by Geri Schear
“Elizabeth slept here before she was queen,” Beatrice said. “So did Sir Walter Raleigh - though my father assured me it was not at the same time.”
“It is a charming building, Sherlock,” Mycroft said. “I have not had a chance to explore the whole thing yet. Perhaps you will join me later?”
“I should be delighted,” I said, “But Beatrice may prefer to give us the grand tour?”
“I shall do nothing of the sort,” she said. “Half the fun of exploring a place like this is the unexpected discovery. My presence would rob you of that. Besides, I promised the boys I’d take them to the beach.”
“Where are those boys?” I asked.
“Tommy is practicing the piano. He has a natural talent, Sherlock. I really cannot believe how quickly he has mastered the basics. And Billy went horse riding with young Jessup, the groundskeeper’s son.”
“Horse riding? Those boys will never be able to readjust to London after all these treats.”
Her eyes stared out the window towards the clear grey water. “Then I shall have to readjust London to accommodate them.”
The rest of the day passed very pleasantly. Watson took a long nap and seemed much improved when he awoke. Mycroft and I spent several hours exploring the house, and vastly entertaining it was, too. Not once did he limp or seem unwell. He easily kept pace with me as we climbed staircases, examined the gallery, and discovered the many nooks and crannies that seem to exist merely to entertain small boys. Or grown men who have retained much of their childhood.
As we explored the garden - I was astonished that my brother did not protest either the fresh air or the exercise - I told him about the recent happenings in the case.
“Beatrice told me when you called,” he said. “Thank heaven your friend Watson is such a stout fellow. A lesser man might not have survived.”
“True, though I doubt he sees it that way.”
“Are you sure... Forgive me, but are you sure bringing him here was the wisest course of action?”
“He needs time to recuperate. Not to mention I need to know he is safe.”
“He is a military man, Sherlock. Safe is the last thing he would ever want. He and your wife have that in common. I must say, I was surprised enough that you persuaded Beatrice to leave the city. She is not a woman who likes sitting idle, I think.”
“No, she is not. But how can I work, Mycroft, if I am forever worried about the people I-” I broke off and amended, “The people who matter to me?”
His shrewd eyes softened. “Don’t misunderstand me, brother dear,” he said. “I am not criticising. I’m just a little concerned these people who, yes, love you, will set their own feelings and interests aside to accommodate you. They came here without demur because they would not cause you a moment’s worry.”
“It is not forever,” I said. The garden was a pleasant sight. Forget-me-nots blanketed the ground almost to the water’s edge; roses and sweet peas and lilac presented a sight far too jolly for this dismal conversation.
We headed for the folly and sat there for a while listening to the sound of the trees and the distant gurgle of the sea. I would never admit such a thing to Watson, but there are times when the peace of the country is preferable even to London.
“Well,” I said. “I shall give Watson a few days to rest then he may return to the city if he wishes.”
“You might consider staying here, too, my dear fellow,” Mycroft said. “Do you think you’re the only one to worry about the safety of his loved ones? Would it hurt so much if you were to stay a short while?”
I pondered aloud: “Lestrade is scouring the city for Rickman. I spoke with Glaser last night and all seems quiet in Hatton Garden. He and young Stevens have developed a bond and I have no doubt they can keep the diamond district safe without my help. No, you are right. A few days away from London should not hurt. Furthermore, I concede that Watson would probably feel less guilty if I were to stay here, too. I do not suppose Beatrice will mind.”
Mycroft grinned at me. “I dare say the girl can put up with you if we can.”
Both Watson and Beatrice managed to keep their relief at my change in plans to little more than a ripple. “Do you good, old man,” Watson said. “You’ve been looking a bit peaked. A break will set us both to rights.”
Beatrice smiled and said, “Whatever you like, my dear.” Something in the way she said the words made me realise she and Mycroft had planned this between them. I hate being managed, even when it is for my own good. Still, I have been out-manoeuvred and by experts. I can only bow in the face of such expertise.
As I made my way down to the dining room, I spotted a familiar face. “Daisy?” I said. “I did not expect to see you here.”
“Oh, hullo, Mr Holmes,” she said. “Her ladyship called and asked if I’d like to make a bit of extra money helping out here for a few weeks. It’s a larger party than she is used to and she was glad of the help. Good for me, too, sir. With Maurice and me saving for the wedding the little extra is a big help.”
“I’m sure it is. When are you and Stevens getting married?”
“This August, Mr Holmes; I do hope you’ll come to the wedding, you and her ladyship.” We reached the main hallway and she indicted the great double doors to our left.
“Well, here we are, Mr Holmes. That’s the dining room through there.”
As I turned to leave she added, “By the way, I wanted to thank you, sir.”
“Thank me? For what?”
“For suggesting Maurice to Inspector Glaser. He’s learning ever so much and he idolises the inspector. ‘Smartest man in all of England saving Mr Holmes himself,’ he said.”
“Glaser seems quite taken with your fiancé, Daisy. I’m glad the arrangement is working out for both of them.”
Saturday 7 May 1898
Beatrice’s old friends Edward Davenport and Julia Simms from Rillington Manor arrived this morning. B had invited them for the weekend before I invited Watson and myself. It is fortunate this ‘cottage’ has so many bedrooms.
I never had the pleasure of meeting Davenport at Rillington Manor; he had been discharged long before I arrived to investigate that sordid case. Beatrice says her friends are greatly improved in health and appearance. “Life at Rillington Manor was difficult, I know,” she said. “But were it not impossible outside a story book I should vow they are both ten years younger.”
Mr Davenport’s tavern has been doing excellent business and he has been able to hire three men. Miss Simms tends to the lodging side of things.
“I cannot think why I did not leave service sooner,” the former butler told me. “Of course, none of it would have been possible without Lady Beatrice’s assistance. She gave me the money to set up my business. She is the kindest woman in all the land. Always was, even when she was a child.”
They are both intelligent, well-informed people and have known B all her life. It is obvious there is a great deal of affection among them.
Over dinner, we enjoyed as lively a conversation as I have ever experienced. B, in green silks, is delighted to have all her friends under one roof.
“May I ask about your work, Mr Holmes?” Davenport asked. “I confess I was very jealous when Julia told me all about your case at Rillington Manor - though I was well out of that place, to be sure. All the same, I should have loved to see you work.”
“Thank you,” I said. The man really is as bright as Watson told me. “It was not a particularly challenging case, though there was little enough to go on at the start.”
“Holmes’s new case is not without interest,” Watson piped up. “‘The Case of the Camden Poltergeist’, I call it.”
“What’s a polter... pol... that thing?” Billy said.
“A poltergeist,” Julia said, “is a mischievous spirit. They move objects.”
&
nbsp; “A ghost,” Tommy said, indifferently.
“Have you ever seen a ghost?” Davenport asked him.
The boy shrugged. “London’s full of ’em.”
“Indeed,” Julia said. “How did you get involved in such an odd case, Mr Holmes?”
“All of Holmes’s cases are odd,” Watson said. “Or he wouldn’t be interested. But this one came by way of a friend of Mr Mycroft Holmes.”
“Good thing he knew you then, Mr Holmes,” said Tommy. “If you had to look into every haunting in London you’d never have a day off.”
We all laughed and there followed a conversation about famous hauntings around the city. Julia Simms is something of an expert on the subject. After a very short time it became tedious.
“What news from France?” Watson asked B, seeing me flag. “Have you heard from your old friend, M Zola?”
“He writes now and then,” she said. “His second trial is due to start in a couple of weeks.”
“And this time they will be sure that the charges stick,” Mycroft said. “It is a damned mess. I beg your pardon.”
She waved away his apology. “No, you are quite right: it is a damned mess. There is blood on the streets of Paris, indeed all over France, and in the meantime, Captain Dreyfus languishes on Devil’s Island.”
“Devil’s Island, miss?” Billy said. The name of that wretched place had caught his imagination.
“It is a dreadful place,” Watson said in a fiendish voice. “An island in French Guiana. It is a gaol with the most terrible conditions. Prisoners are treated as little more than animals.”
The two boys stared with open mouths and wide eyes.
“A terrible place for a guilty man,” Beatrice said. “But how much worse when the man is innocent?”
“Who, miss?”
“Alfred Dreyfus. It is complicated... Well, you are intelligent young men. I shall try to explain.” She set down her fork and sipped a mouthful of wine before continuing.
“The French had reason to believe there was a spy selling their secrets to other countries. Captain Dreyfus was an officer in the French army and suspicion fell on him.”
“Why him, miss?” Tommy said. “There must have been some reason he was suspected.”
“There was,” I said. “He is a Jew.”
The boys looked at me blankly.
“Your confusion is understandable,” Mycroft said. “It is a stupid reason - no reason at all, in fact. But based on little more than the man’s religion, Dreyfus was arrested.”
Tommy and Billy exchanged a glance.
Julia said, “You mustn’t worry, boys. Such a thing could never happen here.”
Billy gave her an amused look and said, “’Course it could.”
After dinner, we adjourned to the music room. Beatrice played for a while and then asked Tommy to play.
I gritted my teeth and gave my wife a reproachful look. All very well to encourage the lad, to teach him the rudiments of music, but did we have to be subjected to his plonking? I was, however, pleasantly surprised by the boy’s skill. Clumsy and uncertain he may be, but I could see the promise my wife recognised. I just wish he had played another tune. Amazing Grace is not a happy song for me. In my childhood, it represented those wretched Sundays in a dreary church away from those things a boy would prefer to do: climb trees, steal eggs, and torment his brother. Later, the organist played it at my father’s funeral and I have detested it ever since.
The words of the song came back to me:
I once was lost but now I’m found
Was blind, but now I see...
I wonder what made Beatrice select that particular song. Does she know how well it applies to me? No, she has never seen me as lost or blind. I glanced up and saw her bright eyes studying me, anxious for my approbation of her student; amused at my reverie. I smiled and thought again of one verse:
Yes, when this flesh and heart shall fail,
And mortal life shall cease;
I shall profess, within the vale
A life of joy and peace.
Well, something to aspire to, anyway.
The last notes ended and we made a show of applauding appreciatively.
“This in one week, Sherlock,” Beatrice said. “Can you imagine?”
“You are a music prodigy, Tommy,” I said.
“I can’t read the notes yet, but I’m learning, aren’t I, miss?”
“You are. Most certainly you are.” She beamed at him and he blushed. “He is a very diligent student, you know. He practices for hours every day.”
Billy yawned. “Can we go and say goodnight to the horses now? C’mon Tom-Tom. Race you to the stables.”
Monday 9 May 1898
The Davenports returned to London this morning and Mycroft removed himself to Beatrice’s library to work. Watson took the boys out for a hike along the coast: “Good sea air. It’ll do us good,” he said.
B and I spent an enjoyable day talking, walking around the garden, and being alone together as has happened so rarely since our return from the Continent.
Such joy.
Chapter Twenty
Monday 16 May 1898 - London
Watson and I arrived back in Baker Street a little after two. He is in much better spirits and has completely recovered from his injuries. I left him to unpack and indulge Mrs Hudson’s need for gossip, while I took a cab to Scotland Yard.
In recent years, I have observed a marked change in how I am greeted by the detectives and policemen there. When I first began work as a consulting detective, the policemen were suspicious and comments were disdainful. Now when I enter I hear, “Oh, Mr Holmes, how good to see you... Fetch you a cup of coffee, Mr Holmes? What can I do for you, Mr Holmes?” Watson finds this delightful, of course, and says it shows how highly I am esteemed by these men. All the same, it is a little embarrassing. What is worse than the, yes, sycophantic greetings are the whispers: “That’s Sherlock Holmes, that is...”
Today I reached, as Watson might say, a new high in lows: One young upstart at being told who I was declared, “Really? That’s Sherlock Holmes? I thought he was just a myth.”
A myth! Ha!
I hurried through the aisle of desks and chairs to Lestrade’s dingy office at the back. The inspector was on the telephone when I entered the room, but he waved for me to come in and take a seat. A moment later, he set down the instrument and shook my hand.
“Nice to see you, Mr Holmes. Can I get you some coffee?”
“Thank you, no. You look well, Lestrade.”
“So, you’d like an update on that Rickman chap, I suppose?” Lestrade said. “Well, I’m sorry to have so little to report but the fact is I have nothing new to tell you. The fellow has vanished. Completely vanished. I suspect he’s done a bunk and fled the country.”
“Why do you think so?”
“Well, we have the entire Metropolitan force looking for the man. Someone like him, with such a distinctive appearance, surely cannot hide forever.”
“Any man can hide in a metropolis of this size if he chooses, Lestrade. He may well be lying low until the hue-and-cry have died down.”
“Perhaps. We shall not forget him though, of that you may be sure. If he is still in London we will find him.” He opened a tin of biscuits, offered me one which I declined, and closed the lid. “I hope Dr Watson is feeling better?”
“He is much improved, thank you, Lestrade. I shall pass on your regards to him. Tell me, what news from the diamond district?”
“Nothing much. Glaser has it all in hand. He always does, of course. He wants to keep young Stevens permanently, but I don’t know.”
“You have other plans for my young friend?”
“The boy has the makings of a star and no mistake; seems a shame to
waste him on the Jews. I want him to get as much experience as he can and he’ll learn a lot from Glaser. But he’ll be quite an addition to my own team in due course. Of course, Hill has his eye on him, too.”
“Leave the boy in Hatton Garden for now, Lestrade. All my instincts tell me Rickman’s interest in that area has not ended. There will be more developments and you may be very glad to have two such exceptional policemen on hand when they occur.”
“If you think so, Mr Holmes, then I shall of course take your advice.” His narrow eyes glinted. “Any mistakes I’ve ever made in my career have been because I did not listen to you. Well, at least I’ve learned from those mistakes, eh?”
Belatedly I realised he was looking for approbation. I am not good at spotting these things and usually Watson has to give me a nudge. However, this time, and I think it is to my credit, I saw exactly what he was after.
“We have both benefited from our long association, Inspector,” I said genially. I feared to say any more. As it was, the man looked like he might float away, so puffed up was he at my words. I anchored him with another question.
“What news of Watteau? I understand the jury convicted him in less than half an hour?”
“Closer to ten minutes, I should say. He is in Newgate and will face the hangman next Tuesday.”
“I would like to see him.”
“Of course, if you wish. But is it - forgive me - is it wise?”
“I will not rest easy in my mind unless I try. I have no great expectations of his cooperation, but perhaps he will surprise me.”
“He’s a villain of the worst order and no mistake.” Lestrade stood up and put on his coat. “Come on then,” he said.
“You mean to come with me?”
He looked surprised. “Of course... Oh, if you’d rather I didn’t-”
“No, not at all... That is to say, I know how busy you are. But I should be delighted to have your company, Lestrade.”
He was still so enlarged by my compliment he took my assent at face value.
