain until he found what he was looking for. He held the pages open and showed me the heading. "I always preferred this one, though she called it Rumpelgeist."

I took the book from him, the pages crinkled with age under my fingers. "I favored that story as well," I agreed. "There was an old college fellow I knew, Jacobs, who bore some definite literary leanings though he was a medical man like myself. We used to kid him that he'd make a fine surgeon if only he were allowed to place a book in someone as he worked on them," I recalled warmly. Indeed, Jacobs had eventually withdrawn from medical school and joined one of those exclusive literary circles to share his work and ideas. I had been afforded the opportunity to read some of his poetry, which was quite good, though I heard his finances had yet to reflect his talent.

"In any case," I continued, "he spun us a good theory that the deciphering of Rumpelstiltskin's name was a symbol of power; that once you are able to name the forces bearing down on you, you are able to be free of them."

Holmes seemed to consider this hypothesis. "Is that so? I hadn't thought of it. To be honest, what I found fascinating the most were the unanswered questions – and, of course," he smiled wickedly, "the delightfully gruesome depiction of Rumpelstiltskin ripping himself in two at the end."

"What unanswered questions?" The story was no more than four pages in length and extremely straightforward; I hardly thought there was much that could be unanswered about it.

"Well, firstly and most importantly, there is the lurking, hovering, always present issue of why?" he emphasized. "Why does Rumpelstiltskin do the things he does?" He tapped the book on the back of his hand, falling into deep thought and continuing in a reflective voice, "In the beginning of the story he offers to help for a worthless necklace, the next time, a worthless ring, and finally, he rejects all the riches of her kingdom to take her child from her. Why? These things were only valuable to her; the most valuable, in fact. Was he upset with her? Seeking revenge? Over what? Or perhaps, he lusted after her and punished her for his own inadequacy."

I laughed soundlessly as he slicked his rain soaked hair back away from his forehead. "I think you may be analyzing it a bit much. I always assumed that he wished to eat the child." At his confused look, I clarified, "His song at the end - today I bake, tomorrow I brew – sounds as if he were preparing to eat the child."

Holmes shook his head and stopped to face me. "Yes, but if he were merely a cannibal, then why not simply kidnap some other child to eat–" He broke off abruptly as an older woman strode past, giving us a decidedly alarmed and distrustful look, which was made even worse by our sudden and seemingly guilty silence.

"Why not some other child?" he continued once she'd continued on to wherever she was going, which was hopefully not straight to the police to report two men discussing cannibalism of small children. "Why become so obsessed with this woman's baby? That would still imply a deeper motive."

I threw up my hands. "Now I'm utterly baffled . . . something I never foresaw happening during a conversation about children's fairy-tales."

He chuckled. "Yes, well, that simply proves my point about the importance of motive."

He fell silent for a bit, that peculiar crooked frown on his face that I knew meant he was thinking of something significant. Finally, his expression smoothed and he sighed loudly.

"Crime is messy," he offered, "especially murder." I nodded, realizing our conversation had taken one of those veering turns back to the case at hand. "First," he enumerated on his long fingers, "you must plan it. Then arrange a setting and get your victim to that setting. Then, you must kill them – successfully. Then, you must clean up the body and also the scene; if it takes place in your home, there's furniture to be replaced, floors to be re-carpeted or, even worse, blood-stained wood to be cleaned. Then the police investigate and if they're competent-" He cut himself off unexpectedly and smiled ironically, "what an absurd premise to go on, eh? – As I was saying, if they're competent, it may lead to an arrest, to court, to the gallows, and ultimately to a very indecorous and undignified death at the end of a noose. So why go through it all without a reason?"

I gave him a scrutinizing look. "In the case of Godwin, you believe it's murder and not self-defense?"

"I suspect it."

"And you think Violet DuBois may have known something?"

"Matthew's murder followed too closely on the heels of Violet's suicide for it not to take on a rather suspicious shape."

He pulled at his stubbled lip, muttering a bit to himself. At length, he shook his head and slapped the soft covered book against the back of his hand with a frustrated grunt.

"I'm missing something, Watson, something important. I need data, I can't make-"

"Yes, yes, bricks need clay and wine needs grapes and all that nonsense. Holmes, you aren't missing anything. You never miss anything. We simply need to arrange our pieces logically."

Holmes gave me a strange look, both amused and feigned surprise. "We?" he echoed meaningfully.

"Well, you did say I could chronicle your cases," I defended.

He stared at me for an interminably long time, almost running his shoulder in a lamppost, even. "I did," he finally admitted, a small twinkle of something bordering of smugness dancing in his eyes.

Then he grew silent and contemplative, his mind apparently returning to the case at hand. He stayed that way for the remainder of our walk.

We'd reached our inn and entered into the warmth with eagerness. My very bones felt chilled and I rubbed my gloved hands together as we mounted the stairs. To our surprise, Mrs. Swanson was busy about her work of setting up the lunch table when we entered my room.

Holmes smiled broadly and closed the door. "Mrs. Swanson! What timing you have!"

She smiled as she laid the silver. "I suppose. Though it is time for the midday meal, so I could also suppose that it is you, and not I, who has the impeccable timing."

The detective flung off his overcoat and gloves without ceremony. "Shall I move your tray to your room, Mr. Holmes?" she asked as he unbuttoned his navy frock coat and dispensed with it as well. At least he had the good grace to leave his tie and stiff collar intact in front of her.

"That's quite alright," he waved her suggestion away. "Your lovely establishment seems almost deserted, Mrs. Swanson. I hope business is well."

She had moved to the door and I opened it for her before she paused to respond, "Oh it's quite well. It habitually clears out a bit after Christmas day, folks go back home. You'd be surprised at how quickly people desire to leave off visiting their relatives."

She bid us adieu and nodded in my direction as I held the door open for her exit. Holmes plunked himself down at my writing desk as I turned my attention to the food, which was a delicious combination of honeyed ham, stuffing and potatoes, eggnog, and a lovely dessert of fruitcake and hot drinking chocolate. Obviously, Mrs. Swanson was using us as a means to dispose of the leftover Christmas foodstuffs. Holmes chose to forgo the meal, but did bring a cup of thick chocolate and cake to where he sat with the diaries laid out before him.

I ate in silence as he skimmed through the pages of one of journals, his elbows on the table and one hand smoothing the back of his hair absently, a habit of his while reading.

He turned a page and sighed as I finished my meal and sipped some eggnog, the warm rum and rich cinnamon imbuing me with a delightfully relaxed and cozy feeling.

"Any success?" I asked.

He exhaled loudly. "Well, aside from some very detailed recollections of past dreams, and some startlingly progressive views on feminism and politics, I've learned a great deal about her thoughts on fashion, marriage, children . . . and that Mr. Matthews apparently had an annoying habit of hitting his spoon on the side of his cup as he stirred his tea, but Miss DuBois didn't know how to broach it." He spread his hands in a mock helpless gesture, and then settled back down to skimming the diaries and smoothing his hair.

"Why don't you look at the last entry, since it would be the last thing she wrote before she died?" I volunteered.

I thought he would reprimand me for suggesting he take a short-cut but his hand stilled and he started to laugh. "I am such an immitigable fool at times, Watson. What would I do without you?" His compliment served to make me feel even warmer as I basked in it. He rifled to the last used page of the diary. "Let's work backwards." Flattening the pages out, he read it intently.

"Hmmm . . . look at this." He stood and offered me the book, which I took with one hand while still sipping my drink.

The last entry was dated from seventeen days previous and consisted of a curious and brief: "I . . . " and nothing else, as if Miss DuBois had taken up her pen to write and either lost interest or couldn't continue on.

The entry prior to it, on the opposite page, was dated a few days before that one and read as follows:

I visited Father Michaela today. He tells me that I should pray if I have troubles. I can't find the strength to pray, because there is nothing to be done. Can I save another's soul with prayer? Do I wish to save his soul?

I love him.

"What do you think this means, Holmes?" I asked as I turned the page to see the previous note, which was written a mere day before and held none of the melancholy or agonized distress of this account. Something had happened between that date and the next, something that she did not spell out even in her personal diary.

Holmes paced furiously back and forth before swinging his frock coat back onto his shoulders. "Let's take a walk."

I stood and followed suit. "Where?" I asked as I smoothed my vest and checked the mirror to see the damage the rain had done to my appearance.

"I thought we might take a tour of Hell's Kitchen. What do you say to that?"

"To be honest," I answered, "it wasn't how I imagined spending my time." Hell's Kitchen was reputably not a pleasant place. Filled with poor Irish immigrants and others whose poverty turned them to gangs, it was notorious for sin and desolation. It was reportedly blessed with its apt nickname when a New York Timesreporter went to get details of a multiple murder there. He referred to a particularly notorious tenement at 39th Street and 10th Avenue as "Hell's Kitchen," and said that the entire section was "probably the lowest and filthiest in the city."

Holmes smiled. "It's no Trafalgar Square, its true. But it's no Whitechapel either. We won't have any problems wit' shivs or the like. We'll stay out of the worst parts."

I could see that he was eager to see the crime-soaked area. Holmes's profession and interests sometimes led him to odd fascinations and questionable means of recreation. I acquiesced and followed dutifully, trying to quell the nervousness that sprung up in my chest.

Once outside, he struck a match on the cobblestone and lit a cigarette before offering me one out of his jacket pocket. I declined politely.

"You haven't had a smoke since we docked here, doctor. Do you miss your Salmon and Gluckstein?"

"I find the fresh air refreshing," I explained and inhaled deeply to highlight my point.

He drew on his tobacco appreciatively and blew out a cloud of smoke that mixed with the vapor already in the air.

"Let's shift over the case and what we know so far," he said after we'd walked a few blocks. "Mrs. Gertrude Brown moves to New York from Georgia, marries an older man and lives out the next thirteen years in quiet unhappiness. Then, she's killed while in the park by a man whom her husband claims was her lover . . . "

"You don't believe that?" I interrupted.

"Not at all," he answered firmly.

"Would you care to share your reasons for this firm belief?"

"Ivy never went to school. She was also not raised by a governess or a nanny. This means that while Mr. Godwin was away at work, she was taken care of by Mrs. Gertrude Godwin. So when exactly would she have had time for this affair? Where would the assignations have taken place?"

I shook my head, "Holmes, that's hardly fool-proof reasoning."

"Fine then," he snapped. "It just doesn't feel right to me." I declined to respond, seeing that Holmes was obviously working off instinct, which was something that never pleased him to admit.

"As I was saying," he continued, "she's killed in the park by her 'lover', who receives a bullet from Mr. Godwin but still manages to escape and is never heard from again. Two years later, her closest friend writes some disturbingly ominous and depressed entries in her diary and then kills herself. A week later, her fiancé is accused by Mr. Godwin of threatening his life and is eventually killed by Mr. Godwin in 'self-defense'."

"Do you understand any of it?" I asked.

"I would understand it all if it weren't for one point that eludes me."

"Which is?" To be honest, I could not see through the muddle at all.

"The man at the window; the man I chased. It wasn't Godwin and it wasn't Matthews. There's an unknown quantity here that I can't explain with the present data."

"Perhaps-"

He suddenly glanced in the wide-paned window of the shop we were passing with a look upon his face that made me fall silent. Rounding the corner, he pulled me into a side street swiftly. "Shhhh. Come here."

We waited a second, hardly breathing, and then his hand snaked out with lightening fast rapidity and caught the sleeve of a hooded passerby. I could tell it was a female from the tattered shawl that concealed her features.

Holmes pulled her roughly to him and removed her shawl to reveal her to us. "Why are you-"

It was the greeter from the reputable Lena's House. She stared at us with that same strangely vacant look, mixed with fear at being discovered, her cherry hair unkempt and falling over her left eye.

Her gaze darted chaotically between us both. There was something peculiar about her eyes that I had mistaken purely for lack of emotion when I had faced her in the foyer of the brothel.

"Kate, is it?" I asked.

"Yes," she replied before lowering her eyes. "Your gloves are cold," she whispered to Holmes, who was still holding her upper arm beneath her shawl.

He let her go and moved to the side to prevent her from running. "Why are you following us?"

She glanced around for a moment, as if seeking escape, but there was none, unless she decided to knock down my friend, which I don't believe she was capable of with her petite build.

"I wasn't doing nothing wrong. I wanted to talk to you." Holmes declined to respond but gave her a patronizing look that spoke of his disbelief. "It's true," she protested. "I didn't think you'd talk to me - you're two fancy British gentlemen and Mrs. Jeffries says we shouldn't talk to men like you outside the house."

I cleared my throat. "We're listening if you need to say something to us now."

She glanced around again and lowered her voice. "Mr. Godwin killed someone?"

Holmes looked at me sidelong, obviously finding this all very interesting. "The police have ruled it self-defense," he answered neutrally, carefully searching her expression.

Her face fell noticeably and she brought her hands up to rub her arms, for either warmth or comfort. "So he won't go to jail?"

"Not as it stands now," I reassured.

Instead of consoling her, this made her look even more crestfallen. Holmes frowned. "Are you upset about that?"

"He deserves to hang!" she exploded unexpectedly and then clamped a hand over her mouth to quell the tears welling up in her eyes. Again, I tried to get a better look at her face to pinpoint what was curious about it, but the shadow of the alley and the disarrayed hair on her head prevented me.

Holmes gave her a keen look. "I must advise you that it is unwise to say such things about a man whose life is already threatened. You may implicate yourself in some scheme."

"I thought he'd already killed the person after him?" she answered smartly. Holmes smiled wanly and cleared his throat. I read a bit of respect in his eyes for her nerve.

"Why do you believe he deserves to hang?" I asked.

She pushed her hair out of her face, finally allowing me a better look. I saw now that her right eye was unfocused but seeing, and that her left eye was entirely useless. This would explain her empty look and curious way of walking. She had nearly run into Holmes when he'd grabbed her, faltering much more so than a clearly seeing person would have.

"He did this to me," she spat. "He threw brandy in my eyes and wouldn't let me flush it out."

I felt a groundswell of sympathy for her, as lowly as her situation was. Her employer had spoken to us about Godwin's brutality to her girls, which had been so severe that she had nearly barred him from her establishment.

After a long stretch of silence, Holmes finally spoke softly, with more than a trace of compassion in his tone, "Your . . . Madame already informed us of his cruel treat. . ."

He almost tripped over his words as she suddenly shrugged her flimsy shift off her shoulders and dropped it to her waist. Instinctively, I reached out to readjust and cover her again, but she turned her back to us and showed us what she wished for us to see.

Angry welt marks whipped across her back, from her neck and down to where they disappeared into the waistline of her dress. They looked old, and were now only scars, though her flesh was irritated around them, probably because of sensitivity to abrasive clothing. Holmes let out a small curse under his breath as we surveyed the injuries.

"He did this as well," she said quietly, her head bowed. "It'll never go away. I can't see clients no more because of this and now I only open doors which don't pay good. Mr. Jeffries allows me to stay because she's being nice, but I have no money and nowhere to go!" She broke into a sob, unconcerned with her state of dress.

Holmes ran a hand over his face and turned away. "Put your dress up, please. You'll get us arrested."

She scoffed. "Right, I'll get arrested, is more like it," she muttered but complied, sliding her arms back through her linen and shaking out her shawl. When she'd covered herself sufficiently, she turned and looked at my friend imploringly.

He met her gaze straight on. "I can't mete out your justice for you, Kate."

She nodded, her lips compressed together and her chin quivering. "He deserves to hang. He done something. He ain't never been innocent in anything in his life. If someone were threatening him, it's because he deserved it," she stated firmly. Holmes's face contorted with frustration.

"We're still looking into it," I interjected.

She brushed away her tears and took a calming breath. Apologizing for bothering us, she made to walk around Holmes and leave the alley. He grabbed her once again, his other hand stealing into his pocket to withdraw his money book. She frowned at him when she saw it but didn't say a word as he withdrew a substantial sum of American dollars and pressed them into her small palm.

"Here, take this. Don't give it away. It's not payment, it's a gift." He tightened his grip on her hand, forcing her to look at him and not at the money, which she was gazing at with nothing short of awe. "Hide it if you must but do not let anyone take it from you. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

He released her and for a moment she looked as if she wished to embrace him but thought better of it, merely nodding to herself and leaving silently. We watched her make her way across the block, sticking out like a sore thumb with her shabby clothing and inadequate covering.

"Poor girl," I lamented as she left.

Holmes threw his hands up in the air with sudden exasperation. "I wish she'd told us something more. None of this helps me. Being odious is a crime that many indulge in and get away with, especially when it's directed at people like that. I can't do anything with this." He ran a hand over his face like a man distracted and then gave me a thin smile. "But come," he clapped me on the shoulder, "let's not let it stand in the way of our afternoon stroll. I need to think, and walking is good for the intellect."