Sherlock Holmes and the lost tiger (5)

The next day I returned to Baker Street to inform Holmes of Wolf Moritz’s death. I half hoped that the news that Lestrade had beaten him to it, together with the new mystery of Wolf’s death would inspire Holmes to action. Maybe he’d even leap out of his chair and insist on rushing to the scene of the crime before Lestrade’s men had managed to stomp their size tens all over the clues.

 

“He’s already with company,” Mrs Hudson warned me when I arrived, so I was expecting to see Lady Chivers, but I was surprised to find a third person sharing the hashish pipe with Holmes, a young man, dressed in what could only be described as fashionable attire.

 

“This Watson,” said Holmes, anticipating my question, “Is Sir Richard Hewson.

 

“Nice to meet you,” I said.

 

“Would you like some,” Sir Richard proffered me the pipe, “It’s the latest hashish blend, it’s called Last of the Vagrants.”

 

“I’m fine thank you,” I said, noting the continued poor taste of Holmes’ ganja supplier.

 

“Then to what do we owe the pleasure of your visit, Watson?”

 

I quickly outlined my visit to Lestrade, his deduction that the man we were looking for was Wolf Moritz and our ill-fated journey across London to Wolf’s apartments. “Wolf had been dead for a week when we got there, strangled in his own rooms by person or persons unknown.”

 

“Oh, well that wraps up that side of the case Watson. We can relax now.”

 

“Wraps it up,” I said aghast, “It’s just the opposite, we’ve now got an unsolved murder to go with the missing tiger.”

 

“But Watson, you can’t ask a dead man where he left his tiger, think logically not emotionally. Our only lead has died, therefore we wait for the tiger to make its next move. In the meantime I have something for you. It’s important.”

 

From his jacket pocket he retrieved an envelope of the finest quality.

 

Inside was a lavish invitation card, with bold, gold lettering, to a ball being thrown by Sir Hugo Manner.

 

“What’s this Holmes?” I asked, hoping for an explanation.

 

“It’s an invitation to a ball Watson. I do hope you’ll come. You can bring Mary, or Lestrade, depending on your inclination.”

 

“But who’s Sir Hugo Manner? I’ve never heard of the man, why would he invite me to a ball?”

 

“Sir Hugo is a close friend of the new king, a member of the same clubs as half of the cabinet and a man who knows how to throw a really good party.”  This last statement obtained a laugh of approval from Lady Chivers and Sir Richard. “Sir Richard, Lady Chivers and myself insisted that you be added to the invitation list.”

 

“Are people still throwing balls, with the tiger and everything. Every other event seems to be cancelled, even my regiment’s annual has been cancelled this year.”

 

“Oh, Sir Hugo’s safe from the tiger. Security around his house is unimaginable, a five-foot-high ring of steel, with entry through a steel gate patrolled by a dozen soldiers. Don’t forget your invitation whatever you do, his security men might mistake you for the tiger.”

 

As ever, Holmes comments were greeted by unjustified giggling from Lady Chivers. Having accepted the invitation card from Holmes he lost interest in my presence and, after several minutes of being ignored, I made my excuses and left.

 

Retrieving my coat and hat from Mrs Hudson I once more made my way across London to New Scotland Yard.

 

Lestrade was most puzzled by my invitation. “Why would you want to go to a ball with me? I thought you were married Watson. Can’t you take your wife? I’m sure she’ll love it.”

 

“But Holmes suggested I take you.”

 

“He did, did he.” Lestrade looked perplexed. “You think this relates to the case? Or is it just an intoxicated joke.”

 

“It’s hard to tell,” I confessed. “But we have to assume he’s not as out of his mind as he makes out. In the case of the twisted lip he spent weeks assuming the guise of an opium addict. Suppose this is simply a similar ruse.”

 

“But to completely ignore Wolf Moritz’s murder. The old Holmes would never leave a knot unfurled in that way.”

 

“Maybe he didn’t ignore it,” I said, suddenly inspired. “Maybe he went round to Moritz’s house that very night, after I’d left him, and found the dead body. Maybe he found all the clues his needed. With Wolf dead, the lead was a dead end and he’s pursuing another lead.”

 

“A lead that involves him smoking his mind away. Well I hope you’re right. I’ll come to the ball with you anyway Watson, not many pleasures to be had at New Scotland Yard these days, the clearances make pretty gruesome work I can tell you. These people may be sleeping in the street, but at least they’re sleeping somewhere. I dread to think what’ll happen to them all. Still anything’s better than becoming tiger-meat I suppose. Black tie is it?”

 

“I’m afraid so.”

 

“Well, I’ll pick you up on the night of the ball.”