“Please, Watson,” Crain said, more softly, his mood changing like the wind. “I must attend my father, as you advised. You will give us peace, yes?”
Without a word, I backed away from my old friend, and out of the room, whereupon Crain closed the door against me.
* * *
The other house-guests had at least tried to snatch an hour or two’s rest, although I doubt very much they had succeeded. Rather than return to my own room, I dragged myself downstairs to find a servant who might avail me of strong coffee. I did not have far to look, for although most of the household staff were awake, drifting aimlessly, stunned expressions on their faces, they agreed to bring some readily enough.
I passed by the drawing room, giving it a rueful glance. I was not tempted to enter, and instead sat in the morning room, where I drank my coffee, took a telegram pad from my bag, and penned the following missive:
Holmes, please come at once. Lady Esther Crain dead in mysterious circumstances. Lord Berkeley desperately ill. Suspect foul play. Sent for Lestrade. Watson.
I wrote out a similar message, addressed to Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. In truth I would have had any inspector, but his was the first name I could think of. Though he and Holmes did not always see eye to eye, I thought he was just the sort of dogged fellow we needed here at the manor.
I popped into the hall and found a young footman; the same man who had posted my previous telegram. I asked him to repeat the service for me as a matter of urgency.
“The post office does not open until nine o’clock, sir,” the footman said.
“Never mind that. Go now, and wake the postmaster. Tell him to send these messages. It is of the utmost importance that they go at once.”
The lad went off dutifully, and I rather fancied that the postmaster would give him no trouble when he saw the livery of Crain Manor on his jacket.
I stood on the front steps, looking across the misty drive, whereupon a black carriage came slowly into view. The undertaker had already been summoned. Two policemen on bicycles followed close behind, not that their presence would do much good, for the mystery was a thick one indeed. But at least now some real investigation could occur—they would at least keep everything in order until Holmes arrived. I would make sure of it.
I drained my coffee cup. It was going to be a long morning.
* * *
I heard the wail before I even reached Lord Berkeley’s room, and knew that I was too late.
Upon entering the bedchamber, I saw Crain hunched over his father’s bed, clasping the old man’s hand in his, sobbing uncontrollably. Madame Farr and Judith stood near the door, faces devoid of all emotion, along with Eglinton, the butler, whose haggard face was a pinched mask of English reserve.
For Lord Berkeley was indeed dead.
At the other side of the bed stood the Reverend Parkin, who looked to be in no small distress himself whilst completing a prayer with a tremulous voice. When he intoned “Amen,” I muttered it in response, as did Eglinton, though the spiritualists stayed silent; a fact not lost on the vicar.
“Lord Berkeley is gone,” Parkin said. “He was the finest of men. A just and true landlord, a hardworking man of the people, and an incorruptible advocate of God’s word as interpreted by his servants in the church. We can only hope the new Lord Berkeley will continue the good work of the former. God’s work.”
I shifted uncomfortably. Crain managed to look up at the vicar, though his shoulders still heaved from his outpouring of grief. He said nothing.
“We do have a new Lord Berkeley,” Madame Farr said, flatly. “And God willing we shall receive guidance directly from the former, to understand what has happened here. To understand why such a good man has been so cruelly punished, and what amends must be made to prevent such a terrible fate from being repeated.”
I was aghast at these words, but had no time to remonstrate before the vicar snapped shut his Bible and marched around the bed to confront the spiritualists.
“The only sin Lord Berkeley committed was allowing evil into his house, and even that he did through love of his son. If there was a punishment, it was brought upon him by you!”
“Do you agree that God has visited his wrath upon Lord Berkeley?” Madame Farr asked. Was that a smirk on her wrinkled lips? “Come, come. Ours is a merciful lord. If He really did deem it necessary to smite anyone, it would surely be me. No, Vicar. This was not God’s doing, but by His grace I shall find out the truth, from Theobald Crain himself.”
“Blasphemy!” Parkin cried, and shook his fist at the woman. I stepped forward, ready to intervene lest his anger boil over into violence. Instead he said, coldly, “There is only one way to understand Lord Berkeley’s wishes from beyond the grave, Madam, and that is through his last will and testament. And whatever evil you have wrought, I doubt very much that even you would have managed to manipulate a man of such resolute temperament to change his will in your favour.”
Madame Farr did not so much as flinch, but merely said, “Such insinuation is beneath you, Vicar. Besides, as you said previously, there is a new Lord Berkeley. It is his wellbeing with which you should concern yourself.”
Parkin turned to me. “You heard her, Dr Watson. As good as a confession!”
“Calm yourself, Vicar,” I said. “This is a trying time for everyone, but high words, spoken in the heat of passion, will not help.”
“Can no one see that a crime has been committed?” the vicar asked.
“Nothing is yet proven. But know that I have already summoned my friend Sherlock Holmes, and if there is any evidence to support your theory, he will find it.”
At the mention of Holmes, the vicar’s expression changed entirely: he became at once still, perhaps even thoughtful, his toad-like eyes darting about as his mind considered some opaque possibilities. The same could not be said of Madame Farr and Judith, who exchanged a look so uncharacteristically full of worry that my suspicions were at once aroused.
“Y… You are right, of course,” the vicar stammered. “Forgive me.”
“It is not my forgiveness you must seek, Vicar. In the presence of the bereaved family, such scenes are unbecoming.”
Parkin’s expression drooped, and he nodded. He was careful to avoid even glancing again at Madame Farr, but instead stepped to the side of Crain. “Lord Berkeley,” he said. “Forgive me. Your father was very dear to me, but I cannot imagine what you are going through at this time. Respectfully, I offer the counsel and service of the church, whenever you might require them. I shall leave you to your own prayers now. Good day.” Without another word, he left the room.
I stayed some time, but it was clear that Crain would not be consoled, and that Madame Farr would not leave him be. Judith, I thought, was full of hand-wringing angst on Crain’s behalf. In the end, Crain commanded that everyone but Madame Farr leave the room, so that they might pray together. Eventually, I had to acquiesce, for all my reservations, and persuaded a reluctant Eglinton to leave the room with me, so that he could speak with the undertaker, and ensure the police were given every cooperation.
Before long, Eglinton had organised the house—it seemed that his sense of duty and the comfort of industrious endeavour kept him from his melancholy. He showed the constables to the Red Tower, where they carried out an inspection even less thorough than my own. Once the police were satisfied, they instructed the undertaker and his man to take away the body. To this I objected strongly, knowing that Holmes would want to inspect the body. But as I could give them no concrete cause of death, the policemen would not be swayed, saying that she must be taken to the police surgeon right away. Given that I had no guarantee Holmes would even arrive today, I was forced to relent. The undertakers carried Lady Esther away, and were given the solemn instruction that they were to return post haste for Lord Berkeley.
I took the two officers aside in a quiet corner of the hall, and in hushed terms told them precisely why I suspected foul play. The older of the two men, Constable H
ardacre, stroked his beard thoughtfully.
“You say the lady wrote you a letter, sir? Accusing… what’s her name now? Madame Farr?—of plotting against her.”
“That’s right,” I said.
“And where’s this letter now, sir?”
“It was…” I checked myself, knowing how it would sound. “Destroyed. Accidentally.”
Hardacre tutted, and shook his head in a sympathetic gesture. “And did anyone else see this note?”
I cleared my throat. “Only Lord Berkeley. The new Lord Berkeley, I mean.”
“Well, he didn’t mention no note, sir. And he’s not disposed to speak with us further right at this moment, as I’m sure you can understand. Hold on now, isn’t that Lady Esther’s fiancé?”
My heart sank as Hardacre summoned a glowering Melville over to us. This was the last thing I had wanted.
Hardacre explained to him all I had said about the note, and asked, “So, Mr Melville, you don’t happen to know anything about this note, do you?”
“I’m afraid not, Constable,” Melville replied. “Lady Esther was with me most of the time, right up until she entered the tower room. I suppose she could have written a letter, sneaked across the passage and slipped it under Dr Watson’s door, but I don’t know when. Still, if Dr Watson says it is so, then perhaps it is. He has no reason to lie.”
At this he fixed me with the queerest look. His choice of words was not lost on me, nor, it seemed, upon Hardacre, who sucked air through his teeth before thanking Melville for his time.
“There you have it, sir,” Hardacre said to me, as though everything were now explained. “We’ll be sure to ask Lord Berkeley about it all later, but for now you must leave us to do our duty.”
There was little more I could say. They had my statement, and had all the other guests and servants still to interview.
About an hour later, I was looking for Crain when he passed me on the stairs, in a frightful hurry, his face pale and drawn. For once he was alone.
“Ah, Crain, I was—”
“I’m going out!” he snapped.
“But I need to speak with you. The police need to speak with you. And Holmes will be—”
But my words fell on deaf ears. He went swiftly to the front door, snatched an overcoat from the stand, and marched out across the drive. I could not account for his behaviour, but recognised a man in shock when I saw one.
I heard movement on the stairs above me, and looked up to see Simon and Judith staring down from the landing. Judith had been crying. Her eyes were red, and tears still streaked her face. She turned away quickly and scurried off. Simon, however, held my gaze impertinently, turning slowly away only when I took a step towards him. In a moment more, he was gone, probably back to report to his mistress.
What an uncommonly dark shadow had descended upon that house! And what grim circumstance conspired to have me present as a witness to it all. I looked at my watch, praying that Holmes would come, and quickly.
CHAPTER NINE
THE GREAT DETECTIVE
It was ten to one when we heard the sound of a carriage approaching. I followed the footman as he went to the front door, half expecting it to be the undertakers returning for Lord Berkeley. Instead, I saw it was a two-wheeler that pulled up.
I can barely describe the relief I felt when Holmes stepped from it. His tall frame, accentuated by a top hat, cut an imposing figure, and perhaps only to my eye was enough to dispel the oppressive atmosphere of Crain Manor, and raise my spirits. He exchanged a few words with the cabbie, and at last his hawkish eyes alighted upon me.
“Watson! I came as soon as I could. Lucky for you I made the eleven o’clock from Waterloo.”
“My dear Holmes! You are a sight for sore eyes. I wasn’t sure if you would come.”
“Why ever not? Come now, you must tell me everything. Is that a constable I see? You there! My name is Sherlock Holmes. Who is in charge here?”
“In charge, sir?” the policeman answered, looking rather like a rabbit in the lamper’s light. “Why, I suppose I am. Constable Hardacre is my name, sir. But there’s nothing to be in charge of, so to speak.”
“Has not a murder been committed?” Holmes asked.
“Murder? No, sir. At least… I don’t think so, sir.”
“I shall be the judge of that. Take me to the body of Lady Esther Crain.”
“The body?” The constable looked about himself nervously, such was Holmes’s commanding presence. “The body is gone, sir. To the police surgeon.”
Holmes turned and gave me the most accusing look, which would cause any other man to wither away. “Watson, you let them take the body?”
“If you had taken the time to wire ahead, I should have been able to delay them, but it is done now. Besides, I have already made a full examination.”
“And I suppose Constable Hardacre, his cohorts, the undertaker, and an army of servants have already traipsed through the crime scene?”
I sighed. “Not quite so many, Holmes.”
“I shall have to make do with what crumbs may have been left by the clumsy boots of well-meaning idiots,” Holmes muttered.
“First of all, Holmes, we should seek the permission of the family before launching a murder investigation.”
“Lord Berkeley? Is he well enough?”
“He is dead, Holmes.”
Holmes looked very grave. “Then your friend Lord Beving is the master of the house. Where is he?”
“I don’t actually…”
By sheer providence, at that moment Crain appeared across the lawn, returning from whatever jaunt he had taken.
“Hallo, Watson!” he called, and waved in a remarkably cheery fashion, his earlier disposition much changed. “Who’s this?”
As Crain drew nearer, I saw a queer look in his eyes—distant and glassy, though they shot about furtively. It was a look I had seen many times both at home and abroad, in the eyes of men who sought oblivion in the embrace of some mind-altering substance or another to ease their pain. Holmes, being no stranger to such pursuits himself, surely noticed it too.
“Crain, I am happy to see you return. This is my friend, Mr Holmes. Holmes, this is Lord Berkeley.”
“Mr Sherlock Holmes!” Crain said, with a twitching smile. He shook Holmes’s hand. “I wish we could have met in more auspicious circumstances. My sister…” Crain choked back sudden emotion. “She was an avid follower of your exploits. She devoured every detail of your cases.”
“Indeed?” Holmes said, an eyebrow arching somewhat. “And did she ever employ my methods?”
“Why… I suppose she did, yes. At times.”
“Times such as…?”
“She attempted to reveal Madame Farr as a fraud, if you must know. It all seems so trivial a thing now.”
“Trivial? I doubt that, Lord Berkeley. Presumably she did not succeed in exposing Madame Farr?”
“How could she? Madame Farr is the genuine article.”
“Indeed,” Holmes said again, his eyebrow completing its ascent to incredulity.
“Mr Holmes, I am quite sure Madame Farr will submit to whatever scrutiny you wish in order that you may satisfy yourself of the facts. You will find nothing amiss.”
“Nothing? Then what is your explanation for the two tragic deaths?”
Crain winced, as though his grief had been forgotten and was only now recalled. “The excitement of the evening’s events—the sighting of the family ghost—perhaps it put too much strain on her constitution.”
“Family ghost?” Holmes frowned. “Watson, is this true?”
“It is, Holmes.”
“You saw it?”
“We all saw it,” Crain interjected.
“And was Lady Esther’s constitution so poor that she could have died of shock, or of fright?” Holmes asked me directly.
“I would have said not, had you asked me last night,” I replied. “But Crain’s assessment rather echoes that of Melville.”
“Who is
he?”
“Lady Esther’s fiancé, Geoffrey Melville. He’s a barrister.”
“Yes, I have heard of him. His word is well respected around the police courts. Watson, it is a chilly afternoon and I rather think, with Lord Berkeley’s permission of course, that we should step inside and begin our investigation.”
“Our investigation?” I asked.
“Certainly. We shall begin by inspecting the scene of the crime, and proceed with a thorough and full recitation of the events of the past two days.”
“Again, Mr Holmes, I say there is no crime, and so the tower room cannot be called a crime scene.”
“Then my work here will be over and done before you know it. What harm can it do to have a second opinion, my lord?”
“He’s right, Crain,” I said in a low voice. “I stand by every word I said regarding Holmes. If—and I really mean if—there is a villain in this house, he will find that villain. And if not, he will prove that too. You wanted someone to demonstrate whether or not Madame Farr was the genuine article? Well, I give you none other than Sherlock Holmes himself as the tool for that particular job.”
I was not being entirely honest with Crain, but my words appeared to have some impact. Crain was considering things, when there came some motion in the hall behind us, and the sound of footsteps and the dragging of trunks. Within, the Langtons and Cavendishes were heading our way, a pair of footmen bringing along their cases. Behind them, I caught a glimpse of the scarecrow figure of Simon, slipping soundlessly from the hall to the drawing room, but there was no time to halt him.
“There you are, old boy,” Langton said to Crain. “I’ve been looking for you. We have paid our respects, and would do anything to stay with you longer, but I rather think we should get out of your way. Besides, business calls and so on will not wait. I am afraid we must go, although we feel dreadful about it. Cavendish here is in the same predicament.”
“Please introduce us, Watson,” Holmes said.
“Holmes, this is David Langton, Lord Berkeley’s cousin, and his wife, Constance. The gentleman behind him there is Lord Berkeley’s solicitor, Mr Josiah Cavendish, and his wife, Jane. This is my friend Mr Sherlock Holmes.”
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