by Geri Schear
The killer sees her. How? Is he looking out his window? No, he’s shoes are wet and he wears gloves...
Perrot knows something of fingerprints. He could have worn gloves to conceal his identity. His shoes could be wet for some other reason... No, it is not Perrot. You have already decided he does not fit into the evidence. Wanting him to be the killer will not make him so and it is sloppy thinking, unworthy of you.
Very well, the killer is outside. Perhaps he is distressed and takes a walk. He might have stayed close to the house where the ground is paved; that would not leave prints. Or he saw the dead woman from a window. The bathroom overlooks the rose garden... Yes. Assume that’s the case. He sees her and determines to talk to her. He puts on his coat (he may have already been wearing it. It is a very cold house) and he decides to talk to her. He hurries outside but he cannot see her. Now it occurs to him he could search her room while she is gone...
As to the killer’s search: There was frustration in the dumping of things onto the floor. The item he sought was not in that room. And he was unquestionably looking for something. Therefore my theory as to motive is correct.
Such were the thoughts that occupied my mind. It was, by my pocket watch, almost two o’clock when I heard a door softly open. Still dressed, I tiptoed to the door and opened it just enough to see Lady Beatrice slip out and head down the hallway. I gave her a minute then silently followed her.
My initial thought that she was headed to the library proved incorrect, and I was surprised to find her creep along the back hallways and take the staircase up the stairs to the servants’ quarters. Her movements were silent, graceful as she crept up to the attic room in which Liz Derby had been murdered. I watched her take a deep breath and then open the door.
I tiptoed up behind her and stood watching as she as she searched in the drawers of the dead woman’s dresser.
“This is an odd activity at so late an hour, Lady Beatrice,” I said.
She started and just managed to suppress a yelp. “I couldn’t sleep,” she whispered, taking her hand from her mouth. “I was thinking about that woman, Derby, and wondering why the killer ransacked her room.”
“Yes.”
“She was a blackmailer, wasn’t she? It all fits: The expensive shoes, her habit of being found in places she was not expected, the reason the room was searched... There can be no other explanation.”
“You are correct, Lady Beatrice,” I said. “And what conclusions do you draw from this realisation?”
“That the killer is almost certainly not a servant. Derby blackmailed for profit, I surmise. There would be little to be gained from one of the servant classes. Which means the killer is one of the family or guests.”
“You do not think a servant might have killed her for another reason?”
I watched her work her way through this idea. “No,” she said, after a moment. “If that were the case, her room would not have been searched. No, it had to be the person who she was blackmailing who killed her.”
“Excellent,” I said. I would have clapped my hands were quiet not so essential. “You do exceedingly well, Lady Beatrice. What else?”
She said, “Given the state of the room, it seems unlikely the killer found whatever documents his victim had stolen. So... what did Derby do with them?”
Her brow was deeply furrowed as she thought. I offered her a clue.
“Were you aware, Lady Beatrice, that there was fresh mud on Derby’s shoes when her body was discovered?”
“Yes, I noticed that... Oh!”
Her brow cleared and her eyes sparked. “The killer could not have found the documents because she’d already posted them to her home address.”
“Almost certainly. She must have been very reluctant to let the papers out of her sight, but she knew he suspected her. She was due to have her day off on Sunday and only had one day to fret about it. Probably it seemed the safer option. If she was challenged by her killer she could insist she was innocent. A search of her room would reveal nothing. I have learned first-hand that anyone’s room in this house might be searched.”
“Quite so,” she said. “Reynolds has a light finger, and the younger Summerville is also apt to spy upon one. So... Derby underestimated his desperation. Possibly... now I think about it, almost certainly he killed her before he searched her room.”
“Because.?”
“Because she could have calmly let him examine her belongings. She would have let him inspect everything. But he confronted her in a rage and... she turned her back on him, probably with an air of disdain. Yes. And that was the final straw. He grabbed her throat from behind and throttled her. That’s why she was found kneeling facing the bed.”
“Well done, well done, indeed, Lady Beatrice. Not even Dr Watson could surpass your ratiocination. Believe me when I say I could pay you no higher compliment.”
“You searched this room already,” she said. She sounded disappointed. “You realised all of this at once and it’s taken me this long to work it out.”
“But you did work it out, Lady Beatrice. No, I think you must congratulate yourself; you have really done very well.
“I believe Derby went out some time during the night to post the documents to her home. The killer saw her. He was either already outdoors or he came out to confront her, but he decided instead to search her room before she returned.
“Unfortunately, she came back much quicker than he expected and she caught him before he got very far.”
She began to sit on the bed, realised what she was doing, shuddered, and stood up. “I just don’t understand why she didn’t calmly insist that he examine her room. He would have done so, found nothing, and that would have been that.”
There was something in that. I was still missing something, but I would think over it later.
“By the by, did you see that strange apron-like garment hanging in the wardrobe?” I said.
Lady Beatrice shook her head and went to look. She held the item in her hands and studied it. “What a very odd thing,” she said. “The fabric is too thin to be an effective apron. So why... Oh, the skirt is a large pocket! This is how she stole the items from her victims. She hid them in this pocket and she wore it under her dress.” Suddenly she tossed the item aside. “What a filthy thing to do,” she said and shivered.
“You are cold,” I said. “Come, I think we have done enough for tonight.”
In silence we returned to our wing. At her door I said, “How long will you stay here in Bitterne, Lady Beatrice? I confess the atmosphere here is unpleasant, even more so since Mr Summerville arrived. Your loyalty to your aunt is admirable but she has made her choice.”
“She is my only family. We do not choose whom we love, Mr Holmes. Goodnight.”
I thought at the time she meant her own affection for her aunt, but I have since considered the possibility she meant her aunt’s affection for Sir Christopher.
10
I overslept but I was not the only one. I think most of us were too cold to sleep well. A disconsolate bunch we made over the breakfast table. Our hosts and Wallace Summerville elected to remain in bed and so Daisy and Miss Simms were kept running about to accommodate them. Villiers went for a walk; Perrot said he had letters to write. Edward Beecham prevailed upon Lady Beatrice to give his wife a piano lesson.
With the lady thus occupied, I took the opportunity to search her room.
My expectations were low and that was as well. There was nothing here of any interest. Her foot is narrow and the same size as the killer’s. I have already seen her gloves. Her only other pair are made of a plain black leather.
Her stationary case is simple and unadorned. There were two letters; one from Mr Davenport thanking her for her assistance in setting up his inn and assuring her of an invitation to his wedding, “Should Miss Simms ever be prevai
led upon to have me.” The other was a plea for charity from a friend of her late fathers who had fallen on hard times.
She had already drafted replies to both of these. To Davenport she sent her thanks and assurances that it was only a matter of time till Miss Simms succumbed to the gentleman’s charms. To the second she sent her acknowledgement of the gentleman’s friendship with her late father and a comment that she was sending a cheque for five pounds, which she hoped would help. The letter was unsealed and there was neither a bank note nor a cheque inside. I doubted she would have been careless enough to leave either a cheque or cash lying about in this house. Presumably she would put the money in just before she posted it.
But where did she keep her money? Her jewellery, too, seemed oddly absent. I observed the garnet earrings she wore to dinner were nowhere to be seen and she was wearing pearls this morning. There was no jewellery box to be seen; no cheque book nor wallet. I must conclude that she keeps these items on her person at all times when she stays here. What a way to live.
Watson has cabled that he plan to return to Bitterne on the afternoon train. Stevens took me to the station to meet him. It was still cold and wet and I wondered if I’d ever feel warm again.
Fortunately, Watson’s train arrived promptly. I found myself very pleased to be reunited with my chronicler.
“My dear fellow,” I exclaimed. “You look done in. I fear you have had a wearying time in the city.”
“Indeed so,” he replied. “But not without interest.”
‘Stevens,” I said. “Why do you not drop us at the inn and then go see your mother? Watson and I will have an ale and get warm. You may collect us in an hour.”
“I’m much obliged to you, Mr Holmes. Thank you, sir.”
The inn was small, quiet and blessedly warm. The proprietor, a genial middle aged man whose ears revealed he was once a pugilist, served us at once. I commented on the shortage of drinking glasses.
“Those Lowry boys,” he said. “Hardly a week goes by when they do not create some sort of disturbance. Half my takings go to repairs and restocking glasses and bottles.”
“I would have thought an old fighter like you could handle them,” I said.
“Why, bless you, sir, how did you know that? I did box, indeed I did, and very good I was too. But those years are long behind me, I’m afraid. Besides, there are six of them and only one of me. Takes every man in the police station to sort them out when they get started.
“Now, a meat pie, was it, sir? My Bertha will bring it to you. Just have a seat. Can I get you something to drink?”
We ordered hot rum and took our seats in the corner. The place was quiet enough given the time of day and the filthy weather so we could talk freely.
I waited till Watson finished eating before asking him to relate his tale. “I trust you had no difficulty in town?” I said.
“You mean your shadows? No, no difficulty at all, though they are still there, lurking opposite our flat. I suspect they might have tried to follow me but Billy had the boys distract them and I made off in a cab.”
He sipped his ale and continued. “I did as you suggested and began at Baker Street. The Irregulars had already accomplished a great deal: they had tracked Derby’s background and her current London address; they also found out about the former butler, Davenport. Young Billy then accompanied me when I went to visit the dead woman’s last half dozen employers. I was fortunate they were all in the same two mile radius; much shoe leather it saved me.
“There is no doubt in my mind Liz Derby was a most unsavoury young woman. The despair and anguish she left in her wake is distressing in the extreme. Not one of the people I spoke showed even a modicum of distress at the news of her death. Indeed, several offered a prayer of thanks that they were rid of her.
“Each told the same story: They hired Miss Derby based on her excellent references. Initially she gave good and reliable service but as days passed and she learned the routine, she was often found in parts of the house where she had no business being. Before long, incriminating items disappeared: letters, photographs, and so forth. Then the demand for a ‘gift’, usually to the sum of several hundred pounds. These ‘gifts’ were given, in hardship, very often, and the woman’s employment terminated. But demands for more money soon followed.”
I interrupted Watson’s tale to ask about Derby’s pattern of employment.
“Always the same, Holmes,” he said. “The longest she stayed at any place was three months. I assume because it took her longer to find anything of value in that house. It was the Mandeville’s home in Golders Green. She always managed to get all of Sunday off each week. The story was always the same: her mother was ill and Derby needed to attend her.”
“Ah, I think we can rule out religious devotion as a motivation for this extra time. She needed time to hide away her stolen treasures. Obviously she would not want them in her possession for more than a few days at a time,” I said. “Even with the room to herself, there was too much risk of being caught.”
“Oh, that reminds me: there is a pattern of the servant who shared her room being dismissed a short while after Derby’s arrival. In most cases - though not all - Derby managed to keep the room to herself for at least a day or two. I suppose she needed to keep her stolen items in her room until she had time to take them to her home and did not want to risk discovery.”
“An exceedingly unpleasant young woman, Watson,” I said. “Indeed, this entire house is, almost without exception, quite vile.”
He gave me a look and seemed about to comment. However, he said only, “So what’s been happening while I was away?”
I related the details of my time at the manor and he listened attentively.
“I checked with Gregson as you asked,” said he. “And he was unhappy to report Wallace Summerville was most definitely in London on the night of the murder. He was cautioned after he got into an altercation at the Suffolk club. He was extremely inebriated and smelled, according to the officer at the scene, ‘like he’d just climbed out of a vat of ale’ He is a most unsavoury character, Holmes. I fear for any woman who must endure his presence. If Lady Beatrice is indeed to marry him, her life won’t be worth a moment’s purchase.”
I dismissed the matter with more indifference than I felt. “That is not our concern at present, Watson. We have a murderer to unmask; the romantic attachments of young women is beyond our remit. Once we find Liz Derby’s secret collection of blackmail items we will have definite proof of the killer. There must be something there to reveal him - or her.”
“Her? You cannot mean you still suspect any of the ladies? I am quite certain Lady Summerville doesn’t have the physical strength. Given Mrs Beecham’s current state, I would say she is equally unlikely; besides there can be no motive. And Lady Beatrice...”
“Yes? What of Lady Beatrice?”
“She’s done nothing but assist us, Holmes. You said yourself you watched her reason out the blackmail. She wouldn’t have done that if she were a victim, surely?”
“I have only her word that she went to Derby’s room last night merely to test a theory. It’s equally possible that she was making another attempt at searching for her own stolen documents.”
“You don’t really mean that?”
“I cannot afford to eliminate her from my suspect list just because she’s beautiful and talented,” I cried.
For a moment Watson said nothing, then he began, “I’ve been wondering, Holmes...” I waited. I know from old that when my friend has an unpopular opinion to express he cannot be hurried. I have also learned that these observations are often of immense value.
“Would it be so dreadful,” he continued. “If the killer was not discovered in this case? I mean, the dead woman was monstrous; the number of lives she has destroyed or compromised... I confess, I have great sympathy for whoever was dr
iven to such an extreme response.”
I sipped my excellent hot rum before replying, “I understand your sensibilities, Watson. I even share them. But if the killer is not revealed, everyone in that house must be suspect for the rest of their lives. I confess I would not be too unhappy at such a fate befalling our unpleasant host or his revolting butler, but there are innocents there too. All we can do is our best and trust that justice may be done.” I thought some more and added, “This case is not like the odious Milverton where the police had no clear suspect. Here everyone must be under suspicion.”
“It’s a hanging offence, Holmes.”
“I know, Watson, I know. In any case, though I have two clear suspects I have no proof against either. All is mere theory until that proof is found. Ah, there’s Stevens. I see his mother has died.”
It required no great powers of deduction to see the change in the young footman’s countenance. His face was blanched and tears were not far from the surface, though he did an admirable job of keeping them under control.
“Good God, man!” Watson exclaimed. “What is it? Stevens, sit down. I shall fetch you a brandy. How may I assist?”
“No, thank you, Doctor. You’re very kind but I need nothing.” He said. “I was in time to spend her last few minutes with her. Her neighbour, Mrs Pettigrew, was with her and had sent word to the manor to fetch me. Thanks to you, Mr Holmes, I was able to hold her hand at the last and close her eyes.”
“You should not be here, lad,” Watson said in his most gentle manner. “Go home and take care of things there. Holmes and I can take the trap back. If word has already been sent to the manor, they’ll understand.”
“Sir Christopher...”
“We shall see to your master,” I said. “Watson is right, Stevens. Your first duty is to your mother and yourself. Is there anything we can do to assist you?”
The lad shook his head and ran the back of his hand across his face. “Thank you, Mr Holmes. I confess I am loath to leave her. This is the last duty I can ever do for her, my poor old mum.”
