I glanced over my shoulder at the house. It had not really occurred to me, and now the tower looked more ominous than ever. “Really, Crain, I would rather not speak of this further. It is a trifle. A nothing.”
“Very well, I shall say no more. But for the rest of your stay here, I ask that you be as honest with me as I have been with you. Now, won’t you come inside? The other guests will be arriving in an hour or two.”
“I… I’ll just take a little air, if you don’t mind,” I said. “I shall return presently.”
“Good man,” Crain said, placing a hand on my shoulder. “Take your time.”
I listened to Crain’s footsteps recede, and stood alone beside a stone fountain. I stared across the gardens, where statues and saplings stood as dark smudges in the mist. And beside one such statue there was another shape, just for a moment: a figure staring directly at me, before vanishing away like a ghost.
It was Simon.
* * *
I had wished several times already that I could consult Holmes on the strange events surrounding my stay at Crain Manor, and so before the family returned from church, I resolved to do something about it. I wrote out a telegram form, and asked a servant to take it to the village and send it post haste. It said simply:
Holmes, you were right. Madame Farr appears most dishonest, and I fear there is trickery afoot. Unsure of her motives. Should I find evidence of anything more sinister, I will write again. Watson.
It was something and nothing—merely to have told my friend of my discomfort, in even such vague terms, was somewhat cathartic. Crain Manor felt strangely isolated from the world, but this small act made me feel connected once more to London. I felt better able to face the rest of the weekend knowing that I could contact Holmes if necessary.
At noon, shortly after Lady Esther had returned from church, the first of the guests arrived. I was sitting in the morning room with a book—brooding, truth be told—when Crain came to introduce four newcomers, who had arrived together in the manor’s four-wheeler. There was David Langton—Crain’s second cousin—and his wife, Constance, and Josiah Cavendish, the family solicitor, with his wife Jane. Langton was amiable enough, a young man, and his wife was all too clearly keen not to stand on ceremony; it quickly became evident that they were not used to the grandeur of the Crain side of the family.
“I was most surprised to be invited to a weekend party,” Langton had quipped. “I didn’t think the Crains knew what a weekend was, never having worked a day in their lives.”
Cavendish, by contrast, was an odd little fellow of advancing years. His rosy cheeks and broad, purplish nose spoke of a love of drink. Garrulous in his manner, he was forever being shushed by his wife who, far from being relaxed in her husband’s company, was markedly on edge. I was uncertain whether to feel sorry for the man for being hen-pecked, or to place my sympathies with the woman for enduring her husband’s eccentricities. Regardless, I felt at least that Cavendish might prove entertaining.
These arrivals had barely been shown to their rooms when the clatter of carriage wheels sounded outside again, and a small fly drew up before the doors.
“Ah, here’s the vicar,” Crain said. “The Reverend Cyril Parkin—he was invited on my father’s insistence, although he’s a decent sort of chap.”
“I should hope so, for a vicar,” I said, following Crain out onto the porch steps, and noting the ever-present Judith shuffling along at our heels.
Crain shot me a wry smile, the meaning of which I was unable to discern.
A footman helped the Reverend Parkin from his fly, and took his small leather case, while the groom drove the little carriage off to the coach-house. The clergyman approached us with a pronounced waddle, beaming a broad smile made all the more dazzling by his overbite and large front teeth.
“Lives a short ride away, but never passes up a chance to stay at the manor,” Crain whispered to me through the side of his mouth. Then he stepped down to greet the vicar with arms outstretched. “Vicar, so good of you to come. I trust you missed the rain.”
“Indeed, and we give thanks for it,” the vicar said. “If I’m not mistaken the weather may favour us today. I did not see you in church this morning, Lord Beving. I trust you are well?”
“I was… waylaid. Here, come and meet Dr Watson, an old friend.”
Crain ushered the clergyman in my direction and introduced us. He was a funny sort of chap, with eyes rather like a pair of toads protruding from their holes, blinking behind thick-lensed pince-nez, and lank hair sticking out from beneath a cloth cap. He returned my handshake rather flaccidly.
“We’ve all heard so much about you,” he said.
I shot Crain a look over the vicar’s shoulder. “Not too much, I hope,” I said.
“O-ho!” the man laughed dismissively, and carried on up the steps. “Do I have my usual room? This way, yes?”
Crain gave a smirk as the Reverend Parkin waddled off, a servant scurrying after him.
“How many more guests are we expecting?” I asked.
“Just Sir Thomas,” Crain said. “And Madame Farr, of course. Sir Thomas lives but a short distance away—the next house along the hilltop drive there, and he usually prefers the walk. Hardy old bird, he is.”
“I rather imagine so; his reputation precedes him.”
“As does yours, thanks to those stories you write. Come, let’s gather everyone in the drawing room for some luncheon.”
As I turned to follow Crain back into the house, I caught sight of a pair of dark figures from the corner of my eye, and my stomach lurched involuntarily. It was Madame Farr and Simon, striding purposefully along the drive. I could not account for my reaction, and breathed a sigh of relief when I saw them heading not towards me at the front door, but to the rear of the property, towards the coach-house and servants’ entrance. I could not postpone an encounter with her indefinitely, but the respite was welcome.
* * *
Laughter and light came to Crain Manor, and the gloom of the previous evening was banished.
Lady Esther had joined us all for the afternoon’s frivolities, although her fiancé was conspicuous by his absence. Langton, too, made a habit of disappearing, his appetite for tobacco being quite rapacious—too much for the company of ladies, its demands too frequent for all of us men to accompany him each time. He would come back from a walk around the grounds wind-pinched and smelling of bird’s-eye tobacco. Constance Langton, meanwhile, attached herself to Esther, the two young ladies clearly being firm friends.
Games were played, and songs were sung. Mrs Langton, it transpired, had the sweetest singing voice, while the Reverend Parkin was a not unaccomplished pianist—though his proclivity for hymns drew several groans in jest, followed by peals of laughter.
Crain, for his troubles, attempted but once to bring the subject of spiritualism to the fore, but was almost immediately quashed by a prevailing atmosphere of gaiety that would not brook the intrusion of sombre topics. Once, however, I did notice a shadow pass the open door of the drawing room, and heard a creeping tread; there I saw Simon peering in at us. No one else seemed to notice him, except for Judith, who exchanged a look with him before he slipped away. I fancied perhaps he was giving a silent signal to the girl, and indeed, just ten minutes later, she set down her sampler and quietly excused herself from the company.
Some hours passed in light-hearted manner, until the door swung open and the butler stepped in to announce a new arrival.
“Sir Thomas Golspie,” he proclaimed.
A formidable figure entered the room, and it gave me some thrill to see that he was every bit the figure I had imagined. Sir Thomas was an imposing-looking fellow, broad of shoulder and stoic of feature. His flinty eyes now took in every detail of the room from the deep sockets of his weather-beaten face. He had the complexion of a Cornishman, dark and leathery, and jet-black hair, the white of age only showing at the temples, and in the bristles of his large moustaches.
Lady Esth
er stepped forward and took both of the man’s hands in hers, his face fair cracking as he beamed.
“Esther, my dear girl, you’re looking better.”
“I feel it, Sir Thomas. It’s good to see you.”
“Sir Thomas, so glad you could make it,” Crain said, striding forward to shake the man’s hand. Sir Thomas’s smile faded. “The sandwiches are all gone, but there is cake if you are partial.”
“And wine!” chimed Cavendish, raising his glass to laughter from the party.
“That’s quite all right,” Sir Thomas said. He looked over Crain’s shoulder, as though counting us all for a second time. “Saw that spindly fellow prowling around outside. Will that Farr woman be joining us?” There was some hard edge to his tone.
“Later, Sir Thomas,” Crain said, looking a little abashed. “And I’m sure he wasn’t prowling. Come, let me introduce you. You know Cavendish and his wife, Jane, of course. There’s the vicar at the pianoforte there. That’s my cousin’s good lady wife, Constance, entertaining us with her singing. I don’t believe you’ve met. And this here is Dr Watson, an old friend from London.”
“A pleasure to meet you,” I said.
“Likewise,” Sir Thomas replied, gripping my hand firmly in the rough, bear-like paw which it was said had once prised apart the jaws of a lioness to save one of his native porters on an African expedition.
Now that I stood face to face with the man, there was something else about those piercing eyes—a sadness, or even fear. Not of me, but the persistent kind, of a man haunted by some great terror, or perhaps guilt. Certainly, though he was the epitome of politeness, there was no mirth in him; with Melville and the elder Lord Berkeley of a similar disposition, it seemed sternness was epidemic in this house.
“I shall send for more tea,” Crain said as the party settled again. “Sir Thomas, would you mind stepping with me for a moment? I must ask you something. Now, everyone else, do not stop on our account. More music!”
The piano struck up again, the Reverend Parkin teasing us with a solemn bar of “O for a Thousand Tongues to Sing”, before performing a clumsy segue into “The Fountain in the Park”, to much laughter from us all. I could not help but wonder what business Crain could have with Sir Thomas, such that it could not wait. Indeed, a moment later I caught sight of the tops of their heads bobbing past the window.
Lady Esther must have noticed my confusion, and leaned over to me. “Sir Thomas is our godfather, you know. I’m afraid he and James are thick as thieves, and have been since we were small—a young boy must have his heroes.”
I was surprised that Crain had room in his heart for heroes other than his sainted mother, but smiled politely all the same. “He keeps rather a strange collection of friends these days,” I said.
“You probably mean Judith,” Esther said. “He brought her home one day like a stray kitten. He met her out at a cottage on the estate, where he likes to go to… get away from it all. She in turn led him straight into the arms of the mysterious Madame Farr. Don’t be fooled by the girl’s dull appearance. I think she’s clever, and perhaps rather sly.”
“I see.”
“Do you? I hope you don’t, or what must you think of us?” She laughed her musical laugh, and turned her attentions back to the other guests.
Langton returned soon afterwards from another smoking jaunt, this time looking a little flustered, as the wind had got up outside. He sat beside his wife, a frown etched on his face.
“Everything all right, Langton?” Cavendish asked, already swaying somewhat from drink.
“Perfectly, don’t mind me.”
Langton sat, and exchanged very quiet words with his wife. There was something about his manner that bothered me; indeed, I think it was the sense that everyone I had met at Crain Manor so far had been in some way circumspect, or had seemed to be hiding something. All except Lady Esther, whose company was a pleasure. That she had been a little ill recently was telling, but she battled on bravely so as not to disappoint her guests. Or, rather, her brother’s guests.
My unease was likely due to my experience the previous night, which even now seemed to be little more than a bad dream. I was also feeling a little worse for yesterday’s drink. I had told Holmes that I was here on a holiday, and so I determined to make the best of it. Even when Crain returned looking unusually buoyant, and Sir Thomas distanced himself from the rest of the company, I refused to let further suspicion and doubt enter my heart. This, I told myself, was Holmes’s influence, and it had no place here.
Later that afternoon, I paid a visit to Crain to borrow a white tie for dinner. I had, rather naively, not expected it to be so formal an affair, given the guest list, but I reminded myself just how prominent a fellow Lord Berkeley was. As I returned to my own room, I heard muffled voices coming from one of the bedrooms further along the corridor of the family wing; a man and a woman. I could make out no words, but the man’s voice was most agitated. I paused; I was sure it was Melville’s room, and I felt aggrieved that the recipient of his ire might be the gentle Lady Esther. Before I knew it, I was gravitating towards the door, with no plan in mind.
I was barely three feet from the door when it flew open, and Melville stepped out, his face like thunder. He paused when he saw me, eyes narrowed, and then wordlessly barged past me. I wanted to say something—at the very least to establish that I had not been eavesdropping—but it was all so sudden that I had no chance. I turned to the door, and saw Lady Esther at the window-seat, dabbing at her eyes with a kerchief. I was about to knock, to offer some comfort—anything—but a slender hand appeared at the crack in the door, and then a face: Sally. The lady’s maid looked at me for a moment, gave a very slight curtsey, and then clicked the door closed.
Somewhat red-faced, I went back towards my own room, and saw Melville’s shadow vanish at the end of the passage; I fancied he did not make for the stairs, but for the Red Tower.
CHAPTER FIVE
DINNER IS SERVED
Dinner was a very different prospect from the previous evening. The dining room was aglow with the light from candelabras and chandeliers, and bedecked in the finest silver. Fresh flowers lined the mantel, and trailed along the centre of the long table. There were lilies amongst them, including white blooms, which caused me a moment’s consternation. I had not considered that the gardener at Crain Manor might cultivate them out of season, or that perhaps they had been ordered from some nearby florist. In any case, I now had an explanation. If Holmes were here, he would surely deduce that the lily at my bedside the previous night had not manifested as if by magic, but had been placed there by mortal hands. But whose? And how did that account for the other aspects of my ghostly experience?
“Dr Watson.”
I had been miles away, and jumped as Sir Thomas Golspie disturbed my wool-gathering.
“We did not have much chance to speak earlier. Young James tells me you are an enthusiast of exploration.”
“I am. Your reputation precedes you, sir.”
“Reputation is not always a blessing, Doctor.”
“Quite,” I said, thinking of how my own reputation had served me so far at Crain Manor. “I must say I have followed your exploits in the press ever since Egypt.”
“Overrated,” Sir Thomas smiled. “I knew little of the world then, and far more famous men than I had already plundered Egypt. I prefer to bring home only that which is freely given.”
“Crain mentioned that you have quite the collection of curios, brought back from your many adventures.”
“Oh, yes. I have trinkets from all over the world, but South Africa mainly—it is my chief area of interest. I have tribal ephemera, artefacts both archaeological and anthropological. I even have a collection of exotic plants, such as my talents allow me to grow—the African tribesmen use a great many herbs and roots for all sorts of ailments. Does the subject interest you?”
“Very much so.”
“Then perhaps if you have time you would like to call tomorr
ow? I would be happy to show you my collection.”
“I should like that very much,” I said, trying hard not to appear like a fanatical schoolboy.
“It is always a pleasure to entertain a fellow traveller.”
“I was,” I said, “though not always by choice.”
“Ah, soldier, is it? Can always tell the cut of a man’s cloth. I had you as a deal too stout for an academician.”
“You are not the first to say so,” I replied with a smile. “I learned my trade as an Army doctor, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Though my service was cut a little short.” I tapped at my left shoulder.
“Wounded?”
“A jezail.”
“Not at Kandahar?” Sir Thomas asked.
“Goodness, no. Maiwand. I had not thought myself lucky at the time, I can tell you. But after what happened at Kandahar, to far braver men than I… well, let us just say I still count my blessings.”
“I would toast you, Doctor, but the wine has not yet been served.”
“You have seen your fair share of action,” I said, brimming with pride at the compliment. “Far more than me, I should say.”
“My military service passed largely without incident, Doctor, and all the trials and tribulations that came later were brought on myself.”
“Nevertheless, I have read the Mackenzie accounts—your time with the Wasimbu peoples was every bit as hazardous as my scrape at Maiwand.”
“Mackenzie exaggerates, perhaps,” Sir Thomas said, his face falling a little at the mention. “It just goes to show: I faced far wilder lands than that in a year-long expedition, and it was returning to the relative safety of the Cape colony, the last leg of the tour, which almost did for us.” At this, Sir Thomas took a silver snuff-box from his pocket, engraved with an intricate design of snakes in the African tribal style. He did not offer the box, but took two pinches for himself, with what I thought was a trembling hand. He looked at me then, with a manner most changed. “If you’ll excuse me, Dr Watson,” he said, “I think our host is coming down and I have not yet said hello.”
Sherlock Holmes--The Red Tower Page 5
