“I say again, Mr Holmes,” Crain said, “Madame Farr is my guest. I am as cross as anyone about these parlour tricks, but I’m sure she has her reasons. Produce some facts or put an end to this exhibition.”
“Very well, Lord Berkeley. But to do that, we must return to the night of the séance. Where was I? Oh, yes, we have explained the table-rapping, and the great levitation. The contraption used by the so-called Madame Farr would have been disposed of before anyone left the room, and I shall presently reveal how. In the meantime, let us examine what happened next.
“Lady Esther herself received some wisdom from the spirit world, although as a sceptic she had cleverly gained an advantage. She asked our medium a leading question about the future of her relationship. Few people realised, I should guess, that Lady Esther and Geoffrey Melville were experiencing some… difficulties.”
“Rot!” said Melville. “How dare you?”
Holmes held up a hand. “Mr Melville, indulge me this once. Lady Esther asked if your marriage would be a happy one, to which Madame Farr responded positively, mentioning several children. A trite and pointless prediction about events long in the future, which Madame Farr knew would only be proven true or false long after she had moved on. She was not to know, of course, that her predictions would be proven false in the most immediate and violent way.
“Seeing his mistress in difficulty, forced onto a topic for which she had not prepared, Simon signalled for a distraction. The playing of a piano seemingly by itself.”
“No, Mr Holmes,” Langton spoke up. “I remember that part. Simon was not standing near the piano. No one was.”
“I said ‘signalled’ for a distraction, Mr Langton. I assure you that someone was there. And that someone possibly was Simon, as it happens.”
“What?” Langton laughed. “Were my eyes deceiving me?”
Holmes smiled. “You there, Simon,” he said. “Do you have a family name, or is your situation much the same as Judith’s here?”
Simon said nothing, but held himself haughtily, bearded chin tilted upwards.
“I thought as much. You see, ladies and gentlemen, Simon chooses not to speak, for his skill with accents is less deft than Mrs Mellinchip’s. He, too, came down from Newcastle to set up this new scheme. His family name, I shall inform you, is Cole. Though I know not if we speak to Simon, or to Arthur. His twin.”
“Ludicrous!” Crain said.
I met Holmes’s gaze and gave him a quizzical look.
“Sorry to keep you in the dark, Watson,” Holmes said, “but I had to be sure. Lord Berkeley, you left the house around midday, did you not? You saw the Reverend Parkin leaving, but you also saw Simon.”
“I…” Crain looked most uneasy. “I think I did.”
“Did you, or did you not?”
“I did, yes.”
“This was directly upon leaving the house?”
“Yes. Actually… Simon was taking the path towards the village. And I thought it was curious, because the vicar was following behind, on foot. I received the impression that Parkin was following Simon, because he wasn’t driving his fly, and he looked awfully circumspect.”
“Valuable information, my lord, thank you,” Holmes said. “And was ‘Simon’ carrying anything?”
Crain looked crestfallen. “A sack,” he said.
“A sack,” Holmes repeated. “The point of the matter is, Lord Berkeley, that the moment you left, Watson saw Simon on the stairs. And rather than leave the house, he went back upstairs with Judith. A fellow really can’t be in two places at once. This puts me in mind of something else Watson told me, about Friday night. After Madame Farr conducted a private reading for Watson in the tower room, the good doctor went outside to take some air. He saw Simon heading across the lawn, from the direction of the stable block. But why? He was not going back to the village. It seems to me that his only intent was to be seen, because that would mean someone else could be rifling through Watson’s belongings whilst our celebrated medium and young Judith kept Lord Berkeley busy.”
“I’m sure there is some other explanation…” Crain said, rubbing at his temples.
“Wait a minute,” Langton said. “I saw him shortly after arriving yesterday, when I went out for a smoke. But when I got back to the party he was already ahead of me. I thought it a trifle strange, but assumed he was simply fleet of foot.”
“That assumption has many times worked in Mr Cole’s favour. That first afternoon, as you were all gathered downstairs, the Cole twins were probably taking it in turns to search your belongings for anything they could use in the evening’s séance. I would wager that the brother seen by Lord Berkeley this afternoon was disposing of valuable evidence, carried in a sack. A ghostly costume, perhaps? Luminous paint?”
Simon for a moment glanced left, then right, and then bolted for the door opposite Constable Hardacre. Holmes was before him so swiftly I barely saw my friend move. They struggled briefly, before Constable Aitkens hauled the bearded man away. Mrs Cavendish cried out in alarm. Madame Farr was shouting, “No, you fool!”
Finally, Simon was subdued, and calm was restored.
“And now we truly come to the solution to the séance. And rest assured, Lord Berkeley, there will be evidence. Might I have some witnesses follow me to the piano? Lord Berkeley, Watson, Mr Melville. If you please?”
We followed. The lid of the piano was open as always, but now Holmes lowered it so that it was almost closed.
“Peer in, and tell me what you see,” he said.
We all looked. Inside the piano, tiny blobs of glowing, greenish paint adorned five of the strings. They were barely visible until our eyes had adjusted.
“Luminous paint, again,” Holmes said. “During the day, those small dabs absorb enough light to glow in the dark, and yet are barely visible at all when exposed to light. I observed them earlier, because I knew to look for them. The bars of music were played on the piano by Simon’s twin, Arthur—let us, for now, assume that I have the names the correct way around. The string with the left-most daub of paint is the first to be plucked, and then the other four follow, in order, left to right; thus!”
Holmes reached inside, and plucked the strings. The piano resounded with the rather crude tune we had heard at the séance. Satisfied with this demonstration, he returned to the table and bade us do the same.
“When the piano played, everyone turned towards it,” Holmes went on. “All dressed in black, and crouching behind the piano, in shadow, ‘Arthur’ could not be seen—yet if you were allowed to examine the piano for too long, your eyes may have adjusted, and the illusion would have been broken. And so another distraction was required.”
“The two doors slammed shut!” Constance exclaimed.
“One at a time,” said Holmes, “and that is the crucial detail. You see, it was Simon who slammed the first door, and doubtless stepped away quickly. Everyone turned their attention away from the piano to the door, at which point Arthur darted around the edge of the room to the other door, and slammed that one behind him. This allowed Simon to stride to the door and pretend to secure it dutifully.”
“It all seems so obvious now,” Constance said. “But at the time… I feel so foolish.”
“These tricks are tried and tested, madam,” Holmes said. “Do not fret over it—deception is the primary occupation of Mrs Mellinchip and her cronies.”
If looks could kill, Madame Farr’s icy glare would surely have struck Holmes stone dead. As it was, he met her gaze with a wicked smile.
“Next, our medium turned her attention to Watson. Her earlier encounters with my friend had already given her confirmation of his weaknesses, and now all she had to do was exploit them in order to reinforce her position. She attempted to drive a wedge between Watson and me, in order to prevent him consulting me about her when he returned to London. What she could not have known is that Watson had already given me her name before departing, allowing me to conduct my own research.
“She must h
ave known Watson would challenge her, and thus arranged for something special. Arthur Cole, having slipped out of the house, now ran to the window—remember the curtains were closed, so no one would see him outside. Evidently the window had been left on its latch, and now Arthur pulled it open suddenly, causing the inclement weather to disturb proceedings and blow out the candles. You were warned, presumably, not to break the circle?”
“Yes, we were,” Langton said. “Madame Farr, or whoever she is, was adamant about that.”
“Simon went to the window and made a show of fastening it shut, though the room was now in near darkness. What he actually did was pass the end of a fish-wire through the window to his brother. Even with the window closed, this could be pulled. It was attached to the chandelier above you.”
We all looked up.
“Balanced carefully within the crystal of the chandelier were many dozens of lily petals—a flower Mrs Mellinchip had already established as being special to Watson, and which were plentiful in the house. Their scent would have been masked by the thick incense smoke. When the wire—loosely tied—was pulled free of the chandelier, the petals fell. The wire was then forcefully yanked through the gap in the window-frame, and Arthur made good his escape.”
“This is how they fooled Esther at Madame Farr’s house!” Melville said. When all eyes turned to him, he explained, “I was telling Dr Watson just yesterday. Esther attended a séance at Madame Farr’s house months ago. She was certain some of the tricks were performed by someone pulling on a wire outside the window, but she was unable to prove it.”
“And now, if we look to the window…” Holmes said. He marched past the glowering spiritualists, and opened the window, then held out his magnifying glass. “If anyone would care to inspect this area of the window-frame,” he said, “they shall see for themselves.”
Mrs Langton stood. “May I, Mr Holmes?”
Holmes nodded, and handed her the magnifier.
“My, he’s right,” she said. “The paint has rubbed away in sharp lines.”
“You notice the larger chip on the inner edge?”
“Yes.”
“That is where the hooked end of the wire snagged before being pulled free.” Holmes took back his magnifier and showed Constance to her seat again. “Constable Hardacre, earlier today I made a thorough inspection of the earth directly beneath the window there. The rain has washed away much of the evidence, but the impression of a large boot, pointing towards the window, was clear. No one would have business there unless they were peering in, or waiting for someone at the window. I took accurate measurements—assuming this Cole brother has identical feet to his identical twin, the shoe should fit, as they say.”
“We shall certainly check, sir,” Hardacre said, looking less browbeaten and more impressed as the minutes passed.
A sudden fizzing noise drew our attention, and we all gasped as the pot in the middle of the table now flared brightly, flames licking over the top.
“A little early,” Holmes shouted over our commotion, “but planned all the same. Behold, Mrs Mellinchip’s grand finale!”
Before our astonished eyes, Holmes thrust a hand into the flames, and held it there. When he withdrew his hand, he held it to the light so we could all see it was unharmed. He then rubbed his hands together, and peeled away a rubbery coating from his skin, silvery and translucent. For this, he received a small round of applause.
“First, the fire trick,” Holmes said. “The brazier burns by means of charcoal discs upon which incense is thrown. Flames crackle and spark through each disc in turn, with a short delay as each subsequent disc ignites. It is possible to time this process, give or take a few minutes, as you have just seen. Had I not been interrupted quite so often, I should think I would have given a perfect cue to the eruption of the secret ingredient—a layer of phosphorus, which ignites in somewhat dramatic fashion.
“The medium prepares for this trick by coating her hand—the hand that was held throughout the séance by Judith here, I should add—in a thick, fire-proof solution. I used a recipe provided me by the Society for Psychical Research, and packed my case accordingly: one half-ounce of camphor gum dissolved in two ounces of Scotch whisky, with one ounce quicksilver and one ounce liquid storax, mixed, applied to the hands and allowed to dry. The sleeve of Mrs Mellinchip’s dress was soaked in a solution of salt and soda to stop it catching.”
“How can you be sure of the solution?” Langton asked.
“Because when I visited Judith’s room to find evidence of luminous paint, I also searched Madame Farr’s room.”
“Outrageous!” the woman wailed.
“It certainly is,” Holmes retorted, and reached into the large box beside him. From it he withdrew one of Madame Farr’s black dresses, and passed it to Crain. “My Lord Berkeley,” he said. “Could you examine the left sleeve, please, and tell us what you find?”
Crain quailed as he took the dress, looking as though he might be sick. “A crust of salt,” he said, very quietly.
There came from the medium an outburst of a most unseemly nature, after which Madame Farr—or Mrs Mellinchip, as Holmes insisted on calling her, to her chagrin—reverted to a state of uncooperative silence. Gone was her aura of mystery and power, and in her place was a very ordinary woman of middle age, looking uncomfortable and out of place in somewhat ridiculous attire.
“There is one event remaining,” Holmes said, “and as yet I can find no satisfactory explanation for it. The arrival of the Red Woman does not entirely suit Mrs Mellinchip’s purpose, as far as I can ascertain. And the method of the trick so far eludes me.”
“Maybe Judith has a twin, also,” Mrs Cavendish posited, drawing a sullen glare from the girl.
“Possible, Mrs Cavendish, though the odds are against it. I have theories, of course, but no data. Evidence must be uncovered if we are to establish the guilt or innocence of these spiritualists.”
“Surely their guilt is already established?” Melville snarled, standing abruptly.
“Only insofar as they have tried to trick you all, and perhaps swindle you of donations to their cause. I believe we could arrest these swindlers right now, on a charge of fraud. What you imply, Mr Melville, is that they are guilty of murder, and that cannot yet be supported.
“Lord Berkeley,” Holmes went on. “I have not yet had the time to conduct a search of Mr Cole’s quarters. With your permission I should like to do so now, in your presence.”
Crain looked crushed. He could not speak, nor meet Holmes’s eyes, but only nodded.
“Constable Hardacre, you will be so good as to accompany us. Constable Aitkens—that man must not leave this room, and nor must ‘Madame Farr’. I trust the gentlemen present will assist if either of them try to escape?”
“Too right!” Langton said. “All that nonsense at the séance—all trickery. These cads were dipping into our private business all along. Yes, I for one will help the constable.”
* * *
Hardacre stood beside Simon, a burly hand on the tall man’s arm. Crain reluctantly swung open the door to the man’s meagre quarters, and Holmes stepped past him into the room.
It was a small room, with nothing more than a small bed, cupboard and washbasin, beneath a single small window. Still, Simon was not on the house staff, and such accommodation was adequate for visiting servants. Everything in the room was arranged immaculately. Shirts were folded in a neat, square pile atop the cupboard. The bed was made with military precision, a spare blanket and towel folded on top of it as neatly as the shirts. Toiletries were arranged in a precise row behind the basin.
“Such attention to order,” Holmes said, making the same observation. “It is a drilled habit, usually born of a life in service, in the army… or of time spent at Her Majesty’s pleasure. Let us see what’s in here…”
Holmes opened the cupboard beneath the washbasin, and poked around within. Finally, he produced a large brown glass bottle.
“A curious thing,” he sai
d, showing the label to me.
“Benzene,” I said. “What is so curious?”
“Come, Watson, you can observe as well as I. What is benzene used for?”
“Commonly as an aftershave balm,” I said. “I always have a bottle on hand myself.”
“Simon here has a rather messy beard,” Holmes said. “There is no razor in this cupboard, no shaving kit of any kind—not even a mirror. The bottle is large; it is not the kind supplied by your common-or-garden chemist at the counter. It is half empty. Tell me, Watson—if one were to imbibe a small amount of this, diluted in, say, water, what would the effects be?”
The penny dropped at once. “Drowsiness and lethargy. A dullness of the senses akin to extreme drunkenness. Nausea and dizziness. At higher doses, a weakness of motor function and uncontrollable trembling.”
“And how easy is benzene to detect when diluted?”
“Difficult—it has a peculiar scent when neat, but diluted… it is negligible.”
“In your medical opinion, Dr Watson, could your condition on Friday evening be described as consistent with benzene poisoning?”
“Yes,” I said, anger building within me.
“A near-perfect method,” Holmes said. “Benzene is common enough that the idle observer would overlook it. Mr Cole here might have found some in the house, no doubt, but brought along his own supply to be sure.”
“I never,” Simon said, the first time I had heard him speak, and indeed it was in an accent clearly of the north-east. “It were given me. It’s not mine.”
“I am sure you will keep to that story in court,” Holmes said. “But when your identity is confirmed with the Newcastle-upon-Tyne constabulary, and a testimony of your previous drugging plot is brought forward, I am sure a judge will be as incredulous as I am. Watson, tell me—could benzene have been used to induce the effect you saw post-mortem in Lady Esther?”
“If her heart was weak, and a sufficient fright administered… perhaps.”
“A fright, such as the sudden appearance of a ghost?”
Sherlock Holmes--The Red Tower Page 15
