by June Thomson
‘Well, Lizzie had the baby, a little boy, and you won’t need me to tell you ’oo he is now. But things went wrong with her soon after the baby was born and Lizzie died of a fever. My mother couldn’t bring the child up herself. She was widowed and in poor ’ealth. So we talked it over and decided it was best if me and my wife took the baby on as ours. We’d been married about three years but didn’t have no children of our own, a big disappointment to both of us. So we raised him as our own.
‘Then two years after Lizzie died, Signor Morelli turns up again in London. God knows ’ow he found out where we was living, but I was working then for a builder in Wapping and he arrived one evening out of the blue, looking for Lizzie. When we told him she had died after having his baby, he went as white as a ghost. He gave us money to ’elp pay for the child’s keep. I didn’t want to take it, Mr ’Olmes, because it seemed wrong some’ow to be paid for looking after a child we loved and looked on as our own. But times was ’ard and the money was very welcome. Anyway, after that, he came back every year to see the child and pay for his keep. It was a generous sum; so generous that I was able to put a bit aside and, after a few years, I’d managed to save enough to buy this little business in Spitalfields. But there was one condition. We was to go on pretending the child was really ours and we wasn’t to let on to anyone ’oo the real father was.’
‘Did you never ask yourselves why he should insist on this?’ Holmes asked.
Buskin senior looked abashed.
‘Of course, we did, but we understood he was from a rich family and he didn’t want them to know he’d fathered a child out of marriage. And to be honest, Mr ’Olmes, it suited us as much as it suited him. ’E’d turn up ’ere once a year, stay for a couple of hours and give me the fifty pounds which, now that Jack’s left school and ’as been working ’ere with me, we ain’t needed. So I’ve been putting it aside so that if ’e ever wants to get married and set up on ’is own, there’s a tidy little nest egg to get ’im started.’
‘But you didn’t keep the money Signor Morelli brought the other day?’ Holmes pointed out.
Buskin looked affronted by the question, as if the answer should have been obvious.
‘’E dropped dead afore he could pass it over and it didn’t seem proper to go through ’is pockets and ’elp myself to it, even though I knew ’e’d ’ave it on him, same as usual. Anyway, we was more concerned with what we was to do with ’im. We couldn’t go to the police. They might think we’d murdered ’im. And besides, who was going to believe our story about an Italian gen’leman givin’ us money. So we put ’im on the ’and-cart and covered ’im with some sacks and, when it was dark, we pushed the cart down to Paternoster Yard where we left ’im, laid out decent-like. It was all we could do for ’im. We didn’t know where ’e lived so we couldn’t let ’is family and friends know.’
‘But why Paternoster Yard?’ Holmes asked.
‘Well, sir, it was quiet and bein’ a dead end – no disrespect intended to Signor Morelli – no one ’ardly ever used it. We thought by the time the body was found, things might ’ave gone quiet-like.’
His voice trailed away miserably as if, having put into words, probably for the first time, the unspoken hope that, like dirt swept under a carpet, the whole matter might somehow also disappear, he was made aware of the foolishness of such an expectation.
Buskin senior cleared his throat and, drawing himself upright, he looked Holmes in the face.
‘I know me and Jack done wrong, sir, by not telling no one about ’im and just leavin’ ’im there like a bundle of old clothes,’ he said. ‘It’s been on my mind ever since. So what can we do to put things right? Shall I go to the police or will you go for me? If it’s a matter of a fine, I’ll pay up on the nose.’
There was a long moment’s silence, so intense that I could hear quite clearly the sound of wheels and horses’ hooves passing up and down the main thoroughfare beyond the entrance to the yard. While it lasted, the two Buskins stood side by side at attention, like soldiers awaiting the judgement of a superior officer.
I was unable to look at them because their expressions, so pitifully submissive and yet at the same time oddly dignified, made me feel humbled by their willingness to accept whatever punishment Fate, in the person of Holmes, might mete out to them. I ventured a sideways glance at my old friend to see if he also was affected by the Buskins’ self-abasement.
He was staring fixedly down at the toes of his boots, his face quite imperturbable.
And then suddenly, as if coming to an abrupt decision, he looked sternly at the two Buskins standing there side by side and said in a clipped voice, ‘Leave it with me! Do nothing yourselves. I myself will arrange matters on your behalf.’
With that, he turned on his heel, so quickly that he cut short the Buskins’ exclamations of gratitude and left me no choice but to hurry after him.
‘What will you do, Holmes?’ I asked when at last I caught up with him in the street.
‘I have already told you. Nothing!’ he retorted impatiently.
‘Nothing? But surely, Holmes …’ I began in protest.
‘I repeat. I shall do nothing. What more can I say? If I report this business to the police, there will be no question of paying a mere fine, as Mr Buskin so sanguinely expects. They will be arrested and charged, if not with murder, then most certainly with the failure to report a death and with the concealing of a body, both of which can carry a prison sentence. Is that what you want, Watson? To see the Buskins, two decent, hard-working men, behind bars, their business, and probably also their lives, ruined?’
‘Of course not, Holmes!’ I protested, much taken aback by the ferocity of his reply. ‘But what will you tell Inspector MacDonald and Father O’Shea?’
‘That I have nothing to tell them,’ Holmes replied. ‘In short, that I have failed. For all my much-vaunted skills and the evidence of the builder’s materials on the dead man’s clothes, I was unable to find the yard where those materials originated and therefore I cannot say where he died or who was with him at the time of his death or who carried his body to Paternoster Yard. In other words, the investigation was a total failure on my part, a deception which you will support me in, Watson, if you value our friendship.’
And with that, he raised his stick and hailed a passing hansom, in which we returned in mutual silence to Baker Street.
There is very little more to tell.
Inspector MacDonald and Father O’Shea were separately informed of Holmes’ apparent failure, an admission which both of them accepted, on the Inspector’s part with a degree of scepticism, for I saw him give my old friend a long, searching glance of disbelief.
On Father O’Shea’s part, I thought I detected unexpected relief.
‘So that is the end of the matter,’ he declared, trying but failing to entirely suppress a small, gratified smile and, as he walked out of the room, he looked positively cock-a-hoop. I found this response quite extraordinary until Holmes explained that it was highly likely that Lizzie Buskin had been a servant at St Christopher’s House where Cardinal Tosca, then a young priest, had met her and fathered her child, for which she was dismissed. If Father O’Shea was already the parish priest at the nearby church of St Aloysius, he might have been aware of the situation which, at the time, was hushed up.
It seemed to me a little far-fetched until Holmes pointed out that it would account for Father O’Shea’s reluctance at the time my old friend interviewed him to discuss Cardinal Tosca’s charitable works as well as his poorly-disguised relief at Holmes’ apparent failure.
As for Cardinal Tosca’s body, it was transported back to the Vatican where it was duly buried with, I assume, all the rites and ceremonies suitable for a priest of such high standing.
As for myself, I have become reconciled to the fact that this account can never be published which, all things considered, is perhaps the best outcome after all. For while Holmes’ reputation suffered a temporary set-back at his apparent failure
, it was soon restored by his success over his next investigation, the case of the Devonshire Scandal and the supposed murder of a member of the House of Lords by his butler, which occupied the newspaper headlines for the next three months.
1 This remark regarding the year 1895 was made in ‘The Adventure of Black Peter’. Dr. John F. Watson.
2 Dr Watson’s account entitled ‘The Case of the Notorious Canary Trainer’ was published by Constable and Co. in 1990. Dr John F. Watson.
3 The Adventure of Black Peter’ was first published in The Strand Magazine in March 1904. Dr John F. Watson.
4 In 1895, the Pope was Leo VIII (1810–1903). He was also Pope when Sherlock Holmes investigated the theft of the Vatican cameos. Vide: The Hound of the Baskervilles. Dr John F. Watson.
5 Inspector MacDonald, Christian name Alec, who came originally from Aberdeen, was a Scotland Yard officer from about 1888 and achieved national fame by 1914. He consulted Sherlock Holmes over the Birlstone case. He had a tall, bony figure, sandy hair, ‘a dour nature’ and a ‘hard Aberdonian accent’. Sherlock Holmes, who was ‘not prone to friendship’, was ‘tolerant of the big Scotsman’ and referred to him by the affectionate nickname of ‘Mr Mac’. Vide: The Valley of Fear. Dr John F. Watson.
6 There are three references to Dr Watson’s moustache. In ‘The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton’ it is described as ‘modest’, a second reference is in ‘The Adventure of the Red Circle’, and in ‘His Last Bow’, the last case Sherlock Holmes investigated, in which Dr Watson is described as ‘a heavily built elderly man with grey moustache.’ Dr John F. Watson.
7 While travelling to Devon on the Silver Blaze investigation, Sherlock Holmes was able to calculate in his head the speed of the train from the time it took to pass the telegraph posts which were set sixty yards apart. Dr John F. Watson.
8 See footnote 9 of The Case of the Manor House Mystery regarding Thurston. Dr John F. Watson.
9 In ‘The Adventure of the Devil’s Foot’, Sherlock Holmes was advised by his doctor, Dr Moore Agar, to take a complete rest. Consequently, he and Dr Watson travelled to Poldhu Bay in Cornwall where they rented a cottage. While there, Sherlock Holmes took the opportunity to study the ancient Cornish language which he concluded was akin to Chaldean and had been derived from Phoenician traders who had visited Cornwall in the past to buy tin. Dr John F. Watson.
THE CASE OF THE ARNSWORTH AFFAIR
‘Now there’s a name from the past,’ Holmes exclaimed, laying aside the Morning Post to address me.
‘What name?’ I asked.
‘The first one listed in the obituaries,’ Holmes replied, handing me the paper folded back to the correct page. ‘The lady in question was before your advent as my chronicler, Watson, when I was still in practice at Montague Street.’1
Putting down my coffee cup, I glanced at the item. It referred to the death the previous day of Dowager Lady Edith Arnsworth of Arnsworth Castle in the County of Surrey, aged seventy-three. The funeral would be private.
I was about to enquire who Lady Arnsworth was and what part, if any, she had played in Holmes’ past when he anticipated my question. Getting up from the table, he reached down his encyclopedia2 from the shelves in one of the chimney alcoves and passed it silently to me, already opened at the relevant entry which consisted of several newspaper cuttings carefully pasted on to the page. Leaving me to peruse them on my own, he went into his bedroom, which adjoined our sitting-room, where I heard him rummaging about.
The first cutting referred to the castle itself and had obviously been clipped from a journal devoted to descriptions of the lives and backgrounds of the rich and famous.
‘Arnsworth Castle,’ it stated, ‘the home of the Arnsworth family, is a magnificent fourteenth-century building standing in over ten acres of parkland and pleasure gardens. It is encircled by a moat and access to the house is gained by a long stone bridge of over forty arches. Although extensively altered in the Tudor period, it still retains many of its original features, including the battlemented west tower, from the top of which the visitor may enjoy splendid views over the surrounding countryside.
‘The castle is said to be haunted by the ghost of the second earl, Philip de Harnsworth, who was murdered by his brother Ffulke during a quarrel over the inheritance. The house is also reputed to have several secret rooms and passages. Extensive dungeons and cellars below the castle house the family collection of weapons and instruments of torture.
‘The castle is open to the public only when Sir Grenville Arnsworth and his family are absent in Scotland during the shooting season. For permission to view, application should be made to the Steward, Mr Lionel Monckton, at the Castle Lodge.’
It was followed by an obituary notice from The Times for 12th July 1824, referring to the death of Sir Grenville together with a long account of his life, largely spent, it seemed, on the hunting field and only very occasionally in the House of Lords, much of which I merely glanced at.
The next three clippings received the same cursory treatment, as they were concerned with Sir Grenville’s heir, Sir Richard Arnsworth, including an account of his marriage to Lady Edith Godalming at St Margaret’s, Westminster in 1849, the birth of their only child and sole heir, Gilbert, in 1853, and the death of Sir Richard in a hunting accident in 1872 when Gilbert inherited the title, the castle and the considerable family fortune.
I was about to turn to the next much longer and more interesting-looking cutting, pasted separately on its own page and preceded by a dramatic heading of which I only had time to catch a few words – ‘Tragic’, ‘Nobleman’ and ‘Mysterious’ – when Holmes re-entered the room, dragging behind him the tin trunk in which he kept his records and mementoes of past cases.3
Crossing the room to my chair and perceiving that I had not yet read this last item, he snatched the volume away from me unceremoniously and, slamming it shut, returned it to the bookshelves.
‘I say, Holmes!’ I protested at this cavalier treatment.
‘I am most sincerely sorry, my dear fellow,’ Holmes rejoined. ‘But swift action was called for. Had you read that last cutting, my own account of the case would have been totally ruined and, as you know, I must be allowed my dramatic moments. And now, Watson,’ he continued, taking his seat by the fire and handing me a small package tied up with tape, ‘you shall hear about the Arnsworth case from my own lips rather than from the pen of some inky newspaper hack. In that package, you will find likenesses of the two main protagonists in the case, the Dowager Lady Edith Arnsworth, now deceased, and her son, Gilbert Arnsworth. I acquired them at a sale of family effects a few years ago.’
I loosened the tape and, unwrapping the brown paper cover, revealed two photographs mounted on thick paste-board, one of a woman in her sixties, I judged, the other a young man in his mid twenties.
The woman, dressed in black silk elaborately swathed and ruffled, was sitting very upright against a photographer’s backcloth of painted trees, one hand grasping the arm of a high-backed chair which was throne-like in its proportions and carved embellishments. Her features were handsome, the fine bone structure of the face suggesting that noble blood had coursed through her veins and those of her ancestors for many generations. Only her expression spoilt the general effect. It was cold, proud, arrogant; the look of a woman who has an unforgiving heart and little love for her fellow human beings.
I put it to one side, thinking that I should not want to have crossed swords with her, and took up the second photograph, that of her son.
The contrast was dramatic.
Whereas she sat erect, he lounged in a low chair, legs crossed, one arm resting negligently on a small round table at his side; and while her expression was one of indomitable pride and patrician haughtiness, his was of a vain, foolish complacency. It was true he shared with her a certain handsomeness of physiognomy but, in his case, the features were weak, as if the sinews beneath the flesh lacked support, giving a general effect of languor. His clothes and hair ref
lected this same foppish affectation in their cut and style.
‘I would appreciate your opinion of them, Watson,’ Holmes suggested in a tone of genuine interest.
‘Lady Arnsworth looks formidable while the son appears a weakling. Was he spoilt as a child?’
‘My dear fellow, you have scored a bullseye! Well done! There are times when you are astonishingly perspicacious!’ Holmes exclaimed.
Although the compliment was a little back-handed, I smiled to show my pleasure at it as Holmes continued, ‘Lady Arnsworth doted on her son. Her marriage was, I imagine, unsatisfactory, her husband being more interested in dogs and horses than his wife. Consequently, she poured all the passion she possessed and, believe me, Watson, under that iron exterior, she was a woman of strong emotions, into her son. As a result, Gilbert grew up thoroughly spoilt; a rich young man who was denied nothing.
‘He inherited not only the title and the fortune but also most of his character from his father, who was himself excessively self-indulgent. In his case, it was his hunters and his fox-hounds on which he lavished his money. Gilbert Arnsworth’s preference was for another type of filly – actresses and what the French, with their charmingly euphemistic use of language, refer to as poules de luxe.
‘Like his father, Gilbert also had a taste for strong liquors and fine wines and it was during a debauch in a hotel bedroom in London with one of his fillies that matters went terribly wrong. There was a quarrel, about what I do not know, which resulted in Gilbert strangling the young lady, whose professional name, according to the newspapers, was Nanette Pearl, although her real name was, more prosaically, Annie Davies. The body was discovered the following morning by the chambermaid. In the meantime, Gilbert had fled the scene and disappeared.
