Best Eaten Cold and Other Stories

by Martin Edwards

  ‘And has he done so?’

  ‘He has in recent weeks been taking all necessary steps, Mr Holmes. Although at first he thought my decision lamentable and my judgement awry, over time I persuaded him that, with no close family of my own, I was acting with perfect propriety in bequeathing the bulk of my estate to a man who had done so much to ease the difficult last years of my wife and myself.’

  ‘Is anyone else aware of the contents of your will?’

  ‘I made no secret of my intentions. I meant to proceed with the formalities of adoption at the earliest possible moment.’

  ‘And what did Meade say to your plans?’

  ‘When I first broke the news to him – just a fortnight ago – he was astounded, as you might expect. Indeed, he sought repeatedly to dissuade me from my intended course. There could be no clearer sign of the fellow’s innate decency. He is selfless, Mr Holmes, and of how many people can that be said?’

  My friend murmured assent. ‘It does seem extraordinary that a man should turn his back on such an inheritance.’

  ‘Precisely, Mr Holmes!’

  ‘Tell me, how did he occupy himself on the Sundays when he enjoyed time away from his duties? Did he entertain visitors, or go out to meet friends?’

  ‘He is not a social animal, Mr Holmes. Despite his pleasant personality, he is reserved in the company of others, and from remarks that he has let slip, I believe that he was orphaned at an early age, and has no living relatives. He does not drink, or indulge in any of the vices that afflict servants and other members of the lower class with such deplorable regularity. As a general rule, he stayed in his room each Sunday, perhaps going out for a stroll around the grounds if the weather was not inclement. Otherwise, he would play the piano. He found it easy to occupy himself in solitude. In addition to his love of music, he is an avid reader.’

  ‘Unusual for a butler,’ my friend commented.

  ‘Perhaps, but as I have endeavoured to explain, Meade is no ordinary butler.’

  ‘I entirely agree with you, Sir Greville.’

  ‘The over-riding question is,’ our host said, with a surge of passion that suggested Holmes’ nonchalant demeanour was not to his liking, ‘what has happened to him?’

  Sherlock Holmes leaned back in his armchair and closed his eyes for a few moments. ‘There is in addition one further point on which I seek your clarification, Sir Greville.’

  ‘Anything, sir!’

  ‘Am I right in surmising that your butler’s Christian name was Mark?’

  The look of astonishment on the old man’s face was answer enough.

  It was typical of Mr Sherlock Holmes that he refused to discuss the case at all for the entire duration of our journey back to London. As soon as we reached Baker Street, he absented himself, saying merely that the data now in my possession should at least enable me to build the foundations of a credible explanation for the butler’s disappearance.

  I found myself as irked by my friend’s insouciant manner as I was baffled by Meade’s apparently calculated decision to flee from Oaklands Hall at the very moment when he seemed destined to inherit a fortune. I could not help thinking that there was more merit in my initial supposition – that Meade had the misfortune to fall victim to some itinerant rogue – than Holmes was willing to allow. Merely because a theory is based upon instinct rather than factual evidence, it is not necessarily mistaken. There are bound to be occasions when reasoning precedes proof. Holmes had sneered at my speculation that the note from Camden Town might be a forgery, but I reminded myself that forgers are criminals, who stoop to murder if the prize is sufficiently enticing. What if Meade had in his possession money or possessions of great value? Could Sir Greville be confident that nothing had been taken from the Hall? What if Meade was a fraudster and a thief who had met a deserved come-uppance? Warming to the idea, I told myself that the person described in Miss Drake’s testimonial sounded too good to be true. Suppose a confederate had forged that note, as part of a plan whereby Meade would worm his way into service at the Hall as a prelude to staging a robbery. If Meade learned that his master proposed to leave the estate to him, he might wish to abandon his co-conspirator, a decision that risked provoking a fatal attack.

  By the time that Holmes returned, it was growing dark outside. I had armoured myself against his scorn, but as ever, he took me unawares. The chill air had brought a flush to his cheeks, and there was no gainsaying the jubilation in his voice as he hailed me.

  ‘Come, Watson! We leave at once for Chester.’

  I stared at him. ‘This evening? Chester must be nearly two hundred miles away. What can you hope to achieve by such a journey?’

  ‘Tonight, nothing, but I have arranged accommodation for us at Sir Greville’s expense in the heart of that splendid Roman city. And tomorrow, Watson, I expect to establish incontrovertibly the truth behind the disappearance of the butler who showed such excellent taste in manifesting a fondness for Chopin.’

  Nothing could persuade my friend to reveal what he had discovered, and I contented myself with enjoying the journey up to Cheshire, and the comforts afforded by the Grosvenor Hotel, a half-timbered black-and-white building in the mock-Tudor style favoured by architects of the green and pleasant northern county. A telegram awaited our arrival and Holmes perused it with considerable satisfaction.

  ‘Splendid, Watson! Another link in the chain!’

  ‘Dare I ask the cause of your satisfaction?’

  ‘My dear fellow, spare me that dog-in-the-manger expression! Feel free to see for yourself while I have a word with the head waiter before we eat.’

  He tossed the cable to me, but I could make little sense of it. The message came from a property agent with an office in Liverpool’s Castle Street, and simply confirmed that Mr Vernon Drake had sold Parkgate Hall some two-and-a-half years ago.

  Over a late supper, Holmes regaled me with stories of cases which he had investigated in his youth, including the extraordinary affair of the barrister and the frog, which I hope one day he will set forth in writing. Of Meade the butler, however, he uttered not a word.

  We breakfasted splendidly the next morning, whereupon Holmes asked me to accompany him to the principal sitting room for guests. He took a seat near the entrance that commanded a view of almost the entire hotel lobby. Although he feigned to peruse the morning papers whilst we each sipped a cup of Darjeeling, I was alert to the fact that he was waiting for a visitor to arrive.

  As the clock struck ten, a veiled woman walked through the hotel door, and looked rapidly about her. Holmes sprang to his feet and stepped out of the sitting room to greet her. I followed a couple of paces behind.

  ‘Miss Emma Drake?’

  ‘Mr Holmes?’ she whispered.

  ‘Indeed.’ My friend gestured towards me. ‘This is my colleague, Dr Watson, and I beg you to speak in front of him with the utmost confidence.’

  ‘Confidence,’ the woman said slowly, ‘is not a quality with which I am blessed.’

  ‘Come, come, Miss Drake, I am bound to accuse you of false modesty. In my opinion, all that you have done requires a very great deal of confidence. Will you take a cup of tea with us? I can recommend the Darjeeling, the flavour is admirably full-bodied.’

  Without waiting for a reply, he snapped his fingers for service, and waved Miss Drake into a chair. As the waiter approached our table, I studied the newcomer. She was neatly but inexpensively dressed, and her veil obscured features which appeared to be regular if unmemorable. Her fingernails were short and she wore no rings or other jewellery.

  ‘Mr Holmes, I have responded to your advertisement in the Chester Chronicle, but I must confess that I am in no mood for social pleasantries. You stated in the advertisement that you had urgent information to impart concerning the fate of Mark Meade, who was formerly in my family’s service.’

  ‘Indeed I have. Meade has gone missing, much to the distress of his employer, Sir Greville Davidson.’

  ‘I am sorry to hear it, b
ut I cannot see that the matter is any concern of mine. Some time has passed since Meade was in my family’s employ.’ She made as if to rise from her chair. ‘Your notice indicated that it was imperative I speak to you in person, yet I fail to see…’

  ‘Bear with me, please,’ Holmes said, lifting a hand. ‘If I may be so bold, I doubt you have pressing engagements elsewhere, so I may crave your patience for a few minutes.’

  ‘How would you know anything about my personal engagements?’ the woman asked, her tone an odd blend of bitterness and curiosity.

  ‘On making enquiries, I was sorry to learn that your ancestral home, Parkgate Hall, was sold to defray debts incurred by your brother Vernon. He was excessively fond of gambling, as I understand, and excessively poor at choosing the right horse upon which to hazard a handsome sum.’

  ‘When our mother and father died in quick succession, we were left with comfortably enough means to support ourselves,’ the woman muttered. ‘He was twenty-two and I was nineteen. We were never close while our parents were alive, and once Vernon had the freedom to do as he pleased, he became a libertine. Wine, women and wagering, he used to say, those were his priorities in life. As a matter of fact, he often dined here, sparing no expense.’

  Holmes nodded. ‘The head waiter remembers him well.’

  ‘I dare say. My brother was lavish with gratuities, but the recipients of his largesse melted away when the money ceased to pour from his pocket. Within five years we were ruined.’

  Holmes studied the woman intently. ‘It must have been a very shocking experience. Tell me, what did you do?’

  Emma Drake stared at him through the veil. ‘I sought to earn a living, Mr Holmes, what choice would a destitute woman have?’

  ‘That is the truth, if I may say so, Miss Drake, but not the whole truth,’ Holmes said gently. ‘But let that pass for the moment. It became apparent to me, when Sir Greville recounted his tale, that the butler Meade was a remarkable person.’

  ‘I gave him a first class reference,’ the woman said. ‘There my obligations to him ended.’

  Holmes raised his eyebrows. ‘I read the reference, Miss Drake. I note that you gave your address as Parkgate Hall, which stands on the west side of the Wirral Peninsula, only a short drive from this very hotel. But I have received confirmation from a local agent that your brother sold the family home a year before you supplied the reference.’

  The veil made it impossible to read the expression in Emma Drake’s eyes, but from the way she shrank in her chair, I made sure that she was frightened. Holmes seemed to have calculated the effect of his words, and he continued his discourse in the same reasonable yet relentless manner.

  ‘When Sir Greville first spoke to me, I found his account of Meade and the fellow’s behaviour somewhat singular. A butler who is an accomplished pianist, and who disappears from view shortly after he is promised that he will receive a fortune? Extraordinary. As was his decision then to send a message of apology from Camden Town. What could it mean? I asked myself.’

  ‘And what answer did you postulate?’ Miss Drake asked coldly.

  ‘Sir Greville dismissed the finding of certain bloodstained garments in the vicinity of his estate as irrelevant, but such an unusual incident and the strange behaviour of Meade were unlikely to be coincidental. The butler’s personality intrigued me. Sir Greville is elderly and plainly grief-stricken following the death of his wife, but he is compos mentis, and I felt that only a remarkable individual could induce such a man to make a servant the beneficiary of the bulk of his not inconsiderable wealth.’

  ‘Meade is a remarkable fellow,’ the woman said in a soft voice.

  Holmes lifted his eyebrows. ‘The message Meade sent from Camden Town intrigued me. I surmised that it was intended to discourage Sir Greville from pursuing the butler, but also to lay a false trail, by implying that Meade was staying in London. I set some associates of mine the task of ascertaining from certain urchins of their acquaintance in Camden Town whether a particular person had been seen posting a letter at about the time when Meade’s message had been sent. A long shot, frankly, but I was rewarded by my associates’ assiduity – they were able to confirm a sighting that tallied with an embryonic theory of mine.’

  I could not resist saying, ‘You had sufficient data upon which to form the beginnings of a theory?’

  ‘Most certainly, Watson. I found Sir Greville’s account of Meade highly suggestive. There is no reason why a butler should not play the piano, but it is an accomplishment seldom manifested among those who make their living below stairs. Meade was a child in comparison to many butlers, and I wondered what had led him to move from this part of the world to the capital. What if Meade were not the man he seemed to be? Yet as soon as the question is posed, one is bound to speculate about the effusive testimonial provided by your good self, Miss Drake.’

  ‘I have the highest regard for Meade,’ Emma Drake said stiffly.

  Holmes smiled. ‘I asked myself what might have prompted the butler’s sudden disappearance – could it have been the emergence of a person in possession of information to Meade’s discredit? Or, perhaps, a person who knew that Meade was not what he seemed.’

  Despite herself, Miss Drake was curious. ‘What makes you so sure that he was not what he seemed?’ she breathed.

  ‘At first I was not sure. The idea that had begun to form in my mind seemed extraordinary. But a further conversation with my client was enough to convince me that the theory was sound. The handwriting of the reference from Miss Drake was obviously disguised – I presume that the left hand was used, rather than the right, but I detected one or two characteristics present in Meade’s note to Sir Greville.’

  I said, ‘You mean that Miss Drake did not write the reference?’

  ‘On the contrary, Watson.’ Holmes smiled at my puzzlement. ‘But it was a simple matter to deduce that Meade’s first name was Mark.’

  Miss Drake clutched at her throat. ‘You know, don’t you?’

  ‘Certainly, I know that Mark Meade is an anagram of Emma Drake.’

  ‘Holmes!’ I exclaimed in bewilderment. ‘What can this mean?’

  ‘Why,’ my friend said suavely, ‘that Miss Emma Drake and Mark Meade the butler are one and the same person.’

  I turned to the woman in horror. ‘Miss Drake! Surely…’

  She ripped the veil from her face. Her cheeks were ashen, her lips trembled, and yet there remained a quiet and impressive dignity about the woman, even at this dark moment. She lifted a small white hand.

  ‘Yes, Doctor, Mr Holmes is correct. As soon as I read the advertisement in the newspaper, I feared that my secret was out. Everyone has heard of the brilliance of Mr Sherlock Holmes.’

  My friend bowed. ‘I take it that your decision to live as a man was dictated in part by financial necessity, but to a greater extent by personal choice?’

  The woman inclined her head. ‘Yes, you are right. I had no wish to earn a living as a maid, but I fancied that the life of a butler might prove rather agreeable. Throughout my youth, I had a fondness for dressing up as a boy, and often I borrowed my brother’s clothes. Vernon always hated me – I think he was jealous from the moment I was born – and one day he caught me in his room. I had borrowed his clothes and was masquerading in front of a mirror as a young man. From that day he tormented me, constantly threatening to tell our parents. After they died, he kept me at his beck and call while he squandered his inheritance. At the time he sold the house to pay a fraction of what he owed to his creditors, I made my escape under cover of darkness, taking with me a wardrobe of male clothing which I had accumulated over the preceding months. I moved to London and started a new life, while remaining terrified that Vernon would one day track me down and expose my true identity.’

  ‘You heard of Sir Greville’s need for a butler and applied for the post?’ Holmes said.

  ‘Yes, and I must tell you that I have never been happier than in his service – and that of his dear wife, whos
e death was such a blow to him. There were moments when I thought he must suspect, and there is a maid who seemed to divine my secret, although Martha is a kind girl, and gave nothing away. Oaklands Hall is the most decent household, despite the suffering and sadness it has witnessed in recent years. It grieved me so to leave, but I had no choice.’

  ‘Because your brother found you?’

  ‘Yes. He had become destitute and spent the intervening years roaming the countryside, begging and stealing, but always hoping that one day he would trace me and find an opportunity for blackmail. By a grotesque stroke of ill fortune, he found his way to Oxfordshire, and spotted me in Wallingford, undertaking a small service for my master. He was not deceived by my wig and male attire, for he had seen me dressed as a man before, and expected that, left to my own devices, I would adopt the way of life that has long seemed most congenial to me. He threatened to reveal to Sir Greville the fact that Mark Meade was a woman in a butler’s garb. I agreed to steal some items of jewellery from my late mistress’s room and give them to Vernon on Saturday evening, but I knew such a crime was bound to be the first of many that he would force me to commit. I had perforce to flee, but I feared that, wherever I went, I would never rid myself of the anxiety that Vernon would discover me, and destroy my new life as he had destroyed the old.’

  ‘So you murdered him?’

  Emma Drake shivered. ‘You make it sound so cold-blooded, Mr Holmes. I begged Vernon to set me free, but he laughed and said cruel and wicked things that I should sooner die than repeat, even to you. In my distress, I slapped his face and he responded by putting his hands around my throat. I wriggled free – he was never strong, and his dissolute way of life had further weakened his constitution. He chased after me, and I picked up a heavy stone that lay next to the ditch. Before I knew what I was doing, I dashed the stone against his temple. He fell to the ground and, God forgive me, I hit him again and again.’ She half-stifled a sob. ‘There was so much blood, Mr Holmes. I thought I should never be rid of it.’