by Ashton, Hugh
“All in good time, Watson. For the nonce, allow me to sit quietly and enjoy the last leisurely smoke I am likely to enjoy for some time. I anticipate the chase to be a troublesome and wearying one.”
-oOo-
ON our reaching London, we took a cab directly to Scotland Yard, where we were shown into the office of Inspector Jones, who greeted Holmes with some enthusiasm.
“You have given my men something new to think about,” he smiled. “It is not every day that they have the pleasure of following a member of the aristocracy around London.”
“I am hoping that she is the minnow who will lead us to the bigger fish,” replied Holmes. “Where is she now?”
“My men observed her as she arrived in London, and followed her. She was alone when she stepped off the train, other than for a baby being carried in her arms, and took an ordinary hansom cab to take her to the Darlington family house in Sussex Place.”
“Excellent,” replied Holmes.
“I am sure that you have your reasons for all of this,” went on the Inspector, “and you mentioned in your telegram that this was connected with Lady Hareby’s family, but I am unsure exactly what is at stake.”
Holmes briefly explained the events of the past few days, and Jones let out a low whistle.
“She sounds like a woman to be reckoned with,” he said. “And your goal is to find those who have assisted her?” Holmes nodded in agreement. “In the usual run of things, we would bring her in if we knew as much as you have just told me, but in this case, we will take your advice and work towards the arrest of the whole gang. We have had our eyes on young Mr. Clay for some time, and it will be a positive pleasure to snap the bracelets around his wrists.”
“It may take some time before matters develop that far,” said Holmes. “In the meantime, Watson and I will return to our rooms. I trust that you will contact me as soon as there are any significant developments?”
“You may depend on that,” replied the Scotland Yard detective, and we took our leave of him.
“I am frightened,” Holmes suddenly burst out as we were sitting in the cab bearing us to Baker-street.
I stared at him in astonishment. “Surely there is little danger to us here in London from Lady Hareby or those with whom she is in contact?”
Holmes laughed bitterly. “It is not physical danger that I fear. It is the fear of failure. As you know, I am accustomed to success, perhaps more than most men, and as a result the risk of failure sits hard on my shoulders. In this case where we are now engaged, I fear that this may be one of the rare instances where I find myself pitted against forces where even I am unable to prevail. If it were only myself involved, it would not be of great importance, but since I have now let Jones into the secret, anything short of success would be a public failure.”
I attempted to cheer my friend, reminding him that success was not to be expected in every instance, and that he should rather remind himself of his triumphs rather than brood upon the possibility of failure, but he appeared unconvinced by my reasoning, and shrank back in his seat, huddled inside his travelling cape. Such a disposition was most unlike Holmes – indeed, I had never before seen him in such a mood as this.
We arrived at Baker-street, where Mrs. Hudson greeted us with the news that we had a visitor waiting outside our rooms, who proved to be a tolerably good-looking young woman, but shabbily dressed, and without any pretensions to gentility.
When Holmes had ushered her into the room, and she was settled into a chair, she began with few preliminaries.
“I want you to bring my baby back,” she burst out abruptly. “I should never have sold him.”
“You sold your baby?” I asked, somewhat incredulously, sitting forward. Holmes, for his part, continued to lounge in his chair.
“Tell me when and to whom this sale took place,” he asked, with seemingly no more emotion that he would have displayed had he been making enquiries about the sale of some vegetables.
“It was just over two weeks ago when he was born,” she began, sniffing tearfully. “He was a fine handsome little thing, he was, but I needed the money, so when a gentleman came round and offered me five pounds, I handed over my baby, and got my money.”
“What did your husband have to say about this?” I could not help asking, and instantly regretted my words as she looked at me with a bitter smile on her lips.
“You don’t need a husband to have babies,” she said to me scornfully. “Though some of you lot don’t seem to know that.”
I reddened, and looked over to Holmes, who appeared to be biting his lips in an effort not to laugh outright, which made me even more angry at my own thoughtlessness. “I apologise,” I said at length.
“Can you tell us something of the gentleman who bought your son?” asked Holmes. “What sort of man was he?”
“He wasn’t very tall, a bit stout, like. I said he was a gentleman, but I don’t think he was a real toff, though he did speak a bit lah-di-dah sometimes. He had the money, though. I saw it when he pulled out his wallet. A whole bundle of five-pound notes. Mind you, I took my money in sovereigns. You know where you are with them.”
“Quite right,” nodded Holmes. “Banknotes can be troublesome things. Anything else that you can remember about the man?”
“Well, he had this funny mark on him about here,” pointing to her own forehead. “It looked a little as if someone had splashed some white paint over him.”
“Did you by any chance notice his ears?” asked Holmes.
“It’s strange that you should mention that, because I did get a good look at them when he bent down to see the baby. He had holes in them for earrings, but no earrings.”
“That is most helpful,” said Holmes, casually. “There cannot be too many men in London with those characteristics.” I knew from past experience that this relaxed mode of speech and languid attitude usually signified great internal mental excitement on Holmes’ part. “Where did the sale take place? Did you visit him, or he come to you?”
“I heard from a friend that there was someone looking for a baby, and I went to this house in Finsbury Park.”
“Do you have the address, and also the name and address of the friend who told you about this man?”
She provided the requested details promptly and clearly. “Very good,” said Holmes. “I will look into it. I have an interest in this case, so there will be no fee charged.”
“Oh, thank you, sir,” she replied. “I was worried if five shillings would have been enough.”
“I do, however, require your name and address, of course, so that I can report back to you on the progress of the search.”
“My name is Mary Brown. I can be reached through the Rose and Crown on the corner of Church-street in Stoke Newington. Talk to Alfred, the landlord there, and he will tell you where I am.”
“For the moment I will take your word for it that your name is indeed Mary Brown,” replied Holmes. “However, I would advise you to give your real name to the police, should that become necessary.”
“The police?” she asked in some anguish. “You are not a policeman, though?”
“I am not, but what you have just told me leads me to believe that there is a connection to a group of criminals whom I am anxious to apprehend. If it becomes necessary for you to speak to the police, rest assured that I will use the influence I have with the police, which I can assure you is not inconsiderable, to save you from any trouble.”
It was doubtful whether the young woman fully understood what was being asked of her, but she nodded thoughtfully.
“Very good,” said Holmes. “I will be in contact with you soon, never fear.”
-oOo-
Chapter 13: John Clay
“HE is in my sights, Watson!” Holmes exclaimed excitedly as we were left alone in the room. “The Finsbury Park address we have just been given will surely lead me to him.”
As always when he was hot on the trail, Sherlock Holmes was heedless of any possible
fatigue and hunger. Though this sometimes left me struggling in his wake, often, as in this case, the thrill of the chase prevented these from being more than minor inconveniences.
“We know that at least one of the parties involved here carries a pistol,” he reminded me, as I slipped on my overcoat. “It would seem advisable for us to do the same. I trust we will not need them, but it will be as well to be prepared for any eventuality.” Accordingly, both he and I provided ourselves with revolvers, which we slipped into our overcoat pockets.
Before we hailed a cab to convey us to Finchley, Holmes dispatched a telegram to Inspector Jones at Scotland Yard.
“I feel that this is the time to bring him into the game,” he said to me. “I am now confident enough of the success of this case to let him have the glory associated with the arrest.”
On arrival at the address we had been given by the young mother, which proved to be one of a row of tall terraced houses, backing onto the railway line, Holmes looked about him.
“I see no sign of Jones and his men,” said Holmes. “No matter. I am confident that they will be with us soon.” He strode up and beat a brisk tattoo on the door-knocker. A smartly dressed maid opened the door to us.
“Good afternoon,” Holmes addressed her. “I would like to speak to Mr. John Clay, if he is at home.”
The maid’s face was a mask of puzzlement. “There’s no Mr. Clay at this house, sir,” she answered him. There was no doubt in my mind that she was telling the truth, and she genuinely had no knowledge of John Clay.
“Very good,” said Holmes. “He is presumably residing here under an alias. I would like to speak with the master of the house.”
Again the maid seemed confused. “I think you have the wrong house, sir. There is no master here. Just my mistress.”
At that moment, a voice came from the inside of the house. “Who is it, Ann?” The tone and expression seemed familiar, and all at once I recognised it as that of Lady Hareby. I saw from the expression on Holmes’ face that he had recognised the voice.
Answering for the maid, Holmes gave his name in ringing tones.
“Show him in, Ann,” came the instruction from the interior of the house.
“This way, if you would,” the maid addressed us both. We were shown into a richly appointed chamber, somewhat at odds with the rather mean exterior of the house. Lady Hareby was sitting in a chair by the window.
“I believe you were looking for John Clay,” she addressed Holmes. Her tone was mocking, but the light from the window behind her made it impossible to see the expression on her face. “I regret to inform you that he is not here.”
“Obviously this is not his house, then,” remarked Holmes. “The taste in the furnishings of this room would appear to be yours, rather than that of John Clay.”
“You are correct, Mr. Holmes. This row of houses belongs to the family of my late husband. I have reserved the use of this house for my own purposes, when I wish to entertain those visitors of whom the family into which I married might not altogether approve, and for purposes such as the one about which you were informed earlier today by the young woman who visited you.”
Holmes appeared to take this in his stride. “May I ask how you know about what I have been informed and by whom?”
Lady Hareby laughed unpleasantly. “My dear man,” she replied. “I know all the details of which you were informed and who informed you of them, because I sent her to you and told her what to tell you.”
I was flabbergasted by this news, but it appeared to be no revelation to Holmes, who merely asked calmly, “Of course, she was not the mother of the child taken to Hareby by John Clay?”
“Of course not. Clay claimed the child from an orphanage somewhere and then went up to Hareby with it. I do not know how and where he arranged the matter. That was his business, not mine. He was well paid for his services, and that is all that concerns me. That child is now accepted as the heir to Hareby Hall and all the estate, and when the old fool dies, it will effectively be mine.”
“You know, of course, that you face criminal charges on a number of counts?”
“That is possible, I suppose, if you leave this house alive and manage to inform the police of your suspicions,” she replied. As she spoke these words, she produced a pistol from under the cushion against which she had been leaning, and pointed it at Holmes’ heart. “And your friend the doctor will not escape me either,” she went on. “You should know that I have always been reported to be a very fine shot with firearms. You are, of course, welcome to test whether these reports have any truth to them.”
Holmes merely smiled in return. “Eliminating Watson and myself would hardly lead to your inheritance of the estate. It might be somewhat awkward for you to explain our corpses here.”
“Clay will dispose of the evidence, and no-one will be any the wiser. Even if I were suspected, it would ensure that I died a free woman. I have friends on the Continent, in countries where the London police have no power.”
“I am afraid you are mistaken about the idea that you will not be suspected. I called the police to this place before we left Baker-street. They will be here at any moment, and assaulting Watson and myself would merely add to the list of charges to be read out at your trial.”
Her eyes blazed fury. “You have not done this?” she spat at Holmes. “Has he?” appealing to me. “I beseech you to tell me the truth.”
“I cannot lie to you,” I told her. “With my own eyes I saw him dispatch the message to Scotland Yard.”
“Then all is lost!” she wailed, and the pistol wavered in her hand. “I had counted on your egotism, Mr. Holmes, and your self-love. I had anticipated that you would wish to claim all the glory for yourself, and leave none for the police, so you would come alone, or maybe with the bashful doctor here, allowing me to remove the obstacles to my inheritance.”
She flung the pistol down to the ground, and dashed to the door, wrenching it open. I started to stop her, but Holmes held my arm in a vice-like grip. “Let her go,” he said to me in a hoarse voice. “Whatever happens, it will be for the best.”
We heard the door at the back of the house open and slam shut, and Holmes released his grip on my arm. “Wait, and listen,” he said, his voice more gentle.
The sound of a train approaching along the railway line at the back of the house grew louder, suddenly punctuated by the noise of the locomotive’s whistle and the squeal of its brakes.
“What—?” I asked, but Holmes had already left the room. I followed him out of the back door of the house, into the garden overlooking the railway line a short distance below, from where we could see the driver of the train and his fireman lift the broken bloody figure from the tracks.
We turned away, and re-entered the house, coming face to face with Inspector Athelney Jones and his men, who had made their way through the front door.
“She has gone to meet a higher Justice than we know of on this earth,” Holmes said simply.
At that moment, the noise of a baby’s crying could be heard, emanating from the upper storey of the house.
-oOo-
A few days after the events above, I was able to talk to Holmes about the case for the first time. The demands of my patients, and his discussions with the police about the Darlington case, as well as one on which he was involved on behalf of the Foreign Office, had prevented us from discussing the Darlington case in any detail.
Truth to tell, the ending which Lady Hareby had chosen for herself still haunted my dreams, and I was not anxious to relive those moments, even through the medium of conversation with my friend.
In the later afternoon, he and I sat down with our pipes, remaining in companionable silence for at least one half of an hour.
At length, I asked Holmes, “You have explained to my satisfaction how the missing Mace was discovered. How did you discover the secret of the child?”
Holmes knocked out his pipe carefully, saving the dottle for the first pipe of the next day, a
nd refilled it. At last he spoke. “It was obvious, was it not, that there was nothing of the uncanny there? I think that you and I will both agree that the supernatural can be eliminated. I was therefore forced to concentrate on possible natural causes for these disturbances. What sounds, I asked myself, resemble a baby’s crying? We know that a cat’s cries may sometimes be reminiscent of those of a baby. But we were told early on by the Earl in our first meeting, if you recall, that the late Lord Hareby had given orders for all the stable cats to be destroyed, as a result of his superstitious nature, and Lady Hareby also denied the existence of any such animal in and around the Hall.
“Added to which, you will remember, the cries were often heard in the daytime, while caterwauling is almost invariably confined to the night hours. I was therefore forced to conclude that the cries were not that of a cat. There are indeed certain large birds of prey that may produce similar noises, as well as birds, such as magpies and jays, capable of imitating human sounds, but the frequent nature of the sounds, again coupled with the fact that they were discerned at all hours, led me to believe that they were not produced by birds.
“Accordingly, I came to the conclusion that there was a young child somewhere in the house, the presence of which was unknown to many members of the household. Three questions then presented themselves to me. The first was whose child it might be. The second, why it was hidden away in secret. The third, where it had been hidden.
“The first question was relatively easy to answer. There was only one woman in the house who had been reported as having been with child recently and that, of course, was Lady Hareby. However, her child was supposedly in the nursery, in plain view, and that led me to my next conclusion. Either she had been delivered of twins, and one of the babies was for some reason hidden, or, which I judged most likely, another baby had been brought in and substituted for the one to which she had given birth. Enough maternal instinct remained in her, however, for her to wish to keep the child close to her when it was born, and she accordingly made her plans. Somehow she had discovered the existence of the priest’s hole, probably through her husband, though we will never be sure of this. It may well be that Hareby Hall contains many such secrets, including the entry into the cabinet that I discovered, and that she became possessed of all of these.
