“But he refused to,” my father noted.
“That is precisely the point. We already have him associated with the deaths of Charles Harrelston and Benjamin Levy, and he is aware of that.”
“So why not mention all the names?” I asked.
“To avoid giving us the identity of the fourth member of the quartet. Had he named Benjamin Levy, he would have been obliged to speak of Derek Cardogan and this may have led to more questions.”
“But surely Moran realizes that we will eventually uncover the fourth member, if we have not done so already,” I countered.
“It is not the name of Derek Cardogan that Moran wishes to conceal, but the information it carries,” Joanna said. “There is something in Derek Cardogan’s past—weakness or an addiction—that Moran will use. This of course is an assumption, but a worthwhile one. Remember, Moran is a physician and utilized his knowledge of medicine to cover his first two murders. In all likelihood, he will do so again, and do it very soon.”
“Then we must act immediately,” my father implored.
“That will not be possible without gathering in-depth information on Derek Cardogan. For then and only then can we play our cards correctly.”
“What if such information is unattainable?”
“In that event, I am afraid that Derek Cardogan will die on our watch.”
“And Christopher Moran will come into sole possession of a great fortune,” my father said.
“While he gets away with cold-blooded murder,” I added.
“That too, John,” Joanna noted. “For these two conclusions are joined, as surely as night follows day.”
13
The Stroll
With the permission of her father-in-law, I arranged to take Joanna, along with her young son, Johnnie, on a Sunday stroll through Hyde Park. The day was mild and glorious, with a bright sun and a crisp breeze. Yet despite the fine weather and pleasure of each other’s company, we could not divorce our minds from the complexities surrounding the death of Charles Harrelston.
“You seem so confident of Christopher Moran’s involvement,” I remarked. “But he has an eyewitness who for all intents clears him. And unlike the gardener, she was very near when the event occurred.”
“You are of course referring to his housekeeper, Mrs. Lambert,” Joanna said.
“I am indeed,” I replied.
“And you are convinced that her account is in all ways accurate?”
“Why should she not be truthful?”
“I do not doubt her honesty,” Joanna said. “It is her observations that have to be tested.”
“Are you saying that her observations and her statement may not be one and the same?”
“I am saying that is what we must determine, for as you just mentioned the housekeeper provides the only truly solid alibi that can dismiss Christopher Moran as the prime suspect.”
“I doubt that she will change her words.”
“I do not expect her to.”
“Then why requestion her?”
“Because I wish to hear her words with my ears and not with Lestrade’s,” Joanna replied. “It is also important that we speak with her in Moran’s absence.”
“Do you believe Moran has prompted her?” I asked.
“That thought crossed my mind,” Joanna said. “But I am more concerned that so much time has passed and we are still not allowed to interview the housekeeper.”
“Which is Christopher Moran’s doing,” I explained. “According to my father, the good Dr. Moran insists that Mrs. Lambert remains much distressed from viewing the event and should not be questioned further until she recovers.”
“The delay of course works to his benefit,” Joanna continued. “You see, the more time that passes, the more her memory will dim and be open to suggestion.”
“But surely she will remember the major points.”
“It is the small details I am interested in, for those are the ones that are often the most telling.” Joanna gazed up at the sky, as if waiting for some new thought to come. Her eyes twinkled for a moment before she asked, “Did your father actually contact Mrs. Lambert in person?”
“He has spoken to the housekeeper at her home on several occasions and on each visit she stated that Moran had prescribed complete rest until the shock passes,” I recounted. “But my father believed her composure to be quite calm and collected, and he wondered if her continued so-called distress might have been conjured by Moran.”
“Then let us put an end to this pretense,” Joanna said firmly. “Please instruct your father to again call on Mrs. Lambert and advise her of the urgency of our interview. If she resists, he should suggest it might be best for the questioning to take place at Scotland Yard where she can officially repeat her account to us and to Inspector Lestrade.”
“That should light a bit of fire under her.”
“And under Christopher Moran as well.”
We strolled on, enjoying the quiet beauty of London’s most famous park. Up ahead of us, young Johnnie had stopped and was intently studying a brown and white collie that was lying quietly in the grass while its owner was giving it food. I saw nothing unusual, but there was obviously something about the scene that interested the lad.
Johnnie turned to us and called out, “Look, Mummy! The dog is ill.”
“What brings you to that conclusion?” Joanna asked.
“He is refusing the food and his tail is not wagging when the food is being offered,” Johnnie said.
“Perhaps he has just eaten and has no appetite,” Joanna suggested.
“I think not, Mummy,” Johnnie said earnestly. “Dogs will happily eat anything placed in front of them, regardless of how recently they have been fed. I have noticed this on numerous occasions with our golden retriever, Oliver.”
“You make an excellent point,” Joanna praised. “Why do you believe they behave so?”
Johnnie considered the question carefully before shrugging. “I have no idea, Mummy.”
“It is inbred in them,” Joanna explained. “Dogs are descended from wolves who never knew when their next meals would appear. Thus, when food was available, they would fill their stomachs over and over again, gorging themselves, as a precaution in the event no food would be obtainable for days on end.”
Johnnie grasped the explanation immediately. “So it is a survival habit from long ago.”
“Precisely.”
“That is most interesting, Mummy.”
I could not help but be impressed with the young lad’s keen sense of observation and deduction. Yet I should not have been surprised by his skill, considering his lineage. He not only looked like a junior Sherlock Holmes, he also behaved like one. In a quiet voice I asked Joanna, “Has he always shown this deductive talent?”
Joanna smiled adoringly at the lad as he raced ahead. “He comes by it naturally, but I must admit I encourage him as much as possible.”
“How so?”
“With a game we play,” Joanna replied. “Would you care to see an example?”
“I would indeed.”
Joanna surveyed the expanse of green lawn until her eyes came to rest on a couple, with a young toddler, near the Serpentine Lake. The child was frolicking by the water’s edge and shrieking with joy as she chased a group of pigeons. “What do you make of that family by the lake?”
I studied the couple at length and sought out any peculiarities, but none were to be found. The man and woman were appropriately dressed and behaving in a most cordial fashion. I was attracted briefly to the gentleman’s silk top hat, which was finely made, but saw nothing worthy of mention. With a shrug, I commented, “I see parents and a happy child.”
“You are half correct,” Joanna said, then motioned her son over and asked the very same question she had asked of me. “Johnnie, what do you make of that family by the lake?”
The lad carefully viewed the setting, with his gaze moving back and forth between the couple and the child. He appeared most
intent when the toddler let out a cry of happiness, then he lost all interest and said, “I think, Mummy, that the woman is the girl’s mother, but the man is not her father.”
“Why so?” Joanna asked.
“Because the woman watches the child’s every move, while the man shows no concern.”
“Perhaps she is being overly protective, while the father leaves the chore of watching the child to the mother.”
The lad shook his head. “He is unconcerned, even when the little girl is near the water and cries out. Thus, he is not attached to her as a father should be.”
As if on cue, the gentleman tipped his top hat to the woman and walked away. There was no embrace or touch of farewell. He ignored the child altogether. Remarkable, I thought, how truly remarkable. The lad saw what I saw, but in fact saw so much more.
“Well done, Johnnie,” Joanna said.
The lad nodded, pleased but not impressed with his performance, then dashed on, no doubt seeking something else to observe.
I lowered my voice and said to Joanna, “You do realize that the woman could be the child’s governess.”
Joanna waved away the notion. “I believe otherwise. Her dress is much too fine for the salary afforded a governess.” And as we drew closer to the woman, Joanna added, “You will also note the presence of a wedding band on her hand, which excludes the possibility she is a governess.”
“It does indeed,” I agreed, for governesses were always unmarried young women who lived in the house of their employer and were responsible in every way for the child they looked after. The ring was a simple observation that I had neglected, yet told so much. “I see where I must be careful around the two of you or I shall continue to be outdone.”
“But to a lesser extent with Johnnie,” Joanna said forthrightly. “For at this stage, he requires more knowledge and life experiences to connect all of his observations, such as in this instance, the cost of a fine dress and the salary of a governess. But he reads voraciously and his mind captures and keeps everything it comes across, and thus his storehouse of knowledge increases at an amazing rate. The day will come when his deductive skills are truly spellbinding.”
“Will he eventually be your equal?”
“And beyond.”
We sauntered on and passed the Serpentine Lake, then approached the portion of the park that bordered central Knightsbridge. In what seemed an instant, the sky darkened and the weather changed. The cool breeze picked up abruptly and brought with it a definite chill. Joanna and I drew closer together against the sudden cold, and I could now feel the exciting warmth of her body flowing through me. Our shoulders and hips touched and rubbed gently with each step, and whatever chill was in the air disappeared completely.
“I am glad we did not wear our heavy coats,” I said, taking her arm into mine.
Joanna smiled sweetly and asked, “Are you enjoying the unexpected drop in temperature?”
“At the moment, yes,” I replied.
“And do you find it stimulating?” Joanna inquired, moving in even closer.
“In many ways.”
Joanna’s smile widened as she said, “Well, we do seem to be making some progress, are we not, John?”
“So it would appear,” I said. “But I would not mind if the pace were to pick up a bit.”
“Then I believe it appropriate for me to tell you that this is by far the most pleasant stroll I have ever taken.”
“For me as well.”
“I hope this will not be our last.”
“I can assure you that will not be the case.”
Once more I became aware of how close we were and how much closer I desired to be with this most enchanting woman. The more I was in her presence, the more I became attracted to her, and despite my best efforts I found myself staring at her trim figure. Unlike most in her class, Joanna was tall and slender, with a remarkably narrow waist. I could envision my hands easily encircling her lower abdomen, which would not measure more than twenty-two inches.
“Without being too bold, may I ask what so draws your attention to my midsection?” Joanna asked, without even a hint of a blush.
“I—I was studying the fine fabric of your dress,” I stammered.
“I think not,” Joanna said. “If you were curious about my dress, your eyes would have scanned from the collar to the hemline. But you concentrated only on the midsection.”
“It was your waist,” I confessed. “I was wondering how in the world it became so narrow. Is it the result of a tight corset? Or perhaps some other device I am unaware of?”
“Neither of those,” Joanna replied. “It is simply the way it is and always has been.”
“I probably should not have inquired.”
“Why not? It is one of my better features.”
I sighed resignedly. “I must learn to be more honest with you.”
Her son must have overheard the latter part of our conversation, for he turned to us and said, “Or learn how to shade the truth.”
Joanna and I chuckled softly, but the lad remained straight-faced, for his remark was not meant to be amusing but only good advice.
“Where did you learn of this shading the truth?” Joanna asked, trying to suppress a grin.
“From Grandfather,” Johnnie answered. “He told me that there may be different views of the truth depending on what is being seen and by whom.”
“And this often occurs when all the facts and clues are not carefully considered,” Joanna informed.
“Like with the family by the lake,” the lad noted.
“Like with the family by the lake,” Joanna agreed.
I watched Johnnie run ahead, then turned to Joanna and added, “As in the case of the gardener who supposedly witnessed Charles Harrelston’s fall to his death.”
“As in the case of any eyewitness,” Joanna said with a firm nod. “That is why it is so imperative that we interview Mrs. Lambert and determine whether she has shaded the truth.”
“I shall have my father attend to—” I stopped in mid-sentence and quickly reached for my timepiece. “Good heavens! I am afraid I have lost track of time. We must take Johnnie home immediately and hurry to the British Museum where my father awaits us.”
“What lies in store for us at the museum?” Joanna asked.
“A unique opportunity to unlock the mysterious code.”
14
The Knighted Curator
An hour later we entered the British Museum and found my father intently studying the Rosetta Stone while listening to a rather odd-looking fellow who was introduced as Sir David Shaw, a curator in charge of ancient Mesopotamian script and languages. Sir David was tall and stoop-shouldered, with reddish-gray hair and a hawklike nose upon which rested the thickest spectacles I have ever seen. We were later to learn that behind those heavy lenses was a brilliant mind, the owner of which had been knighted by Queen Victoria for his wartime skills in deciphering top secret, coded messages, some of which were so sensitive they would never be allowed to see the light of day.
“Sir David and I served together in the Second Afghan War,” my father informed us. “And I have intruded on our friendship to ask for his assistance.”
“Not at all, Watson,” Sir David said. “It is my pleasure to do so. But would you care to hear the end of the Rosetta Stone story before we move on to more pressing matters?”
“I very much would,” my father replied. “Please be good enough to give my son and Mrs. Blalock the particulars on this remarkable tale.”
In captivating detail Sir David described the history surrounding what might justifiably be called the most informative rock ever found. The Rosetta Stone was discovered in Egypt by soldiers in Napoleon’s army while they were digging near the town of Rashid, which translates as rosetta. Carved into the stone were three distinct scripts. The upper text was Egyptian hieroglyphs, the middle written in demotic Egyptian, and the lower in ancient Greek. Because all three of the scripts read essentially the same, the ston
e provided the key to unlocking the mystery of the Egyptian hieroglyphs.
“Fascinating,” I commented. “But tell me, Sir David, if the Rosetta Stone was discovered by Napoleon’s army, how did it end up in the British Museum?”
“We defeated Napoleon in the Egyptian desert and the stone became the property of the British under the terms of the Treaty of Alexandria. It has been on display here since 1802.”
Joanna said, “I am surprised the French did not insist on its return.”
“The French insist on many things,” Sir David replied, with a shrug that dismissed the idea the stone would ever leave British soil. He gazed admiringly once more at the Rosetta Stone and seemed to nod at it. “How remarkable is it that a rock that measures only four-by-two feet in total has provided such a flood of information?”
“Let us hope that our problem does not require a Rosetta Stone for solution,” my father said.
“We shall see,” Sir David said, and led the way to the quiet and nearly deserted upper floor of the museum. The few people in the corridor spoke in hushed tones, as if they were in some holy place. A stale, somewhat musty odor filled the air.
My father and Sir David walked ahead, deep in conversation, while Joanna and I stayed several steps behind. Our hands and arms touched when we rounded a sharp corner and, moving even closer, I allowed my cheek to brush against her hair. We exchanged secret smiles as Sir David stopped and reached for a closed door.
We entered Sir David’s undistinguished office, which was small and crowded with no room to spare. Every inch of the walls was taken up by books, ancient artifacts, and framed photographs from archaeological expeditions. Even his desk was cluttered with papers and notes held down by a clay tablet with an unrecognizable script written upon it.
Sir David waited for us to take our seats, then walked over to a small blackboard behind his desk and said, “Now I hear you have a code that is proving somewhat troublesome.”
The Daughter of Sherlock Holmes Page 15
