“Don’t know what type of cactus that is,” Huan agreed, cutting short the soliloquy. “But I know it is big, like… a prickly pear. They grow well in the center of my country, in Upper Carapichaima. Could the killer have come from Trinidad?”
“Doubtful. He was educated in the English system, not the French,” Sherlock said as he worried the thorn between his fingers. “What would a man like that possibly know about exotic plants and poisons? Unless he traveled abroad…”
“You are saying the cactus spine was covered with poison?” Huan asked, concerned.
“Well of course it was!” Sherlock replied, a bit testy. “Unless next you’ll tell me that the spine of a prickly pear can kill a human being. But what sort of a poison?”
“Perhaps you should not be rubbing it into your skin,” Huan suggested, frowning.
“Huan, I have had it between my fingers for the past twenty minutes. If it still carried a toxin, I surely would be dead by now. Besides, it probably needs to penetrate the skin in order to be effective.”
And if I should break out in symptoms, however mild, it might make it easier to identify, he thought to himself.
But there was another problem. If the killer used cactus thorns, why were they not found on the other victims? They were unusual, and the killer had not gone from murder to murder, each time destroying some nearby wooden object in order to mask his mode of death!
Sherlock rose, turned away from the swing, and knelt down again.
“Hit me—” he began.
“I will not!” Huan protested.
“—with the swing,” Sherlock clarified, turning to look at him. “Not hard. Just enough to trace the trajectory of Elise’s body.”
Huan rolled his eyes to the sky. Sherlock ignored this, turned around again, braced himself, and a second later felt first one then the other piece of wood tapping him at the base of his shoulder blades.
He glanced over his shoulder, giving Huan a sour look.
“You said not hard,” Huan protested.
“Hard enough that I at least get a notion!” Sherlock countered. “She was shorter than I; it will strike me in the shoulder blades, not the neck. Surely I can withstand more of a blow than that!”
A moment later, he felt both parts of the swing hit him with enough force to push him forward.
“Apologies!” Huan called.
“No, that was perfect,” Sherlock replied. “Here is where she fell, do you see? Off the swing, onto her knees. For a moment, the soft wet grass held her in place, much as the sand sustained the first victim, Rosalie White. And here, you see, are the imprints from her hands, though someone tried to obliterate them…”
“Who would do such a thing? The killer?”
Sherlock shook his head no. “The gardener. There were almost undoubtedly other marks that he did his utmost to hide.”
“The gardener did this?” Huan repeated, staring at the expanse of lawn.
“Nothing nefarious. He simply did not want Lady Anne to see where her daughter fell, or possibly even the footprints of the man who murdered her child. It is obvious that the servants care for her.”
“That is a good thing,” Huan said, sounding as if he craved some positive news.
“Though, again, why the killer should leave marks this time and not the others…” Sherlock muttered, rubbing his chin. “As for the servants, their feelings for Lady Anne are immaterial, were it not that the detail is important to our investigation. For it means that if any of them had witnessed something untoward, they would have intervened. Which further means that not one of them saw a blessed thing. Now. Before our wandering little group returns and we are forced to make small talk with the lady of the house while abstaining from asking anything of substance, let us carefully explore the bushes and see what we can find. Stop at any indentation, any trifling displacement that gives you pause.”
Sherlock walked along, trying to spy out broken branches or other sign of disturbance. As he wandered the perimeter of the garden, more questions swirled about his head.
“Master Sherlock!” Huan called out from behind a hedgerow.
Sherlock hurried over. Huan pointed to a shoeprint in the soil. The grooves on the sole were too faint to make out, beyond the fact that they were boots, though not the sort that a gardener was likely to wear. But the outline, better defined, was clearly of a man’s right foot, of average size and width, and pointing towards the swing. But where was the left foot? And why were there no other prints nearby, either coming or going?
“He must have breached the wall at this juncture,” Sherlock said. “Jumping over, landing here.”
“Jumping over on one foot?” Huan asked.
“You see the fallen leaves on the bush to the left of the print? The tiny broken branches? What does that tell you?”
Huan looked from the wall to the bush in front of him.
“He put his left knee against the bush to steady himself,” he said.
“Then he climbed over,” Sherlock said with a nod. “Walked across the grass, pushed the swing into the back of her head, left the note, and was gone.”
“But a bow cannot shoot so far!” Huan declared, suddenly whispering.
And in fact, though the swing was in the killer’s sightline, had he aimed from the location where he’d purportedly landed and left a footprint, he would have had to shoot the dart just under one hundred yards. Although an arrow from a longbow might travel as much as four hundred, a cactus spine was no arrow.
“Huan? Have you ever seen a blowgun?”
“Yes, I have seen hunters use them in my country. But to shoot such a long way? Never.”
“Just because you have not seen it does not mean it is impossible,” Sherlock argued.
Huan shrugged consent. “Perhaps there are better shooters in other countries.”
“Being compelled to shoot from such a distance might address why the killer strikes solely during the day. For he must see clearly to aim and to fire, or to spit, or whatever it is that one does with a blowgun.”
Sherlock and Huan continued their hunt but found nothing else worth reporting: no other prints, no unusual signs of ingress or egress. When it started to drizzle, they ceased their labors, lest they leave their own tracks, and call attention to their trespass.
* * *
While Huan went to fetch the carriage, Sherlock took advantage of his absence to unlatch the kitchen window and climb inside. The thought that the note might be so close without his laying hands on it was past all bearing. Unlike the other notes, copies of which had made the papers, this one had not. In deference to the Queen, a more thorough recounting of the murder had not as yet been written. And although it could have ended up in police custody, Sherlock had a hunch that Lady Anne had kept it—a strong enough hunch that he chanced unlawful entry to find out.
He quickly discarded the notion of her boudoir as a hiding place, for it was far too intimate for such a loathsome object. The same could be said of the desk in her study, where the killer’s epistle would perforce share space with family letters, and where Lady Anne would sense its presence each time she composed a missive or settled a bill.
Where else? Not the drawing room. She would never be able to read a book in peace while recalling that it was somewhere nearby, keeping her company. Placing it in the dining room, aside from it being quite the odd choice, would surely spoil any meal.
No, it had to be somewhere where she could readily lay hands on it, if she had to, but not somewhere she was likely to linger.
The hallway, he thought. The moment he saw the banquette by the umbrella stand, its latch adorned with a black crepe ribbon, he knew what it held. He opened it and looked inside. It had been cleaned out, save for one thing: an envelope bearing Lady Anne’s initials. She had placed the note inside, and sealed it.
22
MOMENTS LATER, SHERLOCK CLIMBED ABOARD THE carriage, the envelope tucked in the breast pocket of his jacket. He was more than anxious to read what was
inside, but he knew he would have to be patient. He did not wish Huan to see it, not yet; nor did he wish to chance it being damaged by the unseasonable weather. But the moment they reached an inn and were safely ensconced, he would pore over it—through the night, if need be.
“You are so quiet, Master Sherlock,” Huan said.
Huan had one hand on the reins while the other peeled the skin off an apple with a penknife. “You are hungry, perhaps,” he added.
Without waiting for a response, Huan handed him a slice, which Sherlock took merely out of politeness, for gastric juices interfered with the brain’s ability to function.
“Master Sherlock,” Huan said, as Sherlock nibbled. “I am your driver, it is what I do. But some things I know. You are protective of your coat. And when you climbed aboard, your breath was heavy…”
“Why, Huan!” Sherlock exclaimed. “Do I detect my brother’s influence upon you? Next, you shall be telling me that my heart pounds at precisely sixty-two beats per minute!”
But Huan was refusing to be teased. “I know what I must know for the fighting,” he countered. “If a man guards a pocket, I eye it for a knife or a gun. If he has no breath, I decide how weak he is, or how strong. The key to winning is to make changes as one goes, yes?”
“You mean adapt. My brother was wise to select you as my driver and bodyguard. I owe him a debt of gratitude. And to you, I owe the truth. I have in my pocket the killer’s note. The original, I hasten to underscore, not an artist’s rendition!”
“You went into her house?” Huan exclaimed, looking suddenly alarmed.
“Was it not you who adjured me to avenge the girl?”
Huan shook his head. “It seems I must guard each word that comes from my mouth…”
At that moment, down the green slope of a hill came a small group of travelers, doubtless Lady Anne and her servants, their cart pulled by four Shetland ponies, just as Sherlock had predicted. It had begun to drizzle, and the wagon was making haste to reach home before it fell in earnest.
“Huan. Increase your speed. Now, if you please.”
Sherlock watched Huan appraise the situation in an instant, and note precisely trajectory and point of impact.
“Hi ya!” Huan cried, giving the horse his rein and cracking the whip high into the air. The carriage careened up the little hill directly into the path of the cart. Huan expertly halted before impact, but the driver, already panicked by the shrieks of his passengers, drove into the mudbank at the side of the road. His left front wheel sank and refused to budge.
Sherlock and Huan jumped down from the sprung seat, acting chagrinned and apologetic. Huan offered to help to pry the wheel loose as Sherlock made a beeline for Lady Anne, holding out his hand so that he might assist her down off the cart.
“All apologies,” he said with a slight bow. “I beg you to step inside my carriage, where it is nice and dry, and when my driver is done assisting yours, we shall escort you home.”
She turned, a bit rattled, ordered her servants home, and then did as Sherlock suggested.
As the servants dismounted and hurried away, Sherlock opened the door, and set down the stairs. He lit a lamp, for it was already dark within, and as she entered the carriage, he stole a better look at Elise Wickham’s mother.
Although she eyed him apprehensively, Sherlock did not think it had to do with him. He marked her as one of those women who are apprehensive by nature, regardless of circumstances. No more than forty years of age, she was blond and rather tepid, like her daughter. That aside, she had fine hazel eyes and a compassionate face.
“Countess Hohenlohe-Langenburg,” Sherlock began. “I was hoping to speak to you in private, albeit not like this.”
“Do you know me?” she asked, curious.
He nodded. “I attended your dear daughter’s funeral. As a humble emissary of Her Majesty the Queen,” he said.
“Truly?” she said, surprised. “I was certain that we had been forgotten.”
“Not at all, not at all,” he replied. “Her Majesty was grieved to hear of the tragedy. In all confidence, she keeps Elise’s portrait in the private audience room of Windsor Castle, alongside those of other family members.”
All the while, he was racking his brain to recall where he had put the invitation. Suddenly remembering, he opened his vielle case and drew it out with a flourish.
“Mr. Holmes?” Lady Anne inquired, peering down at it. “An extraordinary coincidence, for I have heard of you, and of your relationship with Her Majesty. Quite circuitously: something about your helping to ensure a so-called ‘zero-sum’ game between England and Scotland last year?” she added as she returned the invitation to him.
“Ah, yes. Yes, of course,” Sherlock said as he placed it back inside of the case.
As for the football game between Scotland and England, he knew nothing of it, nor what Mycroft might have done to achieve such a score; which meant that he had to change the subject as quickly as possible. But Lady Anne seemed of a different mind.
“I should explain,” she said. “My late husband knew Charles Alcock, a player for England, from the time that Charles was a boy. When England failed to win, our daughter Elise insisted…” She paused and then continued. “Elise insisted that we send our condolences to Mr. Alcock, for although Elise does not… did not follow the game, she understood that if an entire country is in mourning, then it must have some import!
“Several days later, Mr. Alcock sent a reply,” she went on, “wherein he mentioned, with some bitterness, that there had been ‘subterfuge.’ That a ‘Mr. Holmes,’ a friend of the Queen, had intervened to even the score. Perhaps he was mortified by the tie and wished to find an excuse. But he did not realize that my link to Her Majesty is tenuous, and was hoping that I, in turn, would spread it abroad that Her Majesty’s little ruse had been found out. Payback for him, I suppose, in the wake of such a loss. Whatever the case, I cannot imagine that the Queen would have two confidantes by the name of Holmes!”
“No indeed!” Sherlock said with a laugh.
He had expected a bereaved mother who could barely form a sentence, who would have to be coached to reveal what she knew. But, although bathed in grief, she seemed determined to carry on, to speak of her child in a forthright manner. He had to admit that it aligned more closely with a woman who would skirt convention when it came to the funeral and burial of her only daughter, and he wondered why he had imagined her fragile.
Unfortunately, he had no time to think of a new tactic, for the driver and Huan were nearly done extracting the wheel, and he was losing precious time.
“Would you allow me to use my skills and resources to capture your daughter’s killer?” he blurted out.
“I would be indebted to you for such kindness,” she replied, looking slightly startled, “and to Her Majesty.”
For the first time, her eyes welled up with tears.
“Yes, about that,” Sherlock replied. “Her Majesty requests, nay commands, that no thanks be given her. She was quite firm in that regard.”
“Yes. Yes, I see,” Lady Anne said mildly. “So. What is it you wish to know, Mr. Holmes? And please. You may call me Lady Anne, for I am not terribly fond of my more formal title. In truth, it has brought naught but sorrow.”
“Thank you, ma’am. Lady Anne. Now, I must perforce ask questions of a delicate nature, if you are willing.”
“I am,” she said as she crossed her dainty hands in her lap.
“As you were the first to find your daughter’s body, did you notice any footprints in the garden, anything amiss?”
“Forgive me, Mr. Holmes,” she said. “I saw only my child. And the horror, the utter impossibility of it…”
“I can but imagine, ma’am. However, can you recall anything else? Even something of seemingly no consequence?”
“Well, I know that there were footprints, for James, our gardener, obscured them. He is a dear soul who has been with us for years. He does not know police procedure; he knew only t
hat he did not wish me to see them. Oh, and I did hear a crow moments before I came upon Elise, but I would not mark that as strange, merely unnerving, given the circumstances. It was a sort of crowing.”
“In what way, ma’am?”
“Well, it was a… a guttural sound, a burbling, I suppose you would say. Perhaps the creature was ill.”
“And have you enemies that you know of ?”
“That I know of, no. And neither did Elise, although my estranged husband, the count, has several, I believe.”
“He must have been aggrieved to hear of her death.” Sherlock could hear the murmur of Lady Anne’s driver as he calmed the Shetlands and checked their harnesses. The wheels of the cart had been freed. He could hear the clanking as they refastened the chains that linked the cart to the horses’ breast bands. They would soon be back on the road.
“Oh, the count has not heard a whisper of it, from what I am told,” Lady Anne replied, “for he is in Switzerland, recuperating from nervous exhaustion. But if he had, he would have no emotions to speak of. He is a rather hard and brutal man. I was a young widow, and like many of my age and station, I was enamored of his links to royalty.”
Sherlock heard Huan climb back aboard. The carriage began making its way back to the house. He did not wish to be invited inside, for under no circumstances could the servants overhear him questioning Lady Anne about her daughter’s death. Servants were not known for their discretion, and since Sherlock had been prohibited from having contact with her, he preferred to remain for them an anonymous gentleman whose carriage had collided with her cart.
Then, too, there was the possibility that she would bring out Alcock’s letter, for it did serve as a point of contact between them. And although Alcock may have referred to Mycroft only as ‘Holmes,’ it was entirely possible that he had mentioned his Christian name, and that Lady Anne had simply forgotten it. Sherlock could not chance it.
The Empty Birdcage Page 14
