by J. R. Rain
“Well, if it’s rather urgent, I’m sure the neighbor’s boy, Conner, would be happy to run a letter over there himself,” she suggested. Then added with a smile, “All you’d have to do is provide the right amount of enticement.” She winked and rubbed her forefinger and thumb together in the universal symbol for monetary compensation. I gave her a knowing smile and a nod.
While I scribbled my message to Holmes, she went out the back door to call to the neighbor’s wife and ask if we could borrow Conner’s services for the task. I ensured to give enough details in the letter that Holmes might find it imperative to come see me that evening but not too much that the clever old boy might figure things out on his own and leave me out of the mystery solving.
I laughed as soon as I had thought it, knowing with a level of certainty that the likelihood of the latter occurring was rather high.
By the time the boy stepped into the parlor with his cap in his hand, I had the letter sealed and ready for delivery and it went into young Conner’s hand accompanied by a shiny shilling.
An hour later, just as my wife was setting out the tea things, Conner returned and stood politely at the back door. She ushered him into my office where I was seated at the desk going over the Galham pathology files again and making notes on my observations.
“Did you find Mr. Holmes at the Baker Street residence, boy?” I asked him without looking up from the papers.
“Yes, sir. I did, sir.”
“Very good. Any response from him?”
“He did send a note back with me, sir,” the boy replied, approaching my desk and handing me a folded piece of paper.
“Well done, young Conner. Now run along. Mrs. Watson will have a treat of some sort in the kitchen for you to have with your tea.”
The boy smiled widely and made his way back to the rear of the house.
Once alone, I unfolded the paper and read its content, sighing loudly as I threw it onto the table in front of me.
“Well, that can’t be good news,” I heard from the doorway.
“He’s figured it out.”
“Just like that?”
“Indeed, my dear wife. That’s our friend, Holmes. Just… like… that.”
***
As my friend’s note had stated, Holmes arrived at my house just in time to join me in my study for an aperitif before dinner. It had been a week since I had returned from Stratford-upon-Avon and the exact evening he had indicated I should expect his visit.
My wife had set out a small amuse-bouche of fois gras, water crackers and thinly sliced ripe figs and apricots; I poured us each a small glass of dry sherry and took a seat in my favorite armchair. Holmes sat by the open window and lit his pipe.
I had been rather concerned about his peculiar disappearance from the public house and wondered what had prompted his behavior. More importantly, having become a bit of an expert in deciphering Sherlock’s strange behavior over the years, I knew his disappearance was directly linked to some clue or other he had untangled in the case. I was therefore rather curious to find out what he had discovered over the past week.
As a courtesy to my wife, Holmes and I kept our conversation for after dinner and made pleasant conversation on many other topics during the meal. Mrs. Watson was particularly occupied with the observations Sherlock made on the wide varieties of meadow plant and insect life in Stratford-upon-Avon. Having been raised in a rural county, she was completely engaged by the subject and it made me happy to watch their carefree banter at the table.
With dinner complete, we men retired to my office. I had barely shut the door before Holmes began to ramble about how he should have seen something sooner. I was secretly relieved that I wouldn’t have to press him about the case; in my experience, one got a rather dull response from the detective if he felt interrogated during a conversation.
He stopped his muttering and turned to me. “It’s becoming increasingly obvious that you discovered something in Stratford-upon-Avon that you’re practically bursting to tell me,” he said.
“Well, I wouldn’t say that I’m bursting, Holmes, but I am quite sure my discovery is of significant importance to solving the case.”
“Let’s have it then,” he snapped.
I proceeded to tell him about my suspicion that chloroform had in fact been utilized to render the Galham family unconscious prior to their murders. I explained that perhaps the clue had gone unnoticed as a result of a combination of country policing and the pathologist’s inability to identify and test for the substance.
“Indeed, Watson. Tests for substances of this sort are still in its infancy, and, since a conclusion of murder and then suicide had perhaps been prematurely made by the police, the doctor would not have foreseen the need to pursue the matter.”
“That was exactly my line of thinking, Holmes.”
“It’s a plausible one. Good job, my man.” I smiled at his praise, knowing full well that there was more. “However, I think we are beyond confirming that the Galhams were victims of foul play.”
I let his comment sink in, realizing he was, as usual, ahead of me in the game, before raising the subject of his hasty retreat from the town. I asked, “What happened to you in Stratford-upon-Avon? You seemed to just disappear into the night.”
“It’s a very strange tale, my dear Watson, but the idea came to me after you left my room. I was sitting by the window smoking my pipe and just as if a brisk wind had hit my face, the notion of what the motive behind our case might be came to me.” I knew better than to interrupt him once he had started his narrative of discovery, so I took a seat by the fireplace and listened intently instead. “I wondered, could the break in at Baker Street and the subsequent theft of the manuscript have just been a smokescreen? And… if that were the case, what was its purpose? Perhaps, I thought, it was to keep us occupied with a mystery that had very little to do with the real mystery at hand. It occurred to me, Watson, that a secret as consequential as the possession of a lost masterpiece by the Great Bard himself could actually be the least of Galham House’s innuendos.
“That morning, I visited the local records office and, after quite a fair bit of digging around, I found what I was looking for: the names of all the local midwives who were practicing at the time when Lady Edith, the Dowager Countess of Galham, was residing as the Countess of Galham House.”
“Midwives? What in heaven’s name for, Holmes?” As was to be expected, he completely ignored my question and continued his recollection.
“After sifting through that list, I found there were only three of those women still alive and living around Penstone Heath, so I visited them all in person. On my second try, I met a pleasant woman by the name of Annabel Moseley, who claimed she attended to Lady Edith on all matters of the female constitution during all the countess’s years at Galham. She examined Edith regularly and had her on a very strict regimen of herbal remedies for some of the countess’s health concerns. Listed prominently among them were dried berries of vitex agnus-castus, dioscorea villosa and viburnum prunifolium.”
I thought about what Holmes was telling me for a moment and as I slowly began to recognize the scientific names for vitex or chaste tree berry, wild yam root and black haw, my jaw dropped almost to the floor. They were all well-known medieval herbal remedies traditionally used by midwives and herbalist to prevent miscarriage, treat a condition callously referred to as ‘irritable uterus’ and believed to stop uterine spasm and contractions.
“Mrs. Moseley also informed me that Lady Edith made two trips to her familial home during that time and in both instances, she returned with a newborn baby. Both hiatuses were approximately forty-two weeks long and consistent with a departure in very early pregnancy, followed by a return home shortly after giving birth. The midwife told me that aside from having her feelings a little hurt, she found nothing out of the ordinary with the practice. A lot of the older aristocratic families still follow such patterns of childbirth; in particular, leaving home.
“H
owever, Annabel did go on to tell me one other very interesting thing. It seems that on the first of these occasions, the Countess unnecessarily delayed examinations by the midwife, even though it was customary that frequent checks on both mother and child be made to record and monitor their progress. Annabel claims that she was not able to see Mary before at least six months had passed and, by then, she claims everything was back to normal with the countess and she seemed as if she had never gone through the rigors of pregnancy and childbirth. According to the midwife, that is not uncommon with the upper-class women, though, as they are usually well fed and exercised all their lives.”
“So the woman took fertility herbs and then she got pregnant. What has that got to do with anything, Sherlock?” I asked, only resorting to his first name out of complete exasperation.
“Once again, Watson, you fail in an attempt at backward reasoning. Furthermore, you haven’t heard me out!”
“You mean, there’s even more exciting news about the countess’s childbirth habits and practices?” I asked, rolling my eyes.
“There is more, and the most important clue at that. And eye rolls are not becoming of a man of your stature, Watson. Leave it for the younger generation. Now, Edith’s return from the second pregnancy went a little differently. Mrs. Moseley was invited to attend the countess and her newborn child within a day of their arrival at Galham House. In her estimation, the observations she made were consistent with the normal condition of a postpartum woman and, therefore, reflective of a true and successful pregnancy and delivery.”
“In other words, she has proof of Reginald’s birth but not of Roger’s.”
“Exactly so.”
“How exactly does that help our case, Holmes?” I asked, veritably begging my infuriating friend.
“Backward reasoning, Watson. The crime at the epicenter of everything is the murder of the Galhams. What was the reason for the atrocity? Reasoning backwards would go something like this: Who would stand to gain from the family’s death? Was the will changed? If so, what would be the real purpose of that with the laws regarding inheritance being as defined as they are for aristocratic holdings? What content could have been in it that could change the way the pieces lay on the game board?”
“Reginald’s legitimacy!” I cried.
“See? You can reason backwards.”
I stood and paced. “In that case, the midwife confirming the countess’s condition wouldn’t be any proof against Reginald. If anything, I’d think that question would strengthen an argument for Reginald’s legitimacy.”
“Not by any means, Watson! It proves Reginald is his mother’s child perhaps, but Countess Edith Galham did not hold the title in her own right, her husband did. And in the case of Roger and Reginald, we have yet to confirm who their father was.”
***
Before leaving my house that night, Sherlock told me another tale.
Though he had made it sound as if the question of Roger and Reginald’s parentage was a question that was still up in the air, Holmes had made it his business while in Stratford-upon-Avon to find out everything that he could about the matter. As it had turned out, while I was spending the morning coming to my own conclusions in Llewelyn Kendricks’s office, Holmes had been busy about town with his research. Knowing full well that his abandoning me at the inn would prompt my immediate return to London, he spent the afternoon in the village procuring an invitation for himself to an opulent garden party which Reginald Galham was to be giving that weekend.
That Saturday afternoon, he arrived impeccably dressed at the door of Harcourt Hall and acted as escort to Lady Jessica Flora of Harcourt and Avon. Since the theft of the manuscript, Holmes had felt indebted to Lady Jessica while at the same time being convinced she might be in danger from the thief.
They went by carriage to Galham House and joined a multitude of aristocratic guests on the estate’s extravagant south lawn. The last days of summer provided perfect outdoor weather for Reginald’s guests and the boisterous group regaled themselves with lawn games, and excessive eating and drinking. By the time the sun had set, most of the party guests were rather intoxicated.
One by one, the visitors went upstairs and changed for dinner at the sound of the evening gong before proceeding to the drawing room for more drinks and then going in for their meal. It was a sumptuous affair but also strategically sobering as well. Afterward, the men retired to Reginald’s game room and Kendricks was kind enough to remain close to Holmes so as not to isolate him from the crowd of affluent men in attendance. In my opinion, Holmes was rather capable of handling himself in any situation quite competently, but Kendricks provided him the perfect vehicle from which Holmes could conduct an in-depth observation of both his quarry and his surroundings.
It was exactly the means by which Holmes was able to make note of five matching iron trunks stacked decoratively in a corner. They were identical in every way but their size; even down to the heavy lock centered on the front. Arranged to look like a metal pyramid, the largest on the bottom to the smallest at the top, they dominated that corner of the room. A lovely Asian rug had been partially draped over them for effect.
“Rather peculiar these trunks you have over here, Lord Reginald. Rather peculiar, indeed,” Holmes said loud enough for their host to hear. As he expected, Reginald immediately made his way over to Holmes and Kendricks to boast a little.
“Yes, aren’t they quite,” he started. “They, of course, belonged to my father. I can’t recall exactly but I believe he said he brought them back with him from some war or the other. Footlockers of his command. His attendants would carry his dinnerware and other such utensils around in them. As was expected, the original contents were returned to the War Office but he was allowed to keep the boxes.”
“What a remarkable story!” Kendricks proclaimed.
“If you say so,” Reginald concluded with a very bored look on his face.
“Would you mind terribly if I took a closer look?” Sherlock had asked.
“Oh, not at all, but I think they’re all locked and the keys have long since been misplaced. Hence, their present decorative nature.”
Holmes nodded, as did Reginald before walking away to engage another man in conversation.
Holmes instinctively touched the key that resided in his jacket pocket. He stepped closer to the stack of footlockers and inspected them a little more closely and began pondering how he would manage to gain access to the strongboxes. Kendricks strolled over to the detective and offered him a glass of brandy.
“What have you come up with, Mr. Holmes?”
“A rather fascinating notion, Mr. Kendricks.”
“Which is?”
Kendricks had to wait for a fairly long time before he was finally furnished with a somewhat mediocre answer. Whenever Holmes felt that the game was afoot, the old boy never gave away the players or the strategy, only instructions.
“I am going to need you to create an opportunity for me. One in which I can get to those boxes in the corner to investigate their contents. Is it possible for you to do so before, say, noon tomorrow?”
“I believe that I can come up with something.”
“Perfect!” Holmes replied, smiling at the look of expectation on Kendricks’s face. He touched a finger to the side of his nose and concluded, “I do not need to know how you will do it, just as you do not need to know why I need you to… for the moment at least.”
Kendricks sighed, then returned the detective’s knowing smile and walked out to the middle of the room.
“Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your ear, please? As you all know, next week marks the opening of the grouse season and, as is the custom in our shire, a Thanksgiving service will be held tomorrow at the village church followed by a luncheon at Harcourt Hall. The Harcourts and I insist on your presence for the festivities.”
It was a checkmate move that Kendricks had made. The express invitation from a nobleman extended to a known list of guests under his peer’s roof wa
s not something to be taken lightly, especially when the heiress of said household was present and knew all those who’d been invited. It was as good as written in stone that everyone there would be engaged in the Harcourt’s hospitality from ten in the morning until well after two in the afternoon. Galham House would be empty and those servants who were not off duty on Sunday would be at Harcourt Hall helping with the luncheon preparations.
Holmes had his opportunity!
***
But still the old boy kept me in suspense.
The night following dinner at my home, Holmes and I were sitting in his library at Baker Street sipping coffee and going over the events of the case. I had been on tenterhooks the whole night and day waiting to hear about the great caper of his into Reginald’s game room. Finally, it seemed he was ready and I set down the coffee cup and sat forward in my seat. He took a position by the window and lit his pipe, puffing luxuriously; no doubt to build the suspense further.
Just as he was about to tell me how he snuck into Galham House to inspect the strongboxes and reveal what he had found, there was a loud rap on the door. There was a boy at the door and we both heard the housekeeper speaking to him briefly before closing the door and making her way toward the room.
“A telegram, sir,” she said, handing the folded paper to Holmes before turning to leave the room. As he read the message, my dear friend’s face grew drawn and thoughtful. Suddenly he fell into a silent mood and sat gazing out the window while I could only sit and wait.
Just a few moments after Holmes had sunk into his melancholy, he just as suddenly snapped back to reality and announced loudly, “Come Watson. The game is afoot!”
Chapter Ten:
The Game is Afoot
“My dear Watson,” Holmes said, “I believe we should be on our way immediately.” He jumped to his feet; grabbed his coat, hat, and cane, then briskly moved out the front door to the street.
