A Biased Judgement

by Geri Schear

  We stopped at the gate and I gave the boy a handful of coins as payment. I did not even stop to count it but by his expression, I could see I had over-tipped him considerably.

  “Come, Watson!” I cried. “There is not a moment to lose!”

  The two of us ran up the drive. The curtains twitched at the windows of the third bedroom. That was our bird all right. “We may yet be in time,” I said.

  We reached the door and knocked loudly. After a brief but agonising moment, the housemaid Daisy opened it. “Oh, it’s you, Mr Holmes, Doctor,” she said. “Come in.”

  I rushed past her and saw Lady Beatrice on the staircase. She seemed to be frozen there, headed in no direction. Just standing.

  Sir Christopher and his wretched brother came out into the hallway. “What is it, Mr Holmes? You have answers? Yes, I see on your face that you do. Come, who is it that has so disturbed our happy little home?”

  “Happy, do you call it?” I demanded. Then, “Lady Beatrice-”

  She remained in her frozen state and I ran up the stairs towards her. “Let it be, Mr Holmes,” she said. “I implore you, let it be.”

  “You must know I cannot do that, Lady Beatrice,” I said. I tried to continue up the stairs but she blocked my path.

  “What is this?” Summerville demanded. “Out of the way, you wretched girl. Let the fellow do his work.”

  She remained unmoved, however. From the upper landing Stevens appeared and walked down the staircase. He stood beside her and the two made an effective blockade against us.

  “What is this, you baggage?” Summerville continued. He raised his fist but Stevens struck first and Summerville fell backwards.

  “You blackguard, you’ll pay for that,” the brother cried.

  Before either Watson or I could remonstrate there came the report of a gunshot from above.

  12

  “Damn you, you baggage,” Summerville screamed at Lady Beatrice. She stood and stared at him as if she had forgotten who he was. Though she was deathly pale she remained quite steady.

  “Sir Christopher,” I said tightly. “Do you go down and see to your guests. Have your butler call the police. You go down too, Mr Summerville. Stevens, stay here with the Lady.”

  “You’ll need this, Mr Holmes,” the lady said, handing me a key.

  Then Watson and I ran up the stairs and along the hallway. The third door was locked but our key opened it easily.

  Villiers was sat at the desk, his blood dripped onto the floor and a fine red mist speckled the room for several feet in every direction. Even the ceiling was spattered with it. The pistol lay upon the floor.

  I shuddered. Watson felt for a pulse and looked at me shaking his head.

  “Self-administered,” he said. “This is what you feared, Holmes.”

  “No, Watson. I feared Lady Beatrice would confront him and he would turn on her.”

  “You were half-right, Mr Holmes,” the Lady’s voice came from behind me. “I found the gloves. He realised they were damaged and took pains to hide them. His monogram identified him.”

  “You should not be in here, Lady Beatrice,” Watson said. “This is a terrible sight even for men to behold.”

  She shook her head and Stevens, standing behind her, tried to draw her away, but she would not leave.

  “This is my doing,” she said. “I ought to look upon it.”

  “Come, my Lady,” the boy said. “It is not your fault.”

  “I think you should say no more before witnesses, Lady Beatrice,” I said. I could hear the patter of footsteps hurrying up the stairs. “Stevens, take the lady to her room.”

  He nodded and took her arm. She made no further resistance and let him lead her away.

  The next several hours were frightful and I cannot remember them without abhorrence, but in the interests of veracity I must go on.

  Greer arrived and accepted my explanation of suicide without demur. “He was the killer, then,” he said. “Guilt got the better of him no doubt. Robbed the hangman, but saved the Exchequer the cost of a trial. But why did he do it, Mr Holmes?”

  Watson glanced at me and then occupied himself assisting the attendants prepare the body for transport to the morgue. I dissembled a little, saying only, “He was being blackmailed. We may never know why, but we do know Liz Derby was a most unsavoury character who had left a trail of devastation behind her everywhere she went.”

  “He left no note, I suppose?”

  “Just this-” I handed the Inspector a sheet of paper that said only, “I killed her. I cannot live with myself. Forgive me. Edmund St James Villiers.”

  “Ah, well that’s conclusive enough. Thank you for all your help, Mr Holmes. I will release a statement to the press this evening and you may be sure I will remember your contribution.”

  “Not necessary, Inspector,” I said. “This matter essentially resolved itself. But I would ask that next time you find yourself faced with a murder you leave the scene intact and remember that you, and you alone, are responsible for the case.”

  “I’ll do that, Mr Holmes. If I may say so, I have learned a great deal from watching you work. Thank you.”

  My vanity is no less than any other man’s and I was pleased to hear this kind affirmation, unwarranted in this case though it was.

  The household remained still until the body was removed. Then, like an exhaled breath, it all returned to shuddering life.

  “What the deuce has that girl done?” Sir Christopher demanded. “Madam, that niece of yours is a menace.”

  “Trollop needs to be taught a lesson,” the brother added.

  “Mr Summerville,” Watson cried. “That is hardly fit language to use in the presence of a lady.”

  Lady Summerville was sobbing quietly in the corner. The ‘Frenchman’ was muttering excitedly to himself; only the servants were silent.

  “She may leave this house tonight,” Sir Christopher continued. “I’ve suffered enough at her hands. She insults me daily in conversation, she shows me no respect. Had she not got in the way tonight we might not have the blight of a suicide in this house. And who will pay for the repairs to that room? Eh? Tell me that.”

  “Would the arrest for murder of one of your guests be preferable, Sir?” I said. “You are spared a court case; the indignity of testifying that a man you brought under your roof proved to be a killer.”

  “Nevertheless, I will not have it. She may leave my home this night and never return.”

  “Oh Christopher,” his wife remonstrated. “There are no trains now till morning. Surely she can wait till then.”

  “This night,” he screamed. “I am exhausted with all this nonsense.”

  I was tempted to reply that the Lady was hardly responsible, but Watson anticipated me and with his customary calm soothed the situation by saying, “Holmes and I mean to return to London; we can ensure your niece’s safety, Lady Summerville.”

  He turned to me then and said, “Come Holmes, we should pack.”

  Before I left this repugnant house I had one more arrow left in my quiver and I prepared to shoot it.

  “You have not asked the reason why your maid was strangled to death, Sir Christopher,” I said. “She was a blackmailer. I hope she did not find any incriminating documents of yours or your brother’s...” I was savagely pleased to see their faces blanch. Let them stew. They will fret about how much I know of their dealings. Ah, I shall be glad to read through Derby’s papers. Who knows what secrets they hold?

  Upstairs, Stevens was still at Lady Beatrice’s door like a sentry.

  “Stevens, Dr Watson and I are going back to the train station. Do you think you could convey us?”

  “Gladly, sir,” he said. “But you’ll have a long wait for the train.”

  “It’s all right, Steve
ns,” Lady Beatrice said, coming out of her room. “I have no doubt the station master will let us sit in the lounge.”

  “Us?” Stevens said.

  “I am leaving too. Come, Stevens, you cannot fail to have heard Sir Christopher even from this distance. Go, please, and prepare the trap. I shall be ready in fifteen minutes; I am sure it will not take Mr Holmes and Doctor Watson half as long.”

  And so, precisely fifteen minutes later, Lady Beatrice kissed and embraced her aunt and then climbed onto the trap. Watson and I climbed up beside her and we set off for the station. It was almost midnight and there was a chill in the air. I did not relish the thought of having to spend hours waiting on a cold, damp railway platform, but it couldn’t be helped.

  However, once we arrived, Stevens woke up the station master who, though curious and understandably irritable, opened up his lounge for us and lit the fire.

  “First train won’t be for another five and half hours,” he said. “But you’ll be out of the wind, in any case.”

  “Thank you, Mr Billings,” said Stevens. I handed the man a shilling and his mood improved considerably.

  “I can bring you some hot coffee, if you have a mind,” he said. “Keep you warm till the fire picks up.”

  “That would be exceedingly kind,” I said. “Thank you, Mr Billings.”

  At that, Stevens produced a basket that contained cold chicken, cheese and a variety of fruits and pastries.

  “Miss Simms put this together for you.”

  “Excellent,” Watson exclaimed. “I am ravenous. It’s been a long time since that meat pie in the Rose and Crown, eh, Holmes?”

  “Indeed it is. It was very thoughtful of Miss Simms, Stevens. Please convey our thanks.”

  With the case now over my appetite had returned and I did justice enough to the meal to satisfy even Watson’s watchful eye.

  “If there is nothing more I can do for you, my Lady, gentlemen, I must return to the manor.”

  “Surely you are not working, Stevens,” Watson said. “Your mother’s funeral cannot be over already.”

  “Not till next week, Doctor,” he replied.

  “Stevens returned to the manor when he realised you and Mr Holmes were not present to see to my safety, Doctor. It was very good of you, Stevens. Do not forget what I have told you.”

  “Indeed, my Lady, I shall not, and no mistake. It’s been a real honour meeting you, Mr Holmes,” said the boy and shook my hand.

  “I have something for you, Stevens,” said I, handing him an envelope.

  He stared at it and then his eyes met mine.

  “You may read it,” I said.

  He opened the envelope with such care I had to suppress a chuckle. He read the letter it contained and even in the lamplight the flush across his features was unmistakable.

  “Stevens?” Lady Beatrice said.

  “It says, ‘Dear Inspector Lestrade, Allow me to recommend to your attention the bearer of this letter, Mr Maurice Stevens. His intelligence and powers of observation have impressed me greatly and he has been of considerable assistance in my investigation of one of my most recent cases.

  “’Despite my reservations, he has his mind set upon a career in the professional police force. I have no doubt he would prove a considerable asset and I hope you will lend him whatever assistance you may in adding him to your ranks.

  “’You may contact me at Baker Street if I can add to this affidavit. Sincerely yours, Sherlock Holmes.’”

  The boy seemed on the verge of tears and I confess I had a moment’s doubt of his possessing the necessary stability for such a career. However, he subdued his emotions and again thanked me before leaving for the manor.

  Now at last I had the chance to speak with Lady Beatrice and ask all those questions which had so vexed my mind.

  “So,” I said. “We have much to discuss, Lady Beatrice. We can put these lonely hours to good use.”

  “Where would you like me to begin, Mr Holmes?” she asked. “With my discovery of Villiers’ guilt or...?”

  “Oh no, Lady Beatrice. I believe we should begin in February.”

  Her eyes did not leave mine, nor did she flinch. “Ah,” she said. “What betrayed me?”

  “February?” Watson interjected. “I don’t understand. Derby wasn’t at the manor back then, she was still working for the Lennox family in Waterloo.”

  “Bah, I do not mean this petty case; we shall get to that soon enough. No, I mean my assault in St James Square... and my rescuer, Jack. Lady Beatrice, it was you.”

  “Yes.”

  “Wait,” Watson said. “Do you mean Lady Beatrice was responsible for your assault?”

  “Of course not,” I said. “She is Jack.”

  13

  The lady smiled. “I’m afraid Mr Holmes is quite correct, doctor,” she said. “I am Jack. But please explain to me, if you would, how you knew.”

  I rubbed my hands together as much in satisfaction as for the cold.

  “A host of things none of which on their own were significant but when put together formed an unmistakable picture. Your general height and demeanour were suggestive; your musicality too. I have often observed that those with a good musical ear are able to emulate various accents quite efficiently. I do it myself, as Watson will attest.

  “When you were ‘Jack’ I noticed there was something not quite authentic about you. In my weakened state I could not pinpoint what it was that jarred, but once I saw you again I realised it was your hands that had given you away. Though your face and clothes were grubby, your fingernails were always manicured and clean. Your finger span - as you showed me yourself - was wide. Something else you shared with the boy, Jack. And when I met you again I recalled the boy bore a faintly chemical odour, the smell of the chemicals you use to develop your photographs.

  “I had the individual pieces but none of it connected until Doctor Watson observed that you would hardly be able to defend yourself in a fight and he mentioned your aunt at the same time. That was when I realised you had been introduced as Lady Beatrice. But of course your aunt was your father’s sister and so your last name must be Jacoby. And the idea of you being in a fight... “

  “I see,” she said. “I must be more careful, though I doubt there could be another man in England who could have identified me as readily as you. But I must implore you to keep my secret, Mr Holmes.”

  “Considering I owe you my life, Lady Beatrice, I am quite sure I can promise you that. But first let me understand the reason for your extraordinary actions.”

  “Extraordinary indeed,” Watson said, pursing his lips and studying the woman before us in some perplexity. “Running around the streets of London dressed as a street urchin. I don’t know what to make of it.”

  “I am happy to explain myself, gentlemen. But I cannot promise you will be satisfied with my explanation.”

  She sipped her coffee, took a moment to gather her thoughts, and then related her tale.

  “As I told you, Mr Holmes, my father died two years ago. He and I were very close. You may have heard of Sir Benjamin Jacoby.”

  “Yes indeed. A man of many talents. He was a scientist of considerable merit. His study in toxins is the most authoritative in existence.”

  “I am pleased you think so,” said she. “As befits a scientist of his calibre, my father was in all ways a modern thinker. He believed in education for everyone, and he did not exclude his daughter from that ideal. From my earliest age I was taught languages, the sciences, philosophy and any number of other things, in addition to the basic reading and writing that forms the foundation of all traditional education programmes.

  “All was well while my father was alive. London was mine. Papa was very happy to accompany me to the opera or to art galleries. He encouraged me to play piano and took great del
ight in my small talent.”

  “Ah,” I said. “He is to be congratulated. Your education has done you and him great justice. Certainly your piano playing is amongst the finest I have ever heard.”

  She bowed and continued. “Unfortunately, my father became unwell and after a long and unpleasant illness he died. My aunt was, by that time, already married to Sir Christopher. She invited me to come and stay with her but as you have observed, I am ill-suited to life at Rillington Manor. I remained in London. However, my life as a single woman became circumscribed in a way I did not anticipate.

  “Although intellectually I was aware of the constraints upon women in our society, I had never experienced them myself, not while my father lived. But as a single woman I found things I had taken for granted - going to the theatre, taking a walk whenever I chose, simple things - were no longer acceptable...”

  “But why did you not marry, Lady Beatrice?” Watson asked. “You must surely have had offers.”

  She smiled. “Thank you, Doctor, I did. I have been honoured with three proposals of marriage, not including the repeated offers from Mr Wallace Summerville.” A moue of distaste flickered across her face, invisible to all but the most attentive observer. “But while my father lived I had not any of the usual inducements to marry: I am wealthy, independent and not given to sentiment. I am convinced I should make a very poor wife.”

  “Yes, yes,” I said impatiently. “But the rest of the tale, Lady Beatrice. You found your life restrictive...”

  “And so one evening after the servants had retired I dressed in one of my father’s suits and went out for a walk. I was astonished at how easy it was. I had no particular plan in mind, I just wanted to get out of the house and take a walk on my own. I walked up Oxford Street. No one stopped me, no one looked at me at all. It was... liberating.”

  “And instructive, I would imagine,” I said.

  “Yes. Yes, exactly. To see the world through different eyes, to be seen by it in a different light - it was magnificent. And I knew I must do it again.