soledad_writes

SHERLOCK & THE ILLUSTRIOUS CLIENT
by Soledad

Author’s note: A few lines of dialogue are borrowed from “The Adventure of the Illustrious Client”.

Freiherr is the old-fashioned German word for Baron; a Baroness may be called Freifrau. And yes, aristocrats do adopt commons from time to time, either for financial advantage or because they don’t have children of their own.

Timeframe: After Sherlock’s return. John has been married to Mary for about a year and moved out of 221B Baker Street.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

CHAPTER 04 – FAMILY SECRETS

September 4th 2014

When he returned to the living room, he found Sherlock sitting in his chair, hands stapled under his chin in his characteristic thinking pose. He clearly hadn’t retired to his Mind Palace, though, because his eyes were not vacant. So John hoped that he would be ready to discuss the case.

“All right, Sherlock,” he said, falling into his old armchair, opposite his friend. “Who’s this girl, how do you know her and why did you take the case, even though Mycroft clearly had his fingers in the whole thing?”

Sherlock gave him a pained grimace. “You know who she is, John, don’t be ridiculous! You’re an Army doctor, surely you must have heard of General Merville.”

“Of course I have,” John replied. “But we’re talking about his daughter here. A daughter you seem to know from more than just the tabloids.”

Sherlock pulled a face. “Oh, for God’s sake, as if I’d waste my time with reading their drivel! Why don’t you try to use that tiny little brain of yours for a change? You’ve heard the girl’s name; it’s not a very common one.”

“True. So what?” John still wasn’t getting it, and it made him more than just a little annoyed. Having moved out of Baker Street also meant less exposure to Sherlock’s, well, Sherlockness, and thus he was no longer entirely immune against his ex-flatmate’s casual insults.

Sherlock glared daggers at him. “So, have you known anyone else by that name?”

“Not among my friends, I haven’t,” John replied.

His friends all had normal, everyday names. Not everyone could be a Holmes, cursed by the most ridiculous names a deranged parent could think of… oh!

I a sudden flashback of almost blinding clarity he could see himself at the only time he’d visited the Holmes manor, being introduced to the infamous Mummy – tall and imperious like both her sons, with Sherlock’s pale eyes and high cheekbones. Her deep contralto voice still echoed in his ears.

It is a pleasure to meet you, Doctor Watson. I’m Violet Holmes.

“Your mother,” John said. “Is she related to the girl?”

“Not by blood,” Sherlock replied. “But Father was an old friend of General Merville, which is why they named their only, late-born daughter after Mummy. She’s the girl’s godmother, too.”

“I see,” John really thought that this time he’d figured it out on his own. “So, you think your client is actually Mycroft?”

“Oh, please!” Sherlock snorted disdainfully. “He’d never do anything so simple.”

Right. It would have been too nice to ‘get’ the Holmes mindset just this once.

“Simple?” John repeated in disbelief. “Sending somebody on such a roundabout way to make you take the case is simple?”

“It is for Mycroft,” Sherlock shrugged. “And for me.” No; the actual client is somebody else. Somebody standing way above Mycroft; or Sir James.”

“Hmmm,” John frowned a little. “Do you know who it is?”

“Let’s say I can make an educated guess,” Sherlock replied. “Sir James is also an old friend of the Duke of York; and the late wife of General Melville…”

“… was distantly related to the royal family, yes, I know,” John interrupted him a little impatiently. “What?” he asked, seeing Sherlock's surprise. “You’re not the only one who knows things. All right, then, is the Duke your client?”

“It’s a distinct possibility,” Sherlock admitted. “But, as Sir James said, it’s irrelevant. I must do my best to get rid of this Baron Gruner. If I don’t, it would upset Mummy, and believe me, you don’t want Mummy upset. That would lower the temperature in the whole country by ten degrees in a second.”

“She was friendly enough to me,” John said.

“You’re not family; and you haven’t crossed her yet,” Sherlock answered dryly. “Fortunately, she’s not my problem right now. Not yet. My problem is the Lügenbaron.”

“The what?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at this question. “Really, John, and you criticize me for my lack of knowledge in popular culture? Have you never heard of Munchausen, the Baron of Lies? What kind of childhood did you have?”

“Pot – kettle – black,” John muttered but let the topic slide because there was no use arguing with Sherlock when he was in a mood like this. “So, have you learned anything new from the Baron in the three minutes while I saw Sir James out?”

“Surprisingly little, considering how privacy has become extinct since the birth of the internet,” Sherlock admitted unhappily. “His current address is Vernon Lodge, near Kingston.”

“Never heard of the place,” John said.”

“Neither have I before, but fortunately for us, it has a long history and therefore its own Wikipedia entry. Look at this!”

Sherlock turned around his laptop so that John would have a good look at the screen, which showed the high resolution photo of Vernon Lodge: the architectural nightmare of a long, low building that was still imposing in its size and solidity, in spite of the silly little turrets at the corners.

“The article says that the place has originally been built by some rich adventurer who’d made his wealth with South-African gold in the days of the great boom,” he explained. It has been redecorated several times since then; until Baron Gruner bought it some ten years ago and decided to have its original form reconstructed. He probably liked the ‘fortified manor’ look of it; calling such a pompous place his own would be attractive to a con man like him.”

“You think he’s a fake?”

“Oh, don’t be an idiot, John; of course he’s a fake!” Sherlock huffed. “The Anglicised version of a German name should be enough to point it our, even for you!”

John crossed his arms in challenge. “Well, it does not. And Sir James called him a Baron; he’d know if Gruner were an impostor.”

“Strangely enough, he isn’t; but that doesn’t mean he’d be an aristocrat by blood,” Sherlock said. “It’s true hat he was adopted by the Freiherr von Grünewald zu Drachenfels, a penniless aristocrat from Austria. Quite a few noble families in Europe do this to escape poverty; they usually demand a hefty fee for sharing their historic name.”

“And you’ve figured this out in these few minutes?” John shook his head in amazement. “That’s… brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.”

“As much as I enjoy baffling you, I’m afraid this time it isn’t my doing,” Sherlock confessed. “It’s all in the Wikipedia entry about our Baron; he seems fairly proud of his achievement. His true name is Albert Gruner; son of an Austrian father and an Italian mother from South Tyrol, which supposedly explains his success with women.”

“Ah,” John said, getting the hint. “A ‘Latin lover’ type, then?”

Sherlock nodded. “And one who clearly brings out the best of the role. Have I mentioned that his late wife was the heiress of a considerable real estate enterprise in Vienna?”

“No, Sherlock, you haven’t,” John grinned, seeing that his friend was rapidly gaining speed.

“Well, she was,” Sherlock called up various news articles on the screen. “Strangely enough, her bank account was empty when she died; swept absolutely clean.”

“Legally?”

“Oh, yes. All transactions were either performed by her in person or with her password online. Where the money has gone – and we’re speaking about millions in double digits here – no-one can tell.”

“I remember reading something about that in the papers,” John said. “So you think our Baron has her money now?”

“Hard to tell,” Sherlock replied thoughtfully. “Just before he would be adopted into aristocracy, he’d been fortunate in some rather shady speculations and became a very rich man, but all that might be gone again. We’ll need a deeper insight into his finances; Mycroft would know more about that.”

“You’re asking your brother for help?” John asked in mock horror. “The world must be ending!”

“I’ll demand his cooperation, since he brought me into this twisted case in the first place,” Sherlock corrected haughtily. John rolled his eyes.

“You’re really childish, the two of you. All right, what else have you learned about the Baron?”

“He has expensive tastes,” Sherlock said. “Horses seem to be a great passion of his, but he also collects books and pictures. Seems to be a man with an artistic streak. And he’s a recognised authority on Chinese pottery; he even has written a book about it.”

“Well, if that isn’t a surprise,” John muttered, but Sherlock shook his head.

“No, actually it isn’t. All great criminals have a complex mind, and many of them possess some artistic talent.”

“If you say so,” John said doubtfully. “How are you going to approach this case then?”

Sherlock gave him one of those tight smiles. “Any views on how I should?”

“Perhaps you should talk to the girl,” John suggested. “You’ve known her since childhood, after all.”

“Which is why she’s unlikely to listen to me,” Sherlock said. “Although I might give it a try later, if only to see if she’s hiding anything. But I think we must begin from a different angle; and I also believe that Shinwell Johnson might be able to help with that.”

John nodded slowly. Shinwell Johnson was one of Sherlock’s unofficial agents. A reformed criminal who’d spent altogether eleven years in prison, on two different occasions, before he’d have a change of the heart and ally himself to Sherlock.

On the outside he still seemed to be his old self, working as the doorkeeper of a night club. He used his extensive contacts in the criminal underworld of London to gather information for Sherlock; information that often proved to be of vital importance. In exchange for money, of course, but he was very reliable.

Had he been working with the police, he’d long have been exposed and most likely killed by now. But since he only ever dealt with Sherlock, his ‘friends’ never discovered his activities. His criminal past, with his considerable length of time in prison had given him a fearsome reputation among the criminal classes; therefore he had easy access to every night club, gambling arcade and doss house in the city.

He also had a shrewd mind and good observation skills, which made him an ideal agent for gaining information. Yes, if anyone could ferret out the Baron’s dirty secrets, it would be Shinwell Jones, John decided.

He looked at his watch. “Well, good luck with that. I’m out and off now. Must put on something fancy for my romantic evening with Mary.”

He grinned at the disgust appearing on Sherlock’s face at the R-word and scurried down the stairs.

~TBC~