by Geri Schear
“Over the next two years I refined my disguise. I conduct my changes in a series of stages. I start with a public toilet and enter as Lady Beatrice but I emerge as Madge, an old cleaning woman. It’s surprisingly easy. Then I go to a boarding house where I keep a room and there I change into whatever male figure I wish to be.”
“Surely the people in the boarding house have noticed?” Watson said.
“The lower classes know how to mind their own business, Doctor. I have prepared a story that these two people work shifts but I’ve never needed to use it. I have a locker at the railway station and I keep a supply of outfits there. I change in the public toilets from a street urchin into a gentleman. I put the clothes in a carpet bag and then reverse the process at the end of the day.”
“Wait,” Watson interjected. “You mean you use the gentleman’s facilities?”
“Certainly I do. It was very difficult, the first time I did it. I felt self-conscious and uneasy. But it’s really not that hard, not once you get used to it.”
I laughed loudly - though whether it was more at the idea of the lady’s nerve or Watson’s discomfort I cannot say.
“Over time I began to modify my disguise. I got wigs, eyeglasses, costumes - whatever I thought would fit the character I was playing. There were two, primarily: Nigel Cuthbertson was the most usual. He’s a young man about town with a fondness for music. When I am he I can attend whatever concerts I wish on my own. Then there’s Jack, whom you met, Mr Holmes. My curiosity has, I confess, led me into some of the seamier parts of the city. As Jack I fit in and, well, I quite like him. He has a sense of humour that Cuthbertson does not...”
“Hang on!” Watson said. “You cannot mean to say you feel each of these... characters has a distinct personality.”
“Why certainly they do, Doctor. As Jack or as Cuthbertson I am sometimes obliged to communicate with others. It is helpful if I know a little about the part I am playing beyond my wardrobe.”
“Splendid, splendid!” I cried. “Ah, it was fortunate for me young Jack happened to be in the park that night. You took a grave risk, you know.”
“I did not give the matter any thought. I recognised you, of course, Mr Holmes. I once watched you investigate the murder of my neighbours, Mr Addleton and his wife.”
“Ah, the Addleton tragedy, Holmes,” Watson said. “I do wish you’d let me write up the particulars of that case.”
“The world is not ready for that story,” I said.
“I could not leave you to that ruffian, even if you had not been Mr Sherlock Holmes I would have felt compelled to intervene.”
“I do not think you appreciate the enormity of the risk, Lady Beatrice,” said I. “If you knew more about the villain who attacked me... Still, I am greatly in your debt.”
She flushed and bowed slightly. “My honour to have been of service, Mr Holmes. I do not count it a debt between us, but if you wish to repay me you can do so by keeping safe my secret.”
“You have my word,” said I.
“And mine,” said Watson.
Thus satisfied, I added: “Now that we have addressed the matter of Jack, perhaps you would enlighten us upon the matter of Villiers’ death.”
She nodded. “I have no doubt you have surmised the matter yourself, Mr Holmes. The facts are plain enough.
“I continued my search for the gloves. I realised that the killer must have observed the scratches and tears in the fabric and have taken pains to hide or destroy the evidence.
“You will have observed the balcony that runs along the eastern terrace of the manor; I believe you used it when you were searching the rooms, Mr Holmes. No, no apology necessary. I’m sure you saw the ficus trees that decorate the balcony. This afternoon - I should say yesterday afternoon now - I searched the base of each and found the gloves buried in the soil of the one outside Villiers’ room. He caught me and I confronted him with the evidence.”
“You took a grave risk,” I said. “You could not know how he would react.”
“He caught me with the gloves in my hands; there was no point pretending I did not understand their significance. I know Villiers; I’ve met him several times and he’s always been very kind to me. More than once his humour has deflected an unpleasant situation. Whatever secrets he kept, he always behaved as a gentleman in my presence.
“In any case, I presented my accusation as gently and as tactfully as I could. I was prepared to tell him I was working at your behest, Mr Holmes, if he became aggressive.”
“How did he react?”
“He broke down in tears. Wept for forgiveness. He said he had not slept a wink since that dreadful night and I believed him. Oh, Mr Holmes, if you could have seen the way he suffered.”
“He was a killer,” Watson protested. “A cold blooded murderer.”
“No Doctor,” the Lady replied. “A killer he may have been, but not a murderer and certainly not cold-blooded. He did not go to Derby’s room to kill; he went to search for a letter she had stolen from him. I suspect most people did not miss their stolen items until it was too late. But Villiers read that particular letter with great frequency and he spotted its loss at once.”
“How did he know she was not in her room?” I asked.
“He saw her from the bathroom window. He was in there thinking about killing himself. Yes, doctor, even then he had begun to think of it.
“The night was cold and wet but the rain had stopped and for just a moment the moon shone on the rose garden. He saw her and recognised her at once. He already had suspicions about her. Some ‘sixth sense’, he says.”
“Simpler than that,” I said. “She had read his letter; she knew what he was. Ironic that Derby would show him such contempt and be oblivious to the evil in her own nature. But I interrupted you. He saw her and went down to confront her?”
“Yes. How did you know that?”
“His footprints in her room were damp; he had been outside.”
Watson said, “So did he speak to her?”
Lady Beatrice sipped her coffee before replying, “He stood there, in the cold and the wet waiting for her to return. Then it occurred to him that he had a golden opportunity to search her room.”
“But how could he know which was hers?” Watson asked.
“He couldn’t. He opened two other doors before finding the right one. It was the middle of the night and everyone was asleep. None of the servants’ doors have locks so he was able to proceed with some degree of confidence.”
“Surely he knew she must return at any moment?” I said. “What on earth did he think she was doing at that hour?”
“I asked him that but he had no answer. I don’t think he even thought about it. He saw the opportunity and took it.”
“Ah.” I too sipped my coffee and said, “But she returned almost immediately?”
“Within minutes, he said. They did not speak, just stared at each other. Then she laughed.”
“What?” Watson said. “She laughed?”
“Yes, with considerable contempt. ‘You won’t find it,’ she said. Then she called him some vile word and turned her back. ‘I’m going to bed,’ she told him. ‘Go on, hop it.’”
“It was the word she called him that did it,” I surmised. “To be treated with such contempt by the likes of Liz Derby. Yes, I can fully understand why he was driven to violence.”
“That and the fact that she turned her back on him,” Lady Beatrice said. “It unleashed something... He says... said he didn’t even remember strangling her. One moment she turned away and the next she was lying face down, lifeless, on the bed like a wretched Desdemona.”
“And then he searched the room,” I said. “But to no avail. She’d already put the letter into the post. It is a shame he didn’t think things through more clearly.”
�
��He was distraught,” Lady Beatrice said. “People in great distress seldom think clearly.”
“That is true,” I said. “What a study in contrasts: Derby a woman consumed by hate and Villiers a man consumed by love.”
“I’m sorry, Holmes? Love did you say?” Watson seemed utterly perplexed.
“Certainly it was love. The half-written letter that I found when I searched Villiers’ room revealed the truth to me. I knew the man’s nature from the salutation.”
“The salutation?” Lady Beatrice seemed as puzzled as Watson.
“It was a love letter to Francis.”
“That’s a girl’s name too, Holmes,” Watson said.
“Yes, but it is customary for men to spell Francis with an ‘i’; women with an ‘e’. The half-written letter I found in his room, a love letter that was covered with tears, was addressed to a man.
“People in our society are not kind in how they treat those who share what Mr Wilde calls ‘the love that dare not speak its name,’” Watson said. “But Villiers told you all this, Lady Beatrice? It seems a most inappropriate thing to discuss with a young woman.”
“Certainly he told me,” Lady Beatrice said. “I wonder at your surprise, Doctor. I find people often confide in me, I seem to inspire trust. But I have known Villiers for two years and I have never been under any illusion about what he was.”
“It is not fit for a young woman’s ears,” Watson said.
She smiled. “Hardly as young as all that. We do not choose whom we love, Doctor, and Villiers did love that young man. Given the restrictions I have faced as a result of societies, ah, mores, I can hardly judge another for functioning outside those same traditions.”
“It is hardly the same,” Watson persisted. I could see the debate would rage on for some time, so I raised my hand.
“Be that as it may,” I said. “He confessed his guilt to you. What then?”
“I tried to persuade him to confess his crime but he could not. His mother is a widow and he is her sole support. The shame - more of his intimate relations with a young man than that of the killing - would ruin her. No, he said, the only option open to him was the gentleman’s way.”
“Gentleman!” Watson snorted.
Lady Beatrice gave Watson a disapproving look and continued. “Yes, he was a gentleman in my eyes. Would you prefer a brute like Christopher Summerville, Doctor? A titled man who beats his wife and abuses his servants? Is he more a gentleman than Villiers? I rather think not.
“In any case, I agreed with Villiers’ plan and told him I would give him until your return, Mr Holmes, to do the deed. As it happened, while I was still speaking to him we heard your voice and realised there was no moment to delay. I went to stall you while Villiers... Well, you know the rest.”
“And the weapon?” I asked. The lady stared at me and did not answer. Ah... so the weapon was hers and she had given it to him to perform the hideous act. It made her culpable in the eyes of the law, but in truth I could not condemn her. I have, in the past - even very recently with the Abbey Grange case - followed the dictates of my own conscience before that of the courts. Justice need not always be wigged and gowned.
“He must have brought the pistol with him,” Watson said. “A man like that...”
I did not point out that if he had a weapon in his possession he would have used it to threaten Liz Derby. No, I knew I was right and I saw confirmation of it in Lady Beatrice’s eyes.
“I know he wrote a letter admitting his guilt, but he did not explain why. Was there another letter?” I said. ‘Perhaps one he did not want the official police to see?”
She drew it from her purse and handed it to me. It was unsealed and was addressed to his mother.
“He told me to read it,” she said. “And extracted from me a promise to look after her. I do not suppose he will mind you reading it.”
The letter was plain enough:
My dearest mamma, it said. I hardly know how to beg your forgiveness. I fear I have been a grave disappointment. I cannot live with my shame or with the pain my actions must cause you. Know me to be your eternally loving and devoted son. Edmund.
“No direct admission of guilt in this, or explanation for his actions,” Watson said. “The grief of having her son commit suicide will be a hard burden for the woman to bear.”
“Kinder though,” said the lady, “than the ignominy of a court case; of seeing a son labelled homosexual and seeing him hang. This is truly the lesser of two grotesque evils.
“Mr Holmes, I pray you find the rest of that foul woman’s store of blackmail items and inform their owners their secrets are safe. From just a few days of seeing the results of her villainy, I cannot bear the thought of anyone having to suffer such torment as Villiers did.”
“It is already in hand, Lady Beatrice,” said I.
14
September 30th, 1897
Oh what drama we had this morning. Drama, or comedy.
I was at the breakfast table drinking my coffee when Mrs Hudson brought in a plate of kippers and said, “I do not understand what Mr Weiss can be thinking. Expecting workmen to paint in this weather.”
“What workmen are they, Mrs Hudson?” Watson asked.
“The men painting the front of Mr Weiss’s shop,” said she. “You must have seen them. All day every day and hardly a lick of work done. You just can’t get good workers any more. Though I suppose the weather being so bad of late must be delaying them.”
“Painting, you say?” Watson said. “Seems odd in this weather.” He looked at me but I refused to meet his eye.
“Kippers, Mrs Hudson?” I said. “Ugh, I could not eat a thing. Just coffee.”
“Well, the doctor likes a nice kipper, Mr Holmes,” she said, setting down the dish in a most decided manner.
“Thank you, Mrs Hudson, they smell delicious,” my friend said. Then he rose and went to the window. “Ah, just as I thought,” he said. “Holmes-”
“Thank you, Mrs Hudson,” I said. “Perhaps you will bring us another pot of coffee? We seem to have finished this one.”
“I have other things to do with my day than fetch you an endless supply of coffee, Mr Holmes,” she protested. Then, with a sigh. “I suppose I shall have no peace until I do. I’ll send the girl up presently.”
“They’re not painting,” Watson said as soon as the door closed.
“Hmm?”
“Come on, Holmes. That pair across the street. They might claim to be painting Mr Weiss’s window, but it’s pretty obvious what they’re really doing.”
“And what is that?”
“Watching our flat. That is to say, watching you.”
“That’s hardly news, Watson.”
“Well?”
“Well what?” I said. He really was in the most decided mood.
“Well, aren’t you going to do anything about it?”
“Such as?”
“Such as confront them. Thrash them. Have them arrested.”
“You really should calm yourself, my dear Watson. It’s not worth risking an apoplexy. There is no point in confronting or thrashing them. I don’t suppose you’ve noticed, but it’s not one individual nor even a team of the same people: There are many of them and we seldom see the same man twice. Even if I managed to frighten off one or two, there would be more to replace him. Do you not see?”
“Have them arrested then.”
“On what charge?”
“Oh really... You cannot mean to do nothing.”
I rose. “No, there is something I mean to do.”
“At last!” He rubbed his palms together in anticipation. “What?”
“I’m going to visit Mycroft.”
Half an hour later we made our way through the sneezing and dripping city to Whitehall. Wats
on insisted on accompanying me because “Someone has to look after you.”
Well, I suppose two men, both armed, are a more difficult target than one alone. Even if that one is, as Watson says with dry wit, “the Mighty Sherlock Holmes.”
Frankly, I have not felt very mighty this past week. I caught a chill in Bitterne, no doubt because of the wretchedly cold conditions of the manor, and I awoke on my first morning back in London with a fever and a sore throat. For a medical man, Watson was exceedingly unsympathetic.
“You will insist on wearing yourself ragged when you’re working on these cases, Holmes,” he said. “It’s not surprising you’ve caught a chill. You’re lucky it’s not much worse.”
“Not much worse?” I croaked. “You have no idea what I suffer.”
“It’s a sore throat and a cold,” he said, dismissing my ailments. “Stay in bed and I’ll have Mrs Hudson bring you up some tea.”
Off he went in rude good health, and left me to ponder the decline of the so-called ‘caring’ professions.
After three days bed rest - I will not elaborate on my sufferings; suffice to say there were intense and plentiful - I felt well enough to start looking through the Liz Derby papers. Still coughing, still miserable (Watson has hidden my pipe and refuses to tell me where) I had no option but to distract myself by going through each wretched box.
In addition to the letters and photographs, Derby kept a ledger sheet for each purloined document in which she documented the amounts she received for it. At first the amounts were small enough, a shilling or two a week, but by the time of her death she was demanding several pounds at a time.
If Watson had his way I should toss all these filthy papers on the fire unread. I confess, part of me agrees with him; it is a vile task delving through this lot and I wish I were done with it. Such an age it takes to rummage through other people’s dirty underwear. The photographs are the hardest. At least with letters I can make some determination of the correspondents’ identities: there is an address, a salutation, a signature; at least one, if not all three. But the photographs reveal very little beyond an excess of corpulent flesh. Three hours it took me yesterday to realise that the big-breasted woman in a picture was not the person being blackmailed, but rather the Member of Parliament whose reflection could just be made out in a glass-covered painting behind her.
