Sherlock Holmes--The Red Tower

by Mark A. Latham

  “This is luminous paint, concocted using match-heads and other simple ingredients. Any garment soaked in it and left in sunlight for a few hours will appear to glow in darkness when it reacts with a light source, however feeble. It was whilst reading a monograph on the tricks of spirit-mediums that I discovered the formula, as it happens.”

  “Is there a trail? Can we see where the spirit went?”

  “Sadly not. Some decent attempt has been made to clean the carpet—some smudges remain here by the door, but that is all.” Holmes stood, and I followed suit. “Tell me again exactly what happened that night. You came to bed feeling somewhat drunk?”

  “Yes.”

  “Every detail. Did you eat or drink anything upon returning to your room?”

  “I simply drank some water from the pitcher by my bed.”

  “You poured it from the pitcher, or it was already poured?”

  I thought hard on this. The events were not entirely clear in my mind. “A glass was already poured.”

  “By your own hand?”

  “No… it was waiting for me.” I began to feel rather foolish.

  “And then you went straight to sleep?”

  “I did.”

  “When you awoke and saw this ‘spirit’, what then?”

  “I was in a terrible state. My legs were like jelly, my head swimming. I could not get up. The spirit was just like Mary—even her hair was styled as it was on our wedding day. I watched the spirit walk from the door, over to the far corner of the room, whereupon it vanished. Only then did I manage to steady myself enough to investigate, but found nothing.”

  “Did she speak?”

  “I… think so. But only in the faintest whisper. And then there were the flowers. A white lily.”

  “But later you saw these same flowers in the house, as decorations?”

  “Yes, and again at the séance. I drew the conclusion that the flowers were placed in my room while I was asleep.”

  “You carry a photograph of Mary from your wedding day. Was it on your person?”

  “It was… but I left it in the drawer of my nightstand after I dressed for dinner.”

  “So one of the spiritualists could have stolen into your room and found it?”

  “Yes, but I think they were all present the whole evening. Judith follows Crain as closely as his own shadow. Simon was in and out during dinner, I think. Even after my reading in the tower, I saw him creeping about in the yard. Unless Madame Farr herself entered my room while I was outside, I don’t know who could have done it, or when.”

  Holmes pursed his lips as he thought. “Before discussing this further, we should find somewhere more private.”

  “More private than my room?” I asked.

  “Oh, indeed—if you heard whispers in the walls, then presumably we can be overheard also.”

  I felt most uncomfortable at the very thought, but could not fault my companion’s logic. “To be honest, Holmes,” I said, lowering my voice, “I have felt rather… observed… since setting foot in this house. Madame Farr’s assistant, Simon, skulks about always. He seems to be everywhere at once.”

  “This was the fellow creeping around the hall when I first arrived?”

  “You saw him?”

  “Little escapes me, Watson. Now, lead on.”

  I led Holmes downstairs, poking my head into a couple of rooms before settling on the morning room. Holmes insisted on leaving the door ajar so that we might see or hear anyone approach, and we conducted our conversation in hushed tones.

  “Did you drink any more water before retiring?” Holmes asked.

  “Yes… I poured it from the pitcher. I drank almost the whole damn lot, I can tell you.”

  “Then I think we have our answer.”

  “We do?”

  “It is unusual for servants to decant the water from a nightstand into a glass.”

  “Yes, but not entirely unheard of. And this family has so many eccentricities I hardly thought anything of it.”

  “Ah. But as it stands, there is a fair chance that there was some drug in the glass already—something odourless and tasteless, although even that would not be completely necessary if the victim were the worse for drink. During the ghostly visitation, your senses were clouded, and your strength sapped—you could not confront the spirit, nor could you identify her with any certainty, and thus you were left entirely open to the power of suggestion. When the ordeal was over, you poured several glasses of clean water from the pitcher, thus destroying the evidence of the laced glass.”

  “It sounds more plausible than the alternative,” I said.

  “After breakfast the next morning: presumably the room had been cleaned, and the nightstand cleared away?”

  I nodded.

  “So now we must ascertain what drug was used on you. Any ideas?”

  “There are a good many possibilities, Holmes.”

  “I wonder if, in a far higher dose, the same poison could have been used on Lady Esther,” Holmes mused.

  “Doubtful,” I said. “I was stupefied. With a higher dose, I don’t think Lady Esther could have called out, or left her bed to be found how she was.” I paused. “Holmes… Madame Farr has played me for a fool, hasn’t she?”

  “She has identified your weakness, and used it to her advantage, just as I shall do to her. There is no shame in being hoodwinked, Watson—just be proud that you remained incredulous even after all that. Your friend Lord Berkeley could learn a lot from you.”

  “Who do you suppose the actress was?” I asked. “Judith is the obvious choice.”

  “Yes, but rule no one out. It seems everyone has secrets of some sort in this house. It might have been a maid, paid off by Madame Farr. It might have been Lady Esther herself.”

  “Esther!”

  “Why not?”

  “What motive could she have?”

  Holmes shrugged his angular shoulders. “To incriminate the spiritualists by staging an obvious ruse? And don’t forget this is her house—if there is a secret passage, perhaps she knew of it already. And she could certainly organise the servants to set up and clear away such a trick.”

  “I can’t believe it, especially after what became of her. And what if she’d been caught in the act? What good would it have done her?”

  “That does make her an unlikely culprit, Watson. Unless… What if she was caught, but by the spiritualists, and killed because she was trying to discredit them?”

  “Lady Esther was already trying to discredit them,” I said.

  “Quite, albeit unsuccessfully. There is much that does not add up, Watson, and we need further data upon which to draw a conclusion. The similarities between your visitation and the appearance of the ‘red woman’ are presently our best correlating factors. Why don’t you show me where this second ghost was seen?”

  I guided Holmes out into the corridor, and around to the servants’ passage behind the drawing room, where he carefully inspected the sealed portal that had once accessed the tower.

  “Crain told us some ghost story about the lower parts of the tower being sealed after a fire,” I explained. “Something about the foundations being unsafe, and a good deal more about a curse… it didn’t make much sense to me, I’m afraid.”

  “No matter. It is another avenue to investigate.”

  We doubled back through the narrow passage, with Holmes tapping on the walls periodically. When we emerged into the broader corridor, Holmes peered towards the rear of the house, where a few servants could be seen flitting back and forth between the kitchen and the scullery.

  “That fellow Simon we spoke of earlier,” Holmes said. “When I saw him, he was entering the drawing room—heading in this direction. Would he have any business in this part of the house?”

  “Presumably he is sleeping in the servants’ quarters, just down there.”

  “Then he has freedom of movement around the house. Servants go by ways untrodden, and move about unnoticed. If the walls have ears, then
perhaps we should take a stroll around the grounds, and you can avail me of every detail. I want it all laid out for me, Watson, in the order it occurred, as clear as you can recall it. In my experience the smallest trifle may yield the most profound result.”

  * * *

  We took in a good deal of the grounds, which had so far been closed to me due to inclement weather and social obligations. The Crain estate extended far beyond what I had seen, encompassing walled gardens, orchards, and a boating lake fed by a fast-flowing stream that cascaded from forested hills. We took in the great expanse of deer park, which stretched for a hundred acres or more until it reached the distant enclosures of Crain’s tenants. My friend James had inherited a generous slice of England’s green and pleasant land, under highly unpleasant circumstances.

  As we walked, I told Holmes everything I could remember, from the moment I had stepped from the coach to the moment of his arrival. Holmes took great interest in my assessment of each guest’s character, but more interest still in my observations of their activities and my recollection of things they had said.

  “It is clear to me,” he said, “that your opinion of Geoffrey Melville is rather low.”

  “What I observed outside the morning room window on Saturday night…”

  “I see. You therefore think Lady Esther ill-used at Melville’s hand?”

  “I do. It was not an isolated incident. It only confirmed what I had already suspected.”

  “That is a common mistake,” Holmes said. “If you had already drawn a conclusion, then you would be tempted to confirm that conclusion through observation, rather than allow the observation to guide you to other possibilities.”

  “Really, Holmes! The man was compromised if you ask me, and with his own wife’s maid. Yesterday I saw the three of them together, and Lady Esther had been crying. Add to that the note… What other possibility could there be?”

  “That is the only question you should be asking!” Holmes said, almost with a smile on his thin lips. “For now, I shall take from you only that which you describe from observation, and without meaning any offence, set aside that which I consider conjecture and inference.”

  I mumbled some objection at Holmes’s lack of faith in my judgement, but in truth I knew he meant nothing by it. His methods were his own, as he so often told me.

  “Melville was late for dinner yesterday evening?” Holmes asked.

  “He was, and was wet from the rain too. The vicar was also late, and looked equally flustered.”

  “Then let us next consider the absent vicar,” Holmes said. “From your recollections he seemed rather single-minded on the matter of the late Lord Berkeley’s will.”

  “To the point of being unseemly,” I said. “When I passed St Mary’s church on Saturday, it was indeed in a state of disrepair, but I think it is more than simply caring about the maintenance of the property. Even Crain joked that the Reverend Parkin concerns himself rather too much with social climbing, and I saw nothing to convince me otherwise.”

  “There was a suggestion that Lord Berkeley might not leave a stipend for the church in his will, despite some former agreement?”

  “That was the impression I received. And the vicar was being something of a bully towards the drunken Cavendish when I encountered them after dinner, trying to extract the details of Lord Berkeley’s will from the solicitor.”

  “Who invited Cavendish? The younger or elder Crain?”

  “I don’t recall. I can’t imagine he’s the sort that Madame Farr would need as a patron.”

  “Nor are you, if you don’t mind me saying,” Holmes said. “But he is just the sort the spiritualists might need to witness changes to the will.”

  “If any changes were to be made, they would not be in Madame Farr’s favour,” I said. “If anything, Langton was set to benefit.”

  “Ah, now that is an interesting case. You say he seems like a decent sort of fellow, who makes a living through property?”

  “Yes, but there was that queer business at the séance that seemed to have him rattled. Something about a bad investment that would have met with disapproval from his late father. I’d have paid it no mind if it weren’t for his wife’s reaction—she positively seethed.”

  “Madame Farr’s knowledge of a person’s secrets is not unusual—I would expect the amanuensis, Simon, to be entrusted with gathering intelligence. What was insinuated at the séance may have been intended only to convince Langton of Madame Farr’s powers. Or it may have been intended to frighten him.”

  “If he’s in trouble with his finances, he’s hardly worth blackmailing.”

  “That depends entirely on the kind of trouble he is in. And you say he was a keen gambler at the billiard table?”

  “He was, Holmes. He was eager to stake money on a friendly game even without seeing the measure of the opposition.”

  “He would have done well to, given that you’re the very devil of a billiards player.” Holmes turned along a left fork that wended its way back towards the house, past a small grotto that would have been far more pleasant in fine weather. “Now, something else puzzles me, Watson. Explain to me the tarot reading again.” Holmes stopped, closed his eyes, and pressed his fingertips together, as he often did when wanting to absorb every detail.

  Though I was not well disposed to reliving that episode, I went through the details of the reading once more, to the best of my recollection. The four cards: the Five of Cups, the reversed Three of Pentacles, the Six of Swords, and finally Death.

  “And the final card was revealed after the interruption with the rapping sounds?” Holmes asked.

  “It was.”

  Holmes began to walk again, and I went with him.

  “Watson, I do not like to reveal my theories ahead of time, as well you know, but in this particular matter I would not wish to keep you in the dark for longer than is necessary, so I shall tell you what I think. First, it is uncommon in this day and age for spiritists to employ tarot cards at all, for they are representative of the very occultism that the modern ‘spiritualist church’ eschews. Second, Madame Farr either cannot read the tarot, or was suitably confident of your ignorance that she was able to foist upon you any old rubbish to suit her whims. Tarot readings generally follow one of several patterns, or spreads—a four-card spread is most unusual, unless the first card is to signify a burning question. I have never heard it used to recall the ‘distant past’.”

  “How do you know so much about tarot readings?” I interrupted.

  “You forget how far I have travelled, and how much I have learned about various superstitions. I understand the methods well, just as I understand how easily each card is open to interpretation—an important facet of the trickster’s art.

  “Now, you chose the cards yourself, yes? I do not think she needed to resort to any trickery to force the selection, as the cards themselves can be rather ambiguous, and her conclusions are suspect at best. Let us look at the cards. The Five of Cups is said to represent loss or sadness, but not specifically bereavement. Madame Farr made a stretch there, in order to push her agenda. As I said, I do not think she manipulated the cards, otherwise she would have chosen a more suitable one.”

  I stood in awe of Holmes’s encyclopaedic knowledge. He seemed to note my wonder and, in all honesty, admiration, for he managed the slightest smile before continuing.

  “What was next? Ah, yes, the reversed Three of Pentacles, for the recent past. Now, it does not matter which way up the cards were placed; I am sure Madame Farr would have had an interpretation ready. In this case, she seized upon the number three to make it appear that you devoted too much time to me, rather than to Mary. Do not frown so, Watson. Marriage is one of the few subjects upon which I can claim no authority, but in my observation Mary could have asked for no more dutiful a husband. It is well recorded that we embarked on adventures while you were married, but did not Mary herself encourage you to assist me?”

  I nodded. She had not always been happy ab
out my involvement with Holmes’s investigations—particularly the more dangerous ones—but she always supported me. Nothing Mary had ever said sustained Madame Farr’s accusations that I had neglected my wife due to my loyalty to Holmes. Yet the words had stung, perhaps more because of some intangible feeling of guilt I carried.

  “In any case,” Holmes went on, his tone softening, “the Three of Pentacles has nothing to do with ‘interlopers’, and more to do with a lack of effort in one’s work, or something to that effect.

  “Next, the Six of Swords. A positive card in many respects, and Madame Farr was truthful in her interpretation, that it signifies a necessary change. And yet she added that rot about an obstacle in your path. She was merely watering the seed of doubt already sown in your mind, I’m sure.

  “And finally, Death. She offered no explanation, but I imagine you yourself gave the card undue significance in hindsight, after what happened to Lady Esther.”

  “That is fair to say.”

  “It is one of the most positive cards in the tarot deck,” Holmes said. “But it is often used in plays and sensational novels, I understand, to presage some literal death. And that is precisely how Madame Farr used it. I imagine she concealed the card up her sleeve, and when you were distracted by the rapping noises, she slipped it onto the table. The mental association your own mind made between her dire warnings and the image of the grim reaper on the card would have had the desired effect.”

  “If the desired effect was to make me deuced cross, then you’re right,” I grumbled.

  “She took a great risk,” Holmes said. “Warning you away from my company would only ensure that—in the event of some dramatic occurrence such as, say, the death of Lady Esther—I would be the first person you summoned. She must be very confident in her own abilities.”

  “I received the impression that she did not believe you to be deserving of your reputation,” I explained. “Certainly Judith said as much the next night—or, rather, Crain said on Judith’s behalf, as the girl rarely utters a word.”