by Geri Schear
“Ah, here you are, gentlemen. Glaser, too; a nice chance for you to get away from the Chosen People, eh?”
Glaser winced.
“What did you want to show us, Lestrade?” I asked.
“Over here, Mr Holmes. I thought you’d want to see for yourself.”
The woman had not been in the river for long. Her body was still intact and the bloating was minimal. Her features were still recognisable.
“Connie Kidwell,” I said.
Watson knelt beside the mottled corpse and examined it. “Strangulation,” he said. “I thought she’d done the deed herself, driven to despair... but no. She’s been murdered, Holmes.”
Chapter Thirteen
We left Glaser in Holborn then Watson and I continued on to the Home for Unfortunate Women in Holloway.
Mother Angelica met us in her office. She is as stark as her surroundings. Nothing is allowed any colour. No doubt she thinks it frivolous. Dressed entirely in black she sits behind a black desk. Her gaunt, hawkish face is pale and there is something cruel in the tightness of her mouth. From her black leather belt there hangs a long piece of cord jutting at even intervals with a series of knots. I can deem no purpose for such an object except as an instrument of abuse. I suppose she would use the word ‘correction’.
“Doctor,” she said, shaking my friend’s hand. “It is always good to see you. How do you do, Mr Holmes? It is an honour to meet you. I apologise I was not here the last time you called. Please take a seat, gentlemen. How may I help you?”
“I sent a young woman to you a few weeks ago,” Watson said. “Her name was Constance Kidwell.”
The thin mouth pursed. “Yes, she came here...” She checked her diary. “On the twenty-ninth of March.”
“And how did she get along?”
“It is always a difficult transition for these girls,” she replied. “The ones who acknowledge their sin and who show genuine repentance make the adjustment more readily.”
“And Connie?” Watson said.
The mouth pursed even tighter. A white mouth with thin wrinkled lines through the lips. A mouth that had never smiled nor found pleasure in any part of the world.
“Miss Kidwell was of the other sort, I’m afraid. She was a very headstrong girl. She had no sense of decency and even less of discipline.”
“What sort of discipline do you mean?” I asked.
“The girls are required to rise at five o’clock every morning. They attend chapel and then prepare breakfast for themselves and the sisters. The rest of the day is a fixed routine of prayer, contemplation, and manual labour.”
“And Connie?” Watson pressed. “You suggest she had difficulties. Can you elaborate?”
“Well, she was not religious,” Mother Angelica said, “Far from it, indeed. She was found sleeping during morning prayers on three occasions. She said she was too cold to sleep. She resented having to work in the laundry. In short, she needed daily correction. I must say I was surprised.”
“Why so?”
“Well, generally serving girls are much more robust than those from a better class. They are used to rising early and to hard work.”
“And to the cold?”
“Exactly.” Mother Angelica was either oblivious to my sarcasm or chose not to acknowledge it. “She needed frequent reminders that she was exceedingly fortunate to have been given a bed here. We are not a wealthy organisation by any means. We have to be careful whom we take. I may say, Doctor, if it had not been for your recommendation, we would not have accepted her. All these things I reminded her.”
“No doubt,” I said. “And when did she go missing?”
“Two days ago. Sister Michael had the foolish notion to take two girls with her to the market. A way of raising their spirits, she said. Such nonsense. In any event, Miss Kidwell vanished in the middle of the outing.”
“You did not report her disappearance to the authorities?”
“Whatever for? She’s an adult; more addled than most, perhaps, but if she chose to leave we could not detain her. I’m afraid we cannot accept her back.”
“She is dead,” Watson said.
The news seemed inconsequential.
“It is unfortunate that she took her own life, but hardly surprising,” the matron said.
“Why do you say she took her own life?”
“I just assumed.”
“I take it others of your girls have ended their lives?” Watson said.
“On occasion. It is most unfortunate.” At our silence, she added, coldly, “They compound the sin of their lust with self-immolation. No one can help girls with such a wicked nature.”
I felt sickened and kept my temper with the greatest of difficulty.
“Connie Kidwell was murdered,” I said. Again, there was no reaction. “We need to speak to Sister Michael.”
The woman glanced at her watch. “Well, she is leading a discussion on the nature of sin at present.”
“This is a murder investigation, Mother Angelica,” Watson said. “I’m afraid we must insist.”
She sighed. “Oh, very well; I shall send for her.”
She rose and pulled on the bell. We sat in silence as she gave instruction to a terrified maid to fetch Sister Michael. Moments later, an equally terrified young nun joined us.
“We need not detain you, Mother,” I said. “We have already taken up enough of your time.”
She would have argued. However, she knew she had no hope of prevailing and did not wish to look weak in the eyes of her subordinate, so she rose and gave us a stiff bow then left the room. All three of us sighed with relief.
“Please be seated, Sister Michael,” Watson said. “I am afraid we have some bad news concerning Connie Kidwell.”
“Oh, I pray she did not harm herself,” the nun exclaimed.
“I’m afraid she was murdered,” Watson said. “We need to ask you a few questions. It is the last service you can do for her.”
“Oh, what a terrible thing,” she sobbed. “It is all my fault.”
“It is nothing of the sort,” Watson said. “Come now, dry your eyes, and answer our questions. You may be able to help us find the person who took her life. Now, you will help us, won’t you?”
“Of course, sir,” she said. “Anything I can do.”
“Good girl,” Watson said.
I sat back and let my friend go on with the questioning. He’s very good with distressed young women. Well, all women really. He could be quite a jack-the-lad if he were not such a gentleman.
“Tell us what happened the day she disappeared,” Watson continued. I hooded my eyes and listened to the woman’s tale.
“We left the Home at about ten o’clock. We walked to the Islington High Street to do our shopping. There was me, Mary Dobbs and Connie.”
“How did Mary and Connie get on?”
“Well enough. Neither of them was very happy at their lot and felt... well, a bit hard done by, I suppose. They are - were - good girls at heart. I am sure of it. I thought the fresh air would do them some good.” She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief.
“I had to keep a close watch on them because they were so easily distracted. Every time we passed a shop or a puppy or... well, really anything at all, they wanted to stop and stare. They weren’t being difficult, you know. Just giddy.”
“I understand,” Watson said. He frowned at my sigh and said, “Perhaps you could skip ahead to the point where you noticed Connie had gone missing?”
“Yes, sir. I had gone into the bank to make a deposit for Mother. The two girls said they were tired and it is true the bags they were carrying were very heavy. I told them to wait for me outside. I really should have made them come into the bank with me, but... Oh, if only I’d known...”
�
�It was not your fault,” Watson soothed. “Please go on.”
“When I came out, Mary was there on her own and Connie was gone. She said the girl suddenly ran off for no good reason. I thought she was just being silly, Connie, I mean, and she’d come back when she got tired of her game. After all, where could she go? But...”
Her voice sank beneath a hiccough of sobs.
There was no more to be wrung from her. We sent her away and spoke with the remorseful Mary though Mother Angelica insisted on standing watch as we did so. Presumably a young woman of such ill-repute could hardly be trusted in a room alone with two gentlemen. What that says of Watson and me does not bear contemplation.
Whether because of Mother’s presence or a mere lack of wits, the girl had little to add. She liked Connie well enough but did not really know her. She was secretive, you see. Connie. Always looking for some sort of angle.
Outside the bank, they set down their heavy bags and Connie had said she needed to go to the lavatory. She set off towards the nearest public convenience before Mary had a chance to remonstrate. She never returned.
“Thinking over it now,” Watson said. “Do you think she had planned to leave you like that?”
“Oh yes,” the young woman said. “Indeed I do. She had been skittish all morning and kept checking the time. I even asked her if she had a secret rendezvous - it was only a jest. I didn’t know... Connie laughed and said oh, yes, she had arranged to meet a very elegant young man, and they were headed off to Capetown that very evening. Where is Capetown?”
“You never saw her speaking to a man?”
The girl glanced at Mother Angelica and said, “No, indeed, sir.” Then, softly, “But she had a note. She had it hidden in her glove but I caught her looking at it a few times.”
“And you did not get to see what the note said?” Watson said.
“No indeed, sir.”
I said, “Do you have any idea how Connie received the note?” To the nun I added, “I imagine the ladies are not permitted to receive private communication?”
“The women,” Mother Angelica corrected. No ladies these. “Certainly not. All post is read first by me and then, if it is harmless, it is passed on to the women.”
“What would you deem harmful, Mother?” Watson asked. His voice was even. She’d wither if she knew the fury it masked.
“Some of the girls are asked to meet gentlemen for a rendezvous,” she said. “Now and then the letters are very upsetting, parents disowning their daughters or informing them that a member of the family has been taken ill as a direct result of the girl’s condition. It may seem harsh, but all my actions serve to protect these women to the best of my ability.”
“So we have no way of knowing how Connie received that note.”
“If you please, sir,” said Mary, “but there were a lot of people about in some of the shops. The butcher’s was a right bast - that is, it was particularly bad. Connie had been in a bit of a mood before we went in, but she perked right up afterwards.”
“And you think someone in the crowd slipped her the note then? I do not suppose you can remember if there was anyone in particular in the butcher shop?”
“No, sir, it was just maids and housewives, I think. But, there, it was that busy the Pope himself might have been present and I’d not have seen him. Begging your pardon, Mother.”
So that was that. We rose and thanked Mother Angelica. Although the matter had nothing to do with our case, I was curious and said, “Tell me, Mother. What happens to the children of these young women when they are born?”
“Adoption,” she said. “These girls are in no position to keep a child.” At my expression she added, “We find them very good, Christian homes.”
Watson and I returned to Baker Street. I sat in my chair by the fire and stared into the flames. Someone put a cup in my hands. At some point, I tasted the contents.
“This is cold,” I said.
“It wasn’t when I handed it to you,” Watson said.
“Oh.”
I put the cup down on the mantle and sank back into my reverie. Tried to. Watson said, “Is it the case that preoccupies you, Holmes, or that Home for Unfortunate Women?”
“Both. What a stupid, stupid girl she was. A born victim.”
“She didn’t know when she was well off,” Watson said.
“Quite so,” I said glancing at him. “Anyone who knows us must assume you would be the one who was outraged and I unmoved.”
“Anyone who knows us slightly, perhaps,” Watson said. “You and I know better. So do the people who know us best: Mycroft, Mrs Hudson, Beatrice. None of them would be surprised by your disgust. And you’re right to be disgusted; it’s a disgusting place.”
“But you sent her there. Connie.”
“So it is my fault?”
I said nothing. I was in a quarrelsome mood and could not find my way out of it.
“Where else was she to go, Holmes? Believe it or not, the Holloway Home is one of the better institutions of its kind. Yes, really. The women who must go there are not treated savagely. They get enough to eat and they have shelter from the elements. True, they are forced to endure a ghastly amount of religion but who is to say that’s a bad thing?”
“It is deplorable,” I said.
“It is not the place so much as that ghastly Mother Angelica. Was ever a woman more inappropriately named? The whole place reeks of terror and guilt and it is entirely because of her.”
“What do you think she meant by correction? Mother Angelica said Connie needed ‘correction’.”
“It may have been no more than a bad scolding.”
“But you do not think so.”
He said nothing for several minutes then he poured a generous thimble of scotch and handed it to me. He poked at the fire and said, “You never used to be so interested in the way women are treated by our society.”
I swallowed a mouthful of the whisky and coughed. I felt its fire work through my body. Warmed at last, I said, “You are saying I have become a sentimentalist?”
“You?” He dissolved in giggles and I could not help but smile. “Not sentimental; never that. But perhaps that great heart of yours has become a little less hidden. You have, if you will forgive me saying so, been a new man since you returned from Italy.”
“Marriage,” I said. “I thought myself so clever, Watson. I was going to marry and it would not change my life one iota. What a fool I was.”
“Not a fool. Just a man. Then again, perhaps they are the same thing. In any case, it is not marriage that changes a man, it’s love.”
I shook my head. “Beatrice and I do not-”
“Have that sort of relationship?” he finished.
“Well, we don’t.”
“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” he said.
“I have been wondering why she left.”
“Beatrice?”
“Connie.”
“Ah. A rendezvous, Mary Dobbs said.”
“But how was it arranged? How did he know where to find her? And how did he get the message to her?”
“The butcher shop?”
“Filled with maids and housewives it may have been, but a man, a tall man would have attracted even Mary Dobbs’ attention.”
“So he has an ally?” He thought about it for a moment while I sipped the scotch. “But, no, not necessarily. He could have seen her in the street and just asked some woman to do him a favour. Perhaps he paid her to do so.”
“Yes,” I said slowly. “I cannot find fault in that theory.”
“Then again,” Watson added, now warming to the theme, “Perhaps there was no note. After all, we did not find one in her belongings or on her body.”
“Neither signifies,” I replied. “He may have told her
to destroy anything in writing, or he could simply have taken it off the body after he killed her.”
“You don’t suppose...” Watson began.
“What?”
“Well, we are assuming Rickman is the killer and I’ll grant you he seems the most likely culprit. All the same-”
“All the same, we cannot rule out the possibility that she was murdered by someone else. I agree. But there was a rendezvous. Coincidence may work in novels, but real life is seldom so lazy. No, much more likely there was an assignation. It seems unlikely Connie Kidwell should have found another paramour so swiftly, particularly not in her situation.”
“Pregnant, you mean?”
“Quite so.”
I downed the rest of the whisky and said, “I’m sick of the whole thing. What do you say to us going out to dinner and then perhaps a concert?”
Chapter Fourteen
Monday 2 May 1898
I slept late but felt much more refreshed when I awoke. Last night’s music, though of far inferior quality to my wife’s playing, was stirring and enabled me to set this troublesome case aside for a few hours. After breakfast, Watson and I set out for the British Museum to meet with Doctor Basil Bazalgette.
At least one advantage of being the “famous Sherlock Holmes” is you can command attention even from busy experts.
“I appreciate you taking the time to speak to me, Dr Bazalgette,” I said. “I wanted to ask you about a telephonic conversation you had last week with Mr Mordechai Schwartz.”
“Schwartz, yes, yes. But he did not telephone; he came to see me. We are old friends. He is very learned you know. A broad knowledge rather than a deep, but one always appreciates an enthusiast.”
“He asked you about the Coptic Patriarchs?”
“That is so.”
“May I ask what you told him?”
“Just the obvious. They do not exist. They are a myth.
“You are sure?”
“Positive. I am an expert in my field, Mr Holmes, just as you are in yours. Certainly they are a myth.”
