“His father! Preposterous.”
“Was the argument between James and Theobald Crain at dinner not typical of their relationship?”
“Of late, perhaps. Again, it comes to that damned Farr woman. Parts of the estate—mostly property in Swinley—were devolved to James to run. He didn’t do a bad job, by all accounts, but when he fell in with that accursed woman he signed over the lease on an old cottage to her. That was the first true falling out between father and son. And can you imagine what Theobald thought when that Judith girl practically moved into the manor? That set a few tongues wagging, I can tell you. But Theobald was terrified of losing his legacy. He threatened and postured, but ultimately James always got the better of him, simply by threatening to leave. The Crain family is incredibly wealthy and influential, yes, but it has not been a lucky one. Hence the next male heir in line after James is David Langton, some second cousin, once or twice removed. He’s a decent sort, and Theobald likes him well enough, but he would never sign over the lands and title to a self-made man.”
“It is interesting indeed that you raise the subject of inheritance,” Holmes said. “Someone else at the dinner party was very eager to discuss the contents of Theobald Crain’s will. The vicar, Mr Parkin.”
“That does not surprise me, Mr Holmes. As it happens, I spoke to Theobald about his will just yesterday, because he had been planning to make an alteration, and wanted my opinion. But it was far from what you might think. I suspected that the vicar had been eavesdropping, because he is obsessed with restoring his church to past glories, with the patronage of the Crain family. Parkin had nothing to worry about, the blithering idiot. Theobald planned to increase the church provision to spite Madame Farr and her cronies. And he planned to grant a sizeable provision to Esther, too; or, rather, to Melville once they were married. Theobald was no fool. He had heard that James had made threats towards Esther, and wanted to ensure that she would be well looked after should the spiritualists drive an insurmountable wedge between brother and sister. He doted on that girl. He… he doted on them both, as did I.
“Look, Mr Holmes, it seems to me that your culprits are now at Crain Manor, and that is precisely where you should be. To my shame I wish my part in this damned affair had been a lesser one, but I think I have helped you all I can.”
“Not quite,” Holmes said. “You mentioned your housekeeper earlier. May we speak with her before we leave?”
“My housekeeper? But why?”
“Because, Sir Thomas, while your testimony in a court of law will carry great weight, we still have only opinion and hearsay, which is not enough to identify any murderer. Your housekeeper, on the other hand, might have valuable information, no matter how trifling it may appear, which will help me point to our culprit decisively.”
“I should have to wake her.”
“If you would, Sir Thomas, I should be most grateful.”
With some slight objection, Sir Thomas led the way to the servants’ quarters, which I imagined would once have accommodated a modest but busy staff, yet now were little more than a collection of dusty storerooms in the house of a rather lonely old man.
Holmes had insisted we go directly to the housekeeper’s quarters, as time was against us. Sir Thomas held up a hand and bade us wait while he knocked on the door, at first quietly, and then loudly.
“Eh?” a muffled voice called out.
“Mrs Griggs,” Sir Thomas said loudly. “Are you awake?” He turned to us and said, “I warn you, she’s rather hard of hearing. You’ll have to speak up when you talk to her.”
It took some time for the door to open. To our surprise, the matronly, middle-aged woman before us was already fully dressed, and still wearing her work apron.
“Sorry about that, Sir Thomas,” she said. “Fell asleep in my chair again. What is the matter with me? Something you need?”
“Yes, Mrs Griggs. I am sorry to wake you, but these gentlemen here have some questions for you.”
“What time is it, sir? Who are these gentlemen?”
Sir Thomas gave a small sigh, but said patiently and rather loudly, “These gentlemen have some questions for you, Mrs Griggs.”
The woman invited us into a small sitting room, within a comfortable little apartment.
Mrs Griggs threw several blankets off the chair beside a dwindling fire, where I imagined she had just been dozing. Sir Thomas at once poked at the fire, and tipped on a few more coals, at which the housekeeper gave a small curtsey. I wondered just how much the woman looked after Sir Thomas, and how much he looked after her.
“Mrs Griggs,” Holmes ventured.
“You’ll have to speak up, sir, I’m a bit deaf,” she said.
“Apologies. Mrs Griggs, I must—”
“I said I’m deaf,” she repeated, loudly and slowly, as if Holmes shared her impediment.
Holmes glanced first to me, then to Sir Thomas, but saw no support forthcoming, He smiled politely and almost shouted, “Were there any visitors to the house yesterday, while Sir Thomas was out?”
“Sir Thomas was out yesterday,” she said. “At that party. Oh, are you here about Lord Berkeley and Lady Esther? A rum do!”
“Yes, Mrs Griggs. When Sir Thomas was out, did anyone call at the house? Here, at this house?”
“You know, I thought something was funny yesterday. I had one of those all-overish sort of feelings. Got myself in a bit of a fright.”
“A fright?” Holmes asked, throwing me a guarded look. “What sort of fright?”
“I was going about my business, must have been about seven o’clock, when I felt a terrible chill, and a cold draught blowin’ through the house. And so I has a look about, to make sure as I haven’t left a window open or such. And I only went and found the back door open, when I was sure I locked it. I’m getting most forgetful in my old age. And anyway, I locks the door, and goes to check the windows, when… oh, I feel silly now…”
“Please, go on.”
“I thought I saw someone, on the stairs. For a minute I thought it was a man, all dressed in black. But then he was gone.”
“Did you investigate?”
“Who?”
“I said, ‘Did you investigate?’” Holmes shouted.
“O’ course I did. I run an orderly house here. Took the dog, just in case; fat lot of good he is, mind. But there was nothing to be seen. Then I remembered what Sir Thomas said before he went out, that them spiritists were at the manor—that Madam Tar, or whatever her name is. Trumped-up madam, if you ask me. Anyway, I thought if they’re up to their funny business again, it’s ever likely we have strange goings-on.”
“And the dog… you say he detected nothing?”
“Eh?”
Holmes now turned in frustration to Sir Thomas, who positioned himself on Mrs Griggs’s other side, presumably at her good ear, and carefully enunciated, “Did Nelson detect any intruder, Mrs Griggs?”
“Oh, him? Well, he was acting all strange, like. He ran back downstairs, left me all alone, and me thinking we might have a burglar in the house! I know he’s in advancing years, sir, but really. Anyway, when I came downstairs again, he was just standing by the front door, whimpering. I looked out the window and I saw the vicar driving past. Mind you, I thought that was funny, because Sir Thomas mentioned the vicar was due at the party. He must have been very late for dinner.”
“Mrs Griggs,” Holmes said, in his crispest tone. “You see this set of keys?” He signalled to Sir Thomas, who took out the keys and held them aloft. “You know where these are usually kept?”
“Yes, sir,” she said. “In the japanned box under the master’s bed.”
“And have you ever told anyone else about those keys?”
“Eh?”
“I said, does anyone else—” Holmes stopped in his tracks, his attention taken by something over the woman’s shoulder.
He at once moved past her and Sir Thomas, to the mantelpiece.
“Mrs Griggs, who is this?” Holmes asked,
though not loudly enough, drawing a befuddled frown from the housekeeper.
“Oo, a lovely photograph, isn’t it? A gift from Sir Thomas some two Christmasses past.”
“That is Mrs Griggs’s daughter, Sally,” Sir Thomas intervened.
“What about Sally?” Mrs Griggs asked.
Holmes picked up the photograph and showed it to me, before saying to Sir Thomas, “That is Esther Crain’s lady’s maid.”
“She is,” Sir Thomas said.
“Oh, my Sally will be inconsolable,” Mrs Griggs chimed in. “She doted on that Crain girl.”
“My God, Holmes…” I said.
Holmes set down the photograph. “Sir Thomas, did you not think to mention this earlier?”
“Why should I?” replied Sir Thomas.
“Sally Griggs visits this house, I take it.”
“Of course she does. Any respectful girl should visit her mother regularly.”
“Everything now makes sense, or at least begins to. Sir Thomas, you must excuse us. Mrs Griggs, I know you can’t hear a word I’m saying, but thank you for your time. Watson, we must away, and quickly.”
Holmes marched from the room, leaving me to shrug an embarrassed apology to Sir Thomas. Moments later we were at Benson’s coach.
“Back to the manor, my good man!” Holmes ordered. We climbed inside. I looked back to see Sir Thomas, silhouetted in the light from his hallway. His shoulders were dropped, his head bowed. As he shuffled inside, and closed the door upon the night, I fancied he looked half the man.
“Holmes,” I said as the coach pulled away, “you must now see that Melville is guilty of murder. I know you suspect that Mrs Griggs saw an intruder creeping about the house. Melville had enough time to take the vicar’s fly to Sir Thomas’s house, to find the key in its hiding place, as instructed by Sally, to steal the poison bulb, and return to the manor.”
“And the dog?”
“The… Well, the dog knows Melville. It would not raise an alarm, although to hear Mrs Griggs the dog is docile anyway.”
“Watson, you are correct on every count. Save one.”
“Oh? And which is that?”
“Melville did not kill Lady Esther.”
“This is absurd. You admit that it was he who stole the poison. What other reason could there be?”
“None, it would appear. But he is not guilty of murder. I would stake my reputation on it.”
I sighed loudly. “I trust we are going to put an end to this affair now?” I looked out of the window as the sky reddened. I could barely face another night at Crain Manor.
“We can but hope, Watson. I almost have everything I need. Almost.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
A SUSPICIOUS DISAPPEARANCE
As we approached the gates of Crain Manor, we were greeted with an unexpected scene. Three figures were out on the road ahead of us, silhouetted black upon a lane turned blood red by the setting sun. Holmes poked his head from the window as the coach rumbled to a full stop. Presently, two people approached—Langton and, to my surprise, Judith, breathless and worried looking.
“What is going on?” Holmes asked.
“Mr Holmes, thank goodness you’re back,” Langton said. “We’ve been worried sick! It’s Cousin James—he’s gone.”
“Gone where?” I asked, at once concerned.
“That’s just it, we don’t know. After you two left, I tried to talk to him, but we only ended up arguing. He said a great many strange things about murder, and ghosts, and something about Mr Parkin being a worm in the bud, or words to that effect, and then he stormed off. A few minutes later, he drove off in the vicar’s fly at a terrific speed, and we haven’t seen him since.”
The third member of the little search party came up to the coach, and we recognised Hardacre, holding a lantern against the failing light.
“And you’re only just looking for him now?” Holmes said sternly.
“We didn’t know what to do, or where he’d gone. That is, until… well, it’s going to sound a trifle strange…”
“After everything I’ve heard today, Mr Langton,” said Holmes, “I rather doubt it.”
“Very well. Judith here attracted our attention. She’d been confined to the morning room with Madame Farr, and I must say that while that harridan has been wailing and gnashing her teeth the whole time, Judith has been a model prisoner. Indeed, we had all decided that she really didn’t need to be held prisoner at all. And so when she started calling to us, we rather thought we should listen. And, well… you tell him, Miss.”
Judith looked about, as though she were most unused to receiving attention at all, and said quietly, “I had a premonition, about James—I mean, Lord Berkeley. I think he’s in terrible trouble. I can’t explain it. I just, sort of… know.”
“Some of us were quite incredulous, as I’m sure you’ll understand,” Langton said. “But none of us could deny how queerly Cousin James had been acting, and when he didn’t come back after an hour we all started to worry. Judith here knows a place by the river where James sometimes goes, and so we were just on our way to organise a proper search when you came along. I’m very glad you did, because it’ll be dark before long and I didn’t fancy stumbling across the fields on foot.”
“It seems to me,” said Holmes, “that the first place Lord Berkeley would have gone is to the village.”
“The village? But why?”
“Because of what he said about the Reverend Parkin. With fragments overheard at the coach-house earlier, he must have assumed that Mr Parkin was the one who fetched the poison and killed his sister.”
“My word… he has gone to exact revenge!”
“Yes, and if my suspicions are correct, he will do so against an innocent man. Mr Langton, might I impose upon you to stay here, and help young Aitkens keep an eye on the prisoners? We shall need Constable Hardacre here to come with us, and Aitkens might not manage alone. Judith—you can come with us also, for despite the part you have played in his deception, I fancy you know him better than anyone alive. Come on, now! We must intervene before Lord Berkeley does something foolish.”
* * *
When we reached Swinley, night had fallen almost entirely, and as the weather was still drear, most villagers had retreated to their homes, or to the local pub. Benson drew our carriage to a halt outside the vicarage. There was a single light burning within, which at first gave us hope that nothing was amiss, but that hope faded when we were greeted by an elderly housekeeper, who informed us that the Reverend Parkin had not returned “Since leaving to visit that Madame Farr woman up the lane.”
“Did he say that was where he was going?” Holmes asked.
“No, but you can see the house from here. Look.” She pointed vaguely in the direction of a narrow lane that wound uphill. “The vicar must be very busy today on his rounds. And you are the second gentleman to come asking for him today.”
Holmes shot me a glance, and said to her, “Who was the other, if I might ask?”
“Why, Lord Beving of course. Or is it Lord Berkeley now? Oh, I do get confused with all this Lord this and Marquess that. Anyway, you must know that his father and sister both passed away today. And considering what a terrible shock it must be, he came personally to bring Mr Parkin his fly. Don’t know why Mr Parkin left it behind. He doesn’t often partake too much of drink, but perhaps last night he had one or two sherries too many and thought it best to walk. Anyway, I said—”
“I’m terribly sorry to interrupt, madam,” Holmes said, as the woman had barely taken a breath, and seemed as though she would launch into another diatribe at the drop of a hat. “We really must go, our business is most urgent. Goodnight.”
He doffed his hat and we both returned to the coach, the housekeeper’s mouth working silently as she tried to work out whether or not Holmes had been rude to her.
Moments later, directed by Judith, we drew up outside Madame Farr’s abode, which was also apparently the headquarters of her fledgling spiritu
alist church. It was a modest cottage, of the kind reserved for labourers from the estate workshops—I wondered now if Crain had made a gift of the dwelling to Madame Farr, and whether this had driven a further wedge between him and his business-minded father.
We alighted from the carriage and approached the house. The curtains of the neighbour to the left twitched.
“I feared we would have to break down the door,” Holmes said, “but it appears someone has beaten us to it.”
Holmes pushed the front door, which swung open with a creak into a dark passage. With no gaslights to be seen, Holmes lit his dark-lantern and stepped over the threshold, sweeping his light to and fro, before settling on the room to his right, which he entered.
“Watson!”
I hurried into the house, Judith almost pushing in ahead of me despite her slight stature, and Hardacre close behind. Holmes was standing in the centre of a living room, lantern now unshuttered, casting its yellow light over a scene of great disturbance.
Furniture was overturned. One of the curtains had been torn from its pole. The coal scuttle was toppled, its contents spilled across the hearthrug. Papers, books, cushions, broken ornaments, cups and bottles were strewn across the floor. Near the fireplace, a tall, black cabinet lay on its side, coffin-like—I recognised it as a medium’s “spirit cabinet”.
That there had been a struggle here was obvious; whom it had involved, less so.
“We must search the house at once,” Holmes said, “lest there be enemies lying in wait. Here, Watson, I took the liberty.” Holmes drew from his pocket a revolver. He handed it to me and said, “You go upstairs. I shall look down here. Constable, do not disturb anything in this room.”
I ran upstairs at once, flinging open each door, but finding not a soul, alive or dead. In what I assumed to be Madame Farr’s room, however, I found a bookcase, stuffed to bursting with ledgers and papers. I took one out and flipped through the pages, and my stomach lurched.
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