Crain and his father entered together. Sir Thomas turned away from me and made straight for Lord Berkeley, their mutual respect evident. I could not have failed to notice the way Sir Thomas’s manner had changed when I raised the topic of the Wasimbu tribe. That he had gone missing from his expedition for some time, and contracted malaria, was well documented. I had assumed he would have grown accustomed to discussing his exploits, but it appeared the memories were still painful. As James Crain passed Sir Thomas, they exchanged some queer look—certainly, on Crain’s part it was a guarded one. I wondered if it concerned whatever matter they had discussed privately earlier that afternoon.
There was no time to ponder further. I was shown to my seat, the middle chair to the right of the host’s place—a goodly few settings further up than I’d expected, being an outsider to the family. Lord Berkeley took his place at the head of the table, Sir Thomas to his left. The other guests entered, taking up their seats, so that I ended up with Langton’s space to my left and, to my delight, Lady Esther to my right, looking resplendent in a rather unusual high-collared, long-sleeved dress of embroidered gold. Her lady’s maid, Sally, fussed around her as usual. Whereas previously I had barely noticed the girl, now I watched her with no small suspicion.
Crain was seated directly opposite me, and I felt a creeping sensation to the pit of my stomach as Madame Farr entered, sitting to Crain’s left, opposite Esther.
“Oh, good,” Esther muttered.
“An unusual arrangement,” I whispered to her. The seating for such dinners usually followed a rather strict plan. Lord Berkeley would always take the host’s place, of course, even though the party had been arranged by his son. The female guest of honour was thus Madame Farr, who should sit to Lord Berkeley’s right—now Langton’s place.
“Father would not brook sitting beside that woman for dinner,” Esther returned my whisper with a knowing smile. “I had a word with Eglinton earlier, and he saw to it.”
I glanced to Eglinton, the butler, who I’d found to be as efficient a fellow as I ever saw in service.
“But you did not expect to be opposite our friend there?” I asked.
“I did not. But I’m sure Eglinton did his best at short notice.”
Across the table, Madame Farr and Crain were already in some deep and sober discussion. Judith looked down at her lap, timid as a mouse. The odd man, Simon, stood beside the butler at the sideboard, drawing the occasional disapproving look. It seemed that Madame Farr liked to have her own servant present to cater to her peculiarities, and for some reason this was permitted.
Lady Esther and I paused our conspiratorial mutterings as the rest of the guests were seated and order resumed. Mr and Mrs Cavendish took up the remaining spaces beside Madame Farr—Cavendish did not seem to mind, given that he was already teetering a little. We waited a few moments too long for the last of the guests. Finally, the Reverend Parkin waddled in, looking rather serious and distracted. It was all he could do to mutter some apologies, appearing notably disappointed when he was shown to the very end of the table, an empty seat between him and Esther Crain.
“Is everything all right, Vicar?” Crain asked across the table.
“Hmm?” Parkin mumbled, staring into space.
Crain caught my attention and rolled his eyes, smirking at the vicar’s expense.
“Your fiancé, Lady Esther?” I asked. “I’ve barely seen Melville all day.” The scene I had witnessed between the two of them played on my mind.
“He had some rather tiresome papers to sign earlier, and I’m afraid it has given him a severe headache.”
“Oh dear,” I replied. “I have some pills in my bag that might help, if—”
“No, that won’t be necessary,” Lady Esther said, hastily. “He gets them from time to time, from overwork. He told me he would follow me down presently.”
Langton now arrived, his hair a little damp from rain. He, too, apologised to the host, before taking his seat next to me. He passed some silly remark about it being too wet outside even to light his pipe, and I became engaged in small talk with him. As I did, I noticed Lady Esther’s maid, Sally, pass by us. She leaned beside Esther, and the two of them conspired in hushed, urgent tones for a moment, before Sally hurried away.
“Eglinton!” Lord Berkeley barked. “We can’t wait all evening for Melville. Fetch the soup.”
“At once, my lord,” the butler said, and scurried from the room.
“I say, Esther,” Crain said. “Is Melville all right?”
“Just one of his headaches,” she replied. Her smile was somewhat pained, such that I wondered if she had a headache herself.
The chatter continued, and when the servants did arrive with the first course, Melville came in with them, looking rather flustered. His hair was damp, as Langton’s had been, and he smoothed it with his hands as he made for his place.
“Been out in the rain, Melville?” Crain asked.
“Just a brisk walk,” Melville replied. “To blow away the cobwebs.”
“Feeling better now, I hope.”
“Very much, yes.” Melville reached his place, and bowed briskly towards the head of the table. “My apologies, Lord Berkeley.”
The elder Crain merely waved a hand, and took up again whatever conversation he was having with Sir Thomas. Melville was seated, exchanging the slightest nod with his fiancée, and greeting the vicar, who appeared glad finally to have someone with whom to converse more clearly. Lady Esther’s demeanour changed as Melville took his seat. There were some whispered words between them, and I fancied she trembled slightly before composing herself.
I knew that, at some point, Crain would try to stamp the subject of spiritualism upon our gathering. He had assembled this group, and his purpose had been made clear, at least to me if not to the others. Yet the conversation flowed as easily as the wine, and by the time the main course was half-devoured, no mention of spiritualism had been made. Madame Farr had spoken only quietly, and only to Crain and Judith. I took note of the guests: the Reverend Parkin had been subdued since his arrival, and Lady Esther likewise since the appearance of her fiancé. Mrs Cavendish attempted often to converse politely with Parkin, Melville, and even Madame Farr, but was frequently cut off by her husband who, through sheer drunken obliviousness rather than malign intent, turned every discourse into a raucous jest. Langton spoke with me primarily of business—he possessed an extensive portfolio of property in Dorset, like his father before him, I gathered. I could tell he was a serious fellow, hard-working and earnest, and in that respect we had much in common. He bore himself with nobility, not from breeding, but from that drive that some men have to prove themselves the better of those more fortunate than they. Constance Langton was as down-to-earth as her husband, and I sensed she was a little stranded at dinner—the unusual seating arrangements caused by Madame Farr’s unwelcome presence had left her surrounded by earnest men, the only other feminine presence in earshot the uncommunicative Judith across the way. As I glanced in Judith’s direction, I noted Simon entering from the hall, skirting the room noiselessly and passing Judith’s place. I had not even noticed him leave, and his stealth bothered me, perhaps irrationally.
It was as our meat course was being cleared that Lord Berkeley called across the table to his son.
“James, listen, boy. Sir Thomas was just asking about the future of the Crain estate,” he said. “I told him that the future is rather bleak, unless you get out there and find a wife. Any prospects in that department?”
This caused rather a number of awkward, downward glances. Crain looked decidedly embarrassed.
“There is plenty of time for that, Father,” he replied.
“Time? It’s the one thing we don’t have, my lad. I’ll be dead before long, and what then?”
“Father!” Esther exclaimed.
“Don’t worry yourself, m’dear. At this rate, you and Melville will have produced a suitable heir before my only son. Or maybe Cousin David here deserves a tu
rn. At least he works hard.”
Langton stretched his shoulders and stared down at his plate, most uncomfortably.
“I work hard, Father,” Crain said. “I’m on the estate almost every day.”
“Yes, you’re out. But what are you doing? Not working, that’s for sure. Mark my words, my lad, you need to find yourself a woman who’s more interested in the living than the dead, or else I’ll change my will. What do you say, Cavendish?”
“Eh?” Cavendish said, almost in a squeak.
“I said I’ll change me will. You can see to that, can’t you?”
“Of course, Lord Berkeley. Capital idea,” the solicitor replied, squinting as he struggled to focus on his host.
Cavendish’s wife gave him a sharp nudge, and scowled at her husband.
“There you go. What do we think? Cousin David is next in line—maybe everything goes to him. Every penny!”
“Um… I say, my lord, if I might—” the vicar said, timidly.
“Every penny!” Lord Berkeley repeated, more forcefully, and fixed Parkin with such a look that the clergyman shrank away.
“Father, we should speak of these matters in private,” Crain said.
“Indeed we should, yet we have no privacy, do we? This meek little thing follows you around like a puppy.” He indicated Judith, who looked suddenly as though she wished the ground would swallow her up. “She’ll not do you for a wife, you know. You could have a princess, an heiress.”
“Perhaps when I marry, it will be for love,” Crain said defiantly.
At this, there was a flicker of emotion from Judith, some half-smile, and those “doe eyes” that Lady Esther had mentioned. I looked to Esther, who was staring past me to her father, with a faint, yet devilish smile on her lips. Was this at her brother’s discomfort, I wondered?
Lord Berkeley, however, barked a laugh that turned into a rumbling, phlegmy cough. “Love. Ha! Do you think Agnes and I married for love?”
“My mother—” Crain began, his temper showing.
“Yes, yes, I know all about it. Your dear sainted mother is the only woman you’ll ever let into your heart, more’s the pity. Let me tell you, boy: yes, I loved your mother, in the end, but it didn’t start out like that. It was a good match from the beginning, a smart and practical one. That’s all one can hope for when securing a legacy. And I’ll be damned if I go to my grave knowing…” Lord Berkeley blustered, and then fell into a fit of coughing, which ended whatever impassioned speech he was about to give. He clicked his fingers, and a servant rushed over with a glass of water. Eventually, he calmed himself, his fit of pique subsiding, and he waved a hand at his son. “The devil with you,” he said, quietly. “Maybe when I’m gone, you can ask this one here all the questions you never asked me in life.”
“Please, Father,” Esther interrupted. “Don’t speak so of death. You’re strong as an ox—you will outlive me, I’m sure.”
“What father would wish to outlive his children?” Lord Berkeley said, his manner now demure. “I apologise, daughter—to you, at least—for I would cause you no distress. Now, do not mind me. Where is pudding?” He announced this a deal more heartily, and as if on cue, two servants entered with a trolley, and bowls of pudding and custard were served.
“Well, at the risk of sounding a bit morbid,” said Cavendish, with remarkable lucidity for a man who had been drinking wine long before the rest of us had started, “there are a few questions I’d like to ask of the dead.”
“Really?” asked Crain. “What, and of whom?”
“Glad you asked, Lord Beving.” He stifled a belch, and begged pardon before continuing. “First, I would like to ask my former partner, Cruddas, precisely where he mislaid the winnings from the ’87 Derby, because they certainly did not go towards securing our new premises as we had agreed.” There was some laughter, though not from the spiritualists. “Although I do recall he spent a lot of time at rather wild parties in the City that year, which perhaps contributed to his current state. By that, I mean, death. Next, I would ask my first wife…” this drew daggers from Mrs Cavendish, “whether she regrets her strict adherence to temperance, and still believes drink will drive me to an early grave.”
The laughter now was louder, and even Mrs Cavendish tried to hide a smile at her husband’s tomfoolery.
“Finally,” Cavendish continued, “I would ask a general question. More a favour, really. I would request that, when I am gone, I am not summoned to someone’s drawing room to play the banjo. I shall leave such posthumous entertainment to men such as the vicar here, who love a captive audience.”
At this, we all laughed heartily, Lord Berkeley included. Madame Farr, meanwhile, simply looked about, wearing a rather feline expression, observing us all in turn.
“Now, now. Given the present company, this is hardly the matter for jests,” Langton said, the smirk on his lips suggesting that he was far from a believer in Madame Farr’s practices.
“Quite,” Crain said, rather seriously. “Mr Cavendish may joke, but communication with those who have passed is possible.”
“Do you really think so?” Constance Langton asked.
“I know so. I have experienced it first-hand, with the guidance of Madame Farr.”
This drew a wearisome sigh from Lady Esther, and a grumble and shake of the head from the old man at the head of the table.
“I don’t know, old fellow,” Langton said. “We hear so much talk of charlatanry and fraud in these matters—no offence intended, Madame Farr, I’m sure. It’s just that, well, it is a little hard to swallow. I say, don’t we have a detective in our midst?”
I felt all eyes turn to me. Crain in particular looked to me in earnest, the hope that I would speak up for him writ large on his face.
“I am no detective,” I said. “I am a doctor, and content to be so.”
“But your friend Sherlock Holmes is a detective,” Lady Esther said. “What would he make of all this talk?”
“I know very well what Holmes would say, Lady Esther,” I replied. “He would say it was rubbish—indeed, I have heard him say so more than once.”
I kept my tone as light as I could, but could see Crain’s face fall.
“Hear, hear!” The Reverend Parkin rapped on the table with the handle of his dessert spoon, then looked decidedly awkward at the attention he attracted.
“Surely Mr Holmes would regard the spirit of inquiry as a good thing?” A complete hush descended as Madame Farr spoke at last. A faint smile wrinkled about her lips, while her dark eyes smouldered.
“He would, ordinarily,” I said. “But it is the type of ‘spirit’ that is the problem.” Again, I jested, and this drew some laughter from all sides.
“So he would dismiss the evidence of his senses?” Madame Farr persisted.
“The sixth sense, certainly. He is strictly rational in his approach.”
“And amazingly knowledgeable,” interjected Lady Esther. “If your own writing on the subject is not… exaggerated.” She gave me a knowing smile; I believe she was trying to steer the conversation elsewhere, so that I would not need to spar with the rather formidable-looking woman across the table.
“Well… yes, his knowledge and aptitude for the retention of facts is remarkable, but it has to be said that so, too, is his ignorance.”
“Oh?”
“Holmes takes little interest in any fact that does not impinge upon his work. For instance, I once wrote that he cares little for the evidence that the earth travels around the sun, and I stand by it. To his mind, it might as well be a ball of fire hanging in the sky. Holmes cares merely that the length and direction of shadows cast by it can be calculated accurately. Only the latter knowledge aids the art of detection. His cardinal rule, therefore, is to acquire no knowledge that does not bear upon his object, lest it crowd out some useful data from his capacious brain.”
Crain spoke up next. “Now, Watson, I wonder if you will come clean, so to speak?”
“I don’t follow.�
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“You know my sister has read all your stories, and is something of a devotee of Mr Holmes, but Judith here—though she is too shy to ask it herself—doubts that anyone could be quite so clever as the Holmes you describe. I take you at your word, naturally. So, just between us here at this table, what’s the truth? Is he really the world’s greatest detective? Or do you rather flatter his talents for the sake of a good yarn?”
“I understand why you might ask,” I said, noting Judith’s downcast gaze. “Holmes rarely takes the credit for his cases, for discretion is one of his most prized virtues. Additionally, I always change the names of the clients in my reports, so as to protect them from unwanted attention. And yes, it is true that my literary pretensions lend certain flourishes to the prose that might make one think it was all an invention of my pen. But I tell you in all honesty, and can look you straight in the eye while I do it, that the stories are for the most part true. And the published accounts barely scratch the surface of Holmes’s successful cases. If there is a finer detective in the world, I have yet to hear of him.”
Madame Farr coughed, and made some pretence of clearing her throat. Most of my audience appeared engrossed in the conversation, but it appeared to me that the spiritualists were rattled. I looked directly to Judith, who still had not looked up. “Does that answer your question, miss?” I asked.
She reddened, and nodded.
Lady Esther clapped her hands together. “I told you so, brother,” she said. “Maybe I should secure the services of Mr Holmes myself, to solve the Case of the Impossible Medium. We could all be in one of Dr Watson’s stories. What fun!”
“Well, in the absence of Holmes,” Crain interrupted, annoyance in his tone, “I think we have enough sceptics here to put the matter to the test.”
Hush descended once more.
“What matter, dear brother?” Esther asked coyly.
“The matter, sister, of whether it is indeed possible to speak with the dead.” The silence that met this suggestion was deafening. “Well, come on,” he pressed. “It is rather the elephant in the room. You all know it is why I invited you here.”
Sherlock Holmes--The Red Tower Page 6
