* * * *
We met again at our rooms and over dinner I chose to begin with my own discoveries, because I could barely contain myself. I hoped to stun my friend for once with unexpected information.
“I found the record of interment. Oddly enough, her name was one you suggested, Olivia Dunstan. She was forty-three when she died. However, and you will find this interesting, Holmes, only a year ago her body was exhumed and moved to the Onisby cemetery nearest Stafford Farm. And when I say ‘nearest,’ it is all but on the farm’s border. For Charles Thompson to walk there would be a matter of two or three minutes, no more.”
“Was any reason given for her removal?”
“The request was listed as having been made by a relative. Charles Thompson stated that Olivia Dunstan was his aunt, his mother’s sister. He had purchased land and he now wished for her to be buried in a plot nearby. He would defray all costs and expenses incurred.”
I waited and was repaid in full measure when Holmes paused before he spoke. “Watson, that is most interesting. It is certainly nothing I would have expected. The question is, is it the truth?”
“Why should it not be?”
“In order to relocate a body, the would-be remover must give reasons that the council regard as sufficient. Merely that he had a childhood friendship with the person would not be so regarded. Nor could he explain that Olivia was possibly murdered by his brother, and that Charles felt a responsibility. No, a claim to be related to the deceased would be acceptable. It may be that this is all it was, a claim. It is unlikely that the often-overworked council employees took the trouble to check.” He saw my deflated look. “No, no, Watson, you have done well! What we must do now is to ascertain if the claim is the truth—or not.”
“And if there is any connection between Olivia Dunstan and Collin Melrose,” I said, brightening.
“Yes. As for my own enquiries, I discovered little. I spoke to four people who remembered the woman. Two thought Frank Thompson responsible for her death, and another remembered the friendship between Olivia and Charles. She described it as ‘maternal.’” I raised an eyebrow and he nodded. “Yes, that would fit if she was the boy’s aunt. Yet there is this—Mrs. Thompson was never seen to speak to Olivia, and while she clearly did not forbid her son’s friendship, it is obvious she did not approve it, either.”
“If Olivia was her sister, I could imagine reasons for that,” I commented. “At the least, she would not have been happy to have a relative who not only lived in and from dustbins, but who did so in her immediate vicinity.”
“That is true,” Holmes agreed. “But if they were sisters, I would have expected Mrs. Thompson to make more of an effort to persuade her sister to frequent another area, or possibly to subsidize her so doing. However, I intend to dig further into a possible relationship. One thing we have ignored until now is the family of Mrs. Thompson. Her given name, I am informed, was Grace. And one of those with whom I talked said that they thought her to have previously been Grace Becksley.”
In which, as we discovered a day later, his informant was right, since Holmes uncovered a marriage certificate. That gave us an address, but on applying there we found the family deceased, with no one left. Neighbors were able to tell us, however, that there had never been but the one adult daughter. Two sons died in infancy, a second daughter died at twelve of consumption, and Grace married Jeff Thompson at eighteen, at which time he was listed as an apprentice baker, something that quite baffled me.
“How,” I demanded of Holmes when that information came to light, “could he become a professional gambler and blackmailer from being a baker’s lad?”
My friend surveyed my indignant face. “People may be placed in boxes, my dear Watson, but as you should know by now, they often do not remain there,” he said, and moved on to our other discovery. “And as Grace Becksley’s only sister died at twelve, Olivia Dunstan could not have been Grace’s sister.” His face became thoughtful. “I wonder if she was not still some relation. I shall return to the parish records tomorrow and see if I can find any trace of her there.”
I spent the next day visiting patients, while Holmes worked his way through dusty, yellowing—and in some cases, mouse-nibbled—records, to return home with an answer to some of our questions.
“Olivia Dunstan was related to the Thompsons,” he stated the moment I appeared in the doorway. I dropped my medical bag, sat down, and waited for more. “I uncovered quite a suburban tragedy,” he continued.
I remained silent, for that is often the best way to encourage Holmes.
“Olivia Dunstan was born Olivia Becksley, a cousin of Grace. At nineteen she married a schoolteacher, an older man who cared little for anything but his studies.” He paused, and I knew he had something he expected to astound me. I leaned forward, my aspect one of avid attention as he concluded, “And this man taught in the school where Collin Melrose was first employed.”
I gratified him with a gasp and a volley of questions ending with, “You think they knew Melrose?”
“I am sure of it,” Holmes informed me dryly. “The more so since, when Olivia’s husband died, she was left almost penniless. When, shortly thereafter, she found herself with child by a faithless lover, it was Melrose who found the child a home, in the village of Ashwood. Olivia moved to a single room near the Thompsons. She was unable to find work, lost even the room, and descended into the gutter.”
“Old Tom said she was a scholar?”
“She studied her husband’s books, had a moderate amount of schooling of her own, and apparently frequented libraries. She may have had no qualification, but I think it likely that she could talk informatively on a level that would interest a young lad who found his own education interesting and perhaps, at times, difficult. Talking with another can often clarify one’s own thoughts and conclusions, and a good listener is worth gold.”
“If she was a cousin, I’m surprised Mrs. Thompson didn’t do more for her,” I said.
“Thompson had the money. It may be that he was not prepared to expend it on one who wasn’t his own family,” Holmes observed.
“But she knew Melrose, and it was to him she turned on finding she was to have a child. Did you discover to what family the baby was given?”
“Yes. I have other work to do for the next day or two, and after that I plan to travel there and speak to the family. Remember, too, Watson, these events took place almost forty years ago. Melrose would have been in his twenties. The child would now be around thirty-seven or -eight. If he or she married as early as the children of farming stock often do, this child could, by now, have children themselves who could be as old as eighteen, or even twenty. Nor are they likely to know the story. We must walk warily.”
With that I agreed. It is the custom to say nothing to a child in such cases, and it may be only upon the parents’ deaths—should there be any evidence, as often there is not—that the child finds they were adopted, or in some cases, that they were not even that. (I knew of one case in which a child was refused their share of the parents’ estate once the other offspring discovered the true state of affairs. Fortunately, the siblings lost that case, since the child was named in the will, and the judge held that it was the parents’ clear intent that the named one should also inherit, whether or not they came of the same blood and kin.) Holmes was right in his warning, and besides, for the story to be known in the village could bring unpleasant gossip, or even harm to the family.
It was also obvious, from Holmes’s own failure to ascribe a gender, that the records had referred only to “baby Dunstan.” Therefore, until we followed up the record and had a sight of the family, we would not know if we dealt with a male or female, providing a yet more delicate path to tread. Still, I felt that we were closing in on our quarry, although I admit to being baffled as to quite where our path led. Being the benefactor of a betrayed woman was hardly a motive for murder, and had it been, who could murder a man to whom they owed nothing but good will? Since everyone i
nvolved with the affair seemed to be long since dead as well, I could not comprehend. I did my rounds the next day wondering, whenever I had time, what we should eventually uncover.
10
I rushed my rounds, arranged for my doctor friend to take over the following day, and accompanied Holmes directly to Ashwood village where, according to my friend, we would need to spend one night. I had no intention of being left behind, for some of the revelations that led us there had been mine, and I was determined to learn firsthand whatever else should come to light.
We arrived at the village railway station and Holmes had arranged a vehicle. We were driven to the inn and alighted, Holmes pausing to pay the driver. Before I could ask questions, he entered the inn. He took their two rooms and we were led upstairs. Once there, I dropped my small suitcase and medical bag and turned to my friend.
“What now? And where do we go? Have you an address?”
“You have been patient, Watson. Yes, I know where we may find Olivia’s child. The baby was taken in by a farming family, the Pearmans. The farm is Yew Trees, on Church Road. If we take the inn’s pony trap, we can be there in half an hour.”
“What do you know of the family?”
“Little. However, records show that the family owned the farm for five generations, and until the previous generation it comprised almost one hundred and fifty acres held on five titles. The smallest of those was nine acres, and this was deeded separately to a Vera Pearman twenty years ago.”
I leaped to a conclusion. “Holmes! Could she be the Dunstan child?”
“She could be anyone from an indigent relation, to a black sheep in the family,” Holmes said, depressing my optimism. “Now, if you will arrange the use of the inn’s vehicle, Watson, I shall have a few words with those at the bar.”
As usual, the bar held a number of men either out of work, too old to work, here for a drink before they went on to work, or otherwise unoccupied and wanting a quiet drink among friends or acquaintances. While I came to an agreement with the inn’s proprietor, I could hear Holmes through the open door, introducing us as acquaintances of the squire, friends of Miss Bibi’s, and here to enjoy a day or two in the countryside. The names mentioned gained him an immediate welcome, and this included me once I joined him. Holmes then commented on the apparent prosperity of the land hereabouts, and by degrees worked his way to certain farms, and then to Yew Trees farm in particular.
An old man seated by the fire spoke up “Aye, that’s a good farm. The Pearman’s don’t overwork t’ land, an’ they’ve got a fair family.”
Holmes nodded. “Yes, a farmer needs a family. The trouble comes when the parents die and the land needs to be kept together. Ten children to inherit, and if the land is broken up amongst them you then have a number of smaller farms, and when their children inherit, the farms may become so small as to be worthless.”
The old man nodded. “Aye, sir, you’ve t’ right of that. Lloyd Pearman, he’d near a hundred and fifty acres when he died. He left that to t’ eldest son and his savings were to be split amongst two of the others—girls, they were.”
I noticed the peculiar way he had worded that and waited to see what my friend would say.
Holmes nodded in turn. “That is fair, but…” Here he frowned as if trying to remember something. “I thought Paget said that the farm was a hundred and forty acres.”
The old man looked wise. “Ah, yes, that’s so—now.”
Holmes signaled another drink to be brought for his informant and, once that arrived, picked up the conversation. “So some land was lost? How did that come about?” He chuckled. “No farmer I ever knew let go of land once gained.”
“Aye,” the old man agreed. “But Lloyd, he went his own way, and he wasn’t one to talk, neither. None of us knows why he did it, ’cept the girl, Vera, she didn’t get on wi’ her brother, Ted, him as inherited, an’ when Lloyd were dying he called in a lawyer and signed one o’ the deeds over to her. Said it were her dowry, he did, and laughed. It were nine acres as laid on a corner of the farm, up a side road wi’ its own access so that it couldn’t be cut off. Vera married the Scott’s lad, young Brian, and they made a good little farm out’a the place.”
“Strange,” Holmes commented. “I wonder why it was done. Surely the girl wasn’t so far at odds with her brother? How did she get on with her sisters?”
That brought others in to the discussion, and the verdict was that her two younger sisters were fond of Vera, however her brother, perhaps being the eldest and a good seven years older, had felt his place usurped when she arrived. One of the oldsters piped up.
“Ah, heard him yelling at her one time I did, when I were working t’ hay in season. Ted a’ bin about sixteen, and the girl about nine. Ted called her a cuckoo, an’ her telling him to mind his words. He said he could say as he would, an’ she couldn’t say different. His dad came up then and Vera, she told him what Ted called her.” He grinned toothlessly. “Lloyd, he larruped young Ted, an’ told him he ever said such again he’d get worse. I were moving hay in t’ main barn and I stayed there. Ted, he’s one to hold a grudge, and he wouldn’t a’ liked me seeing that.”
Holmes nodded. “And being punished because she told her father would have set him against her, too.”
“Ah, thas so. They allus did get across each other. Reckon it were best that Lloyd give her that land. ’Tis well away from the farmhouse. Land goes up and down a mite and where Vera and young Brian built, you can’t see either house from t’other.”
“Sensible of the father,” Holmes commented. “Did she and her husband have children?”
“Aye,” the first oldster cut in. “They’d a son an’ a girl. Boy’s a smart lad. Brian’s proud a’ him an’ lad’s looks like to stay on at a school and be sommat other than a farmer. I asked Brian about t’ farm if that’s so, an’ he says if it’s so they’ll do as old Lloyd did, leave the farm to t’ girl, and t’ money to Billy.”
“And they have only that nine acres,” Holmes said, musingly.
“Nay, they’ve brought land since. Nigh thirty acres now, and Brian, him an’ Vera are hard workers, reckon they could own more afore they die.”
Holmes shifted the talk slowly to another subject by asking if land was cheap hereabouts. Once his gaze met mine and he signaled, I bought our two elderly informants a final drink and spoke to Holmes.
“I suggest lunch now, and afterwards we can go for a drive. I’d like to see something of the countryside before I must return to London. And the air here is marvelously clean.”
We left the inhabitants commenting on London smog and other drawbacks of the capital, as we retired to eat a light lunch in our rooms. We then slipped out by a side door, found the pony and trap, and set out for Church road and the smaller farm we had been told was named Highside. Because, as it had been explained in various voices, and ways, t’ farm were higher than Yew Trees, but around the side of the hill like. Hence, it were on t’ highside.
Another of the group cackled at that. “Aye, an’ Ted, he don’t like the name above ’arf.” A comment that led to general mirth.
* * * *
We jogged quietly along the lane, turned right into Church Road, and then right again into a small lane that travelled up a long, shallow hill before circling to the left. Here we found a gate, labeled Highside, Brian and Vera Scott.
I chuckled, and Holmes glanced at me. “Yes, I would think both names are here because the land was hers, although from what was said in the bar, he brought money to the marriage, too. Still, it bodes well that he apparently sees her as an equal. That makes it likely he knows her origins.”
“Yes, that cuckoo remark by her brother suggests she knew, even then,” I agreed.
And when we arrived at the Highside farmhouse, knocked at the door, and were permitted entrance, I discovered I was right.
Vera Scott was slender still, with well-worn hands, light brown hair now threaded with silver, an oval face, gray eyes, and a placid expression
. She led us to the kitchen, offered chairs, tea and biscuits, and contemplated us calmly.
“You said you had come on behalf of Miss Bibi to speak of Mr. Melrose. What do you wish to know?”
“Are you aware of your origins?” Holmes asked.
Her expression did not change. “My origins? I am Vera Scott, who was Vera Pearman.”
“And before that you were Vera Dunstan,” Holmes stated. “Something that was also known to your brother, Edward Pearman, and for which he vilified you.”
“That is so.” Her calm remained unimpaired.
“As a baby you were brought to the Pearmans by Collin Melrose. Your mother, an old acquaintance of his, was unable to keep you, being both impoverished and ill, and the Pearmans offered you a home. Your existence was one of the reasons he came to live here when he could no longer work. Did you have much to do with him?”
Vera Scott shook her head. “He said it might give rise to talk, so we never met save casually and before others. However, I knew of his part in my—placement. I know, too, that he paid for me to remain at school longer than my parents could have otherwise afforded, and that, amongst other reasons, is why Ted dislikes me.”
We did not know that, I thought. So Melrose continued to take an interest in his old acquaintance’s daughter. But was she only that? Was it possible that she could have been his, and the tale spread of a faithless lover merely a contrivance? I considered that briefly then discarded it. Were that true, Melrose would surely not have left the mother of his child to forage in gutters and dustbins.
Holmes asked, “Your brother was already seven when you were adopted?”
“I was not adopted,” was the quiet reply. “That was why my father deeded this land to me before he died.”
“Because, had he left it to you in his will, your brother would have fought to retain it,” Holmes said.
“That is so. My father told me that he had talked to Ted, and Ted would not agree I should share equally in the estate. Because he knew my brother, my father decided to deed the land to me, since that could not be challenged. I was about to wed Brian, and my father called it a dowry.” She produced a sudden half smile. “He wrote that on the deed and had it witnessed.”
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