Sherlock Holmes--The Red Tower

by Mark A. Latham

  “Or to free his brother,” I said.

  “A real possibility,” Holmes nodded. “If he did so, he would have seen us confine his brother, and leave the house. Let us hope in that case Constable Aitkens has his wits about him. Still, with a house full of staff on the lookout, I don’t fancy the man’s chances of slipping through.”

  “So back there… The vicar?” I prompted.

  “Yes. Our man Parkin had followed Cole all the way here. That he tried to sneak into the house would suggest he knew Cole had already left, for it would be folly to accost a known criminal directly. Parkin probably came down the back lane and saw Cole leaving, which gave him the opportunity to enact his plan. We know Parkin did not approach the house immediately. He watched from a safe distance until sure Cole would not return. He was seen approaching the front door. There are several narrow paths adjoining the two roads, as you can see here. Parkin must have doubled around in order to lend an air of innocence to his visit; a rural clergyman can rarely go anywhere in his parish without attracting some notice, after all. He would have found the front door locked, and realised he was being observed by Mrs Dallimore. And so he went around the back, out of sight of the neighbour, and loitered for a short time, before dislodging a window and entering the property.

  “The vicar intended to leave the codicil somewhere obvious, to be found by the police. He must have deduced that we would come here eventually to make a search. While looking for a likely place to stow his forgery, however, he would have come across the bag of evidence. Now this was a good find indeed, for the red dress of the so-called Lady Sybille would certainly have looked like the proverbial smoking gun. Remember he was inside for half an hour at least before any commotion was heard—I expect curiosity may have got the better of him, and he made a search of the house, much as we did. Indeed, upon finding the ledgers, too, he may even have considered abandoning his plan entirely, for if the authorities were to find all that evidence, they might naturally assume that the spiritualists murdered Lady Esther.

  “What happened next is less certain. Either your friend Crain has a key to Madame Farr’s house, or else he ran into Parkin as the vicar was leaving. In any case, Crain arrived in the vicar’s fly, and became aware that Parkin was already inside. He forced the vicar back into the house, and an argument took place. Crain must have seen the codicil, and guessed what had happened given our conversation with him earlier in Lord Berkeley’s study. If the vicar was upstairs nosing through those ledgers, Crain would have had time to read the forged document, perhaps not even knowing that Parkin was still in the house. Parkin, meanwhile, might have been terrified at the sound of someone else entering, thinking perhaps the thuggish Cole had returned.

  “In a rage, Crain tore the codicil in twain, crumpled it up and tossed it aside. To Crain, whose mind was already made up, this was all the evidence he needed. In his mind, the vicar was framing Madame Farr for a crime he had committed—Crain has spent a good deal of time in that woman’s thrall, don’t forget, and would want nothing more than to believe her innocent of all charges. At this point, Parkin must have tried to escape the house, or made some noise that caused the paths of himself and Lord Berkeley to cross.

  “Imagine if Parkin had shown Crain the bag. Even though Crain himself saw Cole carrying the bag when he left Crain Manor, he would now have just cause to doubt Cole’s guilt. He might think Parkin had brought the dresses along, and stashed them in the bag. Crain must surely have known that the other items belonged to Madame Farr, but better to believe her guilty of a few parlour tricks alone, than guilty of killing his sister.

  “More angry words were exchanged, and Crain attacked Parkin. The next we know, Parkin is bundled into his own fly, and Crain drives them both off.”

  “And to what end? Do you think Crain would do something… terrible… to the vicar?”

  “I barely know Lord Berkeley, save the haunted, grieving wreck I encountered today,” Holmes said, flatly. “He is your friend, Watson. Do you think him capable of murder?”

  “No,” I said, although I doubted my own words. Crain had been quite unlike himself earlier; I had never seen him so troubled, even in the darkest days. I forced more confidence into my words: “Not murder. Never that.”

  “Then we must believe the vicar is alive, and that we have time to find them both,” Holmes replied. “We have tarried here quite long enough. Judith, you think you know where he would go?”

  “There is only one place I can think of. An abandoned cottage by the river, which was very dear to him when his mother was alive.”

  “And do you know a path by which our coach may reach it?”

  “We can go most of the way, yes, but then we must take a path on foot, by the old mill.”

  “Aye,” said Hardacre. “I think I know it.”

  With that, we loaded the evidence into the carriage, lest Cole return to the house, bundled ourselves inside, and went on our way once more.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  AN EYE FOR AN EYE

  The coach was eventually forced to stop. Ahead of us, blocking the way, was a small two-wheeler, its horse still limbered; it was the vicar’s fly. The road beyond it was so overgrown that further passage was impossible. We disembarked, paying our reluctant driver an extra half-crown to turn both coaches about, and see to the vicar’s horse. That done, Holmes lit a lantern, and Judith led the way up a muddy track, over a footbridge that spanned a narrow stretch of river, and on towards an old watermill, which stood dark and silent on the north bank.

  “This mill is disused?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Judith replied. “A new mill was built some ten years ago, a mile upriver. My father used to work there before he… Anyway, this one should have been pulled down before now, but I expect the work was too expensive for Lord Berkeley’s tastes. James’s father, I mean.”

  I wondered perhaps if her father had passed away, resulting in her conversion to spiritualism. Then I recalled her earlier contempt for her family name, and suspected something deeper.

  “Is the cottage much further?” Holmes asked.

  “Not much. It is the old miller’s cottage, just behind that pasture there. It is in a worse state than the mill itself, fit to fall down. But that is a different prospect—it is special to James, and I expect he would have protested most strongly had his father tried to demolish it.”

  “You and the new Lord Berkeley must be close,” Holmes said. “I note that you call him by his Christian name; though not always whilst in his presence, I would think.”

  Judith looked back over her shoulder at Holmes, a bashful look on her youthful features. “Well perhaps he… is special to me. Though he does not know it.”

  “Crain’s will is focused in a singular direction,” said I. “When a man makes a particular study his obsession, there is none so blind.” I glanced at Holmes; if he inferred anything pertinent to his own nature from my observation, he did not acknowledge it.

  We climbed a rickety stile, and made across an overgrown pasture behind the mill. A barely trodden trail wended round its edge, terminating at another stile. Only upon reaching it did we glimpse the cottage through the dark trees, and see the flicker of a meagre light at one of the windows. A strange sound carried on the night air, distinct against the creaking trees and the call of night-birds. We listened intently, and it came again; the muffled cry of a man.

  Holmes cocked his head like a hound, then hissed, “Come on!”

  He bounded over the stile and raced to the cottage, his long limbs so suddenly and swiftly springing to action it was as though they were charged with electricity. I struggled to keep up with him, though I considered myself fleet of foot, and Judith soon dropped behind as we sprinted away.

  I reached the back door seconds behind Holmes. He tried the handle; the door opened, and Holmes vanished inside without waiting for me, just as another muffled cry rang out from the gloom.

  “Holmes!” I hissed, but to no avail. He had decided to throw caut
ion to the wind, and I had no choice but to follow.

  I saw my friend take a set of stairs three at a time, lantern-light swinging across grimy plaster and exposed brick. I raced up after him, putting my foot through a rotten tread in the process, crying out in alarm despite myself. At once I felt a hand at my arm, and Judith was there, helping me as best she could to get free. There was no time to delay; I clambered to the top of the stairs, where raised voices already exchanged high words.

  “You stay back, Mr Holmes!” Crain was shouting as I limped into the room.

  I had expected some desperate scenario, but had not been prepared for it all the same. Crain stood by a cracked window at the far end of a dilapidated bedroom, its ceiling exposed to the rafters, from which water dripped perpetually. A mattress lay in the corner nearest the door, and I knew then that, for all Sir Thomas’s proselytising as to the virtues of his African drug, Crain had spent some time living in squalor here. A man of eminent means, sleeping in conditions reserved for the worst opium addicts, all the while lying to his family regarding his whereabouts.

  Crain himself was barely recognisable, standing hunched like some wild, cornered animal. Worst of all, he brandished a knife, which had caused Holmes to stop near the door. Beside Crain, in the corner of the room, was the vicar, tied to a chair, mouth stuffed with a kerchief. His face was bruised and bleeding; to my great relief he was alive, though groggy. And all around the vicar, by the light of several candles, I saw pictures pinned to the wall. A few photographs, but mostly amateurish sketches. I could not fully discern them, but I knew the images were of Crain’s mother, Lady Agnes. This meagre room, as derelict as it had first appeared, was a shrine.

  “Crain, what are you doing, man?” I said.

  “Watson, dear Watson. You of all people will understand,” he replied, his voice urgent, almost shrill. He trembled, the knife in his hand shaking.

  “Talk to him, Watson,” Holmes hissed. “I wish to end this amicably, but…” He glanced to his coat pocket, and my heart lurched; my friend was indicating that he was armed.

  I knew that Holmes of all men would not flinch from shooting Crain if he thought the vicar to be in immediate danger of his life. I swallowed hard, and took a step forward.

  “Stay where you are, Watson,” Crain snapped. “As I told Mr Holmes, the vicar and I have much to resolve, and your presence is not required.”

  “But it is, Crain. If you ever considered me a friend, at least hear me out.”

  “You are a friend, Watson—but do you have any idea what this man has done?”

  “I do! I know all that he is guilty of, and what you believe him to have done. They are not one and the same.”

  “You defend him? I caught him in the act! This… ‘man of the cloth’… was attempting to defraud my family. After all my mother and father did for him, for the sake of money he tried to put the blame for everything on Madame Farr. I saw it, Watson—the costume of Lady Sybille, a white dress doubtless used to fool you into thinking Mary’s ghost was abroad in the manor. And a forged codicil, which he hoped would send Madame Farr to prison.

  “I see it all so clearly now. It was Parkin who somehow made those things happen at the séance—I mean, where was he all that time? He must have an accomplice—some servant girl who dresses up as a ghost at his behest. Maybe Simon is in his employ. All those things that Mr Holmes found earlier, don’t you see? It was the vicar. And that means… Oh, Watson, can’t you see what evil he has wrought? In order to discredit Madame Farr, in order to swindle a fortune from my family, he murdered my sister!”

  At this, Crain pressed the knife to the vicar’s throat, prompting a stifled yelp of fear.

  Holmes reached into his pocket. I took two steps forward, placing myself in the line of fire.

  “You’re wrong, Crain!” I cried, desperately. “Whatever else this man has done, he is not guilty of murder.”

  “How can you say that? You were the ones who found that his fly had been taken out last night, before dinner. I can guess where he went, and why.”

  “You believe,” said Holmes, “that he went to Sir Thomas’s house, and stole some Boophone disticha.”

  Crain looked to Holmes, surprise in his haggard eyes.

  “You believe this because you know only too well of the many exotic drugs in Sir Thomas’s collection. Those drugs are the reason why even now your hand shakes, your vision blurs, and you cannot concentrate. Am I not correct, Lord Berkeley?”

  “Lord Berkeley…” Crain repeated. “My father. Dead, at this man’s hand.”

  “No!” Holmes shouted. “He did not kill your father, nor did he kill your sister. He did not know about Sir Thomas Golspie’s poisons, and even if he had, he would not have known where they were kept. The killer lies rather closer to home.”

  Crain squeezed his eyes shut, and then opened them wide, looking at me with confusion writ large on his features. “What’s he saying, Watson? Tell him to be quiet! I can’t think.”

  I held a hand out behind me, signalling Holmes to stop. “The vicar did something very foolish,” I said, softly. “He forged a codicil, hoping to exacerbate Madame Farr’s predicament. But that is all he did.”

  “The fly…”

  “If you had stayed with us just a few minutes more,” I said, “you would have heard the whole story. The vicar’s fly was taken out, yes, but not by him. Indeed, the note we discovered in his room at the manor is evidence that he was called away as a distraction while someone else took the carriage. The same person who went to Sir Thomas’s house and stole the drug that killed your dear sister. Believe me, Crain, I would see justice done as well as you, but this is not the man.”

  “Then who?”

  “Holmes has a theory, and if you come back to the manor with us, we’ll have this all cleared up in no time.”

  “No!” Crain shouted, and now he pressed the point of the knife more firmly to the vicar’s throat, causing a bead of blood to ooze onto Parkin’s dog-collar. The vicar let out a muffled cry. His eyes widened. “Oh, he’s a clever one,” Crain went on. “He has covered his tracks well enough to fool even the great Sherlock Holmes, but he won’t fool me! Madame Farr is not a fraud, Watson! I know her. She has helped me so much… I know Parkin is guilty, because I know that she is innocent!”

  “No, James, she is not.” Judith’s voice came like a clear bell, at once throwing Crain into uncertainty. She must have been listening from the doorway, and now she entered the room, treading carefully past Holmes, past me, and towards Crain, arms held out. “Madame Farr is not innocent, and nor am I.”

  “Judith. What are you saying?” Crain asked, easing the knife away just an inch.

  “I am saying that Madame Farr staged the séance… or, certainly all the more sensational tricks. I know because I helped her.”

  “No! Has he put you up to this?” Crain waved the knife at Holmes.

  “James, please. Mr Holmes has helped me see the light, if anything. I believe in spiritualism, I really do. Ever since I was a little girl I have had a gift, to sense things that others cannot. But this gift never manifested itself in spectacular ways, or allowed me to predict the future, or transported me to the spirit world. It was just a sort of… sense. A feeling.

  “When I met Madame Farr, she told me that I had a true gift, but that most people would not join our cause without more tangible results. She persuaded me to help in her illusions—stage magic, I suppose—in order for us to spread our message more widely, and to provide genuine help to those who needed it. I believed in her, James. I believed in her so completely I turned my back on my family, and embraced Madame Farr and Simon, and Arthur—as a new family. It’s not easy to confess that you might be on the wrong path when you’ve taken such a step, and cut yourself off from all that you’ve ever known. I found myself turning a blind eye to things I should have run from. Part of me still believes in Madame Farr, but part of me knows now that what I did was wrong. I dressed up as Dr Watson’s dear late wife, to
try and bring him to our cause, not for his spiritual wellbeing, but to prove Madame Farr’s power.”

  “How?” I interjected. “I was never a believer, and never would be.”

  “But you almost were, Doctor! Madame Farr was certain she could convince you of the truth of spiritualism, and James had already let slip that you were going through some upheavals in your life. The thought of selling your practice and moving from the marital home you had shared with Mary had dragged up old memories, and it was these memories that Madame Farr sought to exploit. If the famous Dr Watson could be convinced, even for a short time, then who could truly doubt her? Of course, she was very keen to stop you from moving back to your rooms with Sherlock Holmes, the famous detective, for surely he would investigate as soon as he heard the story. She did not truly believe Mr Holmes to be the genius you painted him, and nor did I, until now. But by the time her plan was complete, she hoped it would be too late to stop her.” Judith looked again to Crain. “I did not play my part in that deception just to line Madame Farr’s pockets, I swear. I did it because I knew you would be galvanised by the doctor’s story, and would seek to persuade him to join with us. And then we could buy our new church—a grand building that would attract believers from miles around. It was a dream! And in the pursuit of that dream I thought I could bend a few rules, tell a few lies, and maybe all would be well, because in the end it’s all about the greater good, isn’t it? But now… I think we have given you false hope, when really, you needed help of a less esoteric kind.”

  “False hope? What… what do you mean, Judith? Tell me that you weren’t lying about Mama!”

  “For my part, no. At least, not always. I do sense her presence. I feel her here, most strongly. But Madame Farr… she insisted on giving you messages from the other side, and at first I was astounded by her powers. As time went on, I realised she was lying. She was inventing the messages, and putting words in the mouth of your mother’s spirit. Only… I was too deep in the mire by then. I could not tell you the truth, for fear that you would hate me.”