by Geri Schear
“That is true,” Watson said. “It can be exceedingly difficult for a single woman to support herself.”
“The Chandlers were good people, I must say, but always ready to point out the difference in rank between them and the servants. Mrs Prentiss never makes such a distinction... Though I flatter myself I know my place.”
“I suppose,” I said, “Connie doesn’t have your range of experience to know how well off she is?”
“That’s a fact, Mr Holmes.” She leaned forward and expounded on a theme she had, I thought, given a great many thoughts and, probably, words to. “She’s never worked for anyone else. She came to Mrs Prentiss when she was fourteen and she has no idea how hard it can be for servants in other houses. I could tell you stories, indeed I could. But no, she thinks she’s too good to wait upon a fine family. Miss Constance Kidwell, Lady Muck.”
“Perhaps she has hopes to be married,” Watson said.
“Aye, she does at that. She’s been seeing this young chap since January and she’s convinced he’s going to whisk her away to South Africa with him.”
“South Africa?” I said.
“Yes, he’s a, what do you call them? A Boer. Connie said she thought he was German when she first met him because of his accent. He told her he gets that a lot but he’s from Capetown.”
“What is his name, this young gentleman?”
“Avery Rickman.”
“You haven’t met him, I take it?”
“No, sir. She keeps him pretty much to herself. A bit embarrassed of us, I’d say. No doubt she’s given herself all sorts of airs and graces to impress the fellow.”
“Well, thank you, Agnes, for all your help. Would you ask Connie to come and see us?”
A moment later, the pudgy young woman with greasy hair and badly blemished skin joined us. Her air was a curious mixture of apprehension and excitement.
“Hullo, Connie, please make yourself comfortable,” Watson said, displaying his most charming manners.
She flushed and said with a certain brio, “I’d prefer Constance, if you would be so kind, sir.”
“Please, sit down, Constance. I am Doctor Watson and this is Sherlock Holmes.”
“Cor,” she said.
Watson bit his lip to suppress a smile. After all these years, he never fails to be amused by the public’s reaction to me. I sat back and let him get on with it. He has a talent for dealing with truculent maids and this one was as surly as any I’ve ever seen.
“Now, what can you tell us about the strange goings on in this house, Constance?”
She flushed. “I think it’s haunted,” she said in a breathless tone. I wasn’t convinced. Her voice sounded awed enough but her features never altered. It is a mistake all bad liars make: they put all their effort into sounding convincing and forget that how they appear is just as important.
(Note: I should write a monograph about the many ways people betray themselves through their body movements and facial expressions.)
This girl was anything but a good liar. I decided to let Watson’s interrogation run its course.
“Now, Constance,” he said sternly. “You know that’s not true, don’t you?”
She shifted in her seat and picked at the hem of her apron. “How else do you explain it then?” she demanded. “Strange sounds in the middle of the night; things being moved about. I reckon we’ve got one of them polt... pot...”
“Poltergeist?” Watson said. He glanced at me and we know each other well enough to read very small signals. He was as sceptical of this young woman’s tale as I was.
“That’s it,” the maid exclaimed. “One of them evil ghosts that makes things move about.”
“I have always believed,” Watson said. “That the simplest explanations are the best. And, you know, once you’ve eliminated the impossible, whatever remains must be true.”
I smothered a guffaw by burying my face in my scarf.
“What does that mean?” Connie said.
“It means that you’re not being honest with us. Come on, my girl, out with it.”
For an exceedingly kind man, Watson can be quite terrifying when he chooses to be. Seldom does he unleash this harsh side of himself, and very rarely upon a woman, but it was exactly the right approach. The girl burst into tears and cried, “Oh, sir, please don’t tell the mistress. She’ll dismiss me for certain and then what will become of me?”
“You should have thought of that before you started playing these silly games,” my friend said. “Do you know how much anxiety you have caused your mistress? She’s a very charitable woman and has always treated you and Agnes with great generosity. This is how you choose to repay her?”
The maid was sobbing now; even so, I was not quite convinced. I had a feeling this woman could turn on tears as easily as a tap.
“Stop that nonsense at once,” I said. She did so and gaped at me. “Now, tell us about this man that you have been letting into the house.”
Her mouth fell open and she stared at me. “Why you’re the devil himself,” she hissed. “Who told you?”
“You told me by your behaviour. Who is this supposedly South African fellow - I really cannot call him a gentleman - that you have let into this house repeatedly?”
“’Ere,” she cried, all pretence of dignity forgotten. “You don’t know ’im. You don’t know nothin’ about ’im. Just ’cos ’e don’t wear fancy clothes and speak like a toff don’t mean ’e’s no gentleman.”
“He has encouraged you to deceive your mistress, to engage with him in premarital intercourse underneath your mistress’s roof, and to play the hussy. No, no gentleman.”
She flushed and began to rise.
“I don’t ’ave to listen to this,” she said.
“Yes, you do. Sit down.”
She did so, now shaking, more with anger, I thought, than fear. Foolish girl probably thought this man would come to her rescue. He’d marry her and give her a home after she was dismissed.
“Well?” I said. “Your only hope is to tell me everything.”
“His name is Avery Rickman. He’s a diamond merchant from Capetown.”
“A diamond merchant. Indeed? And where did you meet him?”
“At the pub. I went out one night with my friend, Miss Patricia Quinn. It’s not something I’d do as a rule, but it was a special occasion, like, being her birthday. Anyway, it wasn’t much fun; there were so many people and the snug was noisy and smoky. I told Patsy I was leaving. I came outside and knocked into this gentleman.”
“Mr Rickman?”
“Yes, sir. He was very kind and asked me if I was all right. Then he said he knew another pub just down the street and he thought it would be quieter. So we went there but it wasn’t much better. All the same, we had a drink together and then he walked me home and he asked if he might see me again.”
“And how long before you began to have relations with him?”
“That’s none of your business,” she cried. The tears threatened to start again.
“Everything is my business.”
“Well, it was a couple of weeks later.” She flushed deeply and said, “I never did before like... but he’s a gentleman, like I said, and he loves me.”
“Why the cellar?” Watson asked. He seemed anxious to move on from the distasteful subject of Connie’s love life. I cannot say I blame him.
“Because the risk of being caught by Mrs Prentiss was too great in any of the other rooms,” I said. “Her nocturnal employment must have incommoded you considerably.”
“We managed. I mean, it wasn’t ideal, but he wanted me so badly...” She shot me a triumphant look that was wholly unpleasant to see.
“But not so much that he would take you to his lodgings, nor even to a cheap hotel,” I pointed out. “Tell u
s about the objects that got moved.”
“Well, the broom was because he’d broken the windowpane in the basement getting in one night. He was afraid that if someone saw the glass they might put two and two together. He didn’t want me to get into trouble. Anyway, I fetched the broom and cleaned it up, but I was so tired I forgot and left the bloomin’ thing down there. Still, at least I didn’t have to sweep for three days.” She smirked.
“And the brass figurine?”
“That’s really a bell. She looks like a crinoline lady but she has a bell hammer under her skirt. Avery borrowed it so he could ring to let me know he had arrived. It was a good idea, but we worried at waking people up. Anyway, there was such a fuss when I left it outside and that dopey Agnes found it. After that...”
“After that, he took to lighting a match as a signal. And you decided to cover up the reason for moving the bell by moving other objects, too. Then you started to enjoy yourself.”
“Well, she’s no better than me, is she? That Mrs Prentiss. I mean, she’s a good sort, but she’s so dull with her letters and her books... After all, what’s George Prentiss but a railwayman? Just because her aunt left her some money and her father rubs shoulders with them toffs...”
“And the cheese?” Watson asked.
“Well, Avery was hungry one night - he does work up an appetite. What’s a little bit of cheese, after all?”
“Very well. That will do.”
She left with her head held high.
Watson and I sat in silence for several minutes. Eventually he cleared his throat and said, “I don’t know about you, Holmes, but I feel like I need a bath.”
“Yes indeed,” I replied. “What a wholly unpleasant and unrepentant creature she is. Well, I hope the adventure was worth the price. She has destroyed her life and is too stupid to realise it.”
“She will soon enough. I don’t suppose there’s any chance this fellow Rickman could have any genuine regard for the girl?”
I gave him a look and he flushed. “Yes, well,” he said. “It was just a thought.”
It is after midnight, but I am too restless to sleep. What a bitter night it is. The wind is howling down Baker Street and the windows rattle with rain and sleet. All of London is awash.
I hope it is not so wretched in Paris.
Chapter Four
Saturday 26 March 1898
This morning brought a letter from B:
My dear Sherlock,
It is less than a day since you left and already I feel your absence. For all that the Zolas are good people, they lack your refinement, your wit, and your sensibility. Almost I wish I had not been so stubborn in insisting upon staying here, but how am I to abandon my father’s old friend when he is in such straits? I know these straits are almost entirely of his own making, yet I cannot help but sympathise. For all its folly, there is something noble in his thirst for justice. He has an artist’s fascination with the tragic and there is surely no more ‘beautiful tragedy’, as he calls it, than the plight of an honourable military officer publically disgraced and forced to spend the rest of his days on Devil’s Island.
Jean Jaurès called in about half an hour ago and joined the rest of the Dreyfusards in the salon pouring oil on Zola’s embers. Now there are a dozen of them making a commotion. I retired to my bedroom but it is not tranquil. Despite two floors between us, I can hear them plainly. Jaurès is shouting that if the good captain were Christian, the case against him would have been exposed as a sham, but because he is a Jew, he is assumed to be guilty.
I have spoken to people on both sides of the argument and even among the Dreyfusards there are those who say that Zola has inflamed the passions of the public. I must concede their point. Zola insists that passions are of little use if they are not inflamed. He is a man who thrives on turmoil; where none exists, he must create it. He polarises where he ought to seek compromise. Will you think me a disloyal friend if I confess he makes me weary?
Now that he has been given the maximum sentence - imprisonment and a fine of 3000 francs - I think he may have begun to realise the folly of his actions, not that he’d admit it. His poor wife is terrified but stands behind him. I suppose she has no choice.
In the meantime, poor France descends into madness. The Jews are sorely pressed and subject to beatings and other outrages. I hear that along the coast men are removing their garments to prove they are not ‘guilty’ of circumcision. The violence escalates daily and the Dreyfusards insist on escorting me when I need to go out. This is burdensome to them and to me, but a necessity at present, alas.
While his conviction is awaiting appeal, Zola has spoken of fleeing the country if seems things go against him. Do you think England might offer Zola a safe haven if he must flee?
Have you had an opportunity to ask for British intervention in the Dreyfus case? I know it is exceedingly unlikely, but perhaps a quiet word in the right quarters might prove sufficient.
I must go. Please write soon.
Your troublesome wife,
B.
I replied by return post. I copy my letter here:
My dear troublesome wife,
I should not find you half so entertaining if you were docile and meek. It is greatly to your credit that you should want to support your father’s old friend, particularly as he can be irksome at times.
I confess I am alarmed at the increase of violence in France. Mycroft asks that I plead with you to return. He points out, with some justification, that you are not a nonentity who might blend into the background. You are the Queen’s goddaughter and you are my wife. While the latter remains a close secret, the former is significant enough that it must lend weight to everything you do, even if you do very little - and I know you too well to suspect you would ever do very little.
Would you despise me if I implored you to return to England?
I shall ask Mycroft about offering Zola a safe haven, should it prove necessary.
In the meantime, please take no unnecessary risks. Who else can play Mozart like you?
S.
Watson looks rather smug and I’ve discovered it is because Mrs Prentiss sent a joint of beef by way of a thank you for our work in resolving the Camden Town ‘hauntings’. We shall have it for dinner.
I went downstairs to use the telephone and after some minutes was connected with Mycroft’s office. Gillespie assured me he would have my brother return my call as soon as he is free. While I await his response, I have written up my notes on the Camden Town incident. Watson is engaged in writing another of his tales about my exploits. He promises not to pen this most recent case for the moment. Is it merely my bewilderment that a man could form a romantic attachment to the likes of Connie Kidwell that makes me uneasy? Watson points out that for all my many talents an understanding of romance is utterly beyond my ken. Still, something tells me the business is not yet done.
Half-seven
Mycroft just returned my call. (“Talking to you twice in as many days, Sherlock? Isn’t that carrying familial affection too far?”)
“I had a letter from B,” I said. I told him the gist and he heard me out in silence.
“I hope you told her to leave well enough alone and come home.”
“Yes, I did, but I’m sure you must realise the impossibility of persuading her to do anything she does not wish.”
“If she insists on staying, I hope she can keep out of harm’s way. I wish she were not there, Sherlock. The situation is volatile and worsens daily. I hope your letter was persuasive.”
So do I, but I did not admit it.
“What of her query about Zola?” I asked.
“Unofficially, I think we would be delighted to have him, but obviously we cannot extend an official invitation.”
As I hung up the receiver, I ruminated that the problem with older b
rothers is they can never forget they are older and one’s brother. Mycroft and I get on well enough most of the time - we have come a long way since our often-tempestuous childhood - but now and then there are frissons of memory. Tonight was one such occasion.
I must not go to Paris. I gave my word to B that I would never try to manage her. Am I to sit with my hands folded and do nothing?
Midnight
I have written an update to B telling her of my conversation with Mycroft and his prognostications. I have told her to do whatever she thinks is wise and I shall support her, come what may. To my own surprise, I found myself writing the words, “Do, please, be careful.”For a moment, I contemplated striking out the sentence but ultimately decided to let it stand. It is not as if it will influence her in any way.
Monday 28 March 1989
Despite my fatigue, I had a wretched night. It was considerably after the clock chimed three before I fell asleep. Watson would have his readers believe such nights are due to what he calls my bohemian lifestyle. The truth is I am worried. I cannot turn off my mind and in the middle of the night all my mistakes and failings gnaw at me. When I did at last fall asleep I was haunted by dreams of terrible things.
This morning Watson said nothing but poured me a cup of very strong coffee. I pushed away my kippers and he pushed the plate back in front of me.
“She will be no safer for your starvation, Holmes,” he said. “Just eat one kipper and I will be satisfied.”
I forced myself to comply. When I finished and had my second cup of coffee, I said, “It’s not Beatrice, you know. That is, it’s not only Beatrice that worries me.”
“What then?”
“Avery Rickman.”
He took a moment to reflect on the case. “No,” he said at last. “I’m sorry, Holmes, but I’m afraid I don’t follow.”
“Does that Camden Town case not seem too easy? Too obvious?”
