I leaned forward, ready to take Holmes into my confidence. “What do you believe Mrs Nyland would have done if she’d learned the entire truth concerning her brother’s death?”
“I have no crystal ball,” Holmes protested. “I am a detective, not a fortune teller.”
“Who is hiding behind small truths now?” I asked. “It will be helpful to know if your estimation of the woman matches my own.”
“Very well,” Holmes relented. “She would be quite shocked I suppose, necessitating a period of retreat and contemplation. When sufficiently recovered she would seek a confrontation with those who brought about her brother’s demise.”
“And in your estimation would she receive any satisfaction from this confrontation?”
“It is unlikely,” Holmes conceded. “You must remember: No laws have been broken.”
“Surely there must be some legal recourse?” Unfortunately I suspected the answer but I wished to be certain. Holmes’s knowledge of the law was far more extensive than my own.
Holmes shook his head. “You have heard my views on this matter before. You seek justice, a quality the law is not always equipped to deliver. Contrary to the public perception the law is a blunt instrument. Rather than justice it is an amalgamation of popular opinion. Given the circumstances surrounding this case I see no legal path by which Mrs Nyland might find satisfaction.”
“As I feared,” I replied. “Weeks, maybe months, wasted while Mrs Nyland composes herself. And in the end the matter would be thrown back in her face still unresolved. She deserves better that.”
“Very gallant, Watson,” Holmes said. “Though I fail to see how keeping Mrs Nyland ignorant of the truth is an improvement. Mrs Nyland’s attempt to gain some measure of justice for her brother might not be successful but there is a certain nobility to the effort. She is not without resources –”
“When you say resources you mean yourself, do you not?” I asked. “You would offer your professional services to Mrs Nyland should she ask your assistance?”
“Of course,” Holmes admitted. “Being outside the law, such a case would be uniquely suited to my talents.”
“I thought as much,” I said, not without a trace of smugness. “You and I are in complete agreement in this matter. The reason I kept the truth from Mrs Nyland is simple: I wished to avoid delay. Holmes, I wish to hire you myself.”
Holmes leaned forward in his chair, his features betraying a rare look of surprise. “I beg your pardon?”
“Rather than wait for Mrs Nyland to ask for your assistance bringing those who wronged her brother to justice, I will hire you to accomplish the same task sooner rather than later. The central problem seems to be what form this justice should take, as you say the courts will be of no assistance. Ideally these villains would be hauled before the courts where your evidence would condemn them to prison or worse. Under these circumstances, well, we are left to our own devices.”
“Do go on.” Amusement was evident in Holmes’s voice as he spoke. “You have obviously directed considerable effort towards a solution.”
“Bellamy’s will,” I said, not without pride. “This entire sorry affair started when Bellamy amended his will. It seems only proper the same document bring it to a finish. I propose we see to it that Bellamy’s last will and testament be enforced.”
“Oh, well done Watson!” Holmes said with a genuine smile. “Your solution is elegant and simple. If I recall the terms of Bellamy’s will correctly, then his lover stands to inherit a good portion of his estate, including control of Bellamy’s business holdings. You would release Bellamy’s lover from the financial bounds placed on him by his tyrannical family. With a single stroke you undo all his enemies sought to accomplish. Jenkins, Schrader, Gillis and – of course – the elder Birling himself, each of them would see their efforts thwarted. Unfortunately Watson – clever as your plan is – without the intervention of the courts it is quite impossible.”
“Why?” I asked. “We have a copy of the will. You took it from the secret drawer in Bellamy’s night stand.”
“Having the document is not enough,” Holmes said. “Schrader was Bellamy’s solicitor. All he need do is disavow knowledge of the amended will and your scheme is undone.”
I smiled, remembering the document which had lain beside the amended will in Bellamy’s hidden drawer. “You have not heard the rest of my plan.”
As I explained the details of what I hoped to accomplish, I took a keen pleasure in seeing a smile creep onto my friend’s lean face.
Seemingly unaffected by the thousands of students’ feet that had marched over its cold, hard surface, the sound of our footfalls on the chapel’s stone floor echoed sharp as gunshots. Holmes and I had recently visited the student chapel as part of our investigation and, being hurried, had neither the time nor the inclination to examine the dark, highly polished wood pews or the timbers of the vaulted ceiling. However our guest, Mr Eric Birling, looked about him with a mixture of remembered awe and fresh curiosity in his expression. The last light of the day was surrendering to night, the shadows within the chapel were deep and sharp. I followed Holmes up the central aisle in order to help him move a large table. We had discussed the setup, scouted the location, but in our sudden hurry to arrive before the others we hadn’t time to inform Mr Birling of our plans. During the long cab ride out to the school composing the letters had completely occupied our attention. As I moved the table to block the aisle, cutting off access to the front of the chapel, I called to our guest.
“Mr Birling?”
He looked up, startled from his contemplation of the chapel’s unforgiving surfaces. Even in sunlight the chapel had seemed austere, in the weak moonlight seeping through the windows the interior seemed unforgiving. Finding me in the darkness he walked hurriedly down the aisle.
“I have always hated this place,” Birling said as he passed me. Although the words were not spoken loudly they echoed in the empty space like an accusation. Setting the heavy table in place, I joined Birling by the raised area of the stage.
“You are certain we are allowed to be here?” Birling asked. “I do not understand what this place has to do with Adam’s death?”
“You have been quite patient with us,” I acknowledged. “I am sorry to have to ask you to wait further but there are some preparations that must be made. It is imperative that you not be seen. We will seat you up in the corner there, you see? Completely invisible in the shadows. As long as you make no sound you will not be discovered. You are here as a witness, nothing more. Regardless of what you hear, you must remain silent. Do you understand?”
“Not really,” the man said. A rueful smile lifted his features, dark eyes sought and found my own. Until this moment Eric Birling had been something of an enigma, always an essential part of our plan but more an agenda item than an individual. A handsome man but not startlingly so, more than anything else I had been struck by his ordinariness. Foolish, I knew, but all the same I had, perhaps unconsciously, expected Adam Bellamy’s lover to be in some way unusual in appearance. When Holmes and I called upon Birling’s lodgings I had been momentarily nonplussed to see such a solid, respectable looking fellow answer. Time was of the essence, our gambit had worked better than we had anticipated and necessity forced us to forgo the explanations Birling deserved. Instead it fell to me to compel Birling to accompany us. A task which proved surprisingly simple once I informed him our errand concerned the death of Adam Bellamy.
Meeting Birling’s gaze, seeing the determination mixed with grief and uncertainty in his expression, I realised – somewhat to my surprise – that I admired the fellow. The mere mention of his lover’s name had been enough to pull Birling out of the safety of his home.
“What do you know of about a court of honour?” I asked, ushering Birling up onto the stage.
Birling laughed humourlessly. “How odd you should ask that question here of all places. When I was a student here the head-boys would bring students accused of infr
actions to what they called a court of honour. It was considered good exercise for students who might grow up to become barristers, solicitors and the like.”
I nodded in understanding, the explanation was much as the current headmaster had explained it. I glanced at Holmes, who was hurriedly arranging four chairs behind the long table. I found another chair and carried it to the darkened corner.
“There is disapproval in your voice,” I remarked.
“The honour of boys,” Birling said with venom in his voice. “Little more than ritualised bullying. A tyranny carried out in full view of the staff. I felt I did not so much graduate this place as escape it.”
“Adam Bellamy also attended this school, did he not?” I asked, knowing the answer.
“He did,” Birling confirmed. “Adam graduated in the same class as my Uncle Arthur.”
From where he was arranging envelopes and candles on the long table, Holmes spoke up. “Mr Birling, you should take your seat now.”
“What has all this to do with Adam’s death?” Birling demanded, his voice wary.
“A week before his death Adam Bellamy received a summons,” I explained. “Written on this school’s letterhead, it demanded he appear in this chapel or risk the punishment of the court of honour. It was signed by four of his classmates. Walter Gillis, Randall Jenkins, Gregory Schrader and –”
“Arthur Birling.” There was no question in Eric’s voice as he completed my sentence.
“Yes,” I confirmed his suspicion.
Holmes renewed his warning. “Mr Birling, I must insist you take your place now. We do not wish to endanger you but should you be seen –”
Birling nodded sadly. Removing his coat he retreated into the dark corner.
“Watson,” Holmes called for my help.
I joined Holmes, together we lifted a small but heavily made table up onto the stage. From the dark corner came the heavy voice of Eric Birling. “Adam did not die of cholera, did he?”
“No, I am afraid he did not,” I answered. “Although it was arranged that the death should appear so. Had things gone the way I planned there would have been more time to explain this properly –”
“But circumstances did not allow it,” Holmes interrupted. With brisk, efficient movements Holmes lit the four large candles he’d placed on the long table. Rather than dispelling the shadows of the empty chapel the feeble lights seemed to make their darkness deeper. The flickering candles blurred the shadow’s edges. “Those who summoned Adam Bellamy to this place have themselves been summoned.”
“My uncle will not like that.” No amusement tainted Eric Birling’s voice, the simple phrase echoed in the empty chapel like a warning.
“His reaction was surprisingly violent,” Holmes said calmly. “Rather than wait for the appointed time he set out to gather his fellows, apparently in the belief some advantage could be gained by arriving before his summoners. Small though the matter is, Watson and I are determined to deny them any advantage. Are you comfortable, Mr Birling? I do not think it will be long before –”
From behind him came the distinct sound of the outside doors being thrust open. Footsteps echoed on the narthex’s stone floor, voices broke the stillness of the sombre surroundings. Angry, impatient and offended, the men rolled into the place like a wave. Holmes and I fell silent, taking our seats in the darkness. I felt fortunate to have finished our preparations in time yet still wished we had been able to give Birling more explanation regarding what was to come.
“– intolerable I tell you!” A loud, flustered voice wheezed.
“Yes,” an exasperated man agreed half-heartedly. “But who?”
“We shall find out!” The loud voice boomed, making the statement sound like a curse. “We will wait for them here and when they arrive we shall –”
There was a sudden silence as the footsteps stopped and the voices were stilled. The new arrivals had reached the chapel’s large, open doors. Beyond the doorway they warily examined the table, chairs, and the four waiting candles. For a moment they hesitated, open-mouthed and amazed.
“What the devil is this!” The loud voice was now identified as belonging to the corpulent Arthur Birling, uncle of the Eric Birling hidden in the shadowed corner. The two of them made an interesting comparison, sharing many facial characteristics. Yet where the thin nose and high cheekbones of Eric Birling’s face gave him a noble, leonine aspect, on his uncle the same structure appeared blunt and axe-like. Arthur Birling entered the chapel like a locomotive, his considerable girth charging up the aisle as if unstoppable. Dark hair escaped the edges of his hat, giving his angry features a savage demeanour. He carried, I noted with professional detachment, a walking stick although his gait was unimpaired. An affectation or a weapon?
Following in the wake of Birling came the other, more reluctant conspirators. On Birling’s heels came Schrader. Tall and thin, the solicitor removed his hat upon entering the chapel. Looking left and right into the darkness, it seemed he expected a horde of demons to leap from the shadows. Following some distance behind the solicitor came the rotund Gillis, his dull eyes downcast. Finally Dr Jenkins, no more willingly than Gillis but with a spark of wary intelligence in his eyes. Removing his cap, the doctor ran a nervous hand over the smooth crown of his head.
“Who is here?” Arthur Birling demanded of the darkness. “I demand you show yourself immediately!”
Ignoring the large man’s outburst, Holmes waited to strike his match until Birling marched up to the long table blocking the aisle. Then, with a lazy gesture, Holmes brought the flame to the candle. Holding the lit match in his hand, Holmes spoke. “That’s far enough gentlemen. Take a seat.”
With a wave Holmes extinguished the match. The dull light of his candle barely served to illuminate his sharp features but in the flickering light the detective seemed calm, almost bored. Though I knew better, it seemed to my eyes that Holmes had presided over a thousand such courts. Certainly his confident indifference to those lined up before him produced a marked effect in the conspirators. Meekly they examined the table, pulling the chairs out for a seat.
Only Birling stood his ground. “Listen here, what is –”
“Surely all this is familiar to you?” Holmes said, his voice loud enough to interrupt Birling but still maintaining its unexcited tone. “Not a month has passed since you summoned a similar ‘court of honour’ for Adam Bellamy. Gentlemen, under each candle you will find an envelope with your name written on it. Please take your seats. You may wish to wait before opening your envelopes but – and believe me when I tell you this – under no circumstances should you allow any eyes but your own to read the letter bearing your name.”
Birling attempted to squeeze his bulk between the heavy table and the first pew. “That’s quite enough! I see no reason why we should be forced to listen to you! When I get up there, you’ll wish –”
The time had come for me to strike my match and light my candle. Birling, still trying to negotiate passage around the heavy table, stopped at the sight of me. As he judged the intent in my eyes I could see his resolve falter. There was a loud scrape as Gillis pulled out his chair and took his seat. The others paused, waiting to see which direction Birling took before committing themselves. For his part Birling seemed poised on the balance point, uncertain himself what he would do.
“You’ve no right to be here,” Birling growled, indignation in every syllable.
“No more than you had,” Holmes argued. “You have three choices before you. One: You could continue up here and attack us. While I won’t deny the idea has a certain appeal, you should harbour no illusions regarding your chances of surviving such a course of action.”
Birling sneered. “You don’t frighten –”
My service revolver made a loud sound as I set it on the table beside the candle. Although Birling was the focus of my attention, I saw Jenkins pale at the sight of the weapon.
“Second,” Holmes continued as if there had been no interruption. “You
may leave. No one will stop you. Of course should you ignore our little court you risk punishment. Third: You may take a seat. Decide now and stop wasting our time.”
Birling cast a glance at his fellows but found no comfort there. Jenkins took his seat while Schrader looked at the envelope bearing his name as if it were a serpent coiled to strike. Reluctantly Birling retreated to the accused side of the table.
“First, gentlemen, let me congratulate you on your eagerness to answer your summons,” Holmes said. “The sooner such unpleasantness is begun, the sooner it is finished. Now, as was stated in the summons, you have been called before this court to answer for the murder of your classmate Adam Bellamy.”
“We did nothing wrong,” Birling spoke defiantly.
“Indeed?” Holmes considered Birling’s statement. “You summoned Adam Bellamy to this chapel to face accusations from your own court of honour. The four of you instructed Bellamy as to the method of suicide you had determined would be most effective. Had Bellamy refused you threatened to take it upon yourselves to reveal his secrets. Bellamy is dead because of your actions. Do you deny any of this?”
Schrader cleared his throat before speaking. “You can’t prove anything.”
“Can’t I?” Holmes smiled cruelly. “You asked me my name before, I feel you should know it now. I am Sherlock Holmes. Perhaps, as a member of the legal profession, you have heard of me? In any event this is not a court of law but a court of honour. The rules of evidence are somewhat different here, wouldn’t you agree, Mr Schrader?”
It was apparent from Schrader’s panicked expression that he was aware of Holmes’s reputation. The solicitor’s wide eyes darted from Holmes to the letter before him, then dropped downwards. His hands came up, covering his face, and the man’s shoulders shook.
“Do any of you wish to protest your innocence?” Holmes enquired. “Mr Schrader, did you not rush to report the provisions Adam Bellamy made to his will regarding his nephew Eric? Dr Jenkins, when Mr Birling made enquiries regarding how to arrange for an accidental death, did you pretend such talk was idle speculation? And Mr Gillis, don’t imagine I am unaware of the purchase you made on the court’s behalf. And Mr Birling, creator and chief justice of the court of honour. Your schoolmates had to be dragged to this place, blackmailed and bullied, but their reluctance didn’t stop you. Gentlemen, you are so quiet. Nothing to say? Very well, let us proceed.”
A Study in Lavender: Queering Sherlock Holmes Page 8
