My first clue something had gone amiss was the stationmaster. When I asked where I could hire transport to Ridling Thorpe Manor, he looked down at my medical bag and said, “I don’t think you’ll be in time to save her. And if you do, it’s only for the gallows.”
“Save who? What are you speaking of?” I stammered.
“Elsie Cubitt. Thought you knew. Shot her husband last night, she did. Then she done herself. Mind you, we always knowed no good would come of a woman like that. Everyone said.”
“Damn! You must help me get there immediately!”
I took a moment before departing to send a wire to Scotland Yard.
Lestrade—
Murder has been done. Come to Ridling Thorpe Manor.
—Watson
The carriage to the manor moved with agonizing slowness. When at last we pulled up the drive, I leapt down, threw a note or two at my driver, and stepped straight in without waiting to be invited. There seemed to be some deal of talk coming from the sitting room, so I marched in there and said, “I am Dr. John Watson. I have been asked to look into this case by Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. Who has charge of this investigation?”
“I do,” said two men, turning to face me.
They were mostly the same. Granted, one of them was over six feet tall with milky white eyes, and looked as if it would do him no harm to set his fork aside once in a while. The other had deep brown eyes and seemed to have said, promptly upon reaching his twelfth year, “No, that’s enough growing, thank you. I’ll just stop here.” Yet aside from eye color and build, they seemed to be basically the same breed of creature. They were dressed in somewhat wrinkled brown tweed. They wore wire-rimmed glasses that could have been made by the same optician and twin waxed moustaches that practically shouted, “Oh, I know city folk tend to look down on their country cousins, but look how dapper we are, really.” Beneath these lay chinstrap-style beards of an utterly preposterous cut. Most important were the identical frowns that told everybody this was a serious business and they hardly approved of it.
“And you are?” I asked.
“Inspector Woodbridge Stote,” said the larger, “and my new colleague, Inspector James Martin.”
“Funny. I was under the impression martens were larger than stoats,” I said. This comment drew a hint of a mischievous smile from Inspector Martin.
Which should have been a clue.
“Now, tell me what has gone on here,” I demanded, though of course, I had no right.
Stote heaved a sigh and stepped aside to reveal a ghastly scene. “Bad business. Looks as if Mr. and Mrs. Cubitt had a bit of a row last night. She shot him. One bullet, straight to the heart. He must have been dead before he hit the floor. Then she shot herself.”
Sure enough, there on the floor lay my client, dressed in rugged outdoorsman’s trousers and boots with a little hole and a great bloodstain decorating the front of his shirt. The shot must have gone straight through, for there was a massive pool of blood on the floor around him. He held a pistol in his right hand and had an expression of surprise and pain on his pale, exsanguinated face. A dozen feet from him lay a second pistol, near a second bloodstain on the carpet. Though it was smaller, it was more spread about and was joined by spatters on the ceiling and the wall.
“Servants heard the shots. Must have been close on to three in the morning. They came at once, of course, but by then it was too late. Still, can’t say it was unexpected, can we? Everybody knows they were at odds over the ’orrible smut someone was sending to Mrs. Cubitt. It’s possible he confronted her.”
“What? No, it’s all wrong,” I spluttered. “The situation, the motive, the scene—all wrong. To start with, I spoke to Mr. Cubitt about this affair and I can assure you he had no intention to harm his wife. Indeed, his chief concern seemed to be that if these drawings reflected her true desires, he might find himself unable to fulfill them.”
Stote gasped as if utterly scandalized, but Martin gave just a hint of a nod, as if approving of Mr. Cubitt’s thinking.
I continued, “And if that is not enough to cast doubt, let us consider this extraordinary scene we find ourselves in—a very unlikely domestic shootout, I would think. Tell me, did any of the servants hear the Cubitts arguing last night?”
“Well, no. The staff were all abed,” Stote said.
“That might explain it, so long as both Mr. and Mrs. Cubitt were conscientious about keeping their voices down in their moment of murderous passion,” I said, “but there are more peculiarities than only that. Three in the morning? Why is he dressed?”
Stote’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh! I hadn’t thought of that!”
“Clearly not,” I agreed. “If a woman wishes to murder her husband and then kill herself at three in the morning, she hasn’t got far to go. She’ll most likely find him in bed. In a fairly helpless state, at that. Why would she elect to meet him down here, fully dressed, and see to it that he was armed? Do we suppose she challenged him to a duel? No. Something else happened here and at least part of this scene was staged.”
“Eh? What makes you say that?” asked Stote.
“Because I once had tea with that man and he gave me an envelope.”
Stote gave me a surprisingly stoat-like look. Have you ever seen them pop up on their back legs and wrinkle their nose at something they don’t like? For just an instant, I wanted to pat him on the head and tell him he was darling. Instead, I pointed to the telltale placement of Hilton Cubitt’s pistol and said, “He was left-handed.”
At that, Inspector Martin—who had been rather tight-lipped to that point—asked me, “What was in the envelope?”
“Ah! Now there is an intelligent question! Mr. Cubitt approached Scotland Yard when he saw the nature of the… er… communications his wife was receiving. As I had been asked to look into the case, I have a few examples here.”
I reached into my coat and divulged its scandalous payload. Inspector Martin snatched the envelopes from my hand, paced over to Inspector Stote, slid one of the sheets out and opened it so his colleague could see.
“Oh! What? No!” Stote cried, and reeled back. “Put them with the others, man! The others!”
The diminutive inspector dutifully marched into the dining room. Through the doorway, I could see him spread the three notes I’d brought on the table, near two others. He pounded his fist down on one of them—whether in frustration or disgust, I could not guess. A moment later, he said, “If this Watson fellow is correct and an outside actor is responsible, perhaps we should begin checking the local inns. What was that one I heard of… Elridge’s? Yes, that was it. Anybody know where that is?”
The dining room was the gathering point of choice for the entire household staff of Ridling Thorpe Manor—it being the closest one could get to the crime scene without getting one’s employer’s blood on one’s shoes. The groom, a terrified-looking man of forty with sandy blond hair said, “N-no, sir. No inn by that name around here.”
“What? But I heard the food was excellent,” Martin insisted.
The groom shrugged. “But… there isn’t one.”
“There’s a farmer named Elridge nearby,” one of the maids mentioned. “A few miles off, near East Ruston.”
“Ah, maybe that was what I was thinking of,” Martin said, “because he takes in boarders, doesn’t he?”
“Oh… yes, I think so,” said the maid.
“Surely there are more important concerns right now,” I harrumphed.
“There’s Mrs. Cubitt, I suppose,” Martin replied. “She’s upstairs under the care of Dr. Anders, who has been serving this community for over forty years.”
“What? A trusty old country doctor? He’ll kill her! My bag! Quick, where is my bag?”
“In your hand,” Stote noted.
“Good! Yes. Er… somebody show me to Elsie Cubitt, immediately!”
“All right,” said Inspector Martin. “Come with me.”
The scene upstairs was hardly less grim than
that in the sitting room. There, on her bloodstained pillow, lay Elsie. She had powder burns all over her right cheek and a terrible exit wound on her forehead. Her brow had been lifted mostly away from her head. She was deathly pale and her breathing shallow. In the corner sat a gray-haired old doctor with a dolorous expression. He was doing nothing, just watching over her, waiting for her to die.
Much as I hated to admit it, he showed some wisdom in this. I frowned at him and stepped over to check Elsie’s pulse. It was nearly undetectable.
“Has she had a transfusion?” I asked.
Here Dr. Anders showed at least a modicum of knowledge by muttering, “She has no close relatives nearby, Dr. Watson. Any transfusion we could give would have a better chance of killing her than preserving her life.”
“It doesn’t matter, man. Look at her: she’s at the very threshold of hypovolemic shock! She needs blood to have a chance at all. She can have some of mine. Have you a transfusion kit?”
“In my office. I think I could have it here in an hour or so.”
“Damn!” I shouted, then threw my doctor’s bag on the side table and began digging about for what I needed. Dr. Anders was rather surprised to see a whacking great service revolver emerge, but Inspector Martin seemed quite unfazed. Just beneath my pistol were my hypodermics. I grabbed all three, threw them on the table, pulled off my jacket, popped my left cufflink and rolled up the arm of my shirt. Though it had been some months since my bout of self-poisoning with shredded Persian sorcerer, the sheer scope of my problem meant that the multitude of needle marks had yet to disappear. Martin recoiled in surprise when he saw them. Anders grew even more pale and his jaw dropped open. In his eyes, I rather fancy I could read the question, “Oh dear, does Dr. Watson make a habit of squirting his blood into all his patients?”
“This is highly irregular,” he spluttered.
“I don’t care!” I shouted back, searching my arm for a vein that might serve. “Three days ago, Hilton Cubitt was alive and well—a good man with a vibrant wife, whom he deeply loved. He asked for my help and I promised he would have it. And now, look how matters stand! I am ashamed and horrified! But I will be damned, sir, I will be double-dog-damned if I allow myself to fail Elsie! Ow, ow, ow!”
This last addition, of course, was due to the fact I had found a good vein and begun to withdraw as much blood as my humble syringe would accommodate—a process, by the way, not simplified by the act of shouting at somebody as one undertakes it. Thus began my battle for Elsie Cubitt’s life.
A short battle, it turned out, and not one that ended well. I walked out of that room twenty minutes later, my shoulders slumped, burning with anger and shame. Strange, how a defeat like that can take the wind from a man’s sails. Dr. Anders asked what I’d expected and said there was nothing I could have done. Inspector Martin stalked by me with an air of vengeful rage, which, luckily, did not seem to be directed at me.
Though it was yet early, I felt utterly exhausted. I sat in the sitting room for over an hour, I think, staring dumbly at the scene of the crime. What more could I do to solve this case and find justice for the Cubitts? Irene Adler was the most interesting loose thread, of course. Yet, as I knew from previous experience, a difficult one to hunt. I could do as Lestrade suggested and try to make sense of the lewd pictures. Then again, they were now in the custody of Stote and Martin. Oh, and speaking of Lestrade, I was going to have to go to him and eat my slice of humble pie. I could picture the gloating expression he’d wear as he reminded me of the trust he’d placed in me and what I’d let it come to.
No sense delaying it. I decided to head back to London. I was practically out the door before I realized I’d left my medical bag upstairs. I went back to the side of Elsie’s deathbed to gather up my tools. I got all my medical instruments packed away and reached for my service revolver. As I grasped it, I felt my fingers brush something unexpected. I was certain I’d placed the pistol upon the naked table. But no, there was a folded piece of paper beneath it.
Placing the pistol back in its pocket of my medical bag, I reached out, unfolded the paper and read:
John,
I can explain everything. Meet me at the Thistle Wig Inn, this afternoon at 5 o’ clock. I am staying in the suite.
Warm regards,
—I. A.
I leapt to my feet with a cry. It was her! I knew that writing well. I had a rather shocking photograph with an inscription in exactly the same handwriting, which I had spent… er… rather more time examining than a well-bred gentleman ought to have. Irene Adler was here! Or… she had been, recently. Very recently. How had she gotten in? She was unlikely to have broken in or snuck in. No, her method was impersonation and infiltration. Had she taken the place of one of the servants? Possibly. But would the actual servants not have pointed her out? On a day when one’s employers are murdered, one tends to distrust recent arrivals. Yet how could she have possibly presented herself as an outsider? Any stranger would stick out a mile, unless they were here on the grim business of the day. So…
Oh!
Damn!
I pelted down the stairs, crying, “Inspector Martin! Where is Inspector Martin?”
“Why?” asked Inspector Stote, who stood at the bottom landing, wearing his when-I-get-back-to-the-burrow-tonight-I’m-going-to-tell-all-my-furry-friends-John-Watson-is-crazy expression.
“Where is he?” I shouted, shaking Stote by his lapels.
“He went to send an urgent communication to London. Now, unhand me, if you pl—”
“What communication?”
“I don’t know! He didn’t tell me and I don’t know his ways. I’ve only just met the man.”
“That’s not a man.”
“What on earth are you speaking of?” Inspector Stote demanded.
“The eyes were brown!” I howled. “How did she get the eyes brown?”
Indeed, that was about the only question I had left. Green eyes—that’s how I’d always thought I could spot her—but she’d found a way to foil me. Yet now I understood why the good inspector had sported such a diminutive frame and why he’d stayed upstairs, displaying more interest in Elsie’s care than in solving his case. Now I understood that trickster’s grin she gave when she was glad someone had caught her little stoats and martens joke.
“You say he just left?” I asked Stote. “How? With what transportation? Do you know where he was headed?”
“No! Now, unhand me!”
Why not. The man was useless, clearly. I needed good information if I was to have a ghost’s chance of catching her. I stumbled out the front door to survey the scene. There, upon the step, who should I blunder into but Inspector Lestrade. He had apparently received my cable and had come either to assist in the investigation or to point out what an arse I’d been.
“Lestrade!” I cried. “Good! Hold that carriage!”
Lestrade pivoted about, pointed one finger at the driver and said, “Stay,” in a tone that promised the man absolutely did not want to find out what would happen if he didn’t. Then he turned back to me and said, “What has happened, Dr. Watson? You say there has been a murder?”
“No, no! It’s worse than that!”
His eyebrows rose in surprise. After a moment, he asked, “Did somebody wear the wrong hat to the theater?”
“What? No! What are you speaking of?”
“Well, I couldn’t imagine what was worse than murder. But then I remembered: you are a rich Londoner, so…”
“No, it’s Irene Adler!”
I will spare the reader the account of the morning’s happenings I gave to Inspector Lestrade as we galloped down the lane, looking for our prey. Likewise I shall not delve too deeply into the hundreds of machinations I suspected Irene Adler of, or the silly precautions I took to counter her. We did not see anybody about who resembled either her natural appearance or that of Inspector Martin. She could be anywhere. And—though there was every chance the location she had given me was a blind—I thought we had bet
ter check the Thistle Wig Inn to see if we could find any sign of her.
Rather a plethora of signs, as it turned out. Lestrade’s badge saw us quickly into her suite where we found several sets of women’s clothes in her size, a surprising quantity of men’s clothes in her size, and her disguise kit still open upon the dressing table. By God, it was an amazing thing. There was row upon row of makeup. Putty to shape noses and brows. Glues to fix prosthetics. Hair in every different shade, ready to be sculpted into beards, eyebrows, moustaches and particularly hirsute moles. I was in favor of instantly confiscating the thing, but Lestrade disagreed.
“She has done no harm that we know of,” he pointed out.
“No harm this time, perhaps, but she’s the most dangerous agent I’ve ever encountered.”
“Holmes has many times told me you hold that opinion,” said Lestrade. “But he has just as many times told me not to encourage you in it. She says she wants to explain everything. We should let her.”
Which, eventually, we did. We waited. Well… Lestrade waited. I checked every surface she might ask me to sit on, to see if little poisoned pins might have been rigged to pop up through the upholstery and stick me in the bottom. There was a little dining table draped in a pure white tablecloth in the center of the main room. Lestrade threw himself onto one of the chairs—quite careless of any covert bottom-piercing weaponry that might have been deployed there—to watch me pointlessly ransack the room. Let me only say that if an eyeroll or an exasperated sigh landed upon a man with the same force as a slap, Vladislav Lestrade would likely have beaten me to death.
At five minutes to five, the door swung silently open. Irene Adler stood in the doorway, wearing a red and orange sundress. It was scandalously short; one could almost see her knees! How tropical it seemed. How out of place in this grim country on this grim day. She wore no shoes. To make it easier to sneak up on me, perhaps? Or… some other reason? In her right hand she held a bottle of red wine and two long-stemmed glasses, crossed in a dainty “X” across the neck of the bottle. Her left hand was concealed behind her body. She gave me a whimsical smile.
The Finality Problem Page 15
