Sherlock Holmes - Found Dead

by Lyn McConchie

  “Ah, because as a dowry, Brian could have fought your brother in the courts, and because the land was deeded to you before your father’s death, your brother would have had no case to bring.”

  “Yes.”

  “What of Mrs. Pearman? Did she agree with this?”

  “She died when I was fifteen.” She looked at us. “I think had she lived longer, my father’s decision might have been different. She loved me, but Ted was her favorite. He knew that, and because of it he expected to inherit all. He said his sisters would marry and their men would look after them. I was not a Pearman and it was wrong to split a farm. My father told him that the piece I received was never a true part of Yew Trees. He’d received a small inheritance unexpectedly and bought it with that money.”

  “We heard that your husband built this house,” I said. “If someone already had the land, why did you need to build?”

  “The previous owner had a house on other land.”

  “Did you ever hear from where the money came that your father used to buy this land?” She shook her head. “And your brother knew you weren’t born to his family.”

  “From the beginning,” she confirmed. “After all, he was seven when I was brought here. I think he resented me from the day I arrived. But he’d been the only child for seven years and my mother feared she would never have a daughter or even another child. So they took me in, and it was not for another five years that she had my sisters. Ted was angrier still over that. He said girls were useless, and that all they did was take and leave. It was after that he began to call me ‘cuckoo,’ until I told my father and he stopped it.”

  “By beating Ted?”

  “Yes. How did you know?”

  Holmes explained that we had talked to the old man at the inn and she laughed.

  “Robbie. Yes, trust him to overhear. He doesn’t like Ted and it’d amuse him to pass that tale around. He worked for us until my father died, then Ted claimed Robbie was too old to do a fair day’s work for his money, and told him not to come back. It wasn’t true, of course, but Robbie didn’t take orders from a boy, and Ted liked to give them, even before my father died.”

  “Ted being of that sort, I would have expected him to tell the village of your origins,” I commented.

  I received that flashing grin that made her appear far younger. “My father made it very clear that if he did so, Ted would regret it forever. Yes, my father is dead now, but he wasn’t a man to forget. I don’t know what he did, but it’s kept Ted silent still.”

  I wondered what Lloyd Pearman had done. It had to be effective to hold the tongue of a bitter, vindictive, and jealous man.

  Vera Scott looked down, lost in memories. “I would have liked a brother,” she said quietly. “A real brother who liked me. My sisters did, they still do.”

  Holmes asked a question and she nodded. “Yes, both are wed but they live not far away. I see them in church come Sundays, and my Susie plays with their daughters sometimes.” And in response to another question, “Yes, my daughter. She’s my younger child. We have only the two: Billy, who is sixteen, and Susie, near fourteen. It may work well enough, too. She’s a farmer born, and Billy, he’s never wanted anything but to be a scholar. If they’re of the same mind when the time comes, we’ll leave the farm to her and our savings to him.”

  “And you don’t think he’ll object to that?” I queried.

  “Nay, I think it’ll suit him very well. Susie, she already has a beau. His brother’ll inherit, and I reckon he’d not say no to Highside.”

  “So long as that’s not his only motive.”

  She chuckled richly. “All he sees right now is my Susie. Such a thing may be in her mum and dad’s minds, but not in his, not yet. And it’s no harm if he thinks of it when they’re older, not when I know how well it’s done for me and Brian.”

  A sensible woman, I thought. If she believed the brother wouldn’t mind, then she was probably right.

  “But never mind my Susie,” she added. “What did you want to know? Or was that it?”

  “What do you know of your mother, that is, of Olivia Dunstan?” Holmes asked.

  “Little enough. She married young to an older man. She wasn’t unhappy—he didn’t ill-treat her—but she was ignored and expected to do her own work without bothering him. It sounded to me as if he’d wed to get a housekeeper who couldn’t give notice. He died after more’n twenty years and—well, for an educated woman she made a fool of herself—taking up with some man as promised her marriage and then made a run for it when he knew about me. It was said that she couldn’t keep me, because her husband left little money and she was ill and couldn’t work.”

  “Said by whom?”

  “Mother. I don’t know who told her unless it was Mr. Melrose, but she told me to beware, that people don’t ever let you forget that sort of thing and that I shouldn’t ever be made a fool of in that way. I wasn’t. My Brian’s a good man, and my son, he came a full two years after we were wed. What else do you want to know?”

  We left soon after that, having ascertained she knew nothing more of Olivia and nothing at all of Olivia’s lover. “Not even his name,” she assured us. “Mr. Melrose never said, if he ever knew it anyways, and I had no interest.”

  And with that we said our farewell and departed in the pony-trap. Once back at the inn, I ordered a good meal and we dined in our room, the better to discuss the case to date, and the woman’s information.

  Once we had been served and the waiter left, Holmes took a mouthful of pork stew and chewed thoughtfully. He swallowed. “What did you make of her information, Watson?”

  “That she was accurate, so far as it went,” I told him. “I was surprised. Melrose did not sound, from what we have heard of him, to be the sort of man to tell the Pearmans quite so much, even that Vera’s mother was educated, and that she took a lover. Why would he not merely have said that the husband had died, leaving Olivia penniless so that she could not support a child, and left it at that?”

  “Perhaps because that was the sort of man he was,” Holmes mused. “Remember that he accepted I.O.U.s and refused to return them. He said to those who gave them, that he retained the vowels so they might remember how foolish they had been and would not fall into such a trap another time. However, does it not occur to you, Watson, that he may have known how they felt about that, and what at least one of them believed?”

  “You mean, that he intended some threat using the notes-of-hand?”

  “Yes. Montgomery indicated that he asked Melrose of his intentions and been satisfied that there was no wrongful intent. Yet do you not think that his questions would not have informed Melrose of the signers’ fears?”

  I did.

  “So why did he not return the I.O.U.s?”

  I remembered patients, their relatives, and others with whom I had worked over the years. “Now I come to think of it,” I began slowly, “I withdraw what I said—that Melrose was not that sort of man. I think that he may have been. Montgomery referred to him as a hypocrite, but I do not believe that is the right word. I think that Melrose was a good man, but that his goodness was narrow. He did what he thought right, yet he also tried to impose his own standards upon others. He was not content to be good, he wanted to persuade everyone around him to be good, too, according to his own way of it. He did not permit others to be good in their own ways, they must conform to his.”

  Holmes gave me one of his rare smiles. “Bravo, Watson. That is well thought out.”

  “It is merely an opinion, but I have seen that sort of thing before.”

  “Yes, and the trouble with that sort of person is that they can sometimes go to extreme lengths to impose their views, and if they leave another feeling cornered…”

  I remembered a rat hunt I had seen many years ago. Some dozen rats had been chased and surrounded in a narrow alleyway between two buildings. With no escape, they turned to fight. While all of the rats eventually died, they inflicted vicious bites on several of the
men and dogs who attacked them, and it was my work to clean and bind up the injuries. One man developed an infection and was ill for days, while one of the dogs had been crippled.

  “Nothing likes to be cornered,” I said. “And if sufficiently fearful, they may attack.”

  “True. A person convinced that they are fighting for their life may go far beyond reasonable defense. They become caught up in their own fear, and fear, Watson, can engender a rage akin to madness.”

  Over the years I had seen such a thing, and more than once.

  “So who did he threaten, Holmes?”

  “I am beginning to suspect.” I looked the question. “Not yet,” he told me. “I have other enquiries to make before I can be certain. For now all I have are suspicions, and they are better unvoiced.”

  * * * *

  We returned to London in the morning, I to my practice and Holmes to travel again. I asked no questions and was therefore compensated by the information on his arrival at our rooms two days later.

  “I have been examining certain records to which Harrison gained me access.” I indicated interest—truthfully, since I could not imagine where they would have led. “I looked up the police notes made at the time the body of Olivia Dunstan was found. They suspected that Frank Thompson was the murderer, so he was brought in and rigorously questioned.”

  “Charlie said nothing of that.”

  “He may not have known. The police believed that Frank committed the crime but were unable to secure a confession. His father brought in a lawyer and they were forced to let the boy go free. It is clear from the notes of the police surgeon that the killing was extremely brutal. The entire back of the woman’s skull was broken in, not by a single blow but, as the surgeon records, by at least three full-arm strikes made to the same area. There was, however, some overlapping, and he could discern that.”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “If that was so, they could be differentiated by a skilled man. But how appalling! The boy was no more than a child at the time. And she was his brother’s innocent friend. How could he have brought himself to act so?”

  “He thought himself threatened, Watson. He was being deprived of something he valued, and he considered the only way it could be recovered was to kill the person responsible. That fear of loss can be felt at any age and children, having less compassion, can be ruthless.”

  “And in the end, he lost his brother’s affection because of what he did, which Charlie guessed,” I pointed out.

  “Yes,” Holmes agreed. “However, I am not certain that Olivia was an entirely innocent victim.”

  I stared incredulously at him. “What? You think she connived at her own murder? Why would she do so? Really, Holmes…”

  “No, no, my dear fellow, that was not my meaning.”

  I subsided, waiting to hear more.

  “I uncovered something regarding Dunstan’s death. It was listed in council records with a note by some official, mentioning the doctor’s name.”

  “Why?”

  “I have no idea. He may have wished to ask a question, but I was able to find the doctor. I know it was years ago, however Dr. Cairne was quite young at the time. He is now retired and living in Brighton. He was quite agreeable to speak with me and retained all his old records. After refreshing his memory, he was able to tell me of his patient, because, as he said, everyone involved being dead, it would do no harm.”

  I was alerted by that last word. “Harm? So he thought it would do harm if they were yet alive?”

  Holmes gave me a wry look. “If he is right, it certainly could have done so. Cairne was Dunstan’s doctor for three years before his death, and Cairne’s father was the man’s doctor before his son. He knew his patient. The man lived for his work, ate moderately, drank not at all, went to bed early, and exercised by walking to and from his workplace. And that walk, Watson, was a good two miles.”

  I snorted. “With that regime he should have lived to be an old man, yet we were told he died in his fifties.”

  “Yes. What we were not told was how he died.”

  “I thought from what was said that it may have been a stroke or heart attack.”

  “Not according to Dr. Cairne. He says that it began with mild, intermittent indigestion, which became worse until Dunstan was kept abed with stomach pain, vomiting, irritation of the bowels, and fainting spells. Cairne suspected it was an ulcer, and when Dunstan died two months after the onset, he thought that the death was caused by a perforation. It was the first time he encountered such symptoms, and because of it he kept copious notes. What do you think, Watson?” His gaze was penetrating as he allowed me time to formulate my reply.

  I understood his suspicions and, after a time of reflection, I found I was not necessarily in disagreement. “Arsenic,” I said soberly. “No proof of it, but the path the illness followed is suggestive, to say the least. If you desired proof, the body could be exhumed, but what good would it do? If Olivia administered it—and why did she, if so—then she, too, is long since dead.”

  “Quite so. Any action would be a waste of time. Dr. Cairne did not wonder about it until ten years later, when he had a similar case where murder was proven. As to why she may have acted that way, Dr. Cairne heard rumors after Dunstan’s death—that Olivia had been involved with a man, and that she wished to marry him. In the event and soon afterwards the man vanished. The Dunstan house was inherited by a cousin, who had loaned money for its purchase and now called in the mortgage, something which, it appeared, she was unaware. She went to live somewhere else and Cairne lost track of her. He had not known she was pregnant and was astonished when I told him, since it was on record that her husband was infertile, from a bad attack of mumps when he was thirteen.”

  That, to my mind, shone a considerable light on her motives. “Yes, and he would have known in that case. So if she came to him and announced they were expecting a child, he would know at once that she played him false. He would have been able to divorce her under law, leaving her with nothing but a baby and a ruined reputation. If he died before he was aware of her condition, she, so she believed, would have a house, people would believe the baby the posthumous child of her husband, and she could wed her lover after she put off official mourning—or much earlier if she defied gossip or sold her house and moved away.”

  “As it was, she found that she would have a child, she would not have a house, and her lover took his leave.”

  “Or could she have killed him, too?” I offered.

  “No, Watson. Cairne mentioned a young man who was initially of considerable aid to the widow. He had been an assistant to her husband, and such was his esteem for his late employer, he had offered to help his widow with any legalities. His name was Ralph Jennings.”

  “Then he could be traced?”

  “As I have done.”

  “Then you will ask him what he knows of Dunstan’s death?”

  “For what purpose?” my friend asked. “I doubt Olivia would have told him she was poisoning her husband—if that was what she did. It is hardly a topic of conversation between lovers. Would it not make him nervous, in case he found himself redundant at some later stage?”

  I envisioned the receipt of such a cooed confidence and could quite see his point.

  “But Vera? Might he not wish to know what became of her?”

  “Let him wonder,” Holmes said harshly. “She has done very well without him, and if he desired only a profit from Olivia, then is he likely to change for Vera? I think it more probable he would batten on her for anything he could get. He is a ne’er-do-well and an altogether unpleasant character. I will not be responsible for bringing more grief to the lady.”

  I thought that was good of him and asked if he had made any other discoveries, but he had not. For myself, I planned another busy week but indicated that I should be available if required, since my semi-retired friend was always at my service.

  “Not yet, Watson. I will be gone in the morning, for I have further enquiries to make fro
m Montgomery.”

  “Montgomery?” I said in some surprise. “What can he tell you?”

  “A small point which may separate a sheep from a goat.”

  And with that cryptic note he retired, leaving me to finish the newspaper, and wonder, as I read about trouble in Africa, disputes over the railways, and other such news, what on earth Holmes may have meant by that rejoinder. It was not something I would discover until he returned and we took the train to Pagets’ village, where Holmes convened everyone involved.

  11

  We met a good-sized gathering. Miss Bibi’s father, Arthur Paget, was determined to see justice for his old friend. He demanded that the meeting be held in his home, and few were loath to attend. Paget Hall was a fine old building and the banqueting room, where we gathered, was considered one of the finest rooms in the county.

  The servants moved the huge old dining table and brought in chairs from all over the house, so even the least of those there sat in comfort. Holmes moved to the front of the room, seating himself by a table upon which were stacked a number of items and looked us over. I had done that upon my arrival. Amongst those present were the Paget family, Esterbrook, and most of the Scott family. Or so I supposed, since I recognized Vera Scott. With her was a man about her age, a good-looking, well-set-up man. A lad sat between them. He looked very like her and must be Billy. He was as brawny as his father and, on that account, appeared to be a couple years older than I knew him to be.

  Behind them Elliott sat with his wife, Mr. Montgomery beside him, and I could guess where they fell in Holmes’s explanations. I was only sorry that their evidence must cause some pain.

  Holmes stood, and one by one those present fell silent.

  “Some weeks ago,” he said to his listeners, “I was asked by Mr. and Miss Paget to investigate the circumstances of the death of Collin Melrose. Most of you were involved in this case at some stage, and I feel it right you should therefore hear all the testimony, have the opportunity to speak, and understand what led me to the conclusions I have ultimately reached.