“It took some doing, but yes. I have all of it in hand. And a partial description of the seller—hooded and attempting to conceal herself, but female, small, pale, with dark hair and, I am sorry to say, a large beauty mark on her right cheek.”
“The silly young thing was foolish enough to try to sell the goods herself!” I said.
“And yet she must have lugged that amount of silver with some difficulty,” said Holmes thoughtfully.
He dashed off a note to the countess and sent it to Belgravia with our page, Billy. As I poured him a celebratory whisky, I noticed some newspapers and periodicals open on the table. I caught a glimpse of an article titled “The Rambunctious Rameaus” in some scandal rag. I looked up to see Holmes staring at me with unusual interest.
“Survived the afternoon intact, I see?” he asked with a smile.
“Really, Holmes! You knew what she was like, didn’t you?”
“Watson, all of London does. The countess and her husband are in a famously permissive marriage. They regularly take lovers, throw discretion to the winds, and are seen everywhere about town with them. I’ve been doing a little research. You are, apparently, Madam’s type.”
“Oh, for God’s sake—”
“You are a brave man, Watson.”
“Ha! That must be my attraction,” I said. “That and my biceps, apparently.”
There was a pause before we both burst out laughing.
We were in Belgravia at nine the next morning, but to Holmes’s surprise, the butler informed us that the countess had left for her country estate the previous evening. A note addressed to me directed us to meet her at Flintwood with the silver, as she had decided to confront Clara after all.
Outside, on the pavement before Eaton Square Gardens, Holmes and I decided we would take the train to Pebblewirth, the nearest station to their country seat. “But later this afternoon, Watson. I have a few inquiries to make before we travel to the lair of the philandering Rameaus. I will be happy to wash my hands of this business.”
“Perhaps you should go on alone,” I suggested.
“I wouldn’t think of it, my dear Watson,” said he. “Besides, I would like a witness when I disclose the sizeable payment I have managed to retain from the initial two batches of sovereigns.”
At the end of the afternoon, after an hour’s train ride and another hour in a hired carriage to the estate, we stood on the steps of a grand, three-storey stone and marble edifice at the end of a long driveway lined with poplars. The trees whipped about in the wind that had come up, and dark grey clouds had made their appearance on the horizon. I shivered, having only a light coat with me. A foolish error for an Englishman in this unpredictable season, but it had been mild and sunny when we left London. I hoped we would not be long in this place.
We were not expected. Holmes’s name meant nothing to the sour-faced butler, and to our surprise, the countess was not at home here, either. The man, Peterson by name, advised us to take lodging in the nearby town. “Madam may arrive sometime in the next few days. You might try back then.”
Peterson then refused to provide a carriage, and despite the incipient storm, directed us to walk to the main road a mile away and try our luck with some passing vehicle. This was surprisingly inhospitable, I thought.
Holmes indicated the large carpetbag he had placed at his feet. “We have something to deliver to the lady, and I don’t wish to have it hanging about an inn. It is precious silver from the count and countess’s home in Belgravia.”
Just as he said this, a tall, elegant man appeared behind the butler. “Peterson,” he said sharply, “what is this about our silver?”
Minutes later, Holmes having introduced us and stated our business, we faced Count Rameau across an enormous low table in a salon lined with gigantic oil paintings. Through the French windows behind him, a formal row of rosebushes shuddered in the brisk wind.
The count reclined and, as we spoke, continuously smoothed luxurious wings of black hair away from his face. He seemed as vain as any theatre actor. But his eyes kept darting to me. Odd, I thought.
Holmes related the countess’s story, leaving out her suspicions about the specific maid. He opened the carpetbag to reveal the treasure within. The count glanced down at it and waved a hand.
“Yes, that is ours. Hers, really, as she said,” He looked Holmes over. “You have come a very long way to deliver it, so I presume you are here for payment?” He rang for the butler who appeared in an instant. “Peterson, take this silver, list the contents, lock it in the pantry.” The fellow departed. The count turned back to Holmes. “All right, you’ve done your little job; now what do we owe you for your service?”
“My fee has already been paid. Don’t you wish to know how the silver came to be missing, Count?” asked Holmes.
The count shrugged. He then leaned back in his chair and once more languidly appraised me without any attempt to hide it. I felt distinctly uncomfortable under the man’s gaze.
“Who are you, again?” he suddenly demanded of me. His gaze flicked between Holmes and me and he smiled. “Friend and colleague? What does that mean, exactly?”
“It means precisely what it says, Count Rameau. Dr. Watson assists me in my investigations. Do you have a young lady on your staff, a lady’s maid named Clara?” Holmes said.
The man ignored the question. He continued to stare at me.
“Doctor, eh? Have you met my wife on the occasion of her hiring your ‘friend and colleague’? If not, I feel certain the countess would enjoy meeting you. Elena is due to arrive tomorrow.” The count turned back to Holmes. “This could be amusing,” said he. “I am of a mind to invite you to stay.”
“No, really, I don’t think—” I began.
“Thank you, we will accept,” said Holmes. “May I interview your maid, Clara?”
“Why?”
Holmes said nothing. The inference was clear.
“Oh, I see. My wife is trying to pin the theft on the little ‘robin redbreast,’ is she? Well, I doubt Clara did it.” He smiled and rang. The butler appeared, and he sent for the maid. I puzzled over the “robin redbreast” comment.
In a moment the girl appeared, bobbing her head in respect, and lingering in the doorway until the count bade her enter. She was slender, pale, dark-haired, perhaps seventeen or eighteen, with a large beauty mark on her right cheek. Her starched maid’s costume was unusual in that it featured no typical high, ruffled collar, but instead a plunging décolleté. It was as though she were costumed as a French maid in a West End farce.
I glanced at Holmes, who was taking all this in, and probably a great deal more.
The girl stood before us. As she did so, the count moved to her side and put his hand on her shoulder. It was less a gesture of protection than it was of ownership. I did not like it. She seemed to shrink, but the count gave her a sharp look. In response she straightened up, and met our eyes with a forced but steady gaze.
“Clara,” said the count. “This gentlemen wishes to question you. Please answer him as best you can.” His hand remained on her shoulder. Clearly the man cared nothing for propriety, but this seemed to be a family trait.
He patted her shoulder, and the pat turned into a caress. The girl held steady as though nothing odd were happening…but began to flush—not just her face, but her neck and chest went red as well. “Robin redbreast” he had called her. I found myself hot with embarrassment. I glanced at Holmes. He gave little indication but I sensed that even he was uncomfortable at this bizarre display.
“Gentlemen,” said the count. “She is all yours. Ask her what you will. Clara, answer Mr. Hearns.”
“The name is Holmes. I prefer to interview her privately.”
“No,” said the count.
There was a pause. The count’s hand remained on Clara’s shoulder. I could have been mistaken, but I thought I saw it
tighten. My stomach lurched.
“All right, then. What is your family name, if you would, Miss?” asked Holmes gently.
“Smith.”
“Miss Smith, how long have you been in the employ of the count and countess?”
“Four months next week, sir.”
“And who hired you, Miss?”
“Sir did.” She glanced sideways at her employer then looked down. His hand caressed her shoulder.
The girl kept her reactions well masked, yet I thought I noted fear in her eyes. Holmes observed her closely. “Count,” he asked, “are you in the habit of hiring lady’s maids who work for you? Is this not usually the purview of the housekeeper, or indeed the lady of the house?”
“I choose them when it suits me to do so. But that is hardly any of your business, Mr. Holmes. Are you finished with your questions?”
“No. Clara, do you normally have access to the silver in the Rameau household in Belgravia?”
For the first moment, the girl looked blank. “The silver?” she said. “No, why?”
“Some went missing, and the countess seems convinced that you took it.” Holmes shrugged as though that were the silliest notion, but he was obliged to say it.
She did not reply but looked confused, and glanced up at her employer. He shook his head.
“I don’t know any silver,” said she. “And I have no reason to touch it. I am a lady’s maid. Butler locks it up, I think,” said the girl, suddenly uneasy.
“Then you do know of it?”
“Only as I have seen it on the table, sir.”
“So you see. Clara is no thief,” said the count. “We are finished here. Leave us, Clara.”
At the command, the girl started, then fairly dashed from the room as he rang for the butler. “I have changed my mind. I ask that you leave Flintwood now,” said the count.
There was the sound of thunder and, over our host’s shoulder, I could see that a downpour now pummelled the gardens. Peterson appeared at the doorway.
“Peterson, pay Mister—what was it—‘Holmes’ for his trouble. Ten pounds. Then send these two off to Pebblewirth Station in our carriage,” said the count. “You have got what you came for, Mr. Holmes. Good day.”
“Sir?” said the butler. “The carriage is away fetching provisions for the countess’s arrival tomorrow. And our landau is in town with the wheels in repair. All we have available just now is the dog cart, or the two field ponies. Your hunters are at the farriers.”
The count relented. “All right. I suppose you must spend the night. Peterson, have James take them to…”
“The blue room is available, sir,” said Peterson.
The count nodded sharply. “Perfect.”
The “blue room,” as it turned out, was a dismal little space tucked away under the eaves in the chilly north end of the house, with blue wallpaper peeling from the walls, and the wind rattling through cracks in the window. Two hard single beds, a lone armoire, and a washstand with two threadbare towels were the only amenities. A single, half-burned tallow candle sat on a rickety table between the two beds.
We had passed numerous guest rooms, their doors open to reveal sumptuous furnishings. All of these, of course, had stood empty.
“Holmes?” I said.
“One night only, Watson.”
“I did not plan for an overnight stay.”
“Nor did I. But we have little choice, unless you would care to walk back to Pebblewirth through this.” He waved to the window. An icy rain beat down on the verdant landscape, now growing grey under the settling dusk.
The small fireplace was cold and empty, nothing to burn. In an hour, two dried sandwiches and two bruised apples arrived at the room, along with a carafe of cloudy water and a pot of lukewarm tea. I have dined better in a pauper’s house.
And so at we began a restless and chilly night, sleeping in our clothes on the hard beds, with one thin blanket each.
It was after three in the morning when I was awakened by Holmes shaking me by the shoulder. He held the candle, guttering in the cold, drafty room. He was drenched, and cold droplets from his sleeve hit me on the neck. “Watson, come. There is evil afoot. We have work to do. I will explain later.”
I leapt from the bed and threw on my thin coat. We ran out into the rainy night like two thieves, my blood rising to the challenge of the chase. Crossing a wide yard, our footsteps crunching on the gravel, we proceeded downhill over a soaked lawn, then down a brick path, to the stables.
The downpour had dwindled to a cold spitting rain, and a watery moon glowed faintly silver through the clouds. Now I, too, was soaked. The stables were black and, as we approached, I heard a horse nickering softly at our presence, then another, in answer. We continued around to the back, to an elaborate construction previously hidden from view. Once out of sight of the main house, Holmes carefully lit a dark lantern he had evidently procured somewhere on the estate.
The structure appeared to be a new addition, one large room, with pipes for indoor plumbing at one end, and a single window. From it, a warm light burned through closed pink curtains. We moved toward it, and I could see through a sliver of an opening a young woman in her nightclothes, sitting on an enormous bed with velvet coverlets and many pillows.
Clara. She was alone in what was clearly a hideaway.
Unlike the other servants, who were usually housed under the eaves in the main house, as we were, Clara had been isolated here.
In spite of the hour, the girl was awake, sitting on the edge of her bed, rocking and nodding, whether with joy or to comfort herself, I could not tell. I moved closer to the window, but Holmes’s thin fingers grasped my arm and pulled me back.
“Watch where you step! The footprints!” He pointed to the mud below the window, under the eaves, and thus protected, a little, from the rain.
“What? Whose? I squinted. “Looks like a woman’s shoe.”
“Watson, I believe this girl is in danger. We must go in there and interview her apart from the count.”
“But this is terribly improper, Holmes. The girl is alone, in her nightclothes. Can’t it wait ‘til morning?”
“That is why you are here. I need a witness. This girl’s life may depend on it. The count had her up in his room for over an hour this night.”
“Why, this place here seems to be designed for—”
“Exactly. But while Clara was there, your friend the countess arrived, and—”
“—she is not my friend!”
“Shh. It was then about two. She entered the house, careful to make no sound. Clara was still with the count. I expected some confrontation, but instead, the countess shortly exited the house, carrying an umbrella and a small sack. I followed her down to the stables here, and watched as she peered through the window, entered Clara’s empty room, lit a candle, and placed something in the back of the lowest drawer over there.”
“She is trying to set up the girl with another ‘theft’!” I exclaimed.
“You astound, Watson. She then left and returned to the main house. I meant to retrieve whatever it was she left but—don’t step there, I said!”
“Sorry. Is this the countess’s footprint, do you think?”
“Of course. Keep your voice down. I meant to go in and fetch the item, but the girl returned before I could.”
“But this has already been tried, and it failed,” I pointed out. “The count will no doubt defend the girl as he did today, with us. He doesn’t care if she’s a thief!”
“Something has changed, Watson; the countess has raised her game. It was she who sold the silver disguised as the girl, I would wager, though it will be difficult to prove. This couple has broken more than a few hearts. Their antics are games to them, but dire to some they have seduced.”
“Do you really think the girl is in actual danger?”
“I do. Depending on what is in that drawer, the girl could hang for the theft.”
“My God,” I cried, but just as I did, the pink curtains were yanked open and the face of Clara Smith stared out at the window at us, only inches from our own.
She screamed.
It seemed I had been asleep only minutes when Holmes shook me awake a second time. Shortly, after a discussion with Clara in her hideaway, he’d insisted I return to our room while he attended to “a few small matters.”
“What time is it?” I asked. Bright sunlight now flooded through the small window of our awful room. I blearily took in his utterly soaked clothing. “What have you been up to?”
“Later. Come! We are to join the countess for breakfast in the Orangerie. Say nothing of our visit last night.”
In the Orangerie, we found Countess Rameau seated at one end of a long table. On a sideboard were silver dishes of fruits, pastries, and sausages, along with a tureen of scrambled eggs. She looked up to smile warmly at me, then gasped when she noticed the state of our clothing. I was still quite damp, but Holmes was literally dripping.
“Oh, Doctor, you must be chilly! Come here, sit by the fire, near me! I take it you brought the recovered silver, Mr. Holmes? And identified the thief?”
“The silver is here,” said he. “And…the seller had a mole on her cheek! We are very fortunate in this distinctive identification!”
The countess smiled and was about to reply when the count burst into the room all in a fury, and near hysteria, Peterson anxiously trailing him. “Find it! Find it! Search everywhere. The servants’ quarters! Everywhere!” The count seemed surprised to see us all there. “Elena! When did you arrive?”
“In the night, darling.”
“Er, when exactly?”
“Maybe five, six this morning? What is the matter, dear?”
“My inkwell! It has been stolen! Dear God, someone took the inkwell!” He keened in agony, nearly tearing out his hair.
“Oh, dear,” said the countess, arising and rushing to her husband. “Not the inkwell?” The count nodded and covered his face with his hands. She turned to us. “A precious antique! The inkwell that was used by William Shakespeare! It sits on the count’s desk. He writes his daily list from it every morning. That remarkable item is the pinnacle of our family’s collection!”
The Return of Sherlock Holmes Page 2
