Sherlock Holmes and The Other Woman

by Geri Schear

  “That’s something, I suppose,” Watson admitted.

  “Thank you for the update, Mycroft. You will keep me informed?”

  “Naturally.”

  “Anything else?”

  “There are several matters that concern me at present: France, Spain, South Africa... However, there is one other thing. This one is rather odd, Sherlock. I must admit I vacillated about whether or not to refer the matter to you, but under the circumstances, I think I must.” He rang the bell and said, “This may take some time. We may as well have some coffee and cake.”

  I rolled my eyes. Watson, ever the oil to soothe troubled waters, said, “That’s an excellent idea. Don’t you agree, Holmes?”

  “You will not get my brother to concede, Doctor,” Mycroft said. “He has no interest in the social niceties.”

  “Ha!”I said.

  Mycroft, with an unsubtle attempt to distract me, said, “How did you enjoy Italy once you actually got there?”

  “It was a delight. The opera was particularly excellent.” I paused remembering the brush of silk, the warmth of soft fingers touching my cheek, a tantalising fragrance...

  “And Beatrice?” Mycroft continued. “It was her first time there, I think?”

  “Yes, she enjoyed it very much,” I said. “Particularly the music, but she also appreciated the art. She has very refined tastes.”

  Silence fell and I was aware of a peculiar non-verbal communication between my friend and my brother.

  “Well?” I demanded, but before either could reply the door opened and Gillespie entered with a tray of food and steaming coffee.

  “Come and join us, Gillespie,” Mycroft said. “I thought it wise that my brother hear the strange tale from your own lips.”

  “Very good, Mr Holmes,” said the old man. He finished pouring the coffee then sat in an armchair and proceeded to tell his story.

  Chapter Two

  “My youngest daughter is the most reliable and sensible of women,” Gillespie said. “Her name is Alice and she is married to a railwayman by the name of George Prentiss.

  “George drives the train from London to Scotland and so is gone for days at a time, leaving Alice alone with their three children. She is an intelligent, sensible woman, Mr Holmes, and not the sort to imagine things.”

  He took a sip of his coffee, his worn face looking deeply troubled. The man had evidently planned his narrative for he continued his tale in a coherent and unhurried manner.

  “Alice and George have been married for fifteen years. In addition to keeping house and rearing their children, my daughter translates documents for Brahms Antiquities. Alice is fluent in French, German, and Italian and she has a reasonable knowledge of Greek and Russian, so she is much in demand. She works at home after the children go to bed, so she is often up until after midnight. I should add that the Prentisses have a very comfortable home in Camden Town, and have kept the same two servants for many years.”

  “Thank you,” I said, “that is very clear. Pray continue.”

  “Over the past several weeks, Alice has been hearing noises in the house after everyone retires. It started with a scraping sound. It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. At first she thought it was rats.”

  “Has anyone else heard these noises?” Watson asked.

  “Not at first, but about a week ago the two maids said they’d begun to hear them, too.”

  “And had your daughter mentioned these sounds to the servants beforehand?” Watson asked. “Sometimes people can imagine things if they are made to expect them. It’s not unusual.”

  “My daughter only questioned them about the cleaning. She asked if the servants had seen rats or mice because she thought she’d heard a scraping sound. At the time the girls denied it, but since then Connie has said she’s heard the noises early in the morning when she starts her duties and Agnes says she has too.”

  “It is by no means definitive,” Watson said.

  I said, “But you believe, Mr Gillespie, that there is something tangible causing these sounds? Something other than London’s vast numbers of rodents?”

  “I do, Mr Holmes. To be sure if it were any other woman I’d put it down to nerves, but that’s not Alice.”

  “There is more to your story, I perceive,” said I. “You would not be consulting my brother and he, in his turn, would not be seeking my input were it merely a matter of unexplained scratching noises.”

  “There now, Mr Holmes, I always said you and your brother are the smartest men in the Empire. You’re right, of course.

  “Alice first noticed these noises at the beginning of February, but a couple of weeks ago she began to notice things in the house were being moved or even disappearing. Initially she blamed the children though they stoutly denied the charge. Eventually, she came to believe there must be some other explanation.”

  “What sort of things are being moved?” Watson asked. He was, as is his habit, making careful notes in his journal.

  “Very strange things, Doctor,” said Gillespie. “The broom went missing, aye, missing, for three whole days. It reappeared in a cupboard in the cellar, of all places. Then a block of cheese vanished. Other things have been moved. Coats have been taken from racks and thrown onto the floor; one of Agnes’s petticoats was hung outside on the front door; a small brass figurine that sits on the mantle turned up in the back garden.”

  “It sounds as if someone is playing silly games,” Watson said. “How old are the children?”

  “Margaret is twelve and she’s a solid young girl, very serious, like her mother. Peter is ten. He’s a bit of a handful, to be sure, but he’s devoted to his mama, and would never play games like this to upset her. The youngest is William. He is six and always has his head in a book. I really cannot believe any of the children would have a hand in something like this.”

  “No,” I said. “This matter has been going on since early February, you said? Generally, children’s attention span is not so enduring. There are exceptions, of course. Since the servants have been with her for many years it seems unlikely to be one of them, unless something happened to precipitate some mischief.”

  I was not convinced of the innocence of any party, but I thought then and think now that there is nothing to be gained by distressing the old man until I had investigated.

  “It must be very hard on your daughter,” Watson said.

  “Well, it is.” For the first time, the depth of Gillespie’s anxiety rose to the surface. “She’s at her wit’s end and no mistake.”

  “She’s fearful of her safety?” I asked.

  Gillespie stared at me. “I don’t think so... Mr Holmes, you do not think she and her children may be at risk?”

  “My brother is simply trying to understand the circumstances of the case,” Mycroft said. He shot me a look of caution and I reined in my unease.

  “I meant what is it in particular that worries her?” I said.”On the surface, moved or even missing objects do not seem particularly alarming. Yet she was obviously concerned enough to confide the matter to her father.”

  “I think her greatest concern is that she may lose her servants. The younger, Connie, tends to histrionics. She is quite superstitious and has become convinced that the house is haunted. It’s not that I don’t believe in ghosts, Mr Holmes. I’ve seen any number of strange things when I worked for Her Majesty; I could tell you tales about Balmoral that would freeze your bones, but Alice does not believe in such things. As for Connie, well, she has become very close to a young man and Alice is afraid that the girl will leave.”

  “There are other servants.”

  “Yes, but Connie has been with her for eight years, and the children are fond of her.”

  I met Mycroft’s eyes. There was concern there; I read all the doubts and apprehensions I also felt.
As he himself often says, we are not brothers for nothing.

  “I shall go and see your daughter, Gillespie. If you would be so kind as to give me her address.”

  Mrs Prentiss lives in modest three-story terraced house in Harrington Square at the Lidlington Place end.

  Camden Town is a curious district. Where else can one find the comfortable middle-class living cheek by jowl with the disadvantaged? While Harrington Square retains an air of middle-class gentility, not more than a few yards away is Mornington Crescent, a place of working class tenants and aspiring artists.

  “An elegant address for the wife of a railwayman, Holmes,” Watson said as we alighted from our hansom.

  “Yes, indeed. I believe Mrs Prentiss inherited the house from her late aunt, Gillespie’s sister.”

  I paid the cabby and climbed the steps but I did not immediately knock. I stood and looked out at the scene before me. “Odd that they call this a square,” I said.

  “Odd?” Watson, though he saw exactly what I did, seemed to have missed the obvious.

  “The park here would be more accurately described as a triangle. Not a true triangle, of course. The north most angle is slightly rounded. Still, if I recall my Euclidean geometry correctly, the park is far closer to an isosceles triangle than a square.”

  “They don’t call places triangles, Holmes.”

  “Why not? We have squares, circles - what do city planners have against the unfortunate triangle?”

  Watson had no answer to that. He made to knock on the door but I forestalled him.

  “Stand here beside me, Watson. Look around. Tell me what you see.”

  He joined me and took a moment to study the landscape.

  “Well,” he said, “I see that all of the houses face the square - or triangle, if you prefer - and overlook each other.”

  “A salient point,” I said. “Even the top flats at the end of Mornington Crescent yonder probably have a good view of this house, too.”

  “Meaning people can see what’s going on in their neighbour’s lives?” Watson said, grasping the inference at once. “So if some stranger is making those noises he probably isn’t entering through the front door.”

  “Not during the daylight hours, anyway,” I said. “Even late at night it would be a risk, particularly with that lamppost no more than ten feet from the front door.”

  “Which means...” he thought a moment then said, “It’s probably someone inside the house who is up to mischief. Unless,” he added, grinning, “It is actually an evil spirit.”

  I ignored his attempt to tease.

  “Possibly. I mean your first supposition, of course. Or perhaps the culprit has found another means of entrance. At this point, I am less interested in how than in why... Well, we shall not learn anything by standing in the cold discussing the matter. Let us see what the good woman can tell us.”

  The door opened almost the instant we knocked by a burly, middle-aged woman with brassy red hair. The apron and the size of her biceps identified her as one of the labouring classes.

  “Mr Holmes and Doctor Watson?” she said. “Come in. The mistress is expecting you.”

  The house was immaculate and well ordered. From somewhere at the rear I could hear a young girl reciting German verbs. Her accent was excellent. Presumably young Miss Prentiss inherited her mother’s linguistic skills.

  The housekeeper led us into a small study. The mistress, a slender young woman with her father’s bright eyes and genteel air, greeted us warmly.

  “Some coffee for our guests, please, Agnes,” she said. The housekeeper bustled away and left us alone with our new client.

  “Thank you so much for coming to see me, Mr Holmes,” the woman said when we were settled by the fire with our hot drinks in our hands. “My father holds you and your brother in the very highest esteem. Indeed, there can hardly be a person in this whole land who has not heard of your extraordinary accomplishments.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I am sorry you have need of help, but I will serve you to the best of my ability. Perhaps you would be kind enough to review the events in as much detail as you can recall. It is important you be as specific as possible. You may speak freely before my friend and colleague, Doctor Watson.”

  “I can be perfectly precise, Mr Holmes. I prepared a record of the events as they occurred. I had them noted in my diary, you see, and it was a simple matter to track back.”

  “Excellent,” I said taking the book. “I wish all my clients were so exacting. You are a credit to your father, Mrs Prentiss.”

  I read the items carefully.

  “Now,” I said.”I see the first instance of the scratching sound came at the very end of January, on Monday the thirty-first, in fact. You are quite certain there had been no such noises prior to that date?”

  “It is possible,” said she, “that there had been some noise that I did not hear. I think it unlikely, however.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because I stay up very late working on my translations. It is difficult to concentrate when the children are up. They are good children but boisterous, as you can expect from that age. If there had been noises at night prior to the date I noted, I think I would have heard them. Of course, I cannot be certain. My husband was home for a few days at the end of January and I do not stay up late when he is here.”

  “I understand.” I reviewed her list of dates and events again. “I see there was a week-long break in the middle of February. There were no disturbances at all during that period?”

  “None.”

  “Can you recall what else had been happening in your household at that time?”

  “Very clearly. My husband was ill and had to take a week off work.”

  “Ah,” Watson said, leaning forward. “And can you remember if the noises and so forth ever occurred while your husband was home?”

  “They did not.”

  “You are certain?” I said.

  “Positive. I have spoken to him about these matters and I may say received a little gentle teasing from him on the subject. I hoped he would witness these occurrences for himself but, alas, that has not been the case.”

  “Ah, that is helpful. Tell us about the objects that were moved.”

  “Well, the first thing to go missing was the bell. It’s a little brass figurine like a crinoline lady. We keep it on the mantle and one day I noticed it wasn’t there. We searched everywhere and I questioned the children, but there was no sign of it. Then several days later it showed up in the back garden.”

  “Do you use the garden often?”

  “During the summer we do. It’s small but pleasant enough when the weather’s good. We tend not to use it at all during the bad weather. Connie hasn’t even been able to hang the washing outside because it’s been so wet these past few weeks. But Agnes went out one afternoon to tidy up and she found it lying there.”

  “And the other items?”

  “Well, there was the cheese. A fresh block of good cheddar went missing. We never did find it. And the children’s coats one day were flung all over the hallway. Then there was the broom. That was exceedingly odd: it just vanished one day and then reappeared in a cupboard in the cellar. Another thing was Agnes’s petticoat mysteriously moved from her drawer and we found it hanging outside on the front door. Oh, she was embarrassed.”

  “Naturally,” I said. “Please tell us about the household. I understand your maids have been with you a long time?”

  “Yes, Agnes worked in this house for my late aunt Esmerelda. When we inherited the building, it made sense to keep Agnes on. She’s such a good worker and very devoted to me and to the children.

  “Connie came to us about eight years ago when she was fourteen. It was her first position and it took her a little while to adjust, but she’s co
me along very well. She’s particularly good with the children.”

  “Do you employ anyone else? A gardener or tradesman?”

  “I take care of the garden myself. The only tradesmen are people like the butcher or the milkman who deliver every day. We have the chimney sweep in every year in October, and I had a man come and look at the basement last September. We have a problem with mould. There has been no one since.”

  “I believe this is a pretty settled district. Do you get many newcomers here?”

  “To live, you mean? Now and then, I suppose, although not so many in the past year or so.”

  “Who are the newest neighbours in the Square?”

  “Well, there’s an African man moved in around Christmas. He’s just a few doors down.”

  “Anyone else?”

  She thought for a moment. “There’s more transition in the Crescent. Artists and people of that sort. I don’t know them, I’m afraid. The only one I know of is a widow woman. I see her walking in the square sometimes.”

  “How well do you know the rest of your neighbours?”

  “I know most of the people on this side of the square. We visit each other from time to time but we are all very busy people.”

  “I assume they are good enough neighbours who would tell you if they saw someone prowling around the house?”

  “Certainly. Good heavens, Mr Holmes, do you really think that is the case?”

  “Holmes is merely exploring all the possibilities, Mrs Prentiss,” Watson said.

  “Yes, of course,” I said, taking my cue. “I must have all the facts if I am to get to the bottom of this matter.”

  My client looked sceptical. “Come, Mr Holmes, I am not a child. I do not need to be protected from the truth. You have a theory about this situation, I can tell.”