by Nick Kyme
I considered the question, but could find no plausible answer and told Holmes as much.
Holmes stamped down hard on one of the floorboards and the edge sprang up by half an inch.
“When I paced the room earlier, this board gave more than one might expect…” He crouched down on one knee, his pocketknife already in hand, and proceeded to prise the board loose with the blade. It came up surprisingly easily, revealing a small compartment beneath. As soon as I saw what was inside, I had the answer to Holmes’s question.
“You do not remove the murder weapon at all,” I said, and saw a rope, easily long enough to hang poor Mrs Sidley, and a thick nail about which the murderer had tied it off.
“A gymnasium rope, Watson,” said Holmes, “easy enough to explain in a school. I fully expect a second such rope was found tied around Mrs Sidley’s neck when she was discovered by Miss Blanchard.”
The possibility that someone at the school could be responsible for such an act was almost too awful to contemplate. That the act in itself had been premeditated and calculated to such a degree was genuinely disturbing and again my thoughts turned to the lithe figure in black, almost certainly female. The ages of the pupils at Saint Agatha’s ranged, according to Miss Blanchard, from ten to sixteen.
The evidence found beneath our feet was certainly damning, but perhaps more surprising was what had been carved on the underside of the floorboard, only now revealed as Holmes turned it over to examine it.
“What is it, Holmes? Some form of cursive script…”
“We have seen it several times before, Watson, though, admittedly, its meaning escaped me on each occasion. First, at the Grayson Gallery, the symbol described in pentimento, and then upon Grigori Andropov’s flesh.”
“Thus connecting the poisoning at the gallery to the demise of Duke Konstantin’s poor manservant.”
“Quite so. But there has been another occasion before this one when we have seen this very mark, or, at least, the makings of it. On the doorstep of Mr Derrick.”
“The fair-haired girl, the one Mrs Sidley had such issue with. Good lord, Holmes, could it really be that this girl conspired to kill all of those gallery patrons, then went on to murder Grigori Andropov, having already done away with Mrs Sidley?”
“Given the evidence at hand, Watson, it is a plausible working theory that the perpetrator of these crimes is one and the same, our figure in black. Whether it is the fair-haired girl described by Mr Derrick or some agent acting on her behalf cannot be proven beyond all doubt at this stage.”
“But why carve this strange script at all? Do you think it could be a message?”
I took a closer look at what had been carved into the floorboard, and was able to see the similarities between it and the other symbols, but could not decipher it.
“It’s Cyrillic,” said Holmes, doubtless noticing my confusion. “Characters of the alphabet, to be precise, though in this case reversed,” said Holmes, darting over to the desk to scoop up the picture frame. He then quickly returned to his previous position and proceeded to angle the frame alongside the carving so the reflection in the glass revealed the true aspect of the characters, albeit faintly.
“Can you decipher it?”
“Of course,” said Holmes. “I freely admit, the reversal of the characters and the fragmentary nature of the earlier messages confounded me at first. In fact, it wasn’t until I saw what had been scratched into Mr Derrick’s doorstep that I realised the provenance of said characters and was able to deduce the fact they were reversed. Here,” he added, pointing to what was carved into the floorboard, “it is rendered in full and as such, I can translate it.”
“And what does it say, Holmes?” I asked, enrapt, for surely we were now at the cusp of a significant breakthrough in the case.
“Put simply, Watson, it reads: ‘The legacy of your deeds’.”
“I confess, Holmes, I am none the wiser for knowing it, but if the letters are Cyrillic then that would suggest a Russian connection. Such a girl would be notable, though, surely? Considering the grand duke’s visit to London and the death of his manservant by what is very likely the same hand, surely it cannot be coincidence?”
“As you well know, Watson, I do not believe in coincidence. I have a theory, but am loathe to voice it until in possession of further facts.” He got to his feet. “There is nothing further to learn here, though I believe Miss Blanchard might avail us of some useful evidence.”
“Oh yes, Holmes?”
“Yes, Watson. I should very much like to see the school records to discover the identity of the fair-haired girl and determine if she is indeed our murderess, the figure in black.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THE HISTORY OF SAINT AGATHA’S
Miss Blanchard returned exactly on the hour, her mood seemingly unimproved. Our visit and continued presence was clearly taking a toll upon her; the longer we remained the more agitated she became. I could not be certain, but I believed she had been crying and considered that her icy demeanour might be a mask to hide the fact.
“I do hope you found everything you were looking for,” she said. “The sooner we can put this sorry mess behind us the better.”
“We found a great deal, though I’m afraid I do still have a few unanswered questions,” said Holmes, ignoring Miss Blanchard’s thinly veiled ire. “Though, perhaps these are not the surroundings?” he added. “Is there a more discreet location that we might use?”
Miss Blanchard paled a little at my companion’s suggestion, perhaps wondering what he wished to ask and what we might have discovered. I could detect nothing untoward, but she was clearly disturbed and not for the first time I considered she might harbour suspicions about Mrs Sidley’s demise, a notion our recent inquiries had rekindled.
“The chapel will be empty at this time of day,” she said. “Will that suffice, Mr Holmes?”
Holmes gave a slight nod. “Lead on, Miss Blanchard. If you please.”
* * *
The chapel sat in a sheltered spot beside a small copse of birch trees, but still very much within the grounds of the school. We came across Mr Derrick tending a small rose garden, but he lowered his eyes as soon as he noticed us, managing a muttered “good day” before shuffling off.
I felt a pang of guilt at the man’s obvious discomfort. Our enquiries had dredged up something that the groundskeeper had fought very hard to forget, but there was a look that Miss Blanchard gave him that suggested something beyond that which Holmes and I had learned thus far. I noticed my companion narrow his eyes and knew then that he believed something was amiss here too. He said nothing of it, however, and followed Miss Blanchard into the dimly lit chapel.
The chapel was empty, and gently echoed the sound of our footsteps. A swathe of candles in tall brass holders provided a little light, and illuminated a statue of the school’s namesake in the chancel. A red carpet, worn with age, divided the nave into two equal halves with pews either side.
“I should very much like to see a swift conclusion to all of this,” said Miss Blanchard.
“Rest assured,” Holmes replied, “this will not take long. I have but a few questions remaining.”
“Then shall we get to it?”
“Very well. In what manner did you find Mrs Sidley? Her attire, I mean.”
A look of confusion crept across Miss Blanchard’s face as she tried to fathom my companion’s rationale, but answered that Mrs Sidley was attired precisely as she always had been when at the school.
“What of her shoes, Miss Blanchard?”
Miss Blanchard frowned. “The same ones she always wore. I’m afraid I don’t understand your meaning, Mr Holmes.”
“And the rope, that which ostensibly she used to hang herself, what can you tell me of it?”
“I did not pay it much heed, Mr Holmes, for my eye was drawn to poor Mrs Sidley’s face… Is this absolutely necessary?”
“I am afraid it is,” said Holmes, undeterred. “It was a skipping
rope, was it not?”
Miss Blanchard pondered a moment, wringing her hands again, but answered, “Yes. Yes, I believe it was. Though, really, I cannot begin to fathom—”
“Please, Miss Blanchard, all shall be revealed in due course. I have only one further question.”
“Then ask it and let us be done with this!”
Holmes gave a polite nod, garnering a muttered apology from our anxious host, and I wondered again at what could be amiss for my companion’s questions to provoke such an extreme reaction.
“A girl of fair hair, a little taller than Mrs Sidley, one who almost certainly had several notably heated exchanges with her, and of potentially Russian descent. Do you know of such a girl in your school and, if so, her name?”
“I have no knowledge of such a girl,” she replied, “although we see a great many at Saint Agatha’s, and Mrs Sidley had cause to reprimand a large number who might match that description.”
“I see,” said Holmes, “and perhaps there are records we might peruse?”
“Yes, of course. But there are no photographs, I’m afraid.”
“Might we go there now?”
Miss Blanchard agreed, but did not ask why or what we had found. I think she already knew and was afraid confirmation of the fact would put her suspicions beyond all doubt.
For our part, neither Holmes nor I made any mention of what we had discovered at the crime scene. I was glad of it, for I had no desire to cause Miss Blanchard any further distress, though in the long run that would be unavoidable. For now, at least, we kept our knowledge to ourselves, it being entirely possible that the girl, or perhaps an associate, was still at the school and should be kept ignorant of the fact that the suicide had been revealed as murder.
Nonetheless, Holmes bid me go to the local post office, only a few miles from the school, whilst he began his search of the archives. I did so, glad to be away from Saint Agatha’s, which had begun to take on a oppressive, secretive air that I found distasteful. I sent two telegrams, as per Holmes’s instructions: one to Scotland Yard for the attention of Inspector Gregson—for there could be no doubt now that this murder was connected to those at the Grayson Gallery and of Grigori Andropov—and to the morgue, requesting the presence of the local police surgeon to conduct a post-mortem examination on Mrs Sidley.
Upon my return to Saint Agatha’s I joined Holmes in the school archive room. Situated in the basement, it was hot and stuffy, crammed with bookshelves, boxes and stacked papers. I found no sign of Holmes at first amongst the cubbyholes and shadowy nooks, however, though I daresay one could become lost in such a labyrinth.
As I explored, a cloudy light drew my gaze and lured me, will-o’-the-wisp-like, towards it. Dust motes danced before the lambent glow of a lamp, doubtless disturbed by my friend’s activities. I saw no sign of him beyond this, however.
“Holmes?” I ventured, my voice echoing back to me through the morass of papers and files. I guessed the entire history of Saint Agatha’s school was kept here, in this dark and forgotten hollow. Some of the stacks rose to a significant height and it was as I traced my eye across them that I first saw the foot of a wheeled wooden ladder and then Holmes’s left shoe, followed by the rest of him as he descended. My perception blunted by the close confines of the basement, I had completely missed him in this academical clearing of sorts, where the copious shelves briefly parted around a broad wooden desk that put me in mind of an island amongst a paper sea.
He paid me little attention at first, sitting down at the desk where he had set the lamp and spread out a number of the school’s records, which he proceeded to examine.
“I have made progress since your trip to the post office, Watson,” he said. “I take it you have sent the telegrams as I requested?”
I confirmed that I had, prompting Holmes to turn to the records again.
“I first separated them according to appropriate year, age and hair colour,” he explained. “I then factored in weight and height. We are lucky that the school matron is zealous in her work. I then assessed the provenance of those girls who fit the description of the girl, and found mostly English, with a few Scots and one Welsh, leading me to believe that our suspect both lied about her place of origin and could affect a convincing native accent.”
“No Russians then?”
“On first glance not, Watson. However, I remain undeterred.”
Looking at the pile of records before him, I estimated at least fifty possible suspects. I was about to settle in for the long haul when Holmes cried out and held a sheaf of papers aloft.
“There!” he declared.
I read the name. “Letitia Irwin, from Portsmouth. I am, as of yet, in the dark, Holmes.”
“After first narrowing the search by physical characteristics, I realised I would need to use a further filter. I therefore turned my thoughts to Damian Graves, for if our elusive girl is indeed affiliated with him and, furthermore, is operating under an assumed name, then the inspiration for her alter ego might reside in the letters D.G.”
“And?” I asked.
“To no avail, Watson,” said Holmes. “However, I then considered another alter ego, one already known to us, that of Ivor Lazarus, and the letters I.L.”
“But this too drew a blank?”
“Quite so, Watson!” Holmes confirmed. “But then I recalled the cryptic warning on the painting in the Grayson Gallery and then again on the grand duke’s manservant, but rendered in full on the upturned floorboard in Mrs Sidley’s office.”
“‘The legacy of your deeds’,” I said, “but I fail to see the revelation, Holmes.”
“Not the message itself, Watson, but rather the manner in which it was relayed. In reverse. I turned the initials around, I.L. thusly becoming L.I., and found Miss Letitia Irwin.”
“But, Holmes, surely there must be dozens of girls with those initials,” I said. “They are not uncommon.”
Holmes nodded. “Quite so, Watson. But when one considers the age of the girl and her particular aptitudes, the evidence becomes compelling. And there is one final piece of the puzzle.” He thrust the file at me, and I scanned the pages.
“Age sixteen. It appears she excelled in languages, science and drill while at the school. Notes pertaining to previous education reference gymnastics, chemistry and art.” I looked up at Holmes. “By Jove, I do believe you’ve got her!”
“It would indeed appear so, Watson, but read on and the final seal of it shall be made plain.”
I did so, turning at last to the final page, where rendered in small print was a simple admission: “Ward of D.G.”
“Damian Graves,” I said. “Her benefactor, and possibly co-conspirator. Do you think she is still here at the school, Holmes?”
“It is almost a certainty she is not. In fact, I believe she has not been in residence at Saint Agatha’s for several days, Watson, though I think Miss Blanchard will be able to answer that definitively. As well as a great many other things she has
kept to herself.”
I frowned, for my companion’s tone suggested some wrongdoing on the part of Miss Blanchard, whom I could only see as a dedicated teacher and a victim in all of this.
“Such as, Holmes?”
“The precise nature of Damian Graves’s involvement for one thing, Watson, and what he purchased with his sizeable donations for another.”
* * *
Our final meeting with Miss Blanchard was conducted in her office. To her credit, she attempted no further dissembling and revealed all she had kept hidden as soon as Holmes put the question to her.
“We have had some financial difficulties,” she said. “The school, as I’m sure you can see, is in some need of repair and we had not the funds to maintain it.”
It took all of my resolve not to comfort her, but Holmes’s firm and dispassionate demeanour held me at bay. Miss Blanchard would have to endure her discomfort for whatever part she had played in this grim affair.
“I don�
��t know how Mr Graves found out,” she went on, “but he did. He came to us with a most generous offer and all we needed to do was take in an orphan girl, whom he described as his ward. I could tell from her attire and her accent that she was foreign. I requested a birth certificate, some proof of her identity, but Mr Graves gave none. He merely said he wished her to be educated and taken care of, and that he would continue to provide a generous stipend every month while we continued to do so and then for one month afterwards. I had my concerns, of course I did, to take on such a child without any knowledge of her background or character. She had a few paintings with her, and showed great talent as an artist, and I considered she might be a boon to the reputation of the school. The circumstances of her acceptance here were most irregular, and I suspected she was a tad older than Mr Graves had claimed, but we were in dire need.”
“Most dire, indeed,” murmured Holmes, regarding Miss Blanchard coldly over steepled fingers. “But harbouring this girl and keeping her origins a secret proved difficult, did it not?”
“It did,” replied Miss Blanchard. “For the first few months her temperament was genial and courteous. A little wilful at times, perhaps, though that was nothing unusual, and for the most part she was an ardent, if somewhat distant, pupil. She advanced quickly, voraciously in fact, and it was clear her physical aptitudes and those of the sciences outstripped anything we could provide. She became even more adept at English in a few short weeks and had perfected a convincing Cambridgeshire accent. She had, in all respects, become Letitia Irwin.”
“And yet, something changed,” said Holmes.
Miss Blanchard nodded. “Almost a month ago, Mr Graves paid us a visit. You must understand, this was extremely unusual behaviour from a man we had not seen or heard from, barring his money being transferred to our account, since he had first brought Letitia to our door. He wanted to see the girl, and to speak privately with her. I had little choice but to agree to his request, but the meeting left her extremely agitated, volatile even. Even her paintings, once joyful and uplifting, grew much darker.”
