Sherlock Holmes and The Adventure of The Pigtail Twist

by M J H Simmonds

  “Two black marks on the back, matching those on the footman’s shirt. One on each side, towards the top, where he had, well, I think you can imagine.” For once, Holmes became rather sheepish, he was finally entering a field where he was far from being an expert.

  “Blimey, you mean where he grabbed her-” began Greaves, suddenly reverting to his more earthy, non-commissioned tone.

  “Tightly,” I quickly interrupted. Greaves grinned while Holmes looked uncomfortable, I could swear that his face almost reddened.

  “Most impressive Holmes, but why are you so certain that the marriage is doomed not to happen?”

  “Because those stains were not oil. Greaves, have you recently cleaned the silver in the house?”

  “Why, yes sir, less than a week past, in preparation for the monthly dinner, same as every month,” Greaves replied.

  “And did the footman participate in said cleaning?” Inquired Holmes

  “No, it is not one of his duties. The maids and myself spent a whole afternoon at it. Hard work cleaning that much silver.”

  “I dare say it is, but if you now take an inventory I think you will find a good few pieces missing for, I fear, this is not the first time your footman has helped himself to a shiny treasure or two.”

  “So, the stains were?” I asked.

  “Silver polish, Watson, distinct in colour and indeed smell. He had clearly been handling several recently cleaned silver items and his hands had picked up a residue. When cleaning large quantities of silver in a limited time, it is inevitable that some polish will be left behind. He had inadvertently, or carelessly, wiped this on the front of his shirt.” Holmes finished with a flourish, drawing his hand across his chest, imitating the motions that the footman would have made.

  “Well I never. Holmes, once again, I stand corrected, you have certainly learned a great deal, while I saw nothing.” I admitted.

  “Greaves, I suggest you wait until the rogue is out of his lodgings and then search his room with the aid of one of the local constables. Tell them to go easy on the poor maid as I am certain that she is blameless and completely unaware of her fiancé’s nefarious activities.”

  Holmes dismissed a still visibly shocked Greaves, who turned and rushed back towards the servant’s lodgings.

  “That is one small crime solved, Watson, a nice hors d’oeuvres, if you will, but I now need to tackle the main course. I must bid you farewell, for now. I shall be back this evening, hopefully in time for an evening rendezvous at the Inn.”

  Holmes tipped his hat and set off towards the front of the Hall where a dogcart was waiting to take him to the station.

  Chapter Five - Doctor Watson Investigates

  It was only after Holmes had left, that I realised quite how vague the instructions he had given to me actually were. In truth, I was beginning to suspect that he may simply have preferred to visit London on his own and perform whatever research he intended without me to slow him down. It also occurred to me that, in the past, he had worked undercover, or in disguise, to gain information that otherwise would not have been available to him, so I resolved not to take offence or perceive any sort of snub. Holmes had developed, and followed, his own methods from long before we met and I was certainly in no position to question these in the light of his already formidable success.

  Feeling a little more self-confident, I decided to head for the house to have a friendly talk with the Colonel, to see how he had adjusted to his nascent wealth. His reaction could be a useful clue as to any possible involvement in his friend’s death. I prepared to report any unusual behaviour, which I knew would be of great interest to Holmes.

  I entered the Hall, nodding to the reassuringly sturdy constable stationed outside the door as I passed by. The house was quiet and felt empty, the sparse style of decor only adding to the sense of sadness that now seemed to permeate its light, open spaces. The living room was empty, so I crossed back across the hall and through the parlour into the dining room. Finding this also unoccupied, I decided to take a quick look at the crime scene before venturing upstairs. I had begun to think that Fauwkes was not in the house at all, as I strode through the glasshouse full of its exotic flora, when I suddenly saw him, sitting on the very bench upon which his friend had been brutally slain.

  He was sitting silently and unmoving, gazing out at the pleasant vista. A small cigar in his left hand had burned down to form a curving ash at least two inches in length. Some papers were lying on the bench next to him. I cleared my throat as I approached, causing him to stir and look round, the ash falling to the ground.

  “Excuse me, Colonel, I didn’t mean to startle you, my apologies,” I said, gently.

  “None necessary, Doctor. I must confess, though, that I was miles away, in a quite different place and time,” he replied, with a weak attempt at a smile. “How can I help you?”

  “I am just following up from yesterday’s interviews,” I said, trying to be as honest as possible. “Sometimes a witness will recall things later that they did not record in their earlier statements. Have you perhaps thought of anything else that might be of assistance?”

  “I am sorry, but I cannot think of a single thing that occurred that evening that I have not already told the Inspector or yourself. There is, however, something that I have subsequently discovered that might have some bearing on the case.” Fauwkes’ pale face and black eyes spoke of exhaustion and sleepless nights.

  “Please tell me everything, all information is useful, no matter how trivial it may at first appear,” I replied, trying to quote Holmes as best I could.

  “Actually, what I discovered is far from trivial, but I cannot as yet gauge its importance.” The Colonel picked up the papers and gestured that I should sit beside him.

  “After discovering the contents of Harrison’s will, I was certainly shocked, but I soon realised that I had to pull myself together and start to come to terms with my new position and its responsibilities. So, naturally, I started to examine his papers to learn what I could about the Hall and its management. These were kept in a safe in his private office upstairs, in a room adjacent to his bedroom. I also wanted somewhere secure to keep the will, as it appears now to be the only copy. Harrison had always shared the combination with me just in case, he said, anything should happen to him. I now begin to wonder whether he did have some premonitory sense that his life was in danger. Anyway, I opened the safe and placed the will upon the topmost shelf and looked through the papers already there. This is when I made my discovery. You see, I knew that Harrison had various bonds and share certificates, which he kept in this safe, for he had shown them to me on several occasions, railway shares, government bonds and other investments from all around the world. However, this morning, when I opened the safe, many of these were no longer present. All of the government bonds and most of the share certificates were gone.”

  “That is most interesting, indeed,” I declared, making notes with the short pencil that I kept in my inside jacket pocket. “When did you last see these documents?” I asked, desperately trying to imagine what Holmes would have asked.

  “About six months ago, I think. Yes, I happened to be present when he opened the safe to take out some cash to pay the staff wages. I am sure that they were still there on that occasion. Whatever he did with them, I suppose I will just have to accept, move on and trust that he knew what he was doing.”

  “Thank you for your candour, I am sure this information will be most helpful.”

  It seemed to me that Fauwkes saw the loss of such valuable assets to be more of a point of interest than a personal financial loss. I had not considered him a serious suspect even before this and now I had even less reason to think him anything other than a grieving friend.

  I thanked the Colonel and made my way back through the Hall and out onto the drive. I decided to walk the two miles into the village. I h
ad no fixed appointments with any of the other suspects and, as I had the whole day to occupy, I thought a stroll would give me time to think about what I would ask, should I actually encounter any of them.

  As I strolled down the road, through the arches formed by the overhanging trees, their branches hanging heavy with newly grown leaves, I tried to decide which of the suspects I should try to interview. I decided upon the Professor, Fessington, Wergeld and the Widow Fairchance, and rather than try to plan my questions in advance I would simply engage them in conversation and hope that, like Colonel Harrison, they proffered any additional information they possessed, voluntarily.

  Happy with my simple plan, I upped my pace and reached the village in less than forty minutes. It was then that I realised that I had made an enormous error. I had singularly failed to ascertain the location of any of the suspects’ residences. I stopped dead in my tracks and was fully prepared to have to walk back to the house to ask the constable, when I had a much better idea.

  Before me lay the village green and on the far side was the Inn. It was a low, squat, sprawling building. It had obviously grown over many hundreds of years, each later addition butted up to its older neighbour, nothing quite matching but somehow all coming together to form a pleasing, organic and most importantly, welcoming tavern. This is where I would head first, after all it was now well past midday and a sandwich and glass of beer appealed greatly to me. And besides, if there was any local gossip to be learned, this would be the place to provide it.

  I entered the public bar and was slightly disappointed to see but two other patrons, both aged, and I recognised neither. The landlord was his usual friendly self, so I ordered some bread, ham and pickles and sat at the bar, hoping to learn what I could from him.

  “I do not mean to pry, but is there anything that you can think of that might help us regarding the terrible events up at the Hall?” I asked, quietly.

  “Oh, I don’t know nothing about that, I’m sure,” replied the landlord, rather unconvincingly.

  I pushed a sovereign across the bar for encouragement. The landlord, a Mr John Barnes, was local, born and bred. As I had previously learned, the Inn had been in his family for several generations. He took the coin and pocketed it without a word.

  “Maybe the gentleman would be more comfortable in the saloon?” he hinted, with little subtlety.

  He picked up my plate before I could reply and shifted it to the adjoining bar. I followed, passing back through the hallway and into the saloon bar on the opposite side.

  “Well, what can you tell me?” I asked, completely ignoring the plate before me.

  “There is much talk abroad regardin’ the Hall. Talk of the master and his resident houseguest. Ungodly talk, but I pay no heed to such gossip. Mr. Harrison was a fine man, generous to the village and everyone in it. He revitalised Bedden, gave it its life back. He and the Colonel made this little place a heaven on earth for a brief time, everyone had work and a place to live. But there was always the talk.”

  “What talk was this?” I enquired, most earnestly.

  “Bad talk sir, talk of improper behaviour between the men of the Hall. But I never gave it a second’s thought, myself.”

  I was beginning to see the germ of a motive for the murder of Harrison that was entirely new.

  “Was there any particular person in the village who was perhaps more vociferous in their condemnation of this alleged offensive behaviour?” I asked, carefully.

  “Ha!” he exclaimed. “You’d be better off asking who was not offended. In public they were all in favour of the benefits Harrison brought them, but here, after a drink or two, the truth was very different.”

  “Do you think any of them would have gone so far as to actually act upon this ill-feeling?”

  “I don’t think so. Their bravado came solely from the ale and they knew that they could only suffer from such a terrible action. I have thought long and hard myself and cannot believe that any local could be responsible for this outrage. In fact, I now fear for the future of the village.”

  I finished my sandwich and, having obtained directions to where the Fessingtons and Mrs Fairchance resided, stepped outside into the warm sunshine. My head was slightly spinning, I could not decide if I had discounted a number of suspects or discovered dozens of new potential murderers. I badly needed Holmes’ counsel.

  The Fessingtons had a large house at the far edge of the village. While it was considerably further from the Inn than Mrs Fairchance’s cottages, I felt that the walk would help to clear my head. I passed alongside the well-kept village green and its charming duck pond, then continued until I joined the lane that lead north past various cottages and alms-houses towards the Fessingtons’ villa.

  After about ten minutes of good fresh country air, a gentle breeze and the warning sun, my mind had settled and I had reached a conclusion. I could now really appreciate Holmes’ ability to stay calm and trust to logic and reason. My initial reaction to what the landlord had imparted had been almost entirely emotional - worry and panic. This had achieved nothing more than a spinning head and a rather childish impulse to reach out for my friend’s help.

  But now, after thinking the matter through logically, I believed I could, from the information provided and the evidence collected, dismiss this new strand of inquiry. Holmes was convinced that no one, other than guests and staff, had entered or departed the Hall on the night of the murder. I conceded that it was possible that a member of staff had let an assailant into the house through the back door used by the servants to access their accommodation. I would have to take this up with Holmes later, but as far as I could see, this would be a particularly difficult trick to pull off, as the servant’s door enters directly into the kitchen where there was always at least one other member of staff present. And, in any case, the murder was committed in the glasshouse, which was locked to the outside, and was occupied only by our existing suspects.

  Satisfied with my reasoning, I approached the Fessingtons’ house in a confident mood. It was a good-sized, two-storey building built of attractive golden brown brick in the early years of the century. It was set back from the lane and sat before a fine garden full of young flowers, deep green shrubs and emerging roses. The entire front of the house was covered in wisteria, flowering abundantly in gorgeous hues of lilac and purple.

  I knocked upon the door and was slightly surprised when Mrs Fessington herself opened the door.

  “Good morning, I am sorry to call unannounced but I was wondering if I may have a brief talk with yourself and your husband?” I tried to be as polite as possible, as I was fully aware that, despite their earlier candour, they were under no obligation to help me in any way or even agree to speak with me.

  “Why, Doctor Watson, of course, please do come in.” Mrs Fessington broke into a wide smile, clearly pleased to be once more involved in the mystery. I was led through a tiled hall and into a smartly furnished sitting room. Wulf Fessington appeared, almost instantaneously, from the door on the far side.

  “Doctor Watson, it is a pleasure to see you again. I must admit that I was reading in the garden and spotted you approaching. How can we help? Do you have any news?” He seemed just as eager for information as was his wife.

  “It is still very early in the inquiry. I am sure that as soon as anything is discovered the authorities will inform you,” I replied, trying to tactfully deflect their enthusiastic queries.

  I did my best to extract any further information that they might have, but I was rather hamstrung by the fact that they seemed as intent on interrogating me as much as I was on questioning them. I struggled, initially, as I was not prepared to share our findings with them but then decided to change tack slightly and brought up the landlord’s concerns.

  “Harrison and the Colonel’s private life is just that. Private,” Wulf Fessington replied with unexpected but admirable d
efiance. “He that is without sin among you, let him cast the first stone,” he quoted, sagely, from the gospel of St. John.

  “Doctor Watson,” he continued. “I myself am not without vice,” he declared, waving away his wife’s protestations. “I have lost a considerable sum through gambling. I have sought, and am now receiving, help and my wife is fully aware of the situation. I say this to you to prove my total openness and honesty and knowing that, as a Doctor, you will honour my confidence. I have paid my debts and, thanks to my loving Catherine, remain solvent and in work. You see, Doctor, I need you to know that, despite my shortcomings, I had no motive to kill my friend and had no way of profiting from this terrible crime.”

  I thought for a while before answering. “Thank you, sir. It is a brave thing to admit one’s faults and failings so candidly.”

  I could not help but admire this man’s courage and all thoughts of him being the killer fell away.

  “I hope you continue to be successful in your recovery,” I added, before making my excuses and leaving, content that I had reduced the pool of suspects by one.

  Chapter Six - A Bad Night’s Work

  It was late afternoon when I reached the sprawling estate of the Widow Fairchance. The main house was set back from the road by about twenty yards, the front garden so overgrown that the property could easily have been missed altogether. The house comprised of a single storey, with a couple of attic windows poking out from behind the abundant clematis and wisteria, which clung tightly to the walls in a rather uncomfortable looking embrace. To the right was a large and ancient barn, almost fallen to ruin. From the front of the property, I could not see the summerhouse but, to be honest, from my position I could not determine exactly the full extent or borders of the property at all. The entire area was dense with excessive growth and the visible outbuildings were all in a terrible state of dilapidation.