From W. Y. Traveller: Holmes and Watson bump into an old client.
Heartless Jack Strikes Again! Lord Pennington Dead in Diamond Heist!
I read the article one December morning. Lord Victor Pennington's north London estate was infiltrated, he was violently murdered, and his personal vault was breached. The Dasra Diamond was taken. The killer thief left his calling card: a jack of hearts with little black crosses inked over the faces. Holmes seemed particularly intrigued by the story.
Later that day, Holmes and I had lunch across town with an old military companion (he was visiting London on his way to Eastbourne). Upon returning to Baker Street, Holmes paused to examine the front lock. He ran his thumb over a thin scratch near the copper keyhole. As we ascended the stairs to our flat, Holmes closed his eyes and sniffed, like a bloodhound on the scent. Once upstairs, he said, "Nicotiana rustica."
"Pardon?" I said.
"Its odor is overwhelming," said Holmes. "Can't you smell the freshly burned tobacco? The smoke?"
"This flat has smelled like tobacco smoke since the day I moved in," I said.
"Granted," said Holmes. "But not this type of tobacco. The scent is quite distinctive. It was burned with a pungent blend of cinnamon, clove buds and flowery herbs." He inhaled deeply, eyes closed, and held in his breath for several seconds. Holmes moved to the fireplace, and crouched down over the smoldered wood and ash. It hadn't been lit since early this morning. "Here, Watson. There's ash."
"In the fireplace?" I said. "That's hardly a surprise."
"Tobacco ash," said Holmes. He pinched gray-white clump of ash between his fingers, and sprinkled it onto his other palm for closer examination. "Ash knocked from a pipe into the fireplace, after the wielder of the pipe smoked a hearty dose of Nicotiana rustica, also known as Aztec tobacco. It's a somewhat rare strain, here in London. Uncommonly high nicotine content. Thus, someone was seated here, in this chair, smoking from their pipe no more than one hour ago."
"Are you sure?" I said, making a cursory scan of the kitchen and common area. I saw no intruder.
"Positively," said Holmes. "Look, on the counter, he helped himself to one of Mrs. Hudson's apple pastries."
I turned my attention to the basket of pastries that Mrs. Hudson had gifted us yesterday afternoon. There were four this morning when we left the flat, and yet now only three remained.
"You're telling me that someone broke in, smoked his pipe, and ate a pastry?" I said.
Holmes nodded. He didn't appear overly concerned at the notion of a trespasser.
"Who? And why? And how did they get in?" I said.
"He got in through the front door," said Holmes. "Did you notice the scratch from his lockpicking tool by the keyhole? That wasn't there this morning. Perhaps you heard the subtle change in pitch in the sound of the key turning in the tampered lock. He was a bit rough with it. As to why, I can only assume that the man hoped to meet with us. He smoked his pipe and ate a pastry while he waited. Nothing else seems to have been disturbed in our absence."
I scoffed. "A potential client, then? Though, I've never heard of a client breaking in when the consultant is away."
"Yes, he's a peculiar fellow," said Holmes.
"You know the intruder's identity?" I said.
"I only know a handful of men who smoke Aztec tobacco by the pipe," said Holmes. "Only one of them has the skill and nerve to pick the front lock in broad daylight, as well as a penchant for apple-flavored sweets." He looked around the flat, furrowing his brow. Holmes strode toward the door to his bedroom on the other side of the flat, taking a minute to examine the circular knob. "Jack!" he called out. "What are you doing in my room?"
The door knob turned. Holmes's bedroom door slowly swung open. In the frame stood a tall, lanky man, with a mess of curly brown-blond hair and a stubbled face. He would have been taller but for his slouching posture. His eyes were dark and his nose was crooked. He was donned in an old green suit and overcoat, complete with a smattering of patches and stains. Our intruder had a curious smile across his face.
"How did you know I was in the bedroom?" said Jack, sheepishly.
"The doorknob," said Holmes.
"Did I leave a print?" said Jack, aghast, perhaps embarrassed. Apparently, he took his ability to trespass quite seriously.
"You left it at the wrong angle of rotation," said Holmes. "A few degrees off, counterclockwise."
Jack shook his head. "The wrong angle," he muttered to himself.
"What were you doing in there?" said Holmes. "You know I value my privacy."
"Sorry, Holmes," said Jack. "Couldn't help myself from looking through your disguise kit. Not a bad collection."
"I'm sorry, who are you?" I interjected. I had grown used to Holmes's eclectic crew of informants and investigative agents, but this man struck me as especially odd.
"Jack," said Jack. "Pleasure to meet you, Dr. Watson."
"Jack and I have worked together in the past," said Holmes. "I helped find his sister, and he's helped me gather evidence for several cases."
I wondered what type of evidence a lockpick like Jack was likely to seek out. I tended not to pry deeply into Holmes's extralegal investigative efforts. The way I saw it, legality has never corresponded one-to-one with morality, and I trusted Holmes's ethics. I trusted him to find the line without crossing it.
"What exactly do you want from us, Jack?" I said.
"I need a detective," said Jack. "I've been accused of a rather serious crime that I did not commit." He shook his head. "Homicide, and a bit of burglary."
I exchanged a glance with Holmes. He nodded to me. "In the newspaper, he's known as Heartless Jack," said Holmes. "I trust you've heard of him."
The infamous thief coined Heartless Jack had left his jack-of-hearts calling card at half a dozen scenes—there was the vanishing of Duke Fallow's ruby necklace, the Earl of Northampton's stolen pink diamond, and the lost self-portrait of Vermeer, to name a few. This was the man accused of absconding with the Dasra Diamond, and murdering Lord Pennington. A shiver ran down my spine. He didn't look physically intimidating, though there was a shiftiness in those eyes, and blatant disregard for locked doors, which left me uneasy.
"You didn't rob or hurt Lord Pennington?" said Holmes. He studied him as he spoke.
"Of course not," said Jack. "But the real killer, the coward, imitated my calling card. My signature!"
Holmes eyed him carefully for a long minute. "Indeed, I saw the card at the Yard. It didn't look like your work, from what I remember. Wrong brand of cards, wrong brand of ink, too much pressure with the pen, unusually jagged." Holmes counted his observations with raised fingers. "Do you have any idea who's responsible?"
"No," said Jack. "I was hoping you could help with that. To be honest, I'm not particularly worried about the police catching up with me, frame job or not. But I have associates who wouldn't be too pleased to think I murdered the old Lord." Jack walked around Holmes to the kitchen, and helped himself to another apple pastry. He spoke with his mouth full. "I'll help you however I can, you know me. I get in, I grab, and I get out. But I need you as my deduction guy."