by David Marcum
“You know so much at a glance, it almost feels as if it might be redundant to tell you the rest.”
“Not at all. Please, sit and tell me what the newspapers do not know.”
“You see, Mr. Holmes, there have been threats upon the life of my Patrick.”
“Threats?” I bellowed. “Against a child just reunited with his family? Unbelievable!”
“Nonetheless, the threats are real. The papers still talk about Patrick like he is a child, but he is a full-grown man. He has lived a full life while he has been away. A life that we know nothing about.”
“A life that may have followed him back home?” Holmes asked.
“That’s what we are afraid of, but Patrick won’t talk about his past.”
“What form have these threats taken?”
“Initially there were just shouts in the street wherever we went. Then the letters started, and finally, someone hurled bricks through our windows.”
“The police will not take action?”
“They have patrolmen walking the Blackhouse grounds, but that has done little to stop the abuse.”
“And these letters, do you have them?”
“No. Patrick destroys them all upon reading them.”
“Have you read them?”
“Never. Patrick has not stepped outside since he returned home, so he is always there when the mail is brought in. The letters upset him, so we have tried to learn the contents, but he is very secretive.”
“What about these bricks? Anything special about them?”
“Each had the word ‘liar’ inscribed in capital letters. Scratched in, as with a knife.”
“I see. And have those bricks been destroyed as well?”
“Patrick smashes them with a hammer and then throws the remains out in the woodlands behind the house.”
“Do you not find Patrick’s behavior suspicious?”
“He is so angry and so strange it is hard to gauge his behavior by normal standards. Lord Blackhouse advises patience, predicting that things will return to normal when Patrick has recovered from his ordeal. But I just don’t know, Mr. Holmes. He lived with his kidnappers far longer than he lived with us. In many ways, that is his normal life and this the interruption. I wonder if he now regrets returning to us.”
“Has he had contact with his kidnappers since returning?”
“Not that we know of. Not unless that is what these letters are about. I do not believe he has made any attempt at outbound communication. Quite the opposite, he seems to retreat further and further into himself. I fear this harassment may just be one trauma too many.”
“We shall be happy to look into this matter, Lady Blackhouse. I would like to come and examine the property at your earliest convenience.”
“Of course, Mr. Holmes. I wonder if it would be convenient for you to visit during the day tomorrow?”
“When Lord Blackhouse is otherwise occupied?”
“How did you...?”
“Ladies of your station either seek justice through their husbands or despite them.”
“Yes, well...”
“It is quite alright by me, Lady Blackhouse. I daresay the fewer parties involved the more efficient the investigation will be. Do you expect Patrick to be around?”
“Patrick is always around, Mr. Holmes. However, I expect he will avoid you, as he does any stranger.”
“Very good. Dr. Watson and I shall call on you mid-morning tomorrow.”
The next day, Holmes and I found ourselves walking up the driveway to stately Blackhouse Manor. Despite the family name, the home was actually hewn from a pleasant pink stone with earth colored accents around the windows and doors. I noticed that several of the windows were boarded up.
“Perhaps the local glazier did it,” I offered. I noticed that Holmes had yet to look up at the building. His eyes were intently fixed upon the soggy ground. When we reached the front door, we were received by a maid. Lady Blackhouse appeared shortly from upon the grand staircase before us, and as she reached the bottom, I noticed a strange figure had creeped to the bannister to look down at us from above.
“Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson, how good of you to come.”
“Not at all, Lady Blackhouse. Tell me, were there any more incidents yesterday?”
“Another brick, I’m afraid.”
“May I see where it landed?”
Lady Blackhouse escorted us two rooms over into what appeared to be some sort of office. There was a massive desk in the center of the room with a large blotter, a small globe, and various other practical knickknacks. Against one wall was a secretary’s roll top desk and along the rest were shelves of ledgers, logbooks, and other impersonal paraphernalia.
“What is this room?”
“Lord Blackhouse’s office. He still personally oversees the many diverse enterprises under the Blackhouse name, through in truth his man Ronald Weiss does most of the actual work.”
“Do you attach any significance to this room being attacked?”
“None. I presume the vandal is choosing rooms at random from the outside, and this was just the next unbroken window.”
“So the windows have been broken in order?”
“Not exactly. The first brick was through our parlor window while we all sat around the piano after dinner. The next through the dining room window while we were seated. That one knocked the serving bowl of soup right off the table. The third came through the window of the library where Lord Blackhouse and Patrick were reading. Then this.”
“Lord Blackwell was working in this room when the attack occurred?”
“No, the room was unoccupied when the attack happened.”
“How quickly was the room examined after the incident?”
“That is unclear, Mr. Holmes. I had gone into London for the day to update my summer wardrobe. As you correctly surmised, I have worn black for the last sixteen years. It is appropriate that my appearance reflect my joy in having my son returned to me.” I couldn’t help but notice that her demeanor did not match her words. “Only the maid was here at the time, and Patrick, of course. She heard the crash of the window breaking and locked herself in her room, poor thing. Patrick claims not to have heard it at all, but I think that a lie. Patrick is always around and he hears everything.” She wrapped her arms around herself as if warding off a chill. “Lord Blackhouse discovered the broken window much the same time as I was knocking at the maid’s door to inquire as to why the house was not prepared for dinner.”
Holmes began to walk around the office, scrutinizing every aspect. He took special interest in the window, now boarded up, and the floor before it. “Who cleaned the room?”
“The maid, after the police had been here.”
“And the window?”
“There’s a local man named Gerry Springs who manages the grounds and does basic repair work like this. We don’t employ him exclusively. He works for many of the families in this area.”
“I should like to speak to the maid.”
“I shall retrieve her at once.” Lady Blackhouse stepped out into the hallway and shrieked. “For Heaven’s sake, Patrick. Skulking around out here in the dark!” We heard the lady proceed down the hall one way and Patrick clomp away in the other.
“I say, Holmes, she seems unenthusiastic about her returned son.”
“Indeed. It is too early to be sure, but keep that lack of maternal affection in mind. I think that Lady Blackhouse knows more than she is telling. Remember, she nominally asked us to investigate who is attacking her house and family, but in the same breath all but charged us with investigating Patrick himself.”
“What could it mean, Holmes?”
“Let us begin with the small crime before us.”
“Taken on its own, it is pure va
ndalism.”
“I don’t think that it is.”
“You don’t think this is vandalism?”
“I think the previous acts of vandalism presented an opportunity to someone. Step here.”
I stepped on the corner of the rug that Holmes indicated. It felt strangely gritty underneath my feet.
“The rug retains the miniscule fragments of broken glass. Someone stepped there, on top of both the glass and the rug grinding in the shards. Assuming that they started at the window...”
“You think someone broke in?”
“We saw the other broken windows on the way in. They all shared the characteristic jagged puncture of glass that had been shattered by a thrown object. This window, on the other hand, has been cleared to the bottom frame, with the glass collecting just below the window instead of being expelled across the room. Someone attacked this window brick in hand and knocked out all of the lower glass before climbing in. The crushed glass in the rug tells us he went to this side of the room.” Holmes now writhed back and forth like a cobra about to strike before the file boxes shelved on the wall. “Here, Watson!”
“What is it, Holmes?”
“Do you see the scuffs on this shelf here?”
“By Jove! You’re right, Holmes! This file box has been stolen!”
“Not quite.”
“But you just pointed at the evidence yourself!”
“This file box is not in its proper spot, but I suspect it is still on these very shelves. This is it. You’ll notice that the cleaning in here is perfunctory. I suspect Lord Blackhouse doesn’t like his business papers being touched. Likely the maid must clean while he is in the office watching her. In any event, these older file boxes are topped with years of dust, but this current file box, pulled from the very end of the shelving, is completely dust free. Quickly, let’s take a look in the surrounding boxes before Lady Blackhouse returns. I see, personal correspondence, and the missing box appears to be from about twenty-three years ago. Very interesting. Someone has taken the box for 1864, and Lord Blackhouse has attempted to disguise that fact. It’s blackmail, Watson. We must speak to Lord Blackhouse in private.”
Lady Blackhouse returned with the maid. She curtseyed, holding her apron out, but did not meet Holmes’s gaze.
“When you entered the room after Lord and Lady Blackhouse came home, how do you find it?”
“How do you mean, sir?”
“Describe the condition of the room.”
“There was glass everywhere. I picked up as much as I could before Lord Blackhouse lost his patience and ordered me away.”
“I see. And what was Lord Blackhouse doing when you entered?”
“I don’t rightly know. There was a great commotion as we approached the room, but when we entered, he was leaned up against those shelves there.”
“And he stayed there until you were done cleaning?”
“Yes, sir. I suppose he was trying to stay out of the way.”
“Very good. And what did you do with the brick?”
“What brick?”
“Thank you very much, miss. This has been most informative.”
“Ta, sir, but I don’t think I understand.”
“That is quite alright, Lucinda,” Lady Blackhouse said ushering her out of the room. “Please have lunch ready for our guests.”
“Quite unnecessary,” said Holmes.
“I insist.”
“We really must be on our way.”
“Lady Blackhouse insists, Holmes,” I said, holding my empty stomach. I knew that once Holmes caught the scent, there would be no stopping for mere sustenance.
“I regret, Lady Blackhouse, that pressing business calls us elsewhere. I hope to send word shortly that this unfortunate situation has been resolved.”
Back on the street, Holmes walked to the second cab available and asked for the St. John’s Club. “Are you a member there, now?” I asked, wistfully thinking of the lunch that had almost been.
“Of course not, but we know of someone who is. Lord Blackhouse had no fewer than three visible pieces of paper with St. John’s Club letterhead visible in his office. I surmise that he is not only a member, but a regular who incurs ongoing tabs.” We arrived at the understated building and Holmes rapped at the modest white door. A nonplussed older man wearing a frayed tuxedo opened it.
“This is a private club, gentlemen.”
“We are here to see Lord Blackhouse.”
“I cannot confirm the presence of any member, nor indeed the membership of any person.”
Holmes retrieved a calling card from his coat. “Should there be a Lord Blackhouse inside, please pass along my card and inform him that I specialize in just the kind of shelving problems he is currently experiencing.”
A few minutes later, we found ourselves in a quiet corner of the club, meeting with Lord Blackhouse himself. He was a giant of a man, balding in that way that suggested excess virility, and chomping at a cigar. “What do you know of this business?”
“I know that a box of personal correspondence from 1864 was recently burgled from your office under cover of a false act of vandalism. I know that this burglary was committed by someone other than the person throwing bricks inscribed ‘liar’ through your windows. I know your wife believes those bricks to be intended for Patrick, but we two know those bricks are intended for you.”
“How dare you come in here are besmirch my character!” He rose from his chair and began pacing at the window.
“While I detest coincidences, the proximity of the return of your son with this burglary demands examination. I note that the year in question is not the year the boy was kidnapped but the year he was born.”
“What business of yours is this... Mr. Sherlock Holmes?” he asked, brandishing my friend’s calling card.
“Your wife has engaged my services to investigate the vandalism and also Patrick’s past. By that, she, of course, means the time between his kidnapping and return. However, it is now apparent that the intrigues surrounding this young man began much earlier.”
“Has my family not suffered enough without your meddling?”
“You misunderstand me, sir. I assure you that if I look into your blackmailing and your missing correspondence I will come to the whole truth. However, that is not my charge at present, and should you provide me with the name of your blackmailer, I shall have no need at the moment to inquire any further on this particular topic.”
“And if I throw you out of here right now and forbid my wife to ever speak to you again?”
“You will have made your wife rightfully suspicious and she will no doubt reach out to the police or others. You will be forever beholden to your blackmailer, and believe me when I say blackmailers never let someone out of their grasping claws voluntarily. Patrick and your home will continue to be under siege from the original assailant. And, most importantly, I will still be on the case, without feeling beholden to protect you in any way whatsoever.”
The man’s face was a deep red, but as he mulled over his options it slowly returned to normal and finally his shoulders slumped. “Sylvester Love.”
“Sylvester Love, the gypsy who kidnapped Patrick? How could he possibly blackmail you?”
“Suffice it to say that there is a complicated relationship, and Lady Blackhouse and I do not wish to reveal the exact nature to the public, and more importantly, to Patrick. I certainly do not want to reveal it to you. I assure you that no peace can be brokered with Sylvester Love, but if you can steal the documents away from him, I shall pay you a princely sum.”
“I am not a sneak-thief, and I do not accept blind commissions. I shall pursue the goal of stopping the attacks against your property and determining the nature of the danger to Patrick. Whether the results of this investigation are to your benefit or
detriment is of no concern to me. Good day, Lord Blackhouse.”
Holmes did not so much as pause as we exited back onto the London street.
“Hold up! Where are we going now?”
“We are looking for gypsies recently arrived in London. Where would you hide, Watson?”
“In a city like London, anywhere.”
“Not anywhere. Even in this modern age, the prejudice against gypsies would narrow their options considerably.”
“Maybe they are in disguise then?”
“Maybe. Avenging these wrongs might drive them to such ends. Consider this: In a country household where there is a shared housekeeper, a naive maid, a disturbed shut-in, and no doubt any number of delivery boys from the greengrocer and the butcher and so forth, surely there had to be opportunities to simply stroll into the house to steal the file box of correspondence. Instead, the thief approaches a near-empty house and smashes a window with a brick he found at hand. What does that suggest to you?”
“A spontaneous crime of passion?”
“Against an empty house? No, but I do believe it was a crime of opportunity. Someone approached the house, and when given the chance to act unimpeded, chose to smash their way in with the crude implements available. That shows a lack of planning, a lack of self-control, and an unfamiliarity with country estates in general. And yet, this thief had some familiarity with this house in particular, for he went directly to the office window and then straight to the boxes of correspondence.”
