by Geri Schear
It was useless to quibble. Once Watson has his mind made up there’s no stopping him. There is much of the bulldog in him. It is, at once, one of his greatest virtues and his most annoying failings. In any case, there was no hope for it but to tell him the whole story.
“It’s a fool who underestimates you, my dear fellow,” I said. “And in this instance, I have been the biggest fool in Christendom.” Keeping nothing back, I proceeded to tell him the entire tale.
“But that’s outrageous, Holmes,” he cried when I was done. “I have seen the men across the street from our apartments, but I hadn’t realised they were following you. Can they not be arrested?”
“They have broken no law as yet, Watson. So far they have done nothing more alarming than follow me. I was fortunate to be able to shake them when we took the train here, but it is extremely likely they continue to keep watch for my return to Baker Street.”
“But what would they want with me?”
“Information, perhaps? Or they might follow you... Very likely I am being overly suspicious, but I should prefer to err on the side of caution.”
“They must have a leader, these villains,” Watson said. “Do you think this new Moriarty is behind it?”
Not for the first time, my friend’s perspicacity surprised me. I said, as indifferently as I could, “Perhaps, but that makes such a man dangerous, not invincible. As you recall, I dispatched the original over the Reichenbach Falls.”
“Yes, but at what cost?”
We fell silent for several minutes. Watson, though he perfectly understands why I kept silent for so long after my apparent death, still feels the sting of it. Not for the first time I berated myself that I did not confide in him sooner. It was done for compelling reasons as well he knows, but I bitterly regret the pain I caused him.
“Watson-” I began. He raised a hand to stop me, but I had deferred this for too long and I was determined to continue. “No one regrets more than I how shabbily I have treated you in the past. You have my word, I shall not lie to you again.”
“Withholding the truth is not so different from lying, Holmes,” he said and for once he made no attempt to disguise the depth of his hurt.
“You’re right.” I sighed, and stared up the track. The train wasn’t due for several more minutes. I thought about changing the subject but this matter would lie between us. If it was anyone else it would not matter, but Watson...
“It seems I have committed the same error as before: My clumsy attempts to protect you ended up causing you pain.”
He glanced over at me and said more gently, “Well, I’ve never doubted your intentions, my dear fellow. But yes, it was clumsy.” He twisted the strap of his overnight bag around and around in his hand. He said, “Do you really think I might be in some danger?”
“I do not know. Probably not. But I should like you to be cautious all the same. And use the Irregulars. They will hinder those brutes from following you and ensure your safety. Just please be exceedingly cautious. You know, you must know, I would never forgive myself if you were hurt because of me.
“In any case, proceed however you choose. I have complete faith in you, old man.”
In the distance a whistle blew and the train thundered into the station. Watson and I said no more. I walked him to the train and as he turned to leave I said, “Watson,” and held out my hand.
With some surprise he shook it. I said, “I am sorry. For this. For all of it.”
“I know.” He straightened his shoulders and turned to leave then paused, turned back and said, “It’s about time you apologised. Still, better late than never.” He shot me a quick smile and winked then disappeared into the train’s carriage.
Once Watson was safely on his way, I walked up the road to the police station.
Greer greeted me warmly. He was, I thought, anxious to redeem his reputation. He rose and offered me a seat and a cup of coffee. I accepted the former but refused the latter. I have drunk coffee in police stations before.
“The references came back, Mr Holmes,” he said. “You may see for yourself.”
He handed me a handful of letters written in varying hands on varying stationary. In content, however, they were virtually identical.
Liz Derby, they said, was sober and quiet. She did her work efficiently. It was with regret that they saw her leave.
“Does nothing strike you as significant about these, Inspector?” I asked.
“I’m not sure I take your meaning, Mr Holmes,” he said.
“Come now, these references cover a year and there are eight of them. What member of the serving classes changes her employment so frequently?”
“But she must have been competent, Mr Holmes. Surely am employer would not have given her a reference otherwise.”
“They would if they were afraid of her.”
I turned the discussion to the members of Summerville’s household. On this subject, the inspector proved informative enough.
“Lady Summerville I know well enough, sir. Though she is not so handsome as her niece, she is kind and very well liked in these parts. She used to attend local events pretty regular, and was quick with a smile and a word of encouragement to everyone. Not above putting her hand in her purse and giving a few pence to them that might need it either.”
“You speak in the past tense, Inspector. Is that no longer the case?”
“I’m afraid not, Mr Holmes. A lot changed after her Ladyship got married. And not for the good, either.”
“I understand the current butler came with the new master. What happened to the man who had the job before her Ladyship’s marriage?”
“Ah, Mr Davenport that would be, sir. As fine a gentleman as you could ever meet. I believe there were strong feelings about his leaving. He’d been at the manor for any number of years, and very well liked he was too. He and the housekeeper, Miss Simms, had an understanding and we were all looking forward to the wedding. However, once Sir Christopher arrived Mr Davenport was sent packing, and that was that.”
“Mr Davenport did not remain in the area?”
“No indeed, Mr Holmes. Not much work for butlers locally, I suppose, particularly not one who has been dismissed. I believe he went to London and opened a public house.”
“Ah, I wonder if I might trouble you for the use of your telephone. I should like to leave a message for Doctor Watson that he should see if he can learn any more from Mr Davenport.”
“How does that help us, Mr Holmes?” The man’s entire face squashed itself into a frown of puzzlement.
“At the very least, he can give us some inside information on the workings of that house. Since he was close to Miss Simms, it is likely they have continued a correspondence. She will know far more than the footman Stevens, and may have confided in her former fiancé. The more we know of those inhabitants the better, do you not agree?”
“I would not presume to question you, Mr Holmes.”
I left a message for Watson with Mrs Hudson and rose to leave. The policeman walked me to the door and said, “I can’t tell you how glad I am you came to assist us. This seems a baffling matter to me, and that’s the truth.”
I smiled. “Well, well, if I am able to offer any insight, Inspector, you may be sure I shall do so. At least you are to be commended for recognising your need for assistance and contacting me.”
“Well, to tell the truth, Mr Holmes, that was Lady Beatrice’s idea. She said it was a puzzling case such as might tax even the great Sherlock Holmes and that’s what made me think of it.”
Half an hour later, well stocked on local gossip but few hard facts, I climbed onto the trap and sat beside Stevens. At my request, he drove us slowly to the manor. The air was chilly and I was glad Watson had tossed my scarf at me as we headed out.
I said, “Lady Beatrice suggested you
had more to tell me about the morning you discovered Miss Derby’s body.”
“Yes, sir, she said I should speak plain to you. She’s a fine lady, is Lady Beatrice. I was wanting only an opportunity to speak with you without having - well, certain people - listening in.”
“People like Sir Christopher? You need not be alarmed, lad; my own observations of your employer have left me in little doubt as to his character.”
“He’s a hard man, and no mistake. I would have left this place years ago were it not for my mum’s poor health and Lady Summerville needing someone to watch out for her.”
“He is violent towards his wife,” I said. The boy’s lips tightened. If Sir Christopher, rather than Sir Christopher’s maid, had been found dead I would have my chief suspect right before me.
“Brutal, sir,” the lad replied. “If you could see the way he slaps and kicks and punches her. It would make you ashamed of all men, indeed it would.”
“Why did he marry if he had so little affection for her? I have observed that even his manner of speech is often aggressive towards her.”
“Well, sir, she had money and she was high born. This whole estate was hers; before they married Sir Christopher had nothing but a title. He and his brother are a pair, and that’s a fact.” He glanced at me. “You do know, Mr Holmes, that they intend Lady Beatrice to marry Mr Wallace Summerville? You may be sure, if she marries that... gentleman she will not survive a year.”
“Surely she cannot be forced,” I said. “In this modern age we do not compel young women to marry without their consent.”
He reined in the horse and turned to look at me. “You think a woman has a choice? I’ll tell you honestly, Mr Holmes, a lad like me, low born and with little education, has twice as many rights as a high-born lady. If her family insist she will have no option. And it will kill me to see it.”
The thought of the spirited young woman who had so ably assisted my investigation being bound to so loathsome a creature as Wallace Summerville was a chilling one indeed.
I said, “Surely the lady has friends who would protect her?”
“Bless you, sir, she has many friends and they would help her if they could. But there are powerful people in this land who act according to expediency and not common sense. But there, I’ve said enough on the matter.”
We had, indeed, got off topic and I changed the subject. “Tell me about finding Miss Derby’s body,” I said.
The lad’s story mirrored the one told by Lady Beatrice. Something had woken him in the early hours and he had lain awake for some time listening. He tried to convince himself that he had imagined it but he could not go back to sleep. Some instinct told him to investigate.
He got up and went down the hallway of the servants’ quarters to see if anything was amiss. He found the door to Derby’s room ajar.
“I just knew, even before I looked inside, Mr Holmes, I just knew there was something really dreadful in there.”
“Describe what you saw. Exactly, mind.”
“Yes, Mr Holmes. Well, Lady Beatrice’s pictures should tell you everything I saw.”
“You did not go into the room?”
“No, sir. I saw at once the woman was dead. All purple, her face was. Made me quite ill to see it. There was no aid I could have given her. But I have read the accounts of your work, Mr Holmes, and I trust I am no stupider than any other man, so I did not go into the room and I did not disturb anything. I stood in the hallway for some minutes, trying to decide what to do.”
“What time was that?”
“A quarter to five, sir. I took note of the time.”
The young man had all the details ready. Had it not been for his air of honesty coupled with Lady Beatrice’s affidavit, I might have suspected him of being too well prepared. However, it was apparent he wanted only to be useful. He continued:
“I knew Lady Beatrice was the only member of the household who would not panic. I trusted that she would know what to do. I made my way to her chamber and knocked very softly on the door. I have observed her Ladyship in the past to be a very light sleeper, and so it was on this occasion. She came to the door looking tired but quite alert. I told her what I had found.
“Her Ladyship ordered me to fetch her photographic equipment and bring it to Derby’s room. ‘The household will trample this room like a prize bull, if I’m any judge,’ said she. ‘We must preserve the scene as well as we can.’”
“You assisted her Ladyship to take the photographs?”
“Yes, sir. I’ve helped her Ladyship a number of times in the past. She takes pictures of whatever catches her eye, if you know what I mean. I think I’ve become a pretty good assistant, though I say so myself.”
“Yes, yes, but the murder scene... did either of you step in any of the footprints or disturb anything in any way?”
“No, sir,” he said solidly. “And that’s a fact. We were very careful, both of us.”
“And after the pictures were taken, what happened then?”
“I brought the equipment down to the cellar. Her Ladyship has a darkroom set up down there... Ah, Sir Christopher doesn’t know, and I’d be obliged, Mr Holmes, if you wouldn’t tell him.”
“Ha!” I said. “Your secret is safe with me.”
I satisfied myself that Stevens had nothing further to add to the details of the murder. I turned my attention to the people within the house on the night of the murder. He confirmed most of my own suspicions.
“Mr Reynolds is a hard man and no mistake, sir. There’s a rumour that he once did a man to death and Sir Christopher covered it up. All the servants are in terror of him. He tells everything to the master and takes great satisfaction in seeing the abuse and the threats that follow.”
“I understand Mr Reynolds replaced a butler who had been in Lady Summerville’s employ before her marriage.”
“Yes, sir, Mr Davenport it was. He was as Christian a gentleman as you’d ever meet. Decent and kind he was and ever so fond of the mistress. It was a black day when that lady married, sir.”
“What can you tell me about Davenport’s departure? I gather he was dismissed and did not retire?”
“I never heard the whole story, sir,” the lad said. He furrowed his brow trying to remember. “Miss Simms could tell you more; she and Mr Davenport were very close. But what I do know is that the gentleman was forced out and replaced by Mr Reynolds. It was all over in less than an hour and very upsetting to everyone.”
I had the lad review the others in the house but he could do no more than confirm my own suspicions. Miss Simms was honest and kind; the cook worked hard and tried to keep out of everyone’s notice; the other servants were too frightened of the master to put a foot out of line.
As to the guests: the lad’s fondness for Lady Beatrice and his mistress aside, he had little information to relate. M. Perrot he disliked but that seemed more a matter of British pride than anything wanting in the Frenchman’s person. His chief crime seemed to be that he reeked of cologne, as one might expect of a foreigner. And Steven’s suspected Perrot often pretended worse English than he knew for some subtle reason of his own. He was, so far as the boy knew, a wine merchant. The Beechams he had never seen before, but Mr Villiers he knew quite well.
“He comes here now and then. The Master seems fond of him, though I’m not sure why. He’s a very inoffensive sort, soft spoken and pleasant enough. He does rather fawn over Sir Christopher, though, and I suppose that might be enough to recommend him.”
We had, by then, reached the gates of the manor and I had learned as much as I could hope. Stevens impressed me with his intelligence and resourcefulness. I said, “You have an interest in joining the police force, I understand?”
“Well, sir, I’d like to and no mistake. But my mum is ill, is dying in fact, and I’m all she’s got. Then there’s Lad
y Summerville... she’s been very good to me and I owe her a lot. I’m still young; I have time.”
“You do indeed. I have many reservations about the worth of the official forces, but they need all the intelligent young men they can muster. When the time comes and you are ready to make application, let me know and if it is in my power to assist you, I shall.”
The lad blushed and would, I regret to say, have embraced me, so great was his pleasure, but I waved away his thanks and we continued on to the manor, he full of excitement, and I full of foreboding.
When we arrived back at the manor I said, “Tell me, Stevens, with everyone’s letters being so carefully scrutinised, I assume the servants have found some means to avoid spying eyes?”
“Well, as much as possible, we have our letters delivered to other people in the neighbourhood, usually my mum’s.”
“And what of letters you wish to send?”
“We don’t leave them out. We take them directly to the pillar box.”
“Which is where, exactly?”
“There’s one just a street over from the east wing. Uh, we servants take a short cut through the rose garden. There’s a gap in the wall that we are able to get through. I’d be grateful if you wouldn’t mention it to Sir Christopher or Mr Reynolds.”
“You may count on me.”
After giving me precise directions to the shortcut, Stevens returned to his duties. I stayed out in the grounds and followed the crazy-paving path through the rose garden. Fortunately, it rained on the evening of the murder but has been dry, if unseasonably chilly, since. The route through the roses was easy enough to follow. The trail wound through the white tea roses, and then cut off from the footpath where the blossoms turned pink and blowsy.
The tracks were perfectly clear. A broad, short foot had strode through these flowers after the rain. The soft ground readily preserved the print. Yes, that was Derby’s foot. She walked steadily, there was no evidence of haste. It was dark; undoubtedly she was taking her time because she was not as familiar with this route as the other servants. Yes! Blue thread is caught on this rosebush. From her scarf, I believe.
