by Geri Schear
Our next witness was Sir Edmund Villiers. A small, fastidious man with vague connections to the West End, he presented himself nervously and sat facing me, twitching like a chilly orphan.
“I am an old acquaintance of Sir Christopher’s,” he said. “We met one evening at the Savoy when he had the misfortune to have his pocket picked by one of the street urchins. I was privileged to assist him and he has repaid me with frequent visits here on occasion. I merely make up the numbers.”
“So you were intended to match Lady Beatrice?” Watson asked.
“No, no. another young Lady, Miss Constance Longford was supposed to have made up the party, but she became ill at the last moment and had to cancel. I was supposed to match her.”
“Then M. Perrot was intended for the Lady?” I asked.
This line of questioning suited him, and he relaxed noticeably.
“M. Perrot was not invited; he happened to call upon Sir Christopher and was asked to stay for the weekend. No, Sir Christopher’s brother, Wallace, had that honour. Alas, he had some business in town that required his urgent attention, but I believe he is expected sometime today.”
After the frightened gentleman left I turned to Watson.
“This is a curious state of affairs, is it not?”
“That the party was not that which was planned? Indeed. What do you make of it, Holmes?”
I shook my head. There were and are too many hypotheses; I need more data to sort through them. All I would say was, “Wallace Summerville has crossed my path a number of times, Watson. Though he has managed to avoid my net, I have no doubt the noose is awaiting him at some juncture.”
“The brother of a knight? Good grief!” Watson exclaimed.
“The Summervilles are not high born, Watson. I might even go so far as to say they are not even gentlemen. I doubt they have a brass farthing to their name and young Wallace has expensive tastes. He is intemperate and becomes aggressive when in his cups. If memory serves he has also run up some quite substantial gambling debts. Very likely it was these that compelled him back to the city.”
“They he cannot have been involved in this murder, surely, Holmes?”
“It is too soon to tell; I need data, Watson, data! Will you ask our next witness to come in?”
We were joined by not one, but two witnesses: Mr and Mrs Beecham. Their youth is amplified by their callowness. The young man is twenty-two and recently inherited a sizeable estate in Derbyshire.
“Alice and I hadn’t been married very long,” he said. “And we were finding it hard to make ends meet, weren’t we, my dear?”
The girl, no more than eighteen, nodded. She clutched her husband’s hand so tightly I wondered he did not wince. “Not that we minded, Mr Holmes,” she said in a breathless, little girl voice I find immensely irritating. “But we’re hoping to start a family...”
“And then came news that my uncle Charles had died and left me his fortune,” the boy said.
“That would be the Honourable Charles Windham?” I said. “Yes, I remember reading about his death in the Gazette. You are to be congratulated on your inheritance. No doubt it will ease your path in life considerably. Tell me, how do you know Sir Christopher?”
“We met at my club, Mr Holmes,” Beecham replied. “When he heard about my inheritance he offered to advise me about investments. I know nothing about business, I’m afraid. I am... that is to say, I was just a porter at St Guy’s Hospital.”
“He invited us here for the week,” the girl said. Really, her speech seems all vowels and no consonants. “Sir Christopher, I mean.”
Watson, seeing the signs of my irritation that, I flatter myself, no one else can detect, took over the questioning.
“So you hadn’t known Sir Christopher or his family for long?”
“Lord love you, no sir,” Beecham said. “Only just met him. He’s such a... a forceful man, isn’t he?”
Watson glanced at me and carried on. “Yes, I’m sure that’s true. So had you ever met the dead woman before?”
“I don’t think we even know who she was,” the young man said. “We saw the body... Well, that is to say, I did, but I don’t think we’d seen her before.”
“It’s just awful,” the girl said and her huge eyes filled with tears.
“I really hope we do not have to stay here, Mr Holmes,” said the boy. “This is so distressing to my wife.”
“That will be up to the police, I’m afraid,” Watson said. “But it will soon be resolved, I am sure. There’s no better man for the job than Mr Holmes.”
There seemed nothing more they could tell us so I dismissed them. As they rose to leave I added, “You would be well advised to stay clear of the Summervilles, Mr Beecham. Look for a reputable business manager to advise you and make sure you get excellent references from at least five sources before you entrust your financial matters to him.”
The two stared at me and I saw the import of my words fill their eyes. “Thank you, Mr Holmes,” the girl said. “I did say, didn’t I, Edward, that there was something unsavoury about him?”
“You did. You certainly did.”
The boy insisted on shaking my hand vigorously for several minutes. At last I was rid of them. Lord keep me from the passions of youth.
I expected Lady Summerville to be our next witness, but instead we were graced by the butler, Mr Reynolds.
“Sir Christopher’s apologies, Mr Holmes. He does not think it appropriate that the ladies be... sullied with this matter.”
I said, coldly, “I am afraid we must insist.”
The man bristled and Watson said, “I am sure Sir Christopher is anxious to have this matter resolved as swiftly as possible. Who can say what snippets of information the ladies may have without even knowing. I am sure we need not detail them for long.”
“Very well,” Reynolds said in a sulky voice.
There was a delay of about ten minutes then Reynolds returned and announced her Ladyship. The retainer stood behind the sofa, intending to remain for our interview. I rose and showed him the door. He left spluttering indignities, to my great amusement.
Lady Summerville at the age of forty-seven is no less anxious and nervous than she was when she was Miss Winifred Jacoby and affianced to my old friend Reginald Musgrave before his untimely death.
I was struck, as I had been over luncheon, by the way she tugged at the sleeves of her gown. As she sat opposite me the reason became obvious. However, I acted as if I had not noticed and asked some general questions about the household. She answered truthfully, breathlessly.
“How long have you and Sir Christopher been married, Lady Summerville?”
“Eight years,” she said. This, then, was why Miss Simms said she’d been in the mistresses’ employ for twelve years; she had been longer in this house than her master. But the Lady was still speaking and I paid close heed to her words.
“I had quite given up on the idea of marriage when I met Christopher at a dinner at Lady Bingham’s home,” she said. “He is a little younger than I, but we hardly notice the difference.”
“And the estate was yours, I take it?”
“It was my dowry,” she said. “But of course it is entirely my husband’s now.”
“And the staff? How many of them were here prior to your marriage?”
“They have all with me a long time except the poor dead girl and Mr Reynolds.”
“Ah. And when was Mr Reynolds employed?”
“Oh he came with my husband. He has been in Sir Christopher’s employ for many years.”
“I see.” The matter did not surprise me. I wondered what had happened to the previous butler. Still, it would not do to alienate our hostess with indelicate questions, especially when there are far more efficient ways of getting the answers. Instead I asked, “Do
you ever involve yourself in the hiring of new staff?”
“No, I leave that to Miss Simms. She is perfectly capable, and my husband feels I have more important things to do with my time.”
“Of course you do,” Watson said in his genial way.
“And Lady Beatrice: is she your niece or your husband’s?”
“Oh, mine. She is my brother Benjamin’s girl. She’s been quite alone since he died two years ago. I invite her here often; my husband is very generous in giving her free rein of the house, but she prefers the city, I think.”
“Ah, she lives in London, then?”
“Yes, she has a house in Wimpole Street. My brother spent most of his time there, and Beatrice is surrounded by his books. I think that and the familiarity are a comfort to her.”
“And how does she get on with your husband?” I asked the question as if it were no more than a formality.
“Perfectly well,” she said, flushing.
“Come, Lady Summerville, we will get along much further if you are candid with me.”
She laughed nervously. “Well, I don’t suppose there’s anything to be embarrassed about. Beatrice doesn’t much care for my husband, if I am truthful. I cannot think why; he is always so genial to her.”
“Perhaps she objects to his abuse of you, her aunt?”
Again she tugged on her sleeves and this time the flush on her cheeks coloured all the way down her neck.
“Mr Holmes!”
I leaned forward and peeled back the cuff of her sleeve. The purple bruise was still fresh and the imprint of a man’s fingers clearly visible.
“Your husband’s handiwork, I see.”
“That is none of your business, Mr Holmes. My husband is merely playful. He forgets his strength, and I bruise easily...”
“So many excuses in one utterance, Lady Summerville. Why do you endure it?”
Tears, sudden and uncontrollable, filled her eyes and coursed down her plump cheeks.
“What choice have I, Mr Holmes? He is my husband, for good or ill, and I am bound to him. Besides, there are many much worse off.”
I sat and stared at her for several moments in silence. Watson was brimming with fury but, good man that he is, contained his emotions in deference to my process. At last I said, “That will do for now, Lady Summerville, you may send Lady Beatrice in, if you would.”
She sprang from the chair and I waited till she reached the door before asking, “Oh, about Lady Beatrice: I understand your husband is hoping to arrange a match between her and his brother?”
She shuddered, nodded, and escaped.
“Well, Watson,” I said after the Lady left. “What a charming man this Sir Christopher is. I have seldom met a more convincing cad even in the vilest back alleyways of London.”
“The man’s a bounder, Holmes! It is a small step from wife-beater to killer, surely.”
“He is a most unsavoury character, I agree, but you know my philosophy, Watson: we have few facts and I will not form a theory without more data. Still, it is an interesting household... ah, here is Lady Beatrice, I believe.”
As we spoke, the young woman came into the room accompanied by Reynolds, the butler.
“Sir Christopher’s orders, sir. I am to remain during the lady’s interview.”
The young woman who joined us in the library would be noteworthy in any circumstances; in a home such as this she is singular. Taller than most, she strode into the library exuding confidence and calm: two commodities that had been lacking in all our previous interviewees.
Meeting my eyes without demur she shook hands first with me, then with Watson, and then sat facing us, her hands on her lap.
Watson no doubt considers her a beauty. Even I must admit the intelligence in her eyes is intriguing, but at that moment I was more interested in what light, if any, she could shed upon the events of the previous night.
My hopes were dashed, alas. She told much the same tale as everyone else: they dined at eight, as usual, then she played the piano for the others in the music room before retiring around ten o’clock. She believed the gentlemen sat up for a while in conversation.
She did not know the maid, Liz Derby. She herself had not been to the manor for some months and had met the dead woman for the first time yesterday afternoon.
“Did anything about her strike you, Lady Beatrice?” I asked.
“I was much taken by her footwear,” she replied. “Rather a handsome pair of brogues, I thought.”
Her dark eyes met mine and I felt a thrill of recognition. Yes, here was someone who sees and hears and pays attention. I longed to get the odious butler out of the room, but I could not find a way of achieving the goal without creating difficulties for the girl. Given what we had learned of Summerville’s behaviour towards women, I did not want to put her at risk.
At last, she rose and, as she took her leave, handed me a music manuscript.
“I have heard that you are a musician, Mr Holmes,” she said. “I happened upon this some time ago; I think you will find it interesting. You may like to review it at your leisure.”
I bowed and shook her hand and as she turned to leave she said, “Come, Reynolds, no doubt Mr Holmes has much to do. Perhaps you would pour me a sherry.”
“Well, that was extraordinary,” Watson said. “A beautiful young woman, if rather too self-sufficient for my taste. I wonder if that is why she is unmarried. Holmes?”
“Keep an eye on that door, Watson. I do not wish us to be interrupted or overheard.”
He tiptoed to the door and peered through a crack. “No one there. What is it, Holmes? What did you learn from Lady Beatrice?”
I drew a large envelope out of the pages of the manuscript and strew the contents on the table. There was a letter and photographs, dozens of photographs of the dead woman.
And they were taken before the room had been trashed.
7
The photographs were remarkably clear and precise. The photographer had taken a close up of the woman’s hands, and of the footprints on the carpet. Next to the latter was a foot-measure which enabled me to estimate the size of the shoe.
The pictures revealed a room that had been turned out by the killer, but was in nothing like the state of disarray that Watson and I had witnessed upon our arrival.
The dead woman’s broken fingernails showed clearly a dark substance beneath them.
“What do you make of this, Watson?” I said.
“I cannot imagine Sir Christopher would allow a maidservant to be slovenly in appearance, Holmes,” the Doctor replied. “And Miss Simms does not strike me as the sort of housekeeper who would permit dirty fingernails in one of her staff.”
“I agree. So how do you explain it?”
He shook his head. “I’m afraid I am rather at a loss, Holmes.”
“Come, Watson, the answer is clear enough, surely? The killer wore gloves, something black. The dead woman tore at them trying to save herself during strangulation. Have a look in that envelope; I cannot imagine our young friend had the foresight to save us a sample...”
“No, here, Holmes!” Watson cried, and handed me a piece of paper that had been folded around a black, suede-like substance.
“Excellent, excellent!” I cried. “Watson, this young woman has a brain. She has wit!”
“I wonder if it was she who took the photographs,” Watson said.
I hardly heard him. I was busily examining the black substance under my magnifying glass. “Suede,” I said. “Our killer wore black suede gloves. How very curious... Did you say something? Yes, perhaps the Lady herself is the photographer. Let us see what her letter has to say.”
Although I have always maintained that gender can usually be determined by the quality of penmanship, I must confess I would have attributed t
he masculine gender to the author of this letter, if I did not already know otherwise. A fact I neglected to mention to Watson. The letter read,
Dear Mr Holmes,
I hope these photographs may be of some use to you. They are a poor substitute for an unsullied crime scene, I know, but they were all I could manage under the circumstances.
In addition to the pictures, I took some of the black substance that I found beneath the dead woman’s fingernails. I only took as much as was necessary for your analysis, and left sufficient for the police, in the unlikely event that they would have wit enough to determine its importance.
It is doubtful that we will have a chance to talk during the day, but I shall come to the library at midnight tonight. There I will endeavour to answer your questions in full.
I need hardly say that if Sir Christopher were to learn of my involvement in this matter, the consequences could be extremely unpleasant for me and my aunt. I am sure I can rely upon your discretion and that of Dr Watson.
Your servant. B.J.
For the next several hours I lay on the library floor pouring over the photographs with my glass, scouring every detail. Though they were, as the photographer intimated, poor substitutes for an unsullied murder scene, they were, at least, vastly superior to the room we found on our arrival. Nor were they without points of interest.
As I had surmised, the dead woman was in a kneeling position by the bed with her head and shoulders lying upon the mattress. Her eyes were open and staring. She was wearing a coat and her expensive shoes. How curious. Why would she be dressed for outdoors in the middle of the night? There was a close image of the throat and I could clearly see the crushed hyoid bone. The dark bruises we observed in the morgue had not yet fully formed, but could still be distinguished. It seemed significant that the killer had not used a ligature, but had strangled Derby with his hands. These pictures must have been taken very soon after the murder.
“Holmes?” Watson said. “Well, what do you think?”
“I think we must consider using photography as a tool in the future,” I said. “This is revealing. Yes, indeed. Very revealing.”
