Sherlock Holmes--The Spider's Web

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Sherlock Holmes--The Spider's Web Page 10

by Philip Purser-Hallard


  I considered loosening his tongue with further emoluments, but reflected that I was likely in any case to find a more informed account at the rectory. Moulton willingly directed me there, and felt free enough to vouchsafe that the rector had only recently married, and that the new Mrs Chasuble had previously been Miss Cecily’s governess. This vindicated my determination to speak to the canon and his wife, so I bade farewell to Moulton and set off back towards the village.

  After a hearty lunch at the Spotted Calf, I found Woolton Rectory easily enough, a forbidding grey building that had clearly been built under the assumption that the incumbent might bring with him a sizeable family, and now stood with most of its rooms unused.

  Announcing myself as an amateur student of English rural history, eager to learn more about the annals of Woolton and its prominent families, earned me an effusive welcome from Dr and Mrs Chasuble in their slate-floored, stone-hearthed parlour. The canon was an eagerly sincere man, heavily whiskered, academic in tone and manner but with a generous nature. He was considerably more elderly than I had expected, although his wife was younger, perhaps in her midfifties. Her plain but expressive face made her seem severe yet rather anxious.

  The canon told me a great deal about Woolton’s early history before I could work the conversation around to more recent matters. The village, I learned, had been settled since Saxon times and appeared in the Domesday Book, but was renamed in the fourteenth century after the Woolton family. It was they who had built the original manor house, and whose descendants had fallen on hard times hundreds of years later, eventually selling it to one Thomas Cardew, whose nineteenth-century descendant of the same name had been in residence when Chasuble first took up the benefice in Woolton.

  ‘The late Mr Cardew was a great credit to our little community in every way,’ Chasuble reminisced. ‘He was a most philanthropic gentleman, greatly inclined to benevolent gestures in every part of his life. Did you see the baptistery in the parish church, Dr Watson? A splendid piece, is it not, and thoroughly canonical in shape and inscription?’

  ‘It certainly is,’ I hazarded.

  ‘That was a gift, and a most generous one, from Mr Thomas Cardew,’ the canon enthused. ‘He also endowed both our village schools. The man was a true cornucopia of charity.’

  I said, ‘I believe I’ve heard something of the kind. Didn’t he adopt a foundling child?’

  Dr Chasuble smiled beatifically. ‘Oh, yes. He was a veritable Nicholas.’

  ‘I thought the name given to the boy was John or Jack?’ I asked, confused.

  The canon frowned. ‘I spoke allusively. My allusion was to the patron saint of children.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ I said. ‘And I understand he left the adopted child his estate. That was even more generous, although I suppose he had no family of his own.’

  ‘Ah, that is not quite correct. John Worthing, as the boy was named by Mr Cardew, inherited his house and land, and some of his considerable fortune. But the greater part of the latter went to Thomas’s granddaughter, Cecily, on the occasion of her marriage. She and her husband plighted their troth on the same day as Laetitia and I,’ he added, beaming.

  His wife seemed less pleased. ‘Frederick, I expect that Dr Watson’s interest does not extend to our personal histories, still less those of Cecily and her relatives.’

  ‘Naturally, naturally,’ the canon said. ‘Forgive me, Doctor, I am afraid that there are times when I exceed the boundaries of my interlocutor’s patience. It is an instructive lesson in humility, and one upon which I have preached at length in my sermons. To return to the history of the village, then, this rectory was built in 1815, shortly before the Battle of Waterloo, and quite interestingly the architect was a veteran of Trafalgar. His name was—’

  ‘Actually,’ I said as politely as I could, ‘I am somewhat interested in the history of the Cardew family. Did Miss Cecily Cardew live at the manor until her marriage?’

  ‘Ah yes. She was under Laetitia’s tutelage until the age of nineteen,’ Dr Chasuble confirmed, but once again his wife had other ideas.

  She said, ‘Dr Watson, local history is one matter. Local biography is quite another. If you are familiar with the background of Mr Worthing – that is to say, Mr Ernest Moncrieff – then you will understand that we have been at times much pestered by persons of the journalistic persuasion, seeking unsuitable tales regarding my former employer. You will also understand that considerations of loyalty and propriety quite forbid us from indulging in any such indiscretion.’

  ‘My wife is quite correct, sir,’ Dr Chasuble confirmed, a little sadly, ‘as I am afraid she often is. If your interest is in stories of the family for publication in the periodicals, then we can be of no help to you, and I can only entreat you to repent of the scurrilous and defamatory ways endemic to your profession before it is too late.’

  This was the second time in as many days that I had been suspected of gutter journalism, and I might well have taken offence, had it not been for these people’s evident good intentions. Instead I said, ‘I must admit, I have deceived you a little, for which I can only apologise. I am here in the furtherance of an official police investigation. The story has been kept out of the papers, so you have probably not heard that there has been an unpleasant incident at Mr Ernest Moncrieff’s London house.’

  I sketched out as rough and vague an outline of the case as I could, concluding, ‘So if I am asking you to be indiscreet, you must understand that it is from the best of motives. Indeed, I do not exaggerate when I say that further lives may conceivably be at stake.’

  ‘Mr Sherlock Holmes?’ Dr Chasuble was impressed. ‘So you are the Dr Watson who chronicles his emprises? Remarkable, quite remarkable. In that case, I am sure there can be no objection, my dear…?’

  Mrs Chasuble, however, looked positively alarmed. ‘I hope Mr Holmes has not accompanied you here?’

  ‘No, he remains in London,’ I assured her.

  ‘I am pleased to hear it,’ she said. ‘I should not like to imagine him conducting himself so trivially. I fail to see what good can come of our intelligence. Surely Mr Wor—Mr Moncrieff and his family can tell you all you need to know?’

  ‘Holmes wished me to seek out another perspective,’ I said. ‘Those not directly involved in the family affairs may have greater objectivity. The fact is, we suspect… that is,’ I amended, not wishing to overstate the matter, ‘it is perhaps possible, that the family background of Mrs Cecily Moncrieff, the former Cecily Cardew, may be of some significance. Anything you might tell me about her parentage, for instance, could be most helpful.’

  ‘I always strongly discouraged Cecily from asking about such things,’ Mrs Chasuble said sternly. ‘Excessive curiosity in personal matters is of no credit to any person, Dr Watson, and it is rightly considered unbecoming in a young girl. Cecily was most obedient to my wishes in this matter.’

  ‘In this instance, though, my curiosity is not idle,’ I argued. ‘As I have said, it’s possible that the knowledge might help us to catch a murderer.’ As tactfully as I could, I asked, ‘Is Cecily really Thomas Cardew’s granddaughter, Dr Chasuble, or did he adopt her as he did the boy he named John Worthing?’

  ‘Oh, no such thing, I can assure you.’ Dr Chasuble seemed rather agitated at the suggestion. ‘Cecily is the daughter of Thomas Cardew’s daughter Violet Cardew, who married a distant cousin. She moved away when young Jack was barely a denarian. That is to say,’ he added, seeing my befuddled expression, ‘he was little more than ten years old.’

  ‘What was the cousin’s name?’ I asked.

  ‘It was Cardew, naturally. I do not believe I ever knew his first name. Certainly I never met the gentleman. The wedding took place elsewhere.’

  ‘Did you meet him, Mrs Chasuble?’

  ‘No, nor did I ever meet Miss Violet Cardew herself,’ she said reluctantly. ‘Mr Cardew employed me only sometime later, to teach Cecily.’

  ‘How old was Violet Cardew at the time of her marriage
?’ I asked.

  Dr Chasuble sighed. ‘The poor child was twenty-two. She was but twenty-three when she died.’

  ‘So she died?’ I echoed. ‘I suppose that is how Cecily came to live at the Manor House with her grandfather and adoptive uncle. What became of her father?’

  ‘Ah, the whole affair was a grievous one,’ Dr Chasuble told me with regret. ‘Both Cecily’s parents left this mortal coil when she was but a babe in arms. I believe it was scarlet fever that carried them away; either that or a runaway carthorse.’ He paused, a little confused. ‘It is possible that there was some ambiguity in the matter.’

  ‘But you are certain they died?’ I asked. ‘There was no ambiguity on that point?’

  ‘Oh, none at all, none at all. It was a great tragedy for young Cecily, though I am pleased to say that she has not suffered by it. She, too, benefited greatly from her late grandfather’s generosity.’

  ‘Forgive me, Dr Chasuble, but had you any proof of her parents’ demise? Beyond the word of Mr Thomas Cardew, I mean.’

  ‘Proof?’ The canon seemed confused. ‘It did not seem to be a matter that called for proof, Dr Watson. In philosophy or mathematics a proof may be both necessary and enjoyable, but in family relations they are not generally considered de rigueur.’

  ‘No, I hardly suppose so,’ I said. ‘So Cecily was born when Violet was twenty-two or twenty-three? And she was married last year at nineteen?’ Forty-three was a perfectly plausible age for our enigmatic Mrs Teville, although her affectations of youth made the question a difficult one to judge.

  I searched my mind for further questions to ask, but I felt I had discovered all I could here. It was possible that Ernest Moncrieff knew more of his adopted sister’s fate, but given his age at the time he would remember little of it. Indeed, the theory that was germinating in my mind required him not to recognise her now. His behaviour towards Mrs Teville did not seem like that of a brother to his sister, even an adopted one.

  I stood to thank the canon and his wife for their hospitality, but was interrupted by a thunderous knocking at the rectory door.

  ‘Whoever can that be, Frederick?’ Mrs Chasuble asked, unnerved.

  ‘I suppose there is some crisis in the parish,’ Dr Chasuble sighed. ‘If there has been an accident, I may be called upon to administer extreme unction.’

  I heard the sound of the Chasubles’ aged servant opening the door, then arguing with a voice whose presence surprised me enormously.

  A moment later Dr Chasuble gave a gasp of surprise, and Mrs Chasuble a very audible shriek, as Sherlock Holmes burst into the parlour.

  ‘Holmes!’ I expostulated. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’

  ‘Ah, Watson,’ he replied, entirely unsurprised. ‘I am impressed by your good thinking. These would be the ideal people in the village to ask about Cecily Cardew’s parentage.’

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ I said, aggrieved. ‘But I understood that you wished me to handle your enquires in Woolton. Why are you here so suddenly?’

  ‘I have come hotfoot from Scotland Yard,’ he said, as Mrs Chasuble clutched her husband’s arm with a tiny moan, ‘to confront the kidnapper of Ernest Moncrieff. Yes, madam,’ he added as she gave vent to a full-throated wail, ‘I said the kidnapper.’

  ‘Have you altogether lost your mind, Holmes?’ I protested. ‘This is Mrs Chasuble, Cecily’s governess.’

  ‘Yes and no, Watson, yes and no. This is Mrs Chasuble, but before that she was Miss Laetitia Prism. And before she was Cecily’s governess, she was Ernest’s nursemaid!’

  I frowned. From nursemaid to governess was a considerable promotion, bringing with it an improvement in social class normally quite beyond the reach of such servants. Besides, the time when Thomas Cardew would have required a nursemaid for Ernest would have been when he was quite a young child, before Violet Cardew left home, and Mrs Chasuble had just been denying that she had ever met Violet.

  Holmes sighed, impatient with my slowness. ‘Not in the household of Thomas Cardew, Watson, but that of Ernest’s father, General Moncrieff, or Colonel Moncrieff as he was at the time.’

  ‘That nursemaid?’ I gaped. ‘Mrs Chasuble was the handbag woman?’ The name of the servant whose unfortunate error had set Ernest Moncrieff on his unusual course in life had not appeared in any of the newspaper reports I had seen, though it was possible that Langdale Pike could have supplied it had we asked. While I knew that the woman in question had been the one to identify John Worthing as Ernest Moncrieff, I had had no inkling that she was still involved in his life in any other capacity.

  Holmes said, ‘The name of Prism is prominent in the police reports, and I recognised it as the most unusual one which Cecily had employed when speaking of her governess.’

  ‘By Jove!’ was all I could think of to say.

  But the Revd Canon Dr Chasuble had more to contribute. ‘Mr Holmes, sir, for shame and for pity!’ he protested. ‘My wife has suffered quite enough for her lamentable error. She has borne agonies of remorse and regret for what she has done, and like the Magdalen she has been forgiven!’

  ‘Frederick!’ objected Mrs Chasuble primly.

  ‘My apologies, my dear. I spoke analogically. My analogy pertained to the forgiveness of the sin, not the character of the sinner. But sir, the living person most injured by Mrs Chasuble’s regrettable mnemonic lapse was Ernest Moncrieff himself, and he has shown great magnanimity in absolving her of all blame. If he can make his peace with her, then surely it is for us to follow his Christian example, and not to throw around expressions like “kidnap” indiscriminately!’

  Sombrely Holmes replied, ‘Dr Chasuble, I assure you that I am never indiscriminate when it comes to matters of crime. I spoke literally. My terminology was drawn from the criminal lexicon. Was that not correct of me, Mrs Chasuble?’

  By now Mrs Chasuble had overcome her immediate panic, and her head was drooping miserably. ‘Mr Holmes,’ she said, ‘I admit with shame that it was. My earlier confession to Lady Bracknell was pusillanimously incomplete. I sought merely to set the record straight upon Mr Worthing’s identity, and evaded my responsibility for a more profound crime.’

  ‘Good Lord!’ I declared. ‘So Pike was right. There was more to the story than we were told at the time.’

  ‘Laetitia, you must confess now,’ Dr Chasuble implored her, in great distress. ‘The weight of such a transgression upon the soul can only be lifted through honest disclosure.’

  ‘I think I may spare Mrs Chasuble the pain,’ said Holmes. ‘Much of the story I know already, though she may be able to fill in some of the details. May I tell you what I know?’

  She nodded her head, and he began.

  ‘In 1867, you were twenty-five or thereabouts, and employed as nursemaid in the household of Colonel Ernest Moncrieff and his wife Claudia, sister to Lady Bracknell, both of them now deceased. Your duties entailed the care of their infant son, also named Ernest, then less than a year old. His younger brother, Algernon, would not be born for several years, so Ernest was your only charge.

  ‘In time you might have gained the experience to apply for a more senior situation as a nanny, but you had ambitions to better yourself beyond that. You had intellectual pretensions, and even hopes of becoming a published novelist. In short, while conscientious in your duties, you were dissatisfied with your lot, as well you might be. It was at this time that you met Sergeant William Durrington.’

  The name was unknown to me, but I could see from Mrs Chasuble’s pained expression that it had very particular meaning for her.

  Holmes went on. ‘Durrington had until recently served in Colonel Moncrieff’s regiment. He had been dismissed, unless I am mistaken, by the colonel personally, and consequently bore a grudge against his former commanding officer. What was the cause of his dismissal, do you know?’

  Mrs Chasuble spoke quietly. ‘He told me that he was punished for selling cigarettes to the troops, but I now believe that he was dealing in opium. The regiment was fo
rtunate not to see active combat duty under the colonel’s command, but young men can be extremely foolish. Their boredom had a deleterious effect on morale.’

  ‘Indeed. Well, that would certainly be grounds for a summary discharge, if not a court martial. In any case, this Durrington wished revenge upon Colonel Moncrieff, and to that end he chose to prey upon a blameless young woman, a domestic servant in the colonel’s employ. What occurred between the two of you so long ago is for you alone to know, and not a matter any of us is fit to judge.’

  ‘Amen,’ murmured Dr Chasuble fervently, embarrassed by this speculation. He was about to say more, probably a great deal more, but Holmes was determined to continue.

  ‘Whatever occurred, it was enough to put you in his power. With what he knew, he could have had you dismissed without a reference, which would have put an end to all your hopes. This enabled him to manipulate you to his own ends, which were vengeful and villainous. It was at his behest, not through any moment of mental abstraction, that you placed the infant Ernest Moncrieff in a handbag and deposited him in the cloakroom at Victoria Station, so that Durrington could collect the child and demand a substantial ransom from his former commanding officer for his return.’

  ‘But Holmes,’ I said, ‘that’s not what happened.’

  ‘As far as Miss Prism knew at the time, it was what was to happen. But although she could not risk frustrating Sergeant Durrington’s scheme, she was a woman of conscience. She felt, as Dr Chasuble has said, agonies of remorse.

  ‘You had left the perambulator which should have contained the baby outside Victoria Station while you deposited the handbag, so that your entry and withdrawal from the cloakroom could be quick and stealthy. I can only assume that you waited until the baby was sleeping peacefully in the luggage, or his wails would hardly have been inconspicuous. He was, in any case, to wait there only minutes before your accomplice collected him.’

  ‘But Holmes!’ I said again.

 

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