Sherlock Holmes and the Lady in Black

by June Thomson

  ‘But I thought you were doing your best to avoid her?’

  ‘So I was. But the time has come for a change in tactics, and as quickly as possible. I suggest we start tomorrow morning without delay. So prepare yourself to listen to her medical complaints and look sympathetic. Some palliative remedy in the form of a pill or lotion would also do very nicely. I suggest you rummage around in that doctor’s bag of yours, my dear fellow, and come up with some physic for a stiff neck. I do not think you will need any medication for loosening the tongue.’

  However, before my meeting with Mrs B, another situation arose that occupied my attention and caused me more concern.

  It was that same night and at about midnight when I was awakened by the sound of Holmes’ bedroom door opening and footsteps softly descending the stairs. Moments later, the front door opened and closed. Holmes, for it could be no one else, had left the house but for what reason I could not immediately understand.

  A sudden illness, I wondered. Or was he experiencing one of those bouts of sleeplessness that he had referred to earlier in the evening during which, he had walked along the cliffs overlooking the cove and seen for the first time the Lady in Black seated on a rock and looking out to sea?

  Fully awake now and curious to better understand the rather puzzling circumstances for Holmes’ night-time excursion, I got out of bed and, putting on my dressing gown, I followed his example and went downstairs also to let myself out of the front door.

  The moon was bright, the sky cloudless, and, like Holmes in his earlier outing, I found no difficulty in picking out details of my surroundings. But although I had a good view of the lane that led up to the clifftop and the hedges that lined it, I could only catch a glimpse of Holmes’ tall, lean figure walking rapidly ahead of me.

  More curious than ever, I hurried after him, when suddenly he disappeared. Another mystery but a minor one in this case for, once I reached the point where he had vanished, I found the gap in the hedge which he had mentioned in his account of his previous midnight ramble and, like him, discovered the uninterrupted views of the cove below.

  It was a breathtaking scene: a great sweeping vista of the beach and beyond it, the sea on which the moonlight fell in a sheen of silver that tumbled as the waves gently lapped the shore. Then the beach itself, empty of everything except for pale sand and the dark shapes of the rocks that rose out of it like strange sea creatures washed ashore.

  There was no sign yet of Holmes, although there was no mystery attached to this. From my own experience of climbing down the steps to the cove earlier, I remembered it took several minutes to make the descent, longer if one was going up, and that the contours of the cliff hid the path until one had nearly reached its foot, and, indeed moments later, Holmes’ figure emerged and began to walk across the open sand.

  As he had told me, he had crouched back into the cover of the hedge when he had first seen the Lady in Black so that his presence would not be noticed, and I did exactly the same. But Holmes never once looked up, not even when he reached the large flat rock on which she had sat. Holmes seated himself on it as she had done, his head turned towards the sea, his back to the cliffs, and there he remained, unmoving, for the next half an hour or so at which point, I gave up my vigil and quietly retreated back along to the lane and to the cottage where I went back to my bed.

  However, I did not sleep but lay awake listening for Holmes’ return, and thinking over the night’s experiences, for they puzzled me greatly, one aspect in particular. It was now quite clear that Holmes’ interest in the Lady in Black was much more than mere curiosity but what else it was I could not understand. I was also convinced that my role in this was more complex than had first appeared, although that also remained uncertain. Nevertheless one condition was obvious. I would have to put all this to the back of my mind until Holmes was ready to confide in me completely.

  It was half past two in the morning before I heard Holmes let himself into the cottage and his bedroom door close. It was then that I finally allowed myself to go to sleep, remembering that Mrs B was due to arrive the next morning and I had better get some rest before she came.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Mrs B arrived promptly at ten o’clock the following morning, her appointed hour and, curious to see Holmes’ housekeeper for the first time, I loitered near the sitting room window so that I could catch a glimpse of her before meeting her face-to-face.

  From the few facts that Holmes had told me about her – that she was a widow, a good, plain cook and thorough in her work but too garrulous for his taste – I had imagined her to be, for no good reason, a large lady of a domineering nature whose late husband had been firmly kept under her thumb.

  In fact, she was the antithesis of my expectations.

  She was a small, thin, grey-haired woman for whom the best descriptive word to sum her up was ‘taut’. She seemed to emit a suppressed energy that was almost palpable, like an electric charge. That was obvious from my very first sight of her in the brisk efficiency with which she wheeled her bicycle, the old-fashioned sit-up-and-beg type, into the garden where she propped it up against the outbuilding that housed Holmes’ beekeeping paraphernalia. It was done in the most energetic manner, as if she were making sure that the bicycle, along with the shed itself, was aware of her dominance over both of them. That finished with, she set off towards the cottage, first lifting out of the large wicker basket strapped to the handlebars a neatly rolled bundle that I discovered afterwards contained an all-enveloping pinafore of a blue-chequered pattern and a pair of comfortable house shoes, both of which she donned as soon as she entered the house. However, oddly enough, she retained her hat, a black felt article not unlike an upturned basin, bound round with purple ribbon and topped off with a bunch of artificial violets that added an unexpected festive air to her appearance.

  The previous evening Holmes and I had discussed the best strategy to use in persuading her to tell us all she knew about the Trevalyans, although Holmes was quite positive that very little effort would be needed. It was simply a matter of finding the right nudge, so to speak, to get her started: her health, in other words. To that end, it was decided I would introduce the subject immediately by offering her my sympathy and some ameliorative medication.

  The first piece of advice was easy to carry out. As a doctor, I had among my patients several elderly ladies like Mrs B, who suffered from a whole catalogue of ailments and who needed no more than a sympathetic ear to restore their well-being. Unfortunately, in Mrs B’s case, she would have had little or no commiseration from Holmes, his ear not being tuned to such appeals.

  The second piece of advice was more difficult to fulfil. Although I had my medical bag with me, perhaps rather foolishly feeling incomplete without it, I had assumed I was going on holiday on the Sussex coast and that all the medical needs that might be called for would be minor injuries, such as cuts and grazes resulting from rock climbing. Therefore, I had brought little more than bandages and iodoform with me.

  I decided that the best approach with Mrs B was a direct one, so as soon as I had been introduced to her by Holmes who, I noticed, put a special emphasis on the word ‘doctor’, I plunged straight in.

  ‘I am sorry to hear from Mr Holmes that you have a stiff neck,’ I said, using my best bedside manner, to which she responded immediately, first casting a grateful, if astonished, glance in Holmes’ direction. ‘How did that come about?’

  ‘Turning mattresses,’ she replied promptly.

  ‘Then we must put a stop to that for the time being,’ I advised, thinking that Holmes deserved some punishment for his lack of sympathy for Mrs B’s malady, trivial though it might seem, even if it were only a minor penalty of suffering the discomfort of a lumpy mattress for a fortnight or so.

  Holmes took the point for he gave me a nod and a wry smile of recognition, a private communication to which I replied with a nod and a smile of my own.

  Mrs B was acute enough to realise that some silent dialogue or
other was taking place between the two of us but could not, of course, interpret it and I hastened to fill the gap before it lengthened and became embarrassing.

  So I continued as planned.

  ‘Come and sit down at the table, Mrs Bagwell,’ I began. ‘I am going to put a hot compress on your neck, in my experience as a doctor, the best remedy for a strained muscle.’

  At this cue, part of the strategy that we had decided on the previous evening, Holmes drew out a chair at the table and I went to the kitchen to collect the towel that was already soaking in a bowl of hot water, ready for use. Wringing it out, I carefully wrapped it around Mrs B’s neck who was by now quite relaxed and visibly delighted by the attention she was receiving.

  Holmes and I joined her at the table and the session we had planned began.

  ‘Now, Mrs Bagwell,’ I said, ‘while we wait for the hot compress to take effect, I wondered if you could help me with some information I need to complete a little inquiry I am making.’

  Mrs B looked even more delighted at this request for it placed her again in the unusual but gratifying position of being in the centre of attention.

  ‘I’ll do my best, Dr Watson,’ she replied. ‘What’s your inquiry about, sir?’

  ‘It concerns a special interest of mine: genealogy.’

  Seeing an expression of uncertainty pass over her face, I realised my mistake and hurried to correct it.

  ‘Family history,’ I explained. ‘It is the Trevalyans I am curious about. The other day I read a little booklet about the church and the Trevalyan family was mentioned.’

  That part of our scheme was, at least, true, I told myself. The next, however, was entirely false and I felt uncomfortable at using it. But it was in a good cause and with that excuse in my mind, I pressed on with my deception.

  ‘You see,’ I continued, mentally crossing over my fingers, a gesture I used to make as a child to protect myself against any retribution that might befall me for telling a fib, ‘Trevalyan is one of my family’s names. I have an aunt who is a Trevalyan, at least she married one, and I was wondering if there was any connection.’

  Mrs B seemed fascinated by the idea.

  ‘A Trevalyan!’ she repeated. ‘Well, I suppose she could have married one of the family.’

  ‘Tell me about them,’ I suggested.

  ‘They were nice enough, I suppose, especially Mrs Trevalyan. As for the husband, Henry, he wasn’t liked as much in the village as her.’

  ‘You knew him? What sort of a person was he?’

  It was Holmes who asked these questions.

  ‘A hard man,’ Mrs B responded. ‘Very much the boss, or so he liked to think.’

  There was no hesitation in her voice now and her whole face had brightened up while her eyes were alert and busy, glancing to and fro between the two of us. It was evidently a topic she had strong feelings about.

  Without any further coaxing on our part, she continued, ‘He died about ten years ago. Now that was a big event in the village. The bells were rung and the kiddies had the day off from school. And the carriages! There must have been ten of them, all draped in black and the horses had black plumes on their heads. It was quite a to-do, I can tell you. You’d think he was royalty the fuss that was made. As for the wreaths, well, they were piled up on that tomb he had built in the crypt with the family name carved round the lid. Not a bit like his wife. She was quite different. I used to wonder sometimes how she put up with him.’

  ‘He sounds a difficult man.’ Holmes commented.

  ‘Stuck up,’ Mrs B responded in a decisive tone, as if the two words summed him up and there was no more to be said about him.

  ‘Did they have any children?’ I asked.

  The question had an unexpected effect on Mrs B. The triumphant air she had assumed in speaking of her memory of Henry Trevalyan immediately vanished to be replaced by a reserved, almost apologetic manner. For several long moments there was silence in which Holmes and I regarded her, eyebrows raised in anticipation. But, as we had expected, the need to talk overrode all other considerations.

  ‘Well,’ she began, drawing in a deep breath, ‘as you know I’m not the one to pass on tittle-tattle or to speak ill of the dead, but there was one child, a girl, Henrietta, or Hetty, as everyone called her.’

  She seemed to run out of steam for she halted and looked at both of us, as if trying to judge our reaction to whatever she had to say. I caught her glance and nodded to her encouragingly. It seemed to work for she continued.

  ‘She was lovely as a child, a pretty little thing. Mrs Trevalyan used to ask some of the children from the village up to the house for her birthday parties. Lovely, they were: balloons and jelly and someone to entertain the kiddies after tea. And then suddenly it stopped. Hetty was nearly eighteen by then and it was put about she was too old for birthday parties. She was going to school at a posh place in Lewes as a weekly boarder. But she left there; some said she’d been – what’s the word? – ex …?’

  ‘Expelled?’ Holmes suggested.

  ‘Yes, that’s the one I was looking for. Chucked out, in other words.’

  ‘Why?’ Holmes asked.

  To my relief, she turned to Holmes.

  ‘What do you expect? The usual trouble. Men!’

  ‘Men!’ Holmes and I exclaimed simultaneously.

  Mrs B hurried to correct herself.

  ‘Well, one man; someone she met in Lewes, on holiday there, or so I’ve been told. Anyway, she ran off with him.’

  ‘Where to?’ Holmes asked.

  Mrs B shrugged.

  ‘Somewhere up north, I believe.’

  ‘Did they marry?’ I asked.

  ‘That I can’t tell you,’ Mrs B replied, ‘all I know is she left and no one has seen anything of her since. It’s as if she disappeared off the face of the earth. It put an end to life at the Hall I can tell you. There were no more tea parties or Christmas treats as there used to be. In the past, the family had joined in the village dos, at least Mrs Trevelyan did. She always handed out the prizes at the flower shows or she’d call round on the old people with a basket of groceries. She was a real lady, she was. One of the Lockharts from Barton, highly respected; the family had been farming the same land for generations. But after the scandal over Hetty, all that giving parties and going out helping other people stopped. Neither of them ever showed their face in the village again. Mind you, I blamed him for all that. It was such a scandal, you see. They said he’d cut Hetty off without a penny and wouldn’t even have her name mentioned. Then he died.’

  The last sentence was said with more than a touch of schadenfreude and I had the feeling that Mrs B added to it a silent addendum of ‘And serves him right!’

  But Mrs B had not quite finished.

  ‘You can understand why she asked to be buried in her own village, not in the crypt. You can’t blame her, poor woman. I wouldn’t want to share a grave with him.’

  The remark served to round off the conversation and even Mrs B seemed to realise it had, literally, come to a dead end. Looking embarrassed she began to unwind the towel from around her neck.

  ‘Thank you, Dr Watson. The stiffness has almost gone, so I’d better get on. There’s the washing-up to do and the beds to make.’

  ‘Then we shall get out of your way.’ Holmes replied. ‘Are you ready, Watson? We have that appointment in Lewes this morning.’

  ‘Do we?’ I asked. It was the first time I had heard of it. Holmes gave me a withering glance as he rose from the table and I hurriedly tried to cover up my gaffe.

  ‘Of course,’ I mumbled. ‘Sorry, I’d forgotten all about it.’ However, as we left the room I could not resist a last thrust of my own at Holmes. Turning back to Mrs B, I said in my best professional voice, ‘Don’t forget my advice about not turning mattresses,’ relieved that she had not asked for any medication after all.

  I picked him up over the matter of this supposed assignation as we were getting into the car.

  ‘What a
ppointment?’ I demanded.

  His reply was quite astonishing.

  ‘With Langdale Pike.’

  Langdale Pike, I should explain, was one of Holmes’ old contacts from his Baker Street days. A strange, indolent character, he spent most of his time sitting in the bow window of his club in St James’ Street, collecting up the tittle-tattle of the latest scandals amongst the members of high society for the gossip column he wrote for what Holmes described as the ‘garbage’ newspapers. So, in many ways, he was not unlike a female version of Mrs B only with a better class of subject matter.

  However, it was said that he earned a good income from his journalism. In the past, Holmes had occasionally consulted him when he needed some background information, as in the Three Gables case, rewarding Pike with scraps of gossip he had picked up during his investigations. His professional title, Langdale Pike, was obviously a nom de plume, borrowed from the name of the Westmorland Hills, the Langdale Pikes.

  I was much taken aback when Holmes spoke of him.

  ‘Pike?’ I reiterated as I started the car. ‘Good heavens! Is he still alive?’

  ‘I hope so. I am proposing to send a telegram to his club from Lewes. I hate to think it might be wasted.’

  ‘Why from Lewes? Why not the post office in Fulworth?’

  ‘Because there are too many ears and eyes in the village. Before one can snap one’s fingers, the contents of my telegram will be common knowledge. It would not surprise me if Mrs B knew all about it by tomorrow morning.’

  ‘But what on earth can Pike do in this case? I thought it was high society he was interested in?’

  ‘So it is. But any scrap of gossip can whet his appetite. Like that character in Shakespeare, he is a “snapper-up of unconsidered trifles”. According to Mrs B, herself a “snapper-up”, there was that scandal in the Trevalyan family, bad enough, at least in Henry Trevalyan’s eyes, to cause him to disinherit his daughter. If anyone can ferret out the truth, Langdale Pike will do so.’

  It was said with such certainty that I fell silent.